The heat in the chieftain’s hall was oppressive. It’s not that sturdy wooden construction was on fire on anything but they were moving towards a hot summer and Yelm, the Sun God, was doing his almighty best to reward his faithful. Even the flies seemed lethargic.
The wide hall shouldn’t have been this hot. It was definitely bigger than the other homesteads in the area and had, during happier times, accommodated sizable clan meets and uproarious feasts. It had been a few years since it had last seen such an occasion, though, as everyone who entered could see from a glance at the dry mud walls, under the pitched thatch roof: There were no new shields from conquered clans, no new pennants from recent alliances and certainly no new monster heads.
In fact, the last monster head added to the hall was by Jonast the Runner more than three generations ago. It wasn’t much more than a boar head obviously covered in some sort of cancerous skin disease and warts which he had insisted at the time to be a sign of its evil mutative allegiance to the forces of Chaos and Death. By the time it was put up, it had lingered in the sun just a little too long.
That probably explained why that place of honor in the chieftain’s hall always did have a noisome lingering smell that rational minds would have put down to shoddy curing and poor taxidermy. Not that Jonast the Runner would have ascribed that gangrenous odor to anything but a clear sign that the beast had received the Devil’s corruption.
Three subsequent generations of embellishments and retelling have ensure that the tale of Jonast the Runner and the Giant Mutant Boar from Warding’s Farm was now popular amongst the village’s declining number of children. Even this story, though, is eclipsed by the many other tales of the world at large brought in by trading caravans and the occasional wanderer. And the world at large, in turn, remained quite ignorant of the local tales because, let’s face it, it had much important things to deal with.
One person who had never heard the tale of Jonast the Runner was Chandros Stormwind, eighth son of Kormak Stormwind. He probably would have found the tale quite entertaining and would definitely have found a few embellishments of his own but, right now, unfortunately, story-telling wasn’t foremost on his mind. Right now, what was foremost on his mind was what the fuck am I doing here.
The stench drifting down from the hideous porcine heirloom, of course, didn’t help his intense claustrophobia. The heat seemed to make it worse with each passing moment causing him to ponder whether Errol No-Nose, previous chieftain of Broadvalley, received his injury as the result of an accident or a self-inflicted wound.
When Chandros first encountered the boar head, a few days ago, it actually caused him to jump and partially draw his sword. The relief at discovering that it was only a famous stuffed decoration and not the puckered anus of some demonic entity was short-lived, however. It faded the moment the councilors pointed out the chieftain’s chair, at the head of the council chamber, and directly beneath it.
Chandros was a young man in his late twenties, far too young to even be thinking of sitting in a chieftain’s seat, and had the remarkable feature of being almost completely average. He wasn’t particularly large, fast or strong, but neither was he ugly, weak and indolent. He was just good at most things without being excellent at them.
Had the term and concept meant anything at all to these bronze-age villagers, they would have said that he was perfectly well within the crest of the Bell-Curve. In his defense, however, he did have a way with words but that is a skill not often recognized in farming communities.
He also had the luxury of being the eighth son, and twelfth child, of Kormak Stormwind, the most powerful House Carl of the Stormwind clan. This meant that there were never any real expectations placed on him, besides marry, breed and support his brother (who would be chieftain) when the need arose. He probably never would be filthy rich or powerful like his father, but he was sure to be kept hunting and drinking for as long as he wanted it.
All that changed last winter, with the arrival of several councilors from the Village of Broadvalley, some days’ ride to the North. They were welcomed in Kormak’s house and kept in closed council with him for over a week. A massive feast followed during which it was announced that Chandros was to be married to the “lovely Isabella,� sole female heir to the Chieftain’s seat on the council.
Chandros stood shocked and winded like he’d been kicked by a mule covered in bells, or he thought because it was the only way he could explain the ringing in his ears and mind. Dazed and confused, he ignored the rest of the feast, the blur of ruddy smiling faces mouthing “congratulations,� the hearty slaps on his back, and trudged out into the thick snow back to his stead.
In so doing, of course, he missed out all the important details of his marriage, like the fact that Isabella’s father, Errol No-Nose had recently been eaten, along with his most trusted weaponthanes, by some mutated chaotic beast living in the woods East of Broadvalley. And that claiming the chieftain’s seat was dependant Chandros’ slaying the chaotic monster, a feat, his father proudly exclaimed, Chandros could do with his arms tied behind his back.
The details were filled in by some of his friends over the next few days and sent him into another bout of heavy drinking and seclusion.
To his father, of course, the potential marriage was perfect: either Chandros, his all but useless last son, would get eaten by the beast and he would receive compensation from the village of Broadvalley, or he succeeded and Kormak got himself another source of wenches and tithe, as well as a family member on the council of a neighboring village.
The deal was equally favorable to Broadvalley who either got some more men to throw at the beast and appease it for a while longer, or the beast was killed and they received a puppet male chieftain to rule over the village. The eagerness by both parties to conclude this mutually favorable deal went some way to explaining the speed and efficacy with which dowry, men and transport were organized.
The only person for whom the deal was not favorable, of course, was Chandros, who was now sitting under a stinking boar head in a dilapidated chieftain’s hall wondering, like he had many times since he undertook the journey to Broadvalley, why the fuck did I say yes and what the hell is that stench.
The air was stifling and Chandros could feel all eyes on him, especially those of the elderly councilors sitting beside him at the table. Closest to him was the Braum the Elder, High priest of Orlanth, whose beard barely disguised his curled and contemptuous smile. It was obvious who he thought should be running this council and bedding the young Isabella.
Next to him, looking like she had a thousand better things to do was the sun-burnt Ophelia, local fertility priestess and herbalist. Her large calloused hands and stocky, shapeless figure caused Chandros to reflexively look for an Adam’s apple. She towered over the other council members, Peppin the Younger, Alphonse Readybeard, Sandra Reedweaver and Jack Raven, all of whom fulfilled important and valuable functions in the running of Broad Valley. Or, at least, that’s what Chandros had been told. To him, of course, they all looked like well-meaning and farmers who didn’t know better than to shamelessly prostitute out their dead chieftain’s (hopefully still virginal) daughter in the hopes of getting a warrior to kill the beast in the Eastern woods and forestall the looming famine. This was, of course, right on the money.
Cough. “On behalf of the village council and all the families, clans and homesteads it represents, I would like to welcome you,� said Braum rising slowly out of his chair. It was uncanny it was like he was pissing on Chandros without moving, so filled with contempt he was for his soon-to-be chieftain.
There was a round of applause.
“But now to matters at hand,� he continued, “I have been informed that you arrived to our village just this morning. I have also been told that you bring with you sixty weapon bearing men of age to assist you in killing the foul beast.�
“Erm. That’s right. And I’ve also…� stammered Chandros, looking for his voice.
“Our weaponthanes and Errol No-Nose were mighty warriors and the monster killed them all in a day,� he spat. “Sixty men and you won’t do shit.�
“From what I heard, your weaponthanes and Errol No-Nose were pussies, actually,� spoke a deep voice from the assembled mass in the greater hall. You could have heard a cockroach fart it was so suddenly quiet. “And what’s more, I hear that they couldn’t drink to save their lives,� the voice continued as a massive, lumbering figure pushed itself effortlessly to the front of the crowd.
That monstrous figure, easily confused for a troll in a bad light was Ox, and he looked up to the council table smiling. The look on his face was not unlike a dog having retrieved a stick. He obviously was very proud of himself and thought that he really helped Chandros out of a sticky situation. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.
A look at the shocked faces of the council members and Chandros’s disapproving, sinking face soon set him straight.
“Erm… with the greatest respect to the fallen, of course,� he hastily added and continued to bite into an apple, grinning wildly.
To say that Ox was an ugly man would be an understatement. In fact, seeing as this was probably the first time the council had set their eyes on him, there it was very probable that their shock was as due to his unique arrangement of facial features, as it was to his staggeringly gauche statements.
His single massive eyebrow which spanned the breadth of his face had obviously joined forces with his unkempt beard and greasy black hair to keep as much of his face hidden as possible. Unfortunately, its singular asymmetry still shone through, like a bad latrine smell rising up through a bouquet of flowers.
He was so ugly, in fact, that it would not be far fetched to say that he probably would have been killed at birth, if it hadn’t been for his stupendous size and stubborn knack for survival. Ox, whose real name will not be uttered here for fear of reprisal, was a gigantic beast of murderous muscle that blocked out the sun whenever he stood close. Not that this was something one sought because Ox was also blessed with no personal hygiene, having last taken a real bath when he was 7, after which he just became too big and it was just too much trouble.
His redeeming features, namely those of being able to cause swift pain to his enemies and a fierce loyalty to his friends, were nevertheless welcome. Ox was one of those men who, once they became a friend, became a friend for life, whether this was something wanted or not.
“What my big friend is trying to say,� Chandros quickly interjected as he stood up, trying to avert a lynching, “is that we have brought with many good weapon hands. Sixty of them, all told, as well as Ox, myself and two great hunters, Rudman and Horace.�
He went on, quickly finding his confidence: “we believe in these men. They are of hardy stock and used to danger. They arrive tomorrow and will not let you down. We have the mighty storm god, Orlanth, on our side and he has blessed us. I predict a great success.� That last sentence was hastily added to appease the openly skeptical Braum.
Braum, for his part, opened his mouth speak and then thought the better of it.
“And when we return, triumphant and covered in glory,� Chandros was now beginning to hit his pace,� we will feast and celebrate. We will honor the fallen and we will introduce the young men we have brought with us to ladies of your village.� Not to mention seeing my intended bride for the first time, he thought to himself.
“Together, with the might of storming winds of Orlanth at our side, we will not fail!� He bellow, his speech having now reached its crescendo.
The crowd approved. They stomped their feet and clapped their hands. More than one of the villagers uttered that they were saved, and openly praised the gods. The council soon brought order back and silenced the noisy assembly. “Very well, young man,� said Braum, barely able to keep his derision from his voice, “do this, kill the chaos beast in the Eastern woods with your men and friends, and we will speak more. And, though I have great faith in Orlanth, I do not see how you are more favored than our own weaponthanes and warriors.�
From somewhere in the crowd someone coughed pussies under his breath.
Internally, of course, Chandros’s mind was racing. The men his father had given him were all drafted from farming stock. Like most of the clansmen, they knew how to handle a bow and swing a sword but none, bar Ox and himself, had actually seen combat. To make matters worse, he only had the smallest notion on how to lead. Tactics was a word, not something he actually knew how to do. It was obvious that they were all going to die but there was sure as fuck no way that he was going to let these people know that.
Chandros had argued at length with his father that what Broadvalley needed in order to survive both the beast and the coming winter was a contingent of veterans from many battles as well as experienced farmhands. Eventually the arguments ended, as they always did, with his father getting his way and claiming that any hardship Chandros was to face was for his own good. Whatever.
The council ended soon thereafter. There were a few other items, mostly claims of cattle thievery, statuses of crops, and negotiations over boundaries. Chandros sat through it all, vacillating between claustrophobia and wild panic. Ox stood on the common floor, grinning up at him. Chandros scowled at him more than once during the proceedings, overcome with envy at his friend’s carefree, drunken brawl of a life.
For the rest of the afternoon, the two strangers were given an overview of Broadvalley. They were introduced to most of the important villagers who either viewed them as unpleasant newcomers or divine saviors. They were walked along the dry mud streets and well-worn foot paths, past the archery tree, the duck pond and stores. As they moved, they jostled, as unobtrusively as possible for the rare shady spot, stopping only occasionally to nod enthusiastically. It was clear there was a lot more to the village than the occasional shelter from the baking sun but they didn’t feel like paying it much attention. Their focus remained on the very real possibility of dehydration and Ox’s valid and entirely reasonable proposal that they should explore the large cool oxbow lake around which the town was build, preferably with some dark ale. It was only spite and the benefits of shared misery that kept Chandros from agreeing. No, if he was going to sweat in the heat, surround by sleeping pigs and biological puddles, listening to the grand history of this rural hellhole, Ox would too.
In their defense, the tour could have been made much more interesting. For example, Sandra Reedwater could have told them how the village used to be on the other side of the oxbow lake but it ended up having being moved when she was just a girl, in order to halt the spate of troll raids from the hills in the west. She could have recounted the dark malign monsters’ last and desperate assault over the lake and how most of them ended at the bottom. That night she spent with her father on the shore, knife in hand, looking for stragglers.
Instead, they were subjected to the driest of histories on how Broadvalley originally started as a way station between Kilwyn, far to the South and the great trade road to the West, built in the middle of a fertile and sheltered valley, amply supplied with streams. To its credit, the village was able to provide some fine fishing and spectacular fruits which, along with the crops, cattle and hunting, kept the specter of starvation away from most of its four hundred or so inhabitants.
This was, of course, baring monsters arising out of the Eastern woods and eating the Thane and a good portion of the weapon-wielding male population. The specter of starvation was very much at home in the village now, like a large crocodile having found its way into your living room.
Still, the village itself was, as all villages were, unhygienic and tinder dry, but all in all well maintained. And, as with most of the villages in the highlands beyond the plains, the houses were nothing more than large wood and thatch A-frame constructions surrounded and support by orchards, fields and pens that were dotted seemingly at random around the large oxbow lake.
Nevertheless, and contrary to the haphazard arrangement of both the crops and habitations, the village and surrounds functioned with a surprisingly efficient order. The animals, most of whom shared latrine and house with their owners consisted mostly of goats, pigs, chickens and dogs. A few yellow and dusty brown, long-horned heads of cattle were also seen around the village, but they were much more carefully watched as they represented the wealth of most of the richer villagers. Horses, like those on which Chandros and Ox had ridden into the village, were a rare and very expensive luxury, no matter how far removed their beasts were from the proud lineage of the Red Plains they actually were.
Sandra Reedweaver and Jack Raven took their time introducing them to the blacksmith, the tanners, the butchers and various cattlemen, farm hands and tillers. Chandros, balancing his need to survive the oppressive heat and his need to impress his father, nodded, smiled and shook hands. He made a good enough show and, by the time evening came, he was a exhausted wreck. He and Ox headed back to the chieftain’s hut (his hut, really, but he still hadn’t gotten used to the idea) for a short rest and cold ale.
“This village is fucked,� he said closing in the hope of making his headache go away. “They’ve got a handful of farm hands, and the rest are women and children. They’ll never make it through the winter.�
“You mean we’ll never make it through the winter,� added Ox, bringing home the cold hard fact Broadvalley and their own fates were now intertwined, for better or worse.
“Yes,� he sighed and then took a large gulp of ale, “not that it’ll really matter though because we’re all about to be eaten by the fucking monster in the Eastern woods, whatever the fuck it is.� I never used to swear this much, he thought, I must calm down.
“Bah, don’t worry about it. The guys will be coming through in the morning with 60 good strong men. We’ll take care of the thing in the woods no problem, and then the guys will all throw their weight in and turn this village around.�
“Do you honestly think that we will survive the battle?�
“I’ve yet to meet something I couldn’t beat to a pulp and bring down beneath my sword,� Ox said without bragging. It was a statement of fact.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. And sixty men is more than enough to turn the crops around,� added Chandros trying desperately to believe it himself, “we’ll have a bountiful village in no time.�
“Sure. Orlanth willing.�
That was the last thing Chandros heard before sleep took him over.
When he opened his eyes, the sun was already climbing. It was hot and his face was covered in flies. They were dismissed with a sleepy wave. He looked around and noted with satisfaction that Ox was nowhere to be seen. He could relax a little and think things through.
He swung his legs over the side of his cot and looked for his boots. He could hear some voices outside. They were female, talking in hushed tones.
“He’s so well built and handsome. He must have been sculpted by the Ernalda herself,� said the one.
“Oh yes, I hope I get him for the fertility ritual,� tittered the next.
That can only mean Rudman’s here, so much for breakfast and some time to think, sighed Chandros. He then got up, took a gourd of water and dropped it again realizing it was empty. This action he repeated twice more before he stormed out, fuming at visions of Ox draining the last of the gourds and falling asleep soundly, his thirst happily quenched.
He was entirely correct. Rudman and the other men from the Stormwind clan had arrived sometime during the early morning. They were camped out in the orchard by the Eastern gate and seeing them raised Chandros’s spirits considerably. For the first time since he set eyes on Broadvalley, he felt some measure of confidence.
Before him and amongst the tall, cool trees were sixty stout men, their temporary shelters consisting of nothing more than a cloth, packs and equipment at the ready. These were not the trained and professional soldiers of the city states far to the South, but they were nevertheless a force to be reckoned with. Each could handle his ancestral weapons, the sword, the shield and the bow with some degree of skill reflecting regular instruction and training from the time they had come of age. More importantly, as far as Chandros was concerned, each of them knew how to tend cattle and crop, how to put together stead, raise defenses and contribute meaningfully to the running of a village.
He stood a little longer at the gates of the village, taking in the scene ahead of him, paying particular attention to the inconvenient bulk of Ox talking animatedly with two men who were sitting down amongst the gnarled roots of a large and spiny tree stringing and oiling their bows. Chandros wasn’t alone, however, for next to him, trying desperately to not be noticed, were two of the older girls in the village. They talked in hushed voices, quite unable to take their eyes of the beautiful, lithe figure of Rudman.
There was no denying that Rudman was handsome. He was blessed with perfect teeth (a very rare event), a charismatic smile and well-defined features. He carried himself with confidence and purpose. Men liked him because he was strong and dependable. Women liked him because he wore his good looks and sexuality like a cape. In their eyes, he was more a sleek mountain cat than a man. He was dangerous but so tempting to tame. It was one of the tragic ironies of fate that he was born in a time and place where the idea of a ramp model was quite alien.
I first encountered 
enjoy games, board games, role-playing games, computer games, you name it. I was not fortunate enough to have a well-rounded childhood that entitled me to put away childish things. I blame my parents. But, fuck it, I like games. Playing games beats the shit out of reading Moobie the Sodomizing Cow (see picture). And I, for one, am happy and recommend that more people play games. It’d keep them off the streets and would probably reduce the likelihood of being rear-ended by farm animals.
