Chapter 1 – First Blood
The weight of the pack was overwhelming. It must have been the heaviest thing that Abel had ever borne. Grey canvas straps tugged at his shoulders, digging into his now tender skin. Well into their seventh hour of marching without any reprieve, it had been a grueling journey. The spear in Abel’s hand was laid across his right shoulder, bouncing and bobbling with each step. He had shifted the spear in every possible manner, stretching his arms from bent to straight. Again he switched arms in hopes the march would somehow become easier. And this damn belt knife? It rubbed and dug at his hip, no matter where he seemed to place it. His legs felt like fire from covering league after league. They had traveled at a blistering pace, nearly jogging the entire way. His hamstrings were tight like bowstrings freshly strung, and his calves were begging for a halt.
Abel recalled the march, trying to calculate how much ground they had covered. His footfalls had shortened over the past few hours, but he guessed it averaged to 3 spans per stride: over six leagues and likely forty-eight thousand steps. Forty-eight thousand times that blasted spear had struck his shoulder. It was madness to think that these men did this so effortlessly. Was it effortless? The men around Abel appeared stoic and courageous, at least from what he could see of their faces. Darkness blanketed the rocky plains here. Jagged outcroppings littered the so-called paths. Small rocks plunged into the sole of his boots, emphasizing every agonizing step. The platoon carried no torches or lanterns, instead using the dim glow of a waning moon, which ducked behind small patches of darkness far too often. This side of the mountain was seldom used, and that was the exact reason their platoon traversed it silently and swiftly this very night.
Abel was unfamiliar with the lands they crossed now, north of Lake Top. He had spent 17 years rambling across the woods and lakes of home with his friends and father, Caleb, but he had never known anything beyond their crisp alpine waters and snow-covered peaks. Here, the jagged rocks had a dangerous, wild feel. Their platoon finally stopped, as quiet fists went up to signal a halt. A few men at the front of the formation dropped their gear and scurried into the darkness, out of Abel’s sight. The men around him diligently took a knee in a neat formation, arranging themselves in an elongated oval, facing outward. He wanted to lay down, slumping to the ground with exhaustion, but he forced himself to stay upright and scan the darkness around him.
Abel looked to the rear of the formation, where he noticed several men sitting hunched over. Some were even laying down, while others rummaged through their packs for waterskins or rations. Abel heard hushed whispers and groans emanating from the men. A gaunt, lean man walked purposefully to the back of the column, a corporal from what Abel could make out. The man was making harsh gestures and stifled curses at the layabouts, likely scolding them for making too much noise or breaking ranks. Who could blame them? Abel felt himself to be decently fit. He had spent the last eight months apprenticing as a blacksmith, working under Master Finley. Caleb, Abel’s father, had convinced Abel that learning the forge and seeing the properties of various metals in action would help his studies. His father coerced Abel into all sorts of odd jobs over the years.
This latest endeavor had been challenging, but Abel enjoyed it tremendously. He loved the precision of it all. And, hours of laboring in the forge had made him stronger. When he first started, he would tire in minutes from hammering at the soft metal. Now, he could swing all day long and with far more force. Each blow hardened his arms and shoulders, making them pulse with a feeling of power.
Unfortunately, all those hours at the forge were no match for this journey. Abel breathed deeply, trying to savor the moment of rest. He caught a glimpse of the forward scouts returning already and making their report to the platoon sergeant, Hannibal. Abel knew what was next. Already men were shouldering their packs and preparing to march forward yet again. Why were they keeping this blistering pace? As he stood up, already dreading the walk ahead, a quiet swish pierced the air. One of the men in the rear of the column screamed in agony and hit the ground writhing in pain. Abel could see the faint shadow of something long sticking out of his upper thigh. An arrow. ‘Not good,' Abel thought in a panicked rush.
His mind flashed back to one of the books he and his father Caleb read as a young teenager, ‘Modern Internals and Major Parts of the Human Figure’. A significant artery ran down the leg right where that man was struck. If it was pierced, he would have only minutes to live. How to staunch the bleeding? A tourniquet perhaps, but where would he find one? A gaggle of men in the back stared in awe and disbelief at the wounded man. Mumbles increased to shouting at the back of the group as they called out, “Attack, from the rear!”.
More cries, "Archers!"
Most of the shouts were incoherent gasps as the men stumbled into a messy formation. Over a small rise in the distance, Abel could see a faint glow. Something was alight beyond that outcropping.
A bellowing, firmer voice came from behind him, angry and loud but surprisingly clear. The Sergeant, Hannibal, shouted, “Break contact! Platoon break contact forward, put distance between us and the archers!” Several more arrows fell among the ranks to the rear, narrowly missing two men. Many had huddled down, kneeling, unsure of what to do. A few men fled toward the front of the column, running from the arrows as directed. "Idiots!" the loud voice shouted again. "Grab that bloody man!" A short, stocky soldier with a wild beard grabbed the wounded man, trying to help him upright. Torches came into sight over the outcropping now, and Abel could vaguely make out almost ten silhouettes. The shadowy figures were far, nearly out of range from a longbow. Their platoon numbered twenty-five, but they carried no bows. It would be difficult to charge the attackers without taking heavy losses. If they moved closer, they would risk being cut down as they came into optimal bow range. For the moment, they still had the darkness of night, keeping them partially veiled from the attackers.
The stocky man in the rear struggled to hoist the fallen soldier. Giant arms grasped the injured man and draped the spindly arms over bulky shoulders. The weight of the injured man was too much, arms flailed as the men stumbled. Two bodies tangled awkwardly, and the arrow jutting from the man’s leg snapped. The injured man screamed again, producing a blood-curdling sound. Abel winced, recalling his anatomy lessons again. He could see the wounded leg clearer now, and bright red blood spurted out where the arrow shaft once was. He knew that as the heart continued to pump, blood would escape quickly, like an upturned wineskin with no cork. “Men only have so much blood," his father once told him, “And you can’t put it back once it’s gone." Abel snapped into action, sprinting toward the man. He came skidding to a halt on the loose pebbles and pinned his knee hard into the injured man's groin. "ARFGHH!" the man let out an unintelligible shout as Abel pressed his full weight down. The stout soldier to his left looked at him bewildered.
“Your pack!” Abel said, “Cut the straps off and tie them together now!” Still looking unsure, the man obliged him and quickly shrugged off his canvas pack, shearing the straps with his spearhead.
Another volley of arrows fell within arms-length of their group. Six arrowheads smashed and clattered against the rocky soil. Too damn close, Abel thought. As the broad soldier tied the strips, Abel strained to reach a snapped arrow shaft. He needed to keep pressure on the man’s groin, compressing it to stop the blood from escaping the wound. The wounded man struggled and gasped beneath him. Abel saw his face for the first time. Sharp, chiseled features were hiding behind his shoulder-length chestnut hair. Last time Abel had seen him, his hair was tied back. He recognized the older man as a miller from the nearby village. He had seen him once before delivering newly made horseshoes with Master Finley. The stocky man handed Abel the length of canvas. Abel ran the strip under the man's injured leg and up above the wound, still fighting to keep his knee on the man's groin. He tied a knot and quickly stuck the shaft through it, cinching down. He released the pressure from his knee, and the miller let out a sigh of relief. Abel immediately twisted the arrow shaft like a windlass, tightening the canvas strip around his leg. The man gargled and yelped again as Abel made one final turn and secured it with the remaining length of canvas.
"Help me get him up," Abel said to the stocky fellow. As he glanced around, Abel noticed much of the platoon had retreated, and only a few stragglers were remaining. Hannibal remained, still shouting orders across the field, but he now held a man slung across his shoulders. When had that happened? He spun towards Abel and the two others.
Hannibal yelled with ferocity, “Move you blasted idiots!”. Abel started to stand with the weight of the injured miller and paused for the stocky fellow to help him. Thank the gods that he did help because his legs would barely straighten to stand. In his head, Abel pleaded with his limbs ‘Move, just move!'
The burning sensation was incredible, hotter than the fires of Master Finley’s forge. He feared that he might collapse at any second from the strain. He managed to take his first step, suppressing the urge to give in to the pain and exhaustion. Somehow, amazingly, he managed to take another step, larger this time. And another. They increased their pace as they saw the final few soldiers peeling away towards the retreating column. Shouting from ahead urged him and his two partners along. Abel glanced over his shoulder as he ran. The young man noted the flames and silhouettes were now in front of the crest and not on top. The attackers had left their position and started the pursuit. Cursing under his breath, Abel plunged forward, unsure of where to go. He could see the massive shadow of the platoon sergeant, Hannibal, making his way forward and still shouldering the wounded man. Ahead were more dark figures, making for a rock formation. A head-sized stone struck Abel’s foot as he ran and cursed again. The leather boot cushioned the blow slightly, but good night that hurt! Damn this darkness; he wished they would light some bloody torches already.
The rock formation was tall, towering upward into the night sky. Only two dozen spans wide, it was barely enough to shelter their platoon for now. Men pinned their backs to the rock formation, making space for Hannibal, Abel, and the other men. Completely spent, Abel nearly threw the injured man to the ground and collapsed to his hands and knees panting. He had never run so hard in his life. Several men were huddled tightly together in the center, trying to be certain they were behind the cover of the rock formation. Between heaving breaths, Abel spotted Hannibal surveying the surroundings. He also glimpsed the miller reaching for the tourniquet. "Leave it!" Abel managed to let out a gasping shout. The miller reluctantly pulled his hand back, laying back and groaning again.
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"Bloody sons of pigs!" Hannibal cursed. "Those mongrels will have us pinned now," he pondered. Still looking around, Hannibal had a look of defiance on his face. "Put those wounded men against the wall there," he pointed. "First squad, prepare to move. Second squad, you hold here until you see our torches light up. Then, you charge those forsaken goat heaps, and you charge them hard. Boys, you're going to be running fast, so ground your packs and get ready to move. You’re about to run harder than you ever have in your life.” Abel let out an exasperated laugh. Still on the ground, he wondered where he would ever find the energy to run yet again. He saw the rest of the platoon hastily slipping out of their packs and stacking them near the wall. “First squad, form up on me," Hannibal grunted as he pointed to Abel, "and you boy grab your torch and flint."
This couldn't be happening, he thought. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down. It was surreal. Abel could see everyone around him at once. One man gestured with his fingers across his chest, signing a hope prayer to Mainar. Another man closed his eyes and rested his head against his spear, mumbling something under his breath. The miller sidled up against the rock and clutched his bloodied leg, still rocking from the pain. The man Hannibal had carried was lying unconscious on his side, breathing shallow, ragged breaths. Hannibal was grabbing a man by the shoulder and directing him into the second squad’s budding formation. It was all so slow, like Abel could reach out and stop them from moving. In a heartbeat, it all came flooding back into reality. Like a torrent of water being released from a dam, it made him feel sick as it all returned. He quickly fetched the torch and flint from his pack as he made it to his feet on unsteady legs. His legs no longer burned. Instead, they felt soft and shaky, like a baker’s doughy bread that hadn’t been cooked yet.
Hannibal peered around the corner of the rock formation and quickly pulled his head back. “Ready boys? Run!”. No, no, no Abel thought. He wasn’t ready. First squad took off into the night at a full sprint with Hannibal at their head. Abel heard distant shouts from the assailants and watched as arrows fell behind the rushing men. What were they doing? They dashed furiously across the barren landscape. Only it wasn’t barren. Ahead there was another series of spires, dotting the horizon like giant tombstones. Air rushed over his face. His golden hair was matted with sweat, now cold from the crisp night air. He was running. Abel quickly overcame the rearmost soldier and caught up to the pack. He dared not look back for fear of tripping. The squad was nearly shoulder to shoulder, scrambling to keep their footing on the loose rocks. Black tombstones loomed over them now, much larger than Abel had realized. Hannibal reached the stone formation first, ushering the rest of the squad to duck behind him. Were they a diversion? No sooner than they had stopped, Hannibal barked the order to light the signal. Abel fumbled for a pouch on his belt. Quickly, he thought to himself. That damn belt knife made opening his pouch difficult. "Hurry," Hannibal groaned at him. He removed the flint, striking it against steel and igniting the oil-soaked torch. Light pierced the vail of darkness around them, making Abel see opaque spots of white in his vision.
From their original position, second squad charged headlong into the assailants. Battle cries echoed against the stone graveyard as the soldiers ran. Hopefully, they were close enough to the archers now, but Abel could hardly see with the torchlight washing out his vision. "To second squad!" Hannibal let out in a hoarse roar. Mainar smite me, Abel thought, are we really running again?! Before he could blink, first squad was off again. They just covered a hundred paces across this plain. Surely his legs would never carry him back. But just as he had before, he found himself barreling towards the enemy, dropping his torch and hoisting his spear. His squad diverged as they ran awkwardly, clearly winded but trying desperately to make it to the fight. Hannibal bounded to the front, seemingly untouched by exhaustion. The hardened Sergeant quickly outpaced the group, dashing faster and faster. Abel felt himself wavering, his breaths getting deeper and ragged. The group was pulling away. No, he told himself, I won't give in. Keep moving. The torchlit battlefield was coming into view now. For the first time, he could make out the once shadowy forms of the assailants. As tall as humans, but slender and hunched. Large points rose above their heads. Some of ears drooped, either missing or deformed. The assailants wore tattered black garments, with wooden ornamented planks dangling like makeshift armor. Their skin was pale and sickly against the glow of the torches. Getting closer, Abel could see the green, pock-marked skin. Goblins.
Abel could see the men of the second squad had engaged the attackers. There was no formation or order to the fight. Ahead to the right, three men crouched with spears at the ready probing small thrusts at a taller goblin missing both of his pointy ears. To the left, two goblins had pinned a man to the ground with teeth bared. One goblin was plunging a dagger into a soldier’s gut, while another creature raked and ripped at the man’s face and helmet. Sharp green fingers plunged into the man’s face, pulling away stringy flesh. Abel noticed several other bodies lying lifeless in the rocks. Directly ahead, Hannibal closed the final distance into the fight.
A soldier and goblin were engaged, spear and axe clashing noisily. Abel watched as Hannibal quickly extended his arms, thrusting his spear into the unsuspecting goblin's upper torso, punching the spear tip through his chest. The steel glistened briefly against the torchlight before being covered in bubbling blood. Hannibal quickly yanked the spear free and spun to slash another nearby foe. Before Abel realized it, he too had covered the final stretch. A fresh rush of excitement and terror fueled him into action. He bared down on a goblin that was retrieving his axe from a fallen soldier's chest. Thrusting will all his might, Abel hesitated. Where do I aim? The thought came too late, and already he had committed his lunge into the goblin's midsection. Abel felt the wood of the assailant's armor splintering, mitigating the blow. Sharp steel still penetrated the shoddy armor, but only a fist deep into the goblin’s belly. How had Hannibal made it look so easy? Bloodshot eyes locked with Abel’s.
The goblin twisted away and hacked wildly with his axe at the spear's shaft. The move drove Abel's spear to the ground, smashing the steel head hard against the rocky soil. Abel recoiled and pulled the spear in, preparing for another thrust. Before he could set his feet, the goblin bowled forward, bringing his axe swinging upward towards Abel's head. He clamored backward out of instinct, narrowly avoiding being split open across his face. Still, the goblin's momentum brought the creature crashing down against him. The two fell, tangled in a mess of flesh, armor, and steel.
Abel was hit with the stench of rot and soiled clothes as the goblin landed on top of him. He immediately felt the instinct to roll and push the goblin off of himself. They tussled momentarily, a mess of clattering wood and flailing arms. Abel pressed unsuccessfully into the rotted wooden chest-plate of the goblin; these bastards were much heavier than he imagined. Leverage, he thought to himself. As the goblin began hoisting himself upright with his arm, Abel swept at the outstretched arm and bucked wildly with his knees and hips. The maneuver worked… partially. The goblin was toppled onto his side, pinning its axe wielding arm temporarily under its body. For a split second, Abel knew what to do. The goblin would have to finish rolling to unpin its arm. The creature would either swing from the supine position laying on its back or roll again to its stomach to push itself upright.
Abel's hand shot to his waist, remembering the last time he had reached for his flint. His palm met with the leather-wrapped tang of his belt knife and closed tightly. In a flash, Abel rolled, jabbing his hand out like lightning. The sickly green figure was still rolling clumsily to untangle its arm. Pointed steel from Abel’s knife met the goblin's exposed neck and buried hilt deep. Warm, pungent blood shot from the wound and Abel heard gargling noise escape the crooked mouth. His fingers drained away from the knife and slapped the ground. A feeling of relief washed over him as he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Abel had never killed anything before. Well, nothing besides small game in the woods around Lake Top.
Abel sat upright, scanning quickly from left to right. There were no goblins left standing. They had defeated them. They won. He slowly used his hand to push himself upright. Looking around, he noticed only a dozen men on their feet. Twenty-four men had set out this night, less the two injured at the beginning of the ambush. The soldiers didn’t win, they survived. He breathed deeply, realizing the immensity of the situation as a sharp pain shot across his chest. Wincing, he hobbled over to his spear and bent down to clutch it with a slick hand. He wiped it lazily on his pant leg and picked up his spear.
Upon further inspection, at least three men had been injured, but not grievously as they were still standing. "Mainar’s ass," Hannibal cursed, "Those green bastards were on patrol, probably stumbled upon us by luck." The rugged Sergeant exhaled in frustration. "Alright boys rally up at the large stone." Hannibal pointed to their first position, where the miller and the unconscious man still lay. The men walked sullenly, without regard to formation or noise discipline. As they approached the rally point, some men sunk to the ground, as others leaned heavily on their spears. Abel sidled up next to the miller and checked his wound. It looked awful, but there were no indications of fresh blood; a good sign. Though, without a proper surgeon, this man would likely lose his leg. How would it be possible to get this man the help he needed? They were leagues from Lake Top now and apparently deeper into goblin territory than he had realized. Or maybe the goblins had moved out further since the number of guards in the region had diminished?
"Listen up," Hannibal sighed. "If that was a patrol, their pack will be expecting them back. And when they don't return, they'll send out another patrol. We only have one choice, to press forward and catch those forsaken goat livers by surprise."
Groans and protests erupted from the group. "No bloody way, we lost too many men!" a young man with a large blunt nose said.
"We have to turn back." Tinsley, a boy who worked under his father as a thatcher, spoke in a pleading voice. "It's hopeless. This was a fool's errand to begin with”. Several other men grunted and nodded in agreement. Abel couldn't help but feel the same inside. He had never seen a man killed before.
Most of the men from Lake Top likely hadn't. Sure, on occasion, someone's father or grandfather took ill. Once several years ago, the inn burned down, killing two visitors asleep in their beds. No one in Lake Top was killed in cold blood. Goblins on the other hand, were vicious. They ruined the bodies of the men they killed, eviscerating them.
Sitting down reflecting, Abel was staggered by the vivid thoughts of his neighbors being mauled; like an invisible blow to his stomach, Abel reeled and moaned inside. Hannibal stepped to the middle of the group and spoke with surprising softness. "Aye, only fools would be out here, but there was no one else…". He trailed off with a distant look. "Times are tough right now boys, but we owe a debt. Talbot’s a good man. Him and his men were protecting our lands while you lot were sleeping cozy like in your beds, while you were busy flirting with milkmaids and getting drunk during Summer's Eve. The rest of the fighting men have been stolen away by King Caprica, so our guard was stretched thin. They worked extra duty to keep you and your parents, your wives, and your children safe. Now, those devil eared bastards took em’ and Mainar smite me, but we are going to try to get them back”. Hannibal spat at the ground, eyes locked downward. No one spoke.