“And you grew flabby and round of limb,

Short of nerve and breath;

But we grew rugged and lean and grim

In our naked grip with Death.

-Verse 3

CIVILIZATION:

“Ye nit o’ mud scratch! Halt, en ye ‘ill take but nine stripes!”

‘By me hand. I’ll detail Old Broke to smash ye scamp feet!’ mused Blunt, prowling as best he might, belly chafing under his hard cuirass.

The nit had slipped fetters and run from the hoe line. Blunt, was First Spear of Dusk, for putting down the uprising of the Reedmen. Old Broke, First Spear of Dawn, had the sweet watch, guarding the toils of morn who dared not flee under the sun, to be rundown by the nobles in their ass-drawn carts. Blunt, had been given a skinny wench to wash his feet and warm his cot, had got this shit detail of keeping the swifter sorts from goating into the hills or rabbiting off to these blasted weeds that threaded between.

He heard the little wheat rat rustling among the thistles. “That’s it, Scamp,” [for they all had the same name] ‘If but they had the same neck!’, “shake ye bush so Uncle Blunt can rescue ye fro’ dat mis-step, o’ dat faerie dat lured ye ‘way fro’ ye eager work.”

Blunt heard the whimper of submission, what he knew well, when a toil turned up lame. Lightening his step—for Blunt was pantherish, if putting on some fat from that wench brewing the best beer. Blunt’s fortunes were on the rise, what with the recovery of this boy, he’d earn a cake woman too.

He heard the Great Horn blow to recall the toils of Late Sun, his wretched charges, which Blue would be herding back with stripes and curses at this moment. A glow of compassion for the runner stole from his traitor heart; that wench softening his edge already. ‘It was a good thing I’m Blunt, and not named Sharp… or I’d be in a moral contrary.’

Blunt shook himself, of a sudden afraid that his threats had summoned a thistle sprite what had him musing like some acolyte. To the hunt he returned, sniffing out that stinky little bastard…

“Peep,” it squeaked, as he leaped, lying his spear right into the dry wadi channel so he wouldn’t stick the little shit, snagging that bony ankle in his great shield hand, “Got you, Scamp!” he gasped, surprised to be short of breath, standing in one swift motion and dangling that turd of a boy aloft like he had hoisted a rabbit once to his Ma’s delight.

“Sorry, Blunt. You were nicer den Broke er Blue,” said the naked scamp as he hung upside down by an ankle, nodding with his little blue eyes to the tall grass where the wet season weirs were set…

“Say what, Scamp?” said he, struck dumb.

And the grass parted…

BARBARISM—

Woewolf’s hungry hand grasped his spear haft lightly, a true sign of thirst. His left hand slid the horn knife from its sheath, as he emerged from the buffalo grass with a snarl. His narrow gray eyes looked into the sun as it glowered orange behind the brass man, caught like a fool, with a child in his hand rather than the shield still slung upon his back.

The man was tall, broad, of obvious strength, but buried in rolling sheets of fat. Once rendered, this hog would provide the women with enough tall tallow to dress the wounds of them all. The start on the soldier’s face scrunched into a scowl as he hurled the boy aside like a bough and shifted right, spear arm leg stepping back and the fine brazen-faced shield sliding across his left arm. Once that shield was in place, the countenance of the brass man transformed—shifting from startled stag to cornered boar, and roared to the charge, having the sense to know that Woewolf was an out-runner, a scout.

Woewolf charged also, diving left behind his knife, thrusting forward with his spear, and transfixing that naked shin, between the bones, out through the muscle, as his own right haunch was torn apart by the brazen spear.

The brass men yet held his spear, his supporting leg useless, the shield on the far side of his hog body. Woewolf scrambled left around the man, now to one knee, breaking off his spear in that ruined leg, the blood of the big vessel now gouting.

To his honor, the brass man did not cry, but grunted like a snorting auroch, cutting a backhand stroke with his spear. Woewolf leaped over that swiping blade and came down between the back-extended shoulder and the turtle-shelled breast, plunging his bone knife to the hilt in that thick neck. The man’s eyes regarded him from the streaking stardust of the Afterlands, saying a farewell to his conqueror. With a jiggle of gut from under that hard vest, the brass man collapsed and passed without a gurgle.

Woe wolf took the brazen shield, glinting in the face of the sun, hefting the brass spear. Then, beneath him crouched the runaway dirt child, slave of grass. Looking up into his eyes, with those of sky blue, like the women of the snowlands flash to mesmerize a warrior, the naked little creature held up the great brass knife of the soldier, still in its leather case. The lad spoke in a squeaking mix of Snowman, Forester and Grassman, which he did grasp with the help of Hintersign, “He was the best of the Bress Men. This brass blade should be yours. May I wield the head of your broken spear to kill the others? I know the underways of the walls.”

Something in the glint of those blue eyes struck Woewolf as death-sure. With the blood on his knife hand he painted that upturned face and howled.