by M. K. Adams
With a nod of his head, and one eye on the battle raging only a few metres away, Holtby ran off along the dunes. Gromwell hated the unknown during a battle, and if sending Holtby to find out where the troops were needed most might help ease his nerves then he was happy to lose a man from the fighting. From what he could tell the Tyberians were attackingg with a relatively large force, not uncommon, especially during blizzards like this. But it worried him all the same. Knowing that they were so close to going home, back to The Rive, made it feel like there was more on the line now than there ever had been before.
Not wanting to waste any more time, Gromwell picked up an iron shield, half buried among the snow, and fought his way back into the bloodshed. Tyberians swarmed over them, climbing the parapets and palisades alike, breaking down the stockades. They were all over them, but his men were brave and as the battle hardened he knew they wouldn’t give up. As he cut down one Tyberian after another, he watched as the men around him did the same. Their defences were being torn apart, but as an army they were holding the line.
The attack lasted for nearly two hours. Holtby had returned to Gromwell’s side towards the end of the fighting with a group of twenty soldiers at his back. By all accounts, Gromwell had indeed been where the fighting was worst. The 501st had one remaining warlock among their ranks, and by the end of the fighting he too had been killed. He had been the last of three who had originally departed for Tyberia among their ranks. Warlocks had been an unmatchable asset during the first years of the war, but as the Tyberians grew wary of their power they had adapted methods of identifying and killing warlocks early on into battles. Gromwell and other officers had tried their best to reactively find methods through which they could offer the warlocks better protection, but in battles like these things were often thrown into chaos.
As the last of the Tyberians fled from the summit of the snow dunes Gromwell began to take stock of the fallen bodies who littered the ground all around. It didn’t take long for him to realise that Landsley was nowhere to be seen.
“Landsley?” he shouted out into the battlefield.
There was no reply. Fear took hold and he found himself pacing up and down the dune’s summit.
He was right behind me when the fighting started, Gromwell reminded himself as he searched men both living and fallen.
“Landsley?” he called out again, attracting the attention of his men.
“Over here,” a voice which didn’t belong to his childhood friend called back.
The man knelt on the floor, hovering over a blood stained body buried in the snow. Gromwell sprinted over to the scene.
“I’m sorry Lieutenant,” The man said quietly as Gromwell pushed him out of the way and threw himself on to his knees beside the body.
It was Landsley. Gromwell refused to cry in front of his men, even though he had no doubt they would understand, but he couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes. Landsley had wounds across his back and torso, deep enough to kill on impact. His weathered armour pierced and dented beyond repair.
“You stupid bastard,” Gromwell whispered as he cupped Landsley’s pale face in the palm of his hand.
Sympathetic hands rested on his shoulder as his men passed him by on their way to begin clearing up the summit. Gromwell’s thoughts drifted back to the news he’d received just before the fighting had begun, that soon they would be leaving this place behind and that every person who had died had done so in vain. Anger began to pool within him, like a creature being nurtured within his soul. Anger towards the Tyberians, towards the war… towards his king.