The battle

It's never a good day to die.

Yet, all wars bring death.

As his eyes looked over the battlefield, thoughts of the incoming fight filled his mind. On both sides, he saw scores of men lining up in formation. Many of those standing in that muddy field would soon be dead.

A warrior's mind is never at rest before battle. His thoughts are haunted by the blood and steel to come, the clash of bodies, the stench of death. No one is safe when the killing begins. Yet neither does anyone want to be the one to fall.

Emotions stir. The heart starts pounding. Thoughts creep in. The primal faculties go into overdrive, sharpening every sense.

Tallan Runik was no novice to war. He had stained his sword, and muddied his boots, countless times in the past. That still didn't erase the gutting pain in the stomach he felt before every new confrontation.

"Look at those bastards," he spat, drops of sweat rolling down his cheeks. "They'll be rotting in the mud by nightfall."

He rocked slightly, shifting his weight between his feet, knowing the inevitable was near. His mind was already racing ahead, preparing his body for the coming storm.

Instinct was starting to kick in.

Despite his bold words, something inside him stirred. His fingers tightened and loosened around the hilt of the sword, betraying the tension pulsing through him. His heartbeat echoed the distant war drums, each beat a reminder of the approaching clash.

The whispers of his fellow soldiers buzzed around him, punctuated by shouts of encouragement or final curses. Some muttered desperate prayers, hoping for favor from the gods.

The air hung heavy with the collective anticipation that gripped the entire line. The rustle of chainmail and the creaking leather resonated through the ranks. Tallan glanced down at his armor, touching it, stroking it, seeking comfort in its familiar features. Each touch was meant as a reassurance, a way to ease his mind.

Tallan knew his group was to go first. As infantry armed with swords and shields, they were to probe the enemy defenses. It was a suicide mission. He just hadn't realized it yet.

"They seem motivated," the man next to him whispered, as a collective shout rose from the other side.

Tallan looked at him, but said nothing. He needed to focus. He had been here before. This was nothing new.

The infantryman took a deep breath, the smells of wet grass, sweat, and mud filling his nostrils. The bitter stench of fear lingered beneath it all.

Counting to ten, he held it in. Then he released through the mouth. The slow inhale and exhale served as a way to focus his mind.

As the distant war cries intensified, Tallan's body filled with energy. Rather than frighten him, the other side's shouts centered his attention.

"Focus," he kept telling himself. His eyes zeroed in on the enemy line.

Precious moments kept passing by. Slowly. The anticipation was getting to him. His heartbeat quickened, the steady pace now a frenetic tempo echoing the impending clash. He seemed like a kettle about to burst.

The commander started shouting instructions.

"Men! Get ready!"

The soldiers in the first lines gripped their swords, ready to draw them at command. The moment was near.

"On my command."

Tallan closed his eyes for a bit. This was nothing new, he kept reminding himself.

"Charge!"

The men drew their swords. With a cry of fervor, they launched themselves at the enemy. Their feet trampling through the mud, they ran as fast as they could to cover the distance that separated them from the opposing lines.

The soldiers on the other side set themselves up to catch the onslaught. Lowering their pikes, with their shields on the ground, they formed a defensive barrier that would be hard to cross.

Tallan kept on accelerating as he reached the enemy lines. Displacing an enemy pike using his shield, he ran at the men standing behind the wall of shields.

All around, his fellow soldiers did the same. From the corner of his eyes, he could see as some managed to evade the pikes, while others fell, either shot down by an enemy arrow, or pierced through by an opposing pike. Many tumbled, but more made it through.

He swung his sword at the line of shields in front of him. It bounced off, the force of the recoil unbalancing him. His feet staggered, before he was able to catch himself.

The eyes of the enemy were on him. Their gaze intense and focused. The opponents drew their swords, getting ready to dislodge the menace in their midst.

Tallan briefly glanced back to where he came from. He could see the banners of the kingdom of Akelon unfurled, waving in the wind. The rest of the army was still standing there, waiting for the results of this first wave.

A number of the men launched themselves at the shields. The impact of their bodies forced a few of the defenders to stumble backwards. Men were smashing, they were slashing. Some fell, and got back up.

A short, brown-haired challenger swung his sword at Tallan. With quick reflexes, he managed to parry it with his shield. With even a quicker thrust, Tallan lodged his sword into the enemy's side. His blade found flesh. The enemy crumpled to the ground.

Without stopping, Tallan again barreled forward, mud flying beneath his boots. He rammed his shield against the enemy, trying to find an opening.

Thrust, swing, another thrust. Swords were flying all around. Men were stumbling. Men were falling. Some would get up briefly, only to be struck down again.

On both sides, blood was flowing. While Tallan and his fellows fought as hard as they could, they were pushed back. The defenses were holding. With the first wave in tatters, the horn suddenly sounded, calling for a retreat.

Tallan turned and started running back towards the safety of his lines. Some did the same. Others, could not. They lay on the ground, injured or dead. The enemy decided not to pursue, happy to shoot down the stragglers with their arrows.

As Tallan stumbled across his side's defensive perimeter, he realized only a few of his men made it back. They were the sacrificial lambs, but they served their purpose.

While he stood there, breathing heavy, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"You fought like a lion out there. Not many men have the intense focus and skill you have demonstrated," the man said.

Tallan gave him a blank stare. He didn't catch half the words the man was saying. His mind was elsewhere.

Rather, he took his right hand and wiped off drops of blood from his forehead. He didn't know whether it was his own blood, or someone else's. Frankly, he didn't care.

The infantryman sat down on the ground, but just for a brief moment. Looking across the field, at the bodies of his fallen comrades, and the determined faces of the enemy, he finally grasped what he had gotten himself into.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled.

--

Battleplan

In the distance, General Akus Aktal, the chief commander of the forces of Akelon, stood silently observing the battlefield. His eyes were fixed on the unfolding scene, his mind deep in thought.

Clad in a light battle uniform, the only piece of armor protecting him was a metal breastplate, worn over a loose tunic. With grey hair and deep black circles under his eyes, the general was showing his age.

When it came to experience, there was hardly anyone in the entire kingdom with more of it. Akus Aktal had fought and commanded in every conflict his kings engaged in for the past thirty-five years.

This long service had taken a heavy toll on his body. Aches and pains often confined him to bed for days at a time, yet he cursed each moment of rest. Retirement was a luxury he could not stomach. In his mind, he belonged in the field, leading his troops, not lounging in comfort.

Once again, duty called and he answered.

"Glory to the king and the kingdom," he muttered, the enormity of the task pressing down on his shoulders. It had begun with squabbles over disputed borders, an old feud stirring awake. Now, the forces of Dasmoydan had swept down from the south.

The general had read the reports, knew the truth that no one else would speak aloud. Their forces were stronger, seemingly superior, slowly chipping away at the defenses.

If they broke through today, the roads to the heart of Akelon would be wide open.

"They must be stopped here," Aktal mumbled to himself. "It's do or die."

His heart wanted to believe they would be victorious. His mind kept telling him otherwise.

Hope dies last, he would often say to himself, but strategy is what turns hope into reality.

From history he knew that at times forces facing greater odds had carried the day. The general had always considered himself a humble student of what had gone on before, informing his strategy and tactics. That gave him strength in the face of doubt.

He began pacing the command post set up in the rear of the battlefield, his gaze never straying far from the fight. Spread out all around him was a retinue of officers, each hailing from the most noble houses in the country. They stood in clusters, their hushed voices discreetly discussing the battle plans.

"My general, the first wave of attack has been beaten back," one of the sergeants approached. "We have observed some weak points in their defenses."

The general turned slowly to face him, already knowing what his subordinate was implying.

"This confirms what I thought. Tell the commanders to proceed as planned," replied the general. His eyes went back to observing the battle lines.

His troops were set in four formations. On the right flank, stood the infantry, the first lines already decimated, the rest still in place. They were joined by cavalry units under Flautus, the duke of Oberon. Dressed in battle armor covered by blue and red colored cloths, they were a formidable sight.

On the left flank, stood the combined forces of the duke of Atelbar, and the troops from Tikanmul. The cries of the warriors from Tikanmul could be heard all across the battlefield. Half of them dressed in Akelonian battle armor, the other half in traditional islander warrior gear, they were known for striking fear in the hearts of their enemies.

"Those islanders from Tikanmul are something else, general," said one of the sergeants, while moving in closer to the general. The young man's pinkish face seemed to be glowing. "That fierceness, that power."

"They have trained for this right from the very moment they were born," replied the general, knowing full well what the soldiers from his home island were capable of.

Staring at them, noticing how they glared at the enemy, he recalled how while growing up, he would often go watch their brutal training. It instilled in him enormous respect for the jungle warriors.

His eyes lingered on them for a bit, but then quickly moved onto scanning the rest of the line.

Akus Aktal's gaze zeroed in on the middle. The bulk of the fighters there consisted of mercenaries, reinforced by the Golden Riders of Astal.

Noticing the general looking intently at the center, the sergeant voiced his thoughts.

"The middle assembles the finest fighters of the realm. No other unit in the kingdom of Akelon is as renowned as the Golden Riders of Astal. To their side stand the mercenaries, battle-hardened and tough," said the sergeant.

"Yes, sergeant," replied the general. "This will be the key to the entire battle. What happens here will make or break everything."

Riding up in the back of the formation was Akelon's battlefield commander, general Sanmal. The grizzled veteran was Aktal's eyes and ears in the thick of the action. Akus took a moment to observe his old friend. He could see his fingers were itching with anticipation. The man had proven himself countless times before, and his presence was a reassuring sight.

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Joining the Akelonian warriors in the middle were allied troops from the kingdom of Alpen. Led by their king, Karal the Fifth, their banners flew high. The allied king sat astride his warhorse, his armor gleaming with threads of gold, the trappings of his mount rich with velvet and brocade.

There was something in his bearing, a kind of fury and pride. General Aktal could see that in the way he carried himself. It was apparent the king's eyes were surveying the field, not with distant contemplation, but with the hunger of a man eager to carve his name into the annals of history.

General Aktal, standing beside his own sovereign, the king of Akelon, could not help but glance between the two monarchs. The contrast was striking. It was as though the gods themselves had made them out of different clay.

The king of Akelon, seemed content to watch the battle unfold from the safety of the command post, his presence quiet and somber. Karal of Alpen was different, his blood burned too hot, his hand too eager for the hilt of his sword.

He would never stand apart and simply watch. He wanted to be where the steel clashed and blood was spilled, where history was made.

There was a recklessness in Karal’s nature, Aktal knew. A recklessness that could turn the tide, or drown them all.

The seasoned general's eyes moved slowly, methodically, over the ground before him. He turned to his left, where, upon a nearby hilltop, a small cluster of men had gathered, conscripts from Alpen in their patched and faded armor, standing shoulder to shoulder with veteran infantry of Akelon. With their commanding view, their orders were to strike at an opportune moment.

A sudden shout forced him to look away. The sound had arisen from somewhere further down, but he couldn't quite place the source of all that commotion. The sergeant, ever watchful, stepped forward and pointed toward the enemy lines.

"General, the adversary stands in formation opposite our troops," said the soldier. The general just nodded, looking steadily into the distance.

Mirroring the set-up of the allied troops from Akelon and Alpen, were the enemy soldiers from the kingdom of Dasmoydan. They had an advantage in terms of numbers, but a long march in the preceding weeks had tired them out.

In the middle, Das the Third, the king of Dasmoydan was surrounded by his retainers. Their armor shining, their capes sporting the traditional white-green-black pattern of colors of their kingdom, a war song was on their lips.

It was a formidable sight, the general had to admit. A shadow of a doubt kept creeping up in the back of his mind. What if they lose? If he were a betting man, he would put all his money on the southern kingdom. It would be a miracle, if he were still alive tomorrow.

Banish the thought, Akus Aktal told himself. The gods were on his side. They had to be.

His gaze did not betray these inner worries. Projecting a veneer of outward confidence, he continued to scan the opposing forces.

The right flank of the enemy, which faced the Akelonian left flank, contained the forces of Kalus Kenteln, formerly an important noble in Akelon. Having switched sides, he knew surrender was not an option. Standing with them were infantry drafted from the south of Dasmoydan, their banners casting large shadows over the field.

Akus Aktal looked into the distance, trying to catch a glimpse of the renegade noble. They had been friends once, even shared meals during the long months of campaigning in the field.

He needed to get this past history out of his mind. What he had done was unpardonable. Kalus Kenteln was the enemy now, the worst kind of scoundrel there is.

"My general, we have reports from our left flank facing the traitor Kenteln's line," stated the sergeant.

"Yes?"

"The plan to capture that despicable man has been set into motion. Our finest warriors are eyeing him right now," summarized the officer.

"Very well. The king will be pleased," said the general.

--

The challenge

The Akelonian cavalry on the right side was eager for action. Glaring at their opponents across the field, they could barely keep their horses still. Flautus, the duke of Oberon, kept shouting words of encouragement, which fired up the troops.

As the two sides nervously eyed each other, five knights from the opposing side rode to the middle of the field to issue a challenge.

"Come out and fight us! Like real men! Bring forth your best, and we will defeat them," the words of the knights were loud. They followed the cry with taunts, as if trying to mock the army assembled before them.

Nobody took the bait. Their calls were met only by a string of curses.

"They think we are back in the old days, when battles were settled by fights between champions," remarked one of the mounted knights under the duke of Oberon. A rider next to him laughed, almost falling from his horse.

"They truly are stupid," said another, "like clowns in a circus."

As the five knights kept on issuing their challenges, they were answered in turn. A string of arrows landed their way, one hitting the middle rider straight in the chest. As he fell from his horse, the others turned around and rode back to their ranks.

The message was clear.

The old times were dead. New times meant new rules. Champions were gone. Might was right.

The duke of Oberon rode up and down the ranks on his horse. His chest pumped up straight, the red and blue plumes of his helmet swaying with each jump, he seemed somehow bigger than he really was.

He stopped, to be met by a rising cry from the troops.

"Warriors of Akelon!" He bellowed, the words carrying across the assembled ranks. "Today, we stand on the precipice of destiny. The stakes are high. If the enemy breaks through, it is our land and homes that will be destroyed."

He paused, giving his men the time to reflect on the gravity of the situation. Then, he once again raised his voice almost to a yell.

"We will not let that happen. Our foes outnumber us, but they lack the valor that courses through our veins. We are the sons of this noble land, and we fight not for glory alone, but for the very soil beneath our feet!"

The soldiers roared in response, their collective shouts rising to meet the challenge ahead. The duke's steely gaze surveyed his knights, a silent exchange of determination passing between leader and warriors.

They knew the time had come.

The duke drew his sword, and pointed towards the other side of the field. There, things were already stirring. The enemy did not wait for his troops to charge. They took the initiative themselves. A massive wave of infantry and mounted knights rose up, making their way across the field.

"Wait!" The duke prolonged the anticipation a bit longer. He wanted to give his troops a slight advantage by tiring the enemy out.

"Now! Charge!"

As both sides charged, they collided close to the middle of the field. Riders swirled around each other, their swords swinging and thrusting. Men fell from their horses, some to rise up and fight on, others lay on the ground, gravely injured or dead.

Tallan, having now recovered from his first attack, ran behind them. He charged into the crowd, his sword ready, trying to find someone to fight.

He spotted a large enemy soldier, his tunic dirty, and sword laced with blood. The man had killed, and it showed. His eyes glowed with confidence. A slight smile flashed across his lips as he saw Tallan walking towards him.

The man thrust, but with a stroke of his sword Tallan dislodged the weapon. He then thrust in turn, only to be met with the enemy's sword.

Instinct took over. Years of training had honed Tallan's mind to the needs of battle. He didn't think. He just did. A warrior has to be able to react instantly. If you think too much, you are a dead man.

The clash of steel reverberated in the air as the intricate dance of blades unfolded between the two adversaries. The man thrust once more, a relentless determination in his eyes, but Tallan deftly sidestepped and parried the attack with a swift maneuver.

"I have you! You will soon feel the sharpness of my sword inside you. Better start praying to the gods right now," the other man stopped, taunting Tallan.

Defiance in his eyes, the Akelonian infantryman had none of it. A lesser man might have had his emotions clouded by the display, but not he. It wasn't the first time, he had faced a cocky opponent. He knew too much pride in the adversary brought with it a quiet opportunity. It was just a matter of waiting.

The enemy's lips twisted into a mocking grin, his eyes narrowing with a blend of arrogance and disdain. He looked Tallan up and down, as if already certain of his victory. Another corpse-to-be, he must have been thinking.

The man laughed out loud, opening his mouth wide, his teeth bared as if a wolf toying with its prey.

"Confident, a little bit too confident," Tallan mumbled under his breath, quiet enough for no one to hear. "Do I have a surprise for you."

It seemed the enemy wanted to savor the moment. His eyes locked on Tallan, his mouth full of words of contempt. Then, without warning, his smirk deepened, and he launched forward, his weapon arcing through the air in a swift, measured strike.

"Come to papa, you little worm," cried the man, as he kept swinging his weapon.

Undeterred by the other man's hard blows and his words, Tallan pressed forward, his own sword a blur of thrusts and swings. With a sudden feint, he baited the enemy into an ill-fated lunge, exploiting the opening with a quick counterattack. The foe's sword veered off course, and Tallan seized the opportunity to strike.

The sword entered the other man's stomach. Instant death. As the body collapsed to the ground, Tallan continued on. There would be time to celebrate after the battle. Now he had to fight.

--

Men fight, and men die

In another part of the battlefield, other fights were taking place. Opponents struck blows. Swords were thrust. Spears were thrown. Men fought, and men died.

The duke of Oberon gracefully danced with his horse around the enemy. With strikes of his sword, he dispatched one after the other. At times, he would gallop fast, chasing after foes, just like a cheetah chases down its prey. At other times, he would wait for them to come to him.

His knights distinguished themselves in battle. It didn't take long for the enemy lines on that flank to start collapsing. Seeing the futility of their actions, a number of the Dasmoydanian soldiers turned around and tried to make a break for it.

The enemy ranks turned into pieces of cheese. Full of holes, the defense was no match for the duke of Oberon and his knights. The Akelonian mounted men rode up and down, killing as many of the enemy as they could.

Tallan could see the knights on horseback from the corner of his eye. He had always admired how gracefully they handled their animal. Their horses were powerful beasts, their hooves pounding the earth with each step.

"Hope I can learn to ride like that one day," he mumbled. Then, he reminded himself that now was not the time to daydream. There was a war, and he was in the midst of it.

With the duke's horses dominating the field, Tallan's infantrymen had an easier time of it. Yet, they still needed to play their part. While individual heroics could inspire, victory was always a team effort. And even now, danger lurked everywhere.

Tallan had learnt it in the past. The hard way. Many years ago, he had participated in a skirmish on Akelon's southern border. Just a few hundred troops on both sides.

Young, it was his first time seeing battle. Overwhelmed by the sights and sounds around him, he got distracted. Lost in the moment, he didn't see an enemy warrior charging at him. The enemy had slashed his leg that day. It took him months to recover.

Luckily, recover he did. It was a valuable lesson, one he paid for in his own sweat and blood. On the field of battle, your attention slips just for a moment, and you could be a dead man.

This time, Tallan's mind was fully focused. He and his fellow infantrymen charged the enemy line. The opposition in disarray, their weapons cut through the chaos like a hot knife through butter.

The resistance was weakening. While many Dasmoydanian soldiers were fighting hard, others were slowly giving up, trying to find an opportune moment to make a break for it.

The duke of Oberon's knights, and the troops supporting them, had managed to crumble the enemy lines on their right flank. With Tallan joining the charge, their strikes broke up the main pockets of resistance.

Yet, the battle was far from over.

--

The difference between life and death

In the middle of the field fought Faikel, a mercenary commander hired by Akelon. His horse, a brown-colored beast, snorted as it pushed through the fray. Mud clung to its powerful legs, the dark, wet earth splattering against its belly as it reared and kicked.

The mercenary grimaced, as he tried to steady his steed in the face of a relentless onslaught. Facing the most experienced and battle hardened warriors from Dasmoydan, his comrades were being pressed from all corners. Drops of sweat were rolling down his cheeks, as his eyes tried to spot the nearest signs of danger.

The enemy knights moved in tight formations, their ranks seasoned through years of fighting. The ground trembled beneath the hooves of their heavy cavalry, as waves upon waves of their ironclad warriors rose up high, their banners fluttering in the wind. With their king leading the charge, they stormed through their opponents like a tempest hellbent on destroying everything in its path.

Faikel could see the enemy king from the corner of his eye. Pulling on the harness, the mercenary forced his horse to stop so that he could take a deeper look.

With his white-green-black cape floating in the wind, the monarch was an imposing figure. Handling his horse with precision honed through countless hours of practice, he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. His eyes bloodshot, he fought like an unleashed animal.

Scanning the surroundings, the king searched for his next prey. In the distance, he could see the banners of the king of Alpen and general Sanmal. Zeroing in on the target, he tried to break through over to them.

"For the glory of Dasmoydan," was the cry heard, as king Das' knights launched themselves on the Akelonian mercenaries standing in their way.

Faikel and his mounted troops were giving it their all, holding the line. All around them, the battle raged like an inferno, with the clash of weapons, the thundering hooves of charging steeds, and the fervent cries of combatants echoing through the air.

Swords were thrust. Spears flew in all directions. Blood was everywhere, turning the ground a shade of red.

A few of the foot soldiers carried specialized hooked spikes, with the single purpose of throwing men off their horses. They ran around the field, trying to latch their hooks at the riding warriors of the other side.

"Damn," cursed one of the knights, as two spikes hooked themselves under his armor.

As the soldiers pulled, the knight fell off his animal, landing head first in the mud below. As he braced himself against the ground, an infantryman stepped up to him from behind and thrust a spear through his body. It was instant death.

All around him, Faikel heard the sounds of battle. The smell of death penetrated his nostrils. With each second passing, countless more lives were extinguished.

To the side, two men were locked in a fierce battle. Their shields lost long ago, it was sword against sword. Pushing, lunging, ducking, then thrusting, parrying, blocking. Stepping over bodies, slipping in the mud, knowing full well each step could be the last.

Every movement was a part of the dance of life and death, as the two combatants relentlessly sought an advantage in the unforgiving mire of the battlefield.

Then a momentary opening appeared. It was there only for a fraction of a second. With a swift strike, one of the men drove his sword through the defenses of the other, the blade finding its mark with a fatal precision.

The clash of steel ceased abruptly, replaced by a haunting silence as one combatant crumpled to the ground. The victor stood, breathless and solemn, his gaze fixed on the lifeless form before him.

A small chance was the difference between life and death. Averting his eyes from the dead body before him, the man took a deep breath. Yet, that instant proved fatal. Briefly distracted, caught in his own thoughts, he didn't see another man coming up from the side.

One thrust of the sword was all it took to bring him down. Two men, from the opposing sides, lay dead on top of each other, surrounded by a field of bodies. The ground was soaked with blood, rivers of it flowing everywhere.

--

Fog of war

It was difficult to see through the fog of war. As Faikel stopped his horse to look around, he was immediately charged by enemy knights from both sides. One swung his sword, managing to scratch the man's arm. The other thrust from his horse, but his rally was blocked by Faikel's shield.

Sweat rolled down Faikel's forehead and into his eyes. Mixed with dirt, it began to sting. Losing his bearings just for a slight moment, the mercenary was lucky nobody took advantage.

His forces were all that stood between the bulk of the enemy and the high lords of Akelon and Alpen. Yet brave as they were, they were simply getting overwhelmed by the sheer number of the opposition.

"They are mustering their men to try to get a breakthrough," someone cried, as a large mass of enemy knights charged through. Their horses rode fast, trampling everything underfoot.

With dust picking up, swirling in the air, it was hard to see. Men were charging from all directions. As someone lunged at him, Faikel fell off his horse.

The initial fall knocked the air out of him. Dazed, coughing, he forced himself up. Everything seemed blurry. Slowly, his head stopped spinning, and he was able to regain his vision. His feet on the ground, burying themselves into the soft mud, he scanned the surroundings.

A man swung at him, but with a simple sidestep, he was able to avoid the blow. Leaving his sword out, the attacker ran into it, disemboweling himself on the weapon.

Fending off the initial assailant, Faikel realized the battlefield chaos around him. Multiple adversaries closed in, each intent on exploiting his vulnerable position.

With a quick assessment of the situation, a glint of determination in his eyes, he drew his weapon close to the body. The clash of steel erupted as Faikel defended himself against the onslaught, turning the patch of ground beneath him into a fierce battleground.

Yet, the battle was not going good for his side. The lifeless forms of fallen comrades spread across the plain were a grim testament to that.

With the mercenaries down on the ground or out, the path was now clear for the enemy to charge the lords and their bodyguards. It didn't take long for the assault to begin.