The Scent of War
The cold snap came like a creeping shadow across her shoulders. Every pore in her body screamed with fright, but she kept her cool. She merely pulled the wolf skin tighter and watched the horizon.
The ship had nearly run aground on a sandbar, and it listed just a little to the left as the tide ushered in its arrival. A day ago, there had been three tall ships and the lowly corsair. She had watched, at intervals of weather permitting, each of the tall ships buckle within the grasp of the sea. Masts had toppled, keels had trembled and shattered as one by one, they had lodged within sandbars and reefs, then wasted away to lashing wind and icy rain.
But not the low-keeled corsair.
The brine had flicked against her bow as she cast a narrow course between swell of sand, and sea. She had risen against the low-crashing tide and navigated a safe passage towards the shoreline.
Now the woman could merely watch; her breath hitting sharp bursts of mist against the cold air. A faint whistle echoed from the corsair’s deck, as it burst with life and a gangplank extended like an ominous tendril.
Like ants they swarmed across the deck, then fell into orderly file. Dark purple armour emblazoned with dark grey lines and picts she could not understand. She counted three lines of six. A small party of soldiers, like minerets poised in stance. From within the shelter of the cabins, a figure emerged, slowly striding across the deck before coming to a military rest before the gathered platoon.
She narrowed her eyes, almost squinting as if such an action would allow her ears to hear better. She gathered the skin around her shoulders and crouched down lower, making herself flat against the ground.
Then she crept on her belly until she was certain she was out of sight, rose on her legs and sprinted with new knowledge fit for Marauders’ folly.
She darted between trees, kicking leaves and lichen up into the air. Her breath broke the coldness in quicker, shorter lunges. Legs pummelled against rock and soil bringing her ever closer to camp. Ever closer to being accepted as a worthy scout.
And as she rounded a small cluster of rotted stumps, a sharp kick hit her chest sending her to the ground. Her back jarred against the woody soils. Her head spun as breath rushed from her limbs, her lungs and she gasped to draw it back.
Above her, like an unholy vision, the shape of strong arms came into view, taking hold of her by the neck. The dark empty eyes of an expressionless face stared into her as she felt herself lifted off the ground. Her eyes flashed with recognition at the Kurgan’s dispise.
A snap like a twig and then there was nothing.
Malvos sat back in his saddle, atop the ridge, in plain view of all. The wind caught his hair sending it rippling like tall grass across his scalp. Below him, the small emissary of Chaos stood flanked by his warriors. Dead grass spidered out into the dark sands, the scent of brine mingling gently with decay.
The corsair sat flush against the shoreline as the group of warriors marched across her deck and along the gangplank. They fanned out, cutting a path towards the emissary’s paltry party. Tall glaives cut into the sky. Between their ranks, a figure emerged. Well armoured, and untrusting, it looked up towards Malvos, then down at the emissary.
The emissary stepped forward, ushered by his warriors towards the centre. He stopped and waited. A voice rose in rich tones of praise, stirred by the sea, it rose and fell into an echo of drums.
Malvos teased the reins of his horse around his hands, cutting them into his flesh. A sly grin lifted his face as he inhaled deeply.
The scent of war.
