The Warriors' Bane

The Warriors are hot with Battlelust; Selmas can see it in their eyes.

He’s crouched between the large, thick leaves of a palm bush, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe. The beach in front of him is choked with people, both living and dead. Selmas almost can’t tell his own clan apart from those they are fighting, the Bizantin, who are clothed in deep navy tunics, fringes of fabric whipping in tornadoes around their thighs. The casual browns and oranges of Selmas’ people, the Alyrisin, blend into the backdrop of sand, but with how fast everyone is moving, the colors are all swirling together.

He sees magnificence in the lunge of a Warrior fifty feet from him, her long hair flying as she hooks her legs around her enemy’s waist and drags him to the ground, shoving his face into the sand of the beach and driving her elbow into his kidneys. Selmas winces, because he knows that’s painful, and then his attention is pulled away by a sharp cry as one of the foreigners falls, an arrow in their eye. Selmas cranes his neck to try and pick out the clan’s archers in the trees of the forest, but they’re too well-hidden; with their dark skin and clothing, it becomes impossible to pick them out amongst the shadows.

One of the blue-clad enemy warriors drops in front of Selmas’ hiding place, a dagger protruding from their throat. The Alyrisin who killed them tears the blade free, blood spraying across his clothing, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Teeth bared, he swings around to knock the legs of a female Bizantin out from under her, using the same knife to cut the life out of her heart.

Selmas shrinks back into the bush to avoid being seen, but it doesn’t matter, because the Alyrisin Warrior is caught up in his rage. He snarls at the fallen enemy, like a warning to stay down even though they’re already dead, and then scrambles away, deadly precision arching in the curve of his shoulders.

Selmas shivers. His eyes pick out a familiar shock of dark red hair, far down the sand, nearly into the water. He holds his breath as he watches Byrin fall into the surf as his opponent gets the better of him for a brief moment, and the two grapple in the lap of the tide.

Byrin’s face splits in a scream, his canines showing, and though he’s essentially pinned, the muscles in his upper arms strain as he throws himself forward, knocking the other fighter over, water spraying around them. He draws his fist back and delivers a hard strike to the person’s face, and they stop thrashing. Byrin barely pauses, immediately retrieving his sword from the sand and hurling it a hundred yards into the back of one of the enemy warriors, who is trying to sneak up on their Chieftain.

Selmas manages to tear his eyes away from Byrin’s fight in order to scan the beach again. While the battle had begun with three-to-one odds in favor of the Bizantin, Alyris’ Warriors have lessened the numbers considerably, and now all that’s left are smaller groups of blue-clad fighters, pressing together in defense. They’re beginning to cast nervous glances at their ships, left in the sea, and sure enough, within a few seconds, a cry goes up to retreat.

The Alyrisin chase the Bizantin into the water, but don’t follow them there, the reason for which becomes apparent as a volley of arrows blazes from the tree line, striking their targets with deadly force. Twenty more invaders fall, turning the sea red with blood.

The rest make it back to their ships, scrambling up the ropes on the sides to clamber aboard the safety of their vessels. Their lack of manpower is made even more apparent when only two of the five ships limp out of the bay; there isn’t enough crew remaining to man all of them, leaving those ships grounded for eternity.

The Warriors remain vigilant, even though Selmas has relaxed in his hiding place, knowing that the fight is over. A few of them shout insults after the retreating ships; a pair launch themselves at each other and start a friendly fight, feet digging trenches into the sand as they work off their excess energy. Selmas sighs, rolling his eyes. Warriors are all the same, in the end.

He takes out the battered notebook that he keeps tucked into the waistband of his trousers, plucking the pencil from the knot at the back of his head, letting the smaller braids there fall free down his shoulders.

This attack hadn’t been as long as some of the others. Either their enemies are getting worn down, or the Alyrisin are getting stronger. The former is more likely, because the Alyrisin have always been strong.

Selmas does a quick count of their kills, which totals out to 34. Their losses are at one and a half, because Nyke is favoring her right leg. The only fallen Alyrisin Warrior will be honored later, his sacrifice noted by the Gods.

Selmas bites his lip, tallying their numbers up. Despite being faced with less force than the last raid against them, they’d still sustained more losses. Not many more, but more. By one. Regardless, it was a successful defense, and he’s sure that tonight’s celebration will be just as fierce as the battle was. He should get back to the village. Someone has to deliver the good news, after all.

Of course, that’s when fingers close around his collar, and Selmas is dragged from his hiding place.