by C. N. Faust
“I wouldn’t stake any bets on it,” Ezbon turned his head, and finally caught Nicholas’ gaze. For a moment, their eyes met, and they held.
Nicholas was the first to look away.
“Ranks!” he barked. “Assemble!” with that, he pulled on the reins of his horse and steered it away, running down the length of the army, his sword high in the air.
Madrigal was a small city, closed inside the fist of a large thick stone wall, with only one way through – the front gate. The front gate was guarded by a portcullis and several soldiers, all who under normal circumstances would have been lounging around and drinking. As it was now, they could be seen standing their guard bravely, a hundred or so men just at the front entrance. Who knew who many lurked behind the walls.
Apparently, Sitharus had anticipated an attack. Oh gods, Ezbon prayed silently to himself. Please don’t let him find us predictable. Azrael, no.
The men behind were nervous, he could sense it. He could hear a few of them praying, some were probably fingering the holy charms that hung around their necks or were stuffed into their pockets. Some had wrapped them around the heads of their spears or the hilts of their swords – as if that could make a difference. It might could have – if this had been a holy war. But it wasn’t. This war had nothing to do with the gods. This had to do only with men who wanted a bigger share of what they thought to be theirs.
Ezbon wet his lips, and gathered the reins of his charger in his hands. He could feel the horse tense up beneath him, ready to spread into a charge. He leaned forward, and spit on the ground. His lips were so damned dry!
He didn’t hear the call to charge so much as sense it. The men began to move forward, as if in slow motion. The very act of taking a single step and then dragging the other leg forward to copy the motion seemed to take an eternity. His charger’s hooves hit the ground, and the thudding was distant in his ears. His eyes were focused on only one thing – getting through the gate.
He was getting closer. He fumbled with the lacings that bound the double-bladed hand axe to his belt. They came loose, and they heavy object fell into his hand. He quickly switched it to his dominant hand, gripping the reins in the other, and hoisted the axe into the air. He felt like an idiot, but the soldiers at the gate were getting closer, closer…
The man in front of him fell. Somewhere, he heard a scream, but it sounded distant, as if he wasn’t really hearing it, or as if it were an echo. He heard ribs crunch underneath his horse’s hooves.
The soldier approached him, the sunlight glinting off his silver helmet. Ezbon didn’t even restrain the strangled cry that rose up from his throat as he took his axe and brought it up, burying it in between the jaw and the neck of the soldier, digging under his helmet. There was a spray of blood, and he jerked the axe free. The soldier crumpled into a heap near the man he had killed. Ezbon hoisted his hand axe, just in time to bury one of the blades into the back of another soldier’s neck. The spine was severed instantly, and the man fell to the ground, twitching violently. Everything was quiet. The only thing he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears. It was as if a world with no sound, no feeling, no concept of time suddenly existed. There was only motion, and action – and blood. Blood sprayed all over his face, drenching it with the warm, sticky fluid that ran down his neck and dribbled down the collar of his leather armor. He grimaced in disgust but did not pause to wipe it from his face. From the corner of his eye, he saw some of his men setting ladders up against the wall, apparently to take it that way. Others were breaking through the portcullis and the gates – twisted bits of iron, wood splinters, and body lining the path. Finally, the last soldier fell to Ezbon’s blade, and the gate to the city was broken apart. Men scrabbled through the giant hole like insects, cutting themselves brutally on the jagged edges of wood. Ezbon urged his horse forward, and at the same time the doors were sliding open as the men who had made it inside began to push, making a way for their companions to enter without being similarly disemboweled.
And then, in a sudden flash, sound returned. He heard screams. He heard swords clanging against each other – he heard blades pounding against flesh, and the crackling of flames as torches were produced – apparently to burn everything in sight. His heart pounded in his chest as he felled another soldier with his axe. Could they be … winning?
A streak of scarlet flashed across his vision. Remphan streaked past him astride his blood bay, whooping like a child in the middle of an exciting game. He whirled his morning star over his head, smashing it into the helmets of soldiers left and right. The morning star left a sizeable, bloody dent, and then another body crumpled. He cut a bloody path for himself as he made his way through the town, feathered hat bobbing.
Nicholas was holding his own. Ezbon could see him, too, from the corner of his eye. The younger baron’s eyes flashed fire as he hefted his sword over his head and brought it singing through the air into the necks, sides, and limbs of his enemies. He was on foot, his horse fallen by the gate. His hair had fallen into his eyes, and he was drenched with sweat. His lips had drawn back, bloody and cracked, and his teeth were stained with the bloody. He looked like a crazed madman – or a rebel, dying for a cause. He had never before looked as attractive to Ezbon as he did that moment.
And then it came.
A trumpet shattered Ezbon’s concentration on the spot, and his head snapped up without warning. A blow fell onto his head as a soldier bludgeoned him with the hilt of his broadsword. Stars burst across Ezbon’s vision as he staggered back, snarling. He slammed the side of his axe into the soldier’s head, missing his target of the eyes and shearing off an ear. The soldier screamed and fell back, blood coating the side of his face and drenching his neck, and Ezbon toppled off his horse. He pulled himself up off the ground and grabbed hold of a nearby wooden beam to regain his balance. He saw Nicholas, just as surprised as he was, look up. Ezbon followed the younger baron’s gaze, and squinted, lifting a trembling hand to shield his eyes away from the glaring sun.
Off in the distance, coming nearer with each second lost, was Madrigal’s cavalry. Sitharus must have heard of the city’s plight and sent them – and they had arrived just in time. And they were, to all appearances, fresh.
There was no way the barons were going to win this war.
“Nicholas!” he tried to call, despite his slowly darkening vision. “Nicholas, call them to retreat!”
Nicholas either did not hear him, or was stubbornly refusing to listen. Either choice seemed likely. Snarling, the Ercole started hacking even more furiously at the soldiers in front of him, his broadsword hacking away limbs with new vigor.
Ezbon gave a snort of exasperation and looked around, hoping to the gods he could do something, quickly. Darkness was creeping in on the edges of his vision, which swam before his eyes, making it difficult to see. He couldn’t make out more than shapes at his point.
But there it was again – that brilliant flash of scarlet. Closing his eyes, Ezbon gripped his axe and fought to keep from collapsing. He winced as his knees threatened to give beneath his weight. He had a feeling one of them was badly sprained or broken.
“Remphan!” he called at the top of his lungs. “Remphan!”
“Gods, man! What happened to you?” Remphan’s jovial voice called back from overhead.
“Never mind. Call them to retreat, now!”
“Why?” Remphan shouted. “They won’t listen to me!”
Ezbon glanced around. Nicholas was very quickly getting overwhelmed. Soon, the fresh soldiers would be upon them, and then…
“GO!” Ezbon roared, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. Just a few more seconds, let him get Nicholas! Please, Azrael, if you’ve any mercy in you! “Call the troops to retreat, we can’t win this! Tell them to run – flee – whatever, just get them the seven hells out of here!” with that, fighting past the stars in his vision and the pain in his knee, Ezbon took off running for Nicholas.
He heard Remphan shout orders above his hea
d, but he couldn’t concentrate on that. He could only count on his friend doing as he asked, for once in his life. He had to focus entirely on getting Nicholas. He couldn’t think about his leg, or how he felt like he was about to vomit, and then pass out. None of that was relevant, not until Nicholas was safe.
Grabbing the reins of his charger, Ezbon hauled himself back up into the saddle. He dug into its side with his good heel, and slapped its rump for extra measure with his hand. It took off in Nicholas’ direction, such so that he had to take care not to mow over the younger baron.
Nicholas was easily about to be overwhelmed. Ezbon muttered another prayer, and pulled his hand axe up. One … last … stroke….!
In one easy stroke, he took out a soldier. In two more, another soldier fell, a third staggered back. Nicholas glared at him angrily, but Ezbon didn’t care. Gripping onto his saddle horn, he tossed his axe aside so he could reach down and grab Nicholas by the arm, hauling him up onto the saddle.
“What are you doing!” Nicholas spat angrily.
“Saving your life,” Ezbon hissed. “You’re welcome.” He spurred the charger towards the gate. Almost there!
“You don’t need to save my life! Let me down! We can be victorious!”
“Yes,” Ezbon said. “Or you can be dead! I, myself, am found of breathing. I don’t’ know about –“ he stopped, closing his eyes and starting to catch his breath. The stars were coming back. Don’t let him pass out on a horse!
The charger made it through the gate, the battle was behind him, and if the gods were merciful it wouldn’t follow them. Once they made it across the border, they would be safe.
Remphan was waiting for them on the other side, and the men were pouring out of the gate like ants. Remphan rode up to the two barons and glanced at them anxiously.
“My lord?” he asked, glancing at Ezbon. “Are you well?”
“Fine, fine,” Ezbon carefully dismounted, and stood, swaying, on his feet. “What of the men, are they retreating?”
“Yes,” Remphan narrowed his eyes. “Once we get over the border, we should be fine. Are you sure you’re all right.”
Ezbon sighed. “Good,” he said, and passed out.
Chapter Seven
Ezbon awoke with a groan. His entire body felt like it had been set on fire. There was dull throbbing in his temple and his knee felt bruised and twisted. For a minute, he wondered if this was what it felt like to be dead. No, he decided. Being dead wouldn’t hurt this much.
He struggled to sit up and take stock of his surroundings, but he felt a rough hand push him back. Wincing in pain, Ezbon fell back to the pile of blankets and bedrolls that they had stretched across the frozen ground of the tent. Nicholas’ face loomed over him, angry and damn near purple with rage. His hands were swathed in bloody bandages. In spite of himself, Ezbon smirked. Nicholas was ridiculously vain of his hands – it served him right to have them cut up to bring him down a few pegs.
“You’re awake, now account for yourself!” Nicholas growled. Ezbon had seen bouts of his temper before and was not overly alarmed. Instead, he struggled again to a sitting position, this time holding his ground.
“And how would you like me to account for myself?” Ezbon snapped. His hands were trembling, and he placed them between his knees to warm up. “You know how ill-prepared we are yet for this war! And you expect to charge right in to the border city? Don’t you think Sitharus is smart enough to move just a few troops in to keep us from doing something like this?”
“I didn’t think Sitharus would expect it,” Nicholas snarled.
“I wouldn’t, either,” Ezbon hissed. “It’s such a mutton-headed move that it’s almost too stupid to entertain. And we did it anyway. This is not going to help us out in this war!”
“We don’t need for Sitharus to approve of our methods!” Nicholas raged. “This is war!”
“But with war comes a certain degree of respect,” Ezbon reminded him. “If the two sides don’t have that then terrible things start to happen that could otherwise be avoided. We don’t want Sitharus to treat us like children- so we need to stop acting like it.”
Nicholas grabbed Ezbon by the collar, and a little blood from his damaged hands trickled down his fingers and gathered at the tips in dark beads. The droplets fell down Ezbon’s shirt and made warm, sticky paths from his collarbone down his chest. “Don’t think you have me fooled for a second, Ezbon, I know what you are doing. Ivan may not see it, but I do. I know you far too well. You didn’t want this war to begin with. You are trying to force our own surrender! If we wait any longer and let Sitharus overpower us, then that’s exactly what’s going to happen!” he released him.
Ezbon released a slow breath. He had always been good at controlling his temper, but Nicholas always left him waltzing on a fine line. “Nicholas, understand, I am not trying to force our surrender.” He spoke slowly, deliberately – as if delivering his speech to an addled child. “I am trying to be practical. There wasn’t any time to prepare for this fool’s conquest. We’ve only been officially at war for little more than two months! There hasn’t been time to get anything done! We don’t have the resources nor the man power. We have to wait. Sitharus can afford to send scores of troops after us and not even miss it – we can’t. We can’t afford to waste lives like this. Do you know how many men were on our side today?”
Nicholas didn’t answer.
“Three thousand,” Ezbon continued. “Three thousand was all we could scrape up in a fortenight, and not one of them is a trained fighter. Sitharus’ men are well-trained, well-clothed, and well-fed. They have been fighting all their lives – they are garrison soldiers, we are farmers. Do you know how many of those trained armed and armored men were advancing towards us? More than double our number. We would have lost three thousand men on the battlefield today and probably you and I as well if we had stayed out there. That would be a crippling loss to Ivan and Sitharus would have barely batted and eyelash. Surrender would have been drawn up within a few weeks. And Ivan more than likely would have been executed. Was that what you had in mind?”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Nicholas continued stubbornly.
“Neither do you,” Ezbon shot back.
“You’ve never seen a war!”
“And neither have you!” Ezbon’s voice fought to rise above Nicholas’. The two barons glared at each other, flustered to a standstill.
“You were always a small thinker,” Nicholas finally muttered.
“And you were always stubborn,” Ezbon countered.
Nicholas tossed his hair. It glinted fiery red and gold in the little sunlight that managed to leak through the slit in the entrance of the tent. Ezbon crossed his arms over his chest, which felt like it had been packed in ice, and held back an apology. He wasn’t going to be the first to say anything.
“Just remember,” Nicholas finally said. “You don’t want this war, but Ivan and I do. And we’ll spill every last drop of blood in this province if that is what it takes to claim our freedom.”
“You almost did this morning,” Ezbon’s voice was back to its normal level, but his fury at the younger baron was unshakeable. “I saved your life, you idiot.”
“You cost us a battle!” Nicholas snapped. “You and your friend. Let it be known that from now on only I give the orders on the battlefield!”
“The men won’t be looking for you,” Ezbon said, quietly. “They’ll be looking for anyone in a uniform who gives the best idea.”
“They will learn to look for me,” Nicholas ground his teeth together.
“You will train these men, then?” Ezbon challenged. “You, who has seen even fewer wars than I?”
“There are military men enough in Drakkian Province to do it,” Nicholas reminded him sharply.
“And you will enlist everyone of them?” Ezbon shook his head. “You have more money and bravado than you have brains, Nicholas. I only pray to the gods that Ivan has more common sense than you do and the backbo
ne to say so.”
“And you are as full of insolence as you are of shit,” Nicholas bent and smacked him sharply across the face. Ezbon’s cheek burned with the impact, but he didn’t show the pain. He bit his lip, glancing up at Nicholas with hatred burning in his eyes.
“At least I’m not fucking my servant boy,” his voice was a dark, guttural growl.
Nicholas’ pallor became the color of curdled cheese. He buried the toe of his boot into Ezbon’s ribs, causing pain to rupture in his side. Ezbon bit his tongue nearly in half to keep from screaming. Blood filled his mouth. He spat it to the side, hoping it hit Nicholas’ expensive boots.
“It’s not befitting of a man of your station to entertain gossip,” Nicholas said, sweetly.
“Nor is it befitting of a man of yours to ignore his wife as blatantly – or as often – as you do.” Ezbon clutched his side and cursed under his breath, licking blood away from his lips. “Don’t you know a wise man never leaves himself without an heir?”
Nicholas stuck out his chin, lifting it so high that he could barely look down his nose at Ezbon. “I will have you know that I have no intention of going without an heir. Arceia is this very day heavy with child.”
“Whose child?” Ezbon let the question linger in the air. Nicholas’ pallor went from sickly to angry once more, and his eyes were shiny with vicious hot fury.
“Mine,” he spat in Ezbon’s face. “Mine, I will kill any man who dares suggest otherwise!”
“Any man who knows you might suggest otherwise,” Ezbon said, glaring, not even wiping the spittle from his face. “And as I said earlier – we can’t afford to lose that manpower.”
“I hate you,” Nicholas fought to keep his voice under control. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. “I hate you, I despise you. All we ever had is dead, do you know that? I never wondered why I left you! Nor did I ever regret it.”