Knocking Down a Peg

Knocking Down a Peg

                "Bwahahahahahaha!" - the response the mercenary gave to the proposal he had just heard. The proposer - a pale-skinned brute of a man - glared an evil look in return.

                "Listen, my friend," the mercenary said, ceasing his laughter and leaning forward, "No-one could kill that woman, and I'm sure many have tried. She's better with a sword than any mortal could hope to be; and stronger, faster, tougher than any human."

                "I know that no-one could challenge one on one, you idiot. But we're not going to do that. That's why I'm hiring you, and every mercenary I know has no bloody qualms, to go after her. And it won't just be you guys. I'm bringing in everyone she's pissed off since she got here - thieves, scumbags, monsters, and those that puppeteer them all. Hell, it isn't even my idea, I'm just in charge of getting you mercs together to take her on. We'll be a small bloody army. She can't beat that!" the man exlaimed.

                "You're still barking up the wrong tree with me, mate. I don't take high risk jobs - and high risk is any job where I have a chance of coming up against someone who could kill me, let alone almost certain death. So sod off, and call me a coward all you like," replied the mercenary.

                The man grumbled, and made his way out of the inn. Hiring mercenaries for the attack had been going poorly. A few crazy bastards, a few brave yet also completely immoral oft-bandits. Seven men in total. Even though there would be others, they'd be lucky to field fifty men, let alone the thousand they were aiming for.

                Rubbing his temple, the man sighed. There was no-one left for him to contact. Ancestors of mine devour that woman, he thought to himself. I'm Undorn Kilotz, heir to the legacy of the Kilotz family. Yet even with my name and heritage, my deeds in my life... They're all so much more scared of her. More scared of the goddamn hero than of the man who takes what he wants whenver he wants it. Who works for the most vile people in the entire land as an equal.

                Undorn slammed his fist into the stall as he resaddled his horse. I'll see her dead and burnt if it's the last thing I do in this life.

                Far to the east, the much loved hero was sleeping - in full armour - at the inn of a village she had saved earlier that day. A terrible monster, standing as tall as five men and covered in scales, had been terrorising the countryside. Worse, each day its path of destruction drew closer and closer to the village, as if it was drawn there.

                She had challenged it in the fields only an hour's ride away, and emerged victorious. The battle had been fierce, but each time the creature had swung one of its clawed arms towards her - of which it had five, strangely arranged around its body - her sword had flashed out and torn through the creatures scales, leaving it bloodied and screaming. When it moved to retreat, she had gone on the offensive, graceful slashes tearing into two of the beasts three legs and causing it to topple. From there, the battle was won swiftly; she blinded it, and then stabbed it until she hit a vital spot.

                Or perhaps she had just bled its veins dry? Whatever the case, the creature had died, and she was hailed a hero once again. Another heroic deed done, further cementing her reputation as a hero amongst the people of the island she had come to only a few months ago. She had slain beasts, broken conspiracies, freed slaves, and forced the laws of several city states to change and acknowledge the rights of all people on the island - not just those in and from the cities, and those who accepted their 'protection' and became slaves.

                As one would expect from such a hero, she was not truly asleep. The truth was, she did not even need to sleep (though she could if she desired). She was meditating on the events of the past few days, and resting her body from the exertion of the last week. At present, the thought that troubled her mind was simple: where was she going to find a decent bath?

                Several days later, her path brought her to another village that was frequently troubled. The cause was not a monster, or bandits, nor some rogue magic. The village's trouble was that each year, during the rainy seasons, the nearby river would flood. Sometimes - about every fifth season - the water would overwhelm the river's banks so much that the village would become completely inundated.

                The hero spent days studying the village, the nearby terrain, the river and even the people. Within her mind, a plan was taking shape. Altering the river, setting up irrigation and drainage, moving the village to a slightly higher position... But before she had a chance to put these plans in motion, they came to kill her.

                On a hill outside the village was Undorn, mounted on a huge horse. It was bred for war, and almost twice the size of the horses the other men were riding. Yet it suited his huge frame. In total, seventy men and women had assembled to kill the lone hero. Mercenaries, thieves, and the sworn servants of many she had foiled.

                Undorn was in charge, due to both his reputation and the absence of any of the other main agitators. They wished her dead, but they were not warriors. Lords, mayors, manipulators. Of those that had assembled, Undorn was the strongest and most renowned, though he was wise enough to know that this did not count for much.

                He had not been personally foiled by her, but he knew many who had. No, he was angered by the fear she had put into the hearts of so many who were against the law. Who stood for taking what they wanted, when they wanted it, as he did. He was the one they should be afraid of, not her.

                Smoothing back his hair - cut to the thousand year old short style his family had worn for generations - he donned his helmet. In full armour, painted a horrible mix of dark green, black, and red he was an imposing figure. Due to the clashing nature of the colours, and their 'haphazard' application, looking at Undorn in full attire would cause most to become queasy and unable to fully interpret his movements. Many were the great warriors who had fallen to a Kilotz blade while trying to make sense of the form in front of them.

                "Alright you scum!" yelled Undorn to the crowd. "We have one target - that bloody heroine who's been going around being a pain in the arse. Send the people scattering, and light up the inn. When she comes out, mob her. Got that?"

                A roar came from the assembled men, showing their understanding. Undorn smiled beneath his helm. "Then let's teach this bitch a lesson!" Undorn hollered, motioning for the group to charge. They tore down the hill towards the village, screaming warcries and curses.

                The heroine, meanwhile, was half way to the home of an elderly villager who had seen more floods than any other. She wanted to ask him about the floods that had come before, about when they happened, about what went wrong and especially whether there had ever been a period with fewer floods. She heard the racket being raised, and turned to look at it.

                Well shit, she thought. Raiders or something. Just my luck. She ran towards the edge of the village - where the houses ended, as the village was not protected by a stockade. She heard one of the voices in the distance yell, "Death to the hero of Nineton!"

                One of the places she'd been, and saved. Fuck. They're all here for me. Fucking wonderful, she thought, staring at the group. She counted seventy-three, all mounted. Quite a few didn't seem to be familiar with their mounts, and a lot seemed generally unskilled or lackluster. One stood out - an armoured individual, with unusually patterned armour. That just looks stupid.

                "Milady!" a nearby villager called out. He was a member of the militia, and had hastily donned his armour and weapons to repel the attackers. His fellow militiamen were likely still arming themselves; but this man's armour was relatively simple leather.

                "They're after me," replied the heroine. "You can probably avoid this fight if you stand down, although they probably won't stop with me."

                "We can't take the risk," replied the villager. "We'll fight with you to protect our homes. At least, long enough for our women and children to flee."

                "Okay," she replied. "Can you hand me your spare spear?"

                The villager obliged, and the heroine raised the spear. The charging, vicious rabble were about two hundred metres away (having reached the bottom of the hill), and were advancing quickly. The heroine threw the spear and it flew true; piercing through the heavily armoured warrior's throat and neck.

                "Whoa," said the villager, and echoes came from the other militiamen who had assembled. The armoured warrior toppled backwards off his horse, and fell to the ground. Those on either side of him slowed and stopped, as did those beside them, and so on until the entire force had stopped moving, barely thirty metres from the village.

                "Flee while you can!" yelled the heroine. "Or else you'll all die."

                Some of the attackers - the most cowardly of those assembled - pulled away and began to flee. But from the group, a new call came up: "Death to her! Death to the killer of Undorn Kilotz!"

                Drawing her sword, she sighed. Dodge lances, spears and swords, cut horses down, don't get trampled. Easy. She walked forwards a few steps as they began their charge anew, signaling the militiamen behind her to stay back. Those with bows shot a scattering of arrows at the attackers - till nearly sixty strong - and caused one woman to fall from her horse, but the rest continued.

                The heroine drew her sword; a magnificent blade that almost glowed in the sunlight. Their lances were aimed at her, but she slipped around them and stuck her blade into their horses with incredible speed. As they tumbled she dodged a spear, and cut off the arm of her attacker. A sword from behind glanced off her armoured shoulder, and the mounted attackers surrounded her.

                Though some engaged the militiamen, most waited behind their fellows, waiting for the inevitable cry of victory. Who could stand against a circle of mounted opponents all at once? They could not see, but some of the militiamen could. Horse after horse collapsed; and as they fell, their riders were dispatched. Between the dead horses and the size of those living only four ever managed to engage her at once.

                And four was not enough. Tireless, she cut down horse after horse; rider after rider. A slash from a dismounted foe was countered with one twice the speed, splitting open the attacker's stomach and spilling her guts everywhere. The heroine grabbed a spear in her off hand, and used it to pierce throat after throat. When three men dismounted and came at her with three sill mounted, she slid over the corpse of a horse to distance herself from them. Once over it, the spear went flying and pierced one attacker right through the heart even as she cut into yet another horse, the rider's mace flying over her head.

                It was not long before those at the back of the group found themselves in the fight; after the man in front of them was cut down by the still unseen heroine. There was barely twenty of them left - and though the militiamen had dispatched perhaps ten (and lost about the same themselves, a terrible loss and nearly half their number) - the heroine had slain the rest. Thirty attackers slain by the one woman.

                It was too much for them. Their morale broken, they started to flee; grabbing their wounded and riding away. A few, still caught up in the fight, did not turn to run; but they were quickly dispatched. Covered in blood, and breathing heavily, the heroine stared at the attackers as they fled. Ruddy bastards, attacking me like this, she thought to herself. Damn lucky that most were too dumb to dismount.

                Turning around, she rushed over to the militiamen. Eight were dead, five gravely wounded, and there were countless other injuries amongst the brave men and women. "Let me sew that," she said, taking a needle and thread from a shaking man as he tried to stitch up a wound.

                "Th-thank you, milady," he said, handing her the needle and thread.

                With a half-smile, she said, "You don't have to call me that. My name is Dytja."