Kit Ulf

So, was inspired by this post on Bluesky.

and decided to write a bit of flash fiction for it, but with the character limitation on Bluesky, I didn't want to spam the feed with a thread. So gonna do a little link juggling to share this bit of writing. GO SUPPORT THE OG ARTIST! ((Story Start))

Iacopo's grip tightened on the spear as he stood in line. The young rat had barely reached 18 and was conscripted into the Marchlander levies. Scouts had mentioned seeing and army marching through Jarnvald territories, and they were the first line of defense for the Principalities. As a Marchlander, he was raised on stories of the heroes to fought against the Jarnvalder raiders. In the stories the raiders weilded magics, and could even transform into monsters, but the Marchlander heroes were always brave and clever, able to outsmart their foes. While he was excited to be marked as one of these heroes, there was a hint of trepidation in the young rats voice.

"Do you think the Jarnvalders can really turn into monsters on the battlefield?"

"What, you believe in those Whisp-stories?" scoffed Merceau, a somewhat portly rat from Iacopo's village five years his senior. "It's just illusions. Strange powders their heretic-priests concoct from the strange fungi and mosses that grow in that gods forsaken land. Hah, Next, you'll be believing the Witchblades are real."

"Witchblades are real." an older hare named Bardle said, shooting a glare at Merceau, which looked intimidating with the scar that cut diagonally across the hare’s muzzle. "They don't turn into monsters, but magic is very much a part of the Jarnvalder way of life, in peace and war. But magic is a science that can be studied, and The Principalities have their own magics too.” The hare put a large handpaw on Iacopo’s shoulder. “That armor you’re wearing is commissioned especially by the Marquese herself." He rapped on the Iacopo's cuirass with a paw. "Each plate is made with a small portion of starsteel blessed by priests themselves. It should protect you from the worst of the spells."

"That makes me feel a bit better." Iacopo said.

"Superstitious nonsense." Merceau muttered, "Your just trying to keep us from getting scared. Magic ain't real, not like the steel at the end of my spear."

As Merceau scoffed there was a sound, a far off crash like thunder. “What was that?” Iacopo said. “Thunder?” “Can’t be.” Merceau said, “Not a cloud in the sky.” Bardle’s nose twitched. “There is something on the wind… I can’t place it.” The three of them sniffed. “Sulfur?” Iacopo said, “Like those sky-flowers that the village sometimes get for Princes’ Day?” Bardle’s eyes widened. “Cordite! But that’s not possible. The Jarnvalder’s don’t have cordite.” Another thunderous clap echoed through the trees. There was a crash, and the beasts found themselves tossed in the air. When Iacopo righted himself he saw a strange thing. Troops bearing an insignia from a land he didn’t recognize, but they were most certainly not Jarnvalders. They were armed with something that looked like shortened polearms with wooden handles. He couldn’t see much before they held their weapons aloft. A smaller series of cracks erupted as white smoke billowed out. There was a whizzing sound as something Struck Merceau. The older rat was knocked down from the force. Iacopo ran to his aid. Lodged in the wound was a sling stone, about the size of a marble. How did a sling stone get in the wound? The advancing army raised their weapons again. Another volley of explosions. And a few other soldiers fell. Iacopo realized that the armies weapons were hurling these stones as fast as lightning bolts at their armies. This wasn’t war… this was slaughter. Their line had broken, he wanted to run, but without the order to retreat, he could be tried and convicted of desertion. At best, he would be exiled, and at worst, executed. But holding the line was an impossible task as well. Whoever this army was, they could sling stones harder and faster than their shields and spears could hold up against. The young rat cried out in maddening fear. He sat down, and took off his helmet, and waited. He wished he was back home on the farm. He wished he was a hero in his stories who could fight against all the monsters of the Jarnvald. At least the whisp-stories made sense.