Emrik - A Novel: Chapters 1, 2 & 3 feature - New Elgante mod for Mount & Blade: Warband

Chapter 1

Emrik closed his eyes to the insistent beating of the sun on his already sun dried face. The heat felt
like a pressure on him, trying to force him to the ground, to fall over amongst this hellish march. Three days he thought, three days with only two stops on each, nighttime and noon. Mustering
his voice through a dry throat he croaked "Why is it so hot?"

His only answer was that of the ever present sound of leather boots trudging through the dirt and the bump of a soldier behind him, forcing him on. The pace in which they moved offered no respite to the increasing heat, the continual motion of his legs made him regret ever having learnt it in the first place. His eyes opened again to the searing light which bathed the landscape. The grass underneath him was brown, drying fast in the summer heat. Heat, the locals said, which would last for more than just the summer. How he already longed for the cooling breeze of the ocean of his home
village, just north of Whitcliffe. But instead he was forced to trudge through this desolate landscape. He had heard someone mumble, a grizzled veteran, last night when he had laid sprawled on the ground, desperately trying to recover his energy from the day's march that it was at this time of year that "summer storms" came in from the ocean to the south. Fine, thought Emrik, let them come, it will bring some respite to that villainous sun. But it wasn't just the weather that irked him, no there was much worse than the sun to worry about.

There was a reason he was out here in this god-forsaken place, reports were coming in about a marauding tribal band. Seemingly separate from the larger tribes which plagued the island, this one consisted of just enough to not be obvious, but enough for him and the men surrounding him, to be out here in search of them. Many a story had been passed around at rest times, of the atrocities committed by the men they were hunting. Many questioned who were the hunters, and who was the hunted and some went as far to say they were being watched. The thought unsurprisingly gave Emrik the shivers, something which he concealed well from his comrades, whom he assumed many of were doing the same. Emrik had only joined up to this expedition because he saw it as his only opportunity to see the island. Before he was pushed into a job he would never get out of. He still didn't regret it,
apart from the heat, which had really only began yesterday, the marching and the threat of an enemy ambush it had been interesting. The routine of army life attracted him, in a weird way. It seemed silly, and he could push the feeling out of his mind whenever he so wished. But it always came back to him.

Pulling his issued hat off his belt he placed it on his head, slanting it slightly forward so as to block
the sun from his eyes. The hat was not a great fit, but soldier issue equipment was not very varied to fit the wearer. "If it can fit on your head without falling off, then you ain't got nothin' to worry about" the man had said as he had received his equipment, his poorly shaven beard seeming to be an extension of his mouth, his dark eyes had warned him to move along or he was in for a thrashing. They were indeed a strange bunch, he thought, in the patrol. The Captain was prone to gambling, which often ended in his loss, several men boasting that they earnt more than the captain did for this whole expedition in one game.

He heard a command from far away, it was quickly relayed to a nearby sergeant "Halt!" Craning his neck to get a better look, an effort which was impeded by several people in front of him with the same idea, he could just make out horsemen in the front line. No cavalry had been brought on the
expedition, it was too minor to waste some of the Empires best weapons on. But scouts were a time honoured and tested tactic and judging by the horses he presumed these were the scouts. After a short amount of time he saw the dust kick up and the scouts ride off, in the direction the column was soon to be heading. "March!" the command came through, one which was quickly taken up. If
a little disorganized, pre-expedition training had consisted of a rag-tag group of peasants being drilled in the art of an ordered march by a smaller group of veterans accompanying them. Weapons had been issued and such little time was spent on instructing them how to use them that Emrik began to wonder if they merely wanted to scare the marauding band by sheer numbers. Emrik touched upon
his standard issue sword at his belt, its iron hilt bound in leather gave him comfort, despite his lack of skill.

Word soon filtered through that they were approaching the village of Oral, which promised a break to this marching. As the commanders discussed possible strategies and scouts scoured the landscape for tracks and signs of their enemy. Soon Emrik could see the cluster of huts and wooden constructs built upon a hill and he relaxed a bit. The sun would be setting soon and with the village looking like a safe haven for the night. There were no walls, a luxury few villages could afford. Marauding bands this far inland were viewed by the locals like natural disasters, they simply couldn't be helped. The ground underneath Emrik turned to be a bit more worn, revealing itself to be a makeshift track further on.

And as it always is, once you can see your goal it comes faster. The village was soon within a distance at which Emrik could view the details. A discarded cart was randomly placed outside the village, near a small farm. A dog barked loudly in the front yard at the horde of ‘invaders' to its territory, not backing down after already seeing many minutes go by with these men trudging by. Its owner was resting on the fence, as though he was the exact opposite of his dog was watching with cool
detachment. A full beard covered his chin and scraggly, matted hair covered his head. Judging by the size of the farm Emrik thought it safe to assume his life wasn't easy. And this far from the bustling port towns he wasn't surprised. Looking up to the top of the hill he could make out a few people staring at them, though several people just went about their business as though they were not there. Looking around him at the line of soldiers, Emrik thought that they probably outnumbered the population of this village, or hamlet more likely. The column began to dissolve in front of Emrik, and benches and tables had been set up around the spacious entrance to the village. Suddenly he felt very tired, and Emrik slumped at the nearest bench, a mere log with a flattened top. It wasn't soft but after a day's march it felt like a bed of wool. A luxury Emrik had never felt, but from what he was given to understand it was very comfortable. The feeling in his legs was mostly numb, and he shook them around to get the feeling back again. Through the pins and needles he felt forming in his legs he
scanned the landscape, his recent soldier training kicking in. On all sides of the village the land gave way and sloped downwards to valleys. To the south west he could spot a river, its water glinting in the uncannily bright dusk. Some of his comrades appeared to be taking stock of the landscape as well, some were resting while others spent the time discussing trivial matters. In amongst all this Emrik began to feel at home, he didn't want to be some common laborer he wanted to be a soldier.

Chapter 2

Emrik awoke to the gritty dawn that surrounded him. Dirt was in the air and it made him cough violently. Surveying the area with a recently acquired soldiers instinct he realized that the wind was blowing it around. Something which, if he could assume correctly from what the veteran had said, a storm was coming. The thought excited him somehow, yet at the same time made him nervous about how they could march through torrential rain. With sheer force of will he sat up, muscles straining from the previous days march. His back stung, it was as though he had slept on a bed of rocks, and looking at how thin his sleeping roll was it wasn’t far from the truth. Dust whipped up in front of him and stung his eyes, adding to the seemingly endless string of pain which assaulted his senses since he joined the patrol. He groaned but checked himself before someone overheard, they were all going through the same thing and complaints would only serve against him. He methodically rolled up his sleeping roll, just as he had done each morning since they left and crammed it into his tiny pack, slinging it over his shoulder in the process. With deliberate care he put on his hard leather boots and placed the hat on his head, feather flying. What a useless component of a hat, Emrik thought, a feather in no way helped to shade one from the sun nor did it add to any other function of a hat. It was all part of the weird order the patrol had set up, the feather was just a small part of it. Whilst pondering this Emrik trudged to the baggage train, a collection of horses and
carts always strewn behind the marching soldiers to place his pack. The one good thing about the patrol was the fact he did not have to carry his pack, a fact he was grateful for with every step. All around him were signs of the camp stirring, soldiers beating dust off their clothes and rubbing tired eyes, as though it would miraculously cure their fatigue. As Emrik placed his pack on the back of a cart he noticed how high the sun was up, they had never been allowed to sleep in for so long before. The captain was nowhere to be seen either. Strange, perhaps they were camping the day in the village Emrik thought with hope.

It was with that same hope he noticed the guards stationed out the front of a village hut presumably with the Captain inside. Good, perhaps he was discussing his plans. Whatever it was it
was clear that they were not going to be moving any time soon. With nothing better to do Emrik strolled to the edges of the village, past the farm with the barking dog to look back the way they had come. It looked as barren as every other direction, the dry grass trodden over and still showing signs of their march over it. Emrik heard a crash sound behind him, wood on wood. He spun
around only to see a wooden shutter on the farmhouse flap about and crash against the frame once again. It occurred to Emrik that through all the exhaustion he had almost forgotten about the tribal band. But yet his nerves betrayed him and the worry came gnawing back at him, eating away his reserves. He spent the day wandering amongst the weary soldiers and passing a word here or there, maybe even a no stakes game of cards. But his worry didn’t go away, there was something about staying in the same spot which irked him, taunted him, until he wanted to scream it out to every person he passed.

But he didn’t, it was insanity to do so. As the day wore on he got word of a bored veteran who had made a challenge that no recruit in the patrol could best him in single combat. Considering
the lack of training received by the fresh faced youngsters, which included Emrik himself, that accompanied the party he was probably right. But the bored soldiers had nothing better to do. Emrik stood by and watched as the veteran bested recruit after recruit with such efficiency that Emrik wasn’t sure whether the soldier was a brilliant swordsman or the recruits were worse than
originally thought. They were using long slender sticks, roughly hewn off branches really, but they worked well. It was just after the veteran knocked another recruit off his feet that it happened. A single nudge to the back and Emrik stumbled right into the cleared space, was forced to cross the difference between spectator and contender. With clear confidence the veteran chuckled and
as his defeated opponent crawled to his feet he chuckled more. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to but several of his comrades began chuckling too. Did he really look that young, Emrik put a hand to his face unconsciously, feeling the stubble growing on his chin. He knew he couldn’t possibly contend with the man but he had to do something. He awkwardly strode over to the stick left
lying on the ground by the previous contender who was now falteringly walking to the growing crowd of spectators. Swallowing drily he picked it up felling the weight in his hands. It was coarse, rough yet the slick sweat which had formed on his hand almost made it fall right out of his grip. The wind had
picked up, even more dust filling the air and giving the sky a reddish tinge. The veteran composed himself with obvious effort and took his stance, the same one he had taken each time he was going to fight. “Ready?” the man said, roughly, Emrik had no time to answer. No sooner had the words left his mouth than the man was swinging the stick in his face. Emrik stepped back, it was all he could do to remain out of reach. Tensing the muscles in his own arm he swung out at the grinning man, the swing so hopelessly out of range that Emrik overstretched himself, leaving his arm vulnerably outwards. With lightning speed the veteran stepped in and brought the stick down with terrifying force on Emrik’s arm. He almost dropped the stick, but something made him hold on, perhaps the shock had made him clench his fist, whatever it was the fierce tingling made him gasp in surprise, desperately trying to regain his footing.

Emrik lashed out with his left hand frantically trying to strike the man. His fist glided through thin air and Emrik looked up quickly. It all happened in seconds, one moment the man was in front of him, the next he was behind him and an explosion of pain ran up his back forcing him to the ground with such force that the world went black around him. Laying there on the ground the world suddenly seemed to contract to just his own thoughts and feelings, blood rushed through his ears and the pain up his back sharpened. He was lying face first in the dust the realization
making him cough, which made him breath in more dust causing him to cough again. Propping himself up off the ground he coughed some more, his chest heaving with the effort. The taste in his mouth was horrid causing him to swallow instinctively. The feeling was nauseating, the droning of the wind through the trees only seemed to add to his discomfort. Suddenly he felt weightless, rising from the ground with dizzying speed, he was being pulled by his collar to his feet. “Get up” the same rough voice said as he pushed him to one side looking for the next opponent. Discarded and already quickly being forgotten Emrik didn’t want to see another fight, all he wanted was water, no he needed water. His dry throat tickled once again sending him into another coughing spasm. Remembering the well located in the centre of the village Emrik headed towards it spitting out the accumulated dust in his mouth as he went. It was with relief that Emrik reached the well stumbling up to its wooden walls. He looked down the well, water lapped at the bottom of it, enticingly calling to him. It was with a grave disappointment that Emrik noticed the lack of a bucket, his stomach sinking. Looking around feverishly for a bucket, a cup, a bowl anything would do; he spotted a small wooden bucket out the front of a village hut. He almost ran to it, snatching it up and tying it to the rope at the well. Just as he was about to send it down he heard footsteps behind him, crunching in the dust. “What are you doing” the voice demanded, the tone was firm, the sound of someone who expects respect. Emrik froze, considering his actions, was he allowed to take from the well? Was this the owner of the bucket? A small wooden splinted thing Emrik doubted he would care. With increasing foreboding Emrik spun around, his eyes resting on a tall scraggly aged man, his thinning hair now grey yet still holding some of it dark colour of youth. All these things were mundane, nothing to take notice of, yet it was the way the man held himself, stood upright that drew attention. He commanded every bit of authority his voice demanded and the thought made Emrik’s heart sink.

The man was dressed in loose fitting linen which was coloured the same as the dust swirling about him, or perhaps it was just dirty. He wore pants of the same make although they were lighter and his boots were pulled up over the bottom of them. He wore nothing on his head, something which immediately identified him as someone from outside of the patrol. He wore a sword at his belt and considering his expression he wasn’t far off reaching for it.

Emrik swallowed again, his parched throat annoying him even more than before. “Just getting some…” he broke off into another coughing fit his face contorting with the strain.

“Helping yourself?” the man asked, but it seemed more like a statement than an actual question. “Do you want to start a riot? The villagers are already suspicious of us and anything could set them off, especially if they catch you stealing from their water supply at this time of year.” The man’s eyes took into account the cuts and bruises dressing Emrik’s face and softened slightly, “Harwood give you a thrashing did he? Look I’ll get you some water from the baggage train. Just don’t do anything else stupid.”

Chapter 3

Fear engulfed Emrik, falling to the pit of his stomach and immobilizing his legs, tingling as it went. The thought that such insignificant figures in the distance could provoke such a feeling was absurd, yet it was rising and falling with each breath. Tormenting him more than any physical pressure could. The marauding tribesmen had been sighted only a few moments before it seemed, the image of scouts riding hard towards the village still imbedded in his mind. They were too far away to see many details
but what could be said about them was that they were more than just a marauding band. Hundreds ranged out in some sort of organized mess in all directions, sealing the patrol into a dirty hamlet on top of a hill.

“Crossbows!” someone shouted and Emrik watched dazedly as men streamed past him to the entrance of the village lining up neatly, crossbows aimed at the advancing band. It was clear to all
that they were outnumbered, even to someone as inexperienced as Emrik. Yet some comfort was to be drawn from the hilltop advantage. He glanced around him to the men standing with him, most as pale and drawn as he was, knuckles white as they gripped their swords and spears with as much strength they could, as if it were their lifeline.

Emrik looked to his own sword, small notches in the blade suggested at the battles it had seen, the scratches showed its years. Emrik wondered dully at the fate of the last man who had wielded
this sword, was he dead? Did he desert? The questions ran through his mind, as though it were trying to distract him, ever dragging his thoughts from the present. With a start Emrik broke out of his short reverie, such lapses would kill him for sure.

“Fire!” Bolts arced slightly into the air and flew towards the murderous mob, the numbers of the group making it seem like a single mass, an entity, and that mass was moving frighteningly fast
towards them. The bolts fell short, woefully missing their targets and merely serving to drive home the patrols inexperience. The sound of near a hundred crossbows reloading was surprisingly loud. The sound of soldiers struggling with the winch echoing out across the village, curses accompanying it with such force and venom that Emrik wondered if the mob could hear it. With another start Emrik realised a group slither out of the mass moving with a certainty that the patrol severely lacked; experience. Within seconds near a hundred buzzing arrows came flying from them and directly towards the crossbowman lined up at the front. Emrik closed his eyes but nothing could block the sound of screaming as the arrows found their targets, embedding themselves into flesh and bone.
That a single volley could wreak such destruction rooted the fear in Emrik even deeper, snatching from him the last hope of survival. Opening his eyes he saw the ruined mess that were once soldiers strewn about at the front of the hamlet. Some had arrows stuck in their shoulders and they grasped at them, faces knotted in pain, trying to pull them out. Others were not so lucky, some had some through their chests or even their head one of which had it through his mouth. “Reform!” came the command, the voice was different than before, the previous commander laying dead amongst the bodies. With frustrating slowness the line reformed as some of them loaded another bolt to their weapons. “Fire!” the command came again and the bolts once again flew from their wooden holdings, this time flying more directly towards the enemy. It landed within the mass, though it seemed to have little impact. The band was getting closer now, enough to make out particular details. They wielded an assortment of outlandish weaponry ranging from the practical to the bizarre, some held them
as spears others as swords. A significant portion held shields, although Emrik could see little of them, he could tell they were circular. A few more volleys of arrows struck the crossbowman as they fought to reload a third time, the effort was futile under the threat of such accuracy but they tried nonetheless.

“Front Ranks Withdraw!” the surviving crossbowman commander yelled above the din. This was it. Emrik looked desperately around for an escape route, anyway he could escape, his previous
zeal for a soldiers life gone.

“Fighting Ranks Advance!” shouted the captain of the patrol. The words rang through Emrik’s mind, sealing his fate. With sudden pent up powerlessness the men behind and around him surged
forward pushing Emrik with them. The marauding band was surging up the hill, brandishing their weapons about them. In a frenzy of panic Emrik counted the soldiers directly in front of him; two. Two soldiers stood between him and certain death. The jostling about him caused him to keep up with the pace or be trampled underfoot. With a shout he saw the man in front of him fall backwards
suddenly, onto Emrik. The force of it made him stagger backwards halting the advance of the man behind him. What he saw terrified him, the man had taken a spear to the upper right side of his chest, the bark handle protruding out held in by three spikes which were dug into the body. It almost made him vomit, had the man behind not pushed him forward and his mind been tore away from the sight, to be contemplated later. Over the shoulder of the man in front of him he could see the band of men half way up the rise throwing more projectiles at them. With even great foreboding Emrik realised he was stepping on the arm of a fallen empire soldier.

“Charge!” roared the captain. With shouts of defiance mixed with fear the empire troops charged down the hill. Emrik saw the man in front of him flail his arm in the air suddenly as an arrow caught him in his sword hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. Feeling as if it was the last thing he would ever do Emrik stepped into his place, and charged down the hill to the men charging towards them. Waiting to engulf them in their deathly embrace. From this short distance of a few yards he could make out their individual expressions, except there was nothing individual about them. They all had an angry scowl that creased their faces, but it did not seem to hold them, they were calm. Some wore circlets around their heads, made from metal Emrik did not know of. Several wore armour, if it could be called armour, plates and lines of metal adorned their chests.

With a boom the forces collided, blood spraying forth as both sides took their initial casualties. Emrik swung his blade out from his right side, aiming to cut the man on his exposed stomach. But the blade caught on something else before it could even begin its trek, slowing the momentum of it. The man in front of him had no such ill luck, he held in his hands a mace of sorts, though it looked nothing the sorts of what Emrik had ever seen before. Deftly the man brought the weapon down from
above as it went straight for his head. With sudden familiarity Emrik recalled his fight with Harwood, he was in almost the exact same position now, except now it was his life at risk. Emrik stumbled back, almost dropping his sword in the process, but he avoided the club. Recovering Emrik kicked out at the man hoping to force him back, the man brought down the shaft of the mace on his foot
forcing him to pull it back in pain and losing his balance again. A spear flicked out from over Emrik striking the man on his scalp. As Emrik stood up again he took advantage of the moment as blood from the wound dripped into his opponent’s eyes, he swung his sword from above, just as the man had tried to do to him.

It happened so fast he could barely comprehend, but one moment the man had been staring at him through a haze of pain, the next he was slumping to the ground with a sword embedded in
his skull. There was no time to register the horror of it, only time to survive. Men swarmed about behind him and to the sides, Emrik did not dare look to his sides to see how the rest of the patrol was faring. Another Tribesman moved in front of him wielding a short spiked stick and a circular bark shield ringed with the same strange metal. With an effort Emrik drew his sword from the skull of his vanquished foe, giving the tribesman precious time to advance before him. He had a guarded stance, he did not look like he felt what Emrik felt, he seemed as if he were only impatient to kill him. Another marauder stepped in front of him this one with a long pole arm, and he stabbed it
towards Emrik. Sluggishly he dodged to the left, his mind racing. A sword slashed out at the spear wielding marauder catching him in the leg and making him fall to the ground. A soldier advanced forward to Emrik’s left, swinging a spear in front of him. Pulling his eyes from the dead marauder he fixed them on the tribesman directly in front of him. The tribesman was distracted as he caught a sword blow on his shield and adroitly flicked his spiked stick out before him which caught the wielder of the sword on the wrist. Acting as fast as his limbs would allow Emrik stabbed towards his head, hoping to get him off guard, but he did not. The man withdrew his arm from his foe and immediately
turned to Emrik in time to deflect the attack, albeit not effortlessly.

They were fast, or he was slow; he was not sure. But he knew that he could not win out of this battle with his life. Holding the sword in both hands he pulled his sword in from the left hoping to
get him on the side not protected by the shield, the tribesman stepped inside the arc of the sword and with a flick of his wrist brought his weapon in its path. The blade almost cut through the handle, but it stopped dead, whether through strength of the wielder or strength of the bark Emrik didn’t know. Before Emrik could react he felt a shadow consume his vision and he heard a crunch sound. He knew he had been struck yet he felt no pain, only numbness. As the shadow retreated from his visions and he took in the world once again. There was a blotch in front of him and it seemed to be swimming in his watery vision, as he tried to swing the sword he realised he was holding none. He
heard a grunt and the blotch grew larger again, he realised the tribesman was ramming his shield into his face. Emrik fell backwards and landed face up, not knowing whether from the shield blow or from his own will. Through the numbness he retained a sense of alarm, he could not stop moving. He rolled to his left hoping to avoid any killing blows and rolled into something hard, a boot. Pain erupted in his hand as someone stepped on it, soldiers rushing past in an attempt to push the marauders back. Drawing his knees in he sat up, holding his hand above his head as his vision came into focus. The din of battle returned with sudden clarity, every shout, grunt and scream echoing in his mind. Similar
confusion reigned in his own mind, but through it all one thought reigned supreme:

It was time to flee

Dazedly Emrik stood up as the battle roared about him unchecked, an empire soldier was in front of him swinging his sword at the enemy. In a brief glance around Emrik saw what he needed to see to steel his resolve; fear. They were hopelessly outnumbered, and the soldiers remaining were strung out in a thin line, a few men cleared themselves from the fighting and started to run, dissolving the resistance even more. Moving his legs by sheer force of will, will that had only been gained through the insistent marching, he ran with them. They were heading on a diagonal course skirting through the hamlet and then they would be into open valley, roughly south-east.

The captain stood at the top of the hill, surrounded by a few men watching the battle raging just yards from him. The men who were in the first rank, the crossbowmen, had abandoned their charge and were holding swords and daggers, they too looked ready to run at the slightest sign of increased danger. The battle was lost. Running in between two shacks, following a soldier in front he mulled it over in his mind. His only hope now was to get out before the battle line fell and the hamlet was overwhelmed. He started down the incline increasing his pace as he went thinking over and over again the sight of the massive band that had advanced on them.

Coming out on the other side of the shacks he was staring straight down the hill, which he ran down without hesitation. A man to the side of him slipped and rolled roughly ahead, screaming all the way down yet ending abruptly as he hit the bottom. Emrik focused on the tree line ahead, trying to ignore everything else, which was only half effective. A hand grabbed him suddenly from behind, crudely on the forehead, and threw him backwards to the ground. But he was so frightened he barely felt it, until the man stood on his foot with such force Emrik’s vision turned red. Without looking back the man, an empire soldier, bounded the rest of the way down the hill. Emrik wasn’t far behind, however, but he was tumbling, sticks and stones viciously scraping and cutting him. With a jolt he hit a tree trunk, knocking the wind out of him.

Desperately trying to regain his senses, he rolled on to his back and found himself looking at the sky through a smattering of leaves. Clouds roiled and buckled overhead and dimly he
heard the sound of thunder, the storms thought Emrik, recalling the veteran soldier. The whole world had gone mad, it seemed to Emrik at that moment. None of his muscles would obey, he could barely
breath without a focused effort.

Soon a face came into view, though it was hard to recognize the details. Trying to speak Emrik instead let out a pitiful groan. Other shapes flirted around the edges of his vision, just out of sight, impossible to see. The man put his foot on Emrik’s chest lightly and crouched lower. For a moment nothing happened and the man just stayed like that.

Then he spoke “Niltze”

But the word meant nothing to Emrik, or the words that followed. With effort he focused in on the man’s face, trying to catch some detail. Then he noticed it, just as he was lifted off the
ground. The man was wearing a headband.

He was in the possession of the Marauding Band and god only knew what they were going to do with him, he thought as he blacked out.