Taming the Warlord

Silhouetted by the setting sun, the Warlord strode through the body-strewn battlefield. The screams of horses and men in their dying agony assaulted his ears as the coppery smell of death crinkled his nose. Blood, most of it not his own, and mud splattered armour encased his tall, muscular frame. Looking on appraisingly, he mentally counted the men he had lost and how that would affect his future advances into the realm of Zult.

Closest to him were his personal guards, who kept a cordon of steel around him. Elsewhere his soldiers and the peasants that followed his army, were scattered amongst the bodies giving aid or the final blow as they looted the corpses of those fallen in battle.

The sound of skirmishing drew his attention. In the distance he saw three of his men fighting something; their heavily armoured bodies concealed their foe. He noted even from this distance that they were hard pressed to defeat their opponent. He moved towards the melee with an almost casual stride, waving his guards back as they started to rush towards the affray.

When he was within speaking distance, the Warlord stopped. He frowned at sight of the slight, lithe form who defended herself clad in only leather armour and without noticeable weapons. His eyes narrowed as he saw the slight shimmer around her.

An Erra? Here fighting on the side of the Zults? That was impossible. They were a peaceful and reclusive people.

"Cease!" He commanded as he stepped closer, his guards moved to surround the combatants.

The soldiers stepped back, holding their weapons at the ready, casting a quick glance at their Warlord. The soldiers were breathing hard yet their opponent looked fresh and unwinded. He cast his eye over her form, noting the leather fit her like a second skin leaving little to the imagination as to her shapely figure. Lean legs, rounded hips, a thin waist and well filled bosom that expanded with each of her slow and deep breaths. His gaze continued up to her angular face, meeting her defiant stare. He was unpleasantly surprised to see no sign of fear in those bright green eyes.

"Murderer!" She spat as she leapt towards the Warlord, quicker than the soldiers or his guards could react. He swung his sword, flat-side leading to deflect her charge. She dodged beneath his sword arm and twisted around behind him, deftly slipping his dagger from its sheath. His armour thwarted her thrust into his back.

She danced around him, remaining too close for his sword swings to have any effect. The tricksome bint seemed to know what he was going to do before he did it. Her stabs, with his own honour blade, struck sparks from his armour many times as she probed for an opening.

With a wild swing he feinted at her with the deadly sword, his other hand snapped down to clench her wrist as she tried another stab. He held her firm, her insolent glare meeting his as his sword arm continued its path to crack the pommel against her temple. She crumpled at his feet, held up only by her arm, and released her hold on his dagger

"Secure her!" He barked at his guards, dropping her to the ground as they approached. He bent to retrieve his honour blade, running a calloused thumb over the nicks on its previously immaculate edge. "And kill them." He added as an afterthought, motioning to the soldiers. Failure to subdue a lone female was unforgivable.

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Entering the war camp he walked past the sentries standing at attention. They did not relax until he was long out of sight. Passing between the seemingly endless rows of tents, the Warlord headed towards the pavilion in the centre of the bivouac. A small boy crashed into him and ended up sprawled on the ground. The boy scrambled to his feet and looked up at armoured form standing before him.

"I'm not afraid of you." The boy remarked boldly. The Warlord looked down at the boy who stood his ground bravely.

"Why aren't you afraid of me boy?"

"Because you can die, like any man. You aren't a god." The boy answered brazenly.

The Warlord pulled off his full helm so the boy could see his brutish features, mottled skin and sharp teeth that marked him as a noble of the Imperium. His race ruled the Empire. They had conquered half the continent and were not known for their mercy. The boy continued his defiant stance, too young to know how to fear death.

"That is true, boy." The Warlord remarked with a smile. He handed the boy his helm; he took it with both hands. "You will serve as a squire from now on. Follow me."

The Warlord marched off, without a backward glance to see if the boy followed.

He entered his tent with the boy in tow and clapped. Three squires rushed in from a side room at the summons. The youngsters removed his armour, standing on stools they had brought for the purpose, and took the heavy iron back to their quarters to clean off the filth and gore.

In his quilted undergarments, the Warlord walked into a curtained alcove where a young woman knelt beside a bathtub filled with steaming water. The woman bowed her head as he entered and then rose and started removing his sweat stained padding. Once naked, the Warlord stepped into the tub but remained standing. The slave filled a small pail from the bath and stepping onto a stool to reach his height, poured the water over his head. He closed his eyes and relaxed for the first time in days as he was washed from head to foot.