The land below was still dark, but a small stream that flowed through it could still be discerned – though just barely. To the east the sky was turning a dawn blue, with wisps of cloud growing pink in the earliest light of a sun that could not yet be seen. A hardened dirt road ran straight through the stream from west to east and in a wood overlooking it, two bald men were crouched in the darkness waiting.
“Dawn,” said Sir Anselm, a hand stroking over his short, dark beard. “We cannot wait much longer, Lord Colbert. It could be they won’t come this way; it could be the king was wrong.”
“No,” said Lord Colbert, whose pale, gaunt face looked a spectre in the trees. “We should not dismiss him so swiftly. It could be that they march later than expected but even so, we must remain here and wait for them. They will come along this road I am sure of it; they are Lavellan after all.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Anselm asked, still stroking his chin.
“Well, just as you’ve always said Sir Anselm – they are soft. Too soft to walk on tough ground.”
Anselm began to laugh, though Colbert turned to him with a glare and bade him be silent with a harsh hush.
The sun crept higher over eastern hills, first light soaking the woods and stream in morning warmth. The dirt road was highlighted by it; the pale, sand-like brown showing against grass that became greener with each passing minute. Though the morning was clear and beautiful, the more it bloomed the more impatient the two bald men grew.
“Lord Colbert,” Anselm said. “I understand the importance of this plan, but the longer we delay here the more the danger grows for the others. We might arrive to find the battle over and lost!”
“Wait, Sir Anselm,” Colbert replied quickly, nodding down to the road.
A lone rider climbed out of a dell to the west, then galloped eastwards along the road and through the stream without stopping.
“A scout,” said Anselm, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword until Colbert stopped him.
“Or a messenger. Let him go, we wouldn’t catch him now anyway.”
“I do not see the wisdom in letting an enemy rider roam freely,” Anselm replied, but capitulated as he watched the horseman follow the road east into the hills.
“He doesn’t matter, Sir Anselm. What matters now is that he was sent, which can mean only one thing…” Colbert surmised, standing from his crouched position and giving a signal further up into the woods where an armoured man received it. A few seconds later, several hundred soldiers stepped over a ridgeline and began marching quietly down to Colbert’s level, each taking care to be as hidden as possible. “The enemy are coming.”
-
Both the Sarkanian and Lavellan armies were arrayed for battle on opposite sides of the valley, around ten thousand fighting men in each.
On the western side and remaining halfway up their hill, the armour of the Sarkanian knights gleamed brightly in the morning sun, over 2000 of them wearing full plate and wielding weapons ranging from swords to hammers and glaives. These knights made up a significant portion of the centre of their line, though as they stretched towards the flanks they became increasingly reinforced by common soldiers wearing chain, leather and shields. Almost 4000 further men made up the left and right flanks, wielding spears and halberds to protect against Lavellan cavalry. Standing in ranks 8 men deep, the main battle-line of the Sarkanian force stretched 600 meters from one end to the other, covering the majority of the hill’s eastern slope and forcing the Lavellan army to stretch itself to match them. At their front, a line of banners and flags blew in a wind that came from the west.
Behind the main line, a second line comprised of 2000 archers and almost 600 black-armoured kingsguard provided support and reserve, with 100 of those mounted on horseback. Finally, and situated some ways to the right of the battle-line, one thousand further mounted knights and men-at-arms faced off across the valley against their Lavellan counterparts.
Arian had never seen so many warriors in one place before. He gripped the reins of his horse tightly, looking around him at the thousands of his countrymen about to risk their lives and kill for a valley that suddenly seemed worthless. He shook his head. It was better not to think that way, he reminded himself, then placed his helmet over his head with the visor open. In front of him, the king wore a magnificent suit of plate – steel with black trim and adorned with the Sarkanian griffin – but Arian couldn’t help but notice more the dark wings that embellished the sides of his helmet. He had never seen his father wear that helmet before and had imagined for years that it was little more than a ceremonial piece to show guests, but now he wondered if it might not be as kingly in function as in form. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to find out, but somehow, he felt the inevitability of it.
“They seem eager to fight,” said Lord Wulfsurd, who sat upon his black horse a beast of a man with red hair. Harik was from an old and prestigious family line, well-known for their size and prowess in combat, and Arian could see it in him. Arian had only been young when Harik’s father had died of old age, but it was clear he took after him. He was a monster, and Arian noticed how unlike the last time they had fought together Wulfsurd now wore the armour of his house; a wolf fighting a bear on his steel breast.
“Perhaps, but there’s business to finish first,” replied Prince Caden. Caden’s eyes were fixed like a hawk on a Lavellan noble all the way across the valley field, little more than a blue spec in his vision. “And who can rightfully claim that they might not change their mind and surrender?”
The King remained silent through the conversation, so Arian spurred his horse on past him and stopped when he reached his elder brother’s side. “Are you worried?” He asked him, as he looked over the Lavellan lines.
“Worrying won’t change anything, and I need a clear head,” Caden answered.
“It’s quite strange,” said Arian, “when we held the hill, I had no time to worry. Even when that unknown knight challenged me to single combat, it didn’t really cross my mind. I did not stop to think, I just did. I guess right now you can do nothing but think, and perhaps that’s even worse.”
Caden didn’t answer him that time, instead he tried to keep his mind clear of all invasive thoughts. He tried not to be overwhelmed by the prospect that awaited him, yet even so he could already feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He did not want that, yet ironically it helped him stay as clear and alert as he decided he needed to be.
They watched the morning sun rise higher into the sky, felt the tension and the anticipation grow amongst the soldiers behind them until it approached uncontainable levels. Finally, when whatever secret conditions he had waited for had been fulfilled, Caden took a deep breath and took the rein of Whisper, his grey mare. “It’s time,” he said, then set off at a trot towards the centre of the field.
Arian, Wulfsurd and King Valen followed him, and on the other side of the valley a small group of armoured knights rode to meet them. The two parties met in the middle, ample space between them, and formed lines on horseback that faced one another. Arian looked at the Lavellan riders, counting off from left to right: Marquis Ghislain Souchon, King Armand of Lavell, Alaric Laurens, and a fourth he did not know.
All four of them wore lordly armour, but Armand’s helmet was adorned with a crown, and Alaric Laurens wore a blue surcoat over his plate with a distinctive white orchid. “You do not have to do this, Caden. I see no reason why we should follow ancient customs and laws and then immediately do away with them and send hundreds to their deaths,” Arian tried to argue, though he already knew it was in vain.
“Do not worry,” replied Caden. “I’ll be quick.”
“And I’ll buy you an ale when you return, lord prince,” said Wulfsurd.
The king spoke then, Valen’s voice somehow as commanding as it was reassuring. “Fight well, my son,” he said.
Caden dismounted his horse, then with hand resting against the hilt of his sword and armour clanking he walked through calf-height grass until he reached halfway between the two mounted parties. Alaric Laurens did the same, but drew his sword from its sheath and held it in his right hand even though he did not immediately approach to attack.
“You should not have done this, Alaric Laurens,” said the prince, eyeing the man up and down. They were about the same age, though from his face Caden would have guessed Alaric was slightly younger than he was. “Your family now has the misfortune to lose two of its sons in combat, as opposed to just one.”
“Do not worry, prince of Sarkana,” came the Lavellan’s reply. “By the end of this day, your family will have lost far more than mine.” He knocked down the visor of his helmet, then gripped his sword with both hands and above his head in a high stance.
Caden sighed and pulled down his own visor, then drew his blade into a middle stance which he similarly held in both hands. Slowly the two armoured swordsmen edged closer to each other, Caden’s metal form gleaming in the morning sunlight. Suddenly Caden took a step forward and lunged the tip of his blade for Alaric’s throat, but Alaric stepped swiftly to the left of it and brought his blade down towards the top of Caden’s helmet. The counterblow came with a ferocity that the prince hadn’t expected, and he only just managed to change his footwork and dodged to the right of the blow with a moment to spare.
Clapping came from the king of Lavell, which was then echoed by the others at his side. Caden suddenly became aware that he had been extremely close to taking a blow in the very first bout, and in the brief pause they took following it he found himself gripping his sword tighter to calm himself.
“Do not worry, Prince Caden,” came a muffled voice from beneath Alaric’s helm, “I shall finish it quickly.”
Alaric’s words made Caden feel a sudden unease, and the Lavellan took advantage by closing the distance between them and bringing his blade against the prince with a succession of deft blows. Caden parried them as his training had dictated, but Alaric’s sword moved with both a greater strength and speed than his own. More than this, it forced Caden on the back foot, and with every step forward Alaric made, Caden found himself stepping backwards to try and escape.
Their swords clashed further, Caden fighting with defensive guards and strikes that Alaric either attempted to feint around or pushed away as though there was no effort in the endeavour. Eventually Caden stood his ground, then pushed back against the other knight by using the vambrace of his left arm to block one of Alaric’s strikes and ramming his right fist into his visor, sword still gripped between his fingers.
Alaric stumbled back slightly but remained unphased, and did not lose his footing, but even so Caden pressed his attack. The prince began to strike for the weak points in Alaric’s plate – the straps, the neck, under the arms – and for a brief few seconds they fought evenly, and the battle could have swung in either’s favour.
But then Caden swung his blade in from the side with both hands, and Alaric caught and held it with his own despite releasing his left hand from his sword. Caden tried to force Alaric’s sword against him, but found it hopeless, and he could suddenly do nothing but watch as the Lavellan’s free hand reached behind him and drew a second blade from his belt. It was short, round and pointed – more like a nail than a dagger – and Caden realized immediately it was made for thrusting.
Alaric pushed forward with all his weight and Caden lost balance, falling to his back with the Lavellan coming down on top of him. Then he thrust, the nail-like blade forcing its way through the prince’s plate and into his heart.
There was silence then, the spectators unsure what they had just seen. When Alaric withdrew to his feet with the bloodied knife in hand, Arian looked down to his elder brother, who lay motionless on the grass.
“Caden?” Arian asked, but he got the answer to his question when Caden’s sword slipped out of his open fingers. He felt a blow strike him in the heart, and he suddenly could not move.
“Bravo, young Alaric!” Cheered King Armand, and the Marquis Souchon soon followed him in his praise. “The prince was clearly not deserving of his title!”
Alaric turned and began making his way back to his horse, but King Valen II of Sarkana spurred his horse forward and galloped at the young knight with his own sword drawn. “You fucking bastards!” He roared, his voice more like a lion than a man, and as he raced closer Alaric quickly climbed into his saddle to the sound of the lords of Lavell drawing their weapons.
Valen attacked Alaric directly, his arm swinging to take off the knight’s head in one swoop, but it was blocked by the sword of King Armand. The Marquis Souchon then rode around Valen’s flank only to find Wulfsurd had joined him, and the two sides began to clash fiercely. Though the Lavellan outnumbered the Sarkanian four to two, it was soon clear that Valen’s skill was tempered with Wulfsurd’s bear-like strength.
“Lord king let us retreat to our line!” the marquis begged.
“Fall back!” Armand capitulated, and one by one the four Lavellan broke off from the fight to gallop full speed back to their waiting army.
By this point the guards of the kings of both nations were riding out towards the centre, but when the Lavellan side caught up to Armand they veered and turned, escorting him back. Meanwhile Arian had grabbed his brother’s body and managed to drag him up onto his horse, leaving Valen and Wulfsurd behind as he rode back towards the Sarkanian line as quickly as his horse could gallop.
“Get healers, doctors and herbalists!” Arian all but screamed at the approaching kingsguard, several of whom turned to escort Arian as the rest went to protect their king. “My brother is hurt! If he dies, I will have your heads!”
Even as he yelled the words, a small part of Arian knew it was too late. As much as he would protest and deny it, as much as he would fight to the bitter end for it to be false, Arian could feel no life in his brother. Whatever trickery, whatever unholy strength had bested Caden, had taken him. Arian’s brother, King Valen’s son, was dead.
-
Valen and Wulfsurd reached the Sarkanian lines, where talk and whispers were aflame in the ranks of what had just transpired. They all knew it now, that Prince Caden had fallen, but Valen still refused to accept it. Even when he looked towards the hill and saw men lying Caden down in his armour and placing a sheet over him, he absolutely would not admit his son was gone.
“Warriors of Sarkana!” He yelled, riding his horse to the centre and turning to face the arrayed knights closest to him. “Remember why we are here! Lavell betrayed us, attacked us, and even with the aid of Kedora they could not best us. Armand is a weak and unworthy king, and now he stands alone on the other end of this field, shitting himself at the thought of what we are about to do to him! Make no mistake, the fight we have today will be hard won, but won it will be!”
“For the glory of Sarkana and Arfeyr!” Roared Wulfsurd, and almost ten thousand voices roared it back to him.
Across the field, the Lavellan army roared something similar but incomprehensible, and there could be no doubt that they were just as prepared for the fighting ahead. Wulfsurd rode then to the rear of the centre knights to take up his command position, while Valen rode further up the hill to join his kingsguard. As the sun approached mid-morning a great battle was about to begin.
The archers moved first; Sarkanian bowmen marched through the melee line and to the front, 2000 in all, and to match them the greater number of Lavellan archers did the same. They took up positions to skirmish and with a signal given by King Valen, the Sarkanian archers drew back their arrows and loosed them upon their enemy in great volleys.
Most missed. The morning sun blinded them, led them to be inaccurate and inconsistent in their firing, but never-the-less the whittled men began to yell and fall. The Lavellan had, perhaps, been expecting more from the Sarkanian bowmen, and as the volley came to an end bursts of sporadic laughter were hurled across the field like insults.
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The Sarkanian archers began to fire again, no longer in volleys but as fast as they could draw back their strings, and the archers of Lavell were soon forced to return with their own fire. Lavellan arrows shot up into the air, passing in front of the sun and causing wisps of shaft-shaped shade to fly across the field, but as they turned to rain down it soon became clear that their momentum was dampened, and the arrows fell harmlessly into the ground in front of the Sarkanian formation.
“They missed?” Asked Prince Arian, watching the scene from the slope of the hill as he rode to meet his father. He was numb still, but he had swallowed down the loss he felt to focus on the task they had at hand, for he knew the king would be doing the same.
“The wind comes from the west,” Valen told him. “It’s blowing into the path of their arrows.”
The Sarkanian infantry began to laugh when they saw what had happened and this further motivated their archers to keep on firing. They were not wholly accurate, but they were unopposed, and they would continue to pick away at their foes for as long as they were able.
“What will they do?” Asked Arian. “Surely they can’t just stand there and die?”
“They’ll attack,” Valen replied. “They have no choice.”
-
Harik Wulfsurd sat on his steed at the rear of the Sarkanian battle-line, eight ranks of knights stood in front of him and waiting for the combat to begin. In front of them the archers continued to fire, but when it became clear to both sides that they were unopposed Wulfsurd raised his sword. “Get ready, men!” He called. “They’ll soon on their way to kill us up close!”
Moments later Harik heard horns and trumpets blowing across the valley floor, and he immediately called out a command: “Get the archers back behind us!”
Several captains repeated Harik’s orders and sent them forward to the commander of the bowmen, who blew a horn of his own. Within minutes, Wulfsurd had the infantry make space between them for the archers to pass through and they did so, reforming at the rear where they were originally positioned. The gaps closed again, and it was clear then that the Lavellan infantry and foot-knights were marching to meet them in battle.
“Stand closer together!” Harik ordered. “Be an unbreakable wall of steel!”
The Sarkanian knights closed the gaps between them, plate forming a wall of metal men. Off further down the line, towards both flanks, lords called out for the soldiers beneath them to do the same, with shield walls to form where there were enough to overlap.
The Lavellan were closer now, approaching charging distance, and Harik raised his sword above him. Behind, archers knocked their arrows against strings and drew back, and as a volley of arrows suddenly descended upon them Harik motioned for their own to fly. They fired, and a man near Harik who had been hit in the leg with an arrow groaned on the ground. He closed his visor as more descended, several bouncing harmlessly off the plate of the knights in front of him.
“Hold fast!” Harik commanded, then as though the enemy had been waiting on his word, they began to run the final stretch and charge into their line directly.
Men in full plate were surprisingly agile, but when the two armies finally collided, they could do nothing but rely on brute force to succeed. The warriors smashed into each other, crashing and breaking, and the sounds of battle were suddenly deafening as men pushed and hacked at each other with swords, hammers and axes. Wulfsurd tried desperately to keep order in the inherently chaotic situation, but there was only so much he could do as the Sarkanian line waxed and waned with the natural flow of battle. It was sometimes forced too far back, others pushed too far forwards, but in the opening hour of combat its knights remained steady and its losses few.
“Lord Wulfsurd!” A voice called out, several times, through the deafning combat. Wulfsurd looked around to the source, noticing a knight riding towards him from the direction of the king.
“Arian?” Wulfsurd asked, recognizing him by his armour. “Go back to the kingsguard!”
“Lord Wulfsurd, our flanks are slowly growing unsteady and the men forced backwards. My father says you must bring the centre back with them to avoid being enveloped!” Arian told him, his eyes on where the two armies met, and where the fighting was fiercest. He watched a man get knocked to the ground, then several others smash in his helmet and skull with hammers. His stomach churned at the sight of it, but he could not look away.
“Very well,” Wulfsurd replied. He took up a horn from his belt, the same one he had used before, then blew into it. It was not a signal horn with a specific command, merely a call for attention, a demand that someone listen to his orders. “Ease backwards!” He ordered the men. “Bring them closer towards the hill!”
The knights slowly began to give ground, the centre of the line easing its way back into alignment with the rest of it. Yet despite being done only to avoid envelopment, the Lavellan saw in the movement an army forced backwards, and this gave them renewed motivation to fight even harder. As time passed, the Sarkanian army slowly moved back towards the slope of the western hill not because of tactical retreat, but because their foe was fighting so furiously.
“Keep fighting!” Wulfsurd would roar, his encouragements repeated often. When the armour of a knight was unique enough for him to recognize who wore it, he would even call them by name, urging them to give no further ground than necessary.
Eventually a Lavellan knight wielding a large axe began to force his way through the line, a few meters to Wulfsurd’s left. With each swing he knocked a Sarkanian back into the arms of his fellows or to the ground, and his size and strength seemed a match for three others. As he pressed on hacking further into the ranks, more Lavell filled in after him, widening it, and Wulfsurd swore to himself and urged Arian to stay as he rode closer.
Wulfsurd jumped down off his horse, taking his sword in his hands, and reached the axe-wielding monster just before the final two ranks were broken. “Push them back!” Harik yelled, forcing his way into the battle-line and shoving the axe-wielder backwards before he could harm another.
The Lavellan grunted, then swung his axe overhead and down onto Harik, who raised his sword with a hand on either end of the blade. The two weapons collided with a mighty clang, but the monster of Lavell was no stronger than the beast of Sarkana and soon Harik forced the axe up, then backwards, then down, pinning the weapon behind the enemy’s back. Harik then pulled, forcing the knight closer to him while he threw his own head forward, smashing his head into the knight’s visor with so much force that he was stunned. Then Harik repeated the move and smashed him again, this time releasing his grip and letting the knight stumble backwards and to the ground.
A roaring cheer erupted around him from the Sarkanians, and the few Lavellan who did not pull back from the break were forced to do so by their enemy. Harik stepped over the Lavellan, placing his foot on the knight’s helmet and forcing it backwards to expose the chainmail that protected his neck. “I thought you’d be better,” Harik told him, disappointment in his tone as he forced the end of his sword through the chainmail and into the knight’s throat. The knight gurgled, blood began to pool and Harik withdrew his weapon and stepped back from the combat.
“Harik, are you unharmed?” Shouted Arian, but Harik merely gave him a nod and climbed back onto his horse to continue shouting orders.
The battle continued to rage, and arrows continued to fall sporadically. Behind the melee fighting the archers had continued to fire into each other’s ranks, and many were now wounded or dead on both sides. Yet with ammunition running low the ranged combat was coming to an end, and several archers drew short swords and began moving into the rear of the melee combat to reinforce the infantry.
Despite fierce attempts by untold warriors the battle remained a stalemate, swinging in the favour of neither side. The Sarkanian numbers were slightly greater than their Lavellan foe, but one simple thing forced them into equal footing: the sun. It was bright that morning, the sky clear, and just like had happened to their archers the sun shone into the eyes of those whose backs were to the west.
Seeing this, King Valen II rode with his 600 kingsguard down the slope and sent groups of them to where the line was weakest. Many of those who were mounted left their horses behind the fighting, but several remained to look out across the battle and offer their encouragements. The king was one of them, and he raised his sword high above the knights with Prince Arian and Lord Wulfsurd by his side.
“Fight, brave warriors! Fight for your families, fight for your homes, fight for your country! Fight for your king and to avenge your prince!”
The king’s soldiers were riled by his cries, and they attacked ever harder.
-
On the southern flank, some way from the fierce fighting, Lord Edmund Gray sat at the head of a thousand mounted knights and men-at-arms. They were all of them eager, their weapons drawn, their helmets secured, waiting only for some signal to charge. There was only one issue: the Lavellan had their own mounted soldiers on the opposite side of the field, and they stood at a tactical stalemate as the infantry battle raged.
If either of the mounted detachments moved to support the main line, the other would ride and flank them. Their only option was to attack and defeat the other, but up until that point neither had been given the order to advance. Lord Gray knew why, having been told by the king early that morning: Armand wished to drag the battle out for as long as possible, and Edmund was to oblige him.
From his position Edmund could see the eastern side of the valley, could spot Armand and his guard stay back from the fighting and pass orders to messengers who ran about the field to the various Lavellan commanders. Edmund didn’t know why he did this; there was little in the way of large-scale unit tactics, of advanced formations, feints or plots. It was an old-fashioned brawl, where the cavalry was held at the flank as security in the case of the unexpected. Edmund was glad of it – mounted knights in full armour often came out of battles unharmed, for even if they were defeated, they would be kept alive for ransom. He knew he was not the warrior that Wulfsurd was, nor the strategist that his king was known to be, but he was a Duke and that gave him a position of command. Even so he looked forward to the idea of defeating the arrogant and snivelling Marquis Souchon, who commanded the cavalry of his foe.
“Lord Duke,” a man called to him, pointing across the valley field to where a rider galloped towards the Marquis from the direction of King Armand. “They send a messenger.”
“Do they plan to attack?” The duke asked himself, watching carefully as the messenger came to a halt by the Marquis and passed to him an order. “They do,” the duke answered himself. The Lavellan cavalry suddenly drew their weapons, and with the Marquis sounding a horn they set off in a trot directly towards them.
“We must meet their charge,” the duke told the man by his side, “sound the order to advance.”
The knight nodded, then raised the Sarkanian flag high upon a pole and waved it. “They advance, and we advance now to meet them!” The knight called out. “Follow the duke now into battle and bring glory to our brothers!”
“Attack!” The duke cried, bracing his lance-like spear forward and setting off into a trot. The Lavellan were in full gallop now, but the Sarkanians soon caught them in speed, and like two storms they rolled across the field against each other only to collide with horrendous thunderous roars.
Instantly the duke’s lance broke against a Lavellan’s breast, but it knocked the man down from his steed to be trampled by others. He went on, he and his closest men breaking the enemy charge and piercing deep into its ranks like the point of a wedge. Behind them their allies filled in to support, but the deeper they went the more that point became enveloped by their enemies’ steel and the advance slowed to a savage, crawling melee. The duke was forced to throw away his spear and draw his sword, then use it to attack the men to the right of him while his shield defended him from those at his left.
“The Marquis has fallen!”
Those words were called several times before men realized what they meant, and soon it was being repeated across the battle by knights of both sides. “The Marquis has fallen!” The Sarkanians yelled with glee. “The Marquis has fallen!” The Lavellan cried with devastation.
The duke hadn’t seen it, couldn’t verify the truth of the words, but the more they were shouted the more likely they became. There was only one thing to do now; slog through and beat the rest of them.
-
“The Marquis has fallen in battle,” the Lavellan messenger cried, riding up to King Armand with urgency.
Armand was sat upon his steed, surrounded by his mounted guard, and swore under his breath at the news. “Damn him!” Armand then shouted. “Damn him twice!”
“Calm down, my liege,” said Alaric Laurens, who sat mounted by his side and watching the battle. “The reinforcements will be here soon, we need only tie down their mounted knights long enough for them to arrive. Valen has already committed his guard to the melee, so they have no-one else they can spare.”
“You are right of course,” Armand replied, watching Alaric carefully. It was almost unnerving how similar Alaric looked to Armand’s own son Antoine, with his short dark hair and narrow jawline. But Antoine had died, and no matter how much Alaric resembled him his eyes were far too blue to be of his own blood. Far too blue… But piercing, commanding…. Perhaps they were why Armand had come to trust him so much. “You will go and take command there, Alaric. Do not seek to drive them off the field, just rally the men and keep the enemy fighting! We are so close to victory; we need just a little longer!”
“Your will, my liege,” Alaric replied, then without another word he took off riding towards the southwest – and the fierce cavalry engagement that was taking part there.
The battle had remained a stalemate, Armand having ordered his soldiers before the fighting to win if they could, but to focus on keeping them pinned. They were doing that job in a most beautifully Lavellan way, and even from his viewpoint away from the combat he could see King Valen and his remaining son battle alongside their loyal soldiers. Armand wished that they would surrender, that the battle would come to a quick and sudden end so that they might join him as his own, but if not, he had no qualms about putting them all to death.
Another hour passed, the death toll growing ever higher despite the initial ferocity of the fighting drained away by fatigue. Men were no longer fighting like bears but making brief forays into combat with their foe before the aching muscles forced them to pull back again to take their turn to rest. Armand smiled at this, then turned south to see how Alaric had now stabilized the situation there despite the Sarkanian’s initial advantage.
“King Armand, men to the north!”
Armand snapped his head in that direction to see a thousand fresh soldiers fill the narrow space that led out of the valley, a proud Lavellan banner held by the commander. The banner was waved high, signalling one thing extremely clearly to all: reinforcements had arrived.
“They’ve come!” Armand yelled, clapping the nearest knight on the shoulder with his hand. “They’ve finally arrived! Quick now, mount your horses, draw your swords, we join the battle before it ends!”
The men at the north of the valley began marching south towards the battle-line, while Armand and his guards charged west into the thick of the fray. When all were there to get their taste of glory, when Armand was so busy trying to find blood that he could not notice, the reinforcements dropped their Lavellan standard to the ground.
Instead they raised Sarkanian banners, and at their head Lord Colbert and Sir Anselm appeared with weapons drawn and intentions clear. “Warriors,” Sir Anselm cried out, his voice gruff with decades of battle and command, “kill the Lavellan cowards!”
-
Prince Arian parried away a spear thrust from his saddle, then drove his blade down into the chest of an unarmoured foe. Quickly he pulled the blade free again, then turned and struck another in the back of the head who cried and went down. Near him, his father fought just as ferociously, and a little way down the line Wulfsurd’s prowess proved so great that Lavellan knights made a space around him that they dared not enter.
“Fight on, men! Kill them all! Our reinforcements come, and victory is ours!” Yelled the king.
Arian was perplexed for a moment but looked northward to find a thousand men charging into the flank of the Lavellan ranks, then pushing around into their rear. Suddenly the Lavellan line began to collapse, its men dying, throwing down their weapons or attempting to flee a great and sudden slaughter. It began in the north, but very quickly it escalated and rolled down the entire Lavellan front until suddenly Arian saw the Sarkanian soldiers near him charge forward to cut down the fleeing.
He looked south, watched as the Lavellan cavalry tried to peel off and save the battle, but Lord Gray merely ran his mounted knights into their flanks and soon they were in utter disarray.
And just like that, the Sarkanians had won. His father had won. But his brother was still dead.
“Armand!” Arian’s father suddenly screamed, having spotted the Lavellan king trying to flee on his horse. Valen rode after him, and Arian followed, but several of Armand’s mounted guard turned their horses around in a suicidal stand to let their lord escape the field. Valen managed to race through them, but Arian was too slow and forced to engage them.
Valen kept riding harder, chasing Armand across the valley floor. The distance slowly began to close, and Valen lifted a spear from the ground and held it to throw. He waited, growing closer, then aimed the spear tip and drew his arm back until finally he launched it as a javelin straight for Armand’s horse. It missed, and Valen swore, and then suddenly fell silent as an arrow was shot through his throat.
As his horse came to a slow stop King Valen II raised a trembling hand to his unexpected wound, the shaft between his fingers and his palm growing wet with his own warm blood. He took his hand away to look at it, then turned his horse around to see Arian screaming. Strange… He couldn’t hear him. He turned his eyes upwards to look at the blue sky one last time, then everything went dark.
“FATHER!”
Arian’s scream made the battlefield seem silent, but he could do nothing but watch as the king fell from his horse. He was galloping, hard, his only intention being to jump from his steed and tend to his king… But then he saw Armand turn back to look and smile.
Arian rode past his father’s body, his horse’s gallop turning to flight, as though the very wind itself pushed it to ride faster across the terrain. Arian held his blade ready, preparing himself as he grew closer and closer to the Lavellan king who tried desperately to escape. Armand reached the eastern hill, but it was steep and he was slowed, and Arian suddenly caught him with a wide swing of his sword.
Armand was knocked to the ground, his arm audibly breaking beneath him as the prince dropped his sword and dismounted. He stood over the king’s broken form, then began to kick him, and stamp on him, and then dropped down so that he could begin thrusting his fists into the plate that protected his face. Armand must have begged the prince to stop, but the prince could hear nothing but blood.
Eventually the kingsguard arrived and dragged Arian from Armand, keeping him restrained until his all-consuming grief and anger began to drain away for reason to take hold. “Take him in chains,” Arian eventually ordered, while Armand was curled into a ball and weeping on the hill’s slope.
-
Many were dead. His brother Caden, his father the king, and over two thousand more who fought and died so that he could stand there on the field in victory. Arian did not know whether to scream in anger or to cry, or to drop down onto his own sword and hope that it took him too.
“My lord,” a knight tried to say to him, but Arian completely ignored him and passed him with a step.
They had won, but Arian had lost. He was alone now, alone with an army he did not know what to do with, with victory over a king and a country he could care no less about. He did not want Lavell, or the glory of winning, he wanted the blood that pooled in the field to drain backwards into the bodies, and for them to stand up and walk backwards to their camps. He wanted time to reverse to when his father had first made the decision to start the war that was now left in his hands, and he wanted the king to instead announce there would be no war at all.
He wanted his father and brother back.
Arian took off his helmet and dropped it to the ground, and his eyes began to burn with tears that he was too numb and stubborn to cry. He sniffed, then with a steely gaze he devoured the blue sky until Harik Wulfsurd began walking towards him in battle-stained armour.
“Arian,” Harik said, his voice low and solemn.
“What is it, Harik?” Arian eventually answered, suddenly noticing that Harik had something in his hands. Harik looked at him and took a deep breath, then revealed a ruby and silver pendant that had been worn by his father.
“This belongs to you now, my prince,” Wulfsurd said, dropping it into Arian’s opened hand with deep sadness.
Arian looked at it, ran his thumb over it, then looked back up at Wulfsurd in silence.
“My king,” Wulfsurd addressed him, as he stepped back and bowed alongside all the soldiers around them.
Arian closed his eyes, and with a toss he threw the amulet down into the grass. “I am not your king,” he assured, then turned and walked away.