‘’Charge! For King and Country!” he cried out in rage and fury as he spurred his men onwards, into the enemy ranks. He held his spear into the air and rode forward on his stallion, digging his feet into the flanks of the horse. He looked backwards and saw that they followed him, each of them in a crazy frenzy. He was not fooled, however. They were all afraid. He could see it in their eyes. The eyes always betrayed someone and he could see the sparkle of fear in everyone’s eyes. Nonetheless they rode with him, into almost certain doom for most of them. True bravery was not the absence of fear, but ignoring those fears, he realized proud as he looked over his shoulder at them. These were brave men, truly, and he had been blessed to lead them into war, into battle. And now they charged, not for glory nor pride, but for duty, preferable to the earlier two. He grinned like a maniac as he fastened the pace, staring at the enemy ranks, disorganized, but great warriors and with many. This was what the stories spoke of so highly and now he was going to be one of those stories, as he had hoped for in his younger days. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so pessimistic, the rider thought to himself as they came closer and closer. Most of them had seen their charge but a lot of them were still gawking at his lord, his king, who was fighting a lonely battle, surrounded and trapped. They were close now. He felt the wind softly stroke his skin and play with his hair. The skin of his horse was soft, too, he noticed for the first time as his legs rested against its flanks. He smelt the woods, truly, perhaps for the first time. It was as if he actually felt the world for the first time, in these small moments, ironically.
And then came the crashing of spears and horses. One moment he had been on a horse, the other moment he was on the ground with an arrow in his eye. Gods, it hurt so terribly, he thought to himself as he cried out in pain and anguish, the pain paralyzing him. What cruel gods had thought of pain!? His vision was now clouded with darkness on one side. He saw men fighting, making their way to his lord, while pain consumed him. It became the centre of every thought and in his mind he cursed gods, kings and men, perhaps in a way to cope with the pain, until he felt himself weakening. He found himself spitting blood out on the ground with every passing second. The vision of his left-eye, his working eye, was diminishing as time passed. He fought vigorously against it, but as he weakened, he was eventually forced to admit defeat. He had hoped for more than this, his final bitter thought. He had dreamt of it. Darkness overtook him.
‘’Elis! Elis! Wake up, you bum!’’ a low voice said, yelling angrily. He tried to ignore the damn voice as he was comfortably in his tent, but suddenly he felt a kick in his stomach and he growled in pain, before he opened his eyes. He slowly stood up, stumbling a bit around and almost losing his balance. Gods, he felt like shit, honestly, he thought to himself as he turned to the man that had kicked him to wake him, a rather tall and muscled man. ‘’My name is not Elis, you fool. Get out.’’ He replied, his voice cold and commanding, a tone he had practiced for. And now he could pull it off perfectly, he thought with a grin on his face as the man quickly scurried off, suddenly cowering. Hmpf. He walked, now having regained his balance a bit, to the bowl, which stood on a table along with some food, and dipped his hands in the water that was contained by it. He washed his face slowly and as he lowered his hands he stared into the water. He was glad to see that there wasn’t an arrow sticking through his eye. Gods, that dream had been horrendous and terrifying, he thought to himself. It had been a nightmare, a painful one at that, somehow. A cold thought crawled up his spine; what if it was prophetic? No, dreams were not prophetic, were they? He quickly reassured himself as he grabbed a piece of bread from the table and walked over to the rack on the other side. No dreams were prophetic, he thought as he grabbed the chainmail from the rack and wiggled his arms into it. It had seemed life-like, though, he realized as he grabbed his lance from the rack, too, as well as his sword and helmet. It had… nonetheless, it was a dream, he thought, cutting himself off. He was still here, right? And such a thing as happened in the dream was ridiculous. That was so, and somewhat reassured he left his tent, only to be greeted by an all-too-familiar face.
‘’Nearchos.’’ he spoke, nodding as he put his helmet on. It was a bronze one, designed to fit perfectly to the head, The front of his face was somewhat unprotected, though a bronze piece of metal protected his nose. Nearchos, meanwhile, followed him and had started speaking, but admittedly, he hadn’t really listened to what the man had said.
‘’… and the battle is going to be today, at noon.’’ Nearchos told him, finally finishing. At noon? Had it been noon in his dream? No, it had been.. dusk, he could remember that, at least. Dusk. ‘’Very well.. how many?’’
‘’Twenty-thousand or so. The king will crush them with ease.’’ Nearchos told him, his voice cold and impersonal as usual, though somewhat confident. It’s what he thought what professionalism was. Well, that or he was completely dead on the inside, he thought to himself. He surely hoped for the former.
‘’And how late is it now?’’
‘’Morning, sir. We march now.’’
‘’Well, let us get to our horses, then.’’ he said in a calm voice, a tone that would not betray how he truly felt.
A few moments later he found himself on his trusted steed. He quickly rubbed its manes, his men looking at him with frowns. They didn’t understand, he thought to himself as he turned his horse to face them all. Men similiarly armoured as him, armoured in chainmail, with lance in the hand and sword sheathed, along with stallions, perhaps the best. He gazed at them all. Nearchos, Illios, Askador, Azkaed, Dorean, Zamalso. The list of names didn’t go further than that and he turned to face every one of them, looking into their eyes to see if they were afraid. They all were, somewhat, and that was a good thing. Fear kept people alive. Inspecting for fear wasn’t the only reason he looked at each of them individually, strong, armoured men on great stallions – men you would not suspect of fear. He looked at them to memorize their faces. He didn’t want to forget, after all. At dusk these men might be dead, he thought to himself, a bitter realization he had tried to forget many times, but he had never succeeded. And so he always gazed at his men, memorizing their faces. He forgot them all eventually and then, then they were truly dead for him. Strangely, as he looked upon his men, they were somewhat different. More perfect? He couldn’t exactly describe it, but anyway, perhaps remembering them was his way of trying to keep them alive, even though it only in memory. Even though he had failed in his duties as commander to protect them. Even though. He had seen enough and pushed one foot in the flank of the horse, turning it around.
‘’Come, we’ve wasted enough time. We need to carry on.’’ he spoke before he pressed both his feet into the flanks of the horse and rode away, followed. The camp had already been emptied for the most part. Most soldiers were marching already and the camp was like a ghost town, except for the occasional camp whore walking through. A few men were posted at the outskirts to guard over the tents and such, but they were such a meager force he doubted they actually could protect it if something happened. He rode on, abandoning the camp and riding past the columns of soldiers, pikemen and swordsmen, marching through the small path which they were forced to take, in perfect order. They were in a wood, after all. He looked around – great trees cast a great shadow upon them, making it so that almost no sun really came through the leafs of the tree. These were ancient trees, one could feel it, smell it, see it. How old were they? Hundreds of years, perhaps? Thousands? One could suspect so, since these were thick and tall trees, thicker than any tree he had ever seen before. It was, unnerving, almost. Truly, he had not wished to be here, but alas, he had been obligated by his liege to be here, and so he had come here, in a foreign land, surrounded by foreign trees and foreign people. This was not their land, after all, and they had come here only due to his liege’s quest of conquest. He rode on, closely followed by his soldiers, trying to reach the head of the column, as he had been ordered to.
The cool wind started blowing hard and he felt it stroke his hair, even underneath his helmet. Strange. Leafs danced on the wind, guided by the wind, as if it was the dance partner. They danced and they danced, strangely, and more leafs joined the dance. It was.. quite beautiful, really. For a moment he forgot where he was, for a moment he just stared at the leafs with a smile on his face. And then, the cries came and the crashing of the spears, the same sound he had heard in his dream, came oncemore upon him and separated him from his trance, alas. And as his serenity, his tranquility, his peace, was gone, he looked around and saw what caused it. Hordes of men were descending from the trees, from the dense forest, each armoured and armed. Steel plates protected their bodies, decorated by symbols of beasts and battles, quite nicely, too. However, besides the chest and stomach, not much else was protected and they only wore mail on the places they did protect from stabs and blows. Despite the armour, he saw them attacking with a fairly great speed. Light armour, though well protecting, a secret these people had had for quite a long time. Their helmets, o, were perhaps even more decorated, though ugly in shape, twisted, leaving a lot of space open, truly, for these people did not, strangely, care much for helmets. Time seemed to slow as they came closer, until he saw leafs, without movement, in the air, and all was frozen. He looked around. Panic spread over the faces of his men. Nearchos seemed calm enough, though he was a master in hiding his true feelings, in making masks for himself. Illios and Askador were looking around with shock, Azkaed merely stared at him, Dorean was reaching for his lance, and Zamalso was still looking at the trees, a dreamer who did not know that it was about to become a nightmare. And himself? He felt fear. He felt panic, but.. he felt somewhat at peace, strangely, despite all that he might lose the coming seconds, hours, days. He thought of his silver-haired woman. Such a beautiful creature, and now he was here, alas, separated from her embrace, her warm body. Such was war, alas. The gods were twisted for the creation of such a terror, such a horror.
And then time seemed to unfroze. All the actions he had seen, frozen, were now suddenly happening in seconds and he stared startled as all panicked and turned to face the charging warriors. Gods.. what was he supposed to do now? Fight for his life, yes, but.. what about his orders? Where would he need to go? The formations of soldiers before him broke up and officers screamed at each other, perhaps only seconds away from death. Cries filled the air. He had these cries before in his dream. A cold shiver crawled up his spine he quickly hardened himself, shielded himself from strange and illogical thoughts. The dream had merely been a dream, not anything else. And the cries of men and the clashing of weapons and armour deafened him for anything else. He saw Nearchos open his mouth and try to say something, but his words were drowned in a sea, no, an ocean of sound, of terrifying sounds. He had barely any time left to do anything, he realized, as the men out of the trees were charging at him and his group, and at the whole column. Officers were ignored and men counter-charging in random directions, furious at this cowardly ambush. Though scared, they did not have anywhere to go at the moment, for they trapped in a forest that not their domain, but the enemy’s. ‘’Charge! Attack! Drive them back!’’, these words, for a moment, could be heard before they were once more drowned. And now, he had to move. He could not speak, for his commands would not be heard by his men, so he quickly raised his lance and pushed his feet into the flank of the horse, riding off as thousands charged and the two armies began to clash, with the trees and the leafs as the only witnesses to the battle. Horsemen without speed were useless, a lesson he had learned early, so he rode on, with more and more speed, though he had nowhere really to go. And then, he saw a group of enemy warriors engage his fellow comrades, so he turned his horse and only barely avoided a spear to the throat, a spear that flew by with great speed and hit another soldier besides him, though he could not look upon him, for he was past the fallen soldier within a few seconds. He fastened the pace and then, the enemy coming closer and closer, he charged into them, his horse ramming an enemy warrior and his lance finding flesh to bury itself in, blood sprouting from the wound as if it were a fountain. He did not see where exactly he had hit, he only saw blood and enemies. Cries of the enemy group filled the air, and it was with that he knew his men had followed him. He looked right and saw Askador, he looked left and he saw Nearchos. Askador, though still scared, had entered somewhat of a blood frenzy, stabbing with his spear left and right, without aim, very concentrated. He followed his example and started stabbing the enemy soldiers, who were fighting others, now flanked by him and his horsemen. He felt his strength increase with every stab, his vision getting clearer as more men fell before his spear. Hyper concentration, somebody had called it once. Suddenly, a warrior charged at him, making a path through the dead bodies. The man had the same armour as most enemies, though he did not share their determination, seemingly, not their passion, perhaps only their fear. The man charged forward, a spear in his hand and buried it in the neck of his horse before he had a chance to hit the man. The horse cried out and fell to the ground, him going along with it, his rather heavy armour making the fall quite painful. Now he did not see the deaths of men, only the blue sky, and for a moment, serenity overtook him once more, until he saw the man trying to shove his spear into his face. Before the man had chance to do so, he stabbed the man with his lance in the stomach. The enemy soldier fell over towards him and only with great effort was he able to kick him away before he was buried by the body. He got up and looked at the mass of enemies before him, attacked by both his men and other soldiers on his side, but nonetheless, they kept standing. He dropped his lance and unsheathed his sword, hacking and stabbing into the flesh of the enemy, though greatly armoured, not without weak spots. He kept hacking into the enemy, but they did not flee, no, they fought back with great fury, holding him and his men while driving the other soldiers they were engaged with back. The whole column started to disintegrate, he realized, under the fury and strength of the enemy assault, men fighting back to back as they were driven into each other, eventually. How many of these soldiers were? Tens of thousands? So many? He did not know, exactly, but he kept hacking on. He had to stay alive.
And then a horn sounded. He knew the sound of it, booming and powerful, echoing throughout the part of the forests that were unoccupied. He froze for a moment, for that horn was no bringer of good news, no, it was the bringer of bad news. It was he signal for retreat, admitting defeat. But where could they run? He quickly climbed up the horse of Nearchos, his faithful companion, that had been with him all this time and took over control. He looked around and saw the column deintegrating, fleeing for their lives as the horn had signaled that all hope for victory was lost. Gaps had been created in the enemy formation and the men streamed through them, hacked down by axes, spears and swords and struck from afar by arrows and javelins. Truly, it was a massacre as the army routed into the woods and back to camp. All fled, none stayed to fight, for all knew the hopelessness of the battle. Terror was the best word for describing the atmosphere. And now, they all fled before the enemy, who they had previously thought to be savages. They ran and they ran. He raised his sword, instead of his lance, as he had dropped that and kicked with his flanks into the horse, quickly joining the crowd of fleeing soldiers, of dying soldiers, too. He looked around and saw Nearchos sitting on the same horse, and four others, still with horse, following him. Four? He slowed his pace to have a better look at them. Azkador, Azkaed, Illios and Dorean. Where was Zamalso? Where was he!? ‘’WHERE IS ZAMALSAN!?’’ he screamed out to Nearchos as he halted in the crowd of fleeing soldiers. His scream was not drowned in the orgy of sound, but nobody responded. Nearchos shook his head and the others didn’t say anything, or do anything, besides staring at him, their faces covered with blood and wounds. Blood and wounds. This.. gods. Zamalsan. He still remembered his face from in the morning. Clean, well-shaven, along with a pointy nose. Zamalsan.. damn. He cursed the trees and the forest, the gods and the heavens, the enemy and their leaders, in words vulgar beyond words, blasphemous and desecrating, in great rage and fury, unmatched. Why? Why!? He would not flee with these cowards, he would avenge the man, he would sacrifice a dozen, a hundred, in revenge. He had his horse turn around and in great anger he charged once more into the crowd of enemy warriors. He slashed at them and swung his sword, and he killed many, many more than he had before. His men followed him, fearful of receiving the same fate their comrade had, but nonetheless not paralysed by that fear of death, of oblivion. They charged.. and cut their way through the mass of enemy soldiers. Personally, he just kept driving through the crowd, a frenzy, a lust for blood taking him over, along with his soldiers. He was, perhaps, at that moment the greatest warrior among all, as he was unstoppable and despite being outnumbered, the enemy fled before him. And then, he was once more along with his men, having cut his way through the enemy.
In the distance, he saw a banner, flying high and proud, covered by blood. A stag was upon it, a black stag on a golden field. It was the king’s banner. In the distance he also saw another mass of enemy warriors, surrounding the banner. The king was always with that banner. He.. he was trapped by the mass of barbarian warriors, most of them merely staring at the banner, gawking.
Gods. He.. he had been here before. He had.. been in this situation before. He froze, his bloodfrenzy ending, his passion cooling, a cold shiver crawling up his spine at the assessment of the situation, at the memory of that dream he had had. Gods. The dream had been no mere dream, it had been prophetic. And now he was here, once more upon the same path as he had been before, a path that would lead to death and oblivion, for sure. He had to avenge his comrade. His king was in danger, and he had been sworn to serve him. He knew, however, what was down that path. Death, only.. he did not want to die. He wanted to see his silver-haired woman again, make love to her a thousand more times with the passion of the gods and watch the years pass by, perhaps watch children grow up.. He was not old, he still had many years to live, many more years to enjoy life, see the world, many more years to be. He had everything to lose, but nothing to gain. But.. he was sworn to his king, to his lord and liege. He would reap no glory as he had thought in the dream, gain no riches. He would only do his duty. And he would do his duty with pride, where all other men had failed. His resolve hardened, steeled, all doubt was banished out of his mind and he lead his men once more forward, once more. ‘’For King and Country!’’ he cried out again as he spurred his horse forward, charging with great speed and only a few companions. And once more he felt the wind softly stroke his skin and play with his hair. The skin of his horse was soft, too, he noticed for the first time as his legs rested against its flanks. He smelt the woods, truly, perhaps for the first time. It was as if he actually felt the world for the first time, in these small moments, ironically. And the enemy came closer and closer, and the second before the clashing of spears and shields would begin, the hacking of swords into the flesh of the enemy, the world disappeared. Darkness overtook him once more, but he was able to drive the darkness away by opening his eyes.
And there he was. Wounded, woken up from his dream, which he thought to have been reality, and now in what he had thought to be a dream in his dream. He had relived it all. But.. it had too real to be a dream. Too.. real. It had been reality in it’s own way. Had he been offered a second chance by those above? The immense pain almost made it impossible to think, as he laid there, dying, his vision getting blurrier with the second. Gods. He had given up a second chance for almost the same reasons as before. He was bleeding out. He cursed all that existed, in a few seconds, before he finally accepted his fate. He shouldn’t have charged into the crowd of enemies. But, as darkness overtook him once more, for the third time, he could see in his last moments a man with a crown mount a horse and ride away. And with a smile on his face, the fire of life within him was extinguished.