Original Submissions by Zoltan of type 'Stories'

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  Biography of a Bynner: "Join the Byn!"
  Added on Jan 22, 2011

  A scrawny teen begins his journey towards his ultimate destiny and it only costs him three hundred coins!

  ---

      It was evening and the Gladiator and the Gaj was beginning to really fill up. The barkeep Vennant taciturnly poured booze as dusty patrons slapped obsidian coins onto the bar. The air smelled of vomit and poor decisions, but the pungency had yet to reach its nighttime zenith. The tavern was stuffed with a slapdash selection of old and battered tables. In one corner was a broad stone one carved in the shape of a coiled dragon, and at it two men were holding a conversation.

      “So if you agree to those terms and rules, cough up the three small, kid,” drawled the one in a brown aba. He was an ugly, scarred up hunk of a man with greasy black hair and a mustache. He lounged comfortably in his chair despite being coated with heavy chitin and leather armor, and adorned with heavy blades and dangerous-looking daggers. The left breast of his aba bore a hand-sized purple dragon patch, matching the design on the table. The studded leather armor on his arms had the same insignia on the right sleeve and two black bars on the left.

  “I agree,” impatiently muttered the other man, a short, thin-limbed youth with long, stringy brown hair. He produced a bulging sack of coins from beneath his cloak and pushed it across the table.

      “I agree, sir. Or Sergeant Streen, Sarge, or Ender of Lives and Fucker of Mothers,” corrected the mustachioed man as he weighed the sack of coins in one gauntleted hand. “Welcome to the T'zai Byn, runt.”

      The younger man bristled and Streen casually ignored him, tucking the coins into his pack. They both rose and Streen led the way to the exit. He batted aside the threadbare tarp that served as a door and then they were out on the dusty street. The foot traffic was still thick even so late in the day. The setting sun was bloated and crimson-colored, silhouetting the massive dragon statue at the end of the road. Streen took a right, putting the sun at his back. He shouldered his way through the crowds, avoiding pockets of black-clad militiamen and the occasional wagon drawn by enormous lizards. The youth followed in his wake.

      “A kid of your stature is probably just useful as fodder, but you dug up that three small after all,” Streen called back, “Maybe you think you're actually serious. Either way, I don't take kindly to lazy freeloaders, so I better get some real fucking work out of you.”

      The sergeant's off-hand barbs stuck in the teenager. He was sixteen and filled with frustration and stunted, confused pride. He was constantly the butt of jokes due to his scrawniness and height. His own family never took him seriously, and he was utterly eclipsed by the military successes of his older siblings. His folks just laughed when he stormed off to join the T'zai Byn, the largest mercenary company in the Known World. Their laughter still rang in his ears and infuriated him, and now there was this pompous sergeant to suffer. He kept his brooding silence.

      They stepped out into a vast plaza, Meleth's Circle. It was choked with masses of travelers and beggars. The center was dominated by a temple to the Highlord Tektolnes, and it housed the primary source of water for the citizens of Allanak. Piles of corpses - fresh ones as well as desiccated husks – were strewn near its doors, baking in the heat. The air stank of death; it was the heart of the city. Streen motioned the kid to the left and they circled the temple.

      “Learn this route well, Runner Runt. A real Bynner can walk it true while sloshed. In a night darker than Drov's armpit. With the skies as sandy as... eh, a really sandy thing.”

      “I told you, my name is Raul,” the kid growled in the most menacing tone he could muster. “Sir,” he added grudgingly after a glare from Streen.

      Streen smiled viciously. “You're name's whatever-the-fuck I decide it is, Runner. You better learn some respect now before you have to learn it from the lash.

      “Now let's say we go on and enjoy a companionable silence for the rest of the trip,” Streen concluded flatly. There was no more talk.

      They left Meleth's Circle and cut across the expansive bazaar. Before long they were on a street heading due north off of the better-maintained Merchant's Road. It was called Warriors' Way, and the traffic was markedly less than most other places. The lawless slums of the Labyrinth weren't far off. Suffering and despair taste something like what the winds sent roiling down the road at the Byn sergeant and his recruit. Their destination was just short of that gloomy, miserable pile of squalor. The gates of the T'zai Byn Mercenary Company's headquarters stood before them. In the detachment of guards posted there, Raul had never before seen such a convincing display of utterly disinterested malice. It was very impressive.

      “Fresh meat!” Streen bawled laconically as he took Raul's shoulder and hurried him up to the gate. A guard pulled it open and then they were in. Raul's skin tingled as he took in the stone walls that flanked the path. It was only upon entering the gates that it truly felt real to him. He knew that his new life would be dirty and dangerous, but it was his life. And his family wouldn't see a damn coin from him. As Streen lead him through the drill yard into the compound's mess hall, Raul could already feel the frustrations of living at home dissipating.

      “Wait here,” Streen said, “get some stew or whatever. I'll get you your uniform and sparring weapons. Speaking of which, what sort of weapons are you planning on using?”

      Raul hadn't really thought of that. He just looked at what Streen had strapped to him and said “A sword. I mean, two of them.”

      “True Nakki style, right?” said Streen with a smirk, and he left. Raul looked around from where he stood near the entrance. He garnered a few disinterested glances from mercenaries hunched over their bowls of stew. There were a couple of elves sitting together and they each offered him a slow, malign smile. It made Raul uncomfortable. He hadn't had to be around too many elves before, but he heard stories and knew to keep an eye on his possessions. Suddenly, Raul was elbowed heavily in the back and nearly sent sprawling.

      “Get the fuck out of my way, meat,” a husky feminine voice growled behind him. Raul caught himself on a nearby stone table. He brushed his stringy hair out of his face just in time to watch the owner of the voice pound past. She was human, tall and muscular. Her coal black hair was short and utilitarian. She bore the two black stripes of a Byn sergeant as well as scars that said she had been with the company for years. Her black, beady eyes were further darkened by the incredible scowl she briefly directed at him. He didn't get much more of a look before he received a gratuitous shove from a dwarven Bynner trailing her.

      “Krath, that breed's whining was priceless, Sarge,” the dwarf laughed, not even looking at Raul. “Just blubbering 'Oooh, am I gonna die, Sarge, am I?'” he quoted, screwing his broad, hairless face up with mock pain and sadness.

      “Yeah, yeah, real hilarious,” the sergeant woman said tiredly. She was handed a bowl of stew by a cook.

      The squat dwarf barked a laugh like stone cracking. “He had three gith arrows in the chest, what did he think was gonna happen? And did you see that other runner start crying? The humie? I bet she was kanking that no good half-elf! Can you believe that, Sarge?”

      “There's no accounting for taste, Trooper,” she said, heavily dropping onto a bench at a table.

      “Disgusting, sir, just disgusting,” and the dwarf joined her.

      Moments later, Streen arrived with a brown bundle in his arms. “Here's your shit,” he declared to Raul and dumped the bundle on him. “Wear that aba at all times. And try to wear it with some pride, runt. The patch sewn on near the shoulder there puts you in my unit, the Black Jakhals.”

      The patch was a black,stylized and snarling reptilian creature on a stone gray background. Raul passed his thumb over it before unrolling the bundle and barely catching the crude bone swords concealed within.

      “You're clumsier than fingerless dwarf on Tho,” chided Streen. “You'd better keep good track of those things, because those are the only sparring sticks you're going to get from me. If you lose them, I'm taking some flesh from your back. Now get that aba on nice and proper. There's one more thing to do.”

      Raul slipped the practice blades into his belt and quickly threw on the aba. It smelled like shit and it had a ragged, old blood-spattered tear in it. Clearly, he wasn't the first runner to have worn it.

      Streen stood up straighter and planted his right fist against his breast. “This here is the Byn salute. If you see a sergeant like myself, or one of our officers in black, you better pound out one of these real quick. Got it? Give it a shot.”

      Raul squared his shoulders and wordlessly emulated his sergeant. The thudding of his fist on his chest echoed the internal sealing away of his old doubts. He was in. It was only a matter of time and patience before he would outshine his militiaman brother and Tor Scorpion sister. Not that it would matter anyway, because he knew that he would never seek out his family ever again. He was his own man.

      “I guess that works,” Streen sighed. “Anyway, welcome to the Byn.”

      He scanned the tables and caught sight of the female sergeant and the dwarf. He motioned for Raul to join him as he strode up to their table. “You may as well start meeting some of the other Bynners in the warband, Runner.”

      The woman and dwarf ceased their conversation as Streen stopped before them with his hands on his hips. “Against my better judgment, I scooped up this kid out of the Gaj,” and he indicated Raul with his thumb. “Say hi to Runner Runt, guys.”

      “It's Raul,” he protested quietly with a scowl. The dwarf snorted. The woman smirked broadly and wiggled her fingers at Raul in greeting.

      “This here's Sergeant Talia,” Streen went on with a grand gesture towards the woman, “of the Limp-Dicked Jozhals unit. Get used to her ugly mug, because you're going to be seeing a lot of it.”

      “Sergeant Dipshit meant 'of the Screaming Hawks,' but he's always been easily confused,” Talia said to Raul before narrowing her eyes at Streen. “You better start getting it right before I make you eat that goofy mustache.”

      Streen laughed and wiped a finger under his nose. “Fucking true love, kids. Anyway. Runt, explore the compound and then get yourself some sleep. Training begins tomorrow.”

  
  

      Raul saluted the sergeants and wandered out into the darkening drill yard. He found his way to the barracks after some exploration and picked out a cot as far from everyone else as he could find. He was just stowing his scant belongings under it when a couple of men approached him.

      “That's my cot, new guy,” one growled at him. The second man, clearly the first's lackey, stood by with vile, pent-up excitement. Raul knew trouble when he saw it.

      “Fine,” he muttered and gathered up his pack. When he began to rise, he was shoved down. Raul loosed a surprised grunt and glared up at the first man.

      “Show some respect, new guy.”

      “You tell him, Mal,” laughed the lackey.

      “Shut up,” Mal shot back. The other man obeyed promptly. “Now where were we?”

      “The part where I tell you to fuck yourself sideways,” Raul couldn't stop himself from saying.

      “What did you say?” Mal demanded, his gravelly voice carrying a threat. He was much older and larger than Raul, who was beginning to regret his words.

      “I said... I said that I'm sorry I'm on your cot,” he replied and hated himself. “I'll just get out of your way.” He rose and was shoved right back down again.

      “It's too late for that. What kind of shit is that, talking like a tough guy and then running off like a jozhal?”

      “Yeah!” the lackey butted in, raising a fist. “Ain't room for cowards in the Byn.”

      “Just leave me alone,” Raul said coldly, his eyes frantically scanning the room for any possible supporters. There were none in the oblivious groups of chatting mercenaries.

      “Maybe after you apologize for being such a fucking wuss, you runty little shitstain,” Mal spat down at him.

      Something snapped in Raul then. The Byn seemed like his only chance to rise above being stepped on by everyone who entered his life, and there he was fitting into the same patterns all over again. He paid no mind to the fact that the frenzy he was entering was just playing to his antagonists' desires. There was no more time for reflection or feeling sorry for himself, and from that moment onward there wouldn't be much of either for a long time.

      Raul moved as fast as he could, trying to get his feet under him even as he drove a fist into the lackey's groin. The man fell, clutching his crotch and gasping for breath. Mal was on Raul the next instant, knocking him down and driving his face into the dirty floor with a fierce blow. Raul strained as hard as he could to try and wrestle Mal to the side and gain the advantage, but the older man was too strong. Raul raked at his opponent's eyeballs in desperation. His arm was almost casually brushed aside and then pinned under Mal's grip. He straddled Raul and started pounding him methodically in the face with his free hand. The beat down was beginning to draw some spectators, and the hall echoed with laughs and goading cheers.

      A murderous fury barely kept Raul conscious, but it wasn't going to hold back the darkness for long. He reached out frantically around on the floor with his free hand even as his head rebounded again and again off of the ground. His groping fingertips found a hunk of stone partially shaped into the form of a kank that some amateur crafter had abandoned. Loosing an inarticulate scream of rage, he smashed the thing against Mal's skull with a sickening thud, immediately losing his grip on it.

      Mal fell to the side without a sound. Raul tried to get up, but he only managed to lurch along the floor a few inches, laying on his side. His eyes just wouldn't focus and his strength was failing him. Mal's lackey had gathered himself, and he didn't bother looking to his friend before savagely kicking Raul in the side, rolling him onto his back.

      “You bastard!” he snarled at Raul, slipping an obsidian dagger out of his belt and raising it above his head.

      “What the fuck is going on in here?!” a voice thundered, leaving the hall silent in its wake. Everyone turned to observe a very pissed-off looking Sergeant Streen. He strode towards the combatants.

      “Runner, put that gith-sticker away before I bury it in you,” he growled. Mal's buddy complied immediately.

      “This new guy up and tried to kill Mal!” he stammered, pointing at the bleeding and half-conscious Raul.

      “Yeah, I'm sure that's exactly what happened,” Streen snapped sarcastically after taking stock of the scene. “Drag these two over to Sergeant Sawbones. And there had better be peace in here for the rest of the night, or I swear on Tek's wrinkled nutsack that I'll be breaking some bones.”

      Streen glared at the mercenaries in the barracks and they promptly dispersed. Raul and Mal were soon laid out on blood-stained cots before a peg-legged, bored-looking medic.

      “I need these two to be able to at least hold a sparring blade tomorrow,” said Streen.

      “These boys are hardly scratched,” the medic answered with a smirk, casually prodding Mal's battered skull with a finger.

      Streen merely grunted in response, and made his way up the stairs to the upper levels of the barracks. “Dipshit runners,” he muttered to himself.

      It was evening and the Gladiator and

  the Gaj was beginning to really fill up. The barkeep Vennant

  taciturnly poured booze as dusty patrons slapped obsidian coins onto

  the bar. The air smelled of vomit and poor decisions, but the

  pungency had yet to reach its nighttime zenith. The tavern...

  
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