Eleven years had passed since he had been abandoned by his village, his tribe, his friends, and even his gods. They had denied him his test of manhood, though he passed anyway later on his own merits. They had slain his parents. Their corrupt priest had burned his sister alive in front of his eyes.
Now, eleven years later, Kiljar sat across from the current village elder of his former home. After having gained a reputation at a scant seventeen years of age as a fierce mercenary leading the Japhethian Auxiliary Army in the Mu skirmishes, his former village now wanted him to defend his “homeland”. Kiljar looked up at the village elder after much thought. His Atlantean-inherited green eyes burned with cold hatred. He felt bile rising from his stomach into his throat. Having no words to express his disgust, Kiljar spat at the elder’s feet. “Homeland,” he said mockingly. “I have no homeland! Atlantis is in the depths guarded by monstrous water demons and you who slayed my parents and sister alive before me drove me from my place of birth. I have no ‘homeland’!”
“Kiljar.” The elder smoothed back his gray hair and gathered his thoughts. “That chief is dead. You slew him yourself. I am not he.”
No. But you were there that night. Did you aid my father in defending his wife? Did you speak up against the sacrifice of my sister? One only aided me and he died at the hands of his own tribe as my family did. I still place that blame on you. He might have lived longer had he not been rejected by his own people for doing what was just!”
Kiljar was now on his feet. His six feet stood imposingly before the already shorter and bowed by age village elder. Kiljar’s blood boiled within him and he was on the verge of murder-rage, though he had yet to reach for his sword. He began pacing the hovel. Nothing more wanted he than to break this man’s neck and set fire to the whole village.
“Kiljar, please!” The elder stood. “This threat from the East is greater than this village or tribe. These Hoonites and their leader, Kaal, will destroy the world in their rampage. They burn, loot, rape, kill without discrimination! Some of the rival tribes have even joined them. If we do not do something soon, they will grow too big to stop. If you ignore this village, many innocents will die with the guilty. Will you be any better than I for standing by and doing nothing?”
“Though I should cut your tongue out for saying it, you make a good point.” Kiljar sighed. “I have three hundred men in my free company of mercenaries, all ready to follow my orders. Call a meeting of the friendly tribes. I will help build the defenses, train men and women, and I will lead my company against these Hoonites and their Kaal. But when this is ended, you will pay a high treasure for my company’s help…and higher still a price of blood-gold for my family’s deaths.”
The village elder was quiet. He glared at Kiljar and there was a moment of spite that crossed his face. But at Kiljar’s stone stare the elder realized he would lose. More so, he realized he needed Kiljar and his men.
“Up to all the riches of the tribe, if you desire it,” he said at last. “I swear to Ovi, I will give the price you ask to the last ounce.”
“Don’t call your hateful gods into our oath. We will make it as men, one to another. The gods can choke on their own oaths.” Kiljar spat. “And I trust the gods of my Atlantean mother, who died before your eyes. I ask them for nothing but to stay out of my way.”
“So be it, Kiljar.” The village elder opened his wooden door and gestured for Kiljar to leave. “I will send messengers to the friendly tribes to convene. “I tell you this though. If you should die in this battle, I would be happier for it.”
Kiljar smiled as he walked through the doorway past the elder. “I would be the happier for it too,” he replied. “Then if I see your gods I will slay them too.”
The door slammed in Kiljar’s face. He smirked and headed South back to his camp.
“Two days, Kiljar! Two days and still they argue!” Volt, Kiljar’s friend and second-in-command, sat his heavy frame down on the log next to Kiljar. He snatched a piece of roast lamb from Kiljar’s plate. With its juice running down his full mouth and yellow beard, he continued. “Defenses need building. Scouts must be sent. Troops must be trained. Battle plans must be drawn. We must prepare. But all they do is argue! ‘Who shall lead?’ ‘Who gets what share of spoils?’ ‘Which tribes will fund the weapons?’ ‘Who will put up the horses?’ Thoth’s balls! Are your people always this way?”
Volt turned spitting out a piece of bone. He saw Kiljar’s smirk.
“What? Is this humorous? This is no joke, Kiljar!”
“No,” Kiljar replied. “But you are, my friend. Politicians are the same everywhere you go. It is not they who will lead charges, build defenses, pay for armor and horses; it is up to men of war like us to get things done.”
“Bah! Politicians!” Volt spat. He grabbed another piece of lamb, this time from the cooking fire, and continued, again with his mouth full. “Hang them all I say! Let’s just hang them, take charge, and get this on with! I need to feel a brass blade in my hand. I need to hear the clang of shields! The clamor of battle calls me! My strength drains sitting here doing nothing! I need to hear the shouts of war and din of chaos! I need to…“
Volt had stood on the log during his ranting. While flailing his piece of lamb and gesticulating wildly he had lost his balance and fallen mid-sentence. Now, spread-eagle on the ground, his lamb piece lying in the dust, Kiljar roared with laughter. He reached out his hand to his friend and hoisted him to his feet.
“You need to go easy on the mead, is what you need to do, friend.”
“Aye, aye, I know. Just good stuff. I still don’t believe it is made from honey as you claim. No honey has ever made a man as tipsy as this.”
“Believe as you will,” Kiljar replied. “Truth is truth.”
The door to the meeting hall slammed open. The elders of the friendly tribes poured out. Some were still arguing with others, but most had some semblance of composure.
One Kiljar did not recognize hushed the others and gathered a crowd around. Furs of animals traded from far-off lands grazed the still dark-haired elder’s shoulders. His beard was oiled with perfumed ointments, no doubt also from afar. In his seventeen years, Kiljar had never seen a man of the tribe so lavishly adorned. Gold bangles the size of Kiljar’s muscular biceps glimmered on the man’s wrists and chains of gold and silver hung about his neck down to his stomach. But it was his eyes that interested Kiljar. They were the green eyes of an Atlantean.
The man introduced himself as Baldwin of the Western tribes as he addressed the crowd. He boomed loudly enough for all to hear as one accustomed to speaking to large groups. “We will fight together,” Baldwin proclaimed.” “But we will not fight as one. These Hoonites pose no real threat to us of the West and we will not waste good fighting men and resources to die in some uncivilized tribal war. We can reach no true accord, and thus, I will send but a hundred spearmen and all else can be responsible for their own tribes.”
“Madness,” Volt bellowed. He had not intended to say it so loudly. Now all attention was on him. He glanced quickly at Kiljar who gestured for him to continue. “Madness,” he exclaimed louder. “These Hoonites number in the thousands! Act separately and you will all be crushed! Your daughters will be raped and sold afar for others to rape! Your fields will be stripped bare and your homes reduced to rubble! We must stand together or we will fall separately!”
“And would one of Egypt lead this unruly army, unified together,” Baldwin replied with his voice oozing snark.
“No,” Volt replied. “Kiljar will. One of your own.” He had blurted it out as if it were the most common of sense. “He has led far bigger armies of men than all your tribes put together!” This was a lie but Kiljar was too fascinated by the spectacle to correct his friend.
Baldwin glanced at Kiljar and scoffed. Kiljar stared back with a smirk. The elder broke first, turned to the other tribal representatives, and they discussed it in hushed whispers. After minutes of debate they broke apart again.
“So be it,” Baldwin proclaimed. “But we will not force our men to join you, Kiljar Priest-Slayer. If our men join you it will be of their own volition. Those who will join you, you may add to your free company and lead as you see fit.”
Baldwin flourished his cloak and strode by Kiljar. As he passed he whispered, “I would invoke the blessings of Ovi on you, but we both know you are god-forsaken.”
Before he could think it through, Kiljar had one muscular arm around the man’s neck and a dagger in the other hand pointed at the man’s heart. It was his turn to whisper.
“You would be wise, politician, to keep your opinion on whom the gods have forsaken to yourself.” Kiljar’s knife-wielding hand slowly dropped to Baldwin’s groin. “Unless you would like to be Ovi’s eunuch.”
Baldwin somehow managed a gulp that was still loudly audible. Sweat beaded on his face. He nodded as much as Kiljar’s arm would allow his neck to move.
Kiljar released him and turned away. “Tell your men,” he called back over his shoulder, “to meet us on the eastern plains in two days.” With that, he waved Volt to follow and they returned to camp.
Two days had passed and two thousand men joined Kiljar’s company of three hundred on the eastern plains. From the rising of the sun until the noon day, they trained- marching, coordinating attack patterns, sparring, and archery. Swords, maces, flails, spears, and axes were all put to the test in mock combat scenarios. At mid-day they would break and eat. Within an hour they were building their strength by building stone walls, placing large wooden pikes for cavalry defense, and digging pitfalls with large shafts of wood with fine-pointed tips arranged at the bottom.
A fortnight passed in this manner. Kiljar, in the impetuous nature of his youth, longed to begin the battle with the Hoonites. Every day however, all the scouts came back with no reports of the approaching army. He could see even the seasoned warriors were becoming as restless as he was.
“Maybe they have turned aside for easier targets,” Volt proffered as they sat at supper around a camp fire. He handed Kiljar a flagon filled with mead. In one gulp it was gone.
“Maybe,” Kiljar replied unconvinced. “I think something more sinister may be afoot here. Have the scouts go out again, this time in all directions, and make expanding circles. They may be trying to flank us.”
“I know they say Kaal is an able leader, but do you really expect him to be that clever when all the other attacks have been head on charges?”
“Part of being an able leader is being able to learn and adapt. Maybe it is something less devious, but I’d rather not take the chance. If we need to fortify on the North or South, I would rather do it now before the Hoonites arrive.”
Volt nodded. He sent word to the scouts to set out after eating. Sitting down next to Kiljar he whispered, “These men are anxious. I fear if we do not meet our enemy soon they may desert. Or maybe even turn on each other. I know these tribes are supposed to be on friendly terms, but even friends can lose tempers and turn on each other. Are you sure we should not ride out to meet them?”
“No, friend. Here we have water and food nearby, the advantage of position, and defenses built. If we go out to meet them we will lose those advantages. And if they are planning a flank attack, we would end up leaving the villages unguarded with a horde between us and them.”
A female scout rode up to the fire. Breathless, she handed Kiljar a report scratched in the runic writing on sheep skin. The message was from a tribal leader far to the southeast. Winded, she spoke.
“I found this on a dead messenger about three miles to the east. Four more tribes have joined them, according to the message, and it was written by someone I do not know of, but who claimed their village was on the verge of ransacking.” She paused to catch a breath. “I saw the enemy’s camp fires. They are about four miles from where I found the messenger, due east.”
Kiljar nodded and read the message for himself. “How large,” was all he said.
“From the looks of the camp fires, I’d reckon around seven to eight thousand.”
“Well,” Volt put in, “it would seem they took a detour but have yet to plan any flanking.” He gave the scout a cup of water, which she hastily downed. Turning back to Kiljar he added, “Should we send another scout to confirm?”
“No,” Kiljar replied. “I trust her judgment. In the morning, you and I will ride with the dawn and see how they are armed and arranged. But for tonight, we will post a watch and rest. We shall replenish the grass of these plains with blood soon. I dine to make it more of their blood than our own.”
Before the rising of the sun, Kiljar had already awoken, washed his face in the nearby river and readied both his and Volt’s horses. Having slept fitfully and eager for battle, Volt was up not much later than Kiljar and was ready to go. By the time the sun was cresting the horizon they were riding hard to the East. Within two and a half hours they were crouched on a hill overlooking the enemy. The Hoonites had wasted no time that morning and had already begun the slow march westward towards the villages of Kiljar’s birth land.
Volt glared hard against the sun making quick calculations of foot soldiers, mounted soldiers, archers, supply carts, and non-combatants. There was very little armor here and there and most of what there appeared to be was wood slats overlapped into make shift breastplates. The occasional bit of bronze from a breastplate, shield or spearhead glittered in the light of the morning sun. The majority appeared armed with bows, slings, clubs and axes of bone or stone.
“This is the fearful army of the Hoonites,” Volt said sarcastically. “Most of their weapons are primitive stone.”
“It is the strange bows they carry that worries me,” Kiljar replied. “They have nearly as many archers as we have men. I’ve never seen bows that curve back outward such as these. Have you?”
“No. It doesn’t look all that special though. And they have so few spearmen and mounted soldiers. I see no problem with handling their bowmen. And I count maybe five hundred foot soldiers, most with clubs and the occasional sword or axe. Their numbers mean nothing. This will be an easy victory.”
Kiljar disagreed but remained silent. He could not shake a foreboding feeling. Those strange bows bothered him. “Let us return,” he said.
With the supply caravan weighing them down, it was another day before the Hoonites reached the plains and saw their foe arranged against them. Kiljar had double checked all the defenses and made sure every weapon was sharp, every bronze breastplate was strong, every bow ready to be stung and fired at a moment’s notice. They had a waited the Hoonite arrival with the last shreds of patience any of them had left.
His archers were arranged behind a wall of bronze covered spearmen. Head, chest, foot, and arm were bronze plated. He expected the Hoonites to lead with a mounted charge and he would fire arrows from behind the wall of bronze men and spear down any that made it though.
But around the noonday, the Hoonites had stopped about five hundred yards away. Instead of leading with a charge, they drew their mounted soldiers to the rear flanks and it was the archers who were in front of the lines. Volt gave a confused looked to Kiljar who did not notice. He had his own worries and that foreboding feeling only grew stronger.
“Maybe they wish to discuss terms first,” one soldier said. He was hushed by Kiljar who was still studying his enemy.
An olive-skinned man rode before the Hoonite army. He was adorned with wooden armor strung into a breastplate, but bangles of gold hung from his arms and precious stones of every color adorned his many necklaces. Long peacock plumes hung from his long spear. Unlike most of his army, he had a long, metal spear, the head of which was as wide as Kiljar’s fist and twice as long. Kiljar could not tell for sure, but the man looked to be nearly his own height. The giant steed he rode made him appear a giant. He knew this man must be Kaal.
With a raise of his spear and a cry in a language Kiljar was unfamiliar with from Kaal, the archers raised their bows. Some of Kiljar’s men laughed thinking them mad to believe they could strike from this range. But a sudden understanding dawned on Kiljar.
“Shields,” he cried. “Shield yourselves fools!”
Many of the men died suddenly with a chuckle still on their lips as arrows fell like the harsh winter snows of his northern home. Kiljar had shielded himself as had the well-trained men of his personal company. But nearly two hundred of the tribesmen fell before they realized what was happening. Arrows pummeled Kiljar’s shield, some even punching through the oak wood. The man on his left was killed by an arrow that pushed through his shield and his skull. They had already reloaded and begun raining more arrows down before Kiljar could give further orders. By this time most everyone was shielded though and fewer were killed in the second onslaught.
Kiljar risked a quick peek around his shield. The Hoonite army had not moved from their position, merely reloaded and begun firing a third volley. Kiljar looked to Volt from under his shield. He gave a hand signal to fall back and shouted over the screams of a few more downed men, “Fall back! Draw them into the pits.”
Volt nodded and began pulling back. The men followed suit. The more well-trained eased back, still covered by shields. But some of the tribesmen had tried to simply run. Those were taken down by a fourth and fifth round of arrows. Risking another glance, Kiljar saw a hand signal from Kaal. The Hoonites began to advance. Still the well-disciplined archers fired arrows even as they marched.
For what seemed an eternity, Kiljar pulled his men back slowly. Some of the spearmen and archers were stuck, hunkered down behind the stone walls with shields above their heads held by rapidly tiring arms. Here a man stumbled in his retreat and was taken out by falling arrows. There an archer had risked an ill-timed shot over the wall and was hit, his arrow colliding with the volley coming against it. There another man had attempted to peer around his shield only to be struck through the forehead.
“Just a little further!” Kiljar was shouting but he was unsure if anyone could hear him. The Hoonites had taken to cheering when another one of Kiljar’s men fell and plenty of cheers arose. “Come on,” Kiljar was muttering. “By Nelha! Come on and die!”
An arrow punched through his shield and into the back of Kiljar’s hand. He muttered a curse and broke the shaft of the arrow with his sword. Fortunately, his shield had slowed it enough that it did not penetrate far into his hand.
The first archers were reaching the pitfalls. Three rows fell in before they had realized the trap, still focusing on marching and firing. The scream of foreigners was the only reason Kiljar knew it had worked.
“Now,” he bellowed. “Open fire!”
The Hoonites were just coming to their senses. In the brief confusion caused by the pit falls, Kiljar’s archers had obeyed his order. Now in range of their straighter bows, Hoonites fell by the scores. Their confusion increased. They had not been accustomed to successful counterattacks. Some had even begun retreating in the ensuing chaos. Most of those were pushed forward into the pitfalls by rows of men still advancing who had been too far back to have seen their allies fall into the pits.
As more and more began to fall in the counterattack, the confusion grew. The Hoonite arrows began to dwindle out. Men began to look around for some indication of what to do. “Charge,” Kiljar roared. Without waiting to see if his men followed, he sprinted forward, leapt with ease over the anti-mount spikes, and began hewing down any of the olive-skinned men that came into his sight. From the edge of his eye, he saw Volt was with him, spear in hand stabbing for all he was worth. The rest of the tribesmen followed suit. War cries and unintelligible shouts of fury rose over the cries of the dying.
Kiljar could see that Kaal had let his men advance past him and was still hundreds of yards away with the rival tribesmen and his own Hoonite foot soldiers and riders. Like a bird of prey, Kiljar zeroed in on him, sprinting recklessly forward and hacking down man after man that blocked the path to his target. He was unaware of his own furious cry. Focused solely on Kaal, Kiljar cleared the archers. With god-like swiftness, he closed the distance between them. Kaal was trying to rally his men, unaware of the approaching danger. He swung his mount around in time to see an upstroke that would have hewn his kidneys had he not turned his horses head into the path.
Kiljar’s blade bit deep and the poor animal fell. Kaal had the instinct to leap from the mount before he could be crushed under its weight. His spear in hand, he leapt up and jabbed it at Kiljar. The blow was deflected by Kiljar’s sword and before he could react, the blade found purchase in Kaal’s neck. Blood spouted forth and there was no moment for Kaal to utter a dying curse.
A few of the Hoonites had charged after their leader’s death but were quickly cut down in Kiljar’s fury or by his men who were now catching up. The rival tribes that had joined Kaal fled. With the numbers now favoring Kiljar and his men, the remaining Hoonites followed suite. A few were taken out by a swift arrow from a few close archers and more by Kiljar’s mounted soldiers, but many of those on horseback escaped.
A victory cry arose from the tribesmen. Many patted Kiljar’s back or issued curse-filled words of praise for their leader. Some invoked gods. Others merely cheered and beat weapons against their shields in triumphant joy. The few wounded Hoonites on the field that still drew breath were put out of their misery and litters were made and brought for the wounded tribesmen. There would be much sorrow made for the honored dead around funeral pyres, but the day was won, the Hoonites were defeated, and Kiljar would receive a large sum for his efforts in addition to what he raided from the Hoonite supply wagons. Enough so that, for the next few months, he lacked for nothing and nightly drown himself in mead and ale and women.
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