No Glory And No Honour By Jesse Smith http://slicer69.tripod.com Author's note: After writing too many modern-day short stories which reflected my thoughts, fears and feelings at the time, I realized the need for a change. The following is an attempt, on my part, to write something (as Monty Python would say) completely different. It takes place in the past, in a fictional world with unbelievable characters. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed escaping out of this world to write it. Il-Kim plucked a third egg out of the boiling pot, juggled it between his hands for a moment and dropped it into the waiting bowl. Steam floated off the shell as the egg rapidly cooled in the crisp morning air. The cooking fire was not enough to lift the fall's cold grasp on the house. He pulled a fourth egg from the small cooking pot and tossed it in along with the others. Il-Kim turned on his stool and began to strip the thin coating off his breakfast. "One should not attend Judgement Day without first having a decent breakfast," the town's late Sheriff had once told Il-Kim. It was as good advice as he'd ever heard one of the westerners speak. And, since this very well might be his last day as a mortal of flesh and blood, it seemed fitting he heed those words. Click-tick-tick-clink. The white shell pieces fell away as his fingers quickly moved over the smooth surface and fell back into the bowl. Footsteps, light and quick padded up behind him. "Hello," Il-Kim said softly. The footsteps stopped. "Good-day, Master Kim," a quiet voice replied. Master, that's what they called him now. It hadn't always been so Il-Kim reflected, rubbing the scars across his neck. Once it had been "Stranger" to those kind enough to speak with him; "Criminal" to those who watched him buy from their neighbours at market. It had taken years for them to accept him, to welcome them into their village. But that was many years past. Il-Kim turned to see one of the younger village boys standing near the fireplace. No more than eight harvests old, the child barely stood as tall as Il-Kim's stool. "Good morning," Il-Kim nodded to the lad, "Please, pull up a chair. Warm yourself." Quite willingly the child lifted the only chair in the room and pulled it close to the fire. Silently Il-Kim passed the boy and egg and quietly the lad took and ate it. Interesting how the child's pale skin blended with the egg flesh, Il-Kim thought, glancing at this own sun-baked, brown skin. Together they ate in silence, consuming the rest of the eggs, half a loaf of bread and a block of goat cheese. "Master Kim?" the child said at last. "Yes?" "What is that?" the child pointed at Il-Kim's tanned arm. "Those," Il-Kim replied, looking down at the criss-crosses of ink on his arm, "are my tattoos. These ones," he pointed to some bright blue lines, "trace my scars. They display, show off, my badges of honour. These ones," he gestured to a web of red lines, "each represent a life I've taken in battle." "How far do they go?" the child asked, following the web work up Il-Kim's arm until it disappeared under his sleeve. "They continue until my body is covered in red," Il-Kim answered, perhaps misunderstanding the question. More footsteps, heavier and quicker, echoed through the little house. The duo turned to see Leo, the village blacksmith, standing in the doorway. "Jacob, there you are. Come away, lad, leave Master Kim alone." "He's no bother," Il-Kim held up a hand, "the boy is good company." Leo opened his mouth to insist, but Il-Kim added, "He reminds me what we fight for today." Leo nodded, bowed his head in assent and walked out of the little home. "Tell me, little one," Il-Kim spoke as he stood, "have you ever seen men fight before?" The youngster shook his head. Il-Kim looked down at him. Being a full head taller than most of the villagers likely made him seem a giant to the children. It had certainly made it easier for mothers to scare their little ones a generation ago. "Don't go near the stranger's house, child, the giant will get you." All that had changed once the raiders had come from the North. Fierce, sword-wielding bandits who had attacked the farms along the north side of the village. They had fallen upon Farmer Thomas and his young son in early spring, during the child's first planting lesson. It had been a tragedy and had sent a chill through the villagers. Many hadn't been pleased to see Il-Kim join their ranks when the next raid came down from the hills. Not until, that is, he had knocked three of the five bandits from their horses and refused to take a part of the spoils. Within days, even the least friendly locals grudgingly stopped calling him "Stranger" and began to call him "Mister". Il-Kim sighed, "Men killing each other is a terrible thing to behold, child," he said, "There is no glory in it and rarely any honour. You would do well to stay well away." The boy nodded obediently, "Yes, sir. Got my hiding space all picked out, Master Kim." "Good. Would you fetch me my boots, please?" Cold, it was always cold here in the West, especially so close to the sea coast. Il-Kim had only travelled the five miles west to the sea once. The motion of the waves and the vastness of the water had humbled him and made him think of the eastern mountains. The width of the sea even exceeds the height of the hills, he'd thought. The streets were empty but for a few dozen men moving about. Some wielded axes, others carried short swords or hunting bows. All of them looked grim. None allowed himself to appear scared. The evening before, a farmer had spotted camp fires on the eastern hills. Alarm had been raised. Within an hour the entire village knew a force was coming, though at this distance no one could guess who's army could be camped on their doorstep. The little village hadn't known conquest. The citizens had no concept of politics beyond the horizon. So now, in the early dawn, the men gathered on the eastern edge of the village and waited. Waggons had been over-turned, barrows full of earth braced boards across the gaps between the houses. Il-Kim joined the men who stood watching the East. Some held hands up against the sun's light, others tried not to look directly, least they appear nervous. "Morning, Master Kim," Joseph greeted him. Il-Kim nodded his greeting. Glancing once toward the hills, he then turned his attention to the defences. Three waggons, some wood barriers and three dozen men with nothing more impressive than an axe. "I had thought there more," he said, looking about. "Well, Master Kim, Leo is still a-hammering away on some arrow heads. Some of the lads are helping the mothers and little 'uns outta town. They should be back soon," Joseph didn't dare add, "I hope," but the thought was echoed in all their minds. "Has anyone spotted them yet this morning? Maybe they have left," Il-Kim asked. "I did, sir. I spotted them," Fredericks offered. "Saw their cooking fires just as the sun was showing his head." "Nothing to do but wait, then," Il-Kim said. Wait they did. It was mid-morning when the first red banners appeared on the eastern road. Crimson flags with golden eagles appeared at the head of a long line of red clad soldiers. Following closely behind their arrival the beat of their drums reached the ears of the waiting defenders. The slow, steady, menacing marching beat approached the village like the footsteps of Death. Il-Kim looked about. Still only three dozen men. The others had never come back. Whether they'd run or hid made no difference at this point. They would not be of aid to their comrades. "There are many of them," Joseph whispered to Il-Kim. "Yes," the other replied. "There lies their strength. But we stand on our doorstep. That is to our advantage." "Do we stand a chance, Master?" Joseph asked. "We do not even know if they are here to fight," Il-Kim reassured him. "Stay here; I will go. Whatever you do, do not leave the protection of the waggons." With those last words the man they had called "Stranger" walked around the hastily erected barriers and toward the advancing force. "He's lost his sense," one man declared. "He has a plan," Joseph countered. "Gettin' it over fast," another retorted. Il-Kim appeared not to hear. Appeared to be aware of nothing but the advancing army of red and yellow. The sun was high enough in the sky now he didn't have to shield his eyes to look directly at the oncoming soldiers. Half a mile outside the village he stopped and waited. He stood as still as the mid-morning air, as still as a scarecrow in the field. His soil-brown clothes hung loosely about his body. His toes strained against his light, worn boots. The advancing legion of troops was led by a group of six men on horseback. One of these men raised a hand and the foot-soldiers behind them came to a halt. As one unit they fixed in place. The drums went silent. Four of the horses stepped forward, bearing their riders toward the lone figure in the road. The only other people who rode horses Il-Kim had seen in this part of the world were the northern raiders. Small men on small horses they would sweep down from the hills to terrorize, to steal and to murder. In their own way they had been responsible for Il-Kim's hanging and his later acceptance into the village. The men before him, while not much larger in build certainly rode large horses. Even Il-Kim's extra height was barely enough to put him eye level with a horse's back. Four of them standing before him was an impressive sight. "Good morning, Lord," Il-Kim greeted the large man leading the pack. "What brings you to our humble village?" The four men exchanged glances at being so boldly addressed by an unarmed man in simple garb. "I am Commander Willian of His Majesty's Fourth Northern Legion. Who are you, peasant?" the leader spoke. Il-Kim bowed his head ever so slightly before speaking, "My name is Il-Kim. Local healer. What can we do for you, Commander Willian?" "I am here," Willian answered, "to place this territory under the rule of the Empire. My next objective is your village." There were nods and murmurs of agreement from his companions. "You are here to conquer our village by force?" Il-Kim asked. "That's correct, peasant. I suggest you go back and tell your farmer friends to drop their pitch forks or their blood will form rivers down to the sea." "We have been watching you march for some time, Lord Willian. We are armed with more than forks. So I have a different proposal for you, if you will hear it." All four horsemen suddenly looked grave. There was something unsettling about this dark-skinned foreigner. "Out with it!" Willian demanded, grabbing his initiative back. "We can settle this with less bloodshed. Let the men, on both sides, go through this with as little pain as possible. I represent this village. Put you best man against me. If your man wins, your men will be welcomed into the homes of the locals. If I win, you turn your army around and march back to the hills," Il-Kim spoke slowly, clearly. Commander Willian thought about the deal for a moment, then chuckled. "Boy, you have a lot of spirit, I'll give you that. But I, and you too, have heard too many of the Hero Songs. Only a fool would take such a deal from a cocky, unarmed giant. Especially," he gestured to the foot soldiers behind him, "when he commands a legion." Il-Kim nodded, sharing the laughter, "Of course, Commander, of course. May I make a second offer then before you order your men forward?" Amused, Willian nodded his consent. Il-Kim glanced over his shoulder at the village. For a moment he seemed to look through the walls and barriers at the men waiting, the women hiding in cellars. "Let me challenge one of your men before the fighting starts," Willian paused, then nodded. "If I win, allow me to challenge another and yet another. If I continue to win, permit me to challenge your entire legion." "And when my men beat you?" Willian asked. "They will be welcomed, peacefully, into the village and they will feast tonight." "Boy," the Commander addressed the obvious, "I have over a thousand men at my command. What makes you think you can defeat them all?" "And what makes you fear your entire legion might not be able to defeat one peasant?" Il-Kim argued. At that the mounted men exchanged glances. "Very well," Willian assented, "I will award your house to the man who brings me your head." "Then let it be me, sir," the man on his right requested. "Granted," then to Il-Kim the Commander added, "which house is yours?" "The second one west of the village square, north side of the street, Lord." "Very well. Prepare yourself," Willian wheeled his horse around to face his forces. "Commander?" Il-Kim called to him. The man froze. "Aye?" "If you tell your men to line up," Il-Kim politely suggested, "we may be finished by sunset." Willian turned to glare over his shoulder, "You'll be feeding worms before noon," he declared and spat into the dirt. The challenger sat still on his horse, watching his companions ride off, back to the legion of red and gold. He drew his sword and waved it in salute toward his countrymen. A roar went up from the army. They cheered, banged their shields with their weapons and yelled encouragement. The little man looked down on Il-Kim from the back of his mount. "Are you ready?" he asked with mock formality. Il-Kim turned to glance at the men watching him. The ones who would be counting on him to solve this problem, to push aside this tide of Fate. Refocusing his gaze on his opponent he replied calmly, "Ready." The small man dismounted carefully, stepped in front of his horse and raised his sword. Il-Kim stood motionless, hands at his sides. His dark eyes never left the steady, steel blade which pointed at this heart. The man at the other end of that blade paused for a moment. Perhaps we waited for some defiant, desperate attack. Perhaps he waited for a plea for his victim's life. However he did not wait long. His sword arm jerked back just before he lunged, driving forward, thrusting his blade into the space where Il-Kim had stood. Had stood, that is, because the tall foreigner had neatly side-stepped the cold steel, quickly shifting his weight to the left and out of the way. Il-Kim's right hand shot out, grabbing the wrist of his attacker as the left drove into the man's gut, forcing his air out in a rush. The dark man dived under the arm which he held like a vice, twisted and flipped the invader over his shoulder. When Il-Kim straightened he held the man's sword in his right hand, the tip at the pale man's throat. He thrust the point home, turned in place, leaving the sword in the ground, and faced the sea of soldiers. For a moment no one moved. Silence fell over the would-be battle field. Then, with as much bravado as his companion, a second rider spurred his horse forward. Stopping a mere twenty feet from Il-Kim, the man dismounted quickly and drew his sword. Obviously learning from the mistakes of his fallen comrade he moved in cautiously. He performed short, efficient swings before his body, weaving a web of steel. Il-Kim retreated slowly from the waving blade. He feinted left, kicked from the right. Caught between two possible attacks the swordsman suddenly found himself stepping one way and moving his weapon in the other. It made a small opening. A small one was all Il-Kim required to bring his left foot snapping up, striking his opponent in the stomach. Backward he went with Il-Kim driving in, all fists and yells and fury. In seconds it was over. The army man lay, unconscious, on his back and Il-Kim stood over him. The third soldier wasn't letting good lessons go to waste. He brought his horse charging toward the tall mystic, his sword raised and ready. Il-Kim watched the horse driving toward him. Waited almost a second too long and dived out of the way. The rider's sword whooshed over his head as he rolled, reaching up to grab the man's ankle. Unbalanced, the man slid off his horse to the ground below. He landed hard and didn't have time to rise before Il-Kim set upon him, snapping his neck. A forth horseman rode forward. Not as bold, he came slowly, walking his horse forward, sword at the ready. Giving the defender too long proved just as fatal as charging blindly forward. For Il-Kim had only to throw a stone, whistling, at the man's head. It struck with a hard crack and the man fell. The fifth horseman didn't move for some time. Obviously taking the losses of his companions to heart, he looked over the situation. Then, apparently not so willing to give his life to the cause, he unslung a bow from his back. There is a point at which training and practise can no longer account for greatness. Il-Kim turned sideways, moving his body out of the way of the speeding arrow. He ducked beneath a second missile. When the third arrow can rushing toward his chest, he reached out his left hand and knocked it aside. The following arrow was also batted aside as was the one after. A missile went high and another was caught. Il-Kim looked at the shaft in his hand, raised it into the air and threw it back. It fell well short of the target, but the message was clear: You are wasting your time. The rider urged his horse into a trot, taking time to fire another arrow and another has he closed with his foe. Il-Kim caught both shafts in his hands and then ran toward the horse. Surprised, the archer dropped his bow and fumbled to pull his sword from its sheath. Unnerved, he was too slow and as Il-Kim came running by on his left the tall man jumped up, thrusting an arrow he held into the soldier's neck. The man fell, screaming and choking, from his horse. Il-Kim landed softly on his feet and faced Willian's army. Behind him lay five men. Their lives taken, poetically perhaps, with their own weapons. The soldiers stood behind their Commander. None volunteered to come forward to fight this man, this giant who had bested three men on horseback. Il-Kim had come, with bad timing, to the little, western village on the heels of a murder. Tired, dehydrated and weary, he had stumbled across a group of armed locals. Assuming the late farmer Gregory had been killed by this outsider, this giant from afar, the towns folk had taken him prisoner. They'd locked him in a basement, fed him some soup and waited for the Sheriff to decide what to do about him. The answer wasn't long coming: Hang him. Nearly the entire village turned out to watch Il-Kim's execution. The Sheriff and two men acting as guardsmen led Il-Kim up onto a small platform, tied his hands behind his back and prepared the noose. "Any last words?" the Sheriff asked. Il-Kim shook his head. He was new to the region and hadn't quite caught on to their practises, yet. The people, their customs and their justice system were as strange and frightening to him as he was to them. Unable to completely understand the words, but certain of their meaning, Il-Kim listened to the Last Words of the Sheriff. The rope was placed around his neck and the crude door under his feet was kicked open. His thick neck muscles tense and straining, Il-Kim bounced and swung at the end of his rope. Unable to wriggle his hands out of the rope which bound him, he reached down. The crowd jeered and shouted at him as he curled his legs up and slipped his hands under his feet. Reaching up, he grasped the noose in his hands and pulled himself up enough to free his neck. By the time his captures recognized the danger, Il-Kim was standing on firm ground again. He had proved difficult to execute. He'd proved just as hard to kill by more direct means. In seconds, Il-Kim had broken one guard's arm and beaten the Sheriff to the ground. Taking up the man's sword, he'd turned to face the remaining guard. "We should not fight so, like animals caged," he had said. The young lad on the other end of the sword apparently agreed. The act he performed then of laying down his weapon had cleared the way for calmer, two-sided talks. The angry mob of villagers was turned into a disgruntled mass, willing to admit a lack of evidence against the soft spoken new comer. That the old farmer had been stabbed in the neck from above and Il-Kim's height was so great was pointed to repeatedly over the next year. As was the timing and lack of other people upon whom blame could be laid. Until, that is, the northern horsemen had come down from the hills the following spring. Thrusting fear into the villagers with their short swords they clearly showed who else could be responsible for killing farmers from above. Feeling perhaps a tad foolish, though none would admit it, the villagers had accepted Il-Kim as one of them. One who would defend them so viciously from the northern raiders was well welcomed among the townsfolk. The Sheriff had gone so far as to invite Il-Kim to come live with him. "That old house is far too drafty," he'd been heard to say of the abandoned building in which Il-Kim had spent the winter. Willian apparently wasn't about to throw any more of his force away, like logs on a fire, in an effort to maintain his honour. "Kill him! Kill him!" he screamed, wildly waving his hand in Il-Kim's direction. "A purse of gold to the man who brings me his head!" Promise of gold or blinding obedience grove the men forward. Foot soldiers, armed with swords and coordinated skill they advanced on the lone defender. "There is the legend of Master Co-Am," Il-Kim's teacher had told him once, "who was so skilled, he once defeated sixty warriors using only a wooden sword." "How did he kill all those warriors?" Il-Kim had asked, young, eager and wide-eyed. "One at a time," his teacher had replied. Taking up a sword from the body of a dead rider, Il-Kim proceeded to do just that. He refused to waste more than one swing, it seemed, on any one opponent. One swing, one stab, one kick was all he would pay to each man who came to collect his life. At times he would drop his sword long enough to grab a man's wrist and rapidly wrestle another blade from into his grasp. The army swarmed over him, hiding him from view behind a curtain of red and gold and flashing steel. All the while Willian circled his troops, yelling words of encouragement from the relative safety of horseback. The bodies began to pile up. The ground turned red and became slippery. Men slid and fell onto the gut-covered grass. Granted no quarter, they fell victim to Il-Kim's slashing blade. The scene became a demon's dream, complete with cawing crows, buzzing flies and the haunting screams of dying men. The tide broke. From around Il-Kim the soldiers ebbed, falling away from his deadly strokes and merciless kicks. They formed a wide ring around this monster, this fierce giant and his collection of body parts. Breathing hard and sweat pouring from his skin so that it formed pale red rivers down his body, Il-Kim stood, sword raised and ready. "Who?" he demanded, "Who would take my home from me? WHO!?" No one volunteered. Il-Kim raised his gaze to focus on Willian. "Would you fight me?" he tauted the Commander, "Would you cross blades with me?" In response Willian raised his weapon and walked his horse into the circle of men. Il-Kim raised the sword in his hands in salute and waited. Willian looked about at his men; those tired and frightened faces. He looked around at the hundreds of bodies which littered the field. He looked at the five horses which now ran, riderless and confused, through the grass. He looked behind him at the little village which waited to become part of the Empire. His gaze took in the man who defied death and who had cut through his men like a scythe through tall grass. Willian put away his unstained sword and turned his horse away. "Fall in!" he commanded and turned his horse east. Some of the soldiers turned and followed with relief. Others dropped their weapons and offered their surrender. A few others turned and headed south together. Il-Kim stood among the men who, a minute ago had fought to take his life and now forfeited their own. He looked down at the gore covering the ground; at the red which covered his hands, feet, arms and face. At the red which covered his body from his head to his toes and dropped his weapon.