A War With Only Battles (violence, gore, high emotions, death, Rated R)

Started by shengami, December 23, 2021, 12:29:26 AM

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shengami


A War With Only Battles
Scene 1: Pitched Battle, White
The shaft of the spear vibrated in his hand as he drove it through flesh into earth beneath. It went suddenly still as the denying hands of his victim... his opponent grasped his death firmly and stared denial up at him. He met those solid, brown orbs and their accusation. What else was there to do? He had slain the boy, ended a life only just starting, and he needed to own that. The form slowly relaxed into death and he jerked his spear back to him and snapped it so the crimson accusation flew from it. On instinct, he dropped low and brought his large, tear-shaped shield up in front of him. His spear arm cocked up and right ready to send death's tongue to lick out at yet another. There were none waiting though.

His eyes tracked to a final drop of blood falling from the bodkin spear point. They flicked then to the mix of red and white along the rim just below his eye height. He noted the small wedge cut directly into its center. His left foot shifted in some muck he cared not to inspect. He knew what he trod upon this day. He knew the costs paid. Too, he understood the potential price of their failure. Finally, he eyes rose to peer at the cliff beyond the field. There, standing flanked by a brute and a shadow stood the dark prince. Robed in black plate over black gambeson and adorned with a black cloak, his sword was still in its home. That man would not need to fight, struggle, bleed, or die until the last or great need summoned him. No sneer twisted his lip though; his head twisted slightly, searching briefly then returned. There were those that must hold themselves above the blood-stained mud. The red, snarling wolf adorning the man's tabard mocked him though. He shifted his shield to glance down over its rim briefly. A figure came suddenly from the swirling wall around him. It clashed against his shield. He struck at it, but it was already returned to the swirling chaos.

Looking up again, he saw the trio was missing. He felt his frown twist his features more than he felt any emotions tied to the sensation.

In the still island he inhabited amongst the sea of battle, he looked around to see more off-white splattered with red and the blazing golden comet than the detested bloody wolf on black. A rising, welling sensation rose up in his chest even as the borders of the storm once against collapsed upon this brief eye. A blurry, silver shape erupted form his right and he attacked it with the edge of his shield more from instinct than awareness. He turned to see a man, salt and pepper peeking from beneath leather cap, drawing back a spear. Instinct again. He stepped in close and struck the spear again. This time the enemy spear flew out wide even as his own licked in fast as a viper. He felt the blow in his shoulder before he saw the denial, resignation, then nothing in his opponent's eyes. He jerked hard and recoiled into a stance. He felt the new patch of warmth on his cheek slide down from a stinging line even as he pivoted, searching. Another challenge came in the form of an axe. It was high, looking to hook his shield. Half step back, catch the bit on the golden burst that protected him, roll it sideways, stab forward again. More nothing chased rage into his eyes, but he pivoted again. Another blur of white. He glanced. A familiar visage. A nod. He felt warmth, solidity at his back. Another attack coming from the spear side. Twisting would reveal his ally's back, so he rotated his wrist to parry with the shaft. The opponent was off line, but so was he. An eyeful of black gambeson, red snarling wolf upon chest armor, plates at the shins, gorget, and forearms. Recover. Faster. Jab. The armor-piercing point went wide. Shit! He felt his body twist to bring the shield into play. The next attack resounded hollowly from the surface. He jabbed again. He felt the failed kill more than knew it. The opponent was behind his shield. He lowered it to peer over the rim.

He had only a second to note the silver glint sliding over the top to react.


Scene 2: Pitched Battle, Black
The smallest hesitation existed as the skewered visage breathed its last. Had it been a word? A name? The visage below his blade slid behind the shield, the shield slumped to the ground, and by the time the face was revealed again it was blank. Whatever last moment had shone through, he didn't see it as he turned to survey. Everywhere he looked, gold on white swarmed over red and black. He felt the anger in his jaw, heard it grind. Another figure moved toward him; one that had just moments before been back-to-back with his last kill. Shield and spear at the ready, it advanced like an angry bull. He darted right. The assailant pivoted to bring his spear on line again. He tensed. The point lanced out on the perfect line. His knife, held claw style, met and pushed it away. A step in; a stumble back as the shield erupted toward him. Sidestep! The shield was retreating, so his sabre snuck past it and licked along the man's flank. Red poured out onto the padded leather. A stumble was a mistake. He rushed in and buried the dagger, now held tooth style, into the figure. Warmth flooded his hand. Light faded. He jumped back from the shield's instinct. A figure darted past. He sliced at thin air. A frown searched the battle as he noted the rare black on red now almost gone. White streaked past him. He lashed out again but pivoted to gaze up to the cliff.

Eyes widened. Cracked lips were wet by dry tongue even as he slammed his dagger home in its sheath. Sword limp, he stumbled toward the cliff. Soon, faster, he started to run. A horn blared. A run became a sprint. Around him, white slowly faded to brown. Here and there, words and weapons tried to reach him, but he moved too fast. A foot slid, slipped. His hand landed in muck. A push righted the run. Flee, let the horns lead you, flee. The blazing sound lit a fire in his ears once more. His heart raced, his mind grew fuzzy.

Suddenly, from his left, a massive figure moved. He rolled right and felt a wind rip along above him. He came up to his feet, tooth and claw in hand, and stared across at glory. White plate, crimson-gold comet, flaming hair. He snarled at the golden prince. "Villain!" The prince only shrugged and set his shoulders. The prince's massive blade steadied in front of him like the horn of a rhino. The warrior's eyes moved to feet clad in steel and stained with mud and blood. A whistling summoned his attention and he jumped back from the earth-parallel swing of the massive blade. A vision of his form bisected flashed across his eyes. Fear gripped his bladder. The figure growled at him. Warmth rushed down his legs. But the cause! The villain stands before me! The horn blared again; it called him to safety. He glanced at the horizon of the hill he now based. He then looked again at the villain. A small chance to end this war, to save the loss existed here. The fang of his sabre level with the ground summoned a snarl of satisfaction form the prince. The claw of his dagger hung near his waist. He took a step even as the prince brought his blade up again.

The world shook. With a wild yell, something burst from him. He stumbled and looked down at the bodkin tipped shaft growing from his chest. His claw fell to the mud. His fang licked feebly behind him. He looked up to see the monster step in, swing wide, then nothingness erupted.

shengami


A War With Only Battles
Scene 3: Ambush

The crunching of the sergeant coming back along the line brought his gaze back to the trail. There, upon the track, staring up at him was a lone badger. Its black and white barred face wiggled; he shifted uncomfortably under the accusatory gaze and broke the stare first. He saw a familiar face beside him grinning at him. A spear point was lifted slightly. He returned the gesture and felt his eyes drop to the teardrop shield bearing the golden comet. Slowly, he let his vision crawl away from his shield-brother to his own weapon. Smooth, unscarred wood reached for the branches above where a bodkin steel point awaited its first meal. He shifted as the uncomfortable thought rolled through him and felt the squeak of his armor. The weight of vambrace and greaves slowing his limbs, the heft of the cuirass kept his breathing shallow, and the lines of his nose guard narrowed his vision. He shifted again and looked out to where a jingling sound summoned his gaze.

A party was exiting the trees. At the fore rode exquisite beauty twinned. A man, tall and lean dressed in black from head to foot. Only a small red wolf’s head shone out against the umbral kit. Beside him, in opaline blue, rode a smaller figure. Her skirts spread over the palfrey like a blanket, she rode back straight and enamored gaze turned to the man. The youth felt a surge of pity for them. He tensed as they neared the center of the glade where an arch of branches stood with a wizened man in brown robes standing beneath. The youth recognized the mistletoe crown  and crooked staff of the old gods.

The couple arrived; the dark prince dismounted. A horn blew. The sound of angry hornets assaulted the senses and black barbs landed among the wedding party. Screams and yells erupted even as the second horn sounded. The youth flinched from the sounds and stumbled forward. By the time he broke the edge of the trees, another wave of angry hornets had passed overhead. Horses screamed, men cried, but a basso voice boomed summoning courage and defense. The youth admired the man in the red plate even as he broke into a run. He felt the presence of his shield-brother at his side. They charged.

The axe came down like a falling meteor and the youth just had time to raise his shield. He saw the axe sink into the rim then shudder free. He noted the perfect v-shaped wedge cut into his shield. His eyes went wide, fear surged into his breast. He shoved his spear forward; it flexed, skittered, hesitated, then moved forward again. If felt like digging his spoon into a midwinter pudding. Peeking over his shield, he saw an enemy slumped over the shaft, gripping it. Breathing heavily, he jerked. The spear did not come back. Behind the dying opponent, he saw the man in red coming. He jerked again, but the spear would not come. He released it and stepped back. A wave of white swept the man in red away. Suddenly aware he now stood without weapon, he stumbled to the dying warrior. Dying eyes stared accusation up at him, ”Cowards. You would deny him even this small happiness?” Wordlessly, he grabbed the shaft and twisted it as he snarled then jerked it free. Blood flooded up from the wound.

Turning, he saw a clear path opened into the heart of the dark formation. A black figure stood in front of blue. Glancing to his side, he saw two others in white just stepping back from the dying, gasping form of the man in red. Several more white clad soldiers lay dead around the man.. Nodding, they charged through the opening. The youth saw the dark prince dart forward wielding nothing more than a dagger. His shield-brother arrived first and swung his heavy shield at the man. The prince grabbed the clumsily thrust weapon, spun, and sent the soldier stumbling sideways. The second comrade forced the prince to duck beneath a sharp cut from a sword. The youth braced his shield and stepped in. Dissonant vibrations rocked through his shield into his arm as he slammed the prince to the ground. He raised his spear; the prince raised his hands.

A new horn split the air. The youth whirled to see figures emerge from the same trees he had. Massive animals with wide, many-pronged antlers pawed the dirt and acorn-faced warriors sat astride their backs in green. ”The Aelder!” The words hissed from him and he turned to see the prince beaming, hope filling his eyes. A shaky, vibrating feeling welled up inside the youth and he grit his teeth as he sent his spear to seek a heart.

A flash of blue, a blur of motion: he watched the red flower of death bloom on a sky blue field. Jerking back, he registered the form slumped against the prince. He saw that man’s pale face drain of what little color it possessed. The figure rolled into his cradling arms. A small, chestnut hand caressed his pallid cheek. Amethyst eyes turned to him, pierced his heart with their forgiveness, ”Forgive him, my love. He was taught only hate.”

He stumbled back and felt it swelling up inside him before the wail of grief broke free. The shield and spear dropped into the ruby dotted grass beside the shattered form of the priest. The youth dropped to his knees and grabbed at his helmet, dug for his own eyes. The forgiveness he had seen was searing, painful. Sobbing, he looked up to see the prince standing over him, a familiar spear pointed at his throat. He tilted his chin up. The dark man threw the weapon to the ground and leaned in, ”Your life in service to me as payment for the life you took from me.” The youth could only nod as the screams of his former brother rose behind him.

shengami


A War With Only Battles
Scene 3: The Siege


Day 1: The Archer


The youth was riding a warhorse and enrobed in white plate adorned with the golden comet. The archer sighted along his arrow and felt the feathers brush his cheek tenderly. He blinked smoke and the din of battle away. He felt the tension in his arm slacken as he registered how young the boy was. A nervous tongue darted out to lick his lips and his eyes flicked to where swords rose and fell in efficient butchery. His gaze flicked back to the boy who was snarling and his sword arm rising to send an arc of blood into amber sunlight. His own sapphire eyes followed the trail of vital rubies arcing through the morning mist. He wondered if that was the heart’s blood of one of his own friends. Would there be one less companion at the evening meal? A hiss of breath slowly leaked from him and the arrow slew. He still winced when the barb sprouted from the gap in the armor at his shoulder. A look of disbelief washed the boy’s features. He stared incomprehensibly at his limp sword arm. Soon after that, he slipped from the archer’s sight.

A tightness erupted in his breast and he freed another shaft from the thumping weight on his right leg. Grabbing the heavy chain next to him, he shimmied up it until he stood high above the fray near to the wall. From the vantage, he could see down into the melee. Life was being spent to open a path, to force a narrow line through a sea of white and gold to a lonely island of black. The floor of that trail was littered with black, white, and green. Standing lightly on the drawbridge chain, he drew his bow again and sighted on a white-clad warrior charging the dark island. Sighting carefully, he released again and the youth tumbled to the ground. He nodded with satisfaction as the warrior was dragged away by two companions while holding his knee. The twisted face of his scream was disquieting to his heart, but the man would live. That was more than he could say of dozens of his comrades. He sent a third shaft into a spearman’s shield arm then a fourth sprouted from a cavalryman's horse’s flank. This caused the creature to rear up and spill its burden.

”How fare’s the push?”

He looked down to an ebon-armored knight and blinked. Slowly, he shook his head, ”It succeeds but the cost is high.” The man nodded and then turned back to watch the lines of the troops battling desperately. The archer followed that gaze just in time to see the narrow green corridor contact the black island. Almost immediately, the furthest reach of that spear began to collapse back. The island moved along it like a freshly devoured meal along a snake’s body. The archer pursed his lips as he saw the flapping wolf’s head banner approaching. He scanned the small party greedily, noting a single figure in white among them, but could not spy the shorter, slighter form that had left this very castle two weeks prior. His form slumped as proof of the rumors was confirmed by his eyes. There, among the group, a bier was carried. Upon it rested a still form dressed in blue. More tears carved new runnels into the dirt on his cheeks.

More arrows flew. Necks, hearts, eyes were found. Curse flew along with each arrow at the barbarity of men.

Day 187: The Squire


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