Art of War

by Triantafyllou, Petros

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Go, let’s go!” he said encouragingly waving his arms at them.

  There was chaos as the dozen or so boys scattered to their homes. Some fathers would try to grab them, but it was fruitless, the tension and propaganda of war had been building for some time, and they had all been waiting for this moment. But for Toris, he stopped among the stampede when he caught his father’s sombre gaze. They stood looking at each other. He didn’t have a tear in his eye, but Toris knew he was feeling the pain.

  “Father, I need to do this.”

  “I won’t argue that, my boy. I just know that if…when you return, you won’t be the same man who left.”

  “Of course not, Father. I will know far more by then,” Toris said, beaming a grin as countless thoughts of action and adventure raced through his mind.

  “Come, we have but one night, and I have a little extra coin, why don’t we feast. There’s something I want to give you.”

  His father climbed up onto the cart and placed his crutches to one side. Making a clicking sound at the mule with his mouth, they left the village towards the farm.

  That evening, sitting at the table as two small candles burned crisply through their wicks and illuminating the small space around them, Toris reached over for his fourth helping of honey roasted ham, butter, and bread. He even had a flagon of pale ale, which he didn’t really enjoy, but seeing grownups drink so much of it made him swill the whole thing down as if it made him strong.

  As the evening pressed on, Toris started to feel light-headed. Worried that he was becoming ill, he chose to ignore the strange sensation and kept gulping. But in his enthusiasm to eat a hearty meal, he didn’t realise that his mother’s dinner was untouched and his fathers was barely scratched at.

  “Toris,” his father said, eventually breaking the silence.

  Toris looked up surprised, his cheeks filled with food.

  “I will walk you down to mayor’s yard tomorrow. We best be up early so we don’t get stuck in a queue, eh? But there’s something I want to give you from my war days,” he said, rubbing at his leg.

  It was a strange moment for Toris. It was the first time his father had talked about his time soldiering.

  Reaching down, he picked up a long, wrapped object. The fabric looked old and worn and covered in dirt, like it had been buried.

  Toris’s eyes grew in wonder.

  “When I went to war, my father gave this to me, and his father to him. I am now giving it to you,” he said, reaching out with both hands like an offering to the Light God Tamelia.

  Toris reached up and took it, but it fell into his chest under the weight.

  His mother let out a whimper and excused herself from the table running into the bedroom.

  “I suggest you go to bed now, son. Get a good night’s sleep eh? I will wake you in the morning.”

  Toris smiled, praying his headache would be gone by then. He picked up one of the candles and made his way to his room and closed the door. Placing the wrapped object on his bed, he undid the stiff string. He was so excited that his grin could not spread any further across his face.

  Pushing the object out like a bed roll, he was full of fascination, keen to see the shiny weapon which was sure to be revealed. But when it unravelled, when he saw the sword, his face contorted as he looked down at a battered and dark piece of steel covered in runes.

  Wrapping it back up, Toris lay in bed and sulked, wondering why his father gave him such a hideous gift.

  Present day…

  Toris breathed in as he looked down the bloodstained trench of corpses. There was no one there. No one alive anyway. Spread around was an endless piles of bodies, lying in their last stance of battle as crows feasted upon an easy meal.

  Asmogs, Belliphians, and Zefrinarians lie amongst his kin. Even a giant from the far reaches of the east was face down in the mud, his corpse peppered with arrows and spears, a mighty struggle to bring the godlike man down.

  “What was the point in it all, Famastil, what was the reking point?”

  4 years, 3 months and 13 days earlier…

  “Name?”

  “Galaron.”

  “Age.”

  “Fifteen, I mean eighteen–I mean nineteen.”

  The officer looked over the table at the young lad. “You have to be nineteen to join the king’s army, boy. On your way.”

  The boy named as Galaron looked defeated and went to leave before the officer spoke again.

  “Try coming back tomorrow and next time, remember your age!” he said with a wink.

  Galaron smiled and raced out of the office.

  “Name?” the officer said, producing a fresh scroll.

  “Toris,” Father spoke. He had an arm around Toris’s shoulder and held him tight. Toris didn’t like it, it made him feel incompetent. Nevertheless, he knew his father needed this.

  “Age.”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Do you have your own weapon.”

  “He does.”

  “Say your goodbyes and enter through the door. Name…?”

  Toris helped his father hobble over to the side of the room. His father attempted to stand straight and placed his hands on Toris’s shoulders, trying desperately to think of a thousand ways to explain everything he knew in that one moment. All he could manage was his mouth hanging open with his breath held inside.

  “Goodbye, Father. I will be back soon,” Toris said, uncomfortable with the situation.

  His father tried to force a smile.

  “You take care of yourself, son, eh?”

  Toris pulled his bag over his shoulder and held his wrapped sword, walking to the door. He turned and gave a wry grin before leaving. The last image of his father was him still trying to smile.

  Present day…

  Amongst the thousands of flags waving in the breeze, one stood out for Toris; the one of his regiment.

  “You know, I was looking at that flag before we charged. As the dawn sunrise lit up this world and thousands of people still lived, I looked at that flag and tried to work out what life was all about. Isn’t it strange? Isn’t it strange that you focus on a piece of fabric to work out what life is all about?”

  Famastil didn’t make a sound, clutching at the wound to his gut. The blood flowed less now.

  4 years earlier…

  After three months of swinging a club at a post and marching out to the far reaches of the world, Toris stood in formation wearing nothing but the garb he left home in. With armour in little supply, he shuddered that he would be wearing someone else’s if and when it became available. He looked below at the front ranks of clad men dressed from head to toe in steel and wondered which one of them he would be wearing.

  But it was otherwise quiet.

  He was distracted by the sound of a flag flapping chaotically in the breeze, and looking up, he saw a blue triangle upon a green field; his regiment’s banner. With so many regiments formed so quickly, they were given basic shapes to identify them.

  Toris had made an arm band to match it and stood proudly, but also a little nervously as were the other young faces around him, for the reality of this war was starting to sink in.

  Before them, beyond the curve of the hill, a long horn blast rang out, followed by a deep drum beat.

  His mouth went dry, and he felt light. Everyone around him did. The adventure he was expecting was starting to unfold and, so far, he wasn’t enjoying any of it.

  1 month later…

  “What’s that?” Toris said, looking at several blue objects hurtling their way, leaving long mystical clouds of smoke. “Haven’t seen catapults fire anything like that before.”

  His friend, Famastil stood next to him. They had seen battle but had yet to fight, and they knew that that day had now come.

  “They’re not boulders, Tor. That’s magic.” He immediately ducked behind a steel defence they had just captured. Toris followed.

  The explosion was something Toris hadn
't experienced before. It took a while for his mind to catch up. Opening his eyes, he looked around at pieces of body strewn across the ground. He saw an arm that looked like a giant had ripped it from its victim. The pure white bone stuck out amid the red and stretched flesh. All around were similar pieces of debris.

  A cry rang out as hundreds of men charged forth from the trench before them.

  Toris was clinging to the large metal object used to slow down their advance, but for the first time, the enemy were charging at them.

  Seeing his brethren go down so quickly fuelled Toris with rage, and lifting his father’s sword, he ran at them. He wasn’t alone, and the two armies clashed.

  Carnage was all it was as men fought one another to the death.

  In the thick of it, Toris gritted his teeth as he was greeted by his first Asmog, standing there snarling with filed teeth to look like fangs, ready to run him through with his sword.

  Toris threw back his sword, but something strange happened. The symbols on the blade glowed blue and the sword felt suddenly light. But he didn’t linger on the strange sensation. As the Asmog threw his sword towards him, Toris slashed in a long arc, his own weapon suddenly as heavy as a boulder. It clashed with a deafening ring with the Asmog’s sword, shattering it into pieces, much to the astonishment of both soldiers.

  Toris lifted his blade up again and it became light as grass, he then swung again, cutting open the man’s chest cavity, sending blood everywhere. Toris got his first taste of blood, the sticky metallic substance was something he would never forget.

  1 year later…

  When a snake catches a frog, the frog screams for the serpent has it within its grasp and its fate is already decided. It screams because it has lost control. It screams to beg for something to come to its aid. It screams because it is terrified.

  For Galaron, a young boy who lied about his age to join the army, he screamed as he lay in the mud. The thick substance slowly consumed him. When he moved, he sunk quicker, when he stood still, he could do nothing but feel the heavy earth swallow him up.

  Before him, way out of reach and on solid ground, stood his comrades, just watching, keen to help but helpless to do anything for he was too far away.

  Galaron’s screams and cries for his mother carried on into the night. Until they were cut short by a gurgling cry as the mud swallowed him.

  For all the death Toris had seen, for all the people he had killed and lost, Galaron’s was the worst.

  3 years later…

  “Nice helm, Tor. Where did you get that?” Famastil said, looking at the heaume helm in his grasp.

  With a cross running down the middle, splitting the faceguard into four sections, each quarter had a different set of shaped holes to let the owner see through.

  At first, Toris didn’t say anything. Standing in a mismatch of armour, he didn’t really want to say how he found it.

  “You heard what the commander said,” he sighed, knowing that he would figure it out anyway, “don’t bother waiting for armour anymore. Take what you find before the enemy does.”

  He sat down with a huff.

  He was more toned and better built now, the body of war showed. Scars appeared on every exposed bit of skin. The sights, sounds, and smells around him didn’t distract either. Not even the crying screams of men being mended.

  His right arm had a pauldron and arm guards all the way down to his wrist, and he wore a thick leather gauntlet, his left arm bare. He wore a thick gambeson, which he had stitched together from three shredded ones, showing a mismatch of colour.

  Famastil was dressed the same, but the opposite to Toris. They both looked down at the ground sombrely. They hated looting, but when the arrows came raining down upon them, anything they found was for the taking.

  “How about this,” Toris said, noticing his despondent look, “we make a pact. If either of us goes down, neither of us will be bothered if the other takes what we have.”

  “I don’t think you’ll feel much at all if you’re dead!”

  They let out a slight chuckle at that, receiving several strange looks as to why someone was laughing.

  It had been a stalemate, but the attacking nations were gaining ground at the consequence of the vanguard where Toris and Famastil were.

  “Ere up, here comes Delros,” Toris said, noticing him.

  Walking through the shambles of men he came, a hard-faced man carrying a warhammer over his shoulder and helm under his arm.

  “Tomorrow, lads” he belted out, “is the big offensive, be ready. They’ll be coming hard this time. The general has dished out extra rations for you all with his compliments.”

  “He said that last time and we didn’t get anything,” Famastil muttered.

  “He looks well fed, though,” Toris replied. “Why does he keep saying they’re charging? Ever since we’ve started, that’s all we’ve done!”

  “Maybe they see them coming and send us out to stop them?”

  “Maybe.”

  In that moment, Peralis came pacing through the crowd, trying not to appear too eager in front of the despondent and ill-equipped soldiers, yet he still had a skip in his step.

  “Where have you been?” Toris asked him. Then he noticed what he was wearing.

  “Just been up to the smithy’s tent. Managed to get to the front of the queue this time.” He beamed as his mates looked him up and down as if he were a beautiful woman, for the garb he wore was far better quality than anything they had.

  “Look how well they pull out,” he said, grasping his knife.

  Present day…

  Toris awoke and looked around. Everything was as it was before. The blood running through the trench had started to solidify. It was darker with night creeping over. He nudged Famastil. “C’mon, let’s move.”

  Famastil remained seated.

  “Fam? Let’s go!” Toris said bluntly. “It’s no time to muck about.” He took hold of his friend’s arm, and then noticed it, Famastil was cold.

  Bending down, Toris looked into his friend’s eyes and saw that there was no life. Toris had bottled up his emotions ever since he had left home, but now, seeing his best friend dead, was too much, and resting his forehead against Famastils’s, Toris could hold it in no longer and wept.

  A while passed, and Toris heard voices above.

  He dried his eyes.

  “Rest a moment, my friend,” he whispered. “I’m just going to see if there’s anyone about,” he said and gave his friend’s body a firm reassuring hold.

  Pulling himself up, he felt his stiff joints ache as he willed them to move from being in the same position for so long.

  Bloodied, bruised, and tired, Toris pushed his way up the trench. Climbing over bodies of friends and foes, he willed himself on. It was steep, and he felt that just tilting his head back ever so slightly would cause him to fall backwards. But he clung onto the bodies. He didn’t touch any mud. He had pretty much bathed in it all year, but it was nothing but a trench covered in bodies and blood now.

  He pulled himself to the top, and stood looking at an endless sight of the same thing as far as the eye could see; endless armoured soldiers in their last moments of war.

  “Do you know what a pyrrhic victory is, Lembon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s where the victory is overshadowed by the cost it took to get it. A cost that our boys took.”

  Tears began to form in the general’s eyes, for the two people who survived that war stood upon the edge of the battlefield looking at the carnage before them.

  Just then, they both braced themselves as they saw a Thi’Perian soldier climbing up the trench towards them. Caped in blood and holding a sword that looked like splinted metal, he had a rather relaxed guard before the two Asmogs.

  “Kill him!” the general ordered, stepping behind his aid. But Lembon was weedy fellow, not a soldier, and he cowered away.

  “Haven’t enough died at your hand?” rasped the helmed warrior.

&
nbsp; Removing his helmet, he looked at the two men. He looked tired and emotionless. “I’ve just heard what you’ve said. It appears I am all that is left of my nation and you of yours.”

  “Stand down, young man.” said the general, trying to fill his voice with authority.

  “I think between us, I hold the upper hand,” Toris said, pacing forward confidently with his sword by his side. “But I want to ask you something.” Holding back an emotional tear from his friend’s death, he said, “I would ask my own commander, but he’s dead. There he is down there.” He pointed to the body of a man with his own warhammer buried in his skull. “I want to ask why you invaded. What was the point in it all? Did you get what you wanted? Is this…” he said casting an arm at the world around them, “is this what you wanted?”

  “You’re a soldier,” spat the general, “and can’t possibly understand the politics of war. But alas, you seem to lack even the most significant piece of information. It was your nation who invaded ours.”

  “Ha!” Toris laughed. “I think not. This is our land, we came here to defend it from you heathens.”

  “You filthy…!” the general went red with rage and lifted his sword to smite Toris, but Toris’s reactions were far quicker.

  He leapt forward and stabbed the general through the heart all the way up to the hilt. Grabbing the man’s sword hand, he brought his face to his, showing him nothing but wrath as the general sunk to the floor, cold steel inside him.

  When his soul had departed his body, Toris pulled his blade clear and looked at the aid, who went pale.

  “You need not fear me,” Toris said, calming himself. “I’m done.” He wiped his father’s blade clean with a rag.

  “With respect, soldier, smite me down if you must, but the general is quite right.” He pulled out a folded parchment.

  Stepping before Toris, he showed a worn map of the world with hundreds of lines and three shaded areas.

  “You see, soldier, the green represents your land, the yellow ours. The red is what you have conquered over the past four years.”