A Scoundrel's Song

13

The camp stretched out all around them. Soldiers cleaning weapons, camp followers preparing meals, herding animals into hasty constructed pens, some to be slaughtered for meals later that day. War chariots thundered by, driven by expert hands. Warriors adorned in boiled leather armour. Men and women, though Niico conveniently only saw the men, and fine figures of violence they were, too.

Upon a rise, Niico saw a large tent, in the process of erection, and a number of other, older warriors mingling around a fire, their backs turned to Niico and the others. His thoughts of running, leaving the others to their fate, were ruined by the fact he had decided surrender was preferable to a spear in the back, and he had loped along with his companions as their captors brought them to the camp.

He chanced a glance back to see the wagon taken away to the side, appreciative eyes assessing their war horse. They probably wouldn't need it after the Orususkan army finished killing them. To his side, Akafa walked tall and proud, unwilling to show any sign of meekness before the men and women that he made look like children, despite those soldiers all looking strong and battle-hardened themselves. He truly was an exceptional figure of a man.

Even Herit suffered the ignominy of having his hands tied by rough lengths of rope, though the child showed no understanding of how dire their situation was, eyes wide as he looked about him in wonder and excitement. Both Pel and Antioni walked with their shoulders slumped, trying not to catch the eyes of their captors. Niico didn't care. If they were going to die, he wasn't about to miss the opportunity to see so many fit and healthy men, sweating in the dry heat of the day.

The soldiers held them back at the edge of the group of warriors that all stood around one spot, as one of their number strode forward, saluting at people that didn't even look at her. After a short while, the group of warriors parted, allowing the soldier through, and Niico caught a glimpse of someone he supposed commanded the army around them.

They were Larissan, he, Pel and Antioni, and, therefore, were enemies of these people. Perhaps Akafa and Herit may survive, their Orususkan origins saving them, but, for the others, their futures were less clear. And probably a whole lot shorter. He had lived a good life. Well, perhaps not a good life, but a happy one. Not 'happy' as such, but certainly interesting. Interesting was probably the wrong word. He had led a life, and, now, that life would end with only a few regrets. A lot. A large number of regrets.

The warriors ahead stirred, turning to look toward Niico and the others with stern, craggy features. Features that had probably seen more death and violence than anyone would wish to. That said, they were Orususkans. They lived in a nation that thought having two people kill each other in front of baying crowds was good sport. Akafa knew that better than anyone. One of the warriors gave the soldier a nod and she, in turn, waved at the other soldiers around Niico and the others.

Uncaring hands shoved Niico forward and he refused to give them the satisfaction of stumbling, feeling great pride in walking with his chest puffed out, chin raised. The others did the same, but they didn't look anywhere near as dignified. The leader of these people had summoned them forward, no doubt to kill them by their own hands.

Were Akafa not in the vicinity, Niico would have thought the commander impressive. Great muscles flexed in his arms as he drank from a goblet. His chest looked ready to disrobe him by the merest flex of his pectorals, luscious thighs looked about ready to crush some lucky person between them. All ruined by the fact that a young Fae girl sat at his feet, giving him a pedicure.

"Hello!" The commander waved the goblet, wine swishing over the sides, and smiled beneath stubble that looked a week old at the least. He seemed nice. "Inshaneuun, here, says you're entertainers? Marvellous. The chaps could use a bit of entertaining, what?"