Excerpt: Lázár The Lonesome Huszar (Short Story)

The summer-sun scorched the skin of a lonesome Huszar riding across the Sahara of Hungary; passing dunes and sand-suffocated corpses. The Huszar grasped his left rib, stretching the remaining green-garments, as the fabric flapped onto his exposed wounds—blistering and bungling, shaping the blood’s voyage. 

The Hun’s head shifted towards the screaming sandstorm, slithering closer and closer, consuming all.

“Damn you to hell! Sand Witch! Mark my words, you'll pay in blood!” 

With a crooked smile the sand erupted encompassing The Hun, blasting him off his steed, scattering his helm, blade and bow. The sand consumed the equipment, then the living, slowing layering upon skin and silk. 

A voice shot through the sand, circling The Hun, “I was willing to let you run. To flee like the coward you are. Letting your officer’s honor rot!”  A figure of a maidan pierces through the sand, dawning tan drapery and a youthful appearance. “But sadly. You claim to take my blood.” 

Sand started to swirl around The Hun, creating a tornado around him. The Sand Witch’s face punctured the sand, unveiling her horse-like hair and fair skin. Wrinkles split her face as she wears a grin, squinting at the Huszar. 

“But Mr, Officer Huszar, I’ll be merciful, and allow you to eat your words and beg for your life.”

The Hun wiped off the sand from his eyes, stash, and mouth. He erected, strode up to The Witch; staring into her grave eyes, he said “I will take back what I said, and as the Officer of the 13th Huszar Scout, I speak for Zoltan, Miklóa, Zsigmond, Laszlo, Attila, and the rest.” The Hun paused, clenching and releasing his fists. “And!” He sprung forward clutching the fiend’s head, bashing her skull against his knee, “For each of my mens’ blood you spilled, I’ll drain from your body! And then once I’m done, only then you’ll die by my blade!” The Hun pulls The Witch’s hair back to eye level, scoffing at her bloodied mug “Look’s like I’ve got a good start.”

The Witch began to chuckle. The Hun planted his hairy fist into her jaw, knocking out teeth. The Witch’s chuckles transformed into laughter. The sand rushed towards The Hun, consuming him and his sight. He punched The Witch again, planting his fist firming into a sand figure. 

“I was really going to grant you freedom, but with that manly fit, death is too sweet of an option for you. So hark me now Hun!” Sand shot from the figure burrowing itself deep into The Hun’s lungs, “I shall place a curse upon you! A curse of death, where if you don’t kill a man every morrow, you’ll die in his stead.”  The Witch chuckled again, swirling around the sand casting her incantation.

The sand consuming the Huszar, he tried to cough it up, trying every option to remove and halt any sand in his lungs. It was futile, the sand weaseled its way into his lungs filling them entirely, overflowing out of his mouth. Once full The Witch halted her incantation; the sand glowed purple–absorbing into The Hun.

The sandstorm slowly dissipated, along with The Witch’s figure. The Witch spoke and with each word got softer and softer “So ol’ noble Huszar what shall it be, killing an innocent man everyday to enact your revenge? Oh! How many lives you’ll take to find me, is truly romantic!”  The Witch’s voice was now but a whispering wind, “So what shall it be Hun!”

The sand fully set, unmasking the dusk sky. The Hun noticed the sky, and rushed around searching for his steed. He ran to his horse, checked its pulse, hopped on its back, and rode southwest—ignoring the saddle suffocating in the sand alongside his weapons.

The horse strode into a forest, The sun barely peeking over the horizon, illuminating the path between forest's alleys. The Hun drooped over his horse, his flesh dulled to a decaying hue, with purple veins bulging—like ivy spreading ‘neath his skin, slithering its way to his eyes. Hun’s purple eyes, spotted hooves prints—newly embedded—diverging away. The Hun heeled his horse, sparking a sprint track-wards. 

The horse carried onwards trampling upon every speck of foliage in its path, till it reached a camp, filled with sleeping horses, and men. The Hun slipped off the horse, crashing on his back, then crawled towards the men. There were ten men sleeping in little makeshift tents of leaves and fabric, all huddled around the dead campfire. The Huszar pulled himself up into a hunchback stance, with one hand on his knee keeping him upright. He wobbled towards the campfire’s edge where a stack of crescent scimitar laid. He picked up a saber dazzled in gems and gold. Using the saber as a cane, The Hun walked up to a slumbering soldier. Removed the sheath, Under-griped the blade, rose it high. Halted, staring at the man below. A man with a dark Turkish complexion, dawning a great stash, chain and steel. A dagger was belted on his side. Sleeping unworried, untaint, unprovoked, innocent. 

The Hun hands began to shake, swaying the saber above the Turk’s head. The Hun coughed up sand, as the veins bulged more and more, and his knees buckled, collapsing The Hun to the floor along with the saber. The Hun collapsed. His vision disappeared. His breathing came close to a halt.  

Moments later The Hun awakens, regaining his vision and a normal complexion. The Hun surveyed his location: slumbering turks. The Turk next to him, sullied in blood. The saber split the Turk’s skull in two, hitting the small black target in the eye, vertically separating the upper right sector from the rest of the skull. The Hun rose, escaping the pool of turk blood–soiling his garments.

The Huszar ripped out the saber, sling blood about. Grabbed the dagger, strapping it to his side. Then peels off the Turkish armor: plates, mail, and helm; with a few rattle of mail—blending with the clinking of an armored footfall. An axe swung smashing into the Turkish helm in The Hun hands, deflecting it leftwards. The Turk—stood merely a foot away—claded in: mail and plates across his chest and limbs. The only exposed flesh was his neck and face—which a helm partially covered.

 The Hun ripped the dagger out of its sleeve, driving it towards the Turk’s neck. The Turk dodged, making the dagger only nick his neck. Reverse gripping, The Turk swung up his axe skywards, stripping mail, leaving the Hun’s chest bare. The Hun jerked a couple feet back, regaining his footing and drew his saber.

Stepped forth The Turk swung. The trajectory caught the Huszar’s saber, hooking ‘neath the axe’s bottom swoop. Jerking the axe skywards, The Huszar pulled the Turk closer, opening him up. The Hun unhooked his saber, slashing at the Turk at the wrist, severing his axe hand. The axe nicked the dirt, and his head followed. 

The Hun sheathed his blade, then stripped the armor off the corpses. The Huszar’s eyes fell upon the slumbering camp, noticing the war-fitted Turks and their freshly stained blood. The Hun gifted the Turks' armour with a fresh coat of Turkish blood. A few of which put up a meager struggle but without a weapon their end was nigh. The Hun explored the other equipment, clue-searching. In a tent he stumbled upon a map of the Kingdom of Hungary with a multitude of arrows emerging from the Ottoman-Empire’s newly seized nation: Serbia, pointing into Hungary with the small town Kalocsa circled. With another arrow pushing forth, where The Hun stood.

The Huszar fidgeted with his stash, “You Damned Turks! You got all cocky because you won the battle of Belgrade and Mohács! It took you seventy years to claim Belgrade! And, Kalocsa ain’t going to be the next edition of your greedy empire!” The Hun shoved the map into his breast plate and exited the tent, scrounging around for more equipment.

The Huszar dawned new garments, mail, chest plate, scimitar, dagger, and recurved bow and a quiver of arrows belted to his waist. His steed also dawned some new mail and saddle. All of which had its classic Turkish embellishment of gold accents upon a sand-yellow fabric. The Hun hopped on his steed and rode off southwest towards Kalocsa. Leaving the Turkish camp consumed by flames.

Among the bushes and foliage of the forest a scimitar thrusted into a Turkish throat. The corpse’s flung into foliage as the Huszar emerged in his stead, overviewing a quaint village–That was adequately sectioned farmland and living quarters. The yellowing crops circled the town, tramped back into the ground by hooves and fallen corpses—of men and horses. The closer the crops got to the houses the more and more decayed and destroyed they are. While some houses stood untouched others turned to soot—caking onto other structures, horses, corpses, and turks. The vestiges of carnage still remained; bleeding outwards from the city’s heart—desicrating the land. The only thing untainted by the turks was the town’s chapel which loomed over all the chaos and carnage.

The Hun reentered the forest. Then exited with his steed, sprinting straight towards the town’s heart passing by severed Hungarian and Ottoman corpses. A couple of Turks were scattered about, looting the spoils, and collecting the corpses for disposal. The Hun nodded at each passing Turk; none minded the Hun dawning ottoman garbs.  

Entering the town’s dying heart, a swarm of Turks rushed by; one of them spoke to the Hun and waved him on. The Hun, not speaking Turkish, followed the crowd with his steed. The swarm held a score of turks and a huszar in a Turkish-guise. The Hun hung towards the back of the masses with one hand hovering near his saber, anticipating an attack.

 They approached a vendor market, surrounded by small wooden stalls smashed, burned, and flipped. With every stall standing or flipped, seated many a turks; as the rest, stood about creating a circle. Chatter and prattle filled the masses, drowning the footfall of decadent soldiers and horses, shutting the soldiers up. The Turks all removed their helms to the walking figures—the Hun mimicked them. The figures were cladded in heavy steel and chain, surrounding a figure dawning a crimson coat and golden turban. His white beard shifted and spoke to his men, riling them up. 

The Noble Turk placed one hand on his golden pala-scimitar—consumed by engraving and intricate gems. The Noble waved at the men following him. A row of heavily-cladded men strode into the center of the crowd, yanking a chain hoisting a line of disheveled huns. Two huns per one turk. The huns were all bruised maidens, their clothes: ripped rags. The huns were yelling “No!” “Stop!” or they cursed the turks; anything longer was flooded by Turkish prattle. At the sight of the huns, the Huszar’s eyes flared, shooting his hand to his blade. But if he pulled his saber out, he wouldn’t escape alive. 

The Noble Turk thrusted his pala into the air, its aggressive curved shot skywards, splitting the sun with its sharp edge. He shouted and mocked, putting on a show, enticing cheers. He pointed at a hun duo, their guard pulled them closer to the Noble. He hopped off his horse, and chopped off the first head with a single slash. The second’s head was severed vertically. The Huszar gritted his teeth, wanted to scream, to curse them, but he had a guise to play. The Huszar turned away from the execution, angling his horse away. The Huszar rode off, with the Noble in earshot shouting “Let the Hun blood run!”

The Huszar rode a couple blocks down, where a house stood of stone looming a bit over the other buildings. Equipping a bow and quiver, The Hun climbed the stone. Once in position the Hun spotted a few more women turned-corpses. He drew his bow crowd-ward, marked his target, and fired. The arrow didn’t fly straight, but hitting its mark nonetheless; pricing that Noble Turk’s temple. The Noble’s corpse fell with The Hun grinning ear-to-ear. The Turks flushed to cover, the ones on the booths used it for cover. Others ran to the alley and streets. The heavy armored turks dropped the chains and drew their scimitars, scanning for the assassin. The rest were either in shock or tried to bring back the dead. The women ran to cover, dodging any men who tried to attack. The attackers who tried to attack the ladies, were swiftly gifted an arrow. 

The women fled into the streets and alleys. Two dozen turks littered the centre. The scores alive, pinpointed the Huszar. The Huszar continued firing upon any Turk in sight, depleting his arrows to a half dozen. 

The Hun drew another arrow, eyeing a heavily-cladded Turk in tan; who’s waving his hand and shaking his head at the other turks. The Tan Turk vaulted over his booth, charging towards the Hun. The Hun drew the bow to its climax, gaining power to penetrate the armour. The arrow flew piercing the Tan Turk’s helm. Another arrow whistled, planting itself into The Hun’s shoulder.  The Hun dropped to the roof, gazing at the plaza, the Turks were advancing and the archer provided cover. One of the Turks ran past The Tan Turk’s body, fleeing the battlefield through the alley. As the coward got past the tipped booth, a scimitar gleamed and danced, decapitating the coward. 

The scimitar planted itself into the soil, hoisting up its wielder, The Tan Turk. An arrow protruded from his helm, puncturing his left eye through the top of his brow. The Turk unclipped his mail veil. He then broke off the protruding arrow to remove his helm. The arrow traveled through his brow, eye, and the tip poked out of his cheek. The Tan Turk felt the tip of the arrow, pinched it, and stripped it out. His hand was coated in blood, holding the foot long arrow, unlogged. With all that pain converting to commands and threats towards the other turks re-energized them. He walked over to the turk he slain, ripped up his garments, patching his wounds with a wrap covering the left of his head.

Arrows still flew over the Hun’s head, narrowly missing. But every few moments there was a gap in the cover fire. There was five archers, scattered about—all differing distances. And with every gap he dwindled the archers one by one. By the time he killed the last archer, the turks were only about a block and a half away. The Huszar had his last arrow drawn, pointing it at the One-Eyed Turk again, and fired. The arrow flew straight towards his head again. It’s path was met by steel, severing it in two.  The Turk looked up at The Hun, with a crooked grin ordering his subordinates to close in on The Hun. The turks charged towards The Hun’s hideout.

Discarding his bow and quiver, The Hun  ran and leapt to the roof of the adjacent house. Upon impact he plummeted through the straw roof and rotting wood; crashing on top of a dining table. He rolled off the table spotting the back window. Getting up, The Hun fled through the window, breaking the shudders in the process. Upon exiting turks were shouting, The Hun looked back seeing three turks flanking from the rear. They were mildly armored, brandishing their sabers. They rushed The Hun, drawing his saber The Hun waited for their attacks. 

The turks attacked in a v-formation. The first began to swing his scimitar round his head converting to a horizontal slash; as soon as The Turk passed the swing’s climax, The Hun threw his dagger. The first turk jerked out of the way, barely missing him. But the dagger continued to its target, the second turk’s gullet. The First Turk head jolted towards his fallen comrade, only to be gutted by The Hun. The last turk bolted away, trying to escape. The Hun knelt down to the First Turk, picked up his sword, and speared it to the Fleeing Turk, punching his calf. The Turk was whaling, cursing, and praying simultaneously, still trying to escape, crawling inch by inch, hearing the footfall creeping faster than he could crawl. The footfall arrived. The Turk spun on his back, staring into the dull eyes of his killer. He drew his dagger trying to keep The Hun away. The scimitar split the air, then The Turk’s skull. The Huszar removed his blade and took the turk’s dagger, before fleeing into the alleys.