Battle scars
Odsier Plains
Koshnem sat atop a dead horse while one of his men tended to his many wounds. Minor cuts were left to bleed so that the flow of blood cleaned the wound of any infection, but a few nasty gashes on his left shoulder and leg need attention. He pawed at his bushy beard wiping the blood from his face. The cries of the captives and moans of the wounded and dying filled the morning air.
He looked at the dead body of the Broken Spear's leader and his Bonecaster and at the ring of Odonine warriors surrounding them. Twenty three men had died here under their blades and magik. Their bodies cut to shreds by their powerful adversaries. But one of the largest Odsier tribes lay broken, captured or scattered to the four winds.
He felt the man over his shoulder suturing his wound with catgut, a fine thread used by the mountain tribes woven from sheep intestines. He concentrated on the broken spear at his feet to ignore the prodding of his raw flesh. Twelve individual notches on the shaft of the weapon told a tale of an Odsier leader who had defeated twelve challenges to his authority in combat in his lifetime. He could still see the man's surprise as Koshnem's blade sliced through his parry into his chest caving it in a ruined mess. The bastard had still lashed out at his throat, but the Odonine Warchieftain had managed to turn from the desperate attack, he recalled with a grin of appreciation. War brought the best and the worse in people. As old veterans used to say, there is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
The Witch on the other hand had been far more difficult to kill. They always were. But even they can do little against the onslaught of armed men. Throw enough blades and bodies at their defences and eventually they tire, lose focus, run out of steam. He had crushed her head under his boot in the end to the cheers of his warriors.
Too dangerous to keep one such as her alive. He had marvelled at her power. How she could blink in and out of existence to appear metres away from where she had disappeared to strike at surprised warriors, cutting then down with her strange, bladed club. Times like these he often wondered why some people were blessed with these strange and eerie powers while others weren't.
A train of captured men, women and children was being assembled to head back to Fang to the Aghul village. One of his men told them they had captured close to 100 heads of cattle as well and numerous weapons, and a decent amount of silver and gold. Another victory for Koshnem and the Odonine in the Plains, to cement his position and continue to draw his countrymen to his banner.
Of course, not all was going according to plan. A messenger had arrived earlier to inform him that the mine at Aquilo had been attacked by a group of Odonine brigands. Only the timely intervention of some Ostiarium Knights had stopped them from slaughtering everyone. A stark and much needed reminder to keep him grounded, that power was fickle and not everyone among the Odonine was supportive of his cause or his rule.
To the East to what the men from the Gate City were calling Bootlegger's Pier reports were slowly reaching him that the men of steel were decimating the tribes well drilled raids and attacks, in part due to their superior weapons and training. He had marvelled at the fact that these newcomers kept professional warriors in the society. Men and women simply paid to fight. It was a concept he hoped to introduce to the Odonine soon.
His scouts spoke that the men of steel fought with fervour and an ardour that was diabolical to witness. Many tribes had been slaughtered completely with prisoners tortured for hours in attempts to get them to convert to their strange gods, before being slaughtered. They spoke of a man with pale complexion and red eyes that could wipe their warriors into a frenzy with mere words.
Koshnem grunted as the man stitching his shoulder moved to treat the deep gash in his wounded leg...