And 50th post (from the rather downer start of this blog)! Huzzah.
III
LEON
THE BATTLE WAS QUICK AND
BLOODY.
At the high time of Mare’s
prosperity and the Emperor's reign, Leon remembered from his studies, the
legions of Men of the Plains frequently quarreled with barbarians, and their
campaigns most often led them to assault the strongholds and hillforts of the
hairy people of the mountains.
Now, that story was
written very differently.
A horde of soldiers from
Newlane were closing in to Westervell's camp, which were taken aback, still
gripped in shock by their supposed ally's treachery. The arrows from the
watchtowers, hastily fired, seemed to serve no effect whatsoever on the
oncoming massed charge; the thick enemy lines trampled upon the fell bodies of
their downed comrades.
The enemy torches seem
to grow brighter as they came closer, illuminating the night sky behind the log
walls. Leon saw the tension mount in the camp, mixed with the ever present
panic as the enemy drew nearer. He saw that the usually organized and
disciplined legions of Westervell gradually fall into disarray; cohorts bumped
into each other as the cramped camp provided little room to move, and the short
time to prepare saw that the knights were not fully equipped in their armor, as
most of them were unwillingly taken from their dinner and recreation time in
their leather vests, or even wool and cotton tunics; some bare-chested and
groggy from their early nap.
There was still hope,
however. Leon felt it. He saw in the eyes of his father the King and uncle the
General, both had their armor on, the fiery determination and absolute calm in
the face of battle. He also saw the knights in mismatched armor, all of them
still proudly carrying their fearsome weapons, all of them trained, and the
gods know, they know how to kill in the name of the West.
However, Leon was
feeling helpless.
He was being tended in
front of the king's tent, the blood-drenched cut being cleaned and stitched by
a healer. His eyes watered, wincing at the amount of pain, but no, as the heir
to Westervell he must be strong, for the sake of his people.
With a last pull of the
string, the nurse cut it. She then covered the wound with a soothing salve made
from the herbs of the Scorched Desert, the sickly sweet smell in his nose.
Finally it was covered with a cotton band, and the arm was tied in a sling. The
nurse finished with "don't move your arm too much, my Prince," bowed,
and scurried away to tend to another.
Leon pulled a fresh
cotton tunic over his bare chest to replace the ruined leather vest, and then
his squire came with his armor.
Just then, the north
walls burst on fire. The south was also engulfed soon after. The army of
Newlane had thrown their torches, and it easily set fire to the timber. Soon,
the wall will collapse, and nothing will stop the enemy from pouring in.
Seeing that, in a sudden
wave of boldness in the face of imminent danger, Leon said to the squire,
"No—they are near and we haven't the time. Please, give me my leather
vest."
The squire objected,
"Sir, even a dragon’s claw slit right through the leather—!"
"No time to waste,
that was an order! Iron takes too long to wear. Best you arm yourself as
well." A dragon’s claw could also have sliced tempered steel like a knife
piercing tender meat.
The squire nodded and
quickly ran inside the tent, and seconds later he carried a black tinted vest
outside.
Right before Leon
finished buckling up the last strap, the embers of the walls collapsed on
itself. Behind the smoke and fire, the traitors charged, crying "For
Newlane!"
Leon drew his longsword
and joined to stand side-by-side with his father and uncle at the center. King
Arvin noticed the article that Leon wore, but gave no remark, given the
condition. In the meantime, Anto Longsword yelled as the first Newlanders
pushed into the first shield wall of Westervell on both sides. "They are
not allies," he cried, "but traitors, no higher than slaves! We shall
teach them, how the West fight! Men: form shield wall!"
A rousing cheer came
from the knights of Westervell, and
shields clanked together to form an impenetrable wall of metal, bristling with
spear and the tips of swords. However, their initial
blow of surprise already took its toll, for their morale was falling. In a
flash of steel against steel, spurts of gore, and yells of pain, the Western
resistance stands. The enemy moved
ever closer, trampling their dead, while the shield wall became dented, and the
chinks became more apparent as the battle became hotter. Still, the high ground of the camp made it sure for the enemy to
advance.
Indeed, it was hot, as
fire raged the trampled tents and wooden towers. The air was full of choking
grey smoke, and thus, through the layer of smoke, the enemy inched, ever
closer, to the camp center where the Royal family took their stand, the wake of
bodies and burning tents behind them.
“Stand! Stand, men! Hold
your ground!” yelled King Arvin as he hacked a warrior that managed to breach
the line. It was quite difficult to do so, although the camp gates made perfect
bottlenecks. However, the massed charge, the surprise… none helped the condition
of First Legion. Though large and powerful it was, when the situation developed
even worse, when the enemy mobilized their cavalry, none from Westervell could
have dealt with it, as their horses were locked behind in the stables.
Similarly, when the enemy archers rained fire and steel from above,
Westervell’s were pinned inside, with little room to move as they are—and now…
Leon heard the
terrifying screech of a beast somewhere beyond the walls, but it became even
more deafening each heartbeat, even drowning the rattle of armor and clink of
steel and yells of pain all around him; it became closer and closer.
Then he heard a great
rush of wind, and all of a sudden dozen heads of dragons flashed from the
walls, flying above them.
Their camp had been a
death trap—or more likely a great furnace.
The dragons let loose an
inferno of dragonfire as they flew quickly by, the flames yellow and white,
melting the suits of armor of the proud men of Legion I, and boiling the man
under the suit, those around him unable to scream for help. Some Newlander
soldiers also got caught in the fiery field, however most survived.
The first Newlane
warrior broke through the main street, now emptied of living Westervell
legionnaires, and charged away, deflecting the strokes from the King’s Pledge,
most still miraculously standing in the middle of the fray. He went right
through; running and broadly swinging his broadsword at the King, until his
eyes were removed by a perfect slash from Anto Longsword’s signature weapon,
the tempered steel blade colored red, gleaming in the moonlight.
“Hold tight,” whispered
King Arvin to Leon, and together with Anto they formed a defensive ring, the
three of them standing back-to-back, their swords ready to strike. Leon saw
that his father had brandished his sword, the fearsome red-tinted crystal
blade, the Scorch, that have been passed from generation to generation in the
house West. The blade shone from the inside a blood red, as if it was on fire,
as it was made of Fire crystals that can sear off limbs upon contact, harvested
from the volcanoes to the south and forged by the sorcerer-blacksmiths of the
Crystal Brothers such that it will burn anything; the swordmasters that live
across the Land, doing justice with their crystal swords.
What they waited for
inevitably came, as then even the King’s Pledges were forced to retreat, when
the cohorts and auxiliaries, even the hunters, were all but defeated; but proud
they were, and they did not surrender, as they fought to the very end. The men
were fiercely disciplined even in the face of defeat and death, as Mare’s
Legionaries once was and maybe even moreso, Leon remembered, a hundred thousand
of them once squared off with thrice their numbers of Westervell, Newlane, and
Hart, two and a half thousand years ago, in the olden days, at the time Emperor
Marius established himself as Emperor over the Plains.
The survivors huddled
close together, retreating to the stables and stockpiles, but even then they
found their path cut off by Newlander sellswords. Leon couldn’t help but to
notice that this must have been how everybody else, the ten thousand strong
knights of Westervell, had died. Brave they may be, but even brave men will
yield once their limit is pushed.
Never corner an enemy, Anto Longsword
had told him as they passed the great oak gates of River’s Bend nigh a month
ago, as the enemy will fight to their
last drop of blood. Otherwise they can run away when they soil their breeches.
Cornered, they were now, among hundreds of raised swords and spears. So much
for omens from the gods. The gods have
sent a dragon only to kill it.
A man, clad in a
night-blue cloak over a silver armor suddenly appeared from between the enemy
masses. He lifted the visor off his great helm, showing dark brown eyes, their
expressions unreadable. The man drew his sword, and uttered in cold blood, “By
the order of Gallio of House Gerald, the First of His Name, Lord on Valley’s
Edge and Emperor of The Empire of the Plains, you shall be executed for defying
the commands of His Grace.”
All the moment their
executioner talked, King Arvin and General Anto had together formed a plan in
silence, and the moment he raised his sword to land a blow on Anto, the King slashed
Scorch quite precisely, slashing the knight’s sword arm clear off its socket
with a sickening hiss of burned flesh, the metal of the armor red hot and
melting where it met the Fire crystal, and the heavy broadsword clanking uselessly
as it hit the ground. At the same time, The man convulsed in pain, dropped to
his knees and for a moment Leon could see the grave face behind, before he
needed to take a stab at one oncoming Newlander knight.
The rest of the fight
was the same rush, as the three hacked and slashed their way through the enemy
lines behind them, retreating to the stables while the last of the King’s
Pledge covered their escape route. Behind them, among the mess of fighting
soldiers, came the gruff and pain-stricken voice of the enemy commander, the
one that very nearly executed the will of the proclaimed Emperor, “Kill them! Kill them all, by the will of your Emperor!”
Leon never thought his
first battle would be a disaster. The forces of Westervell were beaten; they were killed, routed, or rounded up as prisoners. All around him, the
treacherous traitors and backstabbers from Newlane seemed overwhelming. Still,
there was hope: if his father could be saved, Westervell could possibly hope to
repel the invaders. That shine of light fueled his well-trained blows with the
sword, unencumbered by his clumsy and sweltering iron armor. For the first time
in his life, Leon felt the thrill of battle, palming his gladius with his one
good hand, the muscles rippling with every heave he put into each swing. He
thrust and slashed it at the enemy warriors; slashing the neck of an
approaching soldier, ducked the attack of a knight and jabbed the blade behind
the shoulder, and tore a leg off an archer. He did not even feel the pain of
his wound—almost. In the end, the sword gleamed with the red of countless
enemies, but it made no matter, as the enemy were a tidal wave in front of the
measly defense.
And then Leon heard it
again—the shriek of a dragon, ever closer.
But how come? The camp
is now full of Newlanders, so if it torches the camp…
Not a dozen flew past,
but only one dragon came with the same gust of wind; it was larger than most;
black scales gleaming in the flames.
One dragon, even a big
one, did not do much to light the whole army afire, but it did its good job of
cutting a burning swath through the center of the enemy, and made the perfect
distraction for their move.
Step by step they fought
to the stables, as many of the Newlanders were taken to scanning the skies,
their officers yelling all manners of curses to the sky, their captives
seemingly forgotten.
Leon was known to be
among the best young swordsman in the castle. He had sparred with the captain
of the guard at River’s Bend, and managed to stand his ground for the man to
call the little fight a draw. Years of exercise moved his muscles, slashing up,
stabbing down, parrying here and there.
He was trained by the
best of the best: the King himself, and the legendary Longsword. Their words
were fresh in his head as when he first started when he was half his age now: Slash up! Stab down! Parry here! Parry
there!
The group retreated,
feet by feet, to where they can finally pick up their horses and gallop out of
the forsaken camp. By then, Leon had not noticed during the rush of the battle,
but by now he was properly winded and his hair a sopping mat on his brow. Finally,
finally, after what seemed like hours
of clashing with the enemy, came to the stable doors, and fortunately, they
found their horses still tied, and have not been loosened or slain, and fresh,
unused in battle, though some were whinnying and neighing in fear. As luckily
and true to his namesake, Leon’s horse were calm and waiting for his master.
They gathered their horses, immediately climbed on them, and set off through
the tiny back gate, the only place where the red-and-green banner still flew,
behind it, the wooden walls all ablaze, and the screech of the mountain wyvern
loomed above.
-o-
Run they did, and for
hours through the night they did not stop even for a drink nor a meal. There
were twelve of them left, twelve where they had been past ten thousand a mere
six hours ago. Leon managed to survive untouched thanks to his gracious
swordplay, and his father and uncle escaped along with five Pledges, two
mace-wielding knights, and one good longbowman.
The hours passed by as
they trotted their horses through the rough rocky fields and walked them back
through the mountain pass after circling the taken camp. They know there were
scouts and spies behind them, but they have made a good lead on them and they
travelled light, but they dared not light a lantern and the path will be more
winding as they ascended the mountainside.
No doubt the
Newlanders will party with pork and wine tomorrow of this victory, whatever
their cost, thought Leon as they returned to walk
the stone paths, While we will be eating insects and drinking muddy
water by this time one week later. He tried to
shake that off.
But one thing he could
not remove from his mind is the dragon. Could it be, it was sent by the gods to
defend them? Could it be?
Once
again, they have returned to the windy canyons of the mountain pass, the night
seemingly growing darker and darker and the wind howling even more eerily. Now,
the cliff was on their left and the fall to the right as they are retracing the
steps franticly. Their horses are all in one line, one
flank almost pressed to the craggy cliff, fearing the wind might blow them all.
Finally,
the Pledge that rode in the front of the line turned and yelled, “There’s the
cave we passed this morning, sir.”
Anto Longsword replied, “We will stay there for the
night. We are growing tired, and—” He glanced nervously at King Arvin, who was
slumped on his horse, eyes closed. “And the King will need rest.”
Leon again marched Lucky closer to his father. He saw his hand, grasping at the side of his armor, on the chink just
below the leather fastener, soaked in blood, where a blade managed to graze
unprotected flesh. "Father?" he whispered softly. He can't die now.
He will not.
The King grunted, and made little movement until they parked their
horses inside the cave. It seemed to get colder and colder as the moon rise,
and it was near freezing when they finally went inside the cave, when the moon
was at her height, pale white rays spilling into the cave. They lowered King
Arvin together and laid him beside a giant boulder.
“Tend the King while I
make the fire, Endar,” said Anto Longsword to the archer. “From what I’ve
heard, you’re a pretty good healer.”
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the archer. He grabbed his bag
from his horse’s saddle and produced a salve from it, and kneeled beside King
Arvin.
“Now, the rest of you,” said the General to the others,
“Clean the dry blood off your swords and sleep with your armor on.” He turned
to Leon, and walked across, the metal sole of his boots echoing a metal rasp.
The wind that was howling ever harder, and even two paces from Leon he must
increase his voice. “My young prince. It has been a tiring day for you.”
Leon said back, “That was not what I first thought about
battle.” Again, the scene of the dead dragon flashed in the back of his eyes, when
he closed his eyes for a blink. He shook it off. His uncle was right; his knees
were wobbling and his shoulder throbbed once more.
“Yes. Do take a rest. Leave your sword here, I will clean
it.”
With droopy eyes, Leon placed his sword on a rock. He
then asked, "How will Father be?"
The usually optimist
Anto Longsword looked as worried, if not even more, than he was. Somehow, his
sea green eyes looked more sunken than usual. "He'll be fine. I—I
promise."
The note in his uncle's words, the catch in the word, became apparent
to Leon that he was also trying to convince himself. Leon sat down beside a
boulder, where the ground was smooth and cool and sandy. He tried to close his
eyes, but he could not.
"Look," said Anto as he crouched beside him, "I'm
worried. You're worried as well, but we need to stay strong for—," he drew
a sharp breath, "for the Kingdom."
Ignoring his drowsiness, Leon snapped back, "I'm fifteen!"
Looking at the others, he sunk back when he noticed that every pair of eyes
were studying him.
"Your father took the throne when he was seventeen." Anto
glanced at the King, who, thanks to Endar, managed to let go of his pain and is
now snoring loudly. “You will be the one all of us will choose to save. Without
you, Westervell will turn into unrest and… let us hope the gods are good if
that happens.”
"I'm not ready, Uncle. Who will listen to a boy? Besides, we are
stuck in Newlane lands while the news back home may be that we are dead."
Anto chuckled. "The time will come when the elder lends their ears
to a boy. And I have seen a dragon lending his fires of a boy." He placed
a big hand on Leon's shoulder. "Look, the people back to the west still
have hope. We still have hope. Now sleep, that is a command." He rose,
taking Leon's gladius with him, and started to issue more commands to the surviving
soldiers.
Most of which he could not hear, because of the winds and because in no
time his chin dipped and he was fast asleep, his uncle’s words were magical and
charming in its own way, such that the great leader he was.
Finished on 24 July, 2015.
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