by J. M. Topp
The flash waters had washed through the majority of the Weserithian encampments. Collapsed red tents were being washed away with the last of the torrential floods that were racing through the rest of the Lyedran Valley. Dozens of Weserithian trebuchets had been destroyed, and their wooden parts floated in the waters.
That’s what must have broken the rope and sprung me forward.
Bendrick looked to see the majority of the Aivaterran armies staring across the valley. Only their initial attack wave had been in the floods; the rest of the army had been safe on the valley ridge. Despair tugged at Bendrick as he realized how defeated they were. Suddenly, a gauntleted hand reached down and grabbed him.
‘Get up, you old cunt.’
Bendrick gasped to see General Mahkaman holding him by the scruff of his chainmail. He had a wound on his forehead from which he was bleeding profusely, but the general didn’t seem to notice. His chestplate was pierced as well, by a spear most likely, but all that was left was the wound. The general frowned at him and placed a short sword caked with mud in Bendrick’s hand.
‘General.’ Bendrick coughed, gaining his balance.
‘I am general of nothing now.’ General Mahkaman growled and looked past Bendrick. ‘Stand up. We have a fight to finish.’
‘Where’s my…’ Water, still in Bendrick’s chest, sprang from him, making him vomit. The general didn’t seem to notice the vomit on his boots.
‘King Ayland was carried away in the floods. As far as anyone is concerned, we lost.’ General Mahkaman looked at Bendrick and glared. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, compose yourself.’
Bendrick looked behind him and noticed the king’s royal guard behind the general. The royal guard, clad in steel plates and greaves, held their shields and spears as they could. They were all tired though, slouching in their armour and coughing up water and blood. Bendrick didn’t know how much time had passed since the beginning of the battle, but the soldiers behind the general had blank stares. They looked like they had been fighting for hours.
How long was I in the flood?
‘Bendrick, turn around. You are facing the wrong way.’
The general’s eyes pierced holes through him. Bendrick turned his head to see an incoming wave of Aivaterran horse riders.
‘Brace yourselves, men.’ General Mahkaman glanced back at the handful of soldiers. ‘Let’s show these sparrow pieces of shit what a last stand looks like.’
The general gritted his teeth and looked at Bendrick.
‘You think you can do this one more time, old man?’
The sounds of horses treading over the muddy valley floor made Bendrick turn to his back to the General.
‘Just make sure you don’t break a hip, Mahkaman,’ snapped Bendrick, wiping water from his eyes and holding the shortsword with both hands.
The general burst out in laugher even harder and slapped Bendrick on the back. ‘It is an honour to die by your side, Bendrick. Just don’t slip, you old cunt.’
The Aivaterran’s shouted atop their racing horses. General Mahkaman drew his sword and pointed it at the incoming screamers. Without a word, the horses rushed into the small group of men. Mahkaman charged into the line and swung at a horse’s legs, cutting clean through them just above the knees. The rider sprawled forward, and Mahkaman plunged the point of his sword into the fallen man’s neck. A spear flew through the air and impaled General Mahkaman into the mud, suspending him above the ground. The general’s body went limp. A rider shot his crossbow at Bendrick, barely missing him.
Bendrick twisted and swung the edge of his blade at the rider, but his blow went wide as the rider ducked the sword strike. The rider peered through his half-helm and tugged the reigns of his horse, changing its direction. The horse screamed as lighting struck metres away from where they were standing. Spiders of lightning bolted over the muddied waters, skipping over the ground. The horse bucked its rider from its back and tried to run, but the thick muck at its feet held the horse in place. The rider hit the mud and sank all the way to his waist beside the panicking horse. The rider gasped and struggled to rise from the mud, but he could not. He began to sink deeper and deeper. Mud began to cling and drag Bendrick down, but with enough effort he dragged his feet onto solid, wet ground. The rider screamed as he sank below the thick mud, never to be seen again.
A sharp pain bit his leg, and Bendrick fell to the ground with a scream, clutching his leg. He looked down at his leg to see a spear jutting out from it. A knight with angel wings decorated over a shiny steel chestplate fell next to him, grabbing the spear on his way down, pulling the shaft of the spear and twisting it. Bendrick screamed in intense pain as the spear was ripped out of his leg. Bendrick clenched his teeth and noticed that the man who had fallen next to him wasn’t a man at all.
Her long hair was matted with blood and mud. Her heavy Aivaterran armour was stained with blood. The golden crest of an angel shone through the dark. She stared at Bendrick and stood up, taking the spear in her hands.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
The Aivaterran woman stood up and ran back into the dark. The sounds of war continued to rage around Bendrick, but his mind began to fade.
Sieglinde.
Bendrick’s eyes stared up at the black skies as rain dripped over his face. He was to die here, without being able to do anything about it. Old and weak. Maybe it was Sieglinde’s passion that had driven him to think he could fight like he used to. Darkness clouded his vision, but it was not from the clouds above.
Something dark materialized within his mind, slowly at first. Black fur moved and writhed in his minds-eye. Its breath was hot and fiery against Bendrick’s flesh. Its eyes glowed red, and fire poured out of its mouth. Bendrick couldn’t make out any form, except for a smile. Rows of jagged teeth and bright red eyes shone through the dark.
‘…to begin the world anew?’
BENDRICK OPENED HIS eyes slowly. The skies weren’t as dark anymore. The rain clouds had disappeared, leaving the blue vastness with pearl-white clouds floating far above observing the desolate battlefield. The sun was rising in the east, poking rays of light over the red fields.
Bendrick realized that he was being carried. He struggled to look up at who was carrying him, but all he could see was a silver chestplate with the golden form of angel on it. Bendrick couldn’t rightly see where he was being carried. Trying to get a grip on his surroundings, he saw spears, swords, and broken halberds strewn with the mud. The ground was littered with bodies of the dead and crows feeding on them. Aivaterran soldiers walked around on the valley floor, thrusting their spears and swords into the bodies of the fallen.
Bendrick realized that they had never stood a chance. The Weserithian Army had been sleeping or beginning their rounds of ale when the attack happened. They hadn’t been expecting anything this soon or against such a reinforced army. The battle was supposed to happen at Flodden, not so close to Weserith. The flood had decimated the majority of the encampment as well, drowning and killing so many men.
It is my end, too. Not long before they thrust a sword or spear in me.
Bendrick was brought into a small tent that smelt of cadsymum, burnt wormwood, and mint. He could smell blood in the thick of the incense filling his lungs almost instantly.
‘Healer, take care of this man,’ said the woman carrying him. Confusion struck Bendrick like the broadside of a warhammer. The voice was unrecognizable, but something about it was familiar.
Sieglinde. Could it be?
‘Sieglinde,’ rasped Bendrick, coughing up blood.
‘He’s said that name to me three times. It must belong to someone valuable to him.’
The armoured woman placed him on a blood-caked table, knocking the air out of his lungs. Bendrick gasped but could only pace his breathing. His eyes struggled to adjust to the dim candlelight within the tent.
‘I want a report on his status as soon as you are able, healer. I owe this man my life. We’re moving on to Weserith. I will see you in the c
ity,’ said the armoured woman before exiting the small healer’s tent. Bendrick realized that it was the same woman who had ripped the spear from his leg. She was the same one who had thanked him during the battle.
In the city? Not if William had anything to say about that. Queen Gwendylyyn would have to siege Weserith for years before being able to set one foot in the city. A dull pressure was placed on his side, again forcing the air out of him. It must have been the wound he received when the trebuchet hit him in the chest. He turned to look at the healer, who stood above him, unfastening the chainmail from his chest.
‘Pardon, but I must close this wound. It is a miracle you are still alive,’ said the healer as he cut the burlap shirt and tore it away from his body. He grimaced as he looked at the wound and began to sew it up with a not-so-sharp needle.
‘My daughter…’ rasped Bendrick.
‘She was here in the encampment? What was she doing here at all, old man?’ The healer spoke through his teeth as he stitched into Bendrick’s flesh. Bendrick winced in pain but held his tongue. Once the healer had finished stitching the wound on his chest, he turned to his leg. He studied it for a moment and then cut through his pant leg. He gave a soft whistle as he inspected the wound.
‘Your leg is badly torn. But it will heal, no need to amputate, most fortunately for you. It did just miss your femur and artery by millimeters. Hmmm. Yes…it has been dislocated.’ The healer said curtly, ‘but do tell me: whose side are you on?’
Bendrick merely stared up at the top of the tent without uttering a single word. He was alive for the moment, but he wouldn’t put himself in a position to be deliberately killed.
‘You’re silent now, eh? Silence speaks volumes sometimes.’ The healer chuckled as he dipped more bandages in hot water.
‘What happened?’ asked Bendrick with short breaths, careful not to speak any more than he had to.
‘The battle? Well, that was a sight to see.’ The healer paused and glanced at Bendrick. ‘Well, maybe not for you, but the queen’s armies rushed into Lyedran Valley, taking the Weserithians completely by surprise. It seems that Oredmere was moving through the battle, blessing our efforts. The flood did more harm to the army than we did. King Elmeric, Oredmere rest his soul, would have been so proud of his daughter Gwendylyyn. The stratagem of this battle was very well thought out.’ The healer let out a sigh. Bendrick chewed his lip in realization. So, King Elmeric of the Aivaterrans was indeed dead, by the hand of his own daughter no less. She had done a good job of covering it up.
Bendrick tried to sit up.
‘No. Stay down. If you walked out of here now, you’d lose all the blood I am desperately trying to keep inside you,’ scolded the healer, restraining him. He was much stronger than Bendrick was. There was nothing he could do except wait. ‘The Weserithian forces, who fought valiantly, were routed. King Ayland was found and is being held captive by the queen herself. The rest of the army that was not in the battle have run away. It is a sad day, for men in any army to turn tail and run. No honour in those poor bastards.’
‘Who was it who brought me here?’ asked Bendrick as the warmth of the cadsymum numbed his pain. The healer stepped back for a moment and tied something to his leg.
‘Bite your teeth together. I wouldn’t want you to bite your tongue off,’ he said before pulling a rope tied to his leg. With a crack, he pulled the leg back into place. Bendrick clenched his teeth tightly as pain thundered through his body. He nearly fainted again, but this time, his eyes remained open. The pain began to subside little by little.
‘That was the Knight-Captain Elymiah Farnesse, of the Holy Silver Angels Platoon. Now that is a woman!’ He laughed, taking the strap off of Bendrick’s leg and setting it aside.
‘We have met before,’ said Bendrick.
‘You were lucky to fall in her good graces. Whatever you did, you have my thanks for saving her life,’ said the healer.
Saving her life? Bendrick didn’t understand what the healer was talking about, but he wasn’t about to question that. He would live, for now. That was enough for him.
‘It seems that the job is done. No vital organs were penetrated. You took a nasty tumble, but nothing more. Men our age shouldn’t be participating in wars, old boy. Do me a favour: next time, stay well away.’ He laughed jovially, grabbing a potion bottle from his side. Bendrick could see him better now. The hood hid most of his features, but his short-cut beard and crooked nose poked from it. His teeth were mostly intact, a seemingly important feature to one who smiled and laughed so much. ‘This is something that will help with the pain; you mustn’t move your leg any more than you have to. You don’t want it to dislocate again, eh?’
Bendrick took the potion the healer held to his mouth. It couldn’t be poison, not after all the trouble he’d taken to mend him. He took a long, deep gulp and set his head down on the table. Darkness began to set in, but this time it was like a warm blanket. The thoughts, however, began to rise, and a different voice echoed within his mind.
‘…today, I will make my own choice. You stay here if it makes you feel better, Bendrick. I will not.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Queen's Fury
BENDRICK’S EYES OPENED slowly as his eyes adjusted to the light shooting through the tent flaps. He glanced at the healer’s table. The healer must have moved him while he was passed out. Suddenly four hands grabbed him and pulled him from the cot he was laying on. Two men in bloody and tattered Weserithian uniforms sat Bendrick up against the cot. One had a half-helm, and the other simply wore a black chainmail getup. One of them placed a knife to his throat. Bendrick stood still.
‘What the hell?’ said Bendrick through clenched teeth. His side and leg burned fiercely as they held him up.
‘I told you. It’s him,’ said the soldier with the half-helm. ‘He’s the one who saved that Farnesse bitch.’
They were drunk. Bendrick didn’t know how long he had been sleeping, but it had been long enough for Bendrick’s wounds to start closing up. The two soldiers dragged Bendrick from the tent, and he nearly stumbled on a body lying outside. It was the healer, lying in a pool of his own blood. The army was nowhere to be seen, and to the north, a great fire burned.
Weserith was in flames. A deep sadness crept into Bendrick as he was dragged forward onto an oxcart pulled by a half-starved ox. The men tied his arms and threw him onto the cart without explanation. His side burned as he hit the wooden bed, forcing the air out of his lungs. He took a moment to regain his breath.
‘Where are you taking me?’ asked Bendrick, but he received no response. The men removed their armour and threw the pieces in a pile beside the oxcart. Then they put on simple clothes of burlap and sackcloth. The man grabbed his half-helm and placed it back on his head. They tied brown cloaks to their backs and put on black gloves. The two men hopped onto the drivers’ seats and whipped the reigns of their horse. The cart moved forward with a jolt. Bendrick realized that the two men were not heading north to Weserith, but going South. Maybe if he told them who he was, they would realize he had some value to them.
‘My name is Bendrick. Bendrick Greystonne.’
The cart slowed to a stop. The man with the half-helm jumped off the drivers’ seat and walked around to the bed of the cart. He grabbed Bendrick by his shirt and lifted him up.
‘The fuck did you say?’ asked the man.
‘I said you have made a mistake,’ said Bendrick, struggling to breathe under the man’s steel grasp.
‘Bendrick. Caretaker of the Athenaeum? That’s you?’ barked his captor, spitting into his face.
‘Yes,’ responded Bendrick simply.
The man in the half-helm glanced at his partner and then coughed in Bendrick’s face.
‘We heard you went to Aivaterra to parley with the Harlot Queen. So tell me,’ said the man with a sniffle, ‘how did that go?’
The driver burst into laughter, and the man smiled back.
‘You are Weserithians?’
; ‘Aye. We are.’
Bendrick stared at them for a moment. ‘Well, so am I. Aren’t you going to let me loose?’
‘Weserith is no more, haven’t you heard? It’s everyone for themselves now.’ He let Bendrick go with a chuckle.
The cart began to move again. They seemed to be talking to one another, but Bendrick couldn’t make out what they were saying. Snow began to fall lightly on the ground. The cart turned along the muddy battlefield. The waters had completely receded, leaving a thin blanket of wet and moist ground. Blood was mixed in with mud, and it was difficult for the crows to get at the bodies. There were still crowds of them flying overhead and diving at the fallen. The crow’s shrieks were almost deafening. Then, the driver pulled the reigns of the ox and turned the cart back north.
Suddenly, the thought hit Bendrick like a brick: they were on the road leading to Weserith.
Are they expecting a reward for me?
He decided against asking them. What they were truly up to was a mystery to him. Perhaps it was better to sit and hope for the best.
THE OXCART ARRIVED at the gates of Weserith shortly before nightfall. Bendrick could only catch little bits of the conversation they had in hushed whispers. Snow began to fall in droves, blanketing Bendrick with tiny snowflakes. He had no cloak, and his armour had been taken off by the healer. Only his sackcloth pants and the bandages were keeping him warm. From their approach, it seemed that Weserith had been burning for at least a day. Dead Weserith soldiers littered the ground before the gate. Scavengers crawled among them. It seemed that the stunning victory Queen Gwendylyyn had had at the Lyedran Valley had been repeated here. Aivaterran sentries guarded the main gates with torches and spears. They were clad in blue and white. They stopped the cart as it neared.