Land of Salvania

  Another arrow thudded into Ritter's shield. "That one close," Orok called from the thick tree cover. He knew too well that his orcish mass was an easy target for Yunni archers. "This is all your fault," Ritter growled back. "You like orcs. I like orcs. Why little Yunni hate orcs?" An arrow whistled over Ritter's head and splintered on a pine tree. "Don't worry, Orok is safe." "They are not shooting at you," Ritter said, trying to hide his tender flesh behind his shield. "Hey, little Yunni," Orok called. "You go home and we go home too." "You know we're about to get surrounded," Ritter said. "You need to give it back." "But Orok like it." He patted the small clay figure he found on a stump by the river. It was painted blue. "Looks like mommy." "It's part of their shrine protecting the river," Ritter said. Another arrow landed in front of

  Ulrich the Northman, unencumbered by the heavy armor worn by the cowards around him, waded into the fray, swinging his "borrowed" mace with devastating efficiency. By the gods, it was a new year, and he felt great! He smashed his way through the battling men until he reached within arrowshot of the enemy king. As poorly aimed arrows rained down - none within a sword length - he realized that it might be wise to put something between the king's archers and his tender skin. He turned and brained an enemy knight who had just raised his sword for a killing blow. As the soldier twitched, Ulrich removed his dented breastplate and strapped it on. But, by the time he had sorted out the unfamiliar straps, the battle had moved, and the king had departed with his retinue. Ulrich resolved to stop playing it so safe this year. He tossed off the breastplate with a savage grin. /// Copyright

  He really didn't want to slay the dragon. It was just an animal doing what animals do to survive. When the villagers complained about it killing a few cows every now and then, the duke waved them off. When it wrecked a couple of chicken coops, the castle had no response. But when it emptied its bowels while flying over the duke's archery match - that was too much. The duke's guard was turned out with orders to find and slay the evil beast. And you already know the rest of the story. /// Copyright

  Cantellana had made a huge mistake. He knew it as sure as he knew the morning fog was hiding at least one enemy archer. He thanked the Ancestors that it was not a Yunni archer or he'd be full of new holes by now. Mistakes seemed to be following Cantellana around these days. Was he cursed? First an ambush had scattered his squad, then he lost half his equipment crossing a rain-swollen river.   He really missed his shield now that arrows were flying.  Cantellana knew from too many years on the battlefield that an arrow usually did not kill you quickly. Most times, one landed in your guts and you died slowly with immense pain. Another arrow thudded into the soft soil to his right. He did not recognize the fletching pattern that some used to identify themselves.  Odd how he thought that was important at this moment in time. Another arrow hit a tree a few feet away. The archer was not getting better. Maybe his luck was changing. The fog swirled closer now, and the arrows stoppe

No story today, more AI art.  I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I slapped on the hocus pocus with some digital programs and additional layers. /// Copyright

Before Sir Andrew was knighted by a queen with questionable motives and a taste for Elvenari wine, he was called Sergeant Andrew. And before Sergeant Andrew was promoted on the battlefield after ransoming a king’s foppish son who enjoyed dressing up like a knight, he was called Private Andrew, just another farmer’s son looking for a way to move up in the world. Private Andrew slapped a fly that landed on his arm as he faced the line of Gargs that stretched for a hundred yards. They were about an arrow shot away, so sunburn was the only imminent danger. Andrew was on the left side of the Duke’s line, right next to a bloated Garg corpse covered in green flies. “Steady, boys,” Sergeant Hoyle barked as he walked along the line. “Arrow!” several voices called. Hoyle turned to face the Garg line and lifted his middle finger. As one, the entire squad joined him. The arrow landed well short of Hoyle, and he bellowed with laughter. As one, the entire squad joined him. This had been going o

Sir Andrew entered the deserted town near sunset, hearing only the distant wind and the scrape of his travel-stained sandals on the cobbles. Somewhere, a shutter creaked and slapped a stone sill. Above the arch, someone had painted a black serpent, a warning to future visitors. He imagined one last brave inhabitant slinking back to paint the universal symbol, the sad admission that a dragon had invaded their land, eating cattle and brave defenders, finally tipping the balance of their harsh mountain existence from precarious to impossible. Since starting his long climb into the highlands a week earlier, he had seen more of these empty towns and overgrown fields with scattered bones of cattle. He had noted many fresh graves, their rows of makeshift markers, hurriedly pounded into the ground, some leaning. He had walked over to one and read the scrap of unweathered vellum tacked to a rough-hewn board. "Here lies our beloved Hildana. Rest well, brave shieldmaiden and protector.

Everyone called her Aunt Matilda. Each day, she cooked a cauldron of pottage with peas, carrots, onions, mushrooms, a few nuts, and black kernels of Elvenari rice.  Very rarely, a sliver of meat might appear. Nobody asked where the meat came from. It was hot, and it filled empty bellies. That was all anyone needed to know. She carried it one wooden bowl at a time up the stone stairs running up to the outer wall. She would deliver her food, a kind word, and a pat on the arm to each of the weary soldiers manning the wall. The soldiers would smile and, staring across the once-manicured market grounds toward the forest, eat their pottage in silence. Sometimes, an arrow would come out of the forest and fall short. The soldiers would jeer and call to the invisible enemy to improve their aim. Sometimes the arrows would go long, and the soldiers would call out to the people in the courtyard behind them to watch out. One day, an arrow landed next to Elzalore, splintering on the cobbled lane run