Mythica, book 1, Chapter 2.

Chapter 2.

A few hours after nightfall, the activity in the camp began to wind down. The refugees were too tired from the stress of their journey, and most were out as soon as they lay down to rest. A few were moving about, heading toward the area outside the camp that had been set up as a latrine. Captain Galavan at least had the foresight to get that dug early. He was likely nowhere near the area where the work had taken place, but as a former soldier, he knew the value of proper sanitation in a camp with this many people.

Most of the mercenaries were at the posts they were assigned to, keeping watch while the others got some rest. Sabine knew that once she turned in, about half those on watch would slink away for some extra sleep, or to gamble away the few coins they still had in their purses. Her unease had only grown as the night wore on. Something didn’t feel right, and she had learned long ago not to ignore it when she felt this way.

Sabine returned to her tent, which, unlike the small pup tents that the normal mercenaries were issued, her tent was large enough to house several people. She may no longer be an officer, but until they replaced her, she was going to enjoy the few benefits the position had offered, one of which included a large tent all to herself. Inside, only a few simple pieces of furniture were found. While she may have been an officer, there was limited room on the supply wagon for furnishing.

A single cot sat in the middle of the tent. Some had thought it odd she placed it in the middle of everything, but early in her career, Sabine had seen one of her officers slain in the night by an assassin who only had to slip his blade through the thin tent material and into the spine of the officer. She would never place her cot along the wall of the tent after that night. Other than the cot, there was a wooden armor stand and a footlocker that held all her possessions.

The armor stand was the first place she stopped, taking the time to strap the hardened leather chest piece on. It was reinforced with metal studs and had the symbol of the Crescent Blades emblazoned in red. The symbol was a large, curved scimitar, something that struck Sabine as rather unoriginal. There were countless mercenary bands with some kind of sword as their symbol, and the Crescent Blades fit right in with all the others. With the current leadership and lack of experienced soldiers, they were languishing in the bottom ranks of the mercenary hierarchy.

Her breastplate settled into place, and after adjusting a few of the straps, the fit was perfect. Sabine liked to move freely in battle, and the leather breastplate was the only real armor she wore. It was lighter than the heavy steel pieces many of the others chose when they had the funds to purchase them. To Sabine, the hardened leather was enough to soften the blow from a bludgeoning weapon and save her from most slashes.

Mobility and the wooden buckler she preferred to wield in her offhand were her main defensive tools. Her leggings were reinforced at the knees and thigh to give some protection and her boots were a high-quality pair with steel bands mounted where they could protect her feet and ankles, which would also let her dish out some extra damage when kicking a foe. Every part of a warrior’s body could a weapon, and Sabine had trained to use them all.

As for her melee weapons, Sabine preferred the simple flail. Hers had been custom-made to fit Sabine’s hand, and the worn leather grip showed the weapon had seen much use. Above the leather covered shaft of the flail, a short, one-and-a-half-foot chain was attached to a solid metal ball with a half dozen metal spikes protruding from it. It was the best of both worlds as far as Sabine was concerned. She could crush armor, and if that wasn’t enough, the spikes could pierce through just about anything that couldn’t be crushed. Some felt the weapon was unwieldy, but to Sabine, it was deadly and effective.

A leather strap allowed Sabine to hook the weapon onto a spot on her belt and a large parrying dagger was sheathed on the opposite side of her hip. Ranged weapons weren’t her specialty, but she was more than competent with the light crossbow inside her storage trunk. It would remain there unless there was an obvious need for the weapon. As an officer, she liked to lead from the front and get stuck into the battle, not hang back and pelt her enemies with ranged fire.

Fully armed and armored, Sabine left her tent, looking at each of the watchfires. Only two had guards that were still standing watch, and they were not paying much attention at all. A glance at where either Rollac or Kaban was supposed to be placed at the listening post showed that no warning torch had been lit. On the opposite side of the camp from the listening post, near the latrine, Sabine heard a scream that cut off abruptly.

That got the attention of the nearest guards, but before they could even unsheathe their weapons, several large figures charged into them. Her guards were cut down in seconds, but their death wails, and the earlier scream began to rouse the camp. Faces peeked out of tents as the other guards grabbed their weapons and charged toward the threat. Sabine’s flail and buckler were in her hands as she joined the others to confront the attack.

“Alarm, rouse yourselves, we’re under attack, defend the southern border of the camp!” Sabine shouted, and others took up the cry.

They may not be the best in the business, but thanks to her daily training, most of the mercenaries knew what to do when an attack was underway. Half would charge the threat, grabbing whatever weapons were at hand to reinforce the mercs on watch. They would hold the enemy while the other half of their force took a few extra moments to get completely armored up before engaging. To their credit, several of the caravan members stumbled from their tents with weapons in hand. Most of the weapons were farming implements, but as long as they knew to stick the sharp bits into the squishy parts of their target, they’d do okay.

“Orcs, it looks like orcs,” Rollac said. The man was next to her, running toward the fight with a short sword in one hand and trying to pull on his helmet with the other. He may have been a thug and slacker, but at least he wasn’t a coward.

“Orcs, humans, or demons, it doesn’t matter, just kill them,” Sabine ordered. One of the orcs noticed their approach and barked out in his harsh language before charging. Sabine slowed her pace to a fast walk, concentrating on the orc approaching her. Orcs in general were far more powerful than a human, but many relied on that strength alone to win a fight. The wild tribes that raided out here were less likely to have any type of training other than instructions to hit something hard.

It looked like this orc was part of the “just hit stuff hard” school of thought. His sword was poorly made and had jagged serrations on the blade. It might look more imposing, but Sabine knew such modifications did little more than weaken the weapon. The orc began an overhead chop, telegraphing his strike and allowing Sabine ample time to roll out of the way. As she stood back up, Sabine swung the flail into the orc’s knee, hearing a satisfying crunch as the blow toppled her foe.

Motion caught out of the corner of her eye caused Sabine to leap back before she could finish off her opponent. A spear thrust barely missed her, the crude but sharp spear tip cutting a line along her breastplate. The orc holding the spear made a second thrust, his strike was fast, and Sabine barely had time to raise her buckler to deflect the blow. Her counterstrike missed the spear that she had hoped to shatter with her strike. This orc was fast, but before he could set up for another thrust, one of the caravan drivers hit him in the back with a hatchet.

The orc spun toward the new threat, the motion pulling the hatchet from the driver’s hand. Sabine had an opening, and she took it. Aiming for the back of the distracted orc’s head, her flail slammed home, the powerful blow denting the orc’s helm as one of the spikes pierced through both the helm and the orc’s thick skull. Sadly, her strike was too slow to save the caravan driver who lay on the dirt, impaled by the orc's final blow.

A glance at the battle going on around them gave Sabine a sick feeling in her gut. The eastern and western edges of the camp were also under attack, and most of the guards had already moved to defend the south. She spotted a few of her people slinking off to the north, trying to escape in the one direction that was still clear. They were holding their own here at the southern end of the camp, but that was only because most of the guards and the bravest of the caravan members had all rushed in this direction at the start of the battle.

“Pull back to the north, cover the caravan’s retreat!” She shouted out over the noise of battle. About half the remaining guards heard her, the other half were too involved in melee or were already trying to flee. The attackers were figuring things out, moving as a group to close the gap at the north end of the camp.

A blow to Sabine’s leg knocked her off her feet. It took a few seconds before the pain kicked in. Sticking out of her thigh was a blackened crossbow bolt. The bleeding was minimal, and Sabine knew enough about wounds to not try and remove the which could cause her to bleed out. She doubted she could even pull it out without any help, it was sunk deep into her femur bone.

To remain on the ground was to die, so she crawled over to the fallen caravan driver and broke off the spear that was lodged in his chest. Using the broken spear haft as a cane, Sabine forced herself to her feet. Searing pain lanced through her leg when she tried to hobble away, causing her to lose her balance once again. She landed right on the crossbow bolt and let out a scream as the head of the bolt cracked through her femur and out the other side of her leg.

Where blood had once trickled from the wound, it now began to flow from both the entry and exit wound. Getting up wasn’t going to be easy, but she couldn’t give up, it just wasn’t in Sabine to quit. Her flail had fallen out of reach, but she still had the dagger on her belt. Orcs were closing in, hacking down the last of the defenders still engaged in combat.

“Sabine, put your arm over my shoulder, let me help you up,” Kaban said as he knelt next to her.

“Kaban, get out of here, I’ll buy you some time,” Sabine said, drawing her knife and vowing to herself that she would stay alive long enough to give Kaban a chance.

“I’ve got to ignore that order, ma’am, do as I say!” Kaban growled, tying a hasty bandage around her thigh before helping to hoist Sabine up. The pair stumbled their way toward the north, their pace slow as Sabine began to feel faint from the loss of blood.

“Glad to see you finally found the courage to stand up for yourself, Kaban. I hate to say it, but I have to say that you have horrible timing for your personal development,” Sabine said.

It didn’t look like they were going to make it, as enemies completed the circle around the camp, closing off any escape route before the real slaughter began. About half the caravan was stuck inside a ring of orcs, and none of her mercenaries, other than Kaban were still in sight. Most of the refugees were crying and begging for mercy that they were unlikely to find from the wild orc tribes.

“Let’s see if we can take a few with us to the afterlife,” Sabine growled.

They made an unlikely pair of heroes, but their stand rallied a few of the refugees who grabbed whatever weapons they could find among the fallen and stood with the pair. The orcs finished their slaughter of the mercy seekers and kept a loose ring around the few willing to defend themselves. Only seven refugees stood with them, and Sabine was glad to have them.

Two scores of orcs surrounded them, but they held off their attack. Did they want to take them as slaves? If so, Sabine decided that she would pull the bandage from her leg and bleed out before she allowed that fate to befall her. The reason for the delay revealed itself as the ground began to shake. Orcs rushed to get out of the way, leaving a wide opening for the hulking monster that stomped forward.

“Hungry!” The deep voice rumbled. Sabine’s mind filled in the blank, it was an ogre, and according to what it said, the thing wanted them for supper. Sabine’s dagger looked like a puny defense against the twelve-foot-tall ogre, but it was all she had.

“Your dinner’s going to fight back!” Sabine shouted, thrusting out with her dagger as the ogre kicked at her.

Sabine was surprised that there wasn’t any pain from the ogre’s kick, just the force of the impact and the horrifying sounds of most of her bones breaking. A pleasant breeze blew through her short hair as she was launched across the camp. Before she landed, the pain finally hit, but it only bothered her for a moment before everything went black.