1293 Dread Guard

By punishment I’ve been assigned to serve a Mistress which has been taken as a prisoner ten years ago, during the conquest on Zaria. Her husband, which name haven’t traveled from mouth to mouth with admiration and awe like of the other warlords, was spending his time in barracks with common soldiers where he gambled and drank. That kind of behavior didn’t suit well the commander who had right to wear fur on his cape. He would visit her only when battle qualms tortured him, and usually he have left her in bruises and tears. He has two sons with her, and three beautiful daughters for which I was ordered to  follow decisively through gardens and take them in long cruises on water, where battle galley were anchored.

They glared at the city walls and boats braided in ropes while I watched over them with a pride. I felt sorry for the Mistress which had to suffer brutality of her husband for the sake of the children she had with him, but, alas, that wasn’t any of my business. If she would have came forward to me with a complaint, it would be my grand pleasure to slay that savage man and relieve her from this misery, and then I would proudly walk in court to defend myself with the Protectors code, bestowed on to me to serve and protect my Mistress.

That Zarian daughter spent her time locked up in a room where just few people visited her. I remember, once I have barged in on her, and found her in a foreign dance of daggers, where at first I thought she was performing a ritual suicide, but then I figured that was some Zarian custom, similar to belly-dancing. She even thought her daughters of this guided fluttering moves, resembling those of the bird’s wings fighting the wind. Smile was always present on her when around kids, despite deformities made by ungrateful husband upon tanned face. I was on sight when kids were involved, so my friends often ridiculed me, calling me a woman, because I have dedicated myself seriously to the bodyguard mission. It felt bad, because I was forced to defend my honor, courage and code, but I understood how silly did „Knight of Dresses“, sounded.

At one occasion, Mistress summoned me for a private audience, which almost never happened to a knight, to go at the chambers of a married woman, without husband and servants present. Beside the fact I was determined not to lay with her, I knew how swiftly my head will fall if just one pair of eyes would took my shadow entering. I walked in a room making a gap in a pearled curtain, when I became surrounded by jolly silky strips on a wind, and a balcony view through where a scent of sea was flourishing. She showed me to approach the spacious piece of furniture on which she was sitting and sowing ornaments onto strange suspenders. I set myself near her, more than confused, cause I didn’t knew what to expect.

– Ser Potos. I have heard in a verse that you were under the correction. Does shame bothers you, planted upon heroic shoulders? – She spoke to me in royal manner.

– My dear Mistress. Nor shame, nor weight does my punishment beats on me, and even if it did, what kind of hero would complain? – I replied dubiously.

– „What can a knight, do so badly, to greet such sour faith? “, I wondered, and mind my luck, you have been the most qualified to speak the word. – She steered conversation hiding her intentions, along with calming moves of a lady.

– Bad, was for me to speak the truth. – I answered.

– Does for the truth, a knight pays his tolls? – She asked cramping her eyebrows above what was still a girly face.

– Many have paid their tolls with their own head, my Lady, placing truth in wrong ears. – I responded as noble as I could while rubbing sweaty hands, expecting real question to hit.

– Why haven’t you spoke a lie or chastened you tongue so it won’t fly, rather than lust for glory and gallantry? – She fired upon me like Ildocian ballistas over the Zarian gates, and I grew more suspicious towards her intentions and where this conversation lead.

– Because, my Mistress, lie flies, but truth wins, and to hold my tongue I am untrained to perform, so I made amends with my destiny, to teach others where my path is misleading. – I was thinking how to forge words, when she smiled in please.

– My husband snatched me from Zaria and wed me in the temple of Godlessness, where death masters, but I haven’t turned to change my religion. What is a lie more, my life before, or this one? – She questioned absent gaze while stitching a leather strap.

– My Lady. In your search for lies, you forgot the truth. What is in your hart, is what the truth have left for you to remember her by, when air feels heavy with lies. For life in marriage, I hold no experience, nor destiny have given me one, cause I have been forever chained in Order of Dread Guard. My nature is in combat against my own kin, in honor of Ildok which took me inside its city walls and saved me from a hard life of a miner between the hills ingrown in sun canes. Customs of Gratna, from which I hail, didn’t stuck in my hart, because I was brought in glorified Ildok like a dog-horned calf, therefore I am unqualified to speak of my first life. – I confessed it all to her while she placed leather clothing on her and turned in place, slightly spreading her legs as a warrior.

– Enough Ser Potos. Don’t you understand we are the same? Both of us were dragged here beyond our wishes, and both of us have lived trough the horrors of captivity. I desire only one thing. How loyal are you to my children and me? – She surprised me with sharp tone in voice and a change of style, altering from a lady into a bitch, but she steel was my Mistress, and I had to obey.

– To the death, Mistress. – I replied in deep reverberating voice with a humble bow when she returned her daggers back in holsters.

– Alright then. – she said – , Then help me hide my husbands’ body. – she added, making me turn at her wonderstruck, and she rolled her eyes, – Oh, by the Aramons balls. I had to toughen up, because I was too protected in Zaria. This dog-horn shit thought me of deceit, military tactics, hand to hand combat, although I knew some myself… hence the daggers. You see Ser Potos, my adventurer spirit and ambitions surpass mere pleasure of being a mother, a woman, a slave, a whore to that bufalo-phant. I want much more than that, but they won’t give it to me, therefore I will take what I want by myself… isn’t that an Ildokian way: Army always takes, never gives away? – she spoke self-confidently while dragging late Master by his feet leaving a trail of blood on the ground.

Gradually she began to pierce though the ranks and military hierarchy until she developed new fraction inside Ildok. She climbed to the top with her sexuality and cunning warfare logistic, along with the help from ancient Order of Dread Guard, made from foreigners and for the first time in history from women for which it got heard far across the continent. She even included herself in temple of Godlessness to reinforce her domination and deflect assassination attempts that grew more frequent, where she even won them successfully and started offering death to those that restrained her rule.

She became first Dread Guardess which title and legacy have been constantly stocked by patriotic poems and warnings. Every bloodiest battle took place under her skillful leading hand, where our forces kept winning. She made sure that a good name of the elite Dread Guard remained unstained by foul voices. My punishment turned itself into honor of serving her and her children, which later on took the rule over Ildok through the storm of wars and appointed the new dynasty for many years to stay.


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Bunker X29

They made me run into the bunker. Dirt flew in my eyes making me stumble over the crate, merged with the slippery mud. I have lost my handgun in the deep boot print filled with water. What an ill fortune is to lose the only weapon I had.

A guy with a flamethrower was outside, pouring the heat all over the walls. He yelled something offencive and followed me with a stream of fire. Somehow I reached the corner and found a dark opening, framed with thick concrete. It said X29 above it, where the last number was missing, taken down by our artillery fire.  What is an ordinary messenger boy  doing in the open battlefield? – I wondered, while jamming the metal door. Captain sent me to find our boys and tell them to retreat, because our radio shack was hit by a projectile big as an armoured vehicle.

– They will need something ‘more’ to open this vault. – I thought laughing, proud of myself for delaying my death.

A turn, and there was our grenade, hitting the base of the hill under which the bunker was located. Those artillery asshole smugs have buried me alive! I guess I’ll have to wait for our advance to reach this point and save me, but that can go for days. What am I going to do for all that time?

Someone coughed in silence. I moved slowly aside and saw a man in the corner, leaned against the wall, hiding behind the enormous table in the center of the room. Candle lit his dirty pale face, his bloody uniform and a bag he held so frightened. Pistol was on the table, and I grabbed it in anger, pointed at the wounded enemy and pulled the trigger. Nothing came out from the short barrel, so I kneeled down on his chest and started to hit him madly, grinding my teeth and cursing with every smash that made him spit blood. I threw the pistol and wrapped my arms around his neck. He didn’t even try to defend, he just held the bag in a panic fear like it was some sort of treasure. I couldn’t kill him, not when he was watching me like that, like a puppy calling for the bitch that brought him to this world of piss. I sat on the table and pulled out my cigarettes. I tossed him one, and he placed fire on it.

I gasped, knowing that this symbiosis will probably last for few days. I will kill him when our boys come… if they ever come.



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So I sit here in front of the white screen, looking at the stats, thinking: How should I make my blog grow? What do I write about to draw more attention? I know that sex sells and violence drags people to sit and watch things burn, while drinking cold beer, relaxing in a summer chair, but is that the way I want to make this blog work? My blog is suppose to run in its optimal power just in four day and I haven’t prepared much to treat my follower, so what should I make for them? I have planned to organise some form of party, post few dubstep song, but what if they don’t like it? Will they leave or somehow, they’ll actually enjoy in what I have to offer? Are my stories interesting enough to mass the population on my blog? Why am I thinking so much about this? If I am any good, the success is inevitable, right? I shouldn’t try to push thing too much, it might be too much. What does this “publish” button do?


Troop tree

Here is a little info about my novel Dronstad. Here you can see how are gangs formed and how the troops are being ranked. By a certain number of enemies killed, rank is moved up and also a level of armor. There is also a table provided for better understanding of the relations gangs have among each other. The story follows the young teenager, working as a delivery boy for the gang Black Dragons. His involvement in the war that broke his state rises as he finds out, that he is a key of virus pandemic that started the whole thing. Who will win? Who will take the city? Is there a chance of stopping the virus and ending the war?

Gangs of Dronstad

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Snipers Fate – Meaningless

The air felt heavy with bullets flying over our fortification. Machinegun was buzzing non-stop, searching for targets in a form of heads wearing helmets. Bursts of fire made us stick to the ground and pray for the God of War. A medic ran through the trench, pulling the dead bodies down in the water.

– Leave them there! – a sergeant yelled, – They provide a good cover, you prick! – he said, and it sounded like he was a bigger prick than the young boy that kept pulling parts down.

I looked at him in a swing of a head, then I turned toward my comrade and took a long  stream of smoke, that made Stive cry, entering his eyes, burning his tools he needed to shoot sharp. He held his sniper like a girl and gasped as an old woman. My smirk didn’t brought him joy, just more aggravations and ill look on his face. He waved his arm around to remove smoke and coughed ruff at the elbow. I threw my cigarette buff down his barrel while he wasn’t looking, and laughed quietly at the joke. His cough made him jerk up and stick his riffle in the wet trench mud.

– What? You have problems with a little smoke soldier? – I laughed, but he gave me a face disfigured with despise, – Calm down. We’ll be here for a while. – I said trying to overpower the sounds of a machinegun.

– Fuck this shit. – he said loading the bullet in chamber.

I thought he wanted to become a hero, rise bravely and silence the bursts of fire that mowed down the trench line. He took few sharp breaths and mounted the riffle butt on his shoulder. A small adjustment on the scope, and he was ready for lethal maneuvers. He swinged his riffle few times from left to right to make the shot more automatic and his move fast positioned on the trench wall. He was ready. One more fast inhale and he was at the edge, looking for the basstard.

Click’ – the riffle sounded and it exploded in his face, killing him in the spot.

– Fuck. – I spelled it out, looking at the smoking scorched crater under the helmet, – That was meaningless.



Warriors Hart

Whenever he would drink, he would sit in corner of the room, surrounded with young boy that looked at him and listened to his stories. I have tried to snap him out of it, but that was his way of dealing with the problem. Soon after the second cup, here he was going at it again, talking about patrols in dry desert, digging fortifications, scouting for rebel forces in high rock formations and having laughs with the guys from the company that got annihilated by some wicked force. He had that warriors hart to push him doing this sort of stuff.

– There they were standing on top of the hill, looking at us with their electronic eyes, estimating how to bring us down… – he spoke.

He used a lot of graphic words and always mentioned blood and piss that he was covered in, while fighting the enemy. I have heard of them all, every story he had in his mind, and then when he ran out of all of them, he started to fabric the new ones. He spoke how he saved the whole platoon with a grenade, destroyed an enemy bunker and captured fifty soldiers on his own.

– Could you believe the monsters did? They have send one of our own back to base, covered with metal and wires, like we wouldn’t scan him before fire. We fought intelligent machines, and that is the best they could do? – he shook his head and laughed.

After the tenth cup, his preaching was over. Boys would turn towards the girls and start laughing at the old fart, sleeping in the corner. Music didn’t bother him that much. Most of the time he didn’t hear anything.

– Could you believe this guy? How can he lie so much? Isn’t he ashamed when we figure out he is talking shit? – boys spoke pass me, consumed with laughter.

They didn’t knew what is like to see him in his bad dream, moonwalking and searching for cover, fearing that enemy is close. They didn’t knew him like I did. My father never could accept his ill fate. He could never understand that he was an ordinary soldier in a lost war. He always thought of himself as a hero, a legend, someone who fought the enemy while everybody was heading for the hills.

I waited for an hour and then I picked him up and took him home. His face was twitching and eyes rolled beneath the blinds, seeing horrors he relived every day. I guess every ordinary soldier has one of these dreams.