Bostra’s Dream
This is unlike a lot of my usual writings, and indeed very unlike most of the lore/world building and summaries i’ve been posting here. But the scene came into my head and i decided to play it out on paper. I hope no part of this is in any way stolen valor, or inappropriate.
CW: graphic violence, lewdness, swearing.
“HOLD! YOU WILL HOLD YOU BASTARDS! HOLD FOR THE CROWN! HOLD FOR HOME! HOLD FOR PEACEBERRY!!!” Bostra shouts at the men, watching the groaning palisade as it rocks back. He looks over at the right seventh and one of them falls to the ground. ‘Kreemans.’ He thought, looking at the dwarf. ‘He’s been on for 3 days, no rest. But then so have I…’
Bostra looks down at the evil runes on his boots. Where had he gotten those runes again? He shakes his head and looks to the wall. Another dwarf falls and he grits his teeth. He lifts his wrist to his mouth and bites the second to last leaf of the bracelet there. The bitter mint taste burns its way to his stomach, then he Jumps down from the statue, kicks it over, and throws it against the barricade. He charges and slams against it to brace the wall along with the others.
‘Great, so that makes five sacrilegious acts this week. Well I haven’t been struck by lightning yet.’ He braces the statue with his back and turns to the soldiers. He bellows over the cracking wood. “WE’RE ALMOST THERE! 5 MORE MINUTES TO HOLD, COME ON, LADS PUSH!”
‘Five more minutes,’ his inner monologue sasses back to him. You’re running out of new material, you used that one about 12 hours ago, I'm sure of it.’ He had to have. He knew it. He’d used up all the classics by now, ‘only ‘til dawn, only to sunset, once the moon is up, and of course, only ‘til dawn again. But they all knew the truth. Relief wasn’t coming. They had known as soon as Bostra had returned from the Captain’s tent.
The Captain… He had taken ‘the gentlemen’s exit’ as they called it in royal courts. Pfft. Hung himself in shame because he couldn’t stand to tell this banner they’d been sent this way to die.
“You will rally at the banks of the river, blue banner.” Keesmon had said at muster, back when they all still had shiny undented armor. “You are to be the Anvil. A small anvil I know, but a mighty and fierce one. The yellow and green banners will join you from the flanks, and then the Red Hammer will crash down the hill and we will earn our victory in second when they shatter. Fleeing and crying for mercy!” They’d all cheered. Even he thought it was a good plan as he re-seated his helmet and fell into rank.
“Joence! Fire over, crack their teeth.” Bostra barks at the Orc, pointing to what remains of their cart. ‘Maybe that will buy us time to think of a way out.’ he thinks.
But that had never been the plan, had it? No, we were no glorious anvil, just the bait on the hook. Keesmon had decided that Tactics meant it didn’t matter if a whole banner died as long as you got what you were after. Bastard.
Next to him, Blanksmin, started whispering under his breath, and Bostra chimed in, coaxing the big man up to full volume.
“Berry bushes, peaceful meadow,
Bring me home to my bedlow.
Carry the grass, the trees and mountain
We wash in the steam above the fountain”
The soldiery was picking it up now,
“Come on down and come on home,
We sing for the honor of the lome!”
The voices rang out loud now as they sang the old familiar verses, hope giving the strength,
“Berry Bushes and pe-eaceful dew,
We sang for our home, the great Nibiru!”
Blanksmin grinned at the other, started the extremely unofficial soldiers verse,
“Berry bushes and cheap red liquor,
Give me a peek, up your knickers,”
They all laughed and sang, as they pushed back palace logs,
“A bath in a bucket or a bath in the sink
Pull your silk and let me taste your-”
Blanksmin screams as his face disappears. The iron shaft coming from his face was a hopeless joke. And the punch line was the palisade catching fire.
“FALL FALL, GRAB THE BASKETS AND FALL TO THE ROCKS! KEEP THE PLAN AND KEEP YOUR WITS!”
Now pointing at a dazed young tiefling as she backed away from the burning logs. “GRAB MILLY-” there was no one there, they were taking his orders and going for the trapped boulders on the long hill. With a curse, he yanked the young woman’s horns, “Listen to me or I’ll crack your fucking horns myself, RUN girl, RUN!”
She snapped out of it but it was too late, and the blue bar arrow cut her neck as she turned to him, the fire in her red eyes going out. As her skin hardened to stone.
* * * * *
Bostra awoke with a start and a guttural curse. He sat up on the edge of the little bench and dribbled water on his face from the water bag. The cool refreshing water brought him back to the monet and sat there in the dark. Then he lifted back the padded canvas cuff of his shirt and stared at the brand there. Seven leaves on a vine burned into him from the spells on that bracelet. Even through the stale taste of sleep, he could feel those old bitter leaves on his tongue. He sighed and stretched. He laid his head back, staring up and trying to coax himself back to sleep. It wouldn’t be any good though, he knew that all too well. He remembered that next week. Week, eleven days, maybe twelve, does it matter?
They blew the rocks down just as they’d planned the day before, each of them scurrying up the mountain and pulling the fuse caps that Milly had made. The boulders had crushed most the upcoming hoard but only the file and and none of the rank. All those days, guerrilla-fighting on the west slope. Ducking out of cover and taking potshots at the leaders. Leaving coded sign, not knowing if any of the Blue Banner would be left to see it. Sleeping in badger holes and knocking over goats for food.
How many were left on the top of the hill? The four of them. Bostra, Joence, Khaki and Brey. Did Khaki die before or after that thing with the wizard? When she ended the fight for good. He couldn’t remember. Those last few hours were a blur, just colors and shapes and emotions.
And then the end the next day. When that self righteous wizard had ‘explained’ it all. He’d thrown his chair at her. Right there in the officer's tent. When no one else stood up with him, he resigned there on the spot. He spat on the Berry Circle, picked up a shovel and tended to the dead. ‘Ours’ and ‘Theirs’ alike. A hole for each one, and maybe, just maybe some peace and calm under the dirt.
Bostra fell back asleep with a wall of tears on his eyelids, then a twitch of a smile when he remembered that wizard’s face, right before the chair hit her…
