Modus Operandi (590 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.94 on 22 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by orph (View user info) at 2007-08-23 10:01:15 EDT
He picked up the stick; it felt weighty in his hand. A grunt behind him pulled his short-attention span around to focus on his companion, who pointed, and began to rock on the balls of his feet. Gesticulating again, he jumped up and down, grunting a mangled stream of noises.
The deer-like creatures had begun to descend from the crest of the hills. They could not hear or smell the hunters from their hiding place downwind, which was just as well, as the stink from their bodies was nauseating, and their drooling hunger was almost emanating a presence of its own.
He tightened his grip on the stick, took aim, and threw. It struck the second creature in the foreleg - a snapping noise indicated a break, along with the animal stumbling to a kicking scrambling heap in the gully. The hunters sprung from the underbrush, and descended on the maimed beast. Three quick strokes with the heavy branch put a stop to the movement.
His companion knelt down over the carcass, and began tearing through the pelt and skin to get at the sweet red flesh and succulent yellow fat beneath. He looked at the back of his companions head, and realised there was a way that he could have more, and a full belly for longer.
He rescued the stick from the ground where it had fell, and smashed it down, and again; his companion's blood mingled with that of the kill. It made no difference to him, both tasted the same.
*
The sharpened sliver of flint seemed made to fit neatly onto the wooden shaft. He carefully sanded the join with a rough stone he kept in his skin-pouch, and fixed the flint-blade in place with thin leather strips tied tightly.
He twirled the spear around his body, marvelling at the whistling the blade made as it cut the air. The time was now.
He walked to the front of his rival's tent, and yelled his name. The flap opened, and the old man walked out, eyes squinting under the bright sun. A brief look of surprise rose in his eyes as he inspected the new weapon, the blade caught some of the light, reflecting and blinking as it moved. No matter, he thought, I've fought many before today; one more, no matter what he wields, will be no different.
Blood flew in a spray as the flint-blade again found its mark, inflicting yet another brutal wound. His assailant bore a few bruises from him, but he knew he was dying. The spear struck again, straight through his defences, the sharpened blade piercing his chest. As he fell, to the shouts of the victor, he wondered what twisted mind had thought to construct such a weapon.
The spear-bearer entered his new home; his new mate and child bowed, heads on the ground. He kicked the female towards the bed of furs. With a flick of his wrist, he ended the line of the old chief.
*
Steam rose from the trough in the forge. Water hissed and spat as the red glowing metal turned to a dull grey beneath the surface. He drew it out, and began to add the finishing touches, wrapping the leather handle and polishing the blade. The sword was beautiful, made via the new method that the soldiers had brought back from the green isle to the west.
The tang and pommel provided the perfect balance to the blade as he hefted it from his left to right hand. He slashed and swung. It seemed to cut through the early morning mist that rolled in off the ocean. He had done it, finally.
As he sheathed it in the soft lambs-wool cover, he saw movement amidst the fog that hung above the beach, obscuring the water. Brightly coloured sails flashed through the grey, followed by five longboats silently sliding onto the white sand - the village was under attack!
He ran from the forge into the village centre and scrambled up the wooden tower to ring the alarm bell. Damn Alrik! Drunk again! He kicked the sodden watchman, and pulled hard on the bell-rope, shouting for the people to wake and arm themselves. He broke into a run again, shrugging on his leather jerkin as he made his way back to the beach - the new sword would be blooded today.
The raiders had no discipline, running amok in ones and twos from the beach head. He decapitated the first, and took the arm of the second with his first strike. The blood ran off the blade like water, unable to find purchase on the shiny, perfect surface. He clove into the oncoming mass of the enemy, wielding the sword left to right, cutting a swathe through the men that were trying to take all he had.
He lost his footing in the sandy, blood-soaked mud that had formed around him. He slipped, and tried to steady himself with the sword, but it was wrenched from his grasp.
The sword was a fickle servant, protesting not, as the bloody-faced raider slipped the cruel point of steel between his ribs.
*
It looked familiar, yet alien at the same time. It was far heavier than his yew bow, and why was it mounted horizontally on the stock? The Venetians brought these with them when the king had hired the mercenaries. They called it a 'cross-bow' which, he guessed, it was.
They had been in camp for three days now, awaiting the supply train to catch up with the main column. In the hills above, the Turks occupied strong positions looking down over the invaders. He'd spent last night looking up at their camp fires and trying to block his ears to their heathen music and singing.
He'd woken early, partly due to the Turkish drums, and partly to investigate and catch a look at the last of the army arriving. The king had gathered together a cross-section of Christianity in an attempt to flush the un-believers out of Europe once and for all. Glittering knights in armour, mounted on their vicious horses, and from all corners of the west had answered the call. Just like him. He was a part of the yeoman divisions from the northern isle, skilled with a bow, feared when with an axe.
He wound the strange contraption, noticing the tightening of the wire, as the bow contracted. The tension was incredible, and he imagined the power that would spit the bolt out and through even the thickest armour. He aimed and fired at the target that had been set up the day before for the longbowmen to practise with.
Disappointingly, the bolt fell short. It was powerful to be sure, but lacked range. My job's safe for now he thought, smiling as he loaded another bolt. He heard a yell behind him, in a language he didn't know, and immediately dropped the crossbow - he knew he shouldn't be here, let alone messing with another man's weapon.
The bow hit the ground, setting off the trigger. He looked down, and noticed the head of the bolt protruding from his chest.
*
Takeda Katsuyori wept. His tears fell onto the sweaty neck of his horse, then dropped and mingled with the mud on the battlefield.
Battlefield!? This was no battle, only a slaughter. Father, I have failed, and lost all that you built.
The powerful Takeda cavalry had charged again and again; magnificent and valiant, true samurai. All were cut down by the un-armoured, rag-wearing ronin, using the barbarian weapons. All died; each one a petal that made up the flower of his failure.
He'd been too proud, too blind to his own incompetence, believing he would be a great man as his father had been before him. He knew the enemy had the 'guns' as the filthy Dutch called them, but regarded them as nothing more than another foreign corruption. True samurai would never use such things. Unfortunately, other true samurai thought otherwise.
As he watched his army disintegrate in front of him, he felt each and every lead ball steal the life from his men, leaving a patchwork of noble warriors lying in the muck, without the names of their foes ringing in their ears as it should have been. Cut down like wheat by peasants with guns instead of scythes. There was no honour in dying this way.
That would not happen to him. He slid off the horse and unwrapped his clothing to form a mat on the soaking earth. He made both cuts - across the belly, and up the chest, before passing out. His trusted page took his head with one slash.
*
The sandbags formed the perfect barrier at the lip of the foxhole. The tripod mounted machine gun leant back, praising the morning sky, whilst he boiled water in the old tin pot for some morning soup.
The front had been stable for a month or so, no movement from either side. It had given him, and the other platoon members, time to kit out their section, hence the soup and sandbags.
A low rumbling; he felt it reverberate through his body, and shook the heating water. He grabbed the machine gun, and trained it out into no man's land.
The noise grew to a mechanical roar as a metal beast lurched over a trench and knocked aside the broken trees and wire that was strewn over the ground. He sent out a stream of bullets, expecting to stop the thing in its tracks; and tracks it had. Huge lines of wheels encased in a caterpillar like band that expedited its movement over the uneven land.
The bullets had no effect, pinging miserably off the armoured hide. An ear splitting boom followed by a sharp whistling sound accompanied the smoke from the almighty gun affixed to the roof of the monster.
He came to in the field hospital. Looking down, his legs seemed shorter than before, and covered in stark white bandages. He stretched out for the bell to call someone, yet this was also out of his new reach.
*
He had the range perfect. The captain barked out the final command. He configured the controls and pressed the last button. The green and black screen in front of him indicated a direct hit.
Sixteen miles away, another swam weakly; trying to keep his head above the water, brushing away the corpses of the dead, treading on the sunken shoulders of his friends.
*
The keyboard felt smooth and familiar under his fingers. The program was ready to launch. The president had made the call; his superior had confirmed the order.
He set the launch countdown, and retreated to the elevator that would take them to safety, hidden deep inside the earth.
He wondered what would remain when they came back.
User Reviews
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2007-08-29 12:16:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by DirtyHarry (user info) at 2007-08-23 16:15:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Friggin awesome as always. One thing, though, I didn't like the introduction of the rifle, only becuase it sounded like you just watched the aborted fetus of a movie "The Last Samurai" I would have used Indians or Aztecs or something. But awesome regardless, it's not your fault I watched that atrocious movie.
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Thanks DirtyHarry, but I've had the pleasure of not seeing TLS. I just finished reading Taiko and watching Kagemusha by Kurosawa. The story of the Takeda is tragic, yet interesting.
Submitted by hidden101 (user info) at 2007-08-24 12:29:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2007-08-24 09:36:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Different and enjoyable.
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-08-23 19:30:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by i_can_get_you_a_toe (user info) at 2007-08-23 17:26:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
'He tightened his grip on the stick, '
That made me giggle, which in turn made me realise what an immature idiot i am. so THANKS ALOT for messing with my self esteem. asshole.
Submitted by DirtyHarry (user info) at 2007-08-23 16:15:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Friggin awesome as always. One thing, though, I didn't like the introduction of the rifle, only becuase it sounded like you just watched the aborted fetus of a movie "The Last Samurai" I would have used Indians or Aztecs or something. But awesome regardless, it's not your fault I watched that atrocious movie.
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2007-08-23 15:42:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Gesticulating , for christs sake
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-08-23 15:14:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
really, really, fuckin good
Submitted by SgtHartman (user info) at 2007-08-23 14:08:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
good work
Submitted by Director (user info) at 2007-08-23 12:39:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Zebra (user info) at 2007-08-23 12:05:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2007-08-23 11:35:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well worth the read as always Orph
Submitted by ICO (user info) at 2007-08-23 11:25:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
'All died; each one a petal that made up the flower of his failure. '
Horrendously gay out of context, but I can appreciate it with the theme.
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2007-08-23 11:02:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wonderful
Submitted by CarterPFly (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:58:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
bullseye
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:58:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by shinebox (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:56:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
http://www.ubersite.com/m/98457
PLAGIARIZING FUCKWIT
--------
Fuck off locksly you pathetic fag-obsessed simpleton.
Submitted by azurefroz (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:56:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by shinebox (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:56:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
http://www.ubersite.com/m/98457
PLAGIARIZING FUCKWIT
SHINE FUCKING BOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx
Submitted by creep_firebombing (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:53:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
It felt like you lost steam at the end, but I dig the concept.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZXGdg23Qdk
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:37:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
excellent
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:08:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I love you like a hooker loves crack.
Submitted by SunnyG (user info) at 2007-08-23 10:04:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
awesome, but some parts were a bit wordy and it was difficult to resist the urge to 'skim'.
but well worth the read.