The Tragedy
The rain fell hard on the battlements of the Yormfort. Puddles formed along the ramparts, reflecting the dim light that shone through the overcast sky. The stone slabs received an ominous grey tint, though they glistened black with rainwater. Raindrops wept from the turrets like tears, trickling down the side of the walls. Moss grew in the shaded corners where the crying stopped as if slowly creeping in its corruption. The stone slabs slipped as if they were made of sludge, but Kotta took only small steps, ensuring the footing was stable before continuing her patrol along the bulwarks.
Her furs were soaked from thread to pelt, sitting heavy on her shoulders. Her neck and upper back had taken the brunt of it, leaving migraines to nest in her head day and night. Rainwater trickled down her neck and into her undershirt, moistening the tight bandages she had wrapped around her breasts. The cloth often gave her rashes under the armpit and cuts on her back, but when it was dampened, it would suction to her skin, as if a giant leech were pulling on her back and breasts. She still suffered these pains and nuisances, at least she thought as much, but not a singular nerve in her body reacted to them. She had been exposed to this land of rocks and storms for so long that the hardship had ingrained itself in her.
There was one redeeming quality of this region, she found. The Valrocr country was bright and colourful, even on its darkest day. It consisted of scenic open fields, with vales and hills that stretched far to meet the world’s edge, and tall, jagged cliffs that resembled the remains of an ancient creature’s jaws, which at any moment could snap shut.
“Lancer Kotta!” Captain Nasdul grunted, pulling her out of her trance. “Have the Winds taken your wits someplace else? Bring them back here, you’re supposed to be on the lookout.”
“Forgive me, sur,” Kotta said, feigning the deep voice she had honed over the time in the host. She straightened her posture and slammed the butt of her spear on the floor.
“Keep with it, lancer. A man who cannot wield his own wits is not worthy of wielding any spear.”
I’m no man, she wished to reply, yet Kotta nodded at her captain, nevertheless.
“Another platoon will come and relieve you of your duty,” the captain spoke, directing his voice at the rest of the guard. “Stay alert.” He and the two sentinels at his side marched on down the ramparts.
In brief moments, Kotta and the others on guard duty reduced themselves to rest. Kotta leaned against one of the ramparts, balancing her spear on a neighbouring one. The others either stood slouched or rested their weight on wooden boxes.
“Stay alert?” Mocked one, when the captain was well outside of range. His ears protruded further from his head than the branches of a great oak would from its trunk.Everyone referred to him as Ears. “There’s not been so much as a shuffle for the two years we’ve held this piece of stone and heard barely a ruffle from the trees. Always on the lookout, but without the slightest clue of what for.”
“Have you no sense at all?” Broke one of the other guards who sat on a box. The bottom half of his face was covered by a scarf, and the top half by the hood of a thick fur coat he seemed to have fashioned from the pelt of a bear, its snout sitting just above his eyebrows. “Danger. We’re meant to watch for danger.”
“And what does this ‘danger’ look like, Bearman?” Asked Ears in a mocking tone.
“Danger looks like danger, you halfwit. Would you like me to show you?” He snapped to his feet, growing to a menacing stature. Ears cowered and gave no response.
The Bearman scoffed and started pacing slowly. He constantly twitched in discomfort, his shoulders bouncing and his face scrunching. “Will these pissing clouds ever empty their sacks?” he said.
“It’s their gods,” replied another, whose teeth were either missing or looked piss yellow.
Teeth should be your name, Kotta thought.
“Those weird sisters. They don’t like outsiders,” Teeth continued.
“The Vervs, you mean? They aren’t gods,” said the Bearman, spitter flying from his gob. “They’re just some witches who live in a tree in the clouds. The man-giants, daft as they are, believe they pull strings attached to every man and woman, controlling their actions.”
“You mean to say this is their doing?” Teeth made exaggerated hand gestures, his yellow canines thrusting from his mouth. He roused a faint laughter from the other soldiers. “Camel crap is what I call it. What does a council of women know about the decisions a man must make?”
More than a lowly footsoldier who can’t even keep his mouth in order. Kotta felt the urge to strike some sense in the ignorant soldier, but she repressed it, as it was like not to end well for her.
“Living in the skies, too. One sneeze and they’re bound to fall from their cloud,” he resumed.
“They’ll fall through it before they fall off!” added the Bearman, quickly laughing at his own joke.
Teeth gave him a hearty chuckle, but shortly the rain ruled the silence once again. Some of the others looked at the Bearman, forcing hints of a smile, but the majority gave him no reaction.
Kotta held her tongue. She refrained from speaking more than she needed to. Her faux voice sufficed for a word or two, but a conversation was too grave a risk to take. Whilst they continued their meaningless chatter, Kotta held onto the idea of supper for the rest of her watch, her stomach grumbling demands for fuel.
Her days involved an early wake and a late slumber, with very little food to aid in the process. The war camp’s provisions allowed for one meal per head each day. If anybody ate more than that, the food was either hunted or stolen. It was not a rarity to see the odd starving soldier. Weaker ones tended to have their meals taken by bigger, stronger men, who moved in clusters to hoard the food for themselves. It happened to Kotta more often than not. Meanwhile, the Dahn of Feimr, the Consul Mandar of Valroc, and his subjects stuffed their mouths daily with finer dinners than any soldier could hope to hunt or steal. The rumours described deep pots of walnut duck stew, wide platters of honey-roasted chicken seasoned with barberry sauce, and vast bowls of saffron-boiled rice. In turn, when Kotta got her hands on stale bread and half a saltfish, she would consider it a banquet. Her mouth frothed at the mere thought of it.
Evening settled slowly; many hours passed before the promised platoon arrived and took over their watch. The storm calmed itself to a slight drizzle, but the black array of clouds did not part, still depriving the land of sunlight, even in its last moments.
Kotta climbed down a wooden ladder, along with the other members of the platoon. She relied heavily on her eyesight to ensure she grabbed the rungs, as her hands and feet were numb. Mild frostbite and storm foot was a common malady amongst the host. Kotta struggled to remember living without such inflictions. The grounds surrounding the Yormfort were constantly waterlogged, as it seldom stopped raining, and the winds never ceased their roaring.
They made their descent via the winding stone steps carved onto the face of the cliff. The man-giants gained their height through natural means, she’d overheard other soldiers saying. The newmade Dahn Feimr—Trisson the Traitor, they called him—was a Valrocr Warchief, the only one to kneel before the Zhargari. Yet, it was clear to see he had not lost his Valrocr instincts. In the first months, the ‘keep’ had been but a small hut made of mud and surrounded by stacked boulders for walls. It had developed into a small wooden keep, shortly thereafter. Much of the building resources went to raising a sturdy stone wall, by decree of the Dahn of Harssad. Kotta had felt the brunt of that.
The divide between the generals’ and the soldiers’ lifestyles gradually parted further as the months went on. The majority of the host was amassed in lanes of burrows they dug into the sides of hills, or directly into the ground. Such a great number of soldiers clustered together only complicated matters. The war camp had developed an atmosphere riddled with foul smells that confederated to reek worse than a rotting corpse. The air was visibly thicker as she looked down from the steps. Its stench bade them welcome before even reaching the bottom. Patrolling at such height, her sense of smell was easily cleansed, but on returning, it shocked her as if it were the first time she was exposed to it. Her nostrils quivered violently; her expression scrunched. Others uttered noises of disgust and discomfort, some even retching sharply or spitting in excess. She noted hints of horse piss, sweat, and faeces, but Kotta could never decide on which was the worst collaborator.
All slowed their pace simultaneously as if reaching an unspoken agreement to delay arrival at the war camp. Even though it was cold and dull on the wall, there were few pleasantries awaiting them at the foot of the hill. Her boots sank into the path, the mud squelching upon impact. Kotta’s legs grew heavier after every stride, as her boots would become buried in the mud every time.
“No, please! I pray you, mercy!” Screamed a voice to Kotta’s right. Two burly soldiers came dragging a naked man through the dirt. “Not the Boats!”
“Should’ve thought better before trying to desert, lad,” said one of the brutes. They threw him down against a wooden fence by the entrance of the camp, and another two soldiers arrived, carrying a hollowed barge. “I’ll scrub the floors, I’ll eat your shit, please, have mercy!” They roped him to the barge, the knots searing tight. One of the soldiers pulled a sack out of the barge, and, whilst the two brutes held the naked man down, he stuffed spoonfuls of milk and honey into the naked man’s mouth.
“What are they doing to him?” Said Teeth.
“You never seen someone be sent to the Boats before, lad?” the Bearman answered.
The Boats. Kotta knew all too much about that kind of sailing. Moahm. Her hand went straight to the dagger stowed in her belt. She’d struggled to shake the image of those men dragging him away, his face beat and bloodied. She remembered his screams. They only lasted to the end of the second day. The maggots and the rats got to him eventually.
“You never heard the tale of Damian’s Last Voyage? The man who ‘fared too far’ and was sent on a journey he’d never return from.”
“I thought it was but commonspeech, to scare misbehaving children.” Teeth replied.
The Bearman laughed. “Commonspeech? It’s realer than my own cock!” The Bearman grabbed his crotch in a thrusting motion. “Give it a couple of moons,” his tone rapidly turned solemn, “and you’ll see what ‘sailing’ does to a man.”
The naked soldier wretched violently, yet they kept forcing the milk and honey down his throat. Another barge arrived, with holes for his four limbs and his head. They coffined him, nailing the barges together, and left him screaming in the rain. Soldiers gathered around the sailor, some had an empathetic look, others cheered for the end of his voyage.
If this is what they do to traitors, what would they do to a woman posing as a man? Kotta stared at the man in shock. That would’ve been me, she thought, had Moahm not convinced me otherwise.
“They’ve already started, the bastards,” said the Bearman with a grunt, his loud voice pulling her back into actuality.
He looked in the direction of singing and the sound of drums, coming from another part of the camp. It was oddly accompanied by a smell that reminded her of her mother’s stew, which wholly captivated Kotta’s sniffs.
“Wouldn’t have killed them to wait,” Ears replied.
Perhaps it might have, Kotta ruminated, sensing her trembling stomach. She gazed in the direction of the scent. A faint orange glow effervesced in the distance, with the air above it distorting the trees behind. While the others made for the hearth, Kotta continued along the mud road, but suddenly a hand grabbed her arm.
“You not coming with us, lad?” spoke the Bearman, still holding her forearm. “I hear Big Behn is making his famed stew tonight, for the entire host.” She budged free of his grip.
Hot food. Kotta cringed as her mouth began to froth. She hadn’t the slightest idea of who Big Behn was, but it seemed like a swaying offer. No. I mustn’t. Too grave a risk. “A stew? For everyone?”
“Yes, lad. He promised he’d cook for us one day, the man. We didn’t believe he could even boil rice!”
“Where’s all the food coming from?”
“He and a group of men’ve been hunting all week before their tasks. They said they’d bring back loads of game. Maybe some elk, bear, venison…”
Why? She ought to ask. “Venison?” But her stomach took precedence.
“Ha, a smart one. Of course none of that! Rabbit, or perhaps hare, if you’re lucky. But definitely something more filling than anything you were saving for the night.” The Bearman slapped her shoulder, nearly brushing her chest. Fear stabbed Kotta like a sharp needle, but he did not seem confounded, so she made no deal of it. “Come, lad,” he drew close to her and whispered: “I heard there is to be plenty of moord.”
That word provoked an itching in her throat she thought would never return. “But…you’ll be flogged…” she muttered back.
“Shh…” The Bearman put his finger on her lips. “The captains drink it too.”
A fiery zeal sparked as the Bearman finished his sentence. She nodded and followed her fellow comrades to the bonfire.
“What’s your name, lad?” he asked as they walked. “Don’t think we’ve ever been paired for a watch before.”
“K,” Kotta replied.
“A name of few letters for a man of fewer words.” He removed his glove and put out his hand. Only now did she notice there were four fingers were there should have been five. Kotta shook it, regardless. “Signed on, or levied?”
“Levied,” she said with a heavy sigh.
He gave her a grumble of empathy and remained silent the rest of the way.
She felt the heat rise as they approached the bonfire. It grew wider and wilder the closer they got. Flames wrapped around themselves, almost as if engaged in a dance. The soldiers were dancing, too, but they were not so majestic. A duo of men played the tanbur and sang happy melodies. Some danced acting a jester, swinging their arms in the air like flails, others swayed with their arms wrapped around the shoulders of their brothers-in-arms. Smiles began to break across their faces as they heard men cheering, drinking, and feasting as if it were the last thing they would do on this planet. It seemed that for a brief moment, nothing else mattered to them, as if enclosed in a vacuum away from all the trauma and grief.
The stew does smell glorious. She couldn’t help but join in the laughter, the smiles, the cheers. All feelings that seemed alien to her before tonight.
She’d downed a pint of moord before she knew it, and holding a bowl of stew in her hands soon after. “Its sho good,” she voiced to the cook, chomping on a dice of rabbit.
“Ha, I’ve done better! Enjoy it, lad. There won’t be another for some weeks. Game is starting to hibernate.” Big Behn slapped his belly and broke in hearty laughter.
“Why do you do it?” Kotta asked Big Behn.
“Do what?”
“The stew. Cook a stew for everyone to eat.”
“Because you’re all too skinny! We are the only wall left if the enemy breaks down the stone one.”
“That’s not the reason!” Kotta slapped the big man’s arm.
“I swear. Truer than a babe’s virtue! I know what it’s like to go hungry. Don’t want my men at arms to ever feel the same.” There was a genuineness in his words even men of a dark heart could not fake. Not a speck of a lie existed behind his words. They shared a smile, put their cups together, and drowned their lips in moord.
“A song, a song,” shouted Ears from across the fire. “Big Behn, give us a song!”
“Me?” Said Big Behn. “No, no. I’m no bard.”
“Shut up and sing, you fool!” The Bearman joined in.
All of a sudden, the entire camp was chanting: “Sing! Sing! Sing!” Kotta among them.
“Alright, alright.” The big lad gave in, gesturing to them to lower their voice with his hands. “I penned this not too many nights ago, lads. Forgive any poor phrasings. Not the finished product…I don’t think.”
“Stop stalling!” yelled the Bearman, jolly with his tankard.
The camp fell silent. Big Behn drew in a large breath, and broke into a song:
We’ve marched and marched way too far north.
Northlands, Northlands of rain and rock!
It loves us not, neither do we,
The Northlands of rain.
I left my wife, my son, my home
For the Northlands, Northlands of rain and rock!
And now she weeps I won’t return,
From the Northlands of rain.
The priest swore me the Winds would help
Fight the Northlands, Northlands of rain and rock!
Yet all it does is aid the storm
In the Northlands of rain.
And now I lay awake at night
In the Northlands, Northlands of rain and rock!
In thoughts of hope we’ll soon head South,
And leave the Northlands of rain.
The tune had a rather melancholic sound to it and was accompanied by no instrument. His voice was deep, yet melodic, and carried itself across the fire, and probably much further into the camp. It must have struck the camp with a soothing wave of comfort, as everybody joined in to sing it once more. As she sang, she envisioned housing this tune inside her head for many days to come.
Nightfall sneaked up on them like a reaper hound, with only the moon and the vestiges of the bonfire providing any sense of light. Most men were either stupid drunk, slurring their words and starting scuffles, or they were passed out in the mud, their faces covered in dirt. Kotta heard a buzzing noise, or was it a fuzzing feel in her head?. Much of the world was as if constantly swinging on a pivot, to and fro. She lost the group of men who’d taken their watch with her, and the same with Big Behn. All these effects heightened when she stood up, only now realising how intoxicated she really was. She wandered aimlessly around the waning campfire, for a time, her eyes drooping. A deep drowsiness gradually instilled itself in her. She stumbled onto her left leg but caught herself with the right. She was still in control of her wits, she knew, for her consciousness was yet strong…where did everyone go? although judgment seemed to be weakening by the minute. In an impulse, she beelined to her burrow, staggering through the mud roads and baths. Her head continued to ring, and she continued to fight sleep.
Dugout upon dugout, they all looked the same. Some clever soldiers had marked their burrows in some shape or form. Kotta grouped herself with them. There was a shattered spear shaft wedged onto the side of the burrow, a torn red cloth tied to it. The vibrant colour snatched her attention, and she dove for the hole. She crawled through, the tunnel hugging her body, her hands and knees as if laminated in brown.
Small puddles had formed around her bed, but her straw mattress still looked relatively dry. She headed to her bed but tripped on a wooden stool by the entrance. No matter. She tussled with her clothes momentarily, attempting to be rid of them. She defeated only her fur coat and linen shirt. The straw huffed as Kotta plummeted to her bed.
Banging steps jerked her out of her slumber. Her head ached as if constantly being poked by a hundred needles. Her burrow spun when she sat up, and her ears panged at her brain. A man fumbled about her burrow. He was of a brawny build, though his arms did not fill his shirt. The man swallowed violently and burped, his eyes looking every which way. Ultimately, he plopped himself on the wooden stool.
“Are you lost?” Too many questions flooded her mind that she asked one she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to.
The man didn’t even acknowledge her. He burped again.
“This isn’t your burrow—”
“Who’re you?” interrupted the stranger. Kotta looked at him, confused. His voice was oddly familiar.
“You’re in my burrow. Go find your own.”
“Nah, thish…my burrow!” The soldier blurted. His breath reeked of alcohol, even from a distance.
She stood up, expecting him to follow. She was mistaken. Kotta tried to nudge him, get him onto his feet, but he did not budge, not even an inch. The man just sat there, staring blankly at the dirt wall.
“Thank the Winds they’ve taken the rain someplace else for a change, ey,” he suddenly spoke.
Yet they brought you instead. The Wind’s Favour did not seem to blow her way that day…or any day, for that matter. Kotta watched as he stuffed his face with moord at the brink of dawn. She responded with a sharp nod and raised brows. My watch will begin soon, she thought. How am I to get rid of him?
Staying next to the stranger did not seem the least bit appealing to her. She took a step back, but a hand suddenly seized her by the forearm.
“It’s early, still, lad. Where’re you off to in such a hurry?”
She shook her arm out of his grasp. “My watch is soon. I’ve no time to dawdle.”
Without hesitation, she turned and headed for the dug-out ramp to the surface, yet he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around with shocking strength.
“Get off me—” She swatted it away, but his hand brushed past her breasts as it fell. Kotta gasped.
His face lit up in excitement. “Have you grown a pair of teats overnight?” He laughed, going for a second grab. “Or have you been stealing others’ rations, getting all the fat for yourself? Lemme see!” With primal force, the stranger ripped her linen shirt. Though they were tightly wrapped in cloth, they still presented a slight bump. “The first, it is! Oh, the Winds are too kind.”
He shoved her onto the bed, trying to undo his trousers.
“No!” Kotta screamed. “Get off me!” She struck him in the jaw, sending a tooth flying, but he was unmoved, but he barely flinched. He seized her arms, trying to pry them open and pin her down. “Get off! Get off!”
Saliva drooped from his mouth, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Struggling, her right arm broke free, and slapped him across the face. In a blink, her hand was on her dagger, and her dagger in his neck.
His strength shortly dissipated. Shock overcame his face, groaning in pain and disbelief and gagging red. He tried to stand but toppled to the side, his legs hoisted up by the bed. Blood fountained from his mouth as he convulsed on the ground.
She stumbled backward, her hands trembling, still gripping the dagger. Her chest heaved as she stared at the blood pooling beneath him. I killed him. Her first blood. A queer thrill coursed through her veins, clashing with a cutting shock. His hand still had a slight bounce. A hand she realised only had four fingers where there should have been five.
© Jaime Abad 2025