"Forward advance!"
With their commander's order, a force of some five thousand knights, warriors, mages, and footmen begin a slow steady march across the field towards the opposing army on the other side. Amongst the ranks of the Alliance force, comprised mostly of humans, walked doughty dwarven riflemen and keen-eyed elven archers.
Atop a near-by hill, Daughen, High Commander of the region, watched while his officers gave the army the order to march. From his high vantage point, he could see both sides of the field. As he looked upon the enemy, he couldn't escape the cold shudder that ran down his spine. Despite his twenty five years as a knight and ten as the High Commander, countless battles and achievements, he couldn't look upon what they faced this day without a sense of fear.
Squinting his eyes, Daughen looked into their ranks gathered at the edge of Duskwood; trying to spot the thing he knew would be leading them. After a moment of searching, he found what he'd been looking for. It sat upon a mare black as the night, its hooves and mane made of fire, its eyes red as the sun. The Dread Lord looked across the field at the Alliance force marching towards his own army and, raising a black-armored arm, brought it down, signaling the undead force to attack.
With unholy cries and ear-piercing howls, the mass of rotting corpses and tormented souls, seeming to bring darkness with them, began to drift towards the Alliance army. As if to match the wails of torment from the undead and perhaps block their ghastly sound, the Alliance force, led by the deep gravel-sounding voices of the dwarves, began an ancient war chant.
Within moments, the two sides clashed. War chants were replaced by battle cries and screams of pain as the ferocity of the undead took the Alliance forces by surprise. Knights, warriors, and footmen hacked and cut into the front lines while elven archers, dwarven riflemen, and human mages decimated the rear ranks of the undead mass.
Still perched above the battle on the hill, the High Commander watched the battle, pleased that the Alliance was slowly advancing on the undead and winning the struggle. As he continued to scan the lines, he noticed the leader of the undead again. To his surprise, the Dread Lord seemed to be looking directly at him. Slightly taken aback, Daughen watched in even more amazement as the Dread Lord appeared to nod his head at him and point to another spot in the field.
Looking to where the dark leader pointed, the High Commander's eyes widened. "Messenger," he shrieked, "where's the damned messenger?!"
A young man approached him, "Here, my Lord."
"Take word to the commander below, additional undead forces spotted two miles to the North East! Tell him to route our reserves towards their reinforcements immediately! Go!" he commanded. With a nod, the messenger ran off and left the High Commander and his aides to watch the battle below.
In grim silence, Daughen watched the battle. He watched as his messenger found the commander, watched as the commander ordered two thousand reserves to march towards the advancing enemy reinforcements, watched as both forces over a period of an hour were destroyed almost to a man. Watched as, despite the loss of nearly all of his forces, the Dread Lord raised his arm in victory and gave a dark laugh, charging off into the forest of Duskwood.
With a sigh, the High Commander ordered a second messenger back to their camp to retrieve a hundred soldiers for body recovery and burial detail. Exalted about their victory, but also saddened by their loss, Daughen ordered not to be disturbed for the rest of the day.
*****
"I think this one is alive!" cried a soldier, one of the men assigned to burial detail. "He's breathing, not hurt very badly, either, just knocked out. Give me a hand."
Assisting the soldier, four other men moved the rotting body of an undead creature off the unconscious knight and attempted to revive him. An older man removed the knight's helm and slapped his face, "Son, you there? Come on, wake up, this isn't the time for a nap."
Groaning in pain, the knight opened his eyes and, for a moment, appeared utterly terrified. Recognizing men from his own camp, he calmed and exhaled deeply, slowing closing and reopening his eyes. "What happened?" he asked.
"You tell us. The battle is over, and so far you're only the fourth person we've found alive in this mess," replied one of the men.
The knight choked. "Four?" he repeated in disbelief. "Only four men, aside from me, have survived?"
"Well, we don't know about any more than that, since we're still searching the field. Rest assured there won't be many more. You're a brave one you are, to have survived, a real hero," croaked another of the men. "We need to bring you back to camp and get you patched up," he said after a moment.
Closing his eyes again and emitting a deep sigh, the Knight nodded his assent and they carried him to the wagon filled with the other wounded. As he waited for the searchers to return and take him to camp, he looked around the wagon at the other survivors. One, an elf, leaning against the side of the wagon breathing shallowly, had a bandage wrapped around his head and torso, both soaked in blood. Another, a dwarf, was missing a hand and had been rendered unconscious by the field clerics to reduce the pain. The third and fourth, both human, seemed to have faired the best. One only had a broken arm, to the looks of it, and another suffered from a large gash across his face. Both of them looked at the knight and nodded their heads. Nodding back, the knight closed his eyes and sank into a fevered sleep.
*****
Darkness. He stood there, sword drawn, watching it flow towards him. Rooted to the ground in fear, all he could do was watch the grisly faces of the undead get closer and closer. Terrified, in an instant he forgot every bit of his training as a knight. Years of focus and discipline escaped his mind as he swung his sword violently around him in a frenzied manner. He heard cries around him, but whether they were man or undead he didn't know.
As the fury passed, he gained a sliver of reason back and stopped swinging. Turning, he looked around him. He stood in a pool of blood, pieces of undead ghouls and zombies, long-dead knights and mages were scattered around him, his comrades bodies mixed in with the undead.
Panting in exasperation, he turned in time block a strike that would've smashed his skull. Snarling in fury, the undead knight swung its rusted mace at the man with mindless determination. Deflecting another strike, the human knight thrust at the undead creature with his sword, striking it in the chest. The sword, being blessed by clerics, was like fire to the undead knight. It screamed and hurled itself further onto the blade, lashing out in a craze at the human who'd caused it so much pain.
Narrowly dodging one strike, the knight was unable to avoid the second, and as he fell to the ground, the dying creature still on his sword, all he could think about the fear he'd experienced, and the dishonor he'd brought to himself. As he slipped into blackness, he hoped the creature would finish him off.
*****
"Do you have a name?" a gentle voice called to him. "Wake up, Sir Knight, I asked you a question," the voice commanded.
Waking again was like a nightmare, more so since in his sleep he'd dreamt of the battle, of his cowardice, a reminder that even in rest he wouldn't be able to escape his shame. Opening his eyes, he noticed his was inside the healer's tent on a cot. The other wounded, now at a count of eight or so, were there too. He looked for the source of the voice and found it, a pretty young woman, apparently a cleric's assistant, who was dabbing his forehead with a wet cloth. "Your name?" she asked again, patiently.
"Venrick," the knight responded.
"Well, Venrick," the girl said, "you're fortunate to be alive. I'd say a little closer and this blow would have split your head open. Master Runsef said that if you felt well enough to walk, that you could leave at your leisure.
"Thank you," he said. Sitting up, he winced in pain as his head swam and vision blurred for a moment.
"Be careful! Take care not to raise yourself up so fast or over exert yourself, or you'll be back here again in no time," scolded the girl.
Nodding his thanks, the knight stood, albeit more slowly this time, and walked out of the tent. As he parted the tent flap, a small group of people began to cheer and clap. Puzzled, he kept on walking, intent on finding his own area of the camp and his own tent. Again, as before, images of the battle came to his mind. He stopped for a moment and leaned up against some crates. Mentally exhausted, despite the rest he'd received, he stood there for a moment, his eyes downcast, his heart heavy with shame. He could have told them, told everyone about his cowardice in the face of an enemy, about how he'd lost all reason, but once again, he was afraid. What could he do? He should have told everyone that asked how he survived, tell them that he survived because he'd been scared, but he didn't. Once again, he was afraid, and he cursed himself for it. Either way he went, he would dishonor himself further. Tell everyone, or keep his secret. Before he could continue with his thoughts, someone interrupted him.
"You there!" cried the man. "Are you one of the survivors? Because you've been through hell, boy," he exclaimed.
"Yes," mumbled Venrick. "I am."
Then the man, patting Venrick on the back, uttered the very words that he'd hoped that he would never hear. "Well my boy," piped the man, "everyone's been talking about it. You're a real hero!"
|
