Honor Crowned

by Michael G. Southwick

  Through the smoke and debris, Jorem could see where the building had been. There was nothing left but a blackened crater, gouged into the ground. The soldiers who had been nearest the building were gone. Most of the other soldiers had been knocked from their feet, and many of them did not appear to be moving.

  “Oh my,” Pentrothe said in a stunned voice.

  His eyebrows were raised nearly to his hairline as he stared out at the destruction.

  “Nothing in the instructions gave any warning of this,” the wizard said as he turned to Jorem. “As I recall, all that it said is to make only small quantities to ensure proper mixing.”

  “You might want to add a side note about only using small quantities as well,” Jorem replied.

  Those on the wall were too stunned to react. The mages were gone. As much as a third of the remaining enemy forces were down and not moving. It appeared that this battle could end up being over before it had begun. A cheer erupted from those on the wall. Jorem did not join in the celebration. The black-clad figures were reforming into lines.

  A tattered piece of red cloth drifted down from the sky. The cheering slowly ebbed and ceased altogether. The enemy was still there, undaunted. Their numbers were greatly reduced and their mages gone, yet still they would come. Perhaps they knew the paltry force they faced. Perhaps, for them, retreating was not an option.

  Forward they came. They advanced cautiously, probing the ground before them with their swords. They crossed the first two trenches easily, as their unfortunate comrades had not only discovered them, but filled them with their corpses as well. They found the third trench with their probing.

  Rather than taking the time to remove the stakes, they dragged the bodies of the slain and threw them in the trench. Jorem heard retching to either side of him as the people of Cragg saw men walking over the bodies of the dead.

  Closer they came, searching, probing. When they did not find another trench where they expected it to be, they moved more boldly. The warriors let out a war cry as they began to run. The war cry stopped when the front line found the next trench. Dozens of men fell to their deaths. There would be no more mad charging. They had learned their lesson the hard way.

  To cross the remaining trenches, the enemy would either have to go back and build bridges from the trees or they would have to take the time to remove enough stakes to allow passage. They chose to move forward. Slowly they came, testing the ground with each step. When they found the next trench, they exposed it by removing the branches and leaves covering it.

  At multiple places, men went into the trench. Stakes were pulled and thrown to the side. For those on the wall to shoot arrows at them now would be pointless. The distance was too great to pick out weaknesses in the armor.

  The first soldier coming out of the trench fell, an arrow protruding from his neck. The next to cross fell as well, the shaft of an arrow just visible beneath his arm. The arrows hadn’t come from the wall, however, but from somewhere in the clearing. It took Jorem a moment to recall his men’s plan to hide outside the wall. Two more of the enemy’s men fell before the soldiers began to understand their plight.

  The warriors crouched behind their shields as they moved to protect themselves as they crossed to the other side of the trench. Jorem’s men were patient. After several men had crossed, opportunities presented themselves and Jorem’s men took advantage of them. Soon the soldiers were forced to form a wall out of their shields to protect not only themselves, but those crossing the trench as well.

  The enemy crept closer. Encased in their shields like a turtle in its shell, they moved with slow determination. It was like watching a flood of dark water crossing the plains. This new formation was slow but revealed many fewer openings for the archers to strike. There was little change in the pace of their progress as they encountered and crossed the next trench. “Only three more trenches,” Jorem thought. Just then, the Power Bow sang out taking down several men in one shot.

  Their progress was slow and appeared unstoppable. They were almost to the final set of trenches when the front line to one side of the clearing fell. Those behind were exposed. Two of Jorem’s men sprang from their concealment and let loose their arrows. The soldiers recovered quickly but not before several men were down. A few of the soldiers rushed at Jorem’s men only to meet their demise in the next trench.

  To his side Jorem heard Pentrothe muttering. When he turned to see what the wizard was saying, he saw that Pentrothe’s eyes were closed in concentration. With a few final words, Pentrothe pointed his staff out toward the clearing. The front line of soldiers on the opposite side of the clearing fell. Two more of Jorem’s men sprang from their hiding place and loosed their arrows.

  The enemy closed ranks as quickly as they could. Without archers of their own, all they could do was hide behind their shields. Now that Jorem’s men were out in the open, it was easier for the soldiers to defend themselves. When the enemy started crossing the second to last hidden trench, Jorem’s men retreated to the Keep.

  With Jorem’s men gone, the soldiers took heart and marched boldly once more. They still moved slowly for fear of more traps, but he could tell by their stance that they no longer feared attack. There were no war cries. At least their losses had taken that much from them. They kept their eyes on the spot where the Power Bow lay. They knew where it was and watched for its use.

  The soldiers were close enough to see clearly now. Their grim faces left little doubt as to their intent. Many had fallen, yet there were still so many more. As they began to emerge from the final trench Jorem passed the word to fire if an opening presented itself. Jorem then started for the steps leading to the courtyard. Before he got to the stairway, the first arrow flew from the wall. Jorem cringed when he saw where the arrow had struck. There stood a man, frozen in mid stride, his mouth agape; a shaft and some feathers protruded from the top of his foot. More arrows rained down on the attackers. Jorem didn’t wait for the results. He had to get down to the gates. When they came through, he intended to be waiting for them.

  When Jorem got to the courtyard, he could sense Neth standing beside him. Shortly, the rest of his men arrived. Over the hum of bow strings, they could hear cries from the enemy. The gate trembled with an impact. Made from the scraps of the shanties, it would not hold for long.

  Jorem looked at those standing with him—fools, all of them, and him included.

  “Fight well, my friends, and try to stay alive.” Jorem’s words were firm and quiet. “Dead men make lousy fighters.”

  Chapter XX

  Out of the corner of his eye Jorem saw a number of children fleeing across the courtyard and into the Keep. The pounding at the gate increased and it began to sag inward. The sound of bowstrings was no longer audible. Either they were out of arrows, or the sound of the enemy at the gate was loud enough to mask it.

  The gate creaked and popped. One side came loose from its mounting and the whole thing canted inward. Another massive push from the soldiers and the entire gate crashed to the ground. The black-clad warriors, with their polished armor and shields, were far more intimidating close up. They poured through the archway in a flood.

  Jorem braced himself for the onslaught. Neth sprang forward, burying herself in their midst. A menacing figure charged at him. As the figure raised its sword to strike, Jorem launched himself at the man. Slipping past the shield, he slammed the hilt of his sword against the foe’s face guard.

  Pressing forward, Jorem grasped the other’s sword arm with his free hand. With a sweeping move of his leg and a shove with his chest, Jorem threw the man to the ground. A swift kick to the head and the man went limp.

  Without hesitating, Jorem grabbed the downed man’s sword. With a war cry of his own, he charged after Neth into the jaws of the swarming army. No more thinking. No more planning. Act and react, strike, block, kick and slice. It mattered not whether the foe facing him was a nobleman or a mercenary. This was war. Honor held no place.

  The more the e
nemy pressed him, the harder he fought. Jorem had always thought there was a small part of him that was, well, dark. He’d always kept it suppressed, never daring to let it out—a part of him that didn’t care about others, a tiny voice urging him to lash out. He’d never spoken of it to anyone, not even Pentrothe. For the first time ever, he let it out.

  Everything seemed to slow around him. His swords were a blur. So much energy flowed through his veins that he felt unstoppable. He heard a growling, snarling sound. Those he faced fell back and he realized that the sound was his own. Such rage he’d never felt, yet he gloried in it. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he’d be able to put this monster back when this was all over.

  For a moment, he was without an enemy to face. Turning about, he saw that a group of warriors had slipped passed and were entering the Keep. There was neither hesitation nor thought, he simply went. The children were there. No sword would be raised against them. It was simply something he could not allow.

  When he burst through the door, they turned to face him, a dozen strong. The thin slits in the face shields of their helms hid their faces. Not so much as a glint from their eyes was visible—faceless, black-clad killing machines. A few years ago, Jorem would have turned and fled from such a sight. Not today!

  “Kill him,” the harsh command came from one.

  Four of the intruders advanced toward Jorem, the others waiting for the four to do their work. A flicker of movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye. Moving into a slight crouch, he held his swords out to his sides. With his eyes downcast, Jorem crossed his arms so the swords were now on opposite sides. He lowered the tips until they touched the floor. Then he slowly arced them around, dragging the tips along the smooth tile.

  The hiss of the blades on the tile kept the attention of his foes. When his arms were once more out to his sides, he flicked the tips back up. Tilting his head up, he glared at the men. He bared his teeth at them, then let his expression morph into a wicked grin. The four were more hesitant now, but still they came. Two others started moving toward him as well.

  Jorem waited patiently. Just as the four got within striking distance, what Jorem had hoped would happen, happened.

  Tink, tink, tink. Small stones ricocheted off the armor of three of the men. Startled, the men turned to see what had struck them. In that split second of distraction, Jorem moved.

  Muscles hardened at the forge, reflexes tempered by a diet of brutal training, anger at the wrongs inflicted by the strong and greedy, savagery from the beast within, held in check for so long, all came together at once. The four closest never even knew what struck them. The next two had but a moment for fear. Two more were down before the last four thought to flee.

  Two of the four remaining made the mistake of retreating up the stairs toward the children. He caught them just two steps from the top. A quick slash at the back of their legs brought both down. As they tumbled down the stairs, Jorem vaulted the railing and set off in pursuit of the last two. The first he caught at the doorway to the dining hall. With one sword, he knocked the man’s sword arm up. Before he could get his shield up, Jorem brought his fist up just under the front of the man’s helm.

  With the weight of his sword behind the blow, the man was lifted off his feet. His helm flew from his head and skittered across the floor. Jorem watched as the man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor. The face revealed beneath the helm was not what Jorem had expected to find. It certainly didn’t match the outer appearance.

  Beneath the polished armor and helm was someone who looked more like a vagabond than a soldier. Filthy, greasy hair was plastered to the head with sweat. Long had it been since a razor had touched the face. Dirt, grease, and something Jorem preferred not to identify clotted in the unconscious man’s facial hair. Even a vagabond would look better than this.

  Jorem looked up in time to see the last of his prey dash through a doorway. “Dead end,” Jorem thought to himself. The man had gone into the library and there was no other exit. Holding one sword high and the other low, he stepped to the doorway. The final man crouched at the opposite side of the room. A desk and a few chairs were all that separated them.

  “You’re all that’s left,” Jorem said in a dark and threatening tone. “Lay down your sword and surrender.”

  The man raised a gauntlet-covered hand and flipped up the face shield of his helm. In appearance, he was much like the other, dirty and unkempt. His eyes were cold and dark. There was no escape and he knew it.

  “I cannot be taken alive,” he sneered.

  Turning his head to the side, he bit down on something on his sleeve. Jorem heard a slight popping sound. The man looked back up and glared at Jorem. White foam began pouring from his mouth. The man’s body convulsed and he fell to the floor. A few more spasms and the man lay still.

  Cautiously, Jorem approached the prostrate form. He looked like a crumpled rag doll, discarded and neglected. His mouth was stretched wide in a silent scream, his eyes bulging wide open, staring out at some unseen horror.

  “Did your master never tell you that dead men serve not the living?” Jorem asked.

  It was a question the man would never answer. Perhaps the man he’d left unconscious in the hallway could shed some light on this strange choice—to take one’s own life when, even in captivity or misery, there was so much you could do in an unwritten future.

  When he got to the man in the hallway, he found him dead. White foam still filled his gaping mouth. The two men he had wounded on the stairs were the same. With each body, he found the monster inside of him recede a little. A shuffle of feet drew his attention to the top of the stairs. When he looked up, two pale-faced children stepped back in trepidation.

  “Stay hidden,” Jorem said calmly. “This is not over.”

  ************

  The fighting outside was still going. Jorem rushed to assist those most in need. It seemed every time he engaged the enemy, they were pelted with small stones. Those distractions proved quite helpful to the defenders. It did seem, however, that there were fewer defenders than he recollected.

  He dared not stop. He dared not rest. Any hesitation on his part could cost the life of another. At some point, Neth joined up with him. She was cut and bleeding from multiple wounds. If she was in pain it did not show. She fought with a ferociousness unmatched by any on the field.

  Fighting with Neth was an amazing experience. Having spent so much time training with her, he knew how she thought. He knew not only when she would move, but how she would move. They did not fight side by side, or back to back. Instead, they wove a constantly changing pattern. Where they went, the enemy fell or fled.

  They fought until there was no one left to fight. Bodies lay strewn from one side of the courtyard to the other. The sound of a struggle came from a far corner. As one, they ran to assist. What they found when they got there would have been humorous if it hadn’t been so deadly.

  Conrad stood with his back against a wall. Three of the warriors faced him. Their shields were dented and their armor battered. Even at three to one, they were hesitant to approach. Conrad had lost his sword. In its place he held a wooden pole. Even as Jorem drew near, one of the warriors got too close and Conrad smashed him back with a swift blow of the pole.

  Jorem cleared his throat. All three men spun toward him at the sound. Too late did they recall the man with the pole. With a sickening crunch, the pole came down full force on the helm of one of the men. The other two backed quickly away. Now it was them with their backs to the wall.

  Both men removed their helms. Their features were not unlike those in the keep. Their state of filth was the same as well. There was no escape for them. They were trapped with nowhere to go. The two men glanced at one another. In unison they turned their heads to the side and raised an arm to their mouths.

  “WAIT!” Jorem ordered.

  Both men hesitated.

  “You need not die. Lay down your weapons and no harm will come to y
ou.”

  Jorem’s words were as much to keep Neth from running them through as for the two men to stand down. Neth actually took a step back in acceptance of Jorem’s offer. Conrad still hefted his wooden pole threateningly, but did not attack. The two men looked at Jorem and seemed to shrink back.

  “Our lives are sworn to the Dark Mage,” one of them sneered. “Death is far better than to be defeated. When he hears of our failure, any left alive will be taken by demons. No, better to die.”

  As one, the men bit down on their sleeves. The scene from before replayed—the foaming at the mouth, the convulsing and the collapse. Watching the scene play out, Jorem thought facing demons would be a better end. It was beyond his understanding that anyone would fear another such that he would take his own life rather than fight on. No man should hold such power over another.

  That part of him he had loosed before, even it could not abide this choice. To die protecting or serving another, to die for a conviction, to stand for something and lose one’s life, those he could accept. To give up, when more could be done, even were it from a prison cell, was unacceptable. Death is unavoidable; but one should wait for it to take you.

  Of the bodies strewn all about the courtyard, most were clothed in black armor. Not all. Jorem’s heart sank at the sight of the elderly of Cragg Keep among the dead. “For what?” he asked himself. “So they could be buried where they had lived?” A building was just a building. Take any other building, put your loved one within and it becomes home.

  “Where is my home?” he wondered as he gazed out at the carnage. He thought of the castle with his brothers and father, but no, he felt no pull toward them. They were family, but not deserving of loyalty. Frank, the blacksmith back at Broughbor and his family, felt more like home than his own flesh and blood. The thought of Jen came to mind and the world dissolved around him.