Ballad of the Serpent and Boar — Song of Arventis, Part Six
From His Hiding Spot up a Tree, Arventis Witnesses a Dual Between Two Heroes
Link back to Part One
Away from the danger, his bowels had settled. Hidden in his nest high off the ground, Arventis could observe the simmering battle from a new perspective. And as he looked down on the circle of grass framed by scores of green tunics on its south edge, crimson tunics on its north, the bard shivered with excitement. He’d have a new war ballad out of this. Those always played well. And not just any war ballad. A clash of heroes.
Two opposing war bands meeting in a field meant battle, of course. But a circle such of this meant each band had among it a soldier of renown, a knight or sell-sword whose deeds graced the drinking halls and pot houses up and down the continent. The woman marching next to him had told Arventis that the Serpent of Sparia marched in their Dellish band of levies. But who would Bergot send forward?
After the singing of the Dellish soldiers quieted, the Dellish Chief and the Bergian soldier’s Lord stepped forward into the circle and sprayed words at each other, then back at their troops, too far from Arventis to pick out their meaning. Then a banner on each side floated over the rabble toward the circle.
Above the Dellish green tunics, a scaled snake twisted on the wind as the banner it was embroidered upon flapped. Arventis had heard a song — from a third rate bard with a squeaky baritone — describing the Serpent as the most cunning martial mind since Dystra the Dauntless, able to predict an opponent’s moves three steps ahead. Which, Arventis very much doubted, since it appeared the Serpent was marching with a ratty band of levies conscripted from the small folk. But a precedent for such glorious lies had been set. And Arventis could spin one hell of a tale from that.
Squinting, the bard made out a great boar on the crimson banner pushing toward the grass circle. Sir Kvirik, then. The Charging Boar. His reputation, Arventis had the privilege of seeing in action years ago, before the putrid idea of traveling to Dellin had corrupted his mind. He had watched Sir Kvirik dismount three riders in a tournament, in the same bout. From the ground. The madman had been unhorsed in the melee, but rather than remove himself, he had begun charging down riders on his own feet. With a mace. Lunatic.
The heroes emerged from their cheering throngs of men. The Serpent of Sparia moved with the fluid ease his name suggested. He stood in expertly crafted plate patterned with scales, a full head shorter than the Charging Boar. Sir Kvirik threw his head around on his shoulders with wild abandon. He was fat. Much fatter than the last time Arventis had seen him.
The roar of the crowd came to a swelling peak, then dropped to silence. Even from his perch, hiding from the violence in his tree, Arventis could now hear the voices of the heroes throwing taunts. The two made paces around the circle, sizing each other up. The resinous smell of the tower tree hung heavy of a sudden, the air charged.
Quiet. Then a bellow, and Sir Kvirik, true to his name, charged. The Serpent of Sparia waited, baiting him in, then dodged out of the arc of Kvirik’s mace.
But to no avail. Kvirik, the Charging Boar, dug in his heels and jumped, despite of his immense gut, backwards and into the Serpent, driving his opponent down under him. The mace flashed in the air, and came back up bloody. And again.
Arventis gave a grunt of disappointment. Bit quick, for an epic war ballad. But he could always embellish. He cringed at the gore, glad for the distance making it difficult to see in detail, and again felt relief at his safety in the tree.
Cries of victory thundered up from the northern half of the circle. Sir Kvirik stood from the pulpy grass and raised his fist to pound his chest. But then, instead of running back to join the safety of the Bergian ranks for the battle, the madman charged straight into the line of green tunics.
To the Charging Boar’s credit, he smashed open several skulls before a spear to the gut felled him. The battle then broke out in earnest, the circle of grass trampled under foot as the press of men clashed together.
Wails of agony mixed with chilling war yodels and pleas for mercy formed a cacophony of ear-rending tones. Arventis whispered another thanks to the Spirits for getting him up in his tree.
He watched, baffled at what tactics he saw. Crimson tunics seemed to outnumber green amongst the fresh made corpses. That much, he understood. Dellin was winning. Assuredly, the worse outcome.
Arventis stripped off the green tunic they’d forced on him and hung it from a branch close to the trunk, a silent rejection of his forced allegiance. “Fucking Dellin,” he muttered. He brushed at his rough spun linen undershirt, given him by the druids — glad at least the Dellish Chief let him keep that.
Twilight wiped clean the orange sunset by the time the last clash of steel came from the battlefield. Then the clack of buckles and rustle of stripped boots and weapons, as the Dellish looted the Bergian corpses.
Cookfires sprung up — a field’s distance to the north — where the remnant of the Dellish band made camp for the night. The smell of food could just be picked out over the iron scent of blood and sweet rot of offal, and made Arventis’s mouth water. The moans sounded through the night.
But by morning, dust kicked up on the road to the north, and Arventis climbed down out of the tower tree. He was tired. Hungry. And had soiled his pants in the night. But Arventis was free. Free to get the fuck out of Dellin.
If you stuck around this long, hopefully you enjoyed the story and didn’t simply finish it out of spite. And if you liked it, do my ego a favor and throw some claps, maybe a response, or a follow my way.
We have come to the middle of Arventis’s journey. I can promise music (on the page), violence (on the page), and terror (on the page, as well as in my own body on occasion). New chapter every Thursday.
