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When Luck Strikes; Spring Short Story
Topic Started: Wed Mar 27, 2013 2:13 am (206 Views)
Marcus
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“Fargen’ Varien,” muttered Marcus as he tripped over his brother’s body.

Varien lay in a heap near the middle of their tent, passed out from the exuberant festivities of the previous night. The two brothers had teamed up to consume a half a barrel of the khan’s finest kumis, a sweet alcohol made from mare’s milk. At first Marcus had been wary of creamy beverage, but after several cups his trepidation had evaporated and he drank the kumis until he could swallow no more.

The revelry had quickly escalated into a tizzy. For the first time since Droggba’s eldest son Kubla been killed, the khan was celebrating and the people of the plains seemed dedicated to making up for lost time. Marcus’s dry mouth and spinning vision were a testament to the evening’s, nay the Garek brothers’, rousing success.

After Varien and Marcus had informed Droggba, the self-proclaimed khan of all horselords, of their former employer’s intent to seize an important oasis, the battle-loving khan had mobilized his cavalry to prevent the priceless water from falling into Norrick dan Vorren’s hands. The surprised army of dan Vorren did not have the time to fortify their position and stood no chance against the agile mounted bowmen of the khan’s cavalry. Before the sun set on the first day of battle, the Garek brothers’ former employer and his men had been forced from their position, leaving the valuable oasis firmly in Droggba’s control.

When the news of victory reached the khan’s tent city, Droggba had thrown a feast in honor of the Garek brothers. The khan gave full credit to the mercenaries and—as usual—Varien had reveled in the attention, leading to his current state on the tent floor.

The big mercenary absentmindedly patted the purse hung loosely around his neck, the heavy weight of the coin assuring him that he and Varien had played their pieces well. Droggba’s payment had nearly doubled dan Vorren’s promise and the sudden wealth suited Marcus well.

“Ahhhh,” sighed the big mercenary as he relieved himself just outside the tent. He closed his eyes, leaving his mouth agape, as his head tipped backwards in ecstasy.

Nothing like a good piss after good booze.

Feeling much more relaxed after the pressure relinquished its cruel hold on his bladder, Marcus carefully shook himself. No need to dirty his pants with a few misaimed drops. Such an act would surely spoil his transcendent mood.

A sudden movement in the corner of his eye brought Marcus out of his vacant state. His head swiveled away from the dirty fabrics of the tent, looking over sea of orange tents for the source of the motion. His eyes darted back and forth at the shadows dancing along the ground, just out of the reach of the flickering light from the dying campfires.

Effen’ fires. He was forced to blink as the colors swirled together and dizziness overcame him.

After catching his balance, Marcus turned back towards his tent with another grumble. He slowly stumbled towards the narrow opening, his dry mouth aching for water. His unfocused eyes struggled to adjust to the lack of light in the dark tent and he crashed into a low table crouched along one tent wall.

Just as he crouched over to grab his throbbing shin, a sharp pressure appeared in his upper arm. Torn between clutching his bruised shin and feeling his should, Marcus paused awkwardly in a half-crouched position. He finally felt at his arm and found a dagger had found itself lodged in his shoulder. His impaired brain struggled to comprehend his current situation. A second pinch awoke something within the mercenary’s mind, a quick look down confirmed there was another small knife buried hilt deep in his thigh. His eyes searched around the room for the sources of the attacks, resting of a pair black-clad men crouching along the wall of the tent.

Lady Luck has blessed me with a bruised shin, that first throw would’a nailed me right in the ticker.

“Who…” Marcus’s question faded quickly as the taller man’s wrist snapped forward, sending a third dagger towards the drunken mercenary.

Marcus dove forward, crashing through the short end table as he avoided the well thrown blade. The dagger tore through the coarse fabric of the tent and disappeared into the night. As he lay among the splinters and bits of broken wood, Marcus tore the dagger from his shoulder and whipped it back at the would-be assassins. The blade sailed wide of its target due to the combination of alcohol, and the fact that he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a throwing dagger.

As one, the two attackers drew short swords from their scabbards and rushed in at Marcus. The mercenary grabbed one of the table’s broken legs, just managing to raise the wood in time to block the first assassin’s attack.

The short sword bit deeply into the broken leg. With a grunt, Marcus twisted his arm and ripped the blade from his attacker’s hand. He swept out with his leg, knocking the assassin to the packed earthen floor of the tent.

The big mercenary was forced to quickly roll to his side as the second attacker leapt, sword first, over his fallen comrade. With no time to stand, Marcus crab crawled backwards as he deflected blow after blow for the sharpened steel.

Now would be a great time for Varien to wake the eff up.

Running out of room in the tent, he took a gamble. He took a sharp breath in through his nose and emptied all of the snot from his sinuses into the back of his mouth. As the darkly clad man stepped forward for another attack, Marcus unleashed a wad of saliva and phlegm the size of a cherry into his foe’s face. The man stumbled backwards, desperately scraping at his face as the mucus dripped into his right eye.

With the assault temporarily suspended, Marcus quickly jumped to his feet. Wasting no time, he wound up with his makeshift club and swung at the man’s stomach as hard as he could. Wood and ribs cracked and the assassin doubled over in pain.

Completely unguarded, the man was in Marcus’s mercy. Unfortunately, the mercenary had none. With a single hand, he grabbed the man’s neck and neatly snapped his spine.

He quickly scooped up the dead man’s sword, which looked like a dagger in his huge hands. With several long strides, he swiftly crossed the room and reached the first assassin just as the man got back on his feet. Without breaking stride, Marcus lashed out and casually slipped the blade between the man’s ribs. The man gurgled as the sword punctured his lungs. Taking no chances, Marcus twisted the blade and pulled it free. The man stopped twitching after several more thrusts.

Marcus threw down the blade and slunk back towards his bed, stepping over a snoring Varien in the process. After gulping down an entire canteen of water, he crawled under the thin sheets.

Damn good thing I had to pee. We would’a had our throats slit in our sleep. Saved by the booze.

Marcus giggled as his eyes shut.
Edited by Marcus, Thu Mar 28, 2013 1:48 am.
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