Rengle already had plans for when disaster struck. Before the evening's festivities began, he sought out a young rider named Harold and gave him a note and instructions to ride with haste to Rydstone to alert Lord Clayton and to ask for more troops. Nakbar had another nine hundred in the woods somewhere nearby, but Rengle did not want to put his trust in these men. He expected the boy to return the next morning with thousands of extra troops.
Harold was the fastest stable boy in Ruska. Rengle chose him and his master to look after the horses of the Ruskamen. He had experienced harsh winters in his fifteen years, but the wind and the air made any exposed skin freeze like a pond. He wore a mask around his face to protect it, but the area around his mouth was condensing and forming little ice crystals. No matter what, he was always breathing in the cold air. He prayed that they would be out of the Westland by the time the dead of winter came, but with an army that size marching against them, they will not be going home soon.
But if Harold had to freeze alongside anybody, it would be Rengle and the warriors of Carell Keep. Perhaps, if he survived, Rengle would knight him for his services and be able to hold a sword, unlike most of the Ruskamen who fought with spears and axes.
A curious thing brushed by his face as he rode. Looking back he could not spot it again but it looked like the shape of one of the butterflies that cover the fields outside the town in the summer. It must have been a falling leaf, though there were not many left to fall.
He carried on until something else brushed past him. He did not get a good look at it but he swore he felt insect claws try to grab hold of his cheeks. Shadows were following him. Little shadows that fluttered in the moonlight. They were not leaves. Leaves would have fallen to the ground, but these were following him. Before he could kick his horse to full speed, something smacked him right in the face and startled so much that he tumbled off his horse and into the dirt.
His shoulder hurt so badly that he failed to notice the thing was still latched to his face after a few seconds. With his good hand he took it off and slammed it into the road. The pummeling stopped and he saw that it was an enormous moth.
More of them slowly began to fill the air around him, circling him like vultures over a kill. He tried to run after is horse but it was no where in sight and his legs hurt to much to carry him and the cloud grew so dense that he could not see where he was going.
Harold never noticed the knife until it found its way into his back. A gasp was all he could do before he felt his legs give out and everything went dark.
The sun was not out the next morning. Hidden behind the gray clouds as it rose, it had no warm rays to relieve the garrison of the chill of winter. There were no birds or insects singing their morning songs, just the sound of the treetops swaying in the wind. Flurries also greeted the army as they woke from their drunken slumber. The flakes did not stick to the ground, but it still reminded them that the green parts of the year were long over.
Despite their heavy drinking the night before, the men awoke and attended to their positions quickly. The archers took their places, with the Ruskamen atop the wall and the Userians at the base. Nakbar provided twice as many men as Rengle and so the greater space in the flat spot allowed him to release more arrows. All those who were not archers were sharpening their blades and making sure their maces were nice and heavy. Most of the Ruskamen did not carry swords, but they had plenty of spears and axes, and the some of the stronger members even carried maces.
One of those was Sir Argus Custer. Though he carried a sword as formal knightwear, he most at home wielding a great steel mace that he used to crack many skulls over the years. He was proficient with a blade enough to be Rengle's master of arms and Jergan's first instructor, but the complexities of swordplay were not as appealing to him in the heat of battle.
When the archers all took their place, he took his own at the end of their left flank. Here, he could give orders to fire but also communicate easily with Rengle who was perched in his balcony overseeing the hill. This reminded him so much of Brother's Crossing. Rengle and Argus just seemed to have stepped from one castle to another.
Things were strangely quiet at the bottom of the hill. The first hour passed and not one Morcar came into view. The smoke from their campfires were still visible and there were sounds as one would expect from an army this big. But there were no shouts, no horns, no marching. It appeared that Morcars had just decided not to attack today.
Soldiers were even starting to get bored. After an hour of waiting, several quiet conversations broke out in the ranks until Talonwood Keep was alive with chatter as if it were a tavern. Bart and Locke soon found themselves in their usual arguments. Locke was complaining about how bored he was and Bart scolded him and told him that this was what war mostly consisted of.
"I've heard of year-long sieges, and I wouldn't last a damn day!" he exclaimed, "Why can't those bastards just attack already?"
"The goal of the enemy is not to offer up themselves for you to slaughter. I know it's hard for you to accept, but you'll just have to deal with it."
"Hey, maybe if I throw you over the wall it will provide some excitement," the bigger knight mockingly threatened as he always had. There were a few times where the young knights could not tell if he was joking or not, like when he was ready to cut off Jon Maveric's manhood at the Tournament of Steel. But in the tone he was speaking in, they knew that none of them were in any danger. From Locke at least.
"Or Jon," Locke remembered the little twerp, "Where is he? Doesn't he usually follow around Eliza like a lap dog?"
"He stayed with Parendir Dayvey. He knows to avoid you around battlefields."
"What battlefield? Nothing is happening."
"Then run down that hill and attack them!" Bart suggested, "There Are seventy-thousand bodies down there for you chop up. Go and see how many you can kill before they stuff you with arrows. That way you get you precious bloodshed and I won't have to listen to you bitch anymore."
Jergan and Eliza glanced at each other in annoyance at the banter going on behind them. Ordinarily they would find it amusing, but out here they found it to be just obnoxious. Hordes of Morcars were on their doorstep and these two still bickered like little children.
Apparently, Rengle was having enough of it too, "Sir Bart. Since you are most anxiously waiting for an attack, why don't you down to the wall and wait for them there?"
"Oh," Bart knew that it was not a question. Accepting his dismissal from the balcony, he entered the tower.
"You too, Horcaster," Rengle said. Locke did not argue and followed.
And so there was silence once again on the balcony and Jergan hated it even more than the noise going on behind him. At least Locke and Bart helped take his mind off of the battle. But now all he had was the silence. Rengle hardly said a word and Eliza seemed to be following his model. A minute felt like an hour and Jergan tried to break the silence.
"Why aren't they attacking?" he asked his father, not expecting a long answer.
"They're planning something," Rengle replied, "They know that they won't take this position by just charging up the hill. No. If their commander has any sense, he'll try some trick to get us to attack him, or do anything to get us off this hill. But this is the only way up."
"Do you think they will turn around?" Eliza questioned. Jergan was correct. She admired Rengle and clearly was emulating his persona and figure. It may one day be her commanding soldiers against an impending force. Such as were the duties of the Sword of Eleanor.
"And go home? No. They've come to far and lost too much to do so. Their defeat at Rainguard has nurtured their thirst for victory. One little castle on top of hill will not stop them from achieving their goal that they have marched hundreds of miles to reach."
"So, what do you is going to happen?"
"I don't now, but listen you two," Rengle took his eyes off the trees and turned them towards the two knights, "I want both of you to stay close to me. You're both too valuable to be out of my sight."
"I beg your pardon, Lord Rengle but I can look after myself."
"I'm sure you can, Lady Eliza. But you're the daughter of a Duke. Our army knows that and it is likely that the soldiers down there we'll find out eventually. If they were to capture you, they would use you as a shield against your father, which could damage the war effort greatly."
"But I'm the Sword of Elenor! The Sword of Elenor does not hide when the battle is raging below her!"
"I understand. If they should reach the wall, you will have the chance to fight. But it will be alongside me and my son. As for you Jergan, I cannot let my son and heir out there without me," Rengle sounded more like a father than a commander, "You are both fine warriors and you will have your chance to spill some blood. But we cannot put you in a position where you can end up hurting the King's army instead of helping it."
How odd these Northerners fight, Nakbar thought to himself. For one thing, he thought it was madness to only send this meesily force to hold back that horde at the bottom of the hill. In Useria, they would not be standing in one place. They would be on the back of horses or camels and on the move. Staying put in one place was suicidal to the sellsword. These lords and knights put too much faith in their walls and towers. Most Userian battles took place out in the open, so that the prized city would not be damaged. These people seemed more than happy to tear down everything in sight including the things that they wished to take for themselves. Very strange way of waging war.
The men around in spoke in several languages. The tongues of the northern city states as well as the southern tribal tongues. Nakbar had a basic understanding of most but his mother tongue is one of those of the far south, from the Land of the Great Beasts. That was where the monks at the monastery he grew up told him.
He was unfortunate enough to be born in an era of great war. Xaro and several other Userian states were locked in an intense power struggle after the death of the King of Akir, the holy city of the land who had briefly quelled the Userian conflicts. To the north, the Litici was locked in the Rorchistyr Rebellion and even further north the Corasians were slowly building their empire.
All this left little for children such as Nakbar to inherit and build. There were only too professions available: becoming a beggar or becoming a sellsword. Nakbar had few things, but he had his pride and he would never reduce himself to holding his hands out for scraps. When he left the monastery, he joined up with a band of sellswords that would escort rich people across the country. The wars left the land crawling with bandits and outlaws and warlords who wanted their own seat. His path has led him from the ruined villages of war-torn Useria, to the scorched castles of the Westland in the wake of winter.
This place was as far from home as he had ever been. It was quite funny that he entered this country thinking it was going to be an easy job. Arhan Saud was known as a man who did not like to cause trouble where he went. But then Nakbar had to be stupid and enter himself in that tournament, cross weapons with Julius the Black, and catch the eye of Prince Tauron Heflite. And now he was here, facing down an army of seventy thousand. If he was smart, he would march down there and offer his service to the commander and save the skin of himself and his army. But Nakbar did not know a word of the language these Morcars spoke and he did not think they would be welcome after all the raids his company conducted on them.
In addition, sellswords were disposable. They would probably send the Userians right up the hill in front of their own and have Nakbar and his men cut to pieces by Rengle's archers. He had only known the Lord of Ruska for a few days, but Nakbar knew the look of a man you would not want to face in battle. Rengle's name was mostly known in Liticea and the Northern Provinces, and Nakbar heard much of his deeds, such as how he single-handedly held back thousands of Corasian invaders and made the future Duke of Forthren look like a fool, though judging by what he had seen of Yorod the fourth, he did not need any help from Rengle.
The afternoon was at its height when the lookout sounded the alarm of approaching enemies. The Userians stopped their conversation and readied their bows. On the wall, the Ruskamen arrows were prepared to send the Morcars back to the holes they came from.
Like lines of insects emerging from under grass, lines of little men marched from the trees. Nakbar noticed that it was a smaller force than what was sent at them yesterday. Their speed increased and they made for the first barricade and the gaps that were made. Nakbar heard the call of Argus Custer and the Ruskamen let loose hell. At the bottom of the hill, hundreds were fallen and Nakbar gave the order and followed it with a thousand other arrows. Familiar screams of pain came from the fallen enemies. It was a sound that Nakbar had become accustomed to years ago.
They retreated as soon as Nakbar's volley hit them. There was no follow-up attack. Once they got back under the trees they did not emerge again. The soldiers were sorely disappointed as the excitement ended and the excruciating waiting resumed.
None were more disappointed by the failed charge than Locke Horcaster. As soon as the alarm sounded, he bounded to his feet with the excitement of a boy. With his sword and armor, he sprang to the top of the wall just in time to see the last of the Morcars retreat to the trees. He yelled his frustration before cursing them.
"Come on, you shit-eating, deer-fondlers!" he shouted as if they could hear or understand him, "Come here and get a real fight! I'm getting bored up here! I want to spill some blood!"
"Shut up, you idiot!" Argus thumped him in the back of the head, almost knocking his helmet off.
"I came here to kill some Morcars! I can't do that with all you cunts picking them off with your little arrows!"
"Oh, Locke," Bart uttered after bringing his palm to his face. At that point Argus grabbed the big knight by the collar of his suit
"You are not here to kill, you are here in to serve Rengle Fallaner. And if Lord Rengle decides to not have you fight and instead scrap shit from the bottom of the toilets that's how its going to be, boy!" and tossed his down the wall steps. Locke managed to hold his footing until he got to the bottom and was met with a rueful look from Bart.
"The fuck you looking at?"
"A very sad sight," Bart said before Locke gave him a shove in the chest. The big knight went and grabbed some wine and sat down to wait until the Morcars grew some backbone and came to face him.
It was an hour later when the Morcars appeared again. They sent an even smaller force and like before they were completely cut to pieces. They retreated back and on the wall Argus grunted in satisfaction and Locke uttered in contempt. Nakbar chuckled to himself as they fell back. Many battles he had witnessed up to that point, but this was by far the easiest he ever fought.
They attacked again and again throughout the day, but it was never a force of more than a few hundred and they always ran away after a few minutes. Dusk was approaching and the window for battle closing. It seemed that the soldiers would once again drink merrily tonight. Locke of course would sit in a corner and whine while Bart rolled his eyes at him.
The sun was shining its last rays of light over the treetops when, in a surprise move the Morcars charged again. Even though it had happened several times throughout the day, Rengle, Nakbar and Argus all sensed that this was different. It was not just a few hundred, but thousands that came scurrying up the hill to the first barricade. This time, they were prepared with huge axes to cut to pieces. Nakbar and Argus let loose their barrage of arrows, but it seemed stem their determination little. Before they got off their second volley, the axes carved gaps in the spikes large enough for dozens to get through a ta time and continue up the hill. Though this was surprising, they still had two other walls to get through and Rengle wanted not a single one to get past the second.
After the seventh volley, the Userian was growing worried. Their arrows proved so formidable before, yet they acted now as if they were a minor inconvenience. Hordes of the enemy were struck down but they kept coming. They had more men than Nakbar had arrows.
One of the finer archers in the company, Aqib the winner of the previous night's arm wrestling competition sent monster arrows into the approaching Morcars. His bow, carved of thick wood and heavy string plunged arrows the size of what one would expect on batistas into the bodies of the enemy. It was a weapon only he could use. As Nakbar ordered a twelfth volley, Aqib readied his bow and aimed it down the hill.
There was a loud scream behind him. He turned but did not see the one who brought a sword blade into his brain. Nor did many others see their attackers as behind the Userian lines hundreds of Morcars, armed to the teeth ran around the corner of the castle and attacked Nakbar's flank. The leader of the company himself barely had time draw his sword and cut down two attackers and calling on the other warriors to turn and fight. Nakbar's life was spared for a few moments, but nearly a dozen of his warriors were dead before they knew what was happening.
Rengle heard Nakbar's shout and the sounds of swords clashing. He looked down from the balcony and saw his Userian allies engaged in fierce combat.
"What?" he exclaimed. His heart almost broke through his ribs as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. Jergan and Eliza looked down as well and both nearly screamed. with the fighting going on in front, the Litici saw nothing of foes creeping over the wall behind them with ladders and ropes before it was too late.
Argus turned when he heard the screams behind his as unsuspecting men were cut to pieces and dozens of Morcars were coming over the wall. "Turn around! Behind you! Shoot them!", he called to his archers. Several of them spun around, with their bows already drawn and fired at the enemy. The soldiers on the ground within the keep drew their swords and met the Morcars head on. In seconds, dozens of swords, spears, axes and shields were clashing against each other and their fleshy targets.
"Yes!" shouted Locke Horcaster as he drew his swords and sprung down the stairs into the brawl. His first was a man in chainmail wielding two single-blade axes. The man tried to pummel the knight, but Locke's sword parried one and his sheer size and his armor protected him from the other. He cleared an opening for his sword and plunged it into his opponent's belly. The tip of the sword was red when he took it out, but the Morcar was not dead. Fruitlessly he tried to swing at Locke's head, but the knight stepped out of range and using the reach his swords removed the Morcar's own from his torso.
Bart was having less luck. He was right below the wall when they attacked and took a mace to his left shoulder, rendering it aching and barely useful. Luckily it was his shield arm and his right was well enough to keep the enemies at bay, until he was flanked by Ruska and Westland soldiers in better health. His first kill was one dumb Morcar who kept flinging a sword against his shield while repeatedly being stabbed in the belly until he dropped.
Argus left one of his lieutenants in charge of the archers as he, with mace in hand, descended the steps and into the fray. The first Morcar who challenged him, lost his head in a single swing and a cloud of red.
"This is what I'm fucking talking about!," Locke said joyously as one Morcar after another fell before him, "This is fucking great!" he shouted as he cleaved one clean in half.
"Stop talking and fight boy!" Argus shouted back, his mace getting more and more covered with blood and brains with each swing.
"Hey, Bart! First one to twenty wins! Four! Five!" he began to count. Bart did not hear nor care what Locke had to say. All he cared about was getting through this battle as enemies and comrades were falling all around him.
Atop the balcony, Rengle and the two young knights were still watching. Jergan turned to his father asking for orders but Rengle had none. Only wide clueless eyes and a gaping mouth.
"Father what do we do?"
"I know what I'm going to do," Eliza drew her sword, prepared to fulfill her duty as the Sword of Elenor.
"Halt, Lady Eliza," Rengle stopped her without oving a muscle.
"My Lord, my friends are down there! My countrymen are down there I'm not going to stand up here!" she said, "I'm the Sword of Elenor!"
"Yes, you are. And no you are not going to stand up here," Rengle turned with a speed Jergan had never seen before, "Jergan, grab my sword and my helmet. We've got a fight waiting for use. You both will fight with me and none of you will leave my sight," Jergan got him the old family sword and the steel helmet with the sigil of house Fallaner on its brow.
"Jergan, Eliza," he said as he put it on, "It's time to spill some blood."
Rengle walked calmly ahead and the two knights followed. They heard the ring of metal and the screams of pain even from within the tower as they descended the stairs to the courtyard. Though Eliza and Jergan were eager to get to their friends, every muscle in their body was shaking this is what all their training has led them to. Every bruise, every cut, all the sweat and soreness they endured at the School of Chivalry all led to this moment. Their sweat was making their leather under armor heat up and their wet, shaking palms made holding on to their swords troubling. Not a single thought passed through their mind. Not even of their homes: not of Eliza's brother and little sisters, nor of Jergan's night with Jackie Red. Their minds were only on their sword and shields right up to when Rengle drew his own broadsword, opened the door to the courtyard and the two young knights entered their first real battle.
Rengle took out three Morcars in several smooth strokes. Jergan and Eliza would have been in awe of it had they not abandoned every instinct that was telling to run away and threw themselves into the battle. They stood by each other as they put their education to the test.
Eliza was faster. Whenever a weapon came at her she dodged or parried and sent her own blade into her attackers body. Jergan, despite being small was remarkably strong. At school he lasted the longest against Locke in the arm-wrestling contests.
The scent of blood fueled and heightened the senses of them both. The wall, the trees and the clouds became a blur and the only thing that was clear was themselves, their allies and their enemies. Jergan fought so hard he did not even notice he had strayed away from his father. He finished off a Morcar with a stab up the armpit and found himself facing the wall of the tower. He had not paid any attention to where he was going, but when he turned he saw three Morcars closing in on him.
All three were huge and armed with a sword and one had a shield. Jergan could take one easily but all three would be impossible. He looked around for allies but none had noticed him. In an instant all three were upon him. He blocked two strokes, but the second one was carrying the shield. Jergan's parry had sent his sword to the side and the Morcar took the shield and smashed it into his helmet, disorienting him and clouding his eyes for a brief moment.
He regained control of his eyesight just in time to bring his sword up to block a swing that might have killed him, but his attack sent him to his back with a hard kick in the gut. Another kick stopped him from rolling onto his feet. Through the slits in his helmet, he saw all three swords raised and all the world seemed to slow.
In his mind he was with Jackie again, by that stream in the woods where they used to play as children. It was like he had forgotten what his father had said earlier, and they were together in a moment of bliss. He would have stayed there forever had the a giant metal form brushed the three Morcars out of his view, while roaring like a wild beast.
"Ten! Eleven! Twelve1" Locke cut down all three of them with a few strikes. When he finished he looked down at Jergan and laughed, "Come, Jergan! First one to twenty wins!" he said as he pulled his friend to his feet. Rengle rushed to his side along with Eliza.
"Damn you, Jergan! I said to stay close!" he shouted as all four of the defended against more waves of enemies. Locke's count rose much faster than any of theirs.
Userians were dying just as fast as the Morcars were. Nakbar's white silk head scarf was spotted with drops of blood, and it got more and more damp as the battle raged on and more bodies were opened and spilling out. He had lost his sword shortly after the battle started and picked up a spear. Not the three-pronged one he used in the tournament, but a single long, sharp point. Necks, armpits, and chainmail were his targets. With a few precise jabs he brought four of enemies to the ground, blood streaming from where the spear had touched them.
That is until one man with an axe read his attack. He stepped to the right and gripped the shaft of the sellsword's spear. His weapon useless, Nakbar let it go as the axe was swung this head. He jumped back and tried to regain his feet, but when his boots touched down, they found wet, slippery earth and he fell to his hands. They sank half an inch into the what appeared to be mud, but was really dirt so soaked with mud that it appeared so. There was no time to revel in the shock of it before the axeman came after him again. Almost somersaulting to his feet, Nakbar picked up the nearest weapon on the ground. A short sword, or really a long dagger ended up in his hands without him thinking. After another misses swing, he leaped onto his opponent. His left hand grappled with the arm holding the axe and held it at bay while the right tried to sink the dagger into the armpit. The Morcar was covered in thick leather that would have stopped the dagger in it's tracks, but the pits were vulnerable.
But the dagger never reached its target. As Nakbar's left hand grappled with the axe, the Morcar's own grabbed his . Nakbar was a nimble man, but the Morcar was a mound of muscle built up over years in the harsh woods, and his arm was twisted until the dagger fell out. Then remembering a trick Julius used to incapacitate him briefly at the tournament came to memory. He jerked his head forward and smashed the top of it into the Morcar's mouth, avoiding the protection it provided around the eyes and nose. The Morcar's grip was lost and Nakbar reached around the man's right leg and hurled him over his shoulder and onto the back. Before the Morcar could get up, Nakbr seized the dagger and plunged it into the mouth of his opponent. He spoke to him to choke on it forever in his mother tongue.
Fighting atop the hill and within the walls was so fierce that they did not notice the other threat creeping up the hill. The thousands of advancing Morcars broke through the second barricade and were only a few hundred feet from their goal. They were about to have their vengeance for the humiliation that was inflicted on them yesterday. The woods would be decorated with the bodies of both Syanians and Userians. Not one would be left alive should they reach the top and overrun the keep.
Only so many had been sent to surprise their enemy from behind, however, for now Argus, Rengle and all the men and women of Ruska had slaughtered much of what remained of the force and the rest fled back over the wall. For the moment the castle was secure. As quickly as the Morcars appeared over the wall they vanished back over it and into the woods. But they left behind a slaughter.
More than half of the footmen and knights were injured or dead. Rengle patrolled the square, commanding that every fallen Ruskamen and Westlander that still breathed be taken into the tower. His fury raged over not only the magaling of his army, but also how he was fooled into letting his guard down like that. Because of his laxness mn were dead, Ruska humiliated and the Morcars empowered.
Jergan and Eliza were seated on bench after the battle was over. Covered on blood, dirt, and cuts they had to gulp down sacks of wine to help deal with the reality of the recent event. Jergan was especially affected. When he was laying down at the mercy of those three Morcars he felt the hands of death wrapping around him, ready to pull him into the underworld. Now alive, but surrounded by death he could tell how he felt. Echoes of swords clashing, men screaming and shields breaking pounded back and forth in his mind like a thousand ringing bells.
Eliza was sitting beside him, breathing heavily. Her raven hair, usually well-kept and straight was a tangled, sweaty mess. Her eyes were wide and did not focus on anything. The only sound she made was heavy breathing.
Locke was quite the opposite. While shaken and bloody, he dealt with it by celebrating with a huge casket of wine in his hand, "Fifty kills, my friends! Fifty! Exactly fifty! Oh, what are the fucking odds of that, eh? What's your count?"
Neither Eliza nor Jergan paid him any attention. They were to tired and too shaken to listen to him.
"Well, I'm just going to assume that I won. But let's get on our feet, my friends! The sand men are having all the fun over the wall while we sit on our asses! Speaking of friends, where is Bart? I want to know how badly I beat that little shit."
"Bart!" both Jergan and Eliza said springing to their feet, realizing that their friend was missing.
"Don't worry he's fine!" Locke japped, "He's probably cleaning his suit of the huge shit he probably took when they attacked!"
"Locke! We have to find him!" They searched through the faces of the living, but they could not find him. With every unfamiliar face their panic grew more and more, until Eliza spotted a familiar sigil on a downed body. It was still barely moving, despite having the tip of a pike embedded in its stomach. She ran to it. Neither Jergan nor Locke knew what she was doing, until they heard the sound of her crying and they ran after her.
They knew who it was even before she removing the helmet. Bart's usual colorful face was now fading white and his sarcastic eyes were held shut by the pain of the weapon buried five inches in his belly.
"Bart! Bart!" Eliza cried at him, her tears falling from his eyes onto his.
"Who... who is it," he struggled to get words out his mouth in between rapid gasps for breath, "I can't see..."
"It's us, Bart! Its your friends. It's Eliza, Jergan and Locke!"
Amazingly, his bloody mouth curved into a bleeding smile. Being in the company of his friends, his comrades, the only family he has know could make this passing much easier , "Locke is here?"
"Yes, I'm here," the big knight knelt over his friend and took his hand lie it was his own little brother dying, "Listen to me, you little bastard. You are not going and dying on me!" the heir of the infamous House Horcaster whimpered as tears came to his eyes for the first time in his life. His huge hands held little Bart's gently.
"And Jergan?"
"I'm here," Jergan knelt alongside Lock while Eliza cradled Bart's head in her arms. He tried to open his eyes but the pain was too great. Instead, his arms felt around for the touch of his companions to ferry him away into the next world.
"Well... ah!" he winced, but his smile never vanished, "looks like I'm done here! Looks like I'm going to join my mother and father."
"No!" Eliza cried, "We're going to save you," she cried for a healer but there were none in sight.
"You hear me? You are not dying here on us," Locke said again, grabbing Bart's collar armor as if he were about to punch him.
"You were always a dumbshit, Locke," laughter sputtered blood out of his mouth and over his chin, "I've got a spear in my belly. I'm not coming back from this. I'm not going home," he sniffled and stinging tears rolled down into Eliza's lap.
"No," Jergan gripped his hand tightly, trying to squeeze some life into the knight, but he just kept fading along with the color in his skin.
"Hey Locke... how many did you kill?"
"twenty-one," he said with none of the bravado that he displayed earlier.
This made Bart laughter harder and cough up more blood. When it subsided, he smiled and showed his bloody teeth one last time.
"Twenty-two," the rapid breathing stopped. His limbs and head went limp in his friend's arms. Bartheyis, the last of the Brunowil family had passed away, with a Morcar spear in his belly. The three remaining young knights lifted him up and carried him to the spot where they were piling the dead. For now he had to be put away, but they vowed they would bring him back to Blackfield, the town and castle he, his father, and his mother died to preserve.
"What are we going to tell Gor?" Locke asked them when they laid the body down. They did not have time to Answer before Sir Argus was calling for the remaining footmen to rally near the gate and the archers back on the wall. They were going to go out and help the Userians.
"Nothing right now," with his sword in hand Jergan got his wits back together and made for the gate. There were more Morcars on the other side of the wall. They had taken his friend from him and now they were going to feel his wrath.
"To me, Ruskamen!" Argus shouted at the gate, holding his mace p as a beacon for them to rally to. Against the door were the sounds of the vicious bloodshed outside and all of them were eager to get in. None more than Jergan. It was not just his friend the Morcars killed, it was many of his countrymen, those he had grown up with and been a part of all is life despite being the son of a lord.
"To me! To me!" the master of arms called again until he had about a hundred good men in front of him. The others were firing arrows into the enemy army or making sure another surprise does not sneak up behind them, "It is time to show the world what Ruskamen are made of! Those beasts out there want to take your lands, you loved ones and your children! They have already taken your comrades, and now it is time to make them pay!" he pounded on the door and two men pushed against it, "Now with me!" he said as he charged out into the fray, with Jergan, Locke, Eliza, and the men of Ruska at his back, their screams of rage and battle cries put more fear into the hearts of the Morcars on the other side of the wall than any hill or cloud of arrows. The first Morcar lost his head in single swipe of the mace and the swords of the young knights busily cut into any around them.
One would find it hard to say who fought with greater ferocity of the three remaining. Locke gave little care for skill. With his sword he cleaved one clean in two. The left and right side fell opposite to each other in a bloody pool of tangled intestine. One of his friends tried to swing at his head but it was caught by the guard of his greatsword. A metal fist then found its way to the nose, hitting it so hard the bone broke and was pushed back into the brain. The Morcar fell, and two more came at him. Locke spun his sword above his head and brought it around, taking off both of their heads at once and creating two red fountains where they used to be.
Eliza moved so fast, the enemy did not even see her before her sword was lodged in their belly. With Bart's head resting in her arms fresh in her mind she stabbed parried and slashed as if every one of them put that spear into his belly. The red emblem of House Elenor on her chest was not visible after a minute of being covered by blood and shreds of meat.
Fighting atop the hill lasted only a few more minutes until the enemy began to drop their weapons and sprint off into the woods or down the hill, where they would be picked off by the archers. Nakbar Nazeen, though exhausted from the fighting, took no time to rest. He called for his men to reorganize and to resume reigning the arrows down on the approaching enemy, for they were now working their way past the third and last barricade.
The arrows fell many of them, but no matter how many they kept coming. They were so close now they were not going to stop. Nakbar had around six hundred good men remaining. Argus Custer had about a hundred that he took out of the keep. There were probably five thousand Morcars on the hill at that very moment, but they were still struggling through the small gap in the defenses, leaving thin streams, especially in the last stretch of the hill.
"Ruskamen, prepare to charge!" he shouted. Nakbar and all the others looked at him like he was a madman, until he saw the old knights face. He truly was a mad man, Nakbar thought and the sight of him would send the Morcars running back down the other direction. In a language that Argus did not recognize, he ordered his men to do the same.
Jergan's bloodlust was not satisfied yet and he stood next to Argus as they all prepared to plunge straight into the Morcars. Eliza and Locke were close behind him, and he even caught a glimpse of Kruger too.
"Charge!" the the strength of a herd of charging bulls, the Userians and the Ruskamen and the Westlander allies plunged straight into the enemy. Nakbar was right: at the sight of Argus's bloodstained grey beard and brain-covered mace they turned and pushed passed their comrades downhill. The ragged band of soldiers pushed the Morcars back across the barricade and deadly arrows followed them passed it. Locke himself grabbed a Morcar and impaled him on the spikes. With the gaps now covered again, the Morcar army was stuck, while the archers thinned their ranks.
The Litici and Userians screamed dares for them to to continue up the hill. Some tried to push through the gaps and some even tried to climb over the spikes. None made it over without adding to the river of blood that was flowing down the hill and making the earth so thick and slippery that the attackers could not even run anymore. After another twenty minutes of slaughter, trumpets sounded and the horde finally began to retreat down the hill like the sun that was retreating behind the western skyline. The victors of the day hurled insults, chants, and curses at the backs of the enemy along with the arrows and did so until the last one disappeared under the tree and then they found themselves back where they were at the beginning of the day. The victors turned and were reminded of this day had cost them. Jergan slowly walked to the top. The battle fever wore off with each step and the rage was replaced by grief. The archers held their ground, but all the others lumbered back into the keep and sat themselves on the ground. Jergan sat on a piece of wood that used to be a bench. He did not cry. He had energy to do so.
Across from him, a dirty from sat down with a bloody spear in his hand. Shaking fingers unstrapped his helmet and it fell to his feet. Jergan recognized Wallis under the dirt and sweat. Even though it was winter, both of them felt like they had run a mile in the heat of summer. The feeling of the cold air on their skin as a relief to them. Both of them sat still for a minute before one gathered the strength to speak.
"Good to see you're alright," Jergan spoke to his friend. No longer was Wallis just a peasant in Ruska, he was a soldier of Liticea and a slayer of Morcars.
"Where are the others? Kruger and Daren?"
"They're dead."
"What?" Jergan's breath left him as if Argus' mace had slammed him in the stomach.
"When they first came over the wall. They killed Kruger, then Daren. Me and the others barely hung onto our lives," he said with no hint of dismay in his voice. All his emotion was spent for the day. Jergan was the same way, but any tears were already spent mourning Bart's death.
"Jergan," said the familiar voice of his father, "With me," he commanded. Jergan did not move. He just looked into his father's black eyes with his own. Instead of giving him the stern follow-up that the young knight usually got when he did not jump at his father's word, Rengle's eyes shifted to the ground and he approached his son.
"Jergan," he said again.
"Bart's dead, father," he said quietly, looking up at his father like a starving pup.
"I know. But we must fortify ourselves against any other attacks."
"They killed Kruger. And Daren."
Rengle gave a silent prayer for their families, "There will be a time to mourn, my son, but it is not now," he gripped his son's shoulders and guided him to his feet. For the first time in years, Rengle hugged his son, even if it was brief. He then turned to the other grieving Ruskaman.
"Come, you too. On your feet, master Wallis," he helped the footman to his as well and looked him assuringly in the eyes, "We must not let their deaths be in vain."
"No, lord Rengle," he agreed quietly.
"Good. To the wall. That's a good lad," he sent Wallis on his way and called for Argus to summon Nakbar to him. He entered the tower and Jergan followed. He needed to get away from the sight and the stench of battle. In his chambers, he took a seat at his table. He was back in Brother's Crossing, and he had just repelled the Corasian legions descending on his little keep. He had done it again, only the enemy carried a different banner. No matter the colors it was the same result, dead Ruskamen and dead allies.
Into the room walked Custer followed by a bloodied Nakbar Nazeen. Both were breathing hard and reeked of death. The Userian's silk scarf was nearly completely red. If this was what they wore into battle they must have some secret for keeping it clean.
"Good to see you're alright," Rengle spoke.
"I thought you said this position was unreachable!" the Userian said angrily, getting close enough to his face to warrant concern from Argus.
"They must have taken the back roads and snuck around us. Crafty trick but it will not happen again. You have about nine hundred others in your company, right?"
"What of it?"
"Summon them here. I want them to go out and watch the roads so they don't sneak up on us again."
Nakbar now appeared angrier than ever at that request, "What makes you think that I will sacrifice more of my men?"
"Because you are in the service of the Prince of Liticea," Rengle said sternly, "and he has placed me in the command of Talonwood. As long as you are here you're under my command."
"And what if I don't? What if I choose not to follow your 'orders', Fallaner?"
"Do that and the gates of Talonwood will be closed to you, and you can seek shelter somewhere else. Though, I must say the people here are not the friendliest to Userians."
"Maybe we'll go down that hill and join them!" Nakbar threatened, but Rengle was not fooled by it. Though he had to calm down Argus.
"I highly doubt that they have any use for you," Nakbar was amazed at how cool Rengle could be after his men had been slaughtered, "Your men were hired to fight for Liticea. They did their job and they did their job well. We could not have won this battle had it not been for the bravery of your company. But do not come to me with some idea that because you lost men that we own you something more. Your men fought and some of them died. Of all people, I would think you would be the one to understand that."
Nakbar was no less enraged, but he had nothing to retort Rengle's word. The Userian turned and exited the chamber quickly, leaving the two Ruskamen inside.
"Any idea of our losses?" Argus asked him.
"Sixty Ruskamen dead and a hundred wounded. Two hundred Westlanders as well. I don't know about the Userian losses."
"The nerve of that man," Argus uttered, "To speak in such a treasonous fashion. Want me to out there and make sure he obeys?"
"No. Give him time to cool off. We are all weary at the moment. Especially Jergan."
"Aye, I saw he lost his friend. The Brunowil boy."
"He will lose much more before this is done. Just like we did."
"Maybe it won't be as bad for him, my lord. You will not do something stupid like that idiot Yorod."
"Hundreds of Morcars managed to sneak up behind our lines. I'd say that is awfully close."
"You didn't know they had knowledge of the backroads. Even if they did, ti was not your job to protect them. It's the job of Rydstone's men."
"Speaking of them, they should have arrived here with reinforcements. I sent the boy... Harold out last night. Where the hell are they?"
"He must have gotten lost."
"Well, I'm not taking anymore chances. Send ten riders to Rydstone. And with a map," he bid Argus his leave and the captain left the room and then entered Jergan. The young knight appeared as shaken as he had been when Rengle found him sitting on the log.
"Are you alright, son?"
"I'm alive," he said bluntly.
"That's all that matters for now," Rengle siad, "That you're safe."
Jergan didn't reply, he just took a seat next to his father's desk.
"Are your other friends alright?"
"They're alive too."
"Good. I'm sorry about the Brunowil boy."
"His name was Bart."
"I'm sorry about Bart. I did not have the opportunity to get to know him, but he seemed like a decent fellow. And a fine warrior. I heard some of the men say he took thirty Morcars with him."
"Thirty-one," Jergan corrected, "One more than Locke."
"He died a warrior. He will be remembered fondly when this is over."
"Will we take his body back to Forthren?" he could not leave his friend with the bodies of the Morcars instead of bringing him home.
"If we can, I will see to it he gets back. Does he have any family?"
"His mother died birthing him and his father during the Corasian War."
Renge felt a tug in his gut. If it was at Brother's Crossing, he might have crossed paths with the man. Seas of bodies make it difficult to remember one house sigil, "If no one will take him," Rengle said, "We will. We'll bury his reamins in Jorgin Cemetery."
No response came from the young knight, only silence. Rengle respected it as he took some parchment to write the letters to Lord Blackwell.