Private Tales An awful place to die.

[Owain d'Athée]

August, Year 369
Amol-Kalit / Owain d'Athée / On the deck of a boat
​

"You are being paid handsomely to protect me, are you sure these children are up to the task?" The swarthy man who had asked the question look pensive as he said it, stalking back and forth on the deck of the flat bottomed boat as he examined each of his would be protectors. Twelve children stood at attention, lined up by height with the tallest in the middle and the shorter and younger spreading outward on both sides - each wore heavy padded armor of deep blues, looking out place in the sweltering heat of the sands which were visible both sides of the bow of the moving ship as it sailed up the Baal-Asha river.

"I guarantee it, Sahib." The man standing behind and to the right of the dusky merchant said, his avaricious smile a common sight for the children. Captain Rainulf d'Athée, founder of the Order d'Athée and 'adopted father' to many hundreds of children was relatively famous throughout Liadain - not for his skill as a mercenary general, or for his many victories but for his often controversial soldiers. For Order d'Athée made extensive use of child soldiers, from orphans of towns caught up in his battles to slaves bought cheap from Cerak At'Thul; a reprehensible man employed only by those of questionable character.

"Oh? Are they truly so great, the largest one is but what? One and hundred thirty pounds?" Sahib Makhmud asked, his sickly yellow eyes finally meeting the gaze of each child and turn before stopping on the oldest and largest. Owain did not flinch from the predatory gaze of the Merchant Lord, his own gray eyes cold and empty. "They are battle hardened, how many soldiers can say that these days with the relative peace that has settled? And he " Rainulf motioned toward Owain, a confident expression on his face. "has fought on these sands before, in defense of Pasha Saymur as I'm sure he informed you before you hired us, no? Worse case scenario they will die for us, so our adult soldiers, the famed d'Athée Cavalry, can defend you." Rainulf seemed to consider it a matter of fact, rather then threat or even lip service - for that was what the child soldiers of Order d'Athée were trained to be; to die so the paid mercenaries which served as the command structure and cavalry did not have too.

It was a simple but effective tactic, the children served as infantry to pin enemy forces down and the cavalry swept in and killed. Casualty rate was immense, but a taught fanaticism to their 'father' kept their ranks from breaking. In recent years the number of battles had dwindled, as did the opportunity to acquire orphans from battlefields and so most who now served the Order d'Athée were purchased slaves - a famously cheap man in Rainulf meant that over the years fewer and fewer children served in his Order. The grand staged battlefields had vanished, replaced with protection detail mostly in the dangerous lands of Amol-Kalit, the savage Sultan's and bandit warlords still happy to kill each other while much of the world had fallen to the temptation of peace.

With a motion of his hand Rainulf commanded Owain, who suddenly stepped forward rigidly and for what seemed like the first time registered the existence of Sahib Makhmud. "If you wish to test his worth, we can arrange a friendly match between him and one of your personal guards." Rainulf said, and the smoldering gray eyes of showed that Owain was eager at the prospect of crossing swords - it was enough to convince Sahib. "No need, Sir d'Athée - he is clearly quite fierce." The Merchant Lord mused, his disgusting eyes filled with another emotion entirely. "Do they serve you, truly serve?" Sahib asked, his voice dripping with an uncomfortable tone.

Rainulf cleared his throat. "They do, for an increased fee." The Mercenary Captain said, his smile replaced with a stern expression focused on Owain. An unspoken command to obey or face consequences. Sahib stroked his chin for a time, examining the boy from a distance before nodding once. "If we make it my manor, arrange it Sir d'Athée. I do not think such activites would work with my stomach on these waters." Sahib Makhmud said, his tone downcast. "Of course." Captain Rainulf said, his stern salute as the Merchant Lord left the last sign of respect he would show for the man, spitting where he once stood. "Fuckin uppity desert rat, can't wait to be done with these sand savages and get back to real war." Captain d'Athée spat, approaching Owain and setting a large hand on his white haired head and ruffling it.

Owain did not react, his gray eyes staring straight ahead.

 

[Owain d'Athée]

August, Year 369
Two Days Later / Amol-Kalit / Owain d'Athée / Heading North
​

The desert had proved to be an honest hell, Owain's heavy padded clothing more at home on frigid battlefields then walking by foot through endless dunes of sand. It wasn't the first time Owain had been here, but back then he wasn't as well equipped and it had made the travel easier - that spoke little of the large sword he had made his own, a longsword of four feet and a few inches, over seventy percent of his own height. It's weight was hardly a problem, being little more then three and a half pounds but it's lack of sheathe and size relative to himself made it unwieldy to carry around while over heated and with poor footing in the soft sand.

His eleven brothers and sisters were struggling even worse then he was, however - their younger bodies struggled to keep pace with the strange hump backed creatures of the merchants, and even though the horses had slowed significantly due to the sand their pace at a walk was still a near run for the youngest of them. If the Order d'Athée cared at all they showed little sign of it; only commenting to yell should they fall too far behind.

It did not paint the picture of effective defenders, and Owain could tell the swarthy pervert his 'father' kept calling 'Sahib'; a sort of merchant noble title, was less then happy that his guards seemed more like a burden then an asset. Turning to his brothers and sisters Owain raised his voice, taking his place as their rightful commander by age. "Keep the line spread even, better to catch any would be ambush!" Owain said, lying through his teeth at their spread out line - but Owain could tell by the merchant's hand and his smell that he wasn't versed in the art of battle. His palms were soft, and his smell like lavender - not the sharp tang of blood that he and his fellows had.

His ploy seemed to work, and soon the Merchant Lord had slowed his strange humpback animal's pace to stride next to Owain. "You are the commander then? Quite young for leadership, I appreciate a man who can lead." He said, his voice dripping with intention. Owain fixed his cold eyes on the man, his narrow eyes only narrowing further. "It is not safe, my lord. Remain with the cavalry, in case of an attack." He did his best to keep his tone professional, hoping to not let his disgust filter into his speech - at the best of times Owain was a monotone voice, his young voice only just beginning to crack, but when he tried he could sound truly empty - like any good slave should.

The Merchant Lord gave him a disturbing smile, his unsettling yellow eyes never leaving Owain's hips as he nodded his head. "That is true, keep your fellows in line, Owain." He said, adding emphasis to 'Owain' as if to tell him that he knew his name despite Owain never giving it to him. Owain rolled his eyes once the Merchant Lord turned; he was not the first employer of the Order d'Athée that had wanted more from his guards then protection and Owain knew it wouldn't be the last. He grimaced internally at the memories, pushing them back into his mind and focusing at the task at hand.

It was going to be a long trip, and Owain only hoped 'father' would quickly go onto the next job. The less time he had to spend in the desert in the company of their employer, the better.

 

[Owain d'Athée]

August, Year 369
Three hours later / Amol-Kalit / Owain d'Athée / In battle​

"HOLD THE FUCKING LINE, YOU CURS!" Roared Rainulf, the vein on his forehead practically bursting as he stood in the saddle of his Destrier, the heavy hoofed creature ill suited to the battles in the sands. All around Rainulf battle raged, the famed cavalry of his company pinned by the constant attacks of thinly armored men, their faces hidden by veils and their curved swords hacking at the horseman as they did their best to defend themselves and maneuverer their heavy horses in the tall dunes.

At the center of the encircled cavalry sat the Merchant Lord and his guard, their humpbacked mounts - a creature called a camel, Owain had learned, proving far more capable of rapid movement in the sand but making no moves to intervene in the battle at hand. To his credit the Merchant Lord did have a blade in his hand, though Owain doubted he had any idea how to use it.

Owain's own troop were engaged with the bulk of their assailants. The enemy were uniform almost to a man, wearing white robes with red head veils a shiny metallic small shield in their left hands and their right hands swinging with deadly efficiency their menacing curved blades. Truthfully, his fellow 'brothers' and 'sisters' were faring poorly, their fatigue and inexperience with the uneven footing of the sand dulling their techniques and leaving them almost entirely on the defensive. It was a wonder none had died, but Owain had little doubt that would remain so if he didn't turn the tide.

"You are in command, Takeri." Owain suddenly said to a young elf to his right, the second oldest. Takeri nodded in understanding, knowing what Owain meant to do. Shaking like a leaf Owain shuddered heavily as he let his restraints go, his body shivering from ankle up to what seemed like the tips of his hair as he let loose all his pent up lust for the battle to come. Owain's mind blocked out all ideas of hesitation, ignoring any stimulus that wasn't important to becoming the whirling dervish it so deeply desired to be.

A cruel sneer fell across Owain's face as he rolled his shoulders, his fingers trembling against the hilt of his blade. Like a tempest he burst from the protection of his allies formation, the nearest desert savage so shocked by the sudden movement he didn't even react as Owain slipped his blade up low into a thrust through his gut. Without armor to protect him his body gave way to steel easily, his blood bursting with pressure from his stomach and dying Owain's white hair pink with it's tone.

Ripping the blade from his first victim Owain turned on the next, who was swinging his menacing curved blade in a diagonal arc from above the small shield following the cutting hand to cover the angle. Owain burst into the blow, stepping into the long strike and shortening the distance while rising his longsword into a high guard which caught the curved sword near his own blades cross guard - flicking his wrists downward at an angle he hooked the blade with his cross guard and spun on his left foot pivoting his whole body as he did. The sudden angle change literally ripped the sword from his opponents grip, breaking his wrist in the process.

As the man stumbled trying to recover his balance Owain struck a savage blow to his lowered neck, deprecating him in a single blow. His life blood stained the hot sand, making the already uneven surface slick and wet. The remaining desert raiders hesitated as he stalked toward them, to a man each disengaged from their own battle and formed a semi circular line to intercept the berserk Owain.

Takeri did not hesitate at this opportunity, ordering his allies to assist the cavalry being assailed. The tide turned, it would not have been strange for Owain to retreat - but still he stalked toward the ten men, his eyes burning bright and his cruel sneer turning into a mad grin. Each man knew their numbers would be enough to fell the boy, but each also knew he would take some of them with him - this fear, this hesitation to be one of the ones that died was a catastrophic miscalculation.

It was too late when they registered the heavy sounds of hooves and clanking metal, the full force of the d'Athée Cavalry baring down on them. They had not even the time to run, their bodies taken by lance and sword - their last memory the hesitating fear they felt at the sight of a mere adolescent boy.

Freed from the battle Owain's body relaxed all at once, his legs shaking heavily at the knees before giving out and leaving him splayed on the hot blood soaked sand, his pinkish hair matted to his forehead. Rainulf trotted his mount near him, blocking the sun and peering down at Owain - the satisfied grin on his 'father's' face told Owain he had done well. "Well done, boy. Five minutes and then we march again." Rainulf said, his voice shockingly soft and familial. Owain did not respond, simply nodding and staring into the clear blue sky and allowing himself to bask in the afterglow of battle.

Overhead the sun sat unwavering, and Owain wondered if anything else could be so enjoyable in this world as battle - he doubted it.