The pits of hell

"Where am I?" Tallan yelled.

"In the pits of hell," came the reply. Tallan swung his head around, but couldn't see who said it. All around him, the confusion of battle was unfolding.

"What is happening?" Tallan could only see a limited section of the field. He had no idea what was taking place in areas further afield.

Around him, scores of bodies lay dead. Other men were rolling around on the ground, injured, in various states of agony. In between the bodies, fights were taking place, sword on sword, axe on shield.

His mind was getting clouded. He had been fighting for hours, the pure exhaustion had drained his body of liquids. Everything was aching. Blood was dripping out of cuts he had received through the course of the day.

"Fuck this shit," Tallan Runik cursed. He could find no better words for the situation he was in.

Taking a step backwards, he almost tumbled over a man on the ground.

Tallan caught himself at the last minute, planting his foot firmly into the mud. Looking at the man, he could see he was wounded.

His injuries seemed grave. Blood was spilled everywhere. The man was barely moving, only a soft whimper coming out of his mouth. Tallan felt a sense of empathy, but there was nothing he could do for him.

He had to keep on moving, he kept telling himself, the fight was still in full swing.

--

Petrified

At that very moment, the battle was being decided in the middle of the battlefield. The warriors of Dasmoydan felt it was their time to strike. Led by their king, they charged towards the Akelonian high lords and the knights surrounding them.

They seemed to have a clear path. Only the Golden Riders of Astal were giving them a fight. The mercenaries had been decimated, and with the king of Alpen removed from the battlefield, the knights of that kingdom began to fall back.

Dakus Daklen, son of the lord of Damaul in upper Akelon, was staring at the oncoming onslaught. It seemed like a pack of hungry wolves was bearing upon him.

His eyes were wide open, his heart was pounding fast. Trying to grip his sword, he felt his muscles tense up. As the impending mass was coming closer, his breathing got heavier. It went faster and faster. Then, at one point, it almost stopped.

It was his first battle. He had never experienced combat before. Initially, he had been staying back, hiding behind all the other horsemen. Now, he could do that no more. The enemy warriors were breaking through. His body began trembling, as he realized what this meant.

Weakly holding out his sword in front of him, he became petrified. Fear, the most terrifying of emotions, had him in its grips. His only wish, the only thought in his head, was to survive this ordeal.

As he was focused on the threat ahead, a spear flew through the air. It hit him straight in the chest. It didn't pierce his armor, but the force of the throw knocked him off his horse.

Falling down, he hit his head on the ground. It took a while for him to stand up. As he did, he felt dizzy and disoriented. This state only heightened his fear. Starting to walk in circles, he didn't know where to go.

His heart was pounding as he looked around, trying to locate the enemy. He had no clue where anyone was. A state of panic enveloped him. He couldn't think. Nor do.

As he tried to steady himself, he felt a pair of heavy footsteps coming up from behind him. He turned around, only to be hit in the face by a heavy mace.

The blow knocked him back down to the ground. As he lay there, the other man winded up his mace. The young knight, still conscious, looked into the eyes of his assailant, and then inhaled and exhaled deeply.

Those were the last breaths he would ever take.

The man brought down his mace, striking him directly in the head. Another lifeless body joined the countless other bodies in the mud.

--

The royal

The king of Dasmoydan was riding high, his sword pointed in the direction of general Sanmal. The general sitting on his horse could feel the impending doom. With the king of Alpen and many of his knights gone from the battlefield, only a few bodyguards separated him and the fury of the enemy king.

The knights of Akelon, deciding to take a last stand, formed a defensive wall on their horses.

"If we go out, we go out in style," quipped one of them, as he drew his sword.

The king brought his horse to a standstill. His knights lined up on the sides, ready to charge. They could feel the victory over Akelon was within their grasp.

"Men! Our date with destiny awaits," shouted the king, Das III. His eyes were focused, his resolve determined.

In his battle lust, he didn't even notice a form run by.

Suddenly, a Tikanmul warrior leapt into the air, his axe held high. As he flew over the back of the horse, with one masterful stroke of the arm, he managed to cut the king on the back of the neck.

A deep gash opened itself up, blood started rushing out of it. The king's head tilted forward, and he collapsed off his horse. The body crashed to the floor, the life having gone out of it midfall.

The king, often considered one of the bravest of his generation, was no more.

Chayo smiled as he landed in the mud. Another kill under his belt. And not just a random one at that. He kissed his jade-incrusted axe and started running quickly towards another knight.

An onslaught of Tikanmul warriors came in from the left. This sudden rush caused panic and confusion within the Dasmoydanian ranks. Seeing their king dead, many of the knights turned around and fled. With their lords escaping, the infantrymen did the same.

Suddenly, the entire center of the Dasmoydanian forces was collapsing.

--

Smell of death

The smell of death was in the air.

The skies seemed to mirror the darkness of the fight below. The clouds overtook the sky, turning black. There was lightning. There was thunder. But no drop of rain ever fell.

General Aktal watched the scene on the battlefield unfolding before him.

"Sire, we are winning on the right flank, and we have turned things around in the middle as well. However, we are still in heaps of trouble on our left flank," reported the general, as he turned to walk over to the king.

"The traitor?" The king of Akelon smirked and looked in the direction of the battle.

"Yes, sire."

"I want him taken out of commission," said the king. "Captured, killed, whatever. He can't escape."

In the distance, the plan wasn't bearing fruit. Akus Aktal had to act fast.

His eyes focused in on the warriors from his own home island. Their fierce attack in the center had grasped victory from the jaws of defeat, swinging the advantage to the side of Akelon.

Yet, Aktal knew this gamble had exposed the left side, where his country's forces were taking a beating.

Now was the time to bring the warriors of Tikanmul back to where they had started from. Now was the time to land the decisive blow.

--

Captured

Kalus Kenteln, and his men, continued their ferocious assault. Bolstered by the arrival of fresh reinforcements, they had managed to beat back the Akelonian troops. With a large portion of the Tikanmul forces diverted towards the center, they dominated the flank.

Seeing the Dasmoydanian army he had pledged his allegiance to, decimated further afield, Kenteln fought even harder, believing he could win the battle all by himself. With relentless swings of his sword, he cut down man after man.

This dominance did not last for long. As the remaining enemy forces in the middle were being swept up, the bulk of the Tikanmul warriors once again returned to their left.

With their scimitars and axes, they turned the tide. One after the other, they hacked away at Kenteln's men. What was once a thick line of soldiers, degenerated into disjointed groups of stragglers.

The remaining warriors bunched themselves up around Kenteln, standing body on body, their pikes and swords pointing out. It took several hours of relentless, exhausting assault, to break down this wall of men.

At the end, Kalus Kenteln himself collapsed. As he fell, two Akelonian warriors lunged themselves at him, succeeding in pinning him to the ground. Then a further four arrived, who helped the other two secure him.

Bounding his hands behind his back, he was captured. With smiles on their faces, the small band of soldiers started heading back to the camp, their distinguished prisoner in tow.

Only a few men were left still fighting.

--

The field of blood

Tallan continued wandering through the battlefield. There were still intense battles, but it seemed like much of the plain was deserted, except for the piles of corpses.

"I was right. Those bastards got what was coming to them," said Tallan out loud, but mostly to himself. There was probably no one around him left alive to actually hear it.

The gods were always protecting him, he felt. As it seemed the army of Akelon was proving victorious, Tallan was starting to feel a sense of relief.

"Maybe I am invincible," he said again half out loud.

He thought back to when he was a child. How sitting around the campfire late at night, the village elders used to recount tales of the Chosen One, a simple boy who fulfilled a prophesy and became an incredible hero, saving the world in the process.

Sometimes, he imagined himself the hero of the stories. Tallan the Chosen One. The one who always gets the princess. And saves the world.

In the distance, he could hear distinctive grunts. They were coming towards him. Focusing his eyes, he saw a pair of riders on battle camels chasing after a group of enemy soldiers.

Battle camels. The duke of Oberon used some of them in his cavalry. Apparently, their smell scares the enemy horses.

The sight reminded him the battle was not over yet. There was still a job to do. He moved in the direction of the fighting.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Arriving in the hot zone, a man lunged at him with his sword. Tallan didn't hesitate to respond. With two simple thrusts, he was able to dispatch of him.

Around him, a number of similar fights were taking place. The attacks in formation from the beginning of the battle had now degenerated into a series of chaotic man to man duels.

Most of the enemy had either died, or given up and fled. Only a few groups were still brawling.

"The king will be happy," someone said. Tallan's ears perked up.

He could hear some voices.

"We caught the traitor," another voice said. "You think we will get a reward?"

"I would be happy even with a cup of ale," said another.

"Soon enough we will be lying drunk under the table," laughed one of the men.

"What the?" The man didn't finish his sentence, as a series of slashes could be heard.

"He's getting away!" Another man screamed, but to no avail. His voice died down after another slash.

Tallan started running towards the voices, his visibility lowered by smoke coming from fires lighted on the field.

Then, he stopped abruptly. In front of him, he saw a lanky man with a worn out face. The enemy was looking straight at him, his eyes as if trying to hypnotize him. In his right hand, he held a large sword.

"You think you are a mage, don't you?" Tallan screamed at him, as he thrust his sword at his face. The man smirked, and parried the thrust. Thrust, parry, then thrust again, there could be no thinking, only acting. Instinct took over as they slashed, lunged, thrusted, sidestepped, and blocked. Two men were locked in a sword on sword battle, knowing full well there was no room for error.

"Shit," Tallan looked down. The other man had slashed him across the stomach, opening up a huge gash. Blood was streaming out of it.

The enemy got him. The lanky man smiled, but before attempting to finish Tallan off, he got scared off by a pair of battle camels heading straight for him. He took off to his heels, leaving Tallan to collapse onto the ground.

It was strange, but despite the deep wound, Tallan had felt no pain. It was as if nothing had happened. He had heard this from tales of other warriors. At times, in the heat of battle when someone gets injured, they don't sense it. The pain only comes later.

He was still alive.

"It's just a flesh wound. I will be all right," whispered Tallan. He lay there on the ground, clutching at his stomach. His brain was getting hazy.

--

The escape

At the edge of the plain, Kalus Kenteln was running away from the battlefield. They had had him. His hands had been bound. He was being carried away. Yet, all had not been over. He still had his loyal troopers on the field. A few of them managed to follow the captors.

Having lowered their guard, they had not even seen them coming. With minimal effort, Kenteln was freed.

Looking around, he saw the coast was clear. For a moment, he hesitated where to run. To his left, lay his former lands. His family had been one of the most powerful lords in Akelon for generations.

Yet, in the middle of the war, Kalus Kenteln had made a strategic decision. He turned his back on his country, and threw his lot in with the Dasmoydanian invaders. By uniting his lands with the southern kingdom, he believed his influence could only grow.

For his former countrymen, he was the vilest of traitors. He could no longer go back to his estates. For now.

He was confident this would only be a temporary setback. The kingdom of Akelon was weak. A storm of troubles will collapse it eventually in the not so distant future. He would be there to see to it.

Raising up his fist, he lay a final challenge to the king of Akelon.

"You have not seen the last of Kalus Kenteln. You think you have won. You are wrong! I will be there to see your final downfall. Final victory will be mine," screamed Kenteln.

Turning to his right, he sprinted towards Dasmoydan.

Running away he smiled. He knew he would live to see another day. Revenge was on his mind.

--

The living dead

The fighting had died down. The last of the enemy had fled, or was vanquished. Now, only the dead or dying lay on the field. Among them, walked the living.

Even many of those were present only physically, their minds dazed and confused, shocked by the horrors of the battle. They were the walking dead.

In the command post, the king of Akelon and his generals were observing the scene. Their faces betrayed a mix of happiness, relief, and fatigue. Only general Aktal seemed down.

The king, on the other hand, was grinning. Staring at the battlefield, he reflected on what had transpired. Throughout much of the fight, he had had a hard time following what was happening on the field. It had been total chaos. Often, only by talking to his generals was he able to make sense of the action. That didn't matter now.

The battle was over. His forces had won. Earlier, he had received news of Kalus Kenteln being captured.

A bubbly energy was radiating out of him. History had been written. He knew that he, king Plamus the Fourth, would forever be remembered as the victor of the Battle at Laswan's Creek.

If he could, he would be jumping in the air. However, as the king he had to appear calm and collected.

As the group chatted among each other, a short man dressed in a simple brown tunic ran up to them. He was carrying word from the camp behind the Creek.

His face did not spell anything good.

"Your Majesty! Kenteln, the traitor, has escaped," said the messenger.

The king's mouth dropped.

"Escaped?" His initial smile had turned into a frown. The king raised his voice. "Escaped? How did this happen?"

"From what we gathered, there were still some of his troops left on the field. They attacked, and managed to free him," replied the messenger.

The king shook his head. He didn't like bad news. With a dejected face, he turned to gaze back at the site of the clash.

"Escaped," he mumbled to himself.

The carnage of the battlefield stretched out all across the plain. An eerie silence had settled over the land, only pierced by sudden cries of agony and despair. Each yell a testimony of the suffering of the wounded, each man lying there a testament to their own particular story.

Bodies lay strewn across the blood-soaked earth, their twisted forms silent witnesses to the brutality of war. The air was thick with the scent of blood, mingling with the stench of smoke and rotting flesh.

Couriers were passing back and forth between the command post and the camps. While victory was theirs, the work was still continuing.

"Sire, the king of Alpen lives," another messenger brought over the news to where the king and his generals were standing.

"Great news," replied the king. "That is great news." He once again had a smile on his face.

"He will make it after all," quipped general Aktal.

"Well, after the escape of the traitor, at least this can cheer us up," said the king.

"Your Majesty, we have won. Tonight we celebrate," another general joined the conversation.

The king looked at him, knowing full well what it meant. Two weeks of not getting out of bed, because of a strong headache.

"Yes, tonight the wine will flow."

As the king was conversing with his senior commanders, another messenger rushed in.

"Sire, I have news," said the messenger.

The group looked at him, wondering what it was this time.

"Speak," said the king.

"Sire, the king of Alpen is dead."

Everyone was petrified. They stopped everything.

"But, we had just heard he was alive?" The king was shaking his head.

"Sire, he was. He seemed to be doing well. Then, in one instant, his heart stopped, and he was no more," recounted the messenger.

"That is terrible," said the king. "Terrible."

--

The bitter taste of war

The commanders stood in silence, the news rippling through their minds like a cold wind. Amid victory, this gave a bitter taste.

Three kings had waged war that day. By dusk, two lay in the mud, their crowns lost to the blood-soaked earth. Only the one who stayed behind, watching the slaughter from the shadows, would see the sun rise again.

"Heroes rise and fall, only to be replaced by new heroes, and those then fall too," Kal Peunar, standing apart from the others, mumbled softly to himself.

A veteran of too many wars to count, the Akelonian command had come to rely on his counsel. His words, though often filled with grim forewarnings, were laced with the bitter truth of experience.

"That is the course of war. You want glory. You end up with pain, suffering, and death." Kal mumbled under his breath as he scanned the battlefield.

Kings on both sides had died. Much of the countryside on both sides of the border was devastated. The treasuries of the countries involved in the conflict had been depleted.

The prospects for the future were grim.

"The world is broken, and we can't fix it," he muttered, in a low voice.

As Kal was deep in thought, he heard footsteps. A man came up to him.

"You are looking quite down. What is bothering you? We have won. Rejoice." His eyes had dark circles, but despite this the man seemed cheerful.

"I fear for the future," replied Kal Peunar, still gazing at the battlefield.

"The future is bright, my friend. We will sign a peace treaty. The captives will be exchanged," said the other man. "Everything will be back to normal."

"You think so?" Kal looked at his new companion.

"Sure. The kingdom will prosper."

"I somehow have my doubts. All the devastation that this war brought will be hard to overcome. Even now, the treasury is depleted," said Kal.

"Well, it will be full again soon," laughed the other man.

"But look at all this. All those dead," whispered Kal.

"It's over. No more war," replied the new companion.

"But for how long?"

Kal looked dejectedly towards the ground. Other countries were already starting to circle around the kingdom, like hungry vultures waiting to bite off a piece of flesh. It would not be long before they turned into packs of rabid wolves, going in for the kill.

"We humans, we never learn," said Kal. "We say never again, but wake up the next morning, and do the same thing again. Again and again."

The other man smiled. He could feel Kal was onto something, but at that moment he didn't really care. He wanted to drink and celebrate.

"There will be wine in the officers tent. You are welcome to join," said the man, as he turned around to walk away.

As the man left, Kal kept gazing at the field and wondering.

"War," he repeated softly, then he sighed. "What was it good for?"

Normally, he would have already been drinking. It was the only way he knew of softening the pain, the pain of experience. Taking out a flask he had hidden under his clothes, he took a whiff. Whisky. Strong.

Then, he put it away. Now was not the time, he told himself. He needed to pay his respects to all the dead warriors. Only sober could he truly honor them. There would be enough time to drown himself in liquor, tomorrow and the next day, and the next.

He always drank alone. Never with others. But now was not the time.

Kal looked onto the battlefield. On the plain, on the mud, lay scores of men. Some dead, some still alive, but slowly dying. Others were walking around, in a state of daze, while still others sat on the ground, their minds either blank or lost in thoughts.

In the distance, Kal noticed a figure get up from the ground, and turn his head in different directions.

As he was watching this, Kal Peunar, the grizzled veteran of many wars, mumbled a lesson he had learnt through his long career.

"Who lives and who dies? Chance decides."

--

What goes inside the head of a man after battle

Faikel squatted down on the floor, the legs no longer wanting to support the body. His mind was mired in deep reflection, going over the events of the battle. Looking around, he saw the results.

Only a few of his fellow mercenaries were straggling on, some limping, others resting on the floor. Many were dead. The mercenary company he was a part of was no more.

"You guys fought well. You did what they paid you to do, and you did it well," he mumbled while staring at all the dead bodies.

Near him, he saw the remains of the man who had engaged him into the Akelonian army. He had always respected him. Faikel had been a wandering warrior, trying to make ends meet. This man had given him a chance.

Faikel had repaid the opportunity a thousand times. Through his bravery and fighting prowess, he had risen through the ranks.

His leader, the man he was loyal to, had now breathed his last breath.

"Thank you! And may the afterlife be good to you," said the mercenary. He then shook his head. He needed to get over this.

This was the end of the line, but not of the fight. Faikel was a warrior after all. That was the only thing he knew how to do. He lived only through the sword. He would be moving on, finding a new place of employment.

Deep down, he was a lone wolf, but even a lone wolf needed a pack to be effective. Faikel knew he needed to find a new home, a new company that would feed him. In turn, he would give them what he knew best. The fight.

As he stood up, he once again looked around. On the ground, he saw scores of bodies of men. Some he had never seen before. Some he had known. All dead.

--

Heroes

The night began to fall. Stars appeared overhead. The majesty of the night sky was in steep contrast to the ground below.

Tallan squealed in agony. Now, he really felt the pain. Not even the stars above his head could keep his mind away from the agony.

To his side, he noticed another man in a similar predicament as him. He too was lying there, blood gushing out of his wounds. He was barely moving, only his heavy breathing served as evidence of him being still alive.

"Man, are you all right?" After having said it, Tallan realized the stupidity of his question. Of course, he was not all right.

"Never been better," the other man said, the voice barely above a whisper.

Tallan Runik smiled. In the face of death, a little optimism still remained. At least for a short moment.

Tallan lay sprawled upon the blood-soaked earth, his body seemingly giving way. Around him, the battlefield was littered with the broken remnants of fallen warriors and the haunting echoes of their final cries.

As the shadows lengthened and the chill of the night descended, a suffocating sense of hopelessness settled over Tallan. Each breath he drew seemed to carry the weight of the world upon his chest, a crushing reminder of his own mortality.

Beside him, his companion lay silent and still, the light of life dwindling in his eyes with each passing moment. In the dim twilight, their surroundings took on a surreal quality. For many men, this was their final resting place, a graveyard of hopes and dreams.

As he seemed to have gone, the other man suddenly again opened his eyes. He turned towards Tallan.

"Was it all worth it?" The man's voice was barely a whisper.

"What was worth it?" Tallan's face managed a little frown.

"Life. Was it all worth it?"

Tallan lay there silently, reflecting on the question. He couldn't really come up with an answer.

"Not sure," replied Tallan.

The other man laughed, then coughed.

"I know what you mean," he quipped.

The two men then once again lay in silence, in the cold of the night.

"I have been thinking," said the man again.

"Yeah?" Tallan turned his head slightly to look at him.

"Once we die here, no one will remember our names," said the man.

"No one will remember our names," repeated Tallan.

"When in hundreds of years from now the histories are written, they will talk of the kings and generals, but no one will discuss all these bodies around us," said the dying man. "No one will remember my name."

"I will remember it," said Tallan. "What's your name?"

"Me? It's Alvinus," replied the man, starting to breath heavy, the pain obviously getting to him. "What's yours?"

"Tallan."

"Nice to meet you, Tallan," said the man, the last words barely audible.

"Likewise, Alvinus," said Tallan, clutching his stomach.

The two continued panting heavy. Tallan briefly passed out from the pain. When he woke up, he looked to his side. His companion was there, his face pale, his body not moving.

"Goodbye Alvinus. Nice knowing you, at least for this brief while," whispered Tallan. "I will be joining you soon. Hope they have the promised milk and honey in the afterlife."

The blood was gushing out, the pain was unbearable. It was overwhelming his entire body. His brain was shutting down, only a tiny white light staring at him in the distance. For the last time, he looked at the dead man lying next to him.

It was over. He would be one of many simple men to die that day, history never recording his name.

Tallan mumbled to himself.

"We can't all be heroes."

Then, the lights went off. Everything turned dark.

Death.