Issorm: Seven Days Before the Snow

The door swung open to the empty hut, and Issorm stumbled inside, then quickly turned around and pushed his body up against it, holding it closed. His hair was long and knotted, and it hung down around his shoulders. He wore a shirt of thick leather, which was ripped and cut here and there, and stained with fresh blood in places. His legs were covered with material in much the same condition, and around his waist hung a belt that looked like it could hold many instruments of travel and battle. But it was empty now. He had a wide, unshaven face, but a look of fear or desperation pervaded his eyes. He sucked in air over and over, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Finally, he left the door, and tried to peer through a crack in the wood around a window. Sunlight streamed in, but he couldn't see anything. He turned away quickly, his hair whipping around, and began looking around the room. The hut was a small wooden house with one room and no furniture. There were piles of discarded pieces of wood and trash, which he began quickly sifting through.

"A weapon. I need a weapon. I need a weapon..." He kept repeating to himself, while continually looking out the window. Finally, he picked up a long steel rod. It was about three feet long and had good weight. He had no idea about its original purpose, but he picked it up and gave it a practice swing around the room. "This is good." He said as he held it firmly in both of his hands.

The only thing that he could see outside was other huts, and some of the tall brush that grew everywhere in this desert. But he could hear the shouting of the Plainsmen. He didn't understand their language, but he knew that they must be looking for him. His men had struck at dawn, having traveled for two days straight to mount a surprise attack. They had estimated there to be about ten Plainsmen living here, and they had attacked with thirty strong men. With the advantage of surprise, they had been able to strike down about half of the Plainsmen, but the remaining five had scattered around their huts and taken down his men one by one, until he could see no more of his own men.

Issorm wasn't sure if he was able to run into the hut unseen, but he hoped he had. He was peeking around to look out for remaining Plainsman, but hoping to see one of his own warriors. He knew the Plainsmen were only human, but no one would know it in a battle against one of them. Especially when they outnumber their opponent, which it would seem they did at the moment. He couldn't be sure, but he had to assume that he was the only one alive. No one was coming to rescue him here.

The Plainsmen didn't fight with any weapons. The blows of their fists were like a battering ram, and their kicks were like the attacks of a beast. It seemed as though their attacks landed before they actually did, and lightning eminated from their fingers upon the impact. But when Issorm had struck one down with a sword, he fell limp to the ground like anyone else.

Finally, almost at the same time, he saw both of the things he was looking for. There were two of the Plainsmen walking from hut to hut peeking in windows and stepping softly on the sandy ground. But he also spotted one of his own with his back up against the wall of one of the huts. Issorm knew that he didn't stand a chance, especially because, as he likely didn't know, there were two Plainsmen coming up around his corner. One on one, the Plainsmen had an advantage, but it wasn't an impossible fight; however, one against two was an impossible fight for a single man.

He watched. He couldn't do anything to help. If he stepped out, they would kill him for sure. At least if he got a good strike in and surprised them, then Issorm could jump out behind them. He could see them clearly now. The Plainsmen wore red and blue robes, and a strap that hung around their shoulders as a pack to carry things. They were dark in complexion, and most of them kept their heads shaved. Their feet moved through the cold morning sand coming around the corner, the two of them walking near each other, their legs crouched as they walked, ready for an attack.

As they rounded the corner, Issorm clenching the steel rod in one hand and the door ready to swing open with the other. His warrior lunged forward with a clean jab that drove directly through one of the Plainsmen's chest before he could turn. Red, mortal blood covered the tip of the metal that showed through his chest, but the other's lightning reflexes had him ducking and then pouncing toward him in an instant, knocking him backward and out of view.

At this, Issorm flung the door open and charged at the Plainsman.