Merdraut

   It had started raining. Again. That's all it seemed to do in this godsforsaken place. He could hear it, pattering maddeningly against the sodden canvas, a ceaseless tattoo that pounded inside his head and threatened to drive out all rationality. Medraut pulled himself from his bunk, lifted a moulding flap of his tent and poked his head out, looking around in disgust and taking a deep breath.

   "Ugh. This entire place smells like a shitheap." He laughed and spat on the ground.

   In all fairness, this wasn't entirely inaccurate. The army had been camped out here for days now, and it wasn't made up of the kind of men for whom 'military discipline' or even 'basic hygiene' were ever big motivating factors. Tents sprouted haphazardly from the ground like particularly noxious mushrooms, a metaphor made particularly apt by the fact that, by and large, they were erected on a great churned-up mess of mud and manure. Not all of it was from the long-since-butchered cattle, either. This thrice-damned rain had long since flooded out the middens. Everywhere Medraut looked, surly roughnecks were clutching their spears and swords and growling at each other, wading about shin-deep in their own shit. Oh gods, it was so wonderful, he could just die laughing.

   Medraut took another deep, satisfied breath and turned back into his tent. He glanced at the mess in his bunk. Ah well, he was growing bored of this one anyway. Pity how none of them seemed to really last. He reached for his tunic, buttoned it up, and strapped on his sword belt. The blade slapped naked against his thigh, reassuring and heavy. He laid a hand on the pommel and felt that familiar - almost orgasmic - rush of energy. Thus enlivened, he turned from the gurgling, bleeding figure on the bunk and strode out into his camp.

   He strode along through the rain and nodded amicably to all the sellswords and thugs around him. Some shrank from his path. Funny, really, the camp had seemed so crowded just moments ago, but wherever he went there was a clear, broad avenue in front of him. Men who could punch out draft-horses scattered before their slight leader. They'd all heard the stories, some of them had been unlucky enough to have witnessed them first-hand. His eyes, too, they whispered to each other... there was something wrong with his eyes. And for whatever reason, though no-one would dare meet his gaze, none could help but stare at the sword that swung unsheathed at his hip. 

   Medraut grabbed at one unfortunate who was a little too slow in getting out of the way. "Ah, Moreg!" He threw a friendly arm around his shoulder, and Moreg - who was built like an ox and was rumoured to have killed his own father for fucking his mother - felt the blood drain right out of him.

   "A-aye m'lord?" Moreg gulped and prayed his legs wouldn't give out.

   "A small favour." Medraut pinned the man down with a sincere grin. He was always grinning, like the world had told the best-ever joke and only he had gotten it. There was a distant rumble of thunder. "I've been a bit naughty, you see, and I've left my tent in a bit of a state. You know how it goes. I'm going to need you-" he patted Moreg on the shoulder, and the man choked on a low groan, "to make sure it's all nicely done up when I get back." 

   He stared at Moreg. The smile was still there, but oh gods and spirits, those eyes. Moreg couldn't help but notice, too, that the other hand was resting on the sword-hilt. He closed his eyes and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was shaking.

   "Good man!" Medraut gave Moreg a clap on the back that damn near stopped his heart. "I'll be back before long. I shouldn't dawdle, if I was you." He strode on without looking back, and stifled the urge to scream with laughter at the sound of a grown man stumbling, slipping in the rain, and falling face-first into crap. 

   And now Medraut was alone, standing in the plain outside of the camp with the rain driving down around him, soaking his hair, running over his face, down his back. He had his sword gripped tightly in his hand. He wasn't smiling.

   The moors were an utterly forsaken place. Just like the rest of the surrounding country, really. Gods and spirits, what the hell was there here that was worth anything? Grass and lichen and great big fucking rocks. There was nothing around for miles, and when you finally did reach something, it wasn't much. How could you make so much out of so little? It was offensive. It was disgusting. It was boring. 

   Oh, it had once been great. A great kingdom, a light in the darkness, a real paradise. Justice and nobility and chivalry, and all of it gone to hell now. Medraut allowed himself a little smirk. He had seen to that.

   Now it was a lot of nothing, just another shitheap, just another windblown rain-soaked midden in the middle of a land that even the Romans had given up as a bad job. How bad did something have to be for those pious fuckwits to abandon it?
   And somewhere out there, probably not too far out, he was there. Him, with his perfect wife and his perfect god - him, in his sin and his hypocrisy and his utterly tedious holier-than-thou attitude. And now he had an army all of his own, a lovely collection of shiny knights and toy soldiers. Merdraut stared into the rain. They were out there, somewhere not too far away, cowering under this angry sky. And before much longer he was going to march all his shiny knights and toy soldiers up to Merdraut's rabble, and the two of them were going to duke it out - to the death, hopefully - all for this godsforsaken had-been-a-kingdom. 

   Ah, but that was it, wasn't it? This country might be desolately, insultingly boring; it might be a pathetic discard of the old Empire; but that was all beside the point. It wasn't Merdraut's. It was that other bastard's. His. He was the one who had built that something out of this nothing, all those years ago. The hubris! The sheer pious arrogance! And so long as this land was his, it was the most precious thing of all. Merdraut didn't give a beggar's ass about anything beyond that. He had long ago decided that he would do anything - he would laugh as the whole fucking world burned down around them - so long as he got to make sure that he got to watch his precious kingdom burn too.

   The storm was almost on them, now. Lightning crashed down on the moors. Merdraut grinned wildly, slashed his sword upwards, and screamed defiance as an answering bolt stabbed into the sky. Take that, you bastard. Take that, you fucking god of his. 

   Raindrops sizzled and danced along the flat of the blade as he thrust it back into his belt. Merdraut let out a long, manic laugh, spat against the rain, and stalked back to the camp.