The sun was shining from a mostly cloud-free sky, casting a bright warm light across the alpine meadow. In front of Ronan birds were flying across the meadow, searching for insects on the ground between the blooming wildflowers and in the air, one could almost believe that they were playing in the gentle breeze. Never good at identifying animals, Ronan did not know what kind of birds these were, just that he had not seen their like before. On the mountain side Daire had spotted some mountain goats when they were getting into formation, looking up, Ronan could still see them. He could not help but wonder if they had any idea about what was about to happen, as they were peacefully wandering the sunny mountain side.
He stole a glance at Daire who was fidgeting with his musket, wondering if his friend shared the same tangle of fear and excitement that had kept Ronan awake through the night. Daire's lean figure had always been a contrast to Ronan's. Where he was broad shouldered, with large muscles from hammering away at his fathers smithy, with dark hair and deep brown eyes, Daire was lean and agile, his physique formed from years working with his family as tanners, his light brown hair was also in contrast to Ronan's. Despite this, the two had spent most of their free time together, growing up in Kestrel. He let out a shaky breath trying to get a handle on the anticipation once again, and could see Daire shooting him a crooked smile. At this very moment Ronan missed home more than he ever had before. In the comfort of the smithy, life was predictable. Here, he had no idea of what was to happen in the next moments of his life.
Ronan knew that Daire was nervous, could see it from the smile he had sent Ronan's way, hell they all were. Ronan and the rest of the levies from his duchy had been placed on the right flank. They had all been supplied with muskets, though he doubted how much they would be worth, and it seemed that the generals agreed with that assessment as they had only been supplied with black powder and lead balls enough for two or three shots.
The men around him were all armed with an assortment of axes, maces, and spears brought from home in addition to their muskets. Ronan was one of the lucky few who had a proper steel sword, on account of him and his father running their own smithy back home in Kestrel. On the long march here, Ronan had to guard the sword carefully, since good steel could well be the difference between life and death. Luckily the officers had been quick to enforce discipline, and after a few floggings, one hanging, and an unfortunate foot stabbing people had learned to keep their hands to themselves.
The front row, which Ronan was fortunate not to be in, all had a square shield from solid wood with a steel rim instead of a musket. From what he had gathered, this was to be their first line of defense against their opponent. The front row were all volunteers, promised triple pay for the risk, either paid to them once they returned home or to their families should they fall. Luckily Ronan and his family had no need of extra money he would much rather keep his life.
He knew only small fragments of what was planned to happen today. He had been drilled in the different horn signals of course. One horn meant begin the advance, two when they could start firing their muskets, and three when the front row could drop their shields and the charge could begin in proper. Only the Lightbringer would know what would happen after this. The camp gossip had been that the Kingsguard would be in the middle, flanked by the levies from the four duchies. This seemed to be true, because here he and the rest of the levies from the Reach were on the right flank.
Ronan hoped that the rest of the gossip was true as well, and the Aetherian Knights had arrived in time for the battle as well. Led by Duke Thorne, duke of the Reach, the Knights were famous across the Kingdom of Sardia and beyond. Each knight carried the blessed blood of Aethor the Lightbringer, and had talents and abilities suited for combat and war. Ronan had seen them train many times, and had even helped his dad craft swords to some of the newer recruits, whose families could not afford swords forged by the masters in the capital. He had no doubt that were they to show up, the battle would be won.
They had all been briefed the night before by their captains, that their enemy, the Duchy of Varn, possessed no blessed knights, the scout reports said that they did not possess any professional soldiers either, so Ronan was not particularly scared of the outcome, all he had to do was survive. Though he had to admit that the high spirit and good humor of the night before had vanished when the Varn army came into view. By his untrained eye they looked closely matched in size, each side easily filling the narrow mountain pass that marked the southern border between the Kingdom of Sardia and the Duchy of Varn, and several ranks deep at that.
His dad had tried to prepare him for what to expect when they had received the call for levies back home in Kestrel. Though from what Ronan knew, this was several times larger than what his dad had ever experienced on his brief time in the army when he was young. Back then, it was mostly border skirmishes on the western border towards the Grass Sea, fighting the barbarians when they tried to raid the border towns. It had been many centuries since last there was a proper war between the Kingdom of Sardia and anyone, much less their neighbor to the south. All the talk of glory Daire and he had imagined during the long march east and south seemed very distant now, stood roughly one kilometer away from the enemy.
Sensing it was about time Ronan began double checking his gear. His hands, rough from years at the forge, fumbled slightly with the musket—he still wasn’t accustomed to handling it. The musket was already loaded and ready to fire the first round, his small supply of three additional rounds and three pre-measured bags of black powder hanging on his right side easy to reach. His small round wooden shield, painted the gold and blue colors of the Reach with the eagle synonymous with the region screeching defiantly in the middle, firm on his back, ready to draw at the charge. He touched the hip length leather doublet, meant to protect from sword slashes, more for his own sake than any real check he had to make, it was snug around his shoulders, felt foreign and heavier than expected, pinching uncomfortably at his sides. His sword, the one he and his father had crafted, was in its sheath just behind the bags for the musket rounds, the clasp unlocked as advised by the captains, so as not to waste time during the charge. It was his one familiar comfort, a weight he knew well, and he rested his hand on it as if drawing strength.
A few counts later, and the horn sounded once to signal the advance. With the horn he could feel his pulse quicken, both in fear and anticipation. The first real battle in a century, and here he was in the middle of it. He heard a horn across the field, and saw the Varnmen beginning the advance as well. Apparently it had been custom for civilized battle to meet in the middle, and it seemed that custom would be carried on.
Ronan was both glad and irritated by the leather gloves they had been supplied with. All this leather was boiling him in the sun, even at this altitude. Though he was certain that he would be sweating anyway, and was glad for the extra grip the gloves afforded him. It would not do to drop the musket now.
To the right of him he saw someone stumble, upsetting the purposeful strides of those behind him. A lot of swearing, and some light jogging and he was back. While occupied with this, Ronan nearly stumbled himself, stepping into a slight indent in the soil. Pulling his attention back to what was in front of him, he saw that the two sides were much closer to each other, it could not be long now.
What felt like a few heartbeats later, and the front row stopped. Orders were given up and down the line to prepare the muskets. They had practiced this drill relentlessly, yet every time felt different, like fumbling through someone else’s steps in a dance. The front row bearing shields, would crouch down and keep the shields steady. Meanwhile the row behind with muskets would aim and fire, and then crouch down allowing for the row behind them to fire. This would be repeated five times, for the five rows of muskets, until time came again for the front row to stand and fire. Repeating three times, for the three rounds they each had. Ronan had his doubts about how it would go this time, seeing they had yet to do it without issue during training.
He checked the musket once again, making sure he at least was ready. He could hear orders being shouted to prepare, and then they were all crouching to stay in cover of the shields. He heard the thunderous bang of several thousand small explosions as the first row fir, and then the rustling of one row crouching and the one in front of him standing up.
Across the field he heard the responding volley, and at the same time several screams as people were being hit. The second row quickly fired, and then it was Ronan's turn to stand up. A slight hesitation, and then he was up just as the thunder of the enemy's second volley rolled across the field. He saw the smoke shrouding the Varn lines, and decided to just aim in the general direction of them. He quickly fired his round, and hurried back down. Whether or not he hit anyone, he would never know.
The volleys were becoming more staggered as they moved behind the lines. Clearly they were not able to fire at the same speed, and Ronan knew his hesitation was mirrored across the lines. He quickly looked right to check on Daire, just to make sure he was unharmed. He saw Daire looking back at him, a slightly manic look in his eyes, one Ronan was sure was mirrored in his own.
The firing had become almost continuous, with the neat volleys they started with dissolving into a chaotic barrage from the rows behind Ronan. Screams echoed through the air as more soldiers were hit, and the wounded lay scattered among the crouching ranks.
A brief pause in the thunderous noise signaled the end of the first round of firing. The screams becoming louder in the absence of other sounds. Then he heard then order for the first line of muskets to fire again, and the cycle repeated once again.
This time when Ronan went up to fire, he could see nothing except a dense and acrid smelling white cloud roving across their own ranks. He quickly fired, still hearing the Varnmen responding to their volleys, with rounds of their own, and crouched back down to reload. Beside him he heard swearing as the man to the left of him, Bramley he believed his name was, dropped his third and last round in the muck, and tried to look for it.
Ronan decided to focus on his own reload, figuring that Bramley was lucky for not having to get up and fire for the last time.
A few more moments spend in the cacophony of sound that was screaming and musket fire, a short break as the first musket row prepared to fire again, and then the cycle restarted for the last time. Ronan was ready, his eyes watering, and short of breath because of all the smoke. He almost looked forward to the charge, and getting away from all of this.
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He saw the men around him rise, and he did the same by reflex. He quickly pointed the musket in the right direction, took his shot, and crouched back down. Relieved to have this first part over with, he laid his musket down on the ground beside him, shot a quick smile at Daire who was still alive and unharmed by the look of things, and began preparing for the charge.
Ronan knew what to expect by now, in a few short moments, there would be a break in the firing as the back finished up and crouched back down. Before all this though, Ronan was pushed from behind. Stumbling slightly, and looking back, ready to shout at whoever had pushed him, but instead he was met with the sight of a man lying face down in the mud, a hole in the back of his head. In the now clear space in front of him, he saw a man still holding his musket with a blank look in his face, staring at nothing. While Ronan was looking at him, the sound stopped around him, only the screaming and moaning of the injured to be heard now. Another rolling thunder from across the field, and he saw the blank faced man take a hit in the shoulder, and spin around.
Suddenly a loud explosion and heat came to his left. Bramley was on the ground, holding a ruined hand to his right side, screaming as blood poured from him. At the same time, a much louder explosion could be heard from across the field, along with a few happening among their own ranks. Ronan knew then, that the Aetherian Knights were on the field as well. He had seen them train, and seen what they could do with their blessings. Much of it was secret, and he had never seen anything on the scale of what just happened, but there was no doubt that this was the Knights' doing. It also explained why they had been given exactly three rounds each.
The three horns rang, and the captains shouted for them to begin the charge. Sparing a look at Bramley, Ronan was pushed forward and into a run. He remembered the shield on his back, and struggled to get it on his left arm, the act proving much harder in a sprint towards a few thousand men armed with sharp iron and steel of their own.
As he got his shield in hand, he heard the first smack of men meeting in battle, and the clash and ring of iron and steel. Suddenly a man was rushing towards Ronan. He struggled to free his sword from its sheath, snagging on something as he did. Staring death in its eyes Ronan accepted he was going to die. Though before the Varnman was able to swing his axe, he took a spear to the side. The spear was quickly withdrawn, and the man holding it rushed towards the front. The Varnman was left for dead, and trampled beneath the many men rushing towards the front.
Ronan finally got his sword free and was again being pushed towards where the two armies had met. Everything was chaos, resembling more of a shouting match than the battle Ronan had imagined. Where the two armies had met shield was against shield, one side pushing against the other. Due to his brief skirmish with the Varnman, he was now a couple of ranks behind the shields. Below him the ground had been churned to mud, gone was the green alpine meadow where he had watched the birds playing before the horns had sounded.
Looking at the ranks in front of him and the enemy shields, he sensed a ripple to his left, where the Kingsguard held the center of their army's ranks. From that direction, he heard screaming, distinct from the shouting around him. It seemed that the Varnmen could sense the same change, and they took a few steps back from the front.
People started rushing into the short gap between them and the Varnmen, and the shield men were no longer at the front of their ranks. The gap was quickly filled, and unencumbered by the large rectangular shields his fellow levy-men quickly created gaps in the enemy line, though at a heavy cost.
As the two armies slowly became entangled in one another, Ronan was pushed into combat yet again. His brief experience with the lone Varnman had not yet left him, and it was with hesitation and apprehension that he was pushed towards what was quickly becoming a melee, ironically closer to what he had imagined a battle being.
The first enemy he met had a wild look to his eyes. He was armed with a small round shield, much like Ronan, and a bloody hand axe that was most likely used to chop wood in more peaceful times. The man had a cut that was bleeding into one of his eyes, and ran towards Ronan with a slight limp. With each step the enemy took towards him, Ronan felt his stomach twist tighter. The idea of plunging his sword into flesh — the very thing he’d sharpened and shaped alongside his father — left him queasy. He blocked the first chop of the axe with his shield, and then tried a thrust at the mans stomach. He felt the sword pierce flesh, and quickly withdrew it again, readying for a slash across the mans chest. Before he could finish the slash, he was tackled from the side by another Varnman.
Ronan quickly got to his feet and parried the first swing of a mace, feeling the shock of the impact travel up his arm. He slashed back with all his strength, cutting the man across the neck. Surprise flashed across his adversary’s face before life drained from his eyes, blood spilling from the gaping wound.
As the man collapsed, something shifted within Ronan. The chaos around him seemed to fade, and suddenly, everything became unnervingly sharp and clear. Time slowed, every movement exaggerated—the swing of a blade, the arcs of weapons, the small shifts in weight before a strike. He was no longer fumbling his way through the fight, but somehow in tune with it instead, as though the rhythm of battle had aligned with his heartbeat.
Another Varnman came at him, axe raised high. Ronan saw the tension in the man’s arm, the subtle twist of his hip, and instinctively knew when and where the blow would fall. Time stretched, and Ronan easily swayed to the side, avoiding the attack. With swift precision, he slashed his sword across the man’s neck, severing flesh and bone before his enemy could react.
There was movement behind him—he felt it. Without thinking, Ronan ducked, evading another blow aimed for his head. Pivoting around, he stabbed upward, his blade piercing the man's stomach effortlessly. It felt as if his body moved on its own, reacting faster than his mind could keep up. Everything else blurred, but his own movements were sharp, decisive. He moved like a god through the battlefield, cutting down anyone in his path with deadly efficiency. Each swing of his sword brought death, each life taken with an ease that felt both thrilling and sickening. Beneath the rush of power, a small part of him recoiled, wondering if he’d ever look at his own hands the same way again.
Each strike landed with unnerving accuracy, and as he fought, Ronan felt strangely detached from the violence. There was no fear, only a calm, focused clarity. With each kill came a faint surge of satisfaction, a sense of power welling up within him, and an unsettling feeling of invulnerability that gnawed at the edges of his awareness.
A moment of calm settled over Ronan as he looked around, his chest heaving and sweat tracing paths through the grime on his face. His leather armor was smeared with blood—not all of it his own. His sword, his father’s craftsmanship, was slick in his hand, the hilt damp with sweat. A few locks of his dark hair had escaped their binding, clinging to his brow as he took in the scene of carnage around him. He surveyed the scene, surrounded by the bodies of dead Varnmen. At the edge of the circle of fallen enemies, he saw his fellow levy-men, staring at him with a mixture of awe and fear in their eyes. Among them was Daire, blood trickling from a cut on his arm, bruises darkening his face.
The way Daire looked at him made Ronan uneasy. His friend seemed relieved that Ronan was still alive, but behind that relief, there was something unsettling, it almost looked like fear. It lingered in Daire’s eyes, a look Ronan couldn’t quite shake.
Before Ronan had anymore time to think on it, he sensed a presence moving towards him. The battle was still raging around his small pocket of calm, and striding towards him was a well armored man, what looked like a knight. He had a full set of steel armor, a sword that to Ronan's expert eyes looked well made and sure to hold a sharp edge. The knight was also carrying a shield featuring a heraldry that Ronan did not recognize. The look in the knights eyes left no doubt in Ronan, this was a man intent on killing him.
"Hold there, friend, we are on the same side." Ronan said as the man paused a few strides from him.
"What makes you say that. You stand in a circle of carnage, with the blood of my countrymen on your blade. I am no friend of yours, Sardian peasant." the knight growled, emphasizing the last few words. As he finished his sentence, he stepped closer and thrust his sword toward Ronan's stomach, and in that instant, he felt the weight of his own inexperience. The man was a warrior born, molded by battles Ronan could only imagine. And yet, something inside him surged, an unrelenting defiance that urged him to stand his ground.
Ronan felt the thrust rather than saw it, and once again, instinct took over. He quickly stepped aside, forcing the attacker's sword wide, only to be met by a shield slamming into his side. Ronan staggered from the impact but regained his footing just as the knight slashed at his head. Ronan's arm moved before he had a chance to think, managing a slash at the man’s arm. Though it glanced off the knight’s armor, it knocked the oncoming strike off course.
Time seemed to slow again, all of Ronan's senses locked on this new opponent. He stepped inside the knight’s reach and aimed a headbutt at his face. The hit connected, and the knight stumbled back. Looking at his face, he saw a broken nose, with blood streaming from it. Without hesitation, Ronan swung his sword at the knight's face. For the first time, he saw fear in the knight's eyes. Slowly, he watched the man's sword move to block the blow. Just before Ronan's sword would have ended the knight's life, the blade parried, taking most of the force out of the strike. Still, Ronan managed to land a cut above the knight's right eye, blood already flowing from the wound.
The knight retaliated with another slash, and Ronan dodged, realizing too late it was a feint. Even with time seemingly slowed, he couldn’t avoid the steel-rimmed edge of the knight's shield slamming into his left elbow. He felt the impact all the way up to his shoulder, and his fingers went numb and his grasp on his shield failed. He saw the shield fall to the ground, moving a few steps back before it hit the ground.
The pain was quick to fade, even though Ronan was sure something should have broken from such a hard blow. Instead, he felt his left hand moving as if nothing had happened, though he had lost his shield and was now at a severe disadvantage. He saw the knight smile in victory. "I will give you one chance to yield, peasant. There is no glory in killing you." Ronan felt something in him pushing him to ignore the knight, and before he knew it, he was stepping forward, gripping his sword with both hands.
He ducked and swerved to the right, evading the knight's swing. Before he could process it, he brought his blade down with all his strength, aiming for the knight's left arm—the one holding the shield. To Ronan's astonishment, his blade dented the steel armor, and a gasp of pain escaped the knight as his arm went limp. A flush of pleasure surged through Ronan at the sight of the knight's pain, though the sensation disturbed him. Without giving the knight time to recover, Ronan swung his blade at the back of the man's legs, severing his hamstrings and bringing him to the ground.
Ronan stepped out of the knight’s reach. Once again, pleasure surged through him at the sight of the incapacitated knight. "Any last words before I end your life?" he sneered. The knight looked up at Ronan, though the fear that he expected to see was not there, instead the knight was looking at him with determination, "I won't give you the satisfaction of seeing me beg, though I must admit, I never anticipated my end to be at the hands of a simple peasant. Finish this now." With those words, the knight dropped his sword to the ground and stared into Ronan's eyes.
Ronan once again took his sword in both hands, and readied for a swing to the knights neck. He swung with all his might, watching the blade descend, but before it could connect, his strike was parried, and suddenly he was shoved to the ground.
Disoriented, he looked around and saw his weapon lying just out of reach. In his peripheral vision, Ronan saw two new sets of feet, both armored. He growled and reached for his sword. Just as his hand closed around the hilt, white-hot pain exploded at the back of his head.