Chapter 29 - The Bridge
There were two armies invading. Yet in reality, they were the same army. They had been cut into two halves to make it easier to remain hidden and move in stealth. Also, should one be detected or observed? The message taken would know of only half the numbers that were coming for them. Any immediate armed response, it would be natural to head for that army. Leaving a whole second army now ignored and undetected. It was not a bad battle plan.
Neither of these two masses of men and equipment were privileged to know that the RavinLunden knew full well, even before they had first marched out. That Raven knowledge of their split was no secret. The first inkling that they realized they were not near as much of a surprise as they had felt they were? Came at a small bridge.
In the grander scheme of things, they were fair close to their destination, the Great Corridor, if only in relative terms. When your journey is measured in months, a few scant weeks can then be considered close. This half of the force was moving through hills and valleys. Deep creeks made passage over them quite difficult. Men with heavy armor could drown or be swept away. You could lose horses and carts of supplies. Scouting a bridge was a practical necessity.
The runners that acted as scouts for the main force, finally located a well built little covered bridge. It looked safe enough for the horses and heavy carts to pass over. While stout, it was narrow. This season saw rains, and the deep creeks were all swollen up and moving swift. The scouts reported back, there was but one man at the bridge. He would probably not even be there when they arrived, and even if he did, well… what exactly was one man going to do against a literal full half of an entire army, anyways. If he was even still there? He would flee or die. It was no matter of any importance level whatsoever.
When they came around the bend in the trail though, the lone man was still there. He didn't seem to be doing anything in particular. If anything, he seemed to be taking a respite. After growing tired of waiting, they decided to simply advance around the bend and he would flee.
He did not flee. He stayed where he was, how he was. One foot out, one knee up. His back up against the edge of a stout square post that formed one of several that supported the tiny little covered bridge. Odd.
They sent a couple of men up, to send him on his way. He smiled and all but disregarded them, in entirety.
"You will move, or you will die."
The man smiled up at them, and even issued a light chuckle.
"What is funny?"
"You threaten a man, already dead."
The pair of men looked at one another. Some sort of pleasant madman, no doubt.
"You seem alive to me. If you would stay that way? You will move aside."
He smiled again up at them.
"No. I will not. You speak, to a dead man. I will have you both know, I have the wasting. I will not see the end of the coming winter, at best. It has started."
The man stood up, and continued to smile. His armor was off of him and in a pile, next to where he had been resting. He skinned his shirt, and they could now see it. Lumps here and there, one already broken open and weeping the blood and colored fluid.
"Aye. My father's father, died of the wasting. I saw it, caring for him. A terrible way to go. Then? Winters later on, I watched my father go from it. And now? The wasting has finally come for me. It is my time. So you see, you speak to a dead man. This… death you threaten me with? I welcome it. It will be more pleasant, in the end of all things."
The man was tall, as many far north-men were. He was still a thick and powerful looking man, yet… it was obvious he wasn't what he had once been.
"Enjoy your days, such as you have left. Stand aside."
He gave off his maddening easy smile, and shook his head.
"And go to where? There is no place on Odin's earth, where I can hide from this. I would enter Valhalla. I will not lay in my own shit and blood, and smell my own flesh rot off of my bones. Those caring for me, puking from the smell on me."
He looked down at the sword stuck in the ground on one side of him. Then, at the ax setting straight up on the other side. No armor on him, no protection. He smiled.
"Will you not kill me?"
They looked at one another.
"If we must."
He seemed calm as he backed up a few steps, positioning himself in the middle of the narrow bridge's entrance. Sword in one hand, his ax in the other.
"Well? What are you cowards waiting for, then."
When the two armored men finally saw they had no other choice, but to actually kill him? They moved in to do it. He propelled one arm out with a sudden movement. It pin-cushioned one of them in the neck with his sword, then he struck the other man with his ax. He finished both off on the ground at his feet, and smiled up at the men assembling from up and around the bend in the trail now. Pale and tumor-ed as he was, he suddenly looked as if he had a good bit more life left in him, than he previously had appeared.
"Aye, that is what I will have. Come. Kill me."
Several men closed on him, and he went for them like a wild animal. There was no way to surround him, when he was backed up onto the entrance to the narrow bridge. A bigger group of men peeled off and came in. They closed in with much more care, because they had the benefit of seeing what had happened to the several before.
"First cowards. Now fools, as well."
"How are we fools! You will die, man!"
"Aye. Yet… I want to die. You? Do not. That, makes you cowards."
"And how are we fools."
He laughed, as if it were the funniest joke ever.
"I? Am but one… sick… dying… farmer. I? Am not even worthy of being a lord."
He pointed his ax at all of them, scanning the group.
"You will soon face men that are not sick, when you get there. You? Will face the Rhyshian Lords! And the Dark Lords that lead them? Will take your heads, and give them to their children, for playthings. You? Will all, die."
This lunatic held his narrow little bridge, and piled up dead men by leaving them where they had been felled. When they tried to move the dead away to come in on him, he had spears all lined up in bundles against the interior walls of the covered bridge. He poked them coming in. His pile of dead soon grew, and now extended into the bridge.
He laughed, he roared. He taunted them, and cursed them for cowards and fools. The pile of dead men he managed to fell at the entrance to his narrow little covered bridge? Made it ever so difficult to get to him. He would poke them with spears when they tried to drag the dead away, so they could come in on him. They had to dedicate ever more men to what would seem to be a quite simple task, to remove only one sick madman from a little bridge. Now with the wall of all the dead blocking up one end of the bridge insidiously well, it deepened the acoustics. His voice was reinforced by the echo.
"I will have my very own table! In Valhalla!"
Another man died.
"Odin himself, will toast me!"
More men died.
"I will drink from Thor's own horn!!"
Men not yet dead were screaming in pain and shock.
The greater numbers of men coming, trying to deal with this? Were not looking forward to their task. Far too many men had been killed already, and more were still dying. This man fought as some unholy beast possessed.
They couldn't get around him, and get behind him. They couldn't climb around the covered bridge. They had no other choice. Still, he taunted them at every break in the action.
Oh, they did eventually manage to kill him. It took no small amount of time, and it cost them quite a bit of men. The problem was the narrow bridge. They finally figured out that they had to use so many men, just to haul the dead and dying away, quicker than he could poke them with spears he held in both hands. This was their first taste of the enemy, that would stand and face them in the open. Guarding his wall of the dead from behind it, like some insane sentry to the underworld.
Finally, someone managed a lucky poke or toss with a spear. They managed to pierce his chest well enough. He laughed. It was clear he was happy about it. It took him time to bleed out, low in the one lung. They had to surround and stay back now, and wait for him to bleed out in whole. While he still laughed and taunted them the whole time.
When he finally ran out of steam, he had to set himself down. They still weren't too interested in rushing in to finish him off. It was far better to wait. He chuckled sitting there, waiting for the end to come.
"Ah. A bunch of cowards. And all fools. Still? I thank you. I was beginning to worry for a bit there. That I would live through this, and yet face the wasting."
Not one of them said a single word.
"Ah, not long now, you fools. I'm almost there."
One man, some leader of the men, peered over the pile of their own dead. He had shaken his head, at the sheer volume of all this carnage. Because whatever else he was or was not, they were both warriors. And he couldn't help, but feel awe at all of this.
"And what was your name, man. How could I ever forget you. I will remember it."
He chuckled, as blood came trickling out of his mouth.
"Glann. Glann, of Naxon. I am but a farmer, and I am not a lord. Now… take care, when you meet my son, fools. I saw him become a full Rhyshian Lord, and he is not sick, and weak, as I am. My wife? As tall as I am. Her father and the men in her line? Giants. You'll know him when you see him. Aye. My face, on the body of a Rhyshian giant, that tall. He leads his men."
He laughed more, as he was breathing and choking his last. The man speaking with him, asked him what was so humorous.
"Its funny. How many more of you fools? My son is going to kill. You cowards? Can't barely handle… one… sick… dying… farmer…"
His eyes finally stared blank at them. He had died, still holding weapons in his hands. They were all silent. They waited some time, before they would risk going up to an obvious dead man. When they did? Several men advanced slowly, poking at him with weapons, to make sure he was finally gone.
Another leader, joined the first. They looked around at all the carnage. They looked back at the big knot of men. Nervous they were next, to try to make it through this one sick farmer.
They quietly issued the order to file through the narrow covered bridge, and continue. It wasn't good to wait, because they would take losses. From crossbow bolts, anytime the wood-line on the sides of the road or trail was too close by. Not that it was any good to hurry up and advance quicker, either. They were moving into the next little ambush, waiting for them.
The leaders looked at the piles of dead on either sidewall of the little covered bridge. This was not good. This was not a good omen, at all. Still, they advanced across the bridge and once again assembled. It was over, after all.
Crossbow bolts rained in on them from both sides, coming in from the thick underbrush lining the hills on either side of the thin valley trail they were on. They had already learned? That sending men into the woods after the skirmishers was a very bad idea, as few or none ever returned from such.
This man's friends and allies? Had waited and watched silent. Simply seeing how many men he could take with him, already dead on his feet before he even started out. The two leaders looked at each other again.
A man who knows full well he's dead no matter what happens? Has absolutely no reason to lie. Judging by the number of men dead and dying around the entrance to this one little bridge, it was a clear testament to what manner of hell and fury one pissed off farmer could raise in these lands. Meeting his son, still in his prime. Taller and thicker yet. Better equipped, trained and more capable… no, not something they really looked forward to. And on top of it all? The son would know he faced the wasting one day as well. Giving his own life, would be no important thing to him.
Everyone had laughed at the tales that came out of these lands. Farmers, wasting their evenings in the long winters, reading and writing. Warrior classes, that were more concerned with high reckoning even, than sword work. And their beliefs, really took the cake. That their gods were born into mortal form, to lead them and take part in great battles. Men that could shake the ground beneath your feet, when they bellowed. Surely, mere children's tales that fools repeated over ale as grown men. Yet? This man had been real enough. The two leaders realized that perhaps the problem was that these people believed in these wild legends.
This wasn't good at all.