by Alex Aguilar
Then there was a thundering shout that rounded up the herd.
“Attention! Gather ‘round!” Sir Antonn Guilara stood next to a cart full of tents and banners.
As the crowds gathered closer, Cedric and Thaddeus were pushed inward, and they remained close to the twins Gwyn and Daryan for comfort. Viktor Crowley was standing near Sir Antonn, a head of bright golden hair among a sea of greasy mops. Jossiah, in return, wouldn’t dare stand with them; instead he stood far to the side with a tankard of ale in his hand and a frown on his face.
“Attention! Your knight commander wishes to speak!” Sir Antonn shouted, and then stepped off to the side. Sir Percyval Garroway, knight commander of the troop, climbed onto the back of the cart so that his soldiers could get a better view of him. He was nervous and he was having trouble hiding it, though he almost always did before a potential fight.
And so, with a deep sigh and a crack of the neck, the knight began his speech.
“Greetings, my fellow bastards!” he shouted, and in return there were a few laughs and silent smiles. Upright and with a confident poise, Percyval stood. His eyes were moving all throughout the camp as if trying to address each of his recruits personally, one at a time. There were nearly three hundred of them now, with at least a hundred elves and gnomes dispersed amidst them all. That, no doubt, was a sight you could only see in the Woodlands.
“It has been quite an evening, I tell you,” Percyval went on, wishing he had more space in the back of the cart to pace around. “I would like to take a moment to thank you all for your patience and your fortitude during this expedition. And to those of you that have reached out to your connections in attempts to grow our numbers, I cannot thank you enough… In just a week, we have gathered a strong enough troop to enhance our defenses in Halghard significantly. When the time comes, and make no mistake, brothers and sisters, it will come, we will be more than ready… We will rise victoriously and start a new life in Halghard, as promised.”
Viktor expected cheers from the crowd. Instead there was a doubtful silence.
To start anew in Halghard was a dream many nonhuman beings dreamed of.
But it was nothing more than that… A dream…
Viktor knew it. And he knew that Percyval knew it.
The elves and gnomes were smart enough to expect some resistance. Truthfully, many of them doubted the knight commander. And quite reasonably, at that, for until recently an elf could never cross into Halghard without finding some trouble.
“Aye, if we don’t get out throats slit for it, that is,” a doubtful elf shouted from the crowd, and a few murmurs followed.
Percyval kept his stance firmly. “They’ll have to go through me first, my brother,” he remarked. “I promise you… If it is the last thing I do, I will make certain you get what you were promised.”
“And if they kill you?” said another, this one louder and far more provocative. “You’re one man. Won’t be too difficult. What then?”
Percyval hesitated, but he tried his damned best not to show it. He knew that if he lost them now, there would be no turning back, and everything he worked so hard to build would shatter before him. Allowing the murmurs to die down, the knight closed his eyes briefly and cleared his throat one more time.
“Listen, I know you don’t fully trust me, ladies and gents,” he said, with a voice so confident it gripped everyone’s attention with little trouble. “I don’t blame you, quite honestly, I’d doubt me too if I was in your shoes… But answer me this, how many of your brothers and sisters have died in this treacherous land…? How many of you have been spit on and broken down to bits in this living hell and been unable to do something about it…?”
The silence lingered on. For a moment, Percyval felt as if all of Gravenstone was listening.
“What I’m offering you is a chance to fight back… To stand up for yourselves and say ‘Enough!’… To start a new life, a better life… for yourselves, your children, your children’s children… Brothers and sisters, I know you don’t know me… But believe me when I say we’ve more in common than you think… I come from a place where, with enough coin, a bloody tyrant can do anything and everything he desires with little consequence. Where children can be sold as servants and folks are killed for a loaf of bread and nobody will bat a fuckin’ eye about it…”
Viktor looked around. Percyval’s words were starting to make them all think.
To make one listen, to truly listen, wasn’t an easy thing to do.
But Percyval was doing it, all right…
“Brothers and sisters, I’m exhausted… I’m exhausted from living in a world where people starve to death while a fat wine-guzzling bastard eats his weight in bread and throws the rest of it to the rats… A world where we turn the other way from these atrocities and then we point our fingers at those who don’t look like us and call them evil… You all want freedom, I get that. I want freedom, too. But no one is going to give us freedom… No one is going to give us peace and equality. We must take it for ourselves… Together. That is the only way we will achieve it… For the path to freedom is not an easy one, I assure you, but we can journey through it together. We will move in no other direction but forward together and no matter what they say or do to us, we will keep fighting. They can break our spirits, but we will keep fighting. They can break our bodies, but we will keep fighting. They can call us sinners, freaks, whores, and bastards. And we will look them in the eye and say ‘damn right’ and we will keep fighting!”
Then it came, a great roar of cheers that may have echoed for a mile.
Percyval did not smile. He kept his stance like any true leader would.
“We march tonight, brothers and sisters… To Halghard, a kingdom of humans. And we will do it without fear and without hesitation. Times are changing, mark my words. Cities and towns have already started to welcome others from the Woodlands, that much is true. But it is not enough! The day the entire kingdom welcomes you… The day all of Gravenstone welcomes you… That will be the day we stop fighting!”
More cheers, and this time Viktor Crowley joined in.
Percyval took a moment to wipe the sweat on his forehead, smiling at his troop.
“Brothers and sisters, we’ve marched through rivers and rain. We’ve climbed mountains and dug through caves. A little darkness won’t stop us. We march now. And if we must fight, we will. Now gather the remaining supplies an-”
Suddenly, an arrow flew in from the darkness…
It slammed against the steel on Percyval’s chest, leaving a scratch and ricocheting off into the dirt. Had the arrow been just a few inches higher, it would have struck the knight in the neck.
All throughout the camp, heads turned and eyes widened.
Percyval was not hurt, but the horror in his eyes was there all the same.
Sir Antonn Guilara picked up the arrow from the ground; it was steel-pointed and decorated with red feathers. “They’re here…”
The murmurs began, as the recruits gripped their shields and glanced about.
“Sir!” a voice shouted from the trees. Skye was climbing higher for a better view, and then they glanced back towards Percyval. “Rogues! To the east!”
It was then that they all saw it… A storm of arrows flew into the camp, striking soldiers in the arms, legs, and chests, some falling to a quick death.
There was not a moment to waste.
“Shield wall!” Percyval ordered, leaping off the cart, his face suddenly drenched in sweat.
“SHIELD WALL!!” Sir Antonn repeated in a shout.
The troop gathered closely together. A first line was formed, consisting of about twenty soldiers. They lowered themselves to a squatting position side by side and held their shields above their heads.
“Move it, let’s go! Shield wall!”
“Come on, toothpick!” Gwyn dragged Cedric by the shirt.
They all joined into the formation, line after line, in groups of twenty or so. They held their shields up
and pressed them close together, forming one wide barrier of wood as arrows began to rain over them. The shields varied, some of them round while others were oval or squared, but they made their best attempt at joining them together, avoiding as many gaps as they could.
“Ready, now?! Together, lads!” Percyval shouted. “Forward!”
They took a step, keeping the shield wall intact, a crawling rectangle of wood and steel.
“Again! Forward! Stay together!”
They marched ahead. Some of the arrows were splintering through the old wood, the sharp ends just inches from hitting some of the soldiers’ heads.
Cedric looked up. He could see the arrows raining through the small cracks between the roof of shields. He felt like throwing up. He would have, if it hadn’t been for the raider woman Gwyn shouting into his ear. “Ye gonna be fine, toothpick! Think of it like hail!” she said.
It did not help.
“Keep moving, don’t you dare stop!” Percyval shouted, as he started to make out the shadows within the trees. Dark shadows with a hint of red, firing arrows at them one after another. There was something peculiar in their numbers, however. There may have been more, but Percyval swore he saw only a couple of dozen archers.
And then his ears caught something, leaves rustling, from both his left and his right. Beneath his shield, Percyval craned his neck. And there he spotted it, a curved blade creeping out from the edge of a tree, and a veiny arm with red sleeves was holding it.
“Shit,” Percyval hissed.
The man raised his blade and shouted, “Now!”
And then a mass of swordsmen, all of them dressed in red leathers, ran in from the left and right sides of the Wyrmwood troop, caging them in, attacking them from both sides like a scorpion’s pincer.
“Break wall!” Percyval shouted. “BREAK WALL!! Swords out! Attack!”
Many of the Wyrmwood recruits were killed instantly, distracted by the arrows and caught off guard by the blades. The shield wall was broken and the Wyrmwood recruits had no choice but to scatter and fight back.
Within seconds, the place turned into a bloody battlefield. Though the Wyrmwood recruits were keeping their stance, rogue mercenaries were running out of the trees in dozens. And then more began to hop down from the branches above.
Right in the middle of it all was Cedric… He stood there, frozen in fear like a field mouse, his shivering hand struggling to grip the rusty sword. His eyes were struck with horror as all around him, throats were being sliced and chests were being stabbed.
To the young squire, these weren’t humans. They were monsters.
He wanted to join the fighting, but he couldn’t. His feet wouldn’t allow it.
Almost involuntarily, he ran towards the nearest cart instead and crawled underneath it, his knees scraping against the rocks as he slid into safety.
And from there, he saw it all… Bodies were falling all around, some thirty of them and counting. In the front lines was Sir Percyval Garroway, fighting and protecting his fellow recruits. But there was only so much that blades could do against arrows. The Brotherhood archers were still shooting, and they had more quivers of arrows ready at their feet, dozens of them, each with at least 15 arrows.
Skye hopped down from the tree, a fall of about twenty feet, and managed to land gracefully on both feet like a cat, right in between the fight and the Brotherhood archers. They were thrown off guard by the pale elf’s bravery, and they hesitated to shoot. And Skye took that opportunity to summon a spell from the staff. The elf whispered something in a foreign tongue and then the tip of the staff began to glow, forming a cloud of frost around it like an orb. A wall of ice was erected from the ground, nearly fix feet tall and about fifteen feet wide, and it was thick enough that no arrows could possibly shoot through.
The archers were baffled. They shouted at one another, picked up their quivers, and walked around the fight, where the wall of ice could not stop them. But Sir Percyval Garroway had his eyes on them. “The bows, lads!” he shouted. “Get th-”
Suddenly, a red raider with a swinging blade ran towards Percyval. The raider’s blade was just inches away from striking him, but then a silver longsword pierced through his back and out his chest. The raider fell to his knees and the longsword slid out of his back. And standing there was Viktor Crowley, fighting alongside Percyval like a trusted soldier.
“Lead the way, Sir,” Viktor said.
Percyval nodded back. “With me, lads! Let’s go! Get the archers!”
Percyval, Viktor, and about seven elven recruits made way towards the trees, using the trunks and branches as shields. They reached the archers and began hunting them down, one by one.
Meanwhile, with Skye forming barriers of ice, the Wyrmwood recruits were starting to gain the advantage. The twin raiders, Gwyn and Daryan, fought side by side with such dexterity, as if having practiced together for years. Gwyn’s agility and her brother’s drunken brute strength gave them an advantage over the red raiders’ thirst. She ducked beneath her brother’s arm, shielded his back as he shielded hers. They were so well coordinated that their shadows were almost one, an unstoppable force, slicing down any red raider that got too close.
It only lasted for a few moments, however. Just as the twins felt they had the lead, more red raiders began to ambush them, some nine or ten of them. Gwyn and Daryan turned to one another, both of them equally as overwhelmed. They had been outnumbered many times in the past but never by this many blades. The red raiders closed in on them from every direction, snickering and swinging their weapons in the air as if taunting them.
Suddenly, however, there was a deep thundering roar… The red raiders turned immediately, only to gaze upon a large beast with horns charging furiously towards them.
“Toro,” Gwyn whispered with a grin.
“Oh shit,” one of the raiders said, before he was stabbed in the chest by one of the minotauro’s horns. Toro swung his heavy fists madly, killing red raiders as easily as if he were killing rats, breaking off a man’s jaw and slamming another against an oak tree. One by one, he killed them, until there was only one man left, one small frail man dressed in red, his broken foot dragging lifelessly over the mud as he crawled away with horror.
“N-No!” the man cried. “I’m sorry… Please, I’m s-”
The minotauro slammed his hoof on the man’s face, crushing his skull like an egg.
And Gwyn and Daryan stood there looking stunned, as Toro gave them a glance.
Unsure of what to say, Gwyn cracked her neck and tried to act naturally.
“I had that,” she said to the minotauro, who grunted in return.
Close by, there was a sudden scream that distracted them. A Wyrmwood soldier was struck in the chest by an axe. It was by far the sharpest axe in the bloody field, due to its owner’s habit of sharpening it daily… A green hand gripped the handle and gave it a strong pull, and the axe broke off the dead man’s torso. It was an orc, about six and a half feet in height, with three red scars running diagonally across his chest and a black chin beard tied into a braid.
“Oi! Beast!” a rogue raider shouted from afar. “Get that horned bastard!”
The Beast locked eyes with Toro and cracked his neck, taking a moment to genuinely admire the minotauro’s grace and posture. He had fought many foes in his life, a variety of species, yet he had never seen a minotauro so up close before. Toro stomped his hoofed feet where he stood, his weaponless hands held out at his sides as if challenging the Beast.
The Beast growled and threw his axe on the dirt, as if accepting the challenge.
Then he took the first step… Toro took the second step…
They began sprinting towards each other…
Hidden underneath the cart, young Cedric watched with the expression of a stunned child, as the orc and the minotauro charged in at full speed. When they collided, there was a loud bash that echoed throughout the forest. Toro’s fist smashed against the Beast’s scarred chest, taking the orc’s breath a
way instantly. The orc was thrown into the air, smashing against an oak tree a mere 2 feet away from Cedric. Had the Beast turned while he laid face down on the dirt, their eyes would have met.
Cedric kept watching…
The Beast lost no time. As the minotauro approached him, the orc got to his feet and dodged the heavy black hoof. The orc landed a punch on Toro’s face and for a moment, he felt a sting on his virescent knuckles. Little to his knowledge, a minotauro’s skull was easily three times as tough as a human’s.
The Beast and Toro then fell into an ambitious battle, landing constant kicks and blows as each one of them tried recklessly to keep up with the endurance of the other. They were the only two souls in the camp fighting only with their fists.
All around, blades were clashing and arrows struck soldiers and raiders alike.
Nearby, Viktor Crowley fought like he always did, with such precision and posture that one could never mistake him for anything other than a knight. For a moment, the man had become numb to his actions, killing men one after the other as if they were nothing but roaches. He even failed to notice his long-time comrade Jossiah Biggs fighting amidst the chaos.
There was a glowing eye in the dark, however, that found Viktor’s finesse with a longsword particularly admiring… So alluring it was, that it beckoned him for a challenge… Captain Malekai Pahrvus dropped his bow and unsheathed his curved blade. He walked towards Viktor Crowley with a fierce hunger in his expression.
Viktor turned and caught sight of him. He had never seen the man, nor did he know anything about him. All he knew was that the man meant to kill him.
Malekai swung his blade first. Viktor blocked it, along with three more blows, and then darted to the side to catch his breath. Malekai was attacking fiercely, twisting his wrist in a circling motion and his blade mirroring it like a wheel.
“Take ‘is head off, boss!” Borrys Belvaine shouted from afar.