It took four days to get to where they were, but only two to return. The road was quiet the whole way through and their donkey lessened their load.

  It was at sunrise, when their shadows are tallest, that they reached the graves of their comrades. Flowers and weeds already covered most of the dirt upturned to bury them all.

  As they pass, each and every one of the survivors of that fierce battle thought to stop at the graves, but none dared face the dead. Not when they have nothing to say.

  By noon they have made it to Treblin Fort. Millers turned beggars ask them for alms, but the sellswords move on. They stop in a large square, where there is a large restless crowd around the gallows.

  On the wooden platform there is no convict, but the very bailiff who had hired the sellswords a week before. He raises his bailiff’s mace, an ornate chunk of iron meant to symbolise justice, but still very capable of cracking skulls, and speaks in a deep baritone which quickly silences the people as it resonates:

  “Silence! Silence you fools! Or I will have you put in the stocks! I have important news from your liege lord Count Treblin! He has conquered the Duchy of Iselbaum and is returning!”

  The crowds cheer at what they believe to be the end of the war. Mothers shed tears of joy at the thought of their returning sons and little children jump up and down with joy awaiting their triumphant brothers. Old men left behind as they were much past their prime feel no joy at this proclamation. They know already that those who left will not come back the same as they were.

  “Silence! I have not finished yet you scoundrels!” He coughs to regain his voice: “Ahem! Relatives of Duke Iselbaum, the Jelohovs, are raising an army for vengeance! The people of the county are to retreat into the fortress and await the arrival of Count Treblin and his army!”

  Gasps and hushed murmurs brew among the people. An old noseless man yells out in frustration: “I already fought your wars for forty years! I ain’t going into no fortress!”

  Another voice erupts, a middle aged woman: “Me neither! I am going north into the mountains! Come collect your taxes when the war is over!”

  Soon the restless crowd turns riotous. People hurl insults and spit at the bailiff, while others storm off to gather their belongings and flee before guards drag them into the fort to be cannon fodder, despite there being no cannons involved in the upcoming siege.

  “Calm yourselves! Ca-!”

  “AAAAAAAAH!”

  A scream interrupts the bailiff. The voices die down only for a split second, enough to hear the rumbling of dozens of horses rolling downhill with such speed and hatred that mother nature could not replicate with its most fearsome landslide nor with its quickest flood.

  From a sidestreet a pale horse is the first to find the panicking crowd. Streaks of red stain its pristine white skin. Meeting the wall of flesh that is the people of this county, the horses whinnies and rears up onto its hindlegs. On its back sits a man wielding a thin saber, slacked in blood.

  “Hyah!” The rider spurs the beast on and it tramples the children while he cuts down those tall enough for him to reach with his saber.

  “Fucking shit!” Rabbit exclaims, unhelpfully staring at the horrifying scene in front of him.

  “Anna! Get the kid and ride the nag to the fortress!” Viper shouts as he cuts the donkey free from the sled.

  “But! What about you?” She tries to protest, but Thorvald picks her up from behind and launches her onto the donkey.

  “We’ll meet you there! Go!” Eagle Eye commands and hands her the kid.

  Jacob had been silent since his rescue, but as Eagle Eye handed him off to Anna his mouth hung open just slightly. In the chaos and the noise, the old man could not hear the kid beg him: “Don’t die.”

  As soon as Anna grabs hold of Jacob with one hand and the reins with the other, Viper slaps the donkey’s ass before his girlfriend can try to get him to run off with her rather than fight with his comrades.

  The donkey neighs and rears back, then forward and kicks Saul in the side as it runs like the wind between the people and off to the distant fortress. The mage flies from the force of the hoof and hits the ground with a thud.

  More horsemen ride like the tide into the crowd. The bailiff is struck by an arrow and his orders drown in the blood filling his throat. The few men garrisoning this place are in disarray. Only the sellswords are fighting for their lives, trying desperately to hold back the attack.

  Landyn has a terrible migraine. He can hear every shout, every limp thud against the cobbled street, every slice and every hoof. In anger he removes his helmet and smashed it against the ground so hard that it almost bounces high enough to hit him in the forehead. With eyes that are not his own he raises his head and shouts a voice that everyone could hear as though he were screaming directly into their ears:

  “HOLDFAST! KILL THESE HORSEBACK COWARDS! ARM YOURSELVES AND BLOCK THEIR CHARGE!”

  The panicked peasants and guardsmen stop their stampede almost instantly. Guardsmen remove their swords from their scabbards and hand them to others while they wield their polearms. The blacksmith hands his hammers to the village folk, the farmers grab pitchforks and the woodcutters grab their axes. Even the Knight Flayers distribute their extra weapons and armor to the people. The chaos turns to order.

  Together with the Knight Flayers and with Landyn himself leading the charge, they start cutting through the advancing horsemen, pushing them out of the wide square and into narrow streets where they hold them back more easily and cut them down as they come.

  It only takes a few heads being held up on pitchforks for the enemy commanders to see and the order to retreat is sounded.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  “RUN FOR THE FORTRESS!” Landyn commands. He takes two more steps and collapses. His eyes become his own again and his voice cracks awkwardly as he moans when he hits the ground.

  “Fuck! Landyn’s down!” Kale shouts.

  Thorvald quickly lifts Landyn up and starts carrying him over his back as he orders: “I’m command now! Kale, Viper, grab Saul! Rabbit, Eagle Eye, hold off anyone trying to come after us! Let’s go!”

  Most of the others have had time to start running and are far ahead of the Knight Flayers. It is only a few hundred meters running up the earthen ramp to the gates, but the cavalry has realised they are retreating and exposed to attacks from the rear. Whoever was left straggling behind the sellswords is unceremoniously cut down as the horses thunder up the ramp.

  Rabbit shoots a bolt into an approaching horse, but the majestic beast keeps faithfully obeying its master’s commands for a while, until a javelin thrown by Eagle Eye strikes it down. The horse and rider stumble off the ramp. The rider’s screams are cut short when the horse crushes him.

  After the fourth horseman has fallen, Eagle Eye has run out of javelins and Rabbit’s arms are too sore to reload the crossbow quickly enough.

  The old man takes a long look at his friends running ahead. He feels duty and brotherhood towards those men, but he can’t quite put his finger on why. He knows what he must do.

  “You run ahead! I’ll buy you time!”

  He stops in his tracks and turns his back to his friends. He plants his spear in the ground to rest his arms for a little and let’s his shield hang limply on the long leather strap around his shoulder.

  “Run you fool!” Rabbit shouts.

  Just as he is about to stop and try to go back for Eagle Eye, Landyn grabs him by the collar and drags him away.

  “See you soon, old man! We’ll drink for you every week!” Landyn shouts with ragged breath. He is tired. His men are tired. They can’t fight in this state. The best they could hope for now is that Eagle Eye can buy them enough time to make it to the gate.

  A gentle smile contorts the old man’s wrinkled and scarred face. A chuckle escapes him as he thinks: ‘Ha! At least I can count on Landyn to find my corpse after I die. He found me once already.’

  He does not get to bask in heroics for long. The first horseman comes thundering uphill, even his steed seems to hunger for battle. It’s hooves eat the earth away under its feet and its lungs are but giant bellows fanning flames of war. The curved sabre of the rider rises high into the sky, ready to drink its fill of blood.

  When finally they meet, they see that the old man hungered more for war than they ever did.

  He does not flinch away from the giant beast galloping at him, but instead lunges forward just as the sword comes swinging down. His spear stabs the guts of the rider, the sword clangs sickeningly against the steel of the helmet and then wedges deep into the wood of his shield and for the coup de grace he plants his foot in the ground and pushes his shoulder into the horse’s belly. The beast loses ballance and tumbles off the side of the earthen ramp, screaming along with it’s master all the way down. As a last act of hatred, the horseman holds tightly onto the spear in his gut, disarming the mercenary.

  The second horseman approaches. Just as hateful, just as forged by war. But the sellsword is weaker than the first time. His old bones ache for he had not asked this much of them in a long time. He barely closes his fist around the hilt of his sword and he winces in pain as he draws it.

  He roars to steel himself as he swings his sword. Although the incline still allows him to reach the rider with his sword, he knows well that his swing may be stopped by the chainmail or his wrist may break if he tries to stab him, so instead he cuts across the throat of the charging steed.

  The cavalryman’s saber deflects off the shield, yet he continues on since he is sure that his comrades riding behind him will handle the old man. He spurs the horse on, but it slows down. In frustration he starts kicking it harder and harder and his spurs draw blood, but the beast won’t budge. Suddenly, it falls on its side.

  His leg is crushed to bits and as the pain hits him his arms spasm and throw the sword away from him. As he screams and moans, the sellsword’s foot plants itself on his helmet and pulls it up only slightly. Before the horseman can draw his dagger, the sword stabs through the chainmail covering his neck and he shares his horse’s fate.

  Eagle Eye still has no time to rest as the next horseman is only moments away. He darts behind the corpse of the horse which blocks the whole ramp and he barely has time to get his bearings when the sun is eclipsed by the magnificent wrathful mass of muscle of another horseman.

  The saber cuts deep into his arm. The sharp blade makes its way past chainmail, gambeson and muscle, but glances off the bone. Yet still, the horse is dead before it hits the ground. The mercenary’s sword has stabbed it’s heart. The rider goes flying over the luscious mane of the beast and breaks his neck against the dirt.

  “HAAAA! YOU CAN’T GET PAST ME! I WAS KILLING MEN GREATER THAN YOU WHILE YOUR GRANDMOTHER WAS STILL YOUNG ENOUGH TO WHORE HERSELF OFF TO ME!”

  While the riders grow red with anger, the horse leading the charge stops abruptly and rears back on two legs. Ther carnage before it and the shrieking voice of the sellsword were enough to frighten it so much that it falls on its back, crushing its master underneath.

  —

  Thorvald is the first to make it to the gate: “Hold the door!”

  A scared young guardsman flusters a bit but still keeps pushing the gate closed.

  Just as they are about to lock the gate by resting a thick log across it, Thorvald bursts through like a ram, knocking the guards on their asses.

  As the men rush to safety, Landyn takes one last look at his old friend and he sees him standing tall and proud in the midst of corpses. But he also sees and army of horsemen still giving chase. There is no choice to be made, only one thing can be done.

  “Close the gate!”

  —

  Eagle Eye heaves and tries to wipe blood off his brow, but his hand won’t listen. The bicep has been cut cleanly in two. Experienced in receiving injuries, he quickly assesses that he can still close his fist and extend his elbow, the only thing that has become impossible being the closing of said elbow.

  So, he grabs a sabre off the ground and raises his arm preparing to swing down in a simple and predictable arc.

  “COME AT MEEEEE!” His voice breaks and turns into a gurgle as vocal chords strain.

  The soldiers don’t need much encouragement, they ache for revenge.

  The Knight Flayers and the people of Treblin Fort who owe him their very lives watch the last moments of Eagle Eye’s heroic stand.

  The first horseman parries his attack, sending the blade flying out of the old man’s hand. The second horseman cuts deep between his ribs. And the third cuts across his neck.

  The old man falls and the army charges on. He has never relearned his past. He has never known anything but warfare as far as he is concerned. But he does not go down frowning. A peaceful smile plasters itself onto his face as he thinks of the people he saved.