Battle is nothing like the glories boys fantasize as they grow. There is no glory to it, just blood, and gore, and screams, and pain. The king rewards men who return from it, and shrouds them in false glory. This glory sends boys of all ages into a wanderlust for it. This glory is as real as it is tangible.
Ezril spun on his foot, his Sunders outstretched. He cut down two Merdendis closing in on him. Their blood splashed, staining his cloak. He ignored it, and pushed forward, cutting down foes, evading thrusting blades and swinging clubs and dire maces under the heat of the sun.
What should have been an ambush had turned into a battle. Now it raged on for what seemed more than an hour. The soldiers were growing weak, but the Merdendi showed no sign of letting up. They seemed determined to end the soldiers of the fort. And they seemed determined to do it today.
Ezril frowned as he brought down a Merdendi who had just slit a soldier’s throat. The clearing was vast, too vast. They should’ve seen it coming. They should have known it to be a trap.
Ezril’s frown deepened. By Truth! What were we thinking?! he raged. He evaded a swinging club from a huge foe. The force of the wind it carried against his head was enough to ruffle more than his loose hair. He side-stepped the man, then stepped forward, covering over twenty strides in it. He didn’t have time to dally. He needed to find Darvi, and he needed to find him now.
While they’d played war last night, Salem had speculated that the position of the Merdendi made it easy to ambush any attackers. They knew the terrain more than anyone else. It was something Ezril couldn’t understand, seeing that their intel said the Merdendi had only ventured into the forests in the last two years.
Ezril had taken Salem’s opinion to Darvi. His brother had seemed disturbed when he decided they would make a plan around it, a plan that would ensure the survival of them and their brothers.
“The Lord Commander is an experienced man,” Darvi had said. “But he is a man of pride. He would not like to be opposed now of all time.”
Ezril sheathed his Sunders and pulled an arrow from a corpse. He knew nothing of which side owned it. In one swift motion he had his bow in hand, arrow nocked, and released. It brought down a Merdendi from his horse and the beast galloped through the battlefield crushing bones beneath it. Returning his bow, he drew his Sunders again.
He had no idea where Shade was in the madness. The wolf had all but disappeared into it the moment it had begun. Ezril took another step. This one covered a lesser distance of fifteen strides. The larger the distance covered the more energy it drained. The trick was covering the distance in short steps.
“Father Antari!”
Ezril turned—halting in his attempt for another step—to find Commander Vardil cutting his way to him. He clenched his teeth. He had broken rank, leaving the archers he was charged with to storm into the heart of the battle. Right now he didn’t care much of what the commander thought, he had his goal. He surged forward, leaving Vardil in his wake.
“Father Antari!” Vardil barked again. “Father Darvi is that way!”
Ezril turned to find the man pointing in the opposite direction. Strangely, the man didn’t look a moment out of breath. He could’ve been having an evening stroll for all he looked. Ezril sheathed his Sunders to the obvious surprise of the Commander. He unstrapped his bow and fell into a sprint. Vardil offered him a full quiver as he passed him. Where the man had gotten it from, Ezril didn’t know. He chose not to dwell on it.
He threaded upon fallen bodies, weaved his way around clubs and swords, avoiding fights. He pressed forward, dismissing the madness around him. Not long after, his shoulder blades itched.
Ezril turned and brought up his bow and stopped a downward blow from a club. From the edge of his vision he saw two more enemies converging on him. He had no time to reach for an arrow and, inconvenienced, he bore his and the weight of the club on one leg. Twisting his body from beneath the club, he came up beside his assailant, swinging. The end of the bow caught the man at the side of his head. Blood spilled, and the man fell.
Ezril flipped through the air, the length of his body, horizontal, as he slid through the swings of his new assailants. He hit the ground a moment after, rolled on the floor and over a fallen soldier. He came to his feet almost immediately, bow drawn. In quick successions, his arrows took his opponents in the skulls. They fell like trees in a forest, tilting, and, in the madness, without sound.
He turned on his heels and continued, ignoring whatever was behind him.
From the edge of his vision he saw Olufemi slaughtering savage after savage, his face passive. In the madness he seemed no more than a man doing what was required of him. A few paces in front, he saw Darvi protecting the Lord Commander from a Merdendi near seven feet tall. Darvi needed him more than Olufemi. So he made his choice.
Ezril drew closer, arrow nocked, and released. By the time he arrived, his quiver was empty and the man had more arrows than a back as his headless body fell to the floor, courtesy of Darvi.
“What’s going on?” Oddor demanded when Ezril came to a stop.
Ezril turned to Darvi. “What went wrong?”
“It was a trap,” Darvi answered. “They set it up quite nicely. Our intel was wrong. They were fully prepared.” That said, he switched to vrail. “Are we ready?”
Ezril nodded, then reached into his cloak.
It was longer than most and possessed hollow tubes with holes cut into their sides running their lengths. Ezril nocked the new arrow. It was different from the multitude he’d used since the battle had begun. It also surprised him to find they had survived in his cloak. Taking aim, he let it fly skywards. The air ran through the tubes as the arrow cut through it, sending a shrill whistle through its surroundings.
“We have to go, now,” Darvi continued in Vrail. “Where’s Shade?”
Ezril shrugged. “Just get the Lord Commander to safety,” he replied. “I’ll clear the path.”
“Brother.” Darvi cut his exit short. “Here.” He offered him a full quiver.
Ezril took it, nodding his thanks. He drew back on his bowstring and plunged into the madness, arrows flying. Retrieving one of the special arrows from his cloak, he let them fly into the sky at intervals. It set a trail of sounds leading straight to him.
He continued, the whistling sound marking his location. In a few minutes Olufemi was beside him, cutting down any who ventured too close.
They proceeded in their formation, him serving as the guide and Olufemi the guard. They cut down a path and, in time, the King’s guard joined them under the command of Vardil. Where Alphex used the step to increase his distance—very poorly, by Ezril’s observation—to cut down those ahead of them, Olufemi pulled farther ahead in one, whizzing past the soldier by a significant gap.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Ezril smiled as his arrow took the man beside Olufemi in the neck. He could catch up but that would leave the King’s guard behind. And this was a rank they couldn’t afford to break.
“Olufemi!” he called out before his brother took another step through the chaos.
Olufemi responded immediately, falling into a steady pace. Soon, all the soldiers entered a rather haphazard formation, joining them in their goal.
Salem pulled up in front of them on his horse, a pole axe in hand, swinging and cutting down Merdendis. On his stead and with a poleaxe in hand bringing down all beneath him, anyone would believe if he claimed to lead the battle. Soon enough, all his brothers were mounted and heading out of the clearing, into the cover of the forest trees.
Ezril found himself at the rear of the retreat, quiver empty, bow strapped, and Sunders swinging. Cutting down enemies as he moved, the soldiers slowly disappeared among the trees. It was a cumbersome task, easier performed with his bow. But he needed every man dead in one swing, and the Sunders were best suited for the task, even if their use was more tiring. They had evolved into the closing stage of their plan. This was where Ezril and his brothers couldn’t help them anymore.
Shade dashed passed Ezril a moment later, as if following a laid out plan, a Merdendi head in its mouth crimson with blood. On instinct, he reached out and grabbed the wolf’s fur, the hand still holding onto its Sunder. The impact pulled him, jerking him away from the ground. He held on, his grip like steel, unflinching. This was not the first time he’d mounted Shade so. It would not be the last.
Ezril pulled with one arm. The blood on his Sunder stained the fur in more red. The fur was slippery with blood. It made his grip falter as Shade pulled him through the air. Ezril turned, certain not to lose his Sunder, he sheathed the one in his free hand then grabbed another fistful of Shade’s fur. Mounting the wolf was easier from there.
Ezril took stock of the soldiers as Shade passed them. This was a defeat unlike any they had suffered. He doubted they numbered up to two-third of the number that had entered the fight. The Lord Commander would be in a sour mood when they reached the fort, considering they escaped their pursuers.
Increasing the distance between their pursuers was easy. During the battle Ezril and Salem had been tasked with reducing the enemies horse count. The lack of horses on the part of the Merdendi proved essential.
After a period of riding and running, they lost their pursuers in the chaos of trees. They lost more men in the retreat, but no one grieved. They were soldiers. They would survive now, and grieve later. Ezril had no reason for grief, though. But he knew that even if he did, he would be unable to. This was not the time.
They made it out of the forest sometime after, and found themselves bounding towards the fort. The Merdendis didn’t dare follow them so far out on a bright day; the archers on the tower walls would bring them down before they could cover half the distance.
They rode across the drawn bridge, and over the mass body of water surrounding the fort. The maps claimed it streamed in, channeled directly from the raging waters of Truth’s tear. The maps said a lot of things, and Ezril had seen very little things. If asked in what direction Truth’s tear lay, anywhere would be his best guess.
They helped the wounded into the infirmary, and rid the horses of their dead. A few men had made it into the retreat but their bodies were all that was left of them, their souls returned to Truth by one Merdendi arrow or the other.
As the men drew themselves to order, or some form of it, Ezril sought out his brothers. The soldiers cleared a path for him as he moved with Shade beside him. He often wondered if the wolf had stopped growing. Six months ago it finally stood taller than him, a massive wolf. But it had noted no further growth since then. Larger than a wolf. Smaller than a Titan, Ezril thought, it’s length from head to tail well over eight feet.
A few paces to his right he saw commander Vardil engaged in a heated exchange of words with the Lord Commander. Ezril couldn’t blame the commander. The escapade had been nothing but a suicide battle.
He found Salem at the entrance of the infirmary a while later. There Nixarv tended to his wound, a long gash in his fore arm. It was the same arm that he had swung the pole axe from. In it he still held the poleaxe. It was a fine weapon. Grotesque, but fine. The length of its handle, taller than Salem himself, bore strange markings the likes of which Ezril had never seen. He found himself wondering if Father Ulaka would be able to read it.
Of all its features, Ezril found the axe head most alluring. It was a massive crescent that spanned passed the end of the pole, marred with rusts that gave it an aging visage and dried blood from its recent use. It was a beauty. A beauty fit for the world of death they were doomed to.
Ezril caught Salem’s eyes. “Really?”
“It’s a nice thing.” Salem’s fingers flexed around the handle, he guessed his brother would’ve shrugged too if it wouldn’t have disrupted Nixarv’s work. “Easy on the hand, too.”
“And where did you get this nice thing, brother?”
“There were a lot of dead men…”
Takan walked up to them, seeming to come out of nowhere to stand beside Ezril. “I reckon he picked it off some Merdendi corpse. Prolly had piss and shite all over it.” He had a fresh bandage around his head from where Ezril was fairly certain a significant head injury hid. Takan looked at him and frowned. “How come you aren’t wounded?”
Ezril smirked. “Because I don’t fight like a mad man.”
Salem choked back a laugh, gaining a scornful look from Nixarv who then shook his head. “You priests are the same everywhere,” he said. “You take pain like water. It never has an effect on you.” He put the finishing touches on the injury and clipped the thread with a scissor. He turned his attention to Takan’s injury. Takan took a step back.
Ezril smiled. Not all of us handle pain well, doctor.
“I should take a look at that, Father,” Nixarv said, taking a step towards Takan. “Who bandaged you up.”
Takan took another step away from the man. “One of your attendants,” he said quickly. “I assure you she did a good job.”
Nixarv stopped. He seemed to muse on Takan’s words. After a moment, he spoke. “Fair enough. But find me should it cause you any trouble. I don’t need any injuries festering on my watch.” The last part he murmured under his breath as he walked away.
Ezril studied Salem’s cassock. It was the customary black worn by all priests for battle. It was also a mess. “Should I have Darvi put in a request for a new cassock, brother?” he asked.
Salem raised his wounded hand and studied the sleeve. It was in tatters, so was the rest of the cassock, bearing tears all over. “No,” he replied. “I still have more than enough to keep me.”
Ezril nodded.
“Besides,” Salem continued. “I think you need to have Shade cleaned up and hidden away. You’re scaring the soldiers.”
Ezril turned, and noted the wary looks the soldiers bore. The soldiers of the King’s guard, more than others. Unlike those of the fort, it was their first time seeing Shade up close. Ezril snuck a discreet look at Takan. His brother kept a considerable distance between himself and the wolf. Whether it was conscious or not, Ezril didn’t know. But Takan had remained wary of the wolf since that faithful evening at the kennel.
He patted Shade’s furry and muscled neck, letting his hand linger for a while before he dropped it. “Anyone know where Olufemi is?”
“I believe I saw him headed for the tower.” It was Salem who spoke.
Takan Tainted his bandaged head lightly. “I’d bet my bottom coin he’s in his room, behaving like nothing’s happened.”
Ezril smiled and shook his head. “You don’t have a bottom coin, brother,” he said, turning to leave. “You don’t have any coin.”
Ezril watered down Shade at a section of the fort the Lord Commander had set aside for the wolf’s bath upon his request when they first came to the fort. The water hit the ground, tainted in crimson with each drop. He, too, was as wet as the wolf, soaked from head to toe. Washing the beast without getting wet was an impossible task in and of itself.
“Erm… excuse me, Father.”
Ezril turned.
Loren stood a good distance away from him and Shade, fingers fidgeting before her. He couldn’t blame her. She was a stranger Shade still didn’t like. Even standing so far from them, he could feel Shade’s muscles stiffen in preparation for an attack.
“How can I help you, Loren?” he asked.
Loren shuffled her feet on the stone floor, awkward. “Lord Oddor would like to know if there is anything you are against having in your meals.”
Ezril’s brows furrowed. “Why?”
“He has invited you for a meal in his chambers tonight,” she answered timidly, “as thanks for your valor today.”
“And who else will be there?”
“Father Tenshaw, and the other commanders, Father.”
Ezril sighed. He returned his attention to Shade. “No,” he said. “There’s nothing I’m against.”
A while later, Ezril wondered what kind of man would lead his people into a failed battle, then proceed to reward those who had saved him and his commanders for their valor. Personally, he thought it ludicrous.