Old Warrior

Harvar Brondor tightened his grip in anticipation. His breath hung before him in the winters frost, his body crackled with energy. The sun above shone down imperiously, the day crisp, clear, ready for the glory of bloodshed. Harvar lifted his weapons to his face and they glistened in the light. Two heavy bronze axes, veterans of over a hundred battles. They had grown to be almost a part of him, to define him.



His head turned slowly to look at the scores of men either side of him. Hundreds of eyes beneath iron helmets. All fixed on him. For in Harvar they saw inspiration, the promise of victory and untold glory. For he was the 'Thunder of Sjonfeld', the most celebrated son of the great ice plains of the east. He glared at the castle before them. The castle which contained the provisions his people would need to survive Sjonfelds bitter winter. The castle to which he was tasked, by the King himself, to take. It was a high walled fortress with a huge wooden door and jutting towers. Men in coloured silk scurried about the parapets, shouting out orders in a language Harvar didn't understand. The defenders within knew what was coming. Harvar's men had camped out in plain sight, out of range of the castles arrows and crossbows. He turned to the man on his right and gave a solemn nod. A longhorn blast pierced the mornings calm, and with it came the warcry of a hundred warriors.



His breath came fast and he clamped his teeth together as they rushed through the volley of arrows. Dozens of men fell, but many more continued, all eyes fixed on breaking through to the castle courtyard. He swatted away an arrow destined for his head. He glanched sideways in both directions and smiled broadly at the healthy number of men beside him. Suddenly the castle doors were flung open. Out burst a column of knights in colourful garments on horseback, lances raised proudly as they charged towards Brondor's men.



Harvar screamed, "LOOSE FORMATION!"



His men scattered as the horses ploughed into them at top speed, sending bodies cartwheeling backwards. Bones shattered as the heavy lances found their mark. Men were lifted airbourne by the force of motion, impaled, their squelching cries feeding the anger inside Harvar. Then the horses galloped off and began to turn for another charge.



"THE HORSES. GET THE HORSES!"



His voice boomed out like the cracking of thunder before a storm. The knights once again charged, but couldn't build up enough speed. Raiders leapt up into the air and tackled the knights, dismounting their heavily armoured foes. The horses that remained upright bolted, thoose that fell were slaughtered indiscriminately. From the castle behind him, Harvar heard shouting, and turned to see a force of lightly armoured men stream out. They carried rapiers and daggers. The ceremonial weapons of blacksmiths and farmhands. Harvar spat on the ground. He turned his attention to the felled knights, big cumbersome men who swang heavy longswords swords in great arcs. He ran at one of them before jumping back when the other swang at him. Harvar heard the 'whoosh' as the blade passed his nose. His left axe planted itself in the knight's shoulder, the man gave a cry of agony, his hand hanging limply. The knight's boot shot out and caught Harvar in his gut, forcing him back. He tried lifting his weapon but failed. The great steel broadsword too heavy to swing single handedly. The knight desperately tried to poke Harvar with it, but each effort sapped at his already dimished strength. Harvar danced around the knight, lips wet in anticipation. The knight gave one final effort and thrust his sword in front of him but the blow was easily parried. He fell to one knee as Harvar's axe came down upon his helmet, splitting his skull in two.



Soon the all of the knights were overwhelmed, cut down by the raiders greater mobility and numbers. Only a handful of his own number had fallen. The rest of them had rallied to him. Harvar pulled his axe from the fallen knight's head. Blood sprayed out from the wound and Harvar leant his face down and revelled as the warm liquid spread over his skin. He pointed his axe at the oncoming army, smiling, a crazed, mad smile. His men roared in approval. He turned slowly and extended out his arms on both sides of him. His men formed up quickly on both sides of him, eager still for battle. They marched forward. An alarm was sounded and shields were hastily brought up as a final bombardment of arrows rained down. This time less than ten men fell. Harvar's raised fist halted the march. He ran a bloodsoaked hand through his matted, grey hair to clear his vision. The Thunder of Sjonfeld looked into the eyes of the approaching rabble. He saw fear and apprehension. Civilizians given weapons and pushed unprepared into battle. Some he saw, wore armour. "Regular soldiers. To maintain discipline." Once again he looked to his right and nodded. The longhorn blew out again, and for what seemed to him the thousandth time, Harvar rushed belovedly into combat.



The civilian milita were no match for a warrior of his skill. He chopped numerous men down with consummate ease. He read the intent on their anguished faces as clear as day. The soldiers amongst them presented a much more honourable challenge. Harvar met with one amidst the chaos, the clatter of steel on steel ringing out as they danced around each other, neither wanting to commit first. Harvar faked a swing with his left hand and bought his right axe up, uppercutting it into the breastplate of the soldier, whoose breath momentarily left him. But the man stepped backwards and slashed out with his sword before regaining his poise. Harvar looked at his slashed left bicep and smiled. He felt an unfamiliar rush, he hadn't been cut in a long time. The solider swung again, but this time Harvar expected the blow, he had dived at the armoured legs, knocking the man down. The soldier scrambled to bring his sword up but Harvar's bloodied left arm blocked his, and Harvar's axe found the soft flesh between the soldier's armour and helmet. He pushed the axe against the skin as the man's hand gripped the lower part of the axe, his legs flailing as he desperately tried to force the axe up, away from his exposed neck. Harvar's left arm lifted from the man and he swung his legs round, pinning down the soldier's right arm. His left hand now free, Harvar used his axe to hammer the other deeper into the soldier's throat. The soldier kicked out evermore furiously, gargling and thrashing about before finally dying.



Harvar got up slowly, he shook his head, which felt light. He left arm was bleeding heavier than he'd thought. His breathing became laboured as he trudged slowly onwards. That last encounter had taken it out of him. He felt then at that moment that his sixty two years had finally caught up with him. "Now isn't the time for contemplation." He lifted his axe to parry another attack, his arm now crying out in pain. He dispatched the man with a huge blow to the ribs, Harvar's axe shattering the man's light leather armour. He would have been sent flying, such was the ferocity of the swing, but he stood screaming, impaled on the axe. When the screaming stopped and the body went limp, he let it fall to the ground. He stood on the corpse to make it easier to free his weapon when he heard a whistling sound and felt himself suddenly pushed forward.



He regained his balance and his wild eyes blazed furiously. He howled in anger as the adrenaline shot through his body. He reached his hand behind his lower back and felt the wooden shaft under his fingers. He quickly spotted the hooded figure at the fringes of the fighting. Another arrow darted through the air towards him but this he saw in time, swinging his remaining axe up in front of his face as he charged. The archer fired twice more, the first sailed past Harvar's ear, missing him by inches. It even made him look back, before he snapped his eyes back to his target. He roared in pain as the other arrow cannoned into the shin of his right leg. There wasn't time for a third arrow as the archer drew a dagger and readied to meet his charge.



The last few feet he limped, he transferred the axe to his good right arm, lifted and swung it vertically down. The archer dodged it well, and managed to stab Harvar quickly before he could react but the blade on the dagger was short, and the wound only served to further anger him. He swung at fresh air again as the archer eluded gracefully. He took a stap back and changed his tactics. First he drew himself up to his full intimidating height, dwarfing the archer. He kept his enemy directly in front of him. He then cut down through the air, then swiped again quickly, but this time horizontally. The archer leapt again but Harvar managed to catch the cloak in his outstretched left hand. The sudden change of momentum making the archer drop his dagger. He then dragged the man in front of him, and raised his axe for the killing blow.



He stood uncomprehending for a moment. Just blinking. The archer struggled in his grip, and without the hood Harvar could see his face. Only it wasn't face of man.



A young girl was glaring back at him. Defiant. Her green eyes held hatred, but he couldn't see fear. He looked around, the battle continued on ferociously. They seemed to be unnoticed. He relaxed his grip. The girl was barely more than a child. She hesitated for a moment before picking up her dagger. She said some words in the common tongue that Harvar never cared to understand. She raised her dagger up in a combat stance. Harvar shook his head left to right.



"Go." He commanded. She didn't move. He pointed to the forest beside them. "GO!"



She walked slowly, warily. When she reached the edge she glanced behind her, expecting a trap. She cast one final look upon Harvar, implanting him into her memory. She took in his fearsome appearance, the great grey grizzly beard, his crimson warrior face, the two massive sabre-toothed tiger fangs that hung from his belt. She met his eyes for the last time. Some men were approaching behind him, she couldn't make out if they were raiders or her own people. She didn't stay around to find out.



Harvar turned from the forest, and limped back towards the battle. His chest tightened and he coughed up blood. "My lung. The arrows punctuared one of my lungs." He laughed to himself. "Today...Maybe the day i finally die." Two men ran towards him, swords held high, anger etched onto their faces. Two men he didn't recognize as his own. He blinked the bluriness out of his vision and prepared himself once more.



They would be upon him soon. But one had come closer than the other. He knew he had to even the numbers somehow. He lifted his right axe high above his head, then, charging forwards a few steps he hurled it with all his might.



Even with his injuries, his aim was true and the axe connected with a very satisfying thud. The man collapsed to the ground in a heap, gagging for breath. The other was almost upon him and Harvar rushed for the axe. He grimaced as his leg betrayed him, and buckled from under him. The man was less than a foot from him and he reached out desperately. He felt the wood of the handle in his hand and jerked his arm up but as he did, a white hot pain shot through him, sending goosebumps onto his skin.



He managed to roll with all his energy away from the sword. The arrow shaft broke and the head plunged deeper into his back. He yelled out terribly. The swordsman walked slowly to him now. Harvar lay on his back. He struggled to breathe. His body trembled in shock. He looked at the bloodied stump of his right arm, tried flexing fingers that were no longer attached. The swordsman stood over him now, ready to perform his mercy killing. But as he lifted his sword Harvar suddenly kicked out with all his might at the mans knees. The man yelped and as he keeled over, Harvar sat up and grabbed at the man's armour, crashing his head into the other's face. The swordsman rocked back dazed, and Harvar was on him like an animal. Like a rabid wolf. His hand rested on the side of the mans face and after headbutting him again, he screamed out as he squeezed his thumb into the eye socket. The man yelled and instinctively struck out at Harvar with his mailed fist, catching him under the chin. He hit him again and again and eventually Harvar was forced off.



Blood seeped from the man's right eye and he winked it shut. He took his sword up and began to crawl towards Harvar, who was slowing beginning to sit up. Harvar gripped the arrow which protruted from his leg and slowly, unsheathed it from his flesh. With renewed adrenaline flowing through him he held the arrowhead between his fingers. The wounded swordsman was on him now. Hands grabbing at Harvar's legs, climbing up the man like a ladder. When he could see into Harvar's face the man went to slash at him - but Harvar's fist struck first. It connected with the man under the left eye, puncturing a hole in his face. His sword arm lifted feebly and Harvar jabbed again. This time into the man's throat. The sword clattered to the floor as the body slumped over onto the ground. The man lay clutching at his throat, rolling about madly.



Harvar managed to stand and stumble. His head spun and he felt himself somehow draining away. He knew then that these were his last moments. He made his way shakily to the corpse which contained his axe. The lower portion of his right arm lay beside it. He picked up his axe and gripped it with all the strength he could muster. He lifted his head when he heard cheering, his vision focused for a moment and he could make out the shapes of his raiders. His brothers. They streamed towards him. When some got close enough he shot his arm up into the sky. He looked up to the heavens. It would be dark soon, at least for him. He felt the last sands of time slipping through the hourglass. One final deep breath through his nose. He would meet his death victorious. All eyes fixed on him.



"FOR THE GLORY, OF SJONFELD!!!"