by J. M. Topp
The journey back to Eldervale was a much quieter one. They had failed in their mission to dissuade the queen. A third war, it seemed, would drench Eldervale in blood once more. Flashbacks of swords clashing and the dying wails of men echoed in Bendrick’s mind. He had thought the last war would indeed be the last—at least, in his lifetime. The army assembled at Lyedran Valley would use the same crossing path at Flodden. Though the queen wasn’t in her right mind, she wasn’t stupid. The battle would take place at Flodden most likely. Kingsoul, Elvellyn and Seamarch rivers would be coloured red. It would be the first Khahadran war since the First Age of Fog had blown away. If only there was something he could do to stop it.
They crossed through the Kingsoul River but decided against spending the night in Flodden. They camped along the road whenever it was time to rest. They were not directly on the road, but they were close enough to observe who came and went. When the sun rose, they would ride as fast as they could. They had decided to keep their Aivaterran mounts, which were much faster. Their time would be decreased exponentially. The incessant trotting of the horse beneath him was getting to Bendrick, however—that and the icy winds that only became stronger the further north they traveled. Sieglinde would glance at him every once in a while, but wouldn’t say a word. Korhas was more or less silent throughout, keeping a keen eye on the Thalasar Road. Bendrick thought about the queen’s secret. He would have to tell the king. If he didn’t, and King Ayland found out he knew, it would be his neck on the gallows. Even then, he couldn’t help but think of Gwendylyyn sobbing in his arms.
The first week passed, and they took a turn west from the Thalasar Road. The path to Lyedran Valley didn’t allow their horses to trot side by side as it had on the wide road. Bendrick took the lead, with Sieglinde in the middle and Korhas in the rear. As their mounts strutted through the narrow road, stormy clouds began to assemble above them. Lightning struck the billowy dusk, shooting through the dark heavens. The smell of rain hit Bendrick. It was a smell he would normally relish, but not here.
Not now.
Bendrick frowned. Lyedran Valley was known for its flash floods. Without warning, water would crash onto unsuspecting travelers. Reports would often reach Weserith of a merchant or family swept away by the powerful torrent, never to be seen again.
Raindrops began to fall lightly and patter off their clothes and they all drew their hoods. Then, as if on cue, Weserithian flags could be seen poking from the rich undergrowth. Weserithian tents spanned across the valley floor, settling in for the night. Small fires and candles from within outlined men-at-arms’ bodies. Bendrick steeled his jaw as they rounded over the valley ridge.
How can I tell King Ayland that his wife, the queen, is bearing a child that belongs to another man? There was no way he could break the news without the king flying into a fit of rage. What then? Queen Gwendylyyn was safe in Aivaterra for the time being. Her armies would keep her safe. Bendrick hoped that he might be able to dissuade the king’s anger and make him see reason, but was this another persuasion attempt that would fail as well?
A noise interrupted his mind that had been lost in thought. He pulled the reigns of his horse and came to a stop. Sieglinde and Korhas stopped their horses behind him. He craned his neck to listen. Rain was falling steadily now, soaking their clothing and their packs. Thunder raced through the clouds above them. Bendrick craned his head.
‘Father?’ asked Sieglinde, furrowing her brow at Bendrick.
‘Shh, listen.’
There it was again. It sounded like a scream, like a man shouting as loudly as he could.
‘Bendrick, I think that sound came from a warhorn,’ said Korhas. As he said this, hundreds of torches emerged from the valley ridge. Lightning revealed armoured men atop horses. Pikes and spears glinted from the momentary light. The warhorn blew once again.
Awooooo!
Blue Aivaterran flags sparkled as lightning shot above them. Confusion struck Bendrick like a barbed whip. How had the queen mobilized the Aivaterran Army so quickly? Bendrick kicked his mount in its side, and they shot forward at full speed to the Weserith encampment.
War had just begun.
CHAPTER SIX
Mud and Blood
THE WAR HORN’S call bellowed across the valley. Bendrick urged his horse on faster, gazing at the gathering enemy army on the ridge. The Aivaterrans weren’t attacking just yet. They stood with their spears beside their horses. Lightning flashed over them, giving Bendrick a good view of the front line, but they were too numerous to count. Bendrick cursed and kicked his mount as hard as he could.
As Bendrick reached the Weserithian encampment on the valley floor, he slowed his horse, pulling on the reigns. Suddenly, three bolts flew over their heads. Bendrick reared his horse to a complete stop.
‘Allies! Cease your fire!’ Korhas shouted amidst the thunder. Bendrick took his hood off as three soldiers emerged from behind cover.
‘State your name!’ said the men, crossbows leveled directly at them.
‘Bendrick Greystonne, returning from Aivaterra. I bring news.’
The men lowered their crossbows. One of them gave an angry look at them.
‘A little late, don’t you think?’
Bendrick ignored him and urged his horse into the encampment, with Sieglinde and Korhas close behind. Soldiers were scurrying from tent to tent, awaking their compatriots. Aides carried swords to their respective lieutenants and generals. Ballistae were pushed to face the approaching enemy. Some men were trying to unpack a trebuchet, but it wasn’t working very well. The rains had soaked into the mud, making it slippery and very difficult to maneuver. The trebuchet only sank deeper into the mud. The Weserithian Army had never intended to fight in this marshland.
The weary travelers reached the king’s tent and dismounted. Bendrick entered the tent rapidly, interrupting the king and his advisers. They stood over a war map that was spread atop a thick wooden table. Their faces were clouded as they looked up at Bendrick. William nodded with a worried look on his face.
‘Bendrick, I suppose it’s correct to assume that negotiations were meaningless,’ said William, shaking his head.
Bendrick bowed to the king and struggled to catch his breath.
‘Your Grace, I had no idea she already had an army in Weserith.’
‘Neither did I, Bendrick. She must have planned this attack well before she fled the citadel. The enemy has come from the East. There must have been an army at the Uredor Ruins, we think,’ King Ayland said casually, as if imminent bloodshed was merely an inconvenience.
On the eastern ridge, the war horn sounded again. The king, clad in royal armour, stood from his chair.
‘The dice have been rolled. We read them where they lie,’ said the king, slamming his fist on the map. ‘She wants war, then that’s what I will give her. We mount our defense here.’
The king exited the war tent first, followed by his lieutenants and generals. William was the last one to leave. He placed his hand on Bendrick’s shoulder.
‘It is good to see you, old friend,’ said William.
‘I failed,’ said Bendrick, looking down at his mud-covered boots. ‘It was all for nothing.
William stared at him and embraced him tightly. ‘I am returning as fast as I can to Weserith to oversee the defense of the city, should we be besieged. I will see you once the battle is over, Ben. Good luck.’ William gathered himself in his purple cloak and stepped from the tent, leaving Bendrick alone. He reached for a chair and sat in it with a sigh, letting his sore leg muscles relax. Clanking sounds of men in armour running through the encampment rang in his ears. His body felt cold with fatigue. Two weeks of hard riding, only to get no respite in the face of a battle. The figurines on the war map glistened in the flickering torchlight. His mind went silent for a moment, blocking out noises from outside the tent. Bendrick let his eyes close for just a few seconds.
A hand touched his shoulder, making him jump slightly. He turned as a shadow flickered in
the candlelight of the tent.
‘I’m sorry, Sieglinde. I must be more exhausted than…’ Bendrick’s voice trailed when he got a look of the dark figure next to him. She was clad in a tattered black dress. Silver epaulettes adorned her shoulders, yet her face wasn’t very visible beneath her hood. Darkness hung around her, enveloping Bendrick.
‘Thou who art daemon art chosen…to begin the world anew.’
Her voice reverberated within the tent, delicate and smooth, yet the ground shook when she spoke. A faint smile appeared through the dark hood.
Suddenly, Bendrick jumped. His mind was now fully awake. He was alone in the tent. He shook his head and realized that it had been a vision or dream.
Awooooo!
The trumpet blast made Bendrick stand hurriedly, nearly knocking his chair down, and he exited the tent.
Outside, chaos reigned. Horses were being mounted by armoured soldiers with pikes. He looked at the ridge. The enemy was still there, standing over the Weserithian Army’s encampment. This time he could see the banners and the men carrying them. Bendrick stood perplexed for a moment, staring at the beauty of the enemy army. Sieglinde approached him carrying chainmail. She urged him back into the tent and placed the items of war on the table.
‘Father, we must move!’ Sieglinde shook Bendrick out of his trance.
‘Sieglinde, what are you doing?’ asked Bendrick. She had already equipped her own set of armour. He stared at her as Sieglinde glanced back at him.
‘Father, that is the queen’s army. We must fight!’ Sieglinde said, perplexed by the seemingly obvious question. Bendrick couldn’t believe it.
‘No, Sieglinde, you’re not ready,’ he barked. ‘Take that armour off immediately.’
‘But, Father, there is nowhere to run. The enemy is on the ridge about to charge us. Wait…not ready?’ Sieglinde gasped at Bendrick’s words. ‘Father, what was all that time spent in the sparring room of the Athenaeum for, if not for this? I defended us against three armed men all by myself.’
‘They were drunk and not in their right minds.’
‘Father…’
‘Not you, Sieglinde. There are other men to do that! Where is Korhas?’
Bendrick’s arms shook as he clenched his fists. He couldn’t let Sieglinde go out into danger like that. Two or three drunken men were one thing, but an entire army of rested and well-armed men?
That was a different matter altogether.
‘You mean for us to stay in this tent? For the Harlot Queen to take what she wants from us?’
‘Do not call her that,’ Bendrick whispered.
‘Korhas was right. He told me that you feel something for her. What did that bitch ever do for you, except get you drunk and lead you on?’ Bendrick couldn’t handle it anymore. The defiance in Sieglinde’s eyes sent him into a rage. He slapped her hard, sending her to the ground.
Bendrick stared in shock at Sieglinde lying on the floor and at what he’d just done. The warhorn blew again in the distance, snapping him back to reality.
‘You will stay and help me with the wounded. There will be many wounded in this battle. We must help in that way.’ Bendrick spoke through clenched teeth.
‘I will not,’ whispered Sieglinde, wiping the blood from her mouth and spitting a tooth to the ground. Her cheek was white and quickly turning red. ‘I have been in your service since I was a child, Father. I have learned much under your careful instruction. But today, I will make my own choice. You stay here if it makes you feel better, Bendrick. I will not.’
Without another word, she grabbed her sword and exited the tent. Bendrick knelt on the ground.
What have I done?
Bendrick had found purpose in raising Sieglinde. Since she was a child, her intellect had surprised him. Now that she was grown, she would even outdo him in single combat. Bendrick remembered the blow she had dealt to his head in that sparring room. She was right. What else is there to do except fight? There was no guarantee that the queen would let him or his daughter live.
Bendrick grabbed the chainmail and put it on himself as best he could. He wouldn’t let her go alone. No sword was left among the items Sieglinde had brought, but a spear remained. He grabbed the spear and a half-helm, but before he ran outside, he stopped at the tent flap.
For a second, he almost dropped his weapon, nearly forgetting what it was like to hold one in anger. But then, he wouldn’t leave Sieglinde unprotected. Bendrick steeled his jaw and ran outside as he strapped his helm on.
‘No death,’ Bendrick whispered to himself. How he was to keep that promise now, he didn’t know. Rain was pouring heavily from the skies now, making Bendrick sink into the mud even deeper. He turned to hear another trumpet blast, this time accompanied by a deep and rolling rumble.
The charge had begun. Enemy horses and their riders rushed against the encampment. Bendrick ran hurriedly, awkwardly carrying his spear, to a line of soldiers on the Weserithian eastern flank. Some men struggled to put on their remaining armour. Others twitched and turned their heads to look around them. The army had been badly surprised.
Bendrick turned to look around the sporadic line, but he couldn’t see Sieglinde. No torches were marking the line, as they couldn’t be lit. Rain was streaming down from the dark clouds above. The enemies’ torches must have also gone out. The attackers were using the moonlight to locate the Weserithian Army. Their swords and spears were held high above their heads. Their shouts were masked by the thunderous display in the sky. Weserith men stood and faced the incoming attack. He saw the outline of King Ayland on the left flank, barking orders atop a horse. Archers lined up behind them, each notching an arrow into their long bow. Without any organization, they let their arrows fly at the enemy, shooting at will. Some of the bow strings snapped, too wet to even shoot. Bendrick noticed a few Aivaterran men fall from their horses, but the attack was too great to be deterred by a few arrows. Bendrick looked back at the Ayland to see him leading the cavalry against the enemy. Each was on horseback and carrying a lance. A shout was heard somewhere that began to erupt into a large roar. Weserithian men began to charge the enemy on foot, in a slow walk at first, but then burst into a full sprint. Courage fueled their steps and filled Bendrick with something he hadn’t felt in a long time: adrenaline.
The inner fire caused by the threat of imminent blood and death burned his feet. He screamed as loudly as he could and joined the charging men beside him. Bendrick held his spear in front of him as he had done in years past. His muscles remembered the art of war. His legs ran a lot faster than he thought possible. Perhaps he wasn’t too old to fight. The queen’s cavalry met the Weserithian line in a split second of silence.
The lines crashed, swords clashed, and spears were thrust.
Horses ran against raised lances. Man and mount fell, bleeding and screaming. Bendrick saw mud fly up as riders were tossed from their horses. A lance flew past his head, barely missing him. He clenched his teeth as he tried to spot an opponent. A knight in blue armour sailed past him atop his horse, swinging his long sword low. Bendrick ducked, dodging the attack, and whipped his arm up as hard as he could, striking at the torso of the rider with the polearm of his weapon. The spear point caught in the rider’s chest, and he fell from his mount into the mud. But before he could get up, Bendrick drove the point of his spear into the back of the knight. A muffled scream came from the knight, but the scream died as quickly as he did.
There is death.
Bendrick gasped as he pulled the spear point from the dead knight. Bendrick stared at the man, almost willing him to stand again.
A shield struck Bendrick in the back, sending him into the mud beside the dead soldier. Bendrick looked up to see an Aivaterran holding a shield above his head, but before he could strike down, an arrow pierced the Aivaterran’s neck. With a surprised look and a moan, the man fell into the mud beside Bendrick.
Bendrick stared into the face of the fallen man as mud began to cover his face. Lightning shot through the clo
uds above the fighting armies. Its blinding light permeated the dark of the sloppy marsh below. In that instant, the silhouettes of Weserithian and Aivaterran soldiers were outlined in the light. But they weren’t fighting each other.
They were running.
Lighting flashed again, giving Bendrick a clear view of what they were running from. A wall of water crashed through the valley floor, sweeping tents, soldiers, and their horses. Frothing waves burst into each other, breaking trebuchets and instantly killing men-at-arms, as if a stampede was alive within them. Bendrick tried to stand up, but he couldn’t find his footing in the slippery mud. The water level began to rise higher and higher, preventing him from standing. He turned to see a trebuchet rise with the flash flood, and before he could do anything, the waters crashed over him.
Bendrick felt a sharp pain on his chest, and his world went black. Suddenly, freezing temperatures of the waters shocked him back to reality. He gasped for breath and realized that he was completely submerged in black, chilled waters. His chainmail was too heavy to swim in, but just as he was freeing himself from it, something grabbed his leg. Bendrick struggled himself free from it and began to swim in the direction he thought was up. But he couldn’t get loose. He squinted through the murky waters to make out what was grabbing at him. A thick rope was wrapped around his leg. It was tied to a trebuchet that rolled through the marsh at the bottom of the flood, rolling the rope into itself. It was dragging Bendrick deeper into the dark and murky waters. With no weapon, there was no way to cut the rope. Bendrick glanced up at the moonlight sparkling through the waves far above. His breath escaped him, and he began to choke on the waters piercing through him. Suddenly, Bendrick broke the surface of the waters and was flung into the air. He hit muddy grounds hard, half-sinking into the mud. Bendrick lifted his head and sucked air into his lungs. He coughed as water sprang from him. Bendrick opened his eyes to see that he was close to the edge of the valley, where the floods hadn’t passed through as hard.