Villamkard

Never tried to combine sci-fi and fantasy before, so thought I'd have a go. This is for Michelle Garrett, who likes sci-fi and fantasy, and beats me up when I doubt myself

*****

I am Gyozhetelen. I am a mercenary. I fight for whoever has the most money. Pay me enough, and I’m your man. I like killing people, and getting paid to do it is a bonus. I have never lost a man-to-man fight, nor suffered defeat on the wrong side of a battle. Men say I’m invincible. I am feared wherever I appear. Seasoned troops soil themselves at the sight of my shield, the black one with the lightning bolt of inlaid silver. I owe allegiance to no man. I fight under my own symbol, the lightning bolt, and I fight for money, and only money.

I’m paid handsomely. Gold, silver, precious stones, furs, fine food, exotic wines, I have them all. Rich and powerful women, Queens and Princesses and Ladies, fight amongst themselves to pleasure me. They hope to give birth to a great warrior.

Today, I am a champion for the Child King. His kingdom of Orulet is threatened by barbarians from the East, and his army is weakened. His Councillors summoned me. I am to fight the champion of the barbarians, one on one. If I win, the barbarians subjugate themselves to a life of slavery. Their women will become playthings for the men of Orulet, their children sold as servants and tied men. Their crops and cattle and treasures will be forfeit. If I lose, things will go badly for the Boy King, and the people of Orulet. I won’t lose. And I will become even richer.

The barbarian champion is Megvadult. Like me he has never been beaten. A fearsome opponent. But I have Villamkard, and he does not. Villamkard is my sword. Men believe it has been forged by the Gods of the Otherworld, that it is charmed, and they say that when I strike, a bolt of lightning from the Otherworld leaps out of Villamkard and kills the man before the blade slices his head clean off his shoulders. Superstitious nonsense, of course.

My page has helped me to prepare, to don my battlegear. An iron helmet, with a crest of a lightning bolt carved from obsidian, iron cheek plates in the shape of a lightning bolt, and a heavy leather and mail drape at the back to protect my neck. A linen shirt, then a heavy leather jerkin, scaleplate armour, and a black bearskin cloak that can defeat a swordstroke as well as any shield. Black woollen trews, leather greaves inlaid with iron strips to protect my legs, short black leather boots with more protective iron strips in them. Rings forged from the weapons of men I have defeated, and a heavy gauntlet protect my left hand. My right hand is free of gloves or adornment, to allow me to grip Villamkard.

Megvadult faces me in the middle of the ring of howling, jeering soldiers. Pennants stream in the wind, smoke from peat fires swirls, occasional flurries of snow. Megvadult is huge, long black hair braided into plaits that reach the small of his back. A heavy black beard, full of grease and forgotten food, soaked in mead and the mandrake he uses to prepare himself for battle. He stinks. I can smell him ten yards away, with the wind behind me.

I simply wait. Then Megvadult charges, his sword protruding from under his shield, hoping to rush me off my feet. I use his drunkenness and size to my advantage, sidestep, and bring Villamkard down in a vicious blow. Megvadult almost stops in his tracks, half turns in confusion, and his head falls to the ground a few seconds before his huge, stinking carcass, blood pumping high from the severed neck and steaming in the cold air. A huge cheer goes up from the men of Orulet. The kingdom of the Child King is safe, and rich, and powerful again.

I return to my tent, change out of my blood-spattered armour, and check the power pack in Villamkard. Not much charge left to power the Taser in the blade. Not that it matters. I’m going back to my own time in only a few hours. With all the riches I’ll be taking back to the future, I can pay off the loan I took out for this well earned holiday. I might even be able to afford to come back next year. I’d like that. I just love killing people.