Zygurd of the House of Mourne

Zygurd peered up over the arm of his lieutenant as the lances passed... his breath low but ragged as he kept concealed under the corpses. His face was caked with blood and sweat and dirt and all the gruesome bits that remained of his fallen comrades. His body lay flat against the ground , a jagged rock digging into the bottom of his ribcage, but he did not mind or care so much about that. His body had experienced, and currently was experiencing much greater discomfort. He stared out of the bodies, peering through the armpit of his fallen Orcish brother in arms, as the pale faced lances scoured the area for signs of life.

It had been hours before... and he could remember the last time he'd seen his brothers alive... back near the base of the hill, in the woods where they made camp last evening. He had been strapping his boots up when Bargos and Lotar found him. Zygurd looked up at the two other Orcs with a nod of consideration.

"What is it?" he'd said offhandedly, banding off the boots and tying the knot off.

"Levtenan' come by, tell us you got the only good rubstone." Bargos said, brushing a wasp from his bare shoulder. The wasp however, did not yield and simply dug it's barb into him. Bargos merely gave an indifferent grunt, killed the buzzing insect and began picking the stinger of the callous it was buried in. Zygurd nodded, reaching for his whetstone to his companions. They'd sat down next to him on either side, taking turns with the stone and running I down the length of their axe heads and spear points.

"What news from the Levtenant?" Zygurd had inquired. Bargos shrugged.

"Bad shit going down today... the Imperials are marching towards the Fynne River... they ran into clan Grundyll last night while they were scouting around... bad scrap... take thirty.... Fo'ty maybe ... small fight.. But the humans routed... they know we're here and are going to try and shake out our ambush... like rattlin' birds outa der bush. " Bargos said, giving his axe a few good strokes and handing the stone off to Lotar. Zygurd looked back towards where the Lieutenant stood on post , peering into the surrounding woods.

"What word of Reinforcements then?" Zygurd asked. This time it had been Lotar who'd answered.

"A few pale skin humans... barbarians from the marshes and the woods... Picts mostly.... A few Highland an' Vanir but mostly Picts." Lotar muttered. "That's about it though... the goblins are tied up in a fuck over on the other side of the mountains...No one wants to get involved wit dem Imperials..."

"Picts aren't that bad." Zygard replied. "Scrappy and they know how to fight in the woods...they wont be too bad as long as they can follow fuckin' orders...they got no love of Imperials."

"They're brash and wild... " Bargos had grumbled.

"So are we... when y' get down to it."

"Got a point... " Bargos laughed. "But do that again and I clout your fuckin' nose off . "

They had laughed and passed the stone back to Zygurd who glanced back at the Lieutenant.

And here he was once again staring at the Lieutenant, his now dead left arm covering Zygurd's gaze as he watched the Imperial Lancers move away. Zygurd got up once they were out of sight and ran at a crouch back towards the tree line, his hand clutched to his shoulder as he struggled through the underbrush. He had made it... the flight from the battlefield was sure to have been seen... but he made it in one piece.

Or so he'd thought.

As soon as he stepped foot past the tree line he heard a sharp whistling. He turned in time to spot the arrow as it embedded itself in a nearby tree. He turned and saw them now, a small band of them descending from the hill after him, aided by a quiet hail of arrows from their archers. Zygurd ducked through the brush as the arrows hissed through the air after him, hitting logs and tree stumps with sickening 'thunk" sounds. He ran, his feet flailing about as he staggered through the mud and brush until he made his way to one of the shallow creeks that ran through he forest. He flopped down in the water, dropping down into the ditch it had cut through the ground over centuries, and lay down in the mud near the creek bank. He lay there for some time, hiding behind the ridge of the creek bank and waiting for the sounding approach of feet. He peered up over the ridge and looked across the forest floor and the fallen leaves about him. He could only see vague figures approaching through the forest. He looked around for signs of escape... that was when he saw her.

She was crouched behind one of the trees; her hand gripping a mace, an empire made mace. She was not of their faction though, Zygurd could tell she was one of the barbarians that had come to their aid. Much good they had done. He watched her as she waited for them to approach... peering venomously out of her dark locks of tangled hair. Her face was painted with the tattoos of her clan, her body clad in strips of metal pieced together with leather and fur... made more for mobility than for protection. She was fierce, like a cornered animal. Zygurd ducked back down under the ridge and found his curved hunting knife... the only weapon he had on his person.

He concentrated... forgetting now his wounded shoulder and how the blood was caking with the sweat to form a bitter scab where the sword had bit him. He forgot the pain and the sorrow and the agony that surged through his body and found the warrior buried within the raw emotion that made up his conscious mind. He clenched his teeth, his gaze becoming cold and his eyes loosing emotion bit by bit... He found the killer, and the hunter and the fighter and became him, feeling that mentality overcome him... He stood up and saw the exposed backs of the Human soldiers.... And he saw the angry frightened grimace of the woman as she leapt from her cover, seizing one by the neck.

Zygurd watched as she moved, angry, scared, vicious... sloppy. She was not fighting as a soldier, but as a caged animal fighting at the bars of her cell. The men reacted quickly.. But not nearly quickly enough... One went down... there was a growl... a guttural moan of pain a crunch and a scuffle. Zygurd could not see clearly who was winning and who as being hurt where... it was gruesome and dirty... the way people really fought. He climbed out of the riverbed and moved in as the iron shirted men began to draw their weapons on the woman... She stared up with wild eyes as they readied themselves and began to move in.

Perhaps in a different world they would have made an attempt to kill her... in a different world they would have succeeded. But they never made it past the raising of their blades. The woman could see nothing of their deaths but the sudden shocked look, a jerking of the body and a small steel point protruding from one of their chests. Zygurd drew his knife from the man's back and threw him to the ground to die on his back. With the other he had seized him by the neck and dug his sharp thumbnail into the vein below his chin... causing the man to cringe in pain. Zygurd slid his dagger home into the man's stomach, feeling the flesh part and the blood spill down the hilt of the blade as the man's eyes went wide and terrified. The Orc watched, feeling no remorse or sympathy for the man as he twisted the blade and felt the muscles in his stomach contract, vainly trying to stop the further agony of his wound. Zygurd looked on... cold ... unfeeling. He withdrew the dagger letting the man slump to the forest floor like a sack of potatoes, then curl up, clutching his abdomen and shuddering violently, spitting up blood and breathing heavily. The Orc knelt now and slowly crushed the human's throat.... And held his hand there , thumb on the jugular vein.... Slowly feeling the life leave him bit by bit as he died in his hand....

It all came back in a rush... he felt tired... drained from the exertion and from the brief reminder of just how much of his innocence had been lost up until that point. He sat there on his knees... taking a moment to breathe and to gaze upwards. The canopy lay above him... shafts of pure golden edged white light breaking through the foliage and casting it's purity in halos on the dark forest floor. All around these pools of light sat.... save for that spot where Zygurd sat with the bodies of two of the pale faced men. A moment of reflection now overtook him. They were men... with families and lives and hopes and dreams... and they were dead now. He had killed them. Such things entered the minds of every Orc, following the battle... it was a philosophy of compassion to those who suffered the burden of life and the agony of death along side you. They fought well... and died honorably... and in the end it was all he could say for them.

Zygurd bowed his head in Respect... but his thoughts were soon roused by the presence of the woman beside him. Zygurd turned to her and looked her over. Palefaced, creamy skinned like the men he'd killed... a grim tattered woman but one who returned his deep respectful gaze with one of her own. Zygurd stood and looked towards the retreat, remembering his orders. Should the line rout, they would regroup at the far edge of the forest. He looked down at the barbarian woman and helped her to her feet.

She said something, it was odd and foreign and smacked of that strange language the other humans spoke. Yet it held it's own dark and rich timbres that his own language held. Zygurd watched her speak, her voice sounding grateful. He shook his head.

"I don't... understand." He replied.

The woman said another thing. Zygurd simply turned back to the way he was headed. It would be a long trek and an ally would be good to have. He simply beckoned her to follow. This, was a gesture they both could understand.

Night wore on... and Zygurd's vision began to sharpen as he led the way through the forest, tree by tree with the woman following behind him. She now carried one of the iron-shirt's swords and had given Zygurd the other. They did not speak as they walked, there was no use for it. Yet Zygurd noticed as they marched, that bit by bit the woman became less alert, and her body slumped. She was becoming tired, Zygurd could tell, even though she made no announcement of the fact. He turned towards her, looking her over, she made an attempt to straighten up, but she was swaying ever so slightly. Zygurd nodded and found a good tree for them to sleep under, figuring she might get the jist of his intentions if he started to make camp for the night.

She followed quietly and helped him clear the leaves away and gather kindling for a campfire, they did this wordlessly and he pointed out the spot for them to lay it down...

Before long they were sitting, The woman curled up on her own as Zygurd shed his mail Hauberk and his fur mantle, giving himself few moments to stretch without the added weight. From there he went about digging out the food he'd saved from the night prior... the only thing close to field rations he could manage. He sat down and unfolded the bit of cloth that had a few flattened bannocks, a handful of dry berries and a few smoked fish. He started on the bannocks first, taking a bite out of one of the dry pieces of coarse bread.

He glanced over at the woman again, she had been eyeing the food but turned her head away once Zygurd looked over at her. He blinked a few times and sighed. Placing the cloth down on the ground between them and holding out one of the bannocks to her. There was a moment of reluctance... she held her hand out, but did not open her fingers to take it... Zygurd offered it again... she took it this time eating quietly on the morsel as the two of them turned their gaze once again to the fire.

The moments passed... the two of them ate frugally and left enough of the food to see them through another night. Having finished their dinner they sat in silence... eyes on the flames. Then a moment towards each other. Zygurd felt that he needed to say something... anything would have helped ease the anxiety between them. So he said at last

"My name... Is Zygurd."

This he said very slowly, holding his hand out and gesturing towards himself.

"It means, he who guards the victory...."

And once more.

"My name, is Zygurd.."

The woman watched for a few moments and then nodded before repeating shakily.

"Sig...gurd..."

Zygurd nodded, it was close enough... her accent was strange.

"Yes. Zygurd."

"Sigurd....

Zygurd nodded his approval and sat back waiting to see her reply. She pointed to her chest and spoke clearly.

'Ilga"

Zygurd nodded and repeated the name "Ylga..."

Ilga nodded and then pointed to the dark wound on his shoulder. She asked now something in her language, more words that held no meaning to Zygurd. She seemed to point with urgency towards his wound... and said something now, a word... he assumed it must have meant wound or hurt or something of the sort.

The orc raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

"It's fine. Don't worry." he said, only capable of assuming her meanings.

The woman did not cease though and bade him to come over and sit by her. Zygurd did so, but with reluctance. He sat down and peeled his tunic off, revealing his musclebound figure, cased in greenish grey flesh. He cast his gaze downward as she drew forth her waterskin and poured a bit onto a bit of cloth tartan cloth. She began to clean and wash away the wound, her hands warm and careful on the bruised and damaged flesh. He could imagine how she must have been outside of battle... maybe a mother or a wife or something... he wasn't sure. He was sure that this wild, armor clad and war painted woman was as much a creature of ferocity as she was a creature of compassion. He sat patiently and let her clean and dress his wound. Once done she turned to him and let him take a look. He nodded approvingly.

"Thank you.." he said quietly and regarded her strange reply as a "you're welcome."

They sat once more, the firelight casting it's glow as the eerie silence crept over them.

The sky was still dark when a rustling sound roused the Orc awake. His eyes popped open and he rubbed them, getting the blur to go away and let him see clearly in the darkness again. His eyes peered around, first left, then right... then off in the distance.

Again the rustling sound, footsteps approaching, pressing forwards past them... then voices. Strange ones... human ones. Ilga awoke now, only not seeing through the inky blackness as her companion could. Zygurd watched the shadowy figures move around in the darkness ... though as they moved through his field of vision he could not see their features, which were obscured by soft light from their torches. They shouted louder and louder, increasing in urgency... he could only make out a few words in their tongue... most recognizable was the word enemy. Zygurd looked down at Ilga, struggling against his arm as if wanting to scatter and hide.... Zygurd kept his grip on her strong and wrapped his hand over her mouth, urging her to silence. She struggled again for a few moments before stopping, her breath slowing to an even pace as more of the Ironshirt humans scrounged around trough the brush. With his back to the shadows of the tree he waited, listening intently and keeping his eyes closed... he couldn't bear for the life of him to have to fight off this many... just the two of them. He could feel her form now, even through the armor, soft and strong all at once.

In silent fear they sat quiet as the footsteps rose to a peak... then scattered... then pulled together... then faded off... back towards the human lines. Once they were gone Zygurd could breath easier again and as he removed his hand from her trembling mouth. For a few more moments they sat there in the strange silence that followed .

Zygurd stood and peered around each corner of the tree.... He sniffed the air....

Nothing, they had left.

He sat back down and ran a hand through his hair before burying his face in his palms for a moment to get a grip on his senses. That was when he felt her hand on his knee. He looked over to her and saw a sort of grateful, warm look in her eyes.

"Thank you..." she said, her accent strange but he could make out the words fairly clearly. He nodded and slumped back against the tree, guiding her once more to the soft crux of shoulder to rest her head, this time she wrapped her hands up around his neck and pulled herself closer to him, using the body heat of the mighty Orc for warmth as the night dragged on. Zygurd drifted off to sleep once more.

------------

"Lookit 'em..." Bargos muttered as they saw the picts shuffle up to assume ranks at the far flank of the field. ... ragged looking, clad in their rough hewn cottons and tartans... armored in lamellar and chain mail and carrying their curved spear tips unlike the very sharp and angular spears the orcs carried. Bargos shook his head. "They're right short fuckers... how'd you expec' em hold their line against the chargers?"

The Leiutenant regarded Bargos with a snarl. "We're not here to ask stupid questions like that you shit... 's wot we got and we're going to damn well make do. So I don't wanna hear nufink outa yer shit-traps about it. Understood trooper?" Bargos glanced up at the Lieutenant and nodded.

"Understood.... I'm jest wonderin' why we're puttin such faith in 'em... "

"I thought I just got done explaining, Bargos..." The lieutenant reared...

"I'm JEST SAYIN'..."

A hand gripped Bargos by the elbow and pulled him back.

"Leave the Levtenant alone Bargos...." Zygurd snapped "You're wasting your breath asking stupid questions like 'at.... Just get back in formation and do as yer told and you might live to see tomorrow."

Bargos cast Zygurd's hand away and shuffled back into line with his comrades. Lotar snickered at watching Bargos getting put back into place, This however was met with a sharp elbow to the gut... which shut Lotar up immediately. The moved on... past the picts as they assembled, their leaders and lieutenants talking to the orc commanders. Zygurd shook his head and decided not to dwell on his doubts on their abilities and hefted his long handled great axe onto his shoulder. He looked around at his linemates...there they were, the fifteenth Huscarl regiment out of Nurdhim... the heavy infantry...Axes, Broad Swords, Maces, Falchions... It was their task to charge in as footmen to take down the enemy spearmen and tie up the infantry so the wolf riders could flank from the south...... To the left of them marched the Lances... poorer warriors who were given spears and taught to fight in a tight phalanx and drive off the cavalry... and to the right of them the Slingers.... A loose group of ragged and wiry looking orcs that the warlords had taken from the hunting and fishing villages near the dark forest. Hunters most of them, armed with javelins, and the crude but highly effective composite bows made by the sylvan orcs. Zygurd marched and moved with the rest of his squad, giving the Picts one last final glance before turning his head forward and fixing his skullcap down on his head securely. Through the thick of them he could remember that one dark haired woman with the fur and the tattoos... that bold and strong sort of look to her.

-----

They reached the ford that day at about noon... the river ran shallow and it was to cross on foot through the stream, taking foot on the gravel beds. But there would be none of this for the two of them.... For the river meant a wide open space where they could be easily spotted by the patrols. So Zygurd led Ilga down along the riverbank, keeping to the tree line. A short march found them to the waterfall that fed the stream and kept it flowing southward.

The waterfall provided a calm place for them to rest for a while. Zygurd sat down on one of the great rocks that sat over the basin of the waterfall. With a groan he stretched out on his back for a moment, feeling his back pop here and there. He glanced over at Ilga who nodded, setting her weapon down and undressing before him. Zygurd watched her shed her clothes and then turned his gaze to the woods as Ilsa casually strode past him to take a dip in the waterfall. She was pretty... Zygurd noted, rather unfazed by her nudity, that she was rather good looking.