Morning at the Outpost

An anecdote of war

Photographer; Ralf Ziegler, via Wikimedia, used under Creative Commons License

Vulso leaned in the doorway of the sentry-house and looked out over the little yard. He was still waking up. The early sun poked through the trees and mists. Vulso squinted against it. He yawned.

There was never much to see here in the yard; Garro, the most junior watchman, was sitting by the cookfire and gave a nod to his commander. Behind the young man was the chest-height palisade that surrounded the watchtower these men called home. Beyond the fence: a ditch, a dirt road, the hill’s downslope, and then trees. Trees and more trees.

Not that the view from up in the tower was much better, Vulso knew. The endless, rolling sea of foliage that this outpost watched over had long since lost its beauty, and Vulso was sick of it. Damned frontier duty. Another boring day in another boring province.

This outpost was a dead-end assignment, but at least this squad of legionaries was better company than most. Vulso had known a lot of soldiers in his time, and this was a decent group of lads. Hearty drinkers. Enthusiastic gamblers. Clever boys.

True to form, Garro stood up and brought Vulso a warm cup of spiced and vinegaring wine. Just the thing to chase away sleep and fool a tired man into welcoming the dawn.

“I’m starting to see why you shave your head, sir,” said the younger soldier.

“Mm?”

“Now that it’s growing in,” Garro couldn’t hold back a grin, “I can see how much you’re balding.”

“I ought to flog you, Garro.”

The guardsman just chuckled. “Somehow, I can’t imagine you doing that, sir.”

“Piss off,” said Vulso, but he was smiling over his steaming cup as Garro walked back to the cookfire. Vulso took a good sip. The truth was that the squad had been getting a bit loose the last few months. No action. No movement. Not even a rumor of anything worth investigating down in the barbarian villages.

Still, there was a job to do.

“You should be wearing your mail, soldier.”

“Ach, I’ll get to it, sir,” Garro replied. “Maybe that’s why you groan so much in the morning, sir. You’re always wearing that armor and your old bones can’t take it anymore.” Vulso only grunted back. Another boring day. Nothing to pass the time but jabs and jokes.

The officer watched the sun come up fully now. In time, he saw a figure come up the road from the east. It was a youth clad in green, with feathery bundles bobbing and swaying from his belt.

“Breakfast,” Vulso called to Garro. The younger guardsman looked over his shoulder and saw the figure coming toward them.

“Looks like Sarek’s got a good haul for us.”

“Take care of it.” Vulso pulled one of the emperor’s gold coins out of his purse and tossed it to Garro.

Garro caught it, stood, strapped his sword-belt over his tunic: a well-worn routine. Only when the legionary was already at the palisade’s gate did Darcos, the lookout on duty high above them, notice the hunter coming down the road and ring his little alert bell. Vulso called up to the watchtower’s platform and told the sentry to stop it. The rest of the squad was still sleeping in their bunks in the the tower; no sense in waking everyone over the little poacher-boy. Darcos had probably been asleep up there himself…

Vulso watched from his perch in the doorway. The day was getting lighter now, the mists retreating into the woodline.

Garro opened the gate of the palisade. Sarek, the hunter, took a few steps into the yard. There was a quiet conversation. A duck was offered. The guardsman pointed. More words. Two fowls and a rabbit came off Sarek’s belt, into the legionary’s fist, something else passed between the two men.

A soft sound came from the guardsman, a breath that was trying to come in and out at the same time.

He bent double, stumbled back, fell.

Vulso looked over his cup and saw—just were Garro’s back had been a moment ago—a blade in Sarek’s fist, sunlight shining off wet metal.

“Gods-on-Mount!” Vulso spat.

The officer was already charging forward, dropping the cup, reaching for his blade, feeling the warm of his wine splashing against his calf, pounding his feet against the earth, throwing his weight forward towards the terrified face of the young man who for months on end did nothing but bring game and scrounge coin. The murderer. The traitor. The heathen half-bastard barbarian turncoat stinking turd.

Sarek disappeared from the gateway.

Vulso reached it, hurtled out, saw the boy sprinting away, green hood flying in his wind. He rushed after him. There were no words in the veteran’s shout, just anger and the morning-stink of vinegar breath.

There were hisses overhead. Vulso could hear thunks somewhere around him; doubtless the bolts of from the sentry’s crossbow.

The hunter was nearly at the treeline.

Sarek disappeared around a huge trunk—Vulso was a few steps behind—another man appeared from behind it. Taller than the hunter. Bigger. A helmet. A spear. Vulso tried to stop himself. The enemy lunged. Vulso raised his blade but it wasn’t enough. The spearpoint slammed into his sternum.

He had his mail, but no layer of armor could stop the sheer force of flesh meeting metal.

Pain engulfed him.

In the next moment there was nothing for Vulso except the fiery agony in his chest and a desperate fight for air. His eyes tried to find his foe but only saw blurry clouds and the fading light of the stars. Some of those stars swam about his vision and circled in his skull. He was on his back. He caught a breath, a singular moment of relief, and tried to look up from the ground.

There was no comfort in the sight. The agony had been but a second. The enemy was still there before him, at his feet, and now the brute stabbed between Vulso’s exposed legs, below the armor. Vulso felt the blade tear open his thigh.

A new agony began, taking breath and blood, clouding vision and thought.

Somewhere behind the screaming, somewhere buried beneath the shock and panic, somewhere deep in the wordless mind of the man, Vulso braced himself for death. There was no weapon in his hands. They were reaching for his leg in a last futility. There was no defense. His armor was already broken and subverted. There was no help. The bell, ringing just a moment ago in announcement of the hunter’s wares, was now silent in the face of danger.

No fatal blow came.

Footfalls pounded by him.

There was shouting in the gross language of the barbarians.

Then silence.

Vulso could feel warmth and wetness covering his loins, pouring through his fingers. He could not bear to look. He stared again at the gray sky. He gritted his teeth. He rolled over.

Now on his stomach, his craned his head up to see the watchtower.

Men were rushing through the palisade’s gate. He saw them in rushes of greens and browns and glinting blades. They went in through the door of the sentry-house at the base of the watchtower. One. Two. Three. Four. Five enemies.

Vulso looked up at the platform, where Darcos should have been ringing the bell. But there was no one there. He did, however, notice a few bolts sticking out the woodwork. One was lodged in the underside of the ceiling, another three—at least—in the wall. Vulso guessed that Darcos, or what remained of him, was lying behind that rampart.

There was shouting from within the sentry-house. It didn’t last long.

Nonetheless, it was quite some time before the attackers made their way out of the watchtower again. Five men came out. When they finally made their way back towards the woods, they found Vulso propped against the base of the huge tree. He sat in a pool of blood that had already saturated the ground around the ancient roots. He still breathed.

The man was pale. The preceding moments—three minutes? Perhaps five?—had transformed into the final chapter of the veteran’s life. So haggard did he seem then, it was as if some deep law of the world’s making demanded that his body endure the hardships of age and decrepitude even if he should die so prematurely. It had been mere minutes, but he seemed a score of years older than middle-age.

One of the barbarians spoke to him.

The legionary opened his eye, but gave no sign of understanding.

Sarek came forth, the hunter. He knew the soldiers’ tongue.

“Are they dead?” came Vulso’s labored voice.

“Yes,” said Sarek.

“Are you going to burn it?”

“The watchtower? No. We will not give warning to your comrades.”

“It was a good home,” Vulso whispered. He coughed. He tried to swallow, but found he could not.

“This is our home,” Sarek said. “Not yours. You and your lot never should have come here.”

“Spare me your words. Please,” Vulso gave another cough. He clenched his jaw and then said through his teeth: “Please. My sword.”

Sarek leaned down, lifted the weapon from where it had fallen in the dirt, and placed it on the soldier’s chest. Vulso’s hand twitched at his side, but Sarek lifted this too from the dirt and put it over the hilt of the blade. Vulso’s fingers were dead weight.

Sarek looked up into the face of the old veteran, but he was dead.

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Thanks for reading.

Normally, I don’t like to give too much context to my work before I deliver it to you. That’s why I try to start all my short stories straight away at the top of the post. No premable. No apologies. Straight into the story.

But this time I want to make one caveat, now that you’ve read. I wrote this over the course of about two hours, a bit in the morning, then a sprint in the evening, just before I posted it. I normally spend way, WAY longer on a piece. But this is what I’d consider “flash fiction,” even if it’s not quite bite-sized. So if there are typos, problems, issues, inconsistencies… that’s why.

If you want something else depressing with world-weary vibes, check out my short story “For Want of Safe Harbor.”

If you instead want cheering up, then check out

Marco.D.Blanco

’s delightful animations for his equally-delightful characters. I contributed a small piece of music to his ongoing project, The Magic Lantern, and it sure brought a smile to my face. It’ll do the same for you.

And if you just want more action, then also check out what is still my most popular story, “One Head As Tribute.”

I hope you all have a better week than Vulso. (sorry if that’s not saying much, but I hope you know I wish you the best).