Chapter Three: True Hell

Ichard Burne stood nervously as he watched his family die. Hands shaking, throat clogging up, screams of terror. They were yelling, pleading for their lives. Tears began to swell up in his eyes, as they fell down his cheeks. Reflecting the red color of them.

The screaming turned to shouting… They were shouting at him. He heard his name being yelled at. “Ichard!... Ichard!”

A hard force came down. His eyes shot open, realizing where he was. A red mark appeared briefly as his face was slapped. Sargent Hunsi standing there, with a plethora of troops. In front of them, was a small arena made of flimsy chairs that barely held up in the breezy, cool air.

“Y-yes sir! I-m real sorry about that, it’s just I-“

“No excuses, shitbag! Get the fuck in the arena before I break a finger off that flimsy body of yours.” The strict old man said, wearing a red uniform and army cap. Ichard nodded, hastily walking into the arena made of flimsy chairs and standing idly.

I must have been daydreaming… But why of that? Thought the young man, holding his spear at ready, glancing occasionally at the troops watching them from the left side. Soon after, a burly man wearing simple rags walked up, standing across from the flimsy man.

Ichard was on the shorter side. Skinny, with long brown hair that went down to his shoulders. It was usually kept swept back neatly, though that didn’t stop it from getting in his face. He had white skin, some freckles on his cheeks, and green eyes that grew grey when the sun shaded the right way.

He didn’t look like a soldier. It was a miracle he even got in. And now, he seemed to be going up against someone with at least 200 pounds over him, who had a grin like he was hungry. Ichard gulped, then looked to Sargent Hunsi, spoking from an odd purple plant.

“Begin the duel! We don’t get all day.”

Without warning, the larger brute ran towards Ichard, going for a tackle. He dodged, rolling right as he hit the sandy ground, dropping his spear in the process. The brute saw this, grabbing the boy as he went to pick up his spear. The man's arm enveloped Ichard’s neck, putting him in a headlock.

Ichard shook, tapping at the guy's arm to signal he gave up. He didn’t let go. His face began to turn purple; hearing began to ring. His eyes slowly closed, his ears picking up the distorted sounds of the sergeant screaming to let the boy down. But it was too late. Ichard passed out.

The sounds of the sea were the first thing he heard. Then it was crickets, chirping loudly and talking among one another. He felt the sand beneath his brown hair, as his eyes slowly opened. What happened… He thought, remembering the embarrassing events that went down.

In front of everyone… He thought to himself. He fought in the arena and in front of all the troops in his current station. They all watched as he pathetically dropped his weapon and got choked out in mere seconds. He wanted to bury himself deep in the sand. He wished he stayed knocked out so that he wouldn’t remember what happened.

He stood with shaky legs, walking out of the poor arena and towards the water of the beach he was lying on. He sat down, as the blue, cool sea washed his brown boots rid of grime and dirt. He stared out into the night sky, seeing the two moons directly next to each other. One was blue, one was green.

He looked down, seeing his reflection in the water. Only then did he notice. Was he crying? Was he… Crying? Over what? Failure? Worse has happened to him. And yet, he was sitting here all alone, crying by himself as the other troops ate by a fire and sang songs.

He looked like a mess. Could he handle this? If he couldn’t handle simple loss and embarrassment, then there was no way he could handle fighting in a bloodthirsty war.

As he sat there, thinking about life, he heard footsteps in the sand. A man in shining silver walked up, sitting down next to the young man. Handing him a small bag, he looked forward towards the two moons. “Eat. You need it.”

Ichard took the bag, pulling out a small pale fruit. Small, pink, and juicy. He hesitantly took a bite, the juicy taste and soft texture oozing in his mouth. As the man ate, the other man in knight's armor smiled slightly.

“What’s your name bud?” He turned to look at the man in army clothing. The fruit is almost gone by now.

“Oh – Er, Ichard.” He set the fruit down on his lap, wiping his mouth. ‘Ichard? Hm. You named after a historical figure? Sounds familiar.”

“Yes, sir. Named after the man who killed the last god, separating the continents and forsaking us all.” The knight raised a brow. “Believe all that talk? Of the ancient history and the gods?”

“Not quite. My parents were religious, and I grew up hearing stories about it all. As I grow… I find the idea of God hard to believe.” The knight nodded in agreement, taking off his helmet.

“Sir Symuund Pare. Commander of the night guard here in division 9. Although I didn’t see it, I heard of your performance in the training duel today. After not seeing you with the others back at camp, I assumed you were either sulking or still passed out.”

Symuunds face was tan, and he had straight blonde hair that went down to his back. His face was shaven, and his eyes were deep blue. Although Ichard didn’t ask for the kind man's name, he gave it to him anyway.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Said Ichard, sighing as he looked up.

“Very well. Well… What brings you to the army? Were you drafted or came from your own will?”

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Ichard closed his eyes. He hated this question. He came at his own will but was too weak to even make it. They needed one more knight in Division 9, so they threw him in as a last resort. I shouldn’t even be here. He thought as he opened his eyes, looking at Symuund.

‘My own will. I came to get revenge.” That last part blurted out. Weirdly enough, it felt good to say that. His whole demeanor changed, as he remembered that fateful day that he made his decision.

“My family died to Westerns. They raided my village, raping women and killing people, doing whatever they wanted. I joined so I could kill them. So that I could kill every Western I see. I won't leave before I avenge my-“

Symuund put a hand on Ichard’s shoulder. Ichard blushed, realizing his sudden outburst. He cleared his throat, coughed, just about did everything a nervous person would do when they were feeling nervous.

‘Im sorry. I got carried away there…” The knight smiled, taking his hand off as he stood.

“I’m here for revenge too.” He said, turning as he looked towards the camp. Ichard stood as well, seeing the smoke from the fire slowly dimming out as the camp begin to grow darker.

“Come. Get some rest. Tomorrow is the day to get your revenge.” Said Symuund, walking back to the camp. Ichard stood, thinking.

The knight reacted better than he imagined. When he mentioned Westerns, he sounded more hostile. And even encouraged the idea of revenge on the young knight. And that last part… Ah right. He almost forgot. Tomorrow was the first official battle as Division 9. They were going to fight real Westerns. Real people. Ichard shook slightly, but walked back towards camp, heading into his hut and getting as much rest as he could for the night.

The following day, division 9 stood in rows. Ichard was at the front, as the kind knight from earlier paced back and forth, giving everyone nasty looks.

“Westerns will be carrying goods that belong to Humber and the country of Orbele. They will be migrating towards the docks here in Boleli, trying to leave for Nimtas. We are to form a wall, intercepting them and blocking their path. If they choose to run, we stay and wait until they are gone. If they chose to fight… Then we fight.” The young commander said. Everyone would give a salute and an ‘Aye!’ as they left camp, heading east towards the potential battlegrounds.

Boleli was a warzone located southeast in the grand country of Orbele. It used to house cities, merchants, and many others but has mainly now been used as the location for many army divisions and a place where frequent battles are lost.

Due to it being on the edge and near the parting sea, many Westerns enter through Boleli to get deeper into Orbele territory. It wasn't a fond place to call home. Certainly, could be worse though, Ichard thought.

The climate here was chilly, with the clouds mostly being grey and cloudy, and rain pouring down every couple of days. Many trading ports had to shut down ever since the war started, leaving many beaches and villages simply uninhabited and left to rot here or get raided by brainless Westerns.

After an hour of walking, they eventually stopped in a large field surrounded by forest on both sides. The grass was tall and wet from the rain the night before. As division 9 stopped, the sergeant stepped out, surveying the area with mechanical goggles you’d find somewhere in Erdem.

‘We wait. Westerns should be here any minute now, stand your guard!” He yelled, as many picked up their spears and shields, ready for a battle.

Time moved slower than it should have. More time passed as anticipation began to grow out of everyone. Despite the calm faces od the young men, everyone was secretly scared and nervous. In his mind, Ichard went through battle tactics that the commanders taught him, going over different formations in his mind.

A simple thrust and kick were effective against stronger enemies. A more brute tactic would be to ready your shield and-

Horns blew. Division 9 all turned, seeing a group of barbaric, orange-skinned people a good distance away, slowly approaching. They were chanting something, gibberish to the likes of Ichard. He stared directly at them. Seeing them carry their axes and barbaric items, wearing their iron helmets and chainmail… He hated them. Words couldn’t express the hate he had for the men who took away everything for him.

But as they drew closer, they stopped. The horns blared again. Two horns – that meant a fight was being called upon. Division 9 all got instance, as the sergeant and commander stood at the side of the hundred knights of Orbele.

“We’ve trained for this!” The Sargent yelled, his voice shaky as the barbaric Westerns charged, holding clubs and axes.

There was no time to think. Everyone ran forward, screams of hate and fear echoed through the large, tall grassed open field. In seconds, everyone's life was on the line.

Ichard ran with the others but stopped as he saw a man he spoke to last week get his head swiftly cut off by a hand axe. Westerns were cut down as Symuunds rode by on his mare, the courageous night making killing look swift and easy. The place quickly became a bloodbath, as another horn blew.

The westerns went into a V shape, successfully going into a new battle formation. When did Westerns learn to do that? Sargent Hunsi banged his shield three times, signaling the battle formation to fall back and stick together. Ichard was standing back already, body frozen up not able or ready to move.

As Division 9 fell back and played defensively, another horn blew, as the westerns formed in a ring shape and went on the aggression. Ichard started watching his squad die. They were making good work of the Westerns, yet he was just standing there. He had to move. Had to.

Move. He told himself, readying his spear as he held it in his right hand. A tight swing, compact to leave little room for the counter. He repeated the words as a Western approached, swinging a club downwards. Ichard swung his spear, missing the man horribly. He dodged left, hitting the tall grass as he narrowly dodged the club.

His spear fell again. Shit! He thought as the western ran up at him, holding the spear above his head. Ichard felt for the pocketknife he always kept with him, staring at the westerns uncovered neck. In an instant, he whipped it out, lunging his small frame toward the bulky Western.

Blood sprayed his right eye, all over his armor, making it redder than it already was. His knife lunged right into the man’s throat, and he reached his hands up, grabbing at the knife. The western looked down, his eyes strained as he gurgled and choked on blood. That face… Was horrible. Yet Ichard felt no forgiveness.

He bent down, hands shaking as he looked to see if the Western was dead. He was. Ichard was breathing heavily now. I killed one. He thought, looking down at himself and the grass below covered in blood. I did it. I did it. Then why… Do I not feel proud?

Strange thoughts entered his mind. He went to stand when suddenly he felt his chest burst.

He looked down, seeing a spiked drill hanging out on the other side of his chest. The front side. That wasn’t supposed to be there. He screamed. Yet no words came out, as he coughed up blood.

The club was yanked out, as he fell to the ground on his side. With shaky hands, he reached to his chest. A gaping hole was there where his skin and bone should be. He was bleeding out. His eyes began to fail him, more tears coming out rapidly. Everything was a blur.

Blood poured out of his mouth as he could faintly see the commander's horse riding up to him, the blonde-haired man looking distraught.

Ichard lay on his side, seeing the Western he killed all by himself. He had no words. No thoughts to think. He heard screaming. Death. Many cried and begged, and others were killed with no remorse. It was at death's door when he realized something.

This was true hell. The battlefield.

Light enveloped the young man’s vision. His eyes lay open as he breathed his last breath. And moved his last muscle.