Captivity...

Skali

Skali sprinted for the cover of a shattered wall as fast as his legs could carry him. The sound of battle was all around him. He looked over to his left and saw Lars fall to the ground as his shoulder disintegrated in a shower of blood and plasma. Beyond Lars another trooper, who the fog of battle had rendered anonymous, was felled as his helmet ruptured after a hit from a sniper’s round; brain matter spewing from the ragged exit wound. Skali snapped his head to the front and looked over the wall. He could see hordes of Bohkin all around and suddenly realised that things were not going well. Everywhere he looked, Grymn were falling to the intensity of the incoming fire. Skali snapped off a few rounds from his SMG and was rewarded with two kills. He ducked back into cover, waited for a few seconds and then popped his head up to fire a few more rounds. He didn’t get to pull the trigger.

Skali felt the sharp coldness of water on his face and he choked as it filled his nose and mouth. He spluttered and turned his head to one side, gulping for air. He tried to open his eyes but found that only one would open. He looked around quickly, trying to find out what was going on but his vision was very blurred; he could only make out a few shapes and some movement.

“Prishhonner ish awake!” a voice said. It sounded like it was having difficulty coping with speech, or had some form of dental problem. After the sound of someone sucking teeth, the voice spoke again.

“Prishhonner had nyyche drink? Prishhonner talksh now.”

Skali tried hard to focus and began to get a picture of the speaker. It was a Bohkin; a male Bohkin with beady little eyes, a little button nose and fangs protruding from its mouth; pointing upwards from a jutting lower jaw. It appeared to be smartly dressed in what appeared to be a white doctor’s gown. Skali noticed that he had a small bag with him.

“I wantshh to hear where yooshh from” said the doctor Bohkin.

Skali said nothing.

“I wantshh to hear where yooshh from” repeated the Bohkin.

Skali didn’t say anything but felt a sharp pain in his jaw as something heavy struck him, tipping him over. For the first time he realised that he had been strapped to a chair. He was in such a daze that he hadn’t even thought about moving so it came as a bit of a surprise when he couldn’t arrest his fall and his head struck the floor, making him struggle for consciousness. In moments, the chair had been stood back up and Skali looked into the eyes of the Bohkin again. He felt a dull ache through his jaw and when he tried to tense his muscles he realised that the pain it generated meant that it was broken.

“Shilly chylde” Said the Bohkin “the farshhers mussht be shad that you show shilly”. He reached into his small bag and pulled out a small metal implement. He held it up in front of Skali and said nothing. A moment later Skali felt pain like he never had before. It was so sharp that he had to catch his breath. His fingertips tingled and his legs twitched uncontrollably as fire engulfed his spine. He struggled desperately but could feel the room closing in as his consciousness faded. Just as he was about to pass out, the pain ceased and the room began to return to normal.

“Where yoosh from, shilly chylde?” asked the Bohkin again.

Skali carried on with the silence. He doubted if he could have spoken too much anyway as his jaw was throbbing and his throat was as dry as a desert. He gasped as the pain in his spine returned; this time it was even worse and his arms shook as badly as his legs. Skali drooled uncontrollably as he began to lose control of his senses. He cried out as wave after wave of shearing pain wracked his body and the room started to dim again. Suddenly the pain dimmed as quickly as it had arrived and Skali was brought back to full consciousness with another bucket of water.

“Yoosh very shilly, anshher queshhtion and we shhtop fun”

Skali gazed in the Bohkin’s direction and still said nothing. His head was swimming, his vision was blurred and he was struggling to come to terms with his situation. Without warning, the pain returned and the room went black as Skali finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

Day after day, Skali was shocked awake with water and tortured to unconsciousness. He wasn’t fed very often and was given just enough water to keep him hanging on to life by a mere thread. After a few days, his jaw became infected and along with the throbbing pain came the smell of gangrene. It didn’t stop the Bohkin dragging Skali from his cell, strapping him to a chair and inflicting the scouring pain that he had begun to become accustomed to. Through it all, he said nothing.

Skali lost count of the days he had been in captivity. He knew that he was near to the end of his torment as he was having difficulty breathing and felt the continuous nausea of septicaemia. His vision was blurred and he had become photophobic. He managed an inward, ironic smile as he wondered what sort of state he looked. He was drifting off to dream-world when the door of his cell opened again and he felt the strong grip of two Bohkin as he was dragged off to his chair again. He felt the straps tighten around his wrists and neck again and gazed, bleary eyed, at the Bohkin facing him.

“Yoosh Tired, chylde” said the Bohkin “yoo shay where yoosh from and pain endsh”.

Skali looked at his tormentor. He could feel his own pulse trying to burst from his neck as his heart pounded heavily, in his chest. He could already sense a dimness filling the room and realised that he wasn’t long for the world. He tried to focus and shifted his position so that he could look straight into the Bohkins beady little eyes.

“I am Grymn” he said.

There was a deafening roar as the Bohkin in front of Skali was vapourised in a rush of plasma energy. Chaos erupted as black clad troops burst into the room, killing every Bohkin in sight with the precision of a surgeon. In moments, all was quiet and one of the troops rushed up to Skali and began to release him from the chair. He stopped for a moment and raised his mirrored visor.

“You’re safe now” said the Grymn.

Skali smiled as his vision failed and the room went black.

The sun shone down as brightly today, as it ever had in the past. Standing on the parade ground in front of over a thousand Grymn; in parade order, was captain Torsten. He was dressed in an immaculately presented, white suit of powered armour. On his chest were many medals that were a testament to his martial prowess and bravery. His grey hair was greased flat and his beard was neatly trimmed. Torsten looked up and down the lines of the many Grymn on parade. There wasn’t a single foot out of place or rifle out of position. Every single Grymn was immaculately turned out. They all wore their polished medals and their smartest battledress and Torsten looked upon them with the supreme pride of a parent watching over his children. The parade stood completely immobile and in complete silence.

Torsten cleared his throat and began his speech.

“Today, we have the honour and privilege to celebrate courage beyond the call of duty. Today we stand in the company of giants. What we witness today is a testament to the bravery, martial ability and utter dedication to duty that a Grymn soldier represents. Every one of you should feel nothing but pride as you stand here today”.

The sound of a single trumpet echoed across the parade ground as a party of silver clad Grymn, with high plumed helmets slow-marched onto the square. Their swords were held vertically in an iron grip, their shiny black boots clacked in unison on the concrete under their feet. Between each pair of immaculate guards hovered a casket. On the lid of each casket was laid a helmet and the weapons that the Grymn inside had used while he fought. The first two caskets had twin pistols, the next one had a pulse gun, two more had a pistol and power axe and finally, a few paces further back came a casket with an SMG laid across it.

The casket party solemnly marched towards Torsten and all but the final casket passed in front of him and was set down on a red carpet to the right of him. The Casket with the SMG was set down on a pedestal to Torsten’s left.

“PAAARADE! GENERAL SALUTE...PREEEESENT ARMS!” sounded across the square as the parade officer issued his order.

With incalculable precision the entire parade ground moved in complete unison, presenting their weapon types in a show of respect. The lone trumpet played a short, haunting tune and was silent.

“PAAARADE! ORDER...ARMS!”

Again, the Grymn moved as one and their weapons were brought to order.
Torsten began to speak again.

“Brakki Silvertooth: Order of Bravery...posthumously awarded. Frekki Strongarm: Order of Bravery...posthumously awarded. Gerri Axebearer: Order of Bravery and Star of Valour...posthumously awarded. Anja Firegaze: Star of Valour...posthumously awarded. Olaf Greybeard: Star of Valour...posthumously awarded.” Torsten paused for a moment, turned towards the five caskets, stood to attention and saluted them. He turned towards the parade again and continued.

“Within these five caskets lie the bodies of five warriors. Each one died carrying out their duty to the highest possible standard and with fire in their hearts and bellies. Each one gave their all, for their brothers and sisters who fought beside them and each one made the perfect sacrifice.”

Torsten paused again and slowly walked towards the lone casket. He brought himself to attention and saluted the casket, just as he had done with the other five. He turned to face the parade again and continued his speech.

“Skali Ironfist: Most Beneficent Order of Valour, Iron Cross and medal of leadership...awarded posthumously.”

Torsten steeled himself and continued.

“Among those pillars of valour, there was a giant among Grymn. Not only did trooper Ironfist lead his brothers forward after his platoon and squad leaders had fallen but he also managed to take and hold a critical objective under the most severe onslaught. When the objective was secured, he further advanced into a Bohkin force that heavily outnumbered his unit, providing valuable protection for a pinned platoon and taking a heavy toll of the attackers. He continued to lead his unit valiantly until he succumbed to his wounds and was captured. For seven weeks he endured the humiliation of torture and spoke not a word. Although he was broken of body, his Grymn spirit continued to burn as brightly as a sun. As his rescue was about to begin, his final words were picked up on our monitoring system...I am Grymn.” Torsten stared at the assembled Grymn “No truer words were ever spoken”.

“PAAARADE! PREESENT ARMS!” Bawled the parade officer.

The Grymn snapped through their drill movements in perfect unison. The trumpeter played a general call to arms as the caskets were led away and when they had gone, the parade officer followed up with:

“PAAARADE! ORDER ARMS!”

“March off the officers!”...