Fire
67th Day of Summer
766 Karloman’s Peace
Eyes closed, Ekkehard took a deep breath and tried to control his racing heart.
When he opened them, the orange glow of the flaming tannery had darkened to a sinister crimson, bathing the courtyard an ominous foreboding. Acrid air mixed with the metallic sweetness of copper. The invaders who caused the devastation stalked slowly towards Ekkehard and his younger brothers, ignoring the fleeing servants and focusing on the greater threat.
Turning from the hellish scene, Ekkehard faced his brothers.
Despair etched their features. Gerwald's eyes brimmed with tears. Otker and Evroul fought to mask their fear. The shock of Corbus's murder lingered, his death throes echoing in their ears, arresting their sensibilities and freezing them on the spot.
Ekkehard needed them to break free from the paralysis of their brother’s ghost and unleash vengeful rage upon the guardsmen. If they did not, soon they would all be dead as well. Yet, with Audomar gone, it was up to him to rally them. Ekkehard had followed his older brother into battle many times before, but while Ekkehard had led men during the war, he had also gotten them killed. He had never considered himself much of a leader, or particularly heroic. He had spent the war frightened and ashamed. He lacked Audomar’s inspiring aura and worried his brothers would not muster around him in their elder’s absence.
Yet, death was walking toward them with violent intent. They had no choice.
He tried to find words, but doubt clawed at him causing his throat to seize and silence prevailed.
Farmhands, workers, and riderless horses scattered about in the chaos, their screams and pleadings framing the battleground. Many at last escaped the violence now that the guardsmen had turned their attention to the newcomers, leaving the brothers outnumbered two to one.
These were trained guards, reasonably equipped, and Ekkehard was the only one among his brothers who had ever fought in a real battle before. Yet, they were Reubkes; training for war was integral to their lives and each had been taught to fight by Audomar, who was a master of the battlefield. Ekkehard and his brothers would not be easy prey. Not if he and his brothers did as they had been raised to do. Not if they fought as hard as he knew they could. He just needed them to realise that.
“Are you just going to sit there?” Ekkehard asked them, finding his voice at last. A subtle chastisement meant to bring them back to the world. Ekkehard pointed at the courtyard. “For Corbus,” he said.
He saw that familiar shift from despair to grim intent across all his siblings’ faces. They were ready. He should never have doubted them.
Ekkehard turned back to the foes and nocked an arrow, his gaze fixed on a cluster of oncoming riders, returning from the tannery and charging toward him. With a steady hand, he released. The arrow struck an imperial who crashed to the ground. His brothers jeered fervently and, at last, sprang into action, Gerwald and Otker spurring their horses into a gallop, each wielding a short sword as they charged headlong, while Ekkehard and Evroul held back with bows in hand.
A second guardsman rider, spear at the ready, managed to evade the swings of the two charging brothers and rushed toward Ekkehard. An arrow buried itself into the man’s neck. Evroul, the exceptional hunter, had felled him.
Only one of the invaders remained mounted, and Gerwald set his sights on him. The soldier stood out, his leather armour thicker and more embellished than the others and he wore a tall leather helmet adorned with a purple plume, marking him as a captain. His skill and training were evident in the ease with which he parried Gerwald's first attack. Gerwald circled back, and the two engaged in a fierce sword fight, the clanging of metal echoing throughout the estate’s courtyard.
Ekkehard nocked another arrow. He clenched his jaw and tried to steady his breathing and his aim, but it was of no use, he couldn’t release without risking hitting Gerwald.
Otker cut off several advancing footmen. He managed to kill one on the charge but was soon surrounded by three more. Evroul shot an arrow at one of Otker's pursuers, killing him. The other two closed in on Otker, and one drove his spear deep into the flank of Otker's horse. The animal collapsed with a whine.
Ekkehard’s heart lurched as the beast fell.
Otker tumbled to the ground, rolling away seconds before his mount pinned him and Ekkehard exclaimed in relief.
Gerwald remained locked in battle with the captain who had forced the young Reubke to stay on the defensive. Then Gerwald got lucky. A quick slash caught the side of the imperial's horse, gashing it and stirring it into a panicked frenzy. The captain struggled to control the injured beast with one hand while haphazardly defending himself from Gerwald's heavy-handed attacks with the other.
Despite his small stature, Gerwald was a mountain. Each of his sword swings struck with the force of a hammer, his strength honed from days of labour on the Reubke estate. His arms were strong and his chest broad, and what he lacked in martial skill, he made up for with brute force. The guard captain couldn’t resist the constant fury, and the strength of his arm failed long before Gerwald's. After parrying a flurry of blows, the captain let his arm drop a little too low and Gerwald stabbed at the man's chest, the blade biting through his leather armour.
The wound wasn't fatal, but it was enough to cause the captain to fall backward out of his saddle.
Otker, meanwhile, struggled to avoid being skewered by his two assailants. Each took turns jabbing at him with spears, pushing him backward and forcing him to parry wildly with his short blade. Ekkehard cast his bow aside and frantically rode to Otker’s aid. He rode as close as he dared before leaping from his horse. He landed at a sprint and charged toward one of the fighters, hoping to surprise them with a tackle.
He desperately wished he had brought a sword.
A final guardsman rushed him as if from nowhere and his heart skipped, his mind whirling from the sudden ambush. The ambusher had his sword ready and brought it around with a forceful, sideways blow. Ekkehard leapt backward, but he lost his footing and fell.
The attacker lunged after Ekkehard as he scrambled across the ground. Ekkehard's heart nearly burst as the blade caught him along the cheek and a sharp burning pain followed in the wake of the iron caress. He looked up in terror as the soldier stood over him, sword raised high in both hands, ready to finish him.
There was no time to think or feel; Ekkehard was dumbstruck in his final moment.
Blood erupted from the swordsman's chest, covering Ekkehard's face. He wiped the ichor from his eyes. A hunting javelin, covered in gore, had grown from the man's ribs. The lifeless body dropped to the ground. Looking back to the edges of the courtyard, he realized that Evroul had hurled the missile a dozen meters, skewering the man just in time to save Ekkehard's life.
He nodded his thanks to his brother in a split-second's respite.
Otker still struggled to fend off his attackers. He was bleeding from a cut on his right arm and held it protectively to his side. With his good arm, he continued to parry spear thrusts, trying his best to prevent either assailant from getting behind him but he couldn’t. One of the soldiers got round to Otker’s exposed flank and readied a killing thrust.
Just as the deadly strike was about to be launched, Ekkehard, already running, grabbed the man from behind while drawing his dagger. He plunged the blade through the soldier's temple and into his skull. The body convulsed and twitched, unable to comprehend what had happened. Ekkehard quickly withdrew his weapon and red fluid mixed with pink matter oozed in its wake. He released the man, and the body tumbled in a heap.
Ekkehard heard his own harsh breaths as he watched the man fall. It was the first-time blood had stained his hands in many years. That sweet stench of fresh blood assailed him. The moment stretched, and Ekkehard saw a history of war painted in the flow of blood and gore.
Gerwald jumped down from his horse to engage the wounded commander on level ground. When the captain had gotten to his feet, Gerwald rushed in. Each slash of his sword forced his opponent another step back as the metallic clang of their blades rang out. With one hand, the captain parried attacks while the other desperately clutched the wound on his chest.
The captain's wild swings lacked the skill of his earlier efforts. Increasingly desperate and imprecise, his resolve dwindled. His strength wavered while Gerwald’s held firm. Gerwald managed to pin the captain’s longsword to the ground with a downward two-handed strike, bringing the two men shoulder to shoulder. Gerwald head-butted the man.
The captain fell backward, his blade falling from his hand as he collapsed. Gerwald quickly stepped over the captain, planting a foot either side of him. He stared down at the dazed and weary expression on his defeated opponent.
Gerwald lifted his sword high, pointing its tip to the ground, and then froze.
Ekkehard saw his brother’s hesitation. “Kill him now,” he thought. Inaction would be Gerwald’s death. What was his brother doing? Then, it occurred to him. Gerwald had never taken a life before. Maybe he didn’t have it in him. A chill rushed up Ekkehard’s spine as he imagined his brother slain by his own inexperience.
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Ekkehard’s throat seized as he watched.
The guard captain reached for his fallen blade, and Ekkehard called out his brother’s name, “Gerwald!”
Seeing the danger, the youngest Reubke snapped free of his trance. Seconds before the captain’s fingers clutched the hilt of his weapon, Gerwald plunged the tip of his sword into the man’s chest, piercing his heart.
The captain gasped. With the final seconds of his life, he held Gerwald’s gaze. Ekkehard’s shoulders loosened, and air mercifully filled his lungs.
Only one guardsman remained. Ekkehard and Otker closed in on him together. In a cowardly move, the guard turned his back to the Reubke brothers and fled towards the manor, shouting for help. Ekkehard thought he heard the man say the word 'heretics' in his panicked pleading, but he paid it no mind.
Otker looked to Ekkehard for approval. Seeing the weeping wound on his brother’s bicep, Ekkehard nodded at Otker, and Otker set off in pursuit of the fleeing man without hesitation. He had given his little brother the honour of ending this sorry spectacle. Whatever this was, and whoever these men were, they had paid a price in blood. When it was done, Ekkehard and his brothers would mourn Corbus and see to the rest of their family.
Otker caught up to the guard, shoving him to the ground, the guard's spear flying from his hands. Otker circled around him and blocked the path to the manor. Ekkehard listened to his slowing breath, more prominent than the dying groans of his enemies or the crackling of distant fires. It steadied him as he watched Otker ready the final blow.
The blow did not come.
As Otker stood over his fallen opponent, sword raised, two men emerged from the manor's doorway. Their cloaks were two-toned, grassy-green and mustard-yellow. One wore thick leather armour, while the other wore a mix of leather and chainmail.
Otker, with his back turned, never saw the two men coming.
Bile caught in Ekkehard’s throat. “No!” he called out, helpless to prevent what would happen next.
The man in the leather armour was the first to strike, thrusting his sword through Otker's back. Otker gasped, eyes fixed on the bloodied iron protruding from his midriff.
Ekkehard cried out in dismay.
As the sword slid out of him, Otker fell to his knees. With great effort, the chestnut-haired boy strained to look back at his killer. He caught a glimpse of the mailed man's sword swinging towards his neck. A violent spray of blood followed as his head separated from his body.
His decapitated form collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Ekkehard's desperate expression was so intense it pained his face.
For a second, Ekkehard's eyes focused only on the collapsing form of his brother. Otker, the brother who was first to welcome him home from the war, lay defiled on the ground. His heart tore as if pierced by a shard of ice. That shard melted in rage, and the maelstrom of despair and fury within him became so intense it threatened to rip him open. His mouth filled with the taste of coppery blood.
His eyes quickly darted around, searching for a better weapon than the dagger in his hand. Audomar’s spear was still standing upright and buried in its latest victim’s chest, a few feet ahead. He lunged towards Otker's killers, snatching the spear from the dead man as he went. He pointed it outward and charged with deadly purpose, oblivious to Gerwald on his left who, with a blood-stained sword and tearful eyes, also charged toward the enemy.
As the two brothers raced toward their new opponents, four men rushed out of the servants’ house. Leading the group was a tall, slender man with thick brown hair in a topknot and a well-maintained goatee. Florentin, another of Ekkehard’s younger brothers, with a short sword in each hand, was being chased by three guards.
Evroul turned his attention to the newcomers, took aim, and loosed an arrow, killing the rearmost man of the group. Florentin spun around and rallied against the two remaining pursuers. The first tried to cut Florentin down with an overhead slash. Florentin blocked the blow with one sword and thrust the other into the man’s belly, casting him aside.
The next challenger was upon him almost immediately.
Ekkehard was the first to reach Otker’s two killers. The closest was the leather-armoured man, and Ekkehard attempted to run him through with his spear, screaming, “bastard!” as he did so. His target dodged and countered with a wide arcing swing of his sword. Ekkehard saw the attack coming and jumped back, managing to avoid it. He responded with a diagonal upward slash, but the leather-armoured man parried it away.
The cowardly soldier who had fled Otker got to his feet, just in time for Gerwald to barrel into him, smashing him back to the ground. Ignoring the coward, Gerwald rushed the mail-armoured soldier, engaging him in a dance of swords. Both struck and parried rapidly, neither gaining a clear advantage.
The mailed man feigned a mistake, lowering his sword and inviting Gerwald to strike. Gerwald took the bait and stabbed at the man’s chest, lunging as he did. The mail-armoured man brought his sword up under Gerwald’s guard, catching his hand and sending his sword flying.
Gerwald winced and retreated, clutching the gash on his hand.
Ekkehard was being pushed back. He had to give ground repeatedly as his opponent manoeuvred himself under Ekkehard's reach again and again. The soldier was more skilled with a sword than Ekkehard was with the spear. His once battle-hardened skill had rusted over years of peace, leaving Ekkehard desperate and fearful.
An arrow flew between the two men, forcing them apart.
Evroul’s arrow bought Ekkehard a crucial moment to maximize the reach advantage of his weapon and launch a killing strike. Yet, from the corner of his eye, he saw Gerwald: hand bleeding, weapon lost, defenceless.
He had seconds to make a decision.
If he turned his back on his attacker, Ekkehard would be cut down, but he would not lose another brother, not today. Resolute, his skin turning to stone, Ekkehard turned and charged toward the mail-armoured man.
The leather-armoured man pursued.
Ekkehard drove Audomar’s spear into the mailed man’s ribcage, attacking his blind side. The man screamed in agony. He turned and stared at Ekkehard, his eyes wide and teeth bared, an expression of pure hatred. Ekkehard saw a fleeting recognition cross the pained man's face but was unable to place it.
The mail-armoured man collapsed as Gerwald punched him in the nose. Audomar's spear slipped from Ekkehard’s grip, pulled away from him as the man fell.
Ekkehard turned to see the leather-armoured man charging at him, blade raised high. He was the defenceless one now. His heart pounded, and his nostrils flared with panic. He had sacrificed himself for Gerwald, and there was nothing he could do.
Just as the man was about to deliver the killing blow, an ear-piercing, inhuman screech filled the air. A shadowy, flaming figure rushed past Ekkehard, waves of heat pushing him back, causing him to stumble. The blurred figure struck Ekkehard’s would-be killer head-on, sending him flying several feet.
When the moment of confusion passed, Ekkehard realized the ‘thing’ was a horse, its mane consumed by flames. It must have escaped the burning barns beyond. The tortured animal had saved Ekkehard’s life.
The beast raced off into the distance, and Ekkehard clambered back to his feet and reacquired his brother’s spear. He looked to his attacker, who lay motionless on the ground.
“Thank you, Lord Spring,” he whispered gratefully.
Florentin had already cut down the last of his opponents and the cowardly soldier who had led Otker to his death was the last man standing again. Seeing Gerwald approach, his sword retrieved, the final guardsman simply gave in to his fate and dropped to his knees in surrender. Gerwald, eyes still slick with grief, decapitated the man.
His swing did not hesitate this time.
The last threat was dead.
Ekkehard and his brothers, panting from the fight, surveyed the courtyard.
“Is it over?” Florentin rasped, his voice dry. “Are we done?”
No one replied. Nothing but the crackling of distant flames and the silence of the dead.
As adrenaline and anger seeped from his body, Ekkehard’s eyes opened to the stark bleakness of his family home. Grief and exhaustion weighed him down, and he had to stifle the despair welling in his throat and behind his eyes.
Almost thirty corpses lay scattered about, friends and family among them, and barely a square foot of ground was unstained by blood. Black plumes of smoke, writhing through the sky like great tendrilled snakes, rose over the roof of the manor. The rest of the estate still burned a few hundred meters away. An overpowering acrid stench, tinged with the iron scent of blood and the sour smell of sweat, prevailed. A bitter taste lingered, catching on the end of his tongue. Soot was falling, the flames poisoning the very air of his home.
Ekkehard fought the urge to vomit, swallowing the sensation and spitting out the pungent taste. He tried to look at the bodies of Otker and Corbus. Disorientation assailed him and he had to fight to maintain his balance. He couldn’t linger on either and turned away.
His face twisted as he fought back tears.
He looked instead to his remaining brothers; their horrified expressions making something within him steel itself. Gerwald, the most inconsolable, had collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing as he sobbed. Ekkehard wiped the unformed tears from his face. They needed someone strong to carry them through this. He did not have the luxury of weakness today.
Then his mind spun.
Where was Audomar?
He had not yet emerged from the house, and many other family members had yet to be accounted for.
“Where are the others?” Ekkehard shouted at Florentin.
Before Florentin could answer, a loud crash resounded through the courtyard.
A body burst through the wooden shutters of one of the manor’s first-floor windows. Another guardsman landed face-first on the floor with a heavy thud, accompanied by a sickening crunch. Ekkehard saw the man’s neck twisted horribly from the impact. The man groaned and whined as he tried to get to his feet, collapsing with each attempt. Then, unable to rise, he attempted to crawl away. Before he could make it even a few feet, heavy footsteps rang from the manor.
Audomar stormed out of the doorway, drenched in blood.
Unarmed, Audomar marched over to the crawling man, grabbed him by one shoulder, and spun him onto his back. Audomar stood over his captive and began to pummel the man’s face. Each strike knocked the man’s head back against the ground. Soon his face was covered in blood, his lips split in several places, and his nose bent over his cheek.
Audomar grabbed a metal helmet that had fallen from the mail-armoured man’s head. With one hand he used it as a bludgeon, smashing the guardsman’s face. The sharp edges of the helmet cut open the man’s cheek. On the second strike, a loud crack echoed as his face inverted.
Ekkehard was shocked to see his brother, always the calm and measured commander, lose control so completely. Looking to his home, he saw why.
Three battered and bloodied women followed Audomar out of the manor's doorway. They wandered aimlessly into the courtyard, so disoriented that none of them seemed to notice Audomar's brutal assault on the now-lifeless man.
The first in the group was a thin teenager with long, wavy brown hair and a youthful complexion. Her big brown eyes were bloodshot and puffy, tear lines cutting channels of clean skin through her dirt-ridden face. Her lips were split and bleeding; her face covered in bruises. She struggled to hold together her torn clothes, clutching a ripped bodice and straps.
Gisla Reubke, Ekkehard's youngest sister.
The second woman’s figure was more mature than Gisla's. Her long blonde hair was straight, and her facial features were soft and rounded. Her piercing blue eyes, usually warm, were now lifeless and dull, with multiple injuries on her face and body. Ekkehard gasped, his body shaking with the sense of relief, his eyes welling. His wife, Auriana, was safe.
The final woman to leave was in a better state than the others. Her clothes bore only a few blood stains, and she had no visible injuries. She was taller and more developed than Gisla, with similar features and the same wavy hair. Marcovefa Reubke, another of Ekkehard’s sisters.
Ekkehard rushed towards his wife, eager to embrace her. She held out a hand, palm open, stopping him. Puzzled, Ekkehard looked at his wife and the relief he had felt earlier faded away. He saw her injuries and her trembling muscles. He saw the way her dress hung in tatters and the blood matted in her hair.
Realization dawned on him, and he understood Audomar’s rage. His heart began to pound, despite his exhaustion, and hateful anger filled him once more.
Ekkehard looked behind his wife at the manor’s entrance and then back to her. Many family members hadn’t emerged: his mother and grandfather, his sister-in-law, his niece, his two remaining sisters, and his newborn son.
Where was his son?
Whether his wife saw the fear and questions in his eyes or not, he could not know. Her expression was vacant. Unlike Gisla, she did not cry; she stared, not at him, but through him.
“Cheldric?” Ekkehard asked after his son.
Auriana did not respond, but a small twitch crossed her face, and her eyes grew glassier. Deep down, Ekkehard knew what had happened.
He refused to accept it without seeing it for himself.
He shook his head in defiance, unable to accept the unspoken truth. He clenched his jaw and his fists. “No!” he shouted, his voice directed at his wife but filled with denial.
“No!” he shouted again.
She did not react.
Ekkehard marched past his wife and towards the manor's entrance.
“Cheldric!” he shouted as he entered his childhood home. The horror that awaited him inside would haunt him forever.