Brave Men Die: Part 1

by Dan Adams

  The line of Nails was formed and Hydrus did not hesitate.

  ‘Charge!’ he screamed.

  Half the unit pulled hand crossbows from the sides of their saddles as they started off, bolts primed already. They took aim and fired amongst the crowded unit of Kyzantine infantry. Bodies fell from the line as Hydrus, Castor, and the other front runners closed the gap.

  Honour surged forward, galloping headlong toward the enemy. He lowered his head for increased speed and grunted under the weight of his armour and his rider. The other horses thundered along in a line beside him as the gap between the armies closed rapidly. The spears bounced off Honour’s front plate as he crashed through the front line. The horses’ hooves trampled bodies standing blatantly in the path of the charging assault. The metal horseshoes battered against metal shields, leather armour, and the soft flesh and brittle bones of the enemy.

  Screams of agony rang out from the Kyzantine soldiers as the two ranks of cavalry hit both sides of their formation. Hydrus launched a flurry of blows as he pressed into the thicket of bodies. He had moved further forward than he had thought, leaving his troops behind. His blade sung as it cleaved another head from its shoulders.

  Argol pushed forward, swinging his blade across the face of another man. He felt invigorated by the ferocity of the battle. His heart beat faster with a mixture of fear, adrenalin and excitement. Everything was going in his favour. The curs would soon be overrun. Then he felt it. A blade slipped underneath his plate armour and sunk into his lower back. He felt blood trickle down his leg. He swung down, severing the arm attached to the sword, the remaining bloody stump flailed wildly. Argol could feel his body stiffening up — the blade had punctured something important. He felt another blade bite into his leg, another into his arm. His reflexes became slow and clumsy. They swarmed him. With effort, he swung his sword one last time before they dragged him down. Clenching his teeth, he struck out with his blade, plunging it into one man’s chest, and watched the light fade in the dying soldier’s eyes before succumbing to the encroaching darkness.

  Hydrus watched as his line broke, some of his men were pulled down by the Kyzantines’ ferocious defence. Their brutal deaths at the hands of these ignoble bastards infuriated him. He turned and instinctively swung his sword in a low arc, slicing a man’s chest from belly to neck. Another surged toward him in a suicidal attempt to topple him from his horse. For his trouble he copped a foot in his face, smashing his nose. At a rough estimation only three-quarters of the Murukans on the battlefield remained. Some had lost their mounts but fought on, on foot, but there were too few of those. Hydrus knew each would fight like a cornered bear, proud and defiant to the end. They would defend savagely, awaiting an opportunity to strike. That is how they were taught. He was proud of them and resented the cost of each life. His mouth was set in a determined line. The fallen would not die in vain. The pass would not fall.

  Virtue reared up and lashed out, kicking a soldier in the head with a powerful crunch. The skull collapsed under the tremendous pressure, cracking open the man’s head, and blood erupted skywards. Castor was covered in the scarlet gore. Each strike spurted more onto his armour. His arm was splattered in Kyzantine blood as he sliced the next soldier in two with a powerful swing. Castor paused from his killing spree, his eyes drawn by another knight toppled from his horse. The knight did not cry out, he did not plead for help. Even as he was swarmed by soldiers, hacking and stabbing, he continued to swing at his attackers and bat at them with his shield.

  Castor’s gaze swept the battlefield. Each fighting knight was surrounded by small pockets, similar to himself, alienating them from each other. They would slowly be picked off if this continued. He killed two men in quick succession with the sweeping strike of a single blow, giving him the opportunity to press forward and reach Hydrus. Castor pulled up beside him on the left, killing the hapless wretch who happened to be standing where he wanted to be. With a nod of recognition he went back to work, relying on Hydrus to cover his back.

  Volans could see the standard flying high above the melee. It was so close he felt he could reach out and touch it, to use its strength. He pushed toward it, battering away a pointless jab with a spear and kicked the man in the throat. Swinging his war hammer across a Kyzantine jaw was merely a reflexive action as he staved off blows. Another man fell. He pulled up behind the standard bearer, smashing the spine of the lunging soldier about to stab his fellow knight. He swung again and another man’s rib cage shattered in a sickening crunch. The broken shards would puncture the internal organs, making death slow and painful, yet the only hint of injury was the small trickle of blood escaping from the corner of his lips as he fell. Volans blocked a wild swing on his shield, turning his horse around to get a clear shot. Blood sprayed onto his horse’s sweating coat.

  With the reliable warrior beside him Hydrus knew he wouldn’t feel the sharp pain of a blade in the back. He lashed out and slashed across a man’s throat. Red gore sprayed up and splattered across Hydrus’ face. It dripped down and through his goatee, diving onto the brown leather saddle and Honour’s neck. He glanced up to see that the banner still sailed high amongst the sea of red and black. The insignia of the bear could be seen as a defiant symbol that refused to fall. The cobalt blue standard fluttered in the wind as its wielder swung mighty blows at those who tried to forcibly take it. As long as it stood, Hydrus thought, his troops would be inspired to fight on.

  Perspiration drenched Castor's forehead. It mixed with the moist remains of his dying victims, streaking down his face like bloody tears. Castor’s peripheral vision caught movement on his left. Swinging Virtue around, he blocked the blow on his shield, his wounded shoulder straining under the movement and stabbed down through the man’s collarbone. The foot soldier looked up at him before dropping his weapon and falling down dead. Gaps were opening up in the Kyzantine ranks. They no longer swarmed to take the place of a fallen comrade to continue to apply pressure. He killed another before realising that was his last. Across the field, knights rode down the remains of the enemy. Castor eyed the small pockets of fighting dotted amongst the general carnage but he could see other brothers going to the knights’ aid. He wiped his brow, his harsh breathing slowing to painful rasps. His body ached everywhere. It was over.

  Hydrus patted Castor on the shoulder, startling him from his reflective thoughts.

  ‘You fought well today. Glad you had my back Castor.’ The words came out slowly in between deep gulping breaths.

  ‘Thank you sir,’ Castor replied, flushing with pride at the warm tone of gratitude he detected in Hydrus’ brusque comment.

  ‘Hydrus. Call me Hydrus when we are on the field. Save that formality shit for victory dinners in the King’s hall.’ Castor lifted his eyes in surprise and caught the brief gleam of amusement warming Hydrus’ usually cold grey eyes. His face however, remained impassive as he turned his attention back to the battleground.

  The long march and the intensity of the battle had exhausted Castor. He would be happy to get out of his armour so his sore muscles could relax and unwind. But there was still much to do before it would happen. Hydrus moved off and Castor fell in line beside him, moving between the piles of bloody corpses. They rode to the group of knights coming together on the field. Castor could see Volans fastening the war hammer to his back, others exchanging solemn greetings. But there was no whistling. The tune played in his head but Argol wasn’t beside Volans annoying him as usual.

  ‘How many did we lose Volans?’ Hydrus asked, his voice level and controlled, belying the emotion his hardened eyes hinted at.

  ‘Ten confirmed deaths so far, Hydrus. All good men. So many more wounded.’ Volans face was downcast. Tonight’s silent vigil would be long.

  ‘Argol? Where is he?’ asked Castor, concern stricken over his face, his eyes darting over the faces of those assembled.

  ‘He went down, Castor. We haven’t found his body yet. But there’s not much hope.’ Volans tense words hung heavy in th
e air as Castor stared at him in disbelief.

  With a quick anguished glance at Castor, Volans dropped his eyes to the ground and shook his head. There was silence among the gathered knights as, blinking back the tears, Castor violently swung Virtue round and surveyed the battlefield.

  Corpses littered the ground. He dismounted and led his horse by the reins through the bloody mess. A hand. An arm. A head. One man or many? The scarlet life force clung to the wounds. The grass was wet and sticky underfoot. The massacre was over. It had been a bloody triumph, but at what cost? The light shone off the metal of armour and weapons, at times impeded by dried red stains. Some of that armour was Argol’s. Some of the blood too. Castor swore to the gods that he would find him.

  The disturbing sounds of the dying and wounded rent the air. Mutilated men left to rot on the field of battle sobbed and screamed. The honourable thing would be to finish them off, end their suffering. But it wasn’t up to him. Hydrus was in charge and if it was his decision they would pay for Argol’s death. Ignoring the dull thudding of his head and the weary ache of his muscles, Castor searched the dead, kicking aside corpses mutilated beyond recognition, pushing away arms stretched out in clutching desperation, closing his ears to the pleas of the wounded and dying. At last his eyes found what they sought. Argol was lying amongst them, on top of a Kyzantine body, his sword buried in its chest. Argol’s eyes had rolled backward into his head. The enemy’s blood mingled with his own. Castor’s eyes dulled with the weariness and grief as he surveyed Argol’s battered body. The wounds were deep and numerous. Castor reached down and grabbed him under the arms and dragged him to Virtue, stopping to impatiently wipe an unbidden tear from the corner of his eye. Clenching his jaw, he lowered his head and took a firmer grip under Argol’s arms and continued. But it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Hydrus who had been watching, strode toward him, and wordlessly signalled Castor to grab Argol’s body on the other side. Together, they heaved the body across the saddle. A moment passed as both men stilled, silently contemplating the fallen man, before Hydrus laid his hand briefly on Castor’s shoulder and with a sudden movement turned and moved away to organise the enemy’s burning.

  Castor could not take his eyes from his friend’s dead body hanging over the saddle. The resemblance was there but something was missing. Argol was missing. His playful smile, his carefree attitude, everything that made him whole was gone. This shell remained, battered, bruised and bloody but the life had slipped away. Castor led Virtue away from the bloody pile of corpses at his feet, a sense of dread that his friend might be mistaken and burnt like the rest of the Kyzantine bastards.

  He stood and watched as the Nails dragged body after body to the growing pile of wounded and dead. Those still alive kicked and screamed as they were dragged and pulled. Castor thought about helping, but couldn’t bear to part with Argol’s body. Instead he helped gather any equipment from the dead that was still in one piece. Leading Virtue along by the reins, he stooped to pick up sword and lance alike and threw it into one of the wagons that had emerged from the bastion. Soldiers had poured forth and joined in, collecting what they could and helped dispose of the bodies.

  Volans buried himself in the task, stripping the body quickly of anything of use and dragging it to the growing pile. He had seen a little while ago that Castor had found Argol’s body, but couldn’t bring himself to go over there yet. He wasn’t in control of his emotions and the men couldn’t see him like that.

  The next Kyzantine wasn’t dead and struggled against his hurried hands. Volans curled his fist and slammed it across the man’s jaw knocking him unconscious as he grabbed his belt and scabbard and flung them aside and took this one along to the rest. He went about the grisly task without enthusiasm, lost himself in his thoughts, and didn't realise they were done until there were no more bodies to collect. Turning his head, Volans could still see Argol’s body hanging limply over Castor’s horse. The corporal had not left his side.

  There was no escaping it now, the work had been done. Volans slowly made his way over to Castor and Argol’s body, keeping his head down as he walked, barely managing to get his feet off the ground. He met Castor’s gaze as he approached, his eyes red from tears that had stopped a while ago. Volans embraced Castor in a brief hug, and then ran his hand through Argol’s blonde hair.

  ‘He was alone when he died Volans.’

  ‘No, he was surrounded by his brothers. We all shared his struggle but he paid the ultimate price.’

  ‘He didn’t deserve to die. Argol was one of the best Volans, a great rider, a good swordsman, and a good friend.’

  ‘The young are always taken unjustly. Argol was a good man and he can never be replaced. He will remain with us until we are taken, riding by our sides and in our hearts, giving us unfaltering courage when we so desperately need it.’

  ‘It is my belief that the dead linger when they die young, when they have barely managed to leave their mark on our world. They stay with us like guardians to ensure that we do not follow their fate. They inspire us as long as we remember them, not to dwell on their deaths but to celebrate their lives. Argol would want to be remembered for what he meant to us both, not how he lies before us now.’

  Castor could only nod, the fresh wound exposed anew.

  ‘Once this is sorted we will bury him and give him the honour he deserves along with the rest of the fallen Nails.’

  The two men stood in silence, watching as the last of the soldiers moved back away from the pile and stared. Anything flammable had been thrown in with the Kyzantine soldiers, mainly broken spear shafts and arrows, material that would help keep the flames burning. The last soldier poured the contents of an oil drum amongst the pile of moaning bodies and hurried back to the waiting Murukan line. All eyes turned to Hydrus as he carried a lit torch toward the pile, the intent look of destruction in his steely gaze.

  The torch flung end over end through the air after it left his hand and landed amongst the wood and oil and flesh. Smoke rose alongside the pleas and screams that echoed across the mountains. A message had been sent.

  The captain of the Gorgon Pass approached Hydrus after all the soldiers had gone through the heavy doors and closed them with a thud that unsettled the dust around it. Extending his hand in introduction, he shook firmly.

  ‘I’m Duncan Avil, Captain of the Gorgon Pass.’

  ‘Hydrus Scythe of Buckthorne.’

  ‘The baron’s son?’

  ‘That’s the one, and with me are the Nails, Buckthorne’s special forces.’

  ‘Good to have you here and thanks for your help.’

  ‘How long had you been under siege before we arrived?’

  ‘A day, we were lucky actually. We were in the process of changing the guard, so to speak, and had an additional hundred men here when they attacked. Made all the difference it did. That was a gutsy charge down the side of the mountain.’

  ‘Nothing that we haven’t trained for. I figured they wouldn’t be expecting a charge into their flanks as they were pounding against your doors. Glad you decided to come out and join us when you did though. There were still a lot more of them alive than there were of us.’

  ‘We couldn’t let you have all the fun. How many did you lose?’

  ‘Ten … maybe twenty good men, many more are wounded but they will survive. What about yourself?’

  ‘Forty three over the course of it all. Not too bad considering. Do you have any information about how many more are coming?’

  ‘Apparently, the whole Kyzantine army. When are we likely to get more troops?’

  ‘The villagers from the south will send men, and others from the garrisons along the western coast should come as well, but not in any great numbers. We should have farm boys and fishermen on our doorsteps within a week or two, eager to experience a war. Any military aid from Sarkridge could take the better part of a month, maybe more to arrive. By that point we could already be overrun if the Kyzantines come at us in any great numbers.’

&n
bsp; Duncan paused for thought before adding, ‘These were Redisberg’s soldiers, but DeVile wasn’t leading them. Next time will be different. Next time will be worse.’

  ‘We shall have to worry about that when it happens. For now I would like to bury my men. If you wouldn’t mind organising your men to stand on the walls while we perform the rites, we will do the same for you.’

  ‘I’ll organise that immediately.’

  The captain offered his hand which Hydrus took comfortably before turning and ordering his sergeant to get men back up on the wall and headed off in the direction of his troops.

  ‘I want litters made and holes dug,’ Hydrus ordered to his men, who went about the business.

  Moving amongst the men to Castor, Hydrus helped him take down their companion’s body. With each man on a side they gently lowered the body and knelt beside it.

  Hydrus spoke first. ‘I remember the first time I met Argol, when his family moved to Buckthorne and he thought he could just walk into town and get himself the prettiest girl. You remember Caroline? That pretty brunette that seemed to mature so much faster than any of the others? I had been chasing her for a year, laying the ground work and finally I managed to convince her to have a drink with me.

  ‘Argol moved in two doors down from her, got himself invited on the date and ended up leaving with her. Can you believe the nerve of the guy?’

  ‘That does sound like Argol,’ Castor replied. 'He would always end up with the attention of a young pretty thing on our nights out. They would throw themselves at him, hell, sometimes they would even compete with each other over him. I almost choked on my beer the first time it was settled with a fistfight.’

  Hydrus stern look broke into a grin.

  ‘He was a good man. Even if we didn’t really get along, even with all that tension between us because he stole a girl from me so many years ago, he was one of us. I should have forgiven him for it, let it go. It makes you want to take the last few years back.’