I recently wrote this up... yes, I unfortunately lack motivation. =/ Maybe you can spot the difference in writing style between this and the first chapters... well, at least I notice a difference


CHAPTER VI

Mercenaries? Isn't this an inn?, asked Garan, wondering if he maybe should have read that piece of parchment better. An inn?, one of the two burly men chuckled, Nay, young lad, this is the mercenaries' guild of the fair town of Waterglade, if you translate it from our language. Garan's eyes opened wide, and he struggled against the strong grip one of the men had on his arm. What is this? Why didn't you tell me? Release me, this is trickery, he screamed desperately. At this, the man behind the counter frowned. Come now, young master, you signed the parchment. It is your own fault that you are now part of this mercenary guild. You will do as you are told, or else rather.... unpleasant things may happen., the man noted, placing a special, ill-forboding emphasis on the word 'unpleasant'. Now, you're scheduled to get basic training, and next week you'll go with the group that's been hired by the king of Mordyn. Be happy, he ordered heavy infantry, so at least you're less likely to die right away., and he chuckled. Then, he walked through the door behind Garan, whistling a cheerful tone.
The next week, Garan got the basic training the man was talking about. It consisted of simple exercises, practicing against dummies and flails attached to swinning poles, as well as a single, long sparring practice with a captain of the guild. This man told Garan that he was a natural, that he did a lot better than the rest of the new members of the guild. Apparently, he had potential. At least there's some light in this gloom, Garan thought, Employed in an Ostroan mercenary guild... and scheduled to go to some far-off war to fight for some Ostroan king This is terrible... I'll die a vain death there, long before I'll ever get revenge on the Gods, or I'll have to kill more of my friends and family... Aw, c'mon lad, it isn't that bad. Look at me, nary a scar anywhere, and captain of a mercenary guild It's quite a good job, really. It all depends on the job you get. Unfortunately for you, you're scheduled to go off with another one-hundred and fity men to fight as mercenaries in the army of king Uhtred of Mordyn... the man is crazy, he makes war on everything... ah well, I think ya have a pretty good chance of surviving. You're a natural fighter, lad, the captain said to Garan, trying to cheer him up.
But Garan couldn't be cheered up. His family, friends and beloved had been brutally murdered by skeletal warriors, and after that they had been raised by Ostroan necromancers to mercilessly slaughter others By the Gods, he thought the night before he had to march off, maybe I'll be fighting alongside the necromancers No... damn the Gods. Damn them for letting me down. Damn Ostro for murdering my family, and damn Vys for not doing a thing to stop it. The Gods are worthless, and I will have my revenge against them...
Alright LINE UP, the captain thundered the next, cold, morning,I want you dogs to line up in two perfect columns, and only after you've done that we'll be marching Come on, this is the easy part, maggots Garan was up in front, near the standardbearer, who carried a simple shield-shaped banner with the crossed swords emblem and the strange writings below it. He felt uneasy in his new armor. They had given him a simple wooden man-high kite shield, a broadsword, a skullcap, a mail coat, leather gloves and a pair of marching boots. Especially the coat weighed him down, and he wondered if he could reach the other end of those massive mountains before dying of fatigue and cold. All he wore under his coat of mail was a simple tunic, fit for summer and fall, not the coming winter. He couldn't feel the cold of the steel rings through the tunic, but he was certain he would in winter.
At the sign of the captain, they set off, not marching in tune, it rather sounded like the shuffling of a thousand feet. They made good time over the effened path to the mountains. He was told by a fellow soldier that it would take them until nightfall to get to the foot of the pass, and there they would make camp. Early the next morning, he said, they would go through the pass, which was troll-infested, as he said it. However, he was cut off by another soldier, who said that trolls were occasionally seen by travelers in the pass, to the dismay of the first man. It didn't matter to Garan anymore. While the thirst for revenge was embedded within his soul, the cold rage that had consumed him at times now merely smouldered within his mind. He didn't feel like marching off to a far-off land past the mountains, he did not want to fight for Ostroans. All he wanted was to die, to be once more with his beloved. He wouldn't run from the battlefield, he would just be cut down, be it by a troll, a soldier of the Empire, or something else. It didn't matter, he wanted to die, one way or another...
The land he marched through was, in its shape, similar to his own, yet far less tamed. Hills rolled over the landscape for leagues to see, yet after they had marched for a few leagues, there was no farmland to see, no pastures, and the odd cottage between the woods. As they marched on, the path sloped upwards, and the true foothills of the mountains began. The mountains loomed over them like huge, imposing creatures, ever forbidding as clouds obscured their peaks. When dusk settled, they were quite close to the mountains, and the land had become quite rugged. They were high enough now to see the sea behind them, stretching out further than the eye could see. The path wound more and more up the hills, and before long the trees stopped, as if giving up to reach the top. Far below, they could see the peaceful town, and even though Garan had only been there a week, he yearned to return to it for some reason. The mountains obscured the sun as it descended to the horizon, and before long it was dark.
They set up camp at the very foot of the mountains, and the pass was at least a hundred meters above them. It was easy to spot it, for it looked like an opening, a gate through the mountains. From the looks of it, the pass arched upways, and Garan was told that the pass led them to the valleys between the mountains. Though the mountains were uninhabited, ages ago a road was created that went through these rugged valleys, going through many passes to reach the other side of the mountain. But that was in the journey ahead.
The next morning, Garan awoke early. The sun had just risen above the sea, as he could see through his tent. He had been having a strange dream, of whispers of an inhuman voice, with wisdom in it ages old, whispers that tugged at him, tempting him, but to do what; he did not know. Outside, as he heard, many men had already been roused and more were being roused at the very moment, judging by the sound of hushed grumbles and a shouting captain. He donned his armor, careful not to wake the nine other men in the tent still sleeping, attached the sheath of his sword to his belt, put on his helmet, slipped into his boots, and made his way outside.
The air was chilly, and Garan could see his breath coming out of his mouth as a whisp of steam. He went to the mess tent, and there sat himself down near the great fire under the hole in the tent, with a bowl of something that looked unsavory, yet was strangely satisfying. After breakfast, it only took a mere twenty minutes before the tents had to be broken down, and the men had to line up once more. With a hornblow, the mercenaries had resumed their march.
When they arrived at the pass, Garan had an unsettling feeling of coming danger, strengthened by the fact that the pass was narrow, and the mountains above seemed to close above it. It was easy to shoot from above without being shot back at, and that was unnerving to him. Yet he could not stop, for the rest of the men were marching on. The pass arched up, and before long they were at a far higher point than where they had begun. It was tiresome to trudge up the slope of the pass, yet at some point the slope became less steep, as if yielding to the tired men's desire of a less hard walk. The pass opened up into a pass that hugged the mountainside, and the valley below was forboding. As opposed to the lush, verdant forests on the other side of the pass, these forests were dark, and a sense of danger permeated the valley. Where there was no forest, there was an arid grassland, lashed by snow, ice and cold. A small, but fast river cut through the mountains, fed by smeltwater from the glaciers further up the mountain. At some point, the path stopped sloping upwards, and a little further began winding its way down the mountain, to the ancient road below. From a distance, Garan saw two great towers along the roadside, and wondered what purpose they had once fulfilled. He also wondered why people had such a great need to cross this dark valley. Surely there were other, more pleasant ways to get past the mountains?
After they arrived at the bottom of the path, they marched over the road all day, passing the two ruined towers, which in some age long past must have been used by roadguards, to protect the road from trollraids. The path crossed the river by means of an old stone bridge, that had weathered time and the elements well. As they crossed the bridge and the wild waters below, Garan had the unpleasant feeling that he and the rest were being watched, that they were being followed as they went through the valley. He tried to see if anything was within the trees, if anything moved between them, but all he saw were the dark pines and the shadows in between. The group marched on, and the mountains blocking their past doomed up before them.
Suddenly, however, javelins landed before them and on top of them. At the head, the captain was looking wildly around them, realising what was happening. Trolls Men Form up into defensive formations and keep your shields high, he thundered. While by far most men knew what to do and started running to their positions, Garan was caught by surprise. He backed up, facing the woods, to the line of the men, and bumped some of them, forcing them to back up under loud complaining and swears. Now he saw what gave him the feeling of being watched, of being followed. Huge, broad, yet somehow misformed creatures were lumbering out of the forest. They were at least three meters tall, with ugly faces, tiny eyes and no nose, only two holes under their eyes. Two large pointed ears jutted out from the side of their heads, and they were rabidly drooling as they charged into battle. They had short legs and long arms, and they looked very strong. One of them charged at Garan, carrying a huge, crude club in its right hand. Garan stood there, nailed to the ground by fear. He had thought he wanted to die, yet now he wanted to live desperately. Screaming, or rather roaring, the troll bore down on him, but instinctively he raised his shield and stood his ground. By luck or by skill, he did not know, but the troll landed square on the shield. He could hear the troll's ribs snapping, and it let out a scream of agony. Pulling his shield back, he slashed the troll's head off. Not a good decision, for blood sprayed out of the creature's neck, and all over Garan. It was grotesque, for it was a slimy, dark-violet substance, which stuck his clothes to his skin. Still, the feeling of killing one of the beasts single-handedly was elating, and he shouted with adrenaline coursing through his body.
As suddenly as it began, it ended. Garan felt a sharp pain in his side, some object that was boring its way through skin, muscle and bone alike. He screamed of pain, and could feel his own blood gushing out of the wound. Light faded from his eyes, and all became dark...