Ekkehard’s Shame

33rd Day of Summer

754 Karloman’s Peace

“Are you ready for this?” Jarak asked, his voice calm but laced with concern. Ekkehard looked up from the blade he was inspecting, wanting to reply, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he nodded silently.

“Ready?” another man echoed mockingly, his tone dripping with disdain. “That boy ain’t ready for nothin.” Ekkehard glanced at the man, barely making out the craggy silhouette of his face in the campfire's light. The man’s companions, four other dirty and weathered soldiers, sneered in agreement.

Jarak sighed and turned to the men. “I hope I didn’t just hear that, Brak,” Jarak said, his glare sharp. “Insulting a superior officer is a quick way to get yourself whipped.”

“Aye, you heard it alright,” Brak shot back, spitting a large gob of phlegm as he spoke. “The boy’s a coward if I’ve ever seen one.” The venomous accusation brought a tense hush over their corner of the camp, the subtle sounds of battle preparations falling silent as everyone who heard stopped to listen to what happened next.

Accusing a senior officer of cowardice was punishable by death—unless the accusation was true, in which case the officer could face beheading, and Ekkehard knew the accusation was true. His chest tightened around his heart, and he struggled to keep his lip from trembling. Jarak’s alarmed look did little to calm him.

Ever since reaching fighting age and being drafted into junior officership, Ekkehard had lived in fear of this day. For almost two seasons, he had been lucky. The Cohort he was assigned to had seen little action, so his crippling fear of battle had largely gone unnoticed. But now, they had reached the front lines, a few battles had been fought, and it seemed his luck had run out.

The sixty men under his command hated him—Ekkehard knew that all too well. From the very first day of his appointment, it was evident they resented being placed under the authority of a sixteen-year-old boy, appointed solely because of his noble birth, while they, just peasants, were forced to serve. They wanted a seasoned, capable leader, not a boy who had spent more time studying scripture than war. His father had insisted the experience would help him understand the men who would one day be in his care when he joined the priesthood. So far, it had only given him a reason to hate them, as hatred was all they offered him.

Ekkehard looked to Jarak and silently pleaded with him to intervene. Jarak was perhaps Ekkehard's only friend.

Like Ekkehard, Jarak was a Deputy in the Schar they commanded, but he was the First Deputy, while Ekkehard was the junior Second Deputy. Jarak, also of noble birth, had been appointed by virtue of his class, just as Ekkehard had. But Jarak was five years older and had been with the men since the Cohort was formed. Ekkehard was new—an unbloodied interloper, replacing the previous Second Deputy after he fell in battle. Filling the shoes of the dead was impossible, even for an experienced officer. For Ekkehard, just a boy and a cowardly one at that, it felt like a death sentence. Jarak had recognised this from the beginning and had tried to help Ekkehard, but it was never enough for the men.

Ekkehard watched Jarak's thoughts whirl behind his eyes as he grimaced, clearly trying to find a way to de-escalate the situation but struggling to imagine it. Brak’s accusation had been simple and direct, and it would be impossible not to address it. After a moment of contemplation, Jarak nodded at Ekkehard, though Ekkehard couldn’t tell if it was meant to reassure him or bid him farewell. He prayed to Spring above that it was the former.

Jarak turned to face Brak and the crowd of expectant onlookers. “Brak,” Jarak addressed the gruff old veteran, “you bear the Schar’s Banner and are well regarded. I’ll give you the respect of the opportunity to rescind that accusation.”

Brak spat again. “I will not.” Jarak sighed.

"Very well, then. Have it your way," Jarak replied. “Bannerman Brak!” he called out, commanding the attention of the entire Schar. “You accuse Second Deputy Reubke of cowardice. Do you stand by your charge?” Jarak’s tone was formal, like that of an ad hoc trial.

As Ekkehard’s senior officer, Jarak had the right of judge and jury. For a moment, Ekkehard felt a flicker of relief, knowing his friend would decide his fate. But that relief quickly faded as he realised Jarak still had to answer to the crowd. Jarak couldn’t simply Declare Ekkehard courageous; he would need to prove it, and Ekkehard hadn’t done anything courageous in his entire life.

Brak rose and stepped closer to Jarak, asserting loudly, “I do.” Jarak nodded and turned to the gathered men.

“Are there any here who would second the Bannerman’s charge?” he asked.

A small chorus of muttered "Ayes" followed as at least half a dozen men voiced their support for Brak. Ekkehard went cold at the sound, though he took some comfort in the fact that there were fewer voices than he had expected. The men disliked him, but perhaps not as many were out for his blood as he feared. Jarak turned to Ekkehard.

“Second Deputy Reubke,” Jarak addressed him, “how do you answer?”

Ekkehard’s mouth went dry, and his throat constricted as he tried to speak. Only a squeak escaped him. Some men chuckled in response, and for the first time, Ekkehard felt something other than fear—anger. It filled his belly, warming his cheeks and melting away his inaction. Frowning so hard his face ached, he stood abruptly and shouted, “I contest it!”

A chorus of groans followed, louder than before. It seemed as if half the Schar grumbled at Ekkehard’s defence. Not a good sign. The fire that had briefly ignited within him dissipated, and his mouth somehow went drier. He gasped slightly, feeling the weight of the crowd's mood pressing down on him. While few had been willing to condemn him outright, many more seemed willing to let it happen. Jarak frowned, clearly as concerned as Ekkehard.

“Very well,” Jarak said, his voice heavy with the sombre formality of the moment. He had become judge, jury, and perhaps even executioner for a friend. Although it was Ekkehard’s life that was on the line, a small part of him pitied Jarak for his role in the affair. “Bannerman Brak,” Jarak addressed the old soldier, “state your charge.”

Brak glanced around at the faces of their comrades before beginning. “Brothers!” he called out, his voice softening as he opened his arms to encompass the crowd. “Three battles we have fought—three battles in fifteen days. This Schar, our Schar, has had the honour of the frontline in all three. My banner has stood first among the Cohort’s, and I have had the privilege of standing besides you—brave, fierce men who bled for our empire and emperor!” There was a series of nodding heads, clusters of soft applause and murmurs of agreement as the bannerman spoke.

“Yet,” Brak continued, his voice growing quieter as the crowd leaned in, “three times did I see a curious sight. Three times after three battles.” He paused, then pointed a finger full of malice at Ekkehard. “Three times, in the wake of the battles, as we turned to one another to tend our wounded and as we cut the throats of our enemies, I looked to our deputy—this boy who would lead us—and what did I see? I saw in his hands a naked blade, clean and unblemished, as on the day it was forged.”

The crowd hissed at the accusation. Ekkehard heard the words “coward,” “disgrace,” and “dishonourable” fluttered through them, and his heart pounded with trepidation, his palms sweating. He averted his gaze from Brak, Jarak and the crowd, looking instead toward the camp’s edges and the surrounding darkness. He wondered if he could make it out there if the crowd would be too engrossed in the trial to react in time if he bolted. But his legs refused to move, frozen in place.

“No man leaves the battles we fought with such a blade,” Brak continued, pausing just long enough to make Ekkehard wish the silence would end. “No man, except a coward, too scared to raise his sword to defend his brothers!” A rumble of feet responded, the crowd supporting Brak’s words, all except Jarak.

“Deputy Ekkehard,” Jarak addressed him, and Ekkehard swallowed hard. His mind spun as he desperately searched for something to say in his defence, but the only thought that filled his mind was, I am going to die. “Brak claims you left three battles with a clean blade. Is this true?”

Ekkehard's eyes met Jarak’s, silently pleading for guidance, but the face looking back at him was stone. Ekkehard considered accusing Brak of lying, but doing so would challenge the man’s honour, and a judicial duel would be the only way to resolve it. Brak was a commoner and, before the war, had worked the mines. He was large, muscular and brutish. He would have skewered Ekkehard in an instant. Ekkehard had no choice but to admit his guilt and, without a word, closed his eyes and nodded, giving rise to further displeased grumbles from the crowd.

When Ekkehard opened his eyes, he saw Jarak had cocked his head to the side, looking at him with a pitiful expression. Ekkehard understood the look in an instant. It was twinged with sympathy and disappointment, telling Ekkehard he had blundered and missed some obvious solution Jarak had set out for him. What could it be? Ekkehard wondered, then his eyes widened as he realised his mistake. If he had challenged Brak’s honesty, a duel would have followed—but Ekkehard needn’t have fought himself; he could have called upon a second. Jarak could have been his champion.

Jarak was the best fighter in the Schar by far. Brak would never have risked a duel against him and would have rescinded his accusation. I’m going to die because I let fear cloud my mind, Ekkehard thought, cursing himself for not realising sooner.

“He admits it!” Brak called out, “He admits he is a coward. Deputy Jarak, you know what this means. The taint of cowardice cannot be allowed in the empire's ranks, lest it spread, and feaster within is all. He must die. You must execute this whelp now.” The crowd cheered in support.

“Quiet!” Jarak snapped, raising a hand to silence the crowd, and they obeyed. “He has admitted to no such thing,” Jarak added, glaring at those around him. “He has admitted to a clean blade, that is all.”

“A coward's blade,” Brak hissed, spitting a large glob of phlegm at Ekkehard’s feet.

Jarak wheeled on Brak, squaring up to him. The hatred in his expression forced the man back several steps. “I said quiet,” Jarak repeated in a menacingly cool tone. “I’ve heard your charge, bannerman; now take a seat.” Brak did as he was told, and all waited silently for Jarak’s judgment.

Before speaking again, Jarak looked each soldier under his command in the eyes. None could hold his stare. They were calling on him to execute a friend, and Ekkehard could tell he despised them for it. He shamed them for their baying, for their bloodlust, one by one. When all heads were bowed at last, he turned back to Ekkehard.

“Deputy Ekkehard,” Jarak addressed him. Ekkehard looked up at his friend and gave him a bittersweet smile. He was telling him it was okay, that he needn’t blame himself for what he had to do. Ekkehard was going to die, but he would do so proud of the friend who had tried so hard to save him. Jarak slowly turned his head from side to side, just a little, and Ekkehard felt his lungs fill with air and his shoulders loosen. It seemed his friend still had a trick up his sleeve. “Is a clean blade all you carried into battle?” Jarak asked him.

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“What?” Ekkehard asked, not yet catching on to Jarak’s plan. Jarak rolled his eyes.

“Did you take anything else into the three battles besides your sword?” Jarak asked plainly, and Ekkehard looked around, confused.

“You mean my shield?” Ekkehard asked, indicating the wooden shield on the floor beside him.

“That’s your shield?” Jarak asked, pointing at it.

“Yes,” Ekkehard confirmed.

“And you carried it into all three battles?”

“Yes.”

“Bring it to me.” Ekkehard obeyed.

Jarak took the shield and stood by the campfire where Brak now sat. He held the shield up so the fire’s light could illuminate its surface. Ekkehard stood beside him, meekly curious about what Jarak would do next. “Deputy Ekkehard,” Jarak addressed him, “are these pockmarks in your shield?” He pointed to the many scratches and dents on its surface.

“They are,” Ekkehard answered with a nod.

“Bannerman Brak, do you see these?” Jarak asked, turning to Ekkehard’s accuser.

“Aye,” Brak responded gruffly, his expression filled with resentment.

“Deputy Ekkehard, how did these marks come to be upon your shield?” Jarak questioned further.

“What?” Ekkehard asked, puzzled. He understood the question, but Jarak already knew where the marks had come from. They were from Jarak himself, marks made during their training sessions, where Jarak had tried to improve Ekkehard’s swordsmanship. Why was Jarak asking about them now?

“Did your shield earn these marks in battle?” Jarak clarified. Realising what Jarak was doing, Ekkehard nodded, a glimmer of hope rising within him.

“There we have it,” Jarak said, returning to Brak. “Perhaps Deputy Ekkehard hasn’t had the honour of his first kill yet, but he has defended himself and his comrades in battle, earning these marks. That’s not the behaviour of a coward.”

Brak stood slowly, glaring at Jarak. Jarak held his gaze until Brak finally broke, turned, and stormed into darkness.

“Is everyone here satisfied?” Jarak asked the crowd once Brak was gone. No one spoke up to challenge his judgment. “Good,” he said, “now, back to your preparations. We move out in an hour.” Slowly at first, but then with more energy, the soldiers of their Schar returned to their pre-battle rituals.

Once the attention had shifted away from the two officers, Jarak grabbed Ekkehard by the arm, squeezing it so tightly that Ekkehard thought his bicep might burst. “Thank you…” Ekkehard began to say as Jarak pulled him out of earshot of the others.

“Shut up,” Jarak snapped, and Ekkehard’s mouth clamped shut. Jarak was angry, but Ekkehard didn’t know why. Ekkehard desperately wanted to express his gratitude, but the fury in Jarak’s expression frightened him. “Listen to me,” Jarak whispered fiercely, “this can’t happen again. Those men want you dead. You need to get a grip on yourself because I can’t protect you forever. After tonight’s raid, you better come back with blood on that sword—a lot of it. Do you understand?”

Ekkehard nodded.

The first screams echoed through the silhouettes of the trees. Everything was going according to plan. They had taken the enemy by surprise, advancing through the woods in the dead of night to attack the camp while the mercenaries slept. The real battle was happening dozens of miles away, but Ekkehard and his Cohort still played a crucial role, ambushing unsuspecting reinforcements before they could turn the tide in favour of the merchant rebels.

A few hundred yards ahead was the enemy camp, set up along the imperial road that cut through the dense forest where Ekkehard and his men lay in wait. He tried to picture it in his mind—the winding mass of tents filled with glory-hungry mercenaries and their greedy merchant masters. He imagined the panic and fear that would spread through the camp as all sixteen Sippes, the entire nine-hundred and sixty cavalry of his Cohort, emerged from the darkness to strike the heart of the camp from both sides of the road, east to west and west to east.

In the distance, a cluster of yellow and orange glows began to emerge as the attacking horsemen set fire to tents and cut down the camp’s initial defenders. Ekkehard felt his heart quicken, his chest growing cold with anticipation. Soon, it would be his turn, and Jarak’s warning echoed in his mind. He looked down at his drawn blade, the steel glinting faintly in the moonlight. The weight of the command to return with blood on his sword, to take a life, felt like a crushing pressure that threatened to collapse his chest.

He wondered if this was all a test from Spring—to see if he would preserve the sanctity of life, even at the cost of his own. Raised on the scriptures and meant for the priesthood, war was never meant to be Ekkehard’s calling. He had been taught that the act of taking a life was corrupting, and should he kill a man tonight, his soul would be forever tainted and that no true servant of Heaven could ever commit that most unholy of sins.

They said the war was nearly over, and soon, they would go home. For Ekkehard, that meant returning to the temples and finally receiving his affirmation. But if the faith learned what he did here tonight, would that be denied him? How could he serve the King of Heaven if he broke Spring’s most sacred law?

As he wrestled with these thoughts, Ekkehard glanced back into the darkness surrounding him. He couldn’t see his companions, but he knew they were out there, spread loosely among the trees. Brak was among them. How can I serve the King of Heaven if I’m dead? He asked himself.

The screams grew closer.

Ekkehard turned his attention back to the impending fight and saw the first silhouettes emerging, shadows fleeing through the night. The plan had worked; the mounted soldiers' surprise attack had caught the enemy off guard, and now they fled north and south into the forest, unwittingly into the clutches of the Cohort’s waiting infantry. A whistle sounded, and Ekkehard and his fellows began their attack.

His breath laboured as he charged through the trees, shield raised, sword low and to the side in case he tripped. He didn’t see the first shadow until he collided with it, his square wooden shield smashing into the figure and sending it tumbling backwards while he nearly lost his balance and stumbled several metres.

Ekkehard had been lucky; whoever he ran into was no bigger than him, which was rare on the battlefield, given his age. When he turned to face them, he found only darkness. His foe either lay on the ground hiding or had already fled. A fleeting image flashed in his mind—a blade running through his back if he didn’t find and kill the enemy. But then it occurred to him: they couldn't see him either if he couldn’t see them. So, he spun and continued his charge.

He spotted a second spectre moving through the trees and rushed toward it, angling his shield forward to strike his opponent in the midriff. A pitiable yelp escaped as a second enemy was sent tumbling, but Ekkehard tracked the fallen figure this time. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and silenced his mind as he jabbed his sword arm at the enemy, trying not to think of the sin he was committing.

The blade passed harmlessly through the air twice, but on the third thrust, it hit something. A weighty, wet thing that howled as he struck it. He opened his eyes, still unable to see more than his foe's silhouette, but imagined the enemy soldier's hard-cragged face. It looked a little like Brak. He pulled the blade back, feeling the metal free itself from the suction of a meaty grip, then stabbed again and again. On the seventh strike, the shadow lay still and silent.

Ekkehard stepped back, staring down at the dark mass, his heart racing as the sounds of battle—death screams and clashing metal—closed in around him, trapping him in a bubble of chaos. He added his own screams to the cacophony, shattering the bubble and filling his chest with adrenaline. Refusing to dwell on his actions, he turned away from the dead man and searched for another foe. “After tonight’s raid, you better come back with blood on that sword,” resounded Jarak's words in his mind. “A lot of it.”

He rushed through the trees and found his second victim on the edge of the enemy camp. The burning fires made it easier to see him, a young lad, perhaps younger than Ekkehard, clutching a spear. The boy was disoriented, spinning helplessly, the spear pointed outward at no one, trembling in terrified hands. Ekkehard stalked up to him and buried his blade in the boy’s collarbone. The lad collapsed with a wail and fell silent.

A banshee scream startled Ekkehard, and he turned to its source. A woman wielding an axe charged at him, ready to bring it down on his skull. He raised his shield just in time, blocking the clumsy assault, and thrust his blade into her belly.

The woman gasped desperately but didn’t give in. With the blade several inches into her stomach, she fought back, swinging the axe with one hand and clawing at him with the nails of the other. Ekkehard blocked the axe with his shield, but her talons raked the side of his face, drawing blood. Desperate to protect himself, he severed her arm at the elbow. She howled, the shock causing her to drop the axe and fall to one knee. She looked from her bloody stump to Ekkehard, her hateful eyes boring into him. He cut off her head to end her evil glare.

His fourth victim was a wounded soldier hobbling through the camp on a crutch, a dagger in one hand. His fifth was an old veteran who hadn’t managed to find his armour in the confusion. His sixth was another young lad, and his seventh was another woman. Finally, on his eighth, when he reached the heart of the camp and buried his blade in the chest of another young boy, he realised the full horror of his actions.

He looked around at the bodies of children, women, and old men, their bloodied and disfigured corpses sprawled across the camp floor like the discards of a charnel house. His head pounded as he looked at them, and his eyes stung him.

“Where are the soldiers?” he asked the darkness.

His body went cold with travesty, and he felt something within him extinguish—something he had always relied on before. The belief that he was moral, righteous, and deserving of the gods' love. The certainty that his soul would rest in the Gardens of Spring. A certainty he knew he would never have again.

“You there, boy,” a gruff but refined voice called out. “Don’t you have duties to attend to?”

Ekkehard’s stiff neck stuttered as he raised his head to look at the speaker. It was easy to see the man in the dawning light of a new day. Odilo Theoderisian, commander of Ekkehard’s entire Cohort, sat upon a white horse clad in a gleaming set of inaudacious plate armour. The man, likely in his thirties, exuded a simple, regal air with the handsome features of the truly highborn. Though Ekkehard was noble, this man was not his equal. He was his better. Dumbfounded and traumatised, Ekkehard stared blankly at him.

“Speak up, lad,” Commander Theoderisian ordered.

“Please forgive the deputy his insolence, Lord Commander,” Jarak said, rushing to Ekkehard’s side. He saluted with a fist into an open palm before his chest and bowed. Jarak waited for the commander’s nod before rising again. “The young officer here had the honour of his first kill last night. I think the adrenaline hasn’t quite passed.”

Odilo glanced at the blood-stained blade lying on the ground before Ekkehard. “Your first kill, eh? It can be a powerful experience. Don’t let it overwhelm you. You did good work last night; the emperor himself would be proud.” Ekkehard was too stunned by the madness of the commander’s statement to respond. How could anyone be proud of what happened last night?

Seeing Ekkehard’s silence, the commander added, “You’d best get that blade cleaned and get to your duties.” Ekkehard nodded numbly as the commander spurred his horse and moved on to inspect the rest of his troops.

“By Harvest’s fat tits, Ekkehard, snap out of it! You’re going to get us both whipped at this rate,” Jarak chastised once the commander was out of earshot. Ekkehard looked at his friend, noting the tired but dry eyes, otherwise unaffected by the night’s events. Something occurred to Ekkehard then.

“Did you know?” Ekkehard asked him.

Jarak turned to him, hands on his hips, and shrugged in confusion. “Did I know what?” he asked.

Ekkehard gestured to the carnage around them. “Did you know?” he repeated. Jarak sighed and looked down at his feet.

“It’s war, Ekkehard,” he stated. “This is how we win.”

Ekkehard’s heart broke, and he felt his body droop as if the very strata that sustained it had crumbled. His friend, his only friend, had knowingly sent him to slaughter innocents. His eyes welled, and his face turned to stone.

“Pull yourself together,” Jarak snapped, noticing Ekkehard’s expression. “This is what we must do to end this war. To go home. We must break the enemy, and sometimes that means doing dark things, but that is the cost of peace.”

“You better come back with blood on that sword,” Ekkehard repeated Jarak’s words from the night before, his voice quivering. “A lot of it,” he gasped the final command.

“What?” Jarak exclaimed.

“Those were the words,” Ekkehard cried, “the words you said to me when you sent me to fight women and children.” Ekkehard’s tear-filled stare locked onto Jarak, who merely shrugged and shook his head. Ekkehard felt his chest burst at the dispassion of the man whom he once called friend. “Women and children,” Ekkehard repeated.

“What of it?” Jarak asked argumentatively. “Those words probably saved your life. No one is going to call you a coward now.” Ekkehard exhaled so hard that his throat and ribcage ached in protest.

“My father would never have ordered this,” Ekkehard stated.

“This isn’t your father’s Cohort,” Jarak spat back without hesitation. “And I’m sure, like Odilo, your father would do what was needed, like any other commander.”

Ekkehard got to his feet. He needed to get away from Jarak. He couldn’t bear to hear him justify this any further. “Ekkehard,” Jarak called after him, grabbing his arm to stop him. Ekkehard shrugged him off and marched away from the man who pretended to be his friend.

Jarak was wrong; his father would never have done this. His brother would never have done this. They had sent him to Odilo’s Cohort because they thought it was better for him to learn to command away from the privilege of his family’s position, but they were wrong. He needed to be back in the presence of their integrity as soon as possible. He would demand a transfer back to his father’s Cohort at once.

He wondered if he could even face his father once he heard what Ekkehard had done. He wondered if he could even face himself.