Art of War

by Triantafyllou, Petros

  “Your requirements have been met,” he could hear Verglas saying, as if from a distance. “Here’s the poor soul you wanted. Now, good brothers, if I might remind you of the promised letters.”

  The baron’s words moved past Michel without context or meaning. They spoke but said nothing, absorbed by the wandering haze. Around him, the forest seemed to groan, a breeze stirring the leaves with a gasping sigh of air.

  Michel lifted the sword, cradling the hilt against his chest as he gazed into his father’s staring eyes.

  “This was not what we agreed,” said a rasping voice that sounded older than dead. “We asked for your bravest and your best. But what we have witnessed today appears nothing more than the calculated murder of an inferior knight.”

  Turning, Michel found himself staring into the grisly face of one of the undead knights he’d glimpsed before the battle. He had no idea as to the wight’s purpose. All he knew was that his slain father now seemed to have a champion, someone to defend him, if only with the force of accusation.

  The Baron de Verglas sneered. “Perhaps your duties in the afterworld have kept you away too long, good brother, if you fail to distinguish between murder and simple incidence of casualty. Or could it be possible that you have never seen combat? It is, after all, difficult to gain a good sense of a battlefield if your back is turned to it.”

  Michel felt a sharp pang of outrage at the insult. His trembling fingers clenched the cold hilt of his father’s sword. He didn’t know he was rising from the ground until he found himself standing, his father’s sword clutched in a double-fisted grip. He took a step toward Verglas, drawing the blade back over his shoulder.

  For the first time, the baron seemed to take note of him. The nobleman frowned, a look of confusion passing over his face. The expression broke into a thin grimace of amusement.

  “What is this?” The baron barked a laugh, indicating Michel with a sweep of his gloved hand. “The boy wants to make a fight of it!”

  The baron’s knights regrouped about their lord. Not one looked amused. The eyes of the men shifted nervously between Michel and Verglas, their expressions tense and uncertain. Many had been friends of his father. They all knew him well.

  “Ignorant boy.” Verglas dismissed Michel with a scowl of contempt. “Men of noble birth do not cross swords with the likes of mere squires.”

  Michel clenched his teeth as his cheeks flushed scarlet. His father lay dead at his feet, and the hilt of Bernard’s sword felt lovely in his hands. The baron’s arrogance filled him with a white-hot fury that took him well past reason. Michel stood with his sword swept back over his shoulder, but he couldn’t bring himself to let the blade fall. The baron was mounted and unarmed.

  “Give over the blade, son.”

  The command startled him. Michel glanced up into the corrupted face of one of the undead knights. The wight had somehow managed to dismount and come up silently beside him. He was standing with a skeletal hand open and proffered. Beneath his rotten boots, the grass withered and turned black.

  Michel relaxed his grip on the hilt. But he couldn’t keep the rage of grief from his face. He stared helplessly, unable to comply. What he saw in the wight’s face shocked him. It was a look of sympathy, of understanding. The paladin gazed at him for a long minute, eyes like mirrors of clouded glass. Then he commanded again:

  “Give over the blade, son, if you wish to seek the justice of Syre.”

  He reached up and gently eased the hilt from Michel’s grip. The knight lifted the sword before his gray and desiccated face. Then he angled the weapon in front of him, staring down the length of the blade. Seeming satisfied, he stepped forward and slipped the sword under Michel’s belt, where it hung dangling by the crossguard.

  “Kneel you down, son, and let your eyes and hands be lifted.”

  Michel stared mutely into the knight’s skeletal face, comprehension failing him utterly. But something about the wight’s undead stare compelled Michel to do exactly as he bade. He dropped to his knees beside the corpse of his father. He raised his hands and stared straight up into the gray and dismal sky. His eyes blurred, filling with tears. Ashamed, he wiped his face.

  The wight gazed down at him and said, “Swear you to give defense to the poor and weak and combat treachery all the days of your life, and even after, into death?”

  “I so swear it.” A shiver ran down Michel’s neck as it finally occurred to him what the knight was doing.

  Nodding curtly, the paladin stepped forward and, with an open hand, struck Michel soundly on the side of the head. Reeling from the colée, Michel gasped as the knight took his hand in his bony fingers.

  “Arise, good knight.”

  As Michel rose unsteadily to his feet, he could hear Verglas blurt, “What mockery is this?”

  It was the other Syric knight who responded as he drew his horse up at the baron’s side. “You said you would not cross arms with a squire. But a knight now stands before you demanding the justice of Syre. What is wrong, my lord? Surely you have nothing to fear from the likes of a mere boy?”

  For moments, the Baron de Verglas glared silent hatred into the wight’s dead eyes. Then, with one swift motion, he swung his leg over his stallion’s back and dismounted, drawing his sword. He held the blade at a threatening angle as he turned his body to square up with Michel. He ran his gaze over the youth with a look of disdain.

  “Your father was my sworn vassal,” he said, hefting the weapon in his hand. “For that reason alone, I will give you this one chance to kneel and pledge me fealty.”

  “It was murder.” Michel heard his own voice as though it were someone else’s, the words sounding distant and foreign to his ears.

  The baron looked at him, raising his sword and licking his lips. He mumbled under his breath, “Of course it was.”

  And then the blade was falling.

  Michel stumbled back as a blur of steel sliced toward him. Clumsily, he freed his father’s sword from his belt and managed to bring it up in time to parry the next strike. The two blades met with a ringing jar that shuddered down the length of Michel’s arms, nearly wrenching the hilt from his grasp. Michel staggered, barely avoiding another hissing slice.

  He found himself forced backward across the field to maintain his range, working his arms furiously to keep time to the nobleman’s press. Each parry he made was a fraction too slow, each attack an instant too late. He lost more ground, retreating under a hail of relentless blows.

  Michel was no stranger to the sword. But for all his years of practice, he was hard-pressed to defend against the baron’s assault. Verglas moved in quickly, pressing him back with calm, precise attacks.

  Michel deflected a thrust, swept his sword back, and then let it fall with all the weight of his body behind it. Verglas merely brushed his blade aside. Angered, Michel lunged forward and pressed a rapid sequence of attacks that kept the lord moving but left nothing for defense.

  Seeing an opportunity, the baron thrust his blade in low, dipping beneath Michel’s guard and cleaving upward toward his stomach. The youth spun away as the blade’s edge scored his front. A thin line of blood appeared across the fabric of his shirt, spreading quickly over the wool. There was no pain. Verglas’s steel was wicked-sharp.

  Shaken, Michel barely managed to bring his sword up to parry the next slice aimed at his chest. The baron’s steel shrieked up the length of his blade, scraping all the way to the crossguard. Michel reached out and caught the man’s hand with his own, driving the pommel of his hilt into the baron’s face.

  Verglas cried out as his head snapped back. Michel raised his sword and brought it down with every ounce of strength left in his body. The blade took the lord at the base of the neck, tearing through his shoulder and parting the riveted chains of his hauberk.

  Michel wrenched back on the hilt to free his blade. Verglas slumped forward against him, mouth open, eyes wide and startled. His hands went limp. The sword dropped from his grasp and fell beneath him as
his knees gave way. Inelegantly, the Baron de Verglas doubled over, slumping to the ground.

  Michel stood, gasping for air, staring down at the corpse in numb disbelief. His father’s sword trembled in his hands, his chest heaving with the force of each drawn breath. His legs were shaking and weak, his flesh ablaze with a sudden, searing fire. Staring down at the baron’s sprawled form, Michel lowered his sword arm to his side.

  An armored fist slammed him full in the face.

  The blow spun him around, taking him to the ground. Opening his eyes, Michel saw the baron’s men hovering over him. He tried to rise, but found he lacked the strength for it. He didn’t care what they did to him. He was too tired, too grieved. So, he lie there, staring into a turbid sky barely visible through the trees, blinking slowly.

  “Help me,” he whispered.

  “I am,” came the reply. To Verglas’s men, the undead knight said, “Let the worms have the father. We asked for your best and bravest. There he is. Deliver him unto us.”

  Without hesitation, Verglas’s men fell upon Michel. Their gauntleted fists rained down on his armorless body, their boots taking him in the sides, chest, and head. A crushing heel came down to pound molten fire into his groin.

  Overhead, mist swirled through the forest. A gentle breeze stirred the fog, moved the age-old branches of the trees. The new spring leaves whispered as they trilled on the boughs, their song a breathless sigh.

  In the remote distance, a hawk shrieked, but the youth did not hear it. His mind had slipped somewhere far beyond hearing, beyond knowledge of pain or grief. Beyond awareness. His thoughts, like the mist, swirled away in a churning grayness that was strangely, mercifully, comforting.

  Exibition

  Ben Galley

  On the battlefield, time is not made of minutes and hours. It is measured by the incessant throbbing of a muck-smeared skull. It is another bead of sweat invading the eye. It is the count of bodies lying bloody behind you. There is no now or later, only death or survival. Time has no place on the battlefield. It lends its mantle to carnage and skulks on the fringes, waiting to matter once again, when all the blood has spilt.

  The ground vomited another puddle of brackish water as I pivoted. His broken sword-tip whined past my ear, robbing hairs from me. Blood spattered in my face as my blade slashed his poorly leathered belly. Boggle-eyed, he sunk to the mire, screaming at the sight of his guts splayed across his muddy palms, steaming in the dawn’s cold.

  I considered his neck, but his iron collar would have notched my sword. I left him to his wailing as a lance sought to skewer me.

  In that tightfisted world, that ring of fog and shrieking steel, my existence was no more complex than who could kill who. My only struggle in life was being faster. Better. It was a terrifying simplicity, and I clung to that throbbing in my forehead, a constant reminder of what side of existence I danced on.

  Winter trees cast skeletal shadows on the haze where the enchanters had begun to put their fires to work. The slate-grey fog took on a sickly glow, undulating between green and the yellow of bile.

  A pitiful wail cut the din of cursing and dying as the bog swallowed a man whole. Just a fatal misstep on poorly chosen-ground. No glorious sweep and clash of gleaming ranks, this. There was no more glory to be found here than in a tavern-brawl in a swamp.

  An axe came spinning for my legs. A sidestep, and it cut the turf from a mound behind me, lodging in the skull of a corpse. Those who think there is peace in death on the field of war are sorely mistaken.

  My new enemy came hunting for me, spiked fists raised, mist spiralling about his chains and leather plates. A roar sprang from his foreign tongue as he reached for me. I cut it short, taking a smart step and burying my sword up to the hilt in his chest.

  The roar withered into a gurgle, but the blaze in his eyes refused to die. His fists fell on my shoulders, seeking my neck. The iron gauntlets locked together, pinching my skin. I seized the crossbars of my sword and wrenched. Crimson poured down its channels, wetting my hands. The man gripped only harder. I choked.

  As I felt my chest burn, I twisted the blade, again and again, until I’d bored a hole so big in his chest I could have used him as a window. Only then did he falter, eyes rolling up to bloodshot whites. He collapsed on his side, his face in a murky pool and his gauntlets still at my neck. I could breathe, but I thrashed to be free. He held me tighter than a jealous lover.

  Emerald fire bloomed behind the fog. Thunder rolled across the marsh, and with it, a hot breeze that made the walls of my small world billow. With it came bodies: some mere shadows arcing high through the mist, others crashing into the masses like ballista bolts. I spied one still wriggling as she flew, her legs enveloped in fire. A nearby bog saved her bones, and her landing showered me with stinking water. When she reared up, she was still screaming. I saw the water bubbling around her, and a green glow between her thrashing.

  She reached for me, and I saw her eyes burning with the same sickly flames. As her clothes began to fall to flakes around her white skin, before the fire turned it black, I saw the brands across her chest. It was then I heard the meaning of her screeching. Not for her own pain, but for mine, and the colour of banner we shared.

  ‘I-I can’t hold onto it! RUN!’

  Slippery hands wriggled my sword free, slicing my palms in the process. With desperate pants, I hacked at the corpse’s hands. My peripheries worked for me. My gaze was locked on the enchanter, now consumed by her green fire. Her eyes glowed white through the conflagration.

  I felt the pop of a wrist coming loose, and I tore myself free. Stumbling over dead legs, I scrabbled away on my backside, face full of horror. To be cheated of life through no fault of my own…

  Time came for me then, showing me with glee how little sand remained in my hourglass. So little, and yet the grains fell like snowflakes. I spat curses until I felt something burst from my chest.

  I stared down at the bloody spearhead, decorated with scraps of something vital. A vein stretched against the barbarous hook, still pumping with my blood. I looked up at my killer to find not a cold grin, but a gawping mouth of blackened teeth. His eyes were not for his prey, but for the enchanter. In my chest, I felt something snap.

  The blast consumed us both, green fire so hot I felt the flesh peel off my bones before it reduced me to ash.

  Vomit choked me. I bucked against callous restraints. Icy water drowned me in wakefulness.

  The voice boomed through my senses. ‘Untie her.’

  I was loosed, and before my eyes could make sense of my surroundings, I reared up and tumbled to a heap against cold stone. I felt rough robes against my skin. No press of sweaty armour. No wet boots and dawn-chill. No ache of sword in my hand. By my knees, my fingers found themselves. I felt flesh, not charred knuckles. That world had faded, though the throbbing still reigned in my head.

  I opened my eyes to see dusty sandstone, dark with the sweat from my face. I took a breath, choked, and spent a while hawking up more bile.

  The voice floated to me, heavy with condescension.

  ‘Another wasted meld, novitiate?’

  I looked past my shoulder to the cot where the bundle sat. I remembered the smears of black soot on its fabric, and this time they made me shudder. What had I expected? To survive longer than she had? That was not the way of the meld.

  ‘You wish to paint nothing?’

  Tracing the tangle of tubes past the sinuous flasks and lamps, I looked to the balcony high above me. Candles glowed along its edge now. It must have been night beyond the shuttered windows. Their flickering did nothing to illuminate the tuton’s face. He paced, betraying impatience.

  With a snarl, I forced my legs into working order. My bare feet slapped the stone. I snatched the brushes from the table. The paints waited for me, refilled and glistening.

  I forced my eyes to focus on my canvas. My neck crunched as I toured its expansive edges, somehow releasing a pressure in my head.

  Paint slopped
as I went to work. Great arcs of colour obscured my previous efforts, wiping out gleaming generals and captains with mean streaks of my brush. I chose a bog-brown and decapitated half an army with a sweep of my hand. There came a tut from above.

  ‘Another try, novitiate?’

  ‘You asked for perfection, tuton. I intend to provide it.’

  Only the brush of his bare feet answered me. The weight of the days spent in that hall lie heavy between us. I could feel his irritation wafting into my paint and vomit-smeared pit. It only served to drive me on. I stabbed my brush into a slate-grey and bound my scene in oppressive fog.

  Time once again faded into meaninglessness as I painted. I was no artist. This was not love of my craft. This was yet another battle. A toil for my own betterment, not the canvas’. My only audience was the critical eyes above me. My only exhibition a final test that I was currently failing.

  The drudgelings came twice to change the candles while I worked. I did not realise until I tore myself away from my canvas and saw the burnt-out husks of wax beside new red pillars.

  ‘There, tuton. I am finished.’

  I saw dark knuckles slide into the light and grip the balcony railing firmly. His hooded figure angled forwards to pass judgment of my efforts. My legs shook not through nervousness, but from exhaustion. My eyes snuck around my pit, looking for water.

  He took so long to decide, I began to judge with him. The artist will always see what the viewer does not. Not more or less, but as though viewed at a different angle. The light didn’t show me perfection, but every bump of overzealous wash of paint, every betraying shadow of my past attempts. Staring at my scene of fire and fog now, I wanted to snatch up a candle and burn it.

  Like a coward, he offered the verdict up to me. ‘Why do you think it is a fit offering?’

  I was thankful I faced away from him. My bared teeth took some time to hide. ‘It depicts valiance, tuton. Camaraderie. I understand now the art of war is not about tactics, nor the well-trained army, but about the prowess of each soldier.’ I hurriedly corrected myself. ‘The heart, rather, of each soldier.’