I've gone for an old story, written in two time periods (and that's how I have interpreted subdivisions). This is an old piece from about 18 months ago so it is not of the highest quality, but I feel it is better than some of my other pieces of a similar age.
Again, I lurch over to the festering pot in the corner, damn the butcher, damn his foul hide, and that pork was fresh? Why do the people of this village seem to cure physical ailments with rotten food?
Depressingly for the second time tonight I cannot grab the pot and throw up all over the floor, it doesn't matter now, but I used to pride myself in being tidy when I left an inn. A swig of absinthe will hopefully dissolve my conscious enough to sleep off the next day of this wretched food poisoning. Quite typically for the day, I knock the bottle over and pour away a small fortune into a badly woven carpet. Well at least the bugs won't bite me while I'm unconscious… yeah no mite may bite.
Awake, see the new day, be ready for the future, and lead us to glory.
As the poor translation of my glorious anthem crosses my eyes the room stops moving enough for me to fall off the bed, which is in fact a travel chest. The bed appears to be covered in vomit, but I can't decide on which party this is a punishment. And, now, the next ritual of the morning. For ten years now I see the same events…
"Stand up you son's of wenches! Show some strength!" The Sergeant going through his morning routine, most people have a shave and get clean, but no, this foul mouthed creature from below the chalk line, he has to shout. Sergeant Miller, a miller's son, someone who grinds flour for a living, too short to fight, so the wretch gets to yell at us.
"Well my lucky little blighters, you're off to the front, which in this case is the gate, try not to get killed", we stand aghast, I may be a good swordsman and a cruel shot with a crossbow but I wouldn't trust this sorry squad to pick up a sword the right way round. "Don't just stand there like you've just been born, get out of my sight and slay some Akspirians. The other half of our noble countries problems; the Akspirians.
The first moment passes in a blink, now I know what is happening my body softens itself for the impending fall.
After pulling a private from the rain of Akspirian crossbow fire I am finally awarded my third stripe. At last Sergeant. Well it wasn't really from my action, the last two had gotten killed by standing up at the wrong time, and my name is easier to remember than any of the names of those below the chalk. My first command to the squad, "Get into cover you bloody fools".
Ducking from brick house to mud hut we advance slowly. Now the archers outcrop can be seen, now all we need is a distraction. I wait, five minutes pass and my squad starts getting nervous, apparently we should be charging. I wait for that idiot Arthur to get angry, he always does, built like an ox, unfortunately brains to match, however for once perfect for the occasion. His most terminal oxen like habit is to eat any vegetation presented, wonderful items mushrooms, and so plentiful. So in three, two… one.
The second moment, in a flash, my knees being to slacken for the sake of my head.
It's a skirmish, a true nightmare for any new soldier; well the recruits will have to learn soon enough. The only things that matter block their attack and stab them, before they run you through. A one on one can take up to 100 square feet, without weapons and armour, so the unfolding carnage cannot be unexpected. One thousand noble Bhemi against twice that in Akspirians. Our spies said there were five hundred poorly armed Akspirians, no doubt that our spy network is compromised. As a Captain I get to watch from a distance, orders from the front line look good for the insane, but I like my skin intact. We do well, only killing as many of our men as the enemy, they take drastic losses. The rules of warfare set down by Continental treaty half a millennia ago may be how they like it done, but I like my men all in one piece.
It's almost over as my arms brace the ground below the tender skull.
No-one should survive 20 arrows, and a lethal does of t'kari mushrooms, Arthur the vegetarian, bursts through our lines, his vast bulk covered by siege armour. Flashing my sabre in the fading light I charge, it is over two thousand feet, a clash of skill and beauty against the rotting stench of treachery. Closing the distance quickly, we race not for the high ground, but to beat the light, for in the dark 'No military manoeuvres may take place with the exception of a withdrawal'. Calling out to a flame spotter, a small arrow illuminates his bovine features; unfazed and unfurling the biggest axe I have ever seen, Arthur accelerates. Calvary against infantry, speed against might, beauty against depravity, I cannot lose. Smiling I plunge my sabre through his neck to the hilt.
Too late the sun had set.
And, now the unnamed terrors await me. With our multiple moons, true night is but two hours, the lunar light keeps away the terrors until the sun banishes them. 'For every death viewed by the terrors they will attempt to exact revenge'. The central core of our battle rules.
Now the pillow is flung five feet behind my prone body. A wince passes my face, one showing that soon, something painful will happen.
Burning my last few minutes here would be foolish, dumping my armour I collect Arthur's axe, 'Only the weapon of you're fallen foe can save you'. Charging for a defendable hill, I can only wait, men have survived, some for years but eventually the terrors take them. My opponent this fateful night, not beast nor god but the terror's best attempt to dredge up my fear. Arthur's bulk would be tiny by comparison, Miller's face is unchanged. Grinning, the grin of one about to die, I heft the axe, almost dislocating my shoulder in the process. It appears I have one chance, one shot at an existence.
Digging a toe hold in the ground, I lower my stance for a charge, the terror has a new weapon, a mace, what a wonderful word, mace, and ace weapon (quartermasters never tire of this joke). A motion, a swing, a crunch of blade against bone. Victory.
Not quite, in its final death throws the mace is moved, with the unstoppable motion of a glacier, I can but watch as my axe misses the handle and the mace connects with my skull.
In a moment of agony, I am flung backwards onto the pillow, each of the five perforations in my face being to bleed and my cranium echoes to the ring of metal.