Frederick hated the woods. When he was still a youth prone to flights of fantasy, they had filled him with a sense of wonder. Reality killed those dreams long ago. As he low-crawled, twigs and dirt scratched and clung to his unshaven face. Each blow rekindled his hatred until it stoked the heat in his heart to untenable levels.
Now he was forced to prowl this wretched forest once more, all because some fool in command insisted that his unit track down rebel forces. They called it reconnaissance, but to Frederick it was madness. It was natural that you would find the enemy if you dared to delve deep into his lands. Frederick hoped to find nothing and longed for nothing more than to return to his steed. The horse was tied to a tree, hidden a half-mile back through labyrinthian woods. The rest of his squad leisurely watched over the lucky beast.
They were cowardly ingrates. Bastards, he thought as he crawled inches at a time, Cowards. En route, they had discussed drawing lots for this perilous task. Upon arrival, his sergeant issued orders instead. “Private Juergen,” he had said, in a tone Frederick knew was mocking, “You’ll scout ahead. Spot the camp and get back. We’ll go in force after dark.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Send me at midday to spy. All because I haven’t seen a battle. The rest had. All of them. The sergeant had fought at least a dozen skirmishes against the thrice-cursed rebels and he never failed to remind his men, Frederick in particular, of that fact. See here Juergen, I’ve shot twenty of the bastards and run down another dozen.
His elbows had run raw from dragging himself through the dirt. His lungs ached for a reprieve. Sweat stung at his eyes. He wiped them clean again and again. It was a fruitless endeavor. Bugs buzzed and nibbled at his ears. They nipped at the back of his neck and left behind a trail of angry welts in their wake. Bastards, Frederick thought, I hate the woods, I hate them all.
He was certain that not one of them understood his hatred. They would if they had seen what he had. A rabbit disemboweled, savaged by a silver fox. It had glared at him with enraged eyes framed above a bloodstained muzzle. Spiders, clothed in the tell-tale signs of venom, danced on webs that stretched across the trees. Each served as the tomb of untold numbers of songbirds.
Serpents slithered through the undergrowth. They were patient hunters, willing to wait days for the opportune time to strike. The stench of his father’s rotting leg as venom turned veins black and blood thick. The barber-surgeon tried to saw it off above the knee while his drunken father buried his teeth in a leather strap. His father had bled out that night.
There was no mercy to be had here. Nature knew nothing of justice. Only life and death. This is not a place for men, raged Frederick as he continued to crawl, It’s a lair for thieves and murderers. I’d burn it to the ground in a heartbeat. As he fumed, he heard a hawk cry out overhead. Then the first drop of rain slapped against a leaf. Another one came soon thereafter followed by another and another until they became a torrent of torture that slapped incessantly against his back. I have died and this is hell.
In minutes the forest transformed into a muddy wasteland. Clumps of wet earth clung to his elbows and forearms like leeches. Exhaustion overcame him. Frederick’s lungs turned into fiery infernos and his vision went black. With his face buried in the muck, he panted like a dog for what seemed an eternity. In time, his heart slowed its manic tempo.
I should turn back, he thought desperately, I can’t go on. He knew all too well that this was not an option. Retreat meant flogging or hanging. Perhaps even a summary execution by firing squad here, in this forest. The last thing he would ever see would be the smirking faces of those cowardly bastards. His corpse would be a meal for pathetic vermin too weak to scrounge up food on their own.
I could run. I could give myself over. Join the rebellion. They can’t be any worse. Frederick forced himself into a sitting position as the summer storm threatened to drown him. He dug his carbine out of the mud and examined it. Damn, he thought as he tried to clear the chamber of muck, At least I shouldn’t need to fire it. I hope.
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Frederick unloaded the weapon and continued to dig at the chamber, but after a few moments, it struck him as futile. He reloaded the carbine, successfully chambered a round, and prayed it wouldn’t be needed. Resigned to his fate, he stood up, unwilling to continue his crawl and certain that the ongoing rain would conceal his movement. All I have to do is lay eyes on the camp. That’s it. Nothing more. These thoughts failed to reassure him, but he moved on all the same.
As he trekked through the woods the rainfall began to peter off. Mud caked his beaten boots and some seeped through the cracks. His feet squelched with each step. A cold rage brewed in Frederick’s chest but failed to come to fruition. He froze in place. The local fauna had been stilled by the rain and they remained imperceptible to him. The sounds he heard were not made by beasts. Frederick’s heart beat faster. They were voices.
He pressed his carbine’s butt hard into his shoulder and peered around the woods cautiously. He saw nothing save oaks shivering as water dripped from their leaves. Move Frederick, move. Each step forward came slowly as if his feet had been encased in lead. His hips burned as he strained to keep each footfall light. The voices grew louder. Frederick dashed behind one ancient oak and tried to still his thundering heart. Blood pounded in his ears. The pulsing tattoo drowned out whatever words were said.
Once he finally calmed himself, he peaked around the tree and saw a pair of men, clothed in dark leathers and armed with hunting rifles. They walked slowly away from him. Their voices were cautiously low. He waited for them to move out of sight and, despite all good sense, prowled after them as silent as death. The trek led him up a stony hill rendered slick from the rain. The two men seemed to run up effortlessly while Frederick struggled to reach its crest. When he did his eyes bulged painfully in their sockets.
Before him lay a large clearing in the forest filled by a vast encampment. Frederick’s jaw went slack. He struggled to count the number of tents and gave up once passing a hundred. Countless fires seared meat and boiled stews. Soldiers darted around like ants. Intermingled among them were a handful of men in archaic suits of gleaming steel plate armor. There must be thousands, he thought in terror, An invasion force.
His eyes continued to skirt around the camp, desperate for information. They fell upon what appeared to be the largest tent, located near the center. It was a good hundred yards away, at the least, but he could make out a figure in golden armor. Its face was encased in a lion’s head helm. Frederick’s knuckles burst white as they squeezed against his carbine.
I could end it here, he thought madly, I’ve made this shot before. Doubt settled into his shoulders. Those shots had all been made in training against stationary targets with cleaned and zeroed rifles. Before he could decide to take aim or flee the man in the lion’s head helm turned and looked at him. Straight at him.
“No, no, no,” spat Frederick as he stood up. The no became a shrill screech as he collapsed backward and rolled down the stony hill. Above him, voices rang out.
A deep baritone roared, “Find the others! Leave this one to me.”
Frederick struggled to his feet and looked up the hill. The brute in golden armor stood upon its crest. In one hand it held a claymore wreathed in flame. Fear twisted Frederick’s guts into knots and bile rose in his throat. His fingers felt like cold sausages as he took aim and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He pulled the trigger again. Click. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks and blurred his vision.
“And so it was, that the spirit of the One filled his soul, and he was moved,” called out the fiend in golden armor as his soldiers rushed down the hill and ran past Frederick. Riders in steel plate raced past them all upon their massive destriers.
“What is he saying? What is he saying?” blubbered Frederick madly.
“And he spoke,” continued the man in golden armor as he slowly descended the hill, “Saying woe unto those who would enslave my people. For I will fill the righteous with my fury and my power and they will unleash my vengeance upon all defilers.” He loomed over the pitiful private. “For my wrath is terrible to behold.”
He clapped down on his prey’s bare head with a naked hand and lifted him bodily from the ground. His fingers became molten metal. Frederick let out a single, drawn-out cry as his hair crisped to ash and his skull melted away under the unrelenting heat. The lion’s fingers punched through dripping flesh and bone. Steam heralded their descent. Private Frederick Juergen’s vision went black as death embraced him.