The Fields That Drank Red

The fire tossed embers into the wind as it passed. The smoldering debris floated off into the dark night, like thousands of tiny stars bound to extinguish after only a few moments in the swirling cold. A half circle of men formed a jagged perimeter around the great fire.
 
They were perhaps half a dozen, and they were boisterous and laughed with skewered meat in their mouths, fat and juices dripping down bearded chins. They wore an assortment of frayed leather and rusted iron, their boots covered with the mud of the plains, their gloves slick with sweat and grease. Either spear or pike sat stuck in the ground beside each of the sordid company.
 
The largest of the men wore a horned great helm with the visor missing. A pair of huge mismatched knives rested in his belt. He drew the larger and cut pieces of meat from the spit in his hand. He tore at the blackened flesh and began to speak through bites.
 
“We ain’t got nuthin,” came from the mouth of Great Helm. “Sing and laugh but we ain’t got nothin." The others fell to quiet, the laughing faded to a lull.

“Quit yer worrying. The prey will show soon and we’ll be alright.” A small man spoke. He was smiling through chewed pieces of bruised turnip. “In the interim, we’ve got feastin to do. That pile might rot if we don’t catch up to it.” He gave a high chuckle and gestured out toward the darkness.

Outside the perimeter of firelight laid a pile of beasts splayed out on their stomachs, tusked boars with various wounds penetrating their hides. Some beasts wore gaping holes in their sides while others were marked with smaller, more precise wounds. One was skinned and chunked and sat in its own mess. The grass underneath drank in blood.

“You hold that mouth you got, Skirn,” said Great Helm.

“I’ll hold nothing but my steel. Even so, it may find itself loose if you keep on.” Skirn laughed with his beady eyes set upon Great Helm.  

“You sit there and joke, but it ain’t gonna do no good. We haven’t made a damn bit of progress. We ain’t closer to findin anythin.”

“We’d find the prey if you didn’t charge every bore we come across.”

“I’m only actin how we’re supposed to out here.”

“I didn’t know we were commissioned to act as fools.”

“You hold that mouth or by the Makers I will cut out your tongue.”

“I invite you to come get my tongue. Your lady will likely miss it.”

Great Helm stood to a jeering circle. His hulking mass cast a tall shadow that extended out to meet its brother darkness beyond the flickering ring of light. He grabbed the huge oaken halberd planted in the ground by his side.

“You rat. I’ll cleave you in half,” roared Great Helm as he stood before the fire, holding the giant weapon.

Skirn narrowed his eyes and drew his baselard and stood quickly to meet his challenger.

“Sit.” The voice came from across the flickering orange. The man who spoke wore an entire set of thick, oiled leather with bands of articulated steel over his joints. He wore his hood down such that dark cloth lay bunched at the base of his neck. His face was as sharp as his gaze, and his dark hair was cropped close as was his beard. A black bandage was wrapped around his head covering his left eye. “Sit. Now.”

Great Helm and Skirn both withdrew slowly, staring at each other as they sat.  

“Not another word from either of you. Too much has been laid out for open ears.”

Skirn shifted in his seat and addressed the bandaged man. “Look around you, Faulk,” he said. “We’re free of any soul for miles. Ain’t no one botherin us."

Faulk met the words with a hard stare. “I see blackness, and she is not our friend. We must tread with caution.”  

“Aye, he’s right,” said Great Helm.

Skirn dropped his gaze away from the faces of surrounding men and concentrated on the fire at his front. He pulled a spit of meat from where it had been roasting and brought it to his mouth. He tore at his food, pausing to speak in between bites. 

“You’re frightened, both of ye. Scared of the night is all," he said. "And Faulk, I expected more outta you. You’re supposed to be a rough–”

Before he could breathe another word, an arrow came from beyond the light and passed through his throat completely. His eyes widened as he sucked in gasps of gurgled breath. Blood flowed out of his neck in a warm hiss.

The whole perimeter of men came to life at once, dropping their food and drink in trade of spears and pikes and dirks. Chaos descended upon them as they formed a hurried circle around the fire, each man looking out into the peerless night for a sign of the death that stalked them. 

Another arrow whispered through the black and found itself lodged in the chest of a pikeman. Voices shouted to each other.

“Where’s it come from?”

“I didn’t see.”

“From there, from there.”

“I don’t see.”

“Goddamnit.”

Great Helm turned his back to the flame and pointed his weapon out to the night. To his side, a man fell to the ground with an arrow protruding from under his eye. Voices went on clanging into the open night.

“They’re everywhere.”

“Must be a score of em.”

“I don’t see. I don’t see.”

The Great Helm looked for Faulk, but couldn’t see him among the slaughter. A man holding a spear fell into the cook fire with two arrows jutting from his abdomen.

“Away from the light. Get away from the light,” Great Helm was shouting above the clamor. “Away from the fire, I say. We are easily seen.”

He ran forward, charging into the night, cutting a wide path with wild swings of his halberd. He plunged into the darkness and saw nothing at his front except night and sky. He dropped down into the tallgrass and crawled on his stomach, scanning his surroundings, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

Open field and rustling brush surrounded the encirclement of men. From his position, Great Helm saw that none had followed. He could hear light groans from one of his company. Not one man stood at the ready. Each was on the ground, either writhing or still. One of the men lay with his torso roasting in the cook fire, his leather bound legs jutting out from the flame. The air smelled of smoking flesh.

Great Helm laid in wait, unmoving except for foggy breath. He surveyed the surrounding shadow for movement, but saw none. His heart quickened as he came to realize that he was utterly alone. No one made it, he thought. Not even Faulk. And he’s supposed to be a rough bastard, finishing Skirn’s sentence in his head.

Sharp brambles poked through the gaps in Great Helm’s armor. For wearing such heavy plate on his giant frame, he was able flee from the slaughter quickly.

Great Helm was always faster than people expected. His movements were coordinated and swift, as though every fiber of his hulking mass was focused on the thought of a single action. Young thieves would often underestimate the speed of his enormity. Great Helm would catch them pocketing his potatoes at his market stand. He would snatch the crafty urchins by the arm or neck and tighten his grip until the knobby vegetables were released.

Yet the huge body was not accustomed to fleeing from arrows and blood. His strength had only been reserved for farm work, plowing field and picking crops for the winter season. Skrin and the other men, now festering in death, were similarly ill prepared. They had been plucked into service from the mines near the foothills of the Eastern Slopes. They were a rough group that had little contact with village folk. Great Helm had heard it said that no miner came without a troubled past, and he came to believe it after a few days in their company.

He knew that Faulk had found the miners at an inn, drinking loudly in the dark of night. They had just finished tormenting a boy lutist who stood dismayed over pieces of his broken instrument, wood and string heaped on the stone floor. When the boy started to cry, the laughing miners took him by all fours and tossed him into the embers of the dying hearthfire.

Great Helm was recruited days later on a cold morning in his village. The sheepshearer spread rumor of a man in town, hiring for bounty collect.

“Have you seen him before?” said Great Helm.

“Not once. An’ he’s a different kind than I’m used to,” said the sheepshearer. “Not an Easterner, I think.”

“Different,” said Great Helm.

“He speaks proper and wears a sort of bandage. On his head.”

“On his head,” repeated Great Helm. “And he’s hirin?”

“Aye he is. Promised a decent bit of coin too. He’s headed west on the roads.”
           
Great Helm came upon Faulk and the miners after a half day’s travel on the Thoroughfare, the wide road that sowed its veiny course through the knoll-villages of the North and East. The group of men was resting at a stable. Faulk was tending to a dark brown mare, its tail swaying lazily. The miners were leering at the stablemaster’s wife, watching as though she were wounded prey, half-grins stained on their faces.

Great Helm approached the group slowly, considering his questions before he asked them. He thought it wise to always think deeply before speaking. Words can cause trouble.

“Excuse, ser,” he said.

The bandaged man stood with his back facing Great Helm, his hands working deftly on the leather straps of his saddle.

“Excuse, ser,” Great Helm said again. “It’s been spread that you might be hirnin for bounty collect?” Great Helm took notice at the speed and certainty in which the man worked. His hands were moving along the leather as though they had always been doing so, and would continue doing so for eternity. The bandaged man spoke without turning.

“Age.”

Great Helm paused for a moment, his eyes unsure where to look as he addressed the bandaged man’s back.

“Half past my third decade, ser.”

“Profession.”

“Farmhand on the potato fields in Pending. Sometimes I help with turnips too.” Great Helm began to fumble with the holes in his tunic.                                                       

“Did you serve in the King’s Folly?”

“No ser, I wasn’t conscripted.”

“Experience in bounty collect.”

“None, ser.”

“Experience hunting boar.”

“Yer pardon?” Great Helm heard a snicker from one of the miners.

“Experience hunting boar,” repeated the bandaged man.

“My father took me a few times when I was young. I was good on account of my size. And I’m quicker than I look.”

The bandaged man finished his task and turned around, the height of his eyes met Great Helm’s throat.

“I’m Faulk Mathan,” he didn’t extend his hand for an introduction. ”You’ll do.”    
 
An odd lot they made, four miners and a farmhand, clad in second-hand leather, wielding nicked steel and rusted iron. They were promised equipment, payment, and bonus compensation for days they would miss laboring in their respective trades. The expedition was to last a halfmonth at most, but was reaching near three quarters.

During his time, Great Helm slowly took stock of the crude miners, keeping to himself while carefully observing their like. They snarled curses from sneering mouths, and spit as they walked along the road. When the group made camp, the miners argued about which of them would collect kindle until the bickering erupted into fists. Great Helm didn’t let them unnerve him. Instead he worried about home and his land. The ground was becoming just soft enough to plant. Spring had finally come to chase the morning frost from the fields. He wondered if joining the expedition was a mistake.
 
He felt the earth below him now, his chest plate and heavy belly sunk into the grass and dirt. He did not know how long had passed since he ran from the fire, but he had noticed that the moon had fallen a striking degree. Its pale grey light illuminated the field where Great Helm lay prone and hiding.

No one’s yet come to loot the dead. Behavior too patient for bandits. He shifted his head and saw miles of dark plain to each of his sides. He knew that the Royal Canal was out there somewhere, but he had no ability to discern its distance or direction. Great Helm thought maybe he could escape if he could find the Canal, float downstream until he came by a village.

He waited and heard nothing, and with each passing minute, he grew less frightened, more sure that the danger had passed. Where the hell is Faulk?

Great Helm slowly raised his head above the brush. Only quiet greeted him. He picked himself up and circled the campfire in a low crouch, trying desperately to suppress the shuffle of his heavy boots. He moved slowly, making a full pass around the fire.

He looked again at the slumped bodies lying motionless about the camp. By now the moans of the wounded had given way to silence.

He heard movement behind him, the snapping of brush, and the rustle of boot against dirt. Great Helm turned fast with his halberd out before him.

A figure stood with no weapons drawn, his face darkened in the shadow of the cook fire. The figure spoke as it stepped into the light.  

“You’ve got good instinct, but you’re damn awful at staying quiet,” said Faulk.