Tale of Four

Being pushed around, Jeremy struggled to find his footing as men ran past him, rushing down the steps, a few occasionally cursing at him to move and join the charge before continuing. With victory in sight, any previous drop in morale vanished, with many men now wishing to be the first to join the carnage below, in a chance to kill a notable desert warrior or the commander and win themselves glory. Jeremey took rapid breaths, ending with a deep snort, and followed behind, his small body getting lost in the sea.

Running down, he looked out at the courtyard. The fort had been all but lost, and desert warriors split into three groups. Those trapped in the skirmishes across the courtyard desperately fought, throwing their lives away, refusing to surrender, believing it worse than death against the people who butchered their homes. Next, a stable shield wall formed of those who retreated in time, made up mainly of older men, held the line as some retreated into the small stone building in the centre of the fort to make a last stand and take attention away from the final group. Finally, the group holding the majority of the defenders charged for the untouched gate, avoiding and blocking arrow fire as their commander ordered the fort abandoned.

It was strange to Jeremy as he ran down the steps. The majority of those being forced to abandon the fort didn’t look relieved and thankful, but ashamed at having lost and retreating. There was fury in their eyes and actions, wishing to carry on the hopeless fight, but knowing that it was better to leave instead. Shaking his head, he held his shield up to cover himself from the arrow fire from the small stone building, where the desert warriors took shelter, and charged for the shield wall.

The back gate opened, and through it a small battle between cavalry raged on: the valley cavalry trying to outmanoeuvre the desert riders and attack the fleeing soldiers, whilst the desert riders desperately chased, blocking any path of attack, knowing their role was now solely defensive.

Jeremey looked ahead at the shield wall and watched a man fall before him, a sword poking through his chest, and froze up at the sight of his falling body, but quickly moved, afraid of being trampled by his own people. Clashing against the wall, he had no room to move, unable to step back, unable to step forward without a person dying on either side. Face to face with the desert warrior, he saw his face clearly. A cloth mask covered most of his face; it was covered in blood and sand, but it wasn’t his sole focus. Those bloodshot eyes peered deep into him, staring past who he was or how old he was. There was no hesitation in anything they did, no sympathy or fear. Only burning hatred and insanity of a man prepared to die.

Jeremy lifted his shield on instinct to block the blow, falling backwards from the strike, his gaze never leaving the man before him. With all his strength, he pushed the strike back, digging his feet into whatever he was stepping on. Unable to take his eyes away from the man, he did the next best thing and closed them, stabbing forward through the gap in the wall, his sword hitting its target. Putting more strength into the attack, he heard every sound of the attack over the battle raging on.

The cracking of metal. The tearing of flesh. The gurgle of blood when the man groaned. He could feel it all. The slimness of the attack, the difference between metal, fat, muscle and organs. It all happened in a second, and opening his eyes, he pulled his blade out, stepping back, unable to breathe properly, unable to cry or make a sound. A man pulled him back and took his place, mistaking his terror for tiredness and swung his axe down as he did, splitting the man’s skull before being pierced by a sword. Another quickly took his place, throwing the body backwards to make room. Jeremy stepped to the side and avoided it, as a war cry echoed throughout the valley forces.

A group of horses rode in, horns blaring, at the head Louis, his wide grin visible under his helmet, as the valley lords dove out of the way to avoid the charge, the horns barely enough of a warning for them. Like an eruption, the horses collided with the wall, the desert warriors having no time to prepare and being quickly trampled. From behind, with the last of the fleeing forces gone, having escaped the massacre, the valley cavalry stopped their pestering and charged through the open gate that couldn’t be closed in time, slamming into the back of the desert forces.

In the centre, where the stone building stood, valley forces found an opening and made a mad dash for it. Some charged through the door once it was broken down, as others scaled it like they did the walls previously. Jeremey looked down at himself, covered in blood and grime, and threw up underneath his helmet, having to pull it off so he didn’t choke on it. As the battle slowly came to an end, the war cries and songs rang out over the battlefield.

Jeremy stumbled back, tripping on a body, helped to his feet by a passing soilder who no longer had to be as ferocious as before. Looking down at Jeremy, even as his face was covered in blood, dirt, and vomit, he respectfully nodded, seeing his age, and helped him back.

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"FUCK!" Oliver cried out as a doctor tended to his chest, every minor touch of his rib hurting.

"You must calm down, Ser. The treatment needs stillness." Oliver stared a dagger into the doctor, wondering how he could tell him to be calm. Part of him nearly reached for his knife to plunge it into the man, rage blinding him, but with a deep breath, he calmed himself down and ripped off his empty herb pouch, stuffing it between his teeth to bite down on, the taste of leather overshadowing blood.

Around him, the other injured were treated, some being given the bare minimum, knowing they wouldn’t survive their wounds, whilst others complained about minor injuries that would heal on their own. Looking out at the courtyard, the valley soldiers turned to ravens, scavenging what they could from the dead bodies, stealing boots, weapons and armour from the fallen, to either use themselves or keep as spares.

"You look terrible, Oliver." A recognisable voice called out, and turning, he saw Henry holding a small pouch of wine, limping over using his sword as a crutch. Like him, he was covered in various things, filthy, yet his bright smile flashed out beneath, playfully mocking the state Oliver was in.

Pointing to the pouch in his mouth to say he couldn’t speak, Henry laughed and shrugged, taking a seat next to him, looking down at his ribs. "Such a baby. That will heal on its own. Here." Pulling the pouch out of his mouth, he stuffed his own wine pouch in and tilted it down to let Oliver drink.

The wine had a nice effect, calming him even more. Although it hurt when he swallowed, the doctor’s medicine finally began to have some effect, numbing him.

"Thanks," Oliver said with laboured breaths, getting a wave of the hand from Henry, who looked out at the aftermath of the siege.

"Where’s your brat?" Oliver’s eyes widened, and before he could jump up in panic, having forgotten that Jeremy had joined him, Henry placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"You’re not moving. I don’t want a bone to pierce your lung." Nodding to the doctor, he clicked his tongue at Henry for nearly making Oliver jump up. He chuckled in reply and looked away. "See, even he’s annoyed by your sudden movement." Tapping his shoulder, he nodded, "I’ll find the brat. Luckily, he’s small. Most men probably missed him in battle."

Getting up, Henry limped away, his eyes filled with worry that he hid from Oliver, and looked around. In the distance, he saw Clifford, crying as a doctor poured wine into the wound on his arm before sewing it up. Shaking his head, he carried on and searched, eventually going to the group of men who had finished scavenging and were enjoying their found riches, being out of place with how they laughed. In the group, nestled between two large warriors who cheered and patted Jeremy on the back, he saw the young boy blankly staring ahead, shaking at every pat, covered in blood and dirt, unable to talk.

"Lads." Henry smiled at the men, giving them nods, the group raising their drinks towards him, "I need the small one. His mentor is worried."

"Balls of steel, the kid has, even if he vomited on himself." One of the men laughed, pushing Jeremy forward. "Even I didn’t join a battle like this so young." Henry politely smiled and grabbed Jeremy’s shoulder, turning him around and leading him away.

They said nothing, Henry unsure what to, and Jeremy not wishing to. Only when the young boy saw Oliver did he break out of his trance and run over, in a worried panic, seeing his injured teacher.

"Ser." Jumping over, he stopped himself at the last moment from crashing into Oliver.

Oliver sighed in relief and patted Jeremy’s head, faintly smiling, happy he was fine. "You did well." His voice was slow, each word a struggle to say.

"Ser..." Jeremy’s voice trailed. If he could, he would have cried. Oliver saw it and played with his hair before flicking his forehead.

"You lived. That’s all that matters. I warned you about this. Having regrets?" Even if it hurt, he had to speak. Jeremy nodded, making Oliver sigh and groan in pain with it. "I can’t take you away anymore, Jeremy. This is it now. I don’t know what to tell or do to help you. All I can say is it gets easier with time."

Jeremy’s fists curled as he lowered his. His lip shook, but with a nod, he stared at his bloodied hands.

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