Well I am a tall and handsome chap,
I stole her heart as quick as that,
Married though we were,
In six months yonder,
Then not long after came the call,
To fight for country, coin, and all.
Wife was fearing for my life,
Said I'd die before my time,
She begged me not to go,
Yet I said look love,
I'm sorry love,
I've got to go to war
I swear I'll live love,
I won't give in love,
But I have to go to war
It's where my mates are,
It's where the fights are,
And for my country
I've got to go to war.
The song was met with middling applause. Conrad thought it deserved more, the lad singing wasn't bad at all, and at the very least he deserved a standing ovation for his help in passing the time. All they'd had was songs to break the boredom of endless marches. Accompanied by the sound of thousands of marching footsteps, the songs were given a beat to go along with, and Conrad even joined in a few of them. Only the ones he liked. Still, so long as they didn't get too gratuitous with either sex or violence, Conrad could enjoy a good old marching song, and the Eighth had plenty of them, though they were quickly becoming exhausted. There's only so many times you can belt out a ballad for a love far away or a rousing cheer for glory in battle.
In the six days since they'd set out, songs were the only things that unified this now divided regiment. Most of the lads marching next to each other had never met before, much less fought with one another. Pieces of other regiments, men with no place left to go littered the Eighth now. It was like a new unit, with none of the freshness but all of the inefficiency. Already, Conrad felt that this march was doomed. They'd been given no Gunner support and barely any cavalry. He was glad they were little more than a glorified patrol. Were this force try to siege a fort or fight on the field, they would be roundly, decisively beaten, even with the Old Badger at the front.
Johan Rynd swigged on a suspicious, non-regulatory flask as Conrad looked up at him. The commander was as drunk as a fly in a bottle of wine. He'd hardly given any speeches, and was swaying in his saddle even at the late hour of midday.
Rynd's face soured as he caught Conrad staring at him, booze trickling from the half-black, half-white beard that had allegedly inspired Biter to name him Badger.
Conrad didn't stop staring. He wanted to see what Rynd would do next, whatever it was, it was bound to make the day more interesting.
With a loud, pitiful sigh, Rynd sealed his flask before fastening it to his belt.
Brilliant. Somehow, Conrad had managed to not only worsen the march for the Old Badger, he'd also ruined his own day, making himself look like a right arsehole. None had seen the exchange, but they didn't need to. Even as he knew they hadn't seen, Conrad couldn't help but feel the eyes of the Eighth on him. Hours later, they settled down for the night, and surrounded by his fellow Zweihanders, Conrad felt even more watched, even more distanced from the men around him.
They didn't want him here. It was through no fault of theirs, or his. They simply didn't know him.
That was because you never cared to know them, Conrad told himself. So really we know who is at fault.
"Alright lads," Conrad said, standing up, feeling slightly more drunk than he expected. He'd been nursing a mug for over an hour. "Think I'll be off to bed."
"Eh?" said an ugly, bald fella Conrad had taken to calling 'Biter the Second' in his head. "C'mon mate, you've barely said a word. Night's only just fallen."
"It fell three hours ago."
"Right, well still, you could stick around. Sing some songs, have a drink."
"Sorry, I want to be on my best tomorrow."
"Ooh," jibed another man with a scar that ran from his forehead to his chin. "I think I've figured it out. Why you stick around those two pals of yours."
"Oh," Conrad said. "Why's that?"
"Well, apart from the fact you're all sucking each other off, you think you're better than all of us, don't you? All three of you hate that you're the same as us, down here sticking our feet in the mud, and not up there with the knights and the fancy lot."
Conrad pinched the bridge of his nose. "I like the Eighth, I know that coming from nothing, this is likely as far as I get in the military."
"So what then," Biter Two said, standing. "It's personal, is it? Have we done something to offend?"
"No. Goodnight."
Conrad stepped out of the warmth of the fire, listening to the men behind him mumble their insults, their condemnations when they thought he was out of earshot. They could mutter as much as they wanted. Sooner or later, they'd be dead, and Conrad wouldn't care for them then as he didn't care for them now.
Before he could reach the safety of his tent, and find the sleep he wanted, Conrad heard stumbling footsteps behind him. Without seeing him, Conrad knew it was Rynd following behind. From the heavy breathing of an aged man and the smell of alcohol on his breath it could be no other.
"Commander," Conrad said politely as he wheeled round.
It appeared the Old Badger thought he was being stealthier than he was. At the sight of Conrad turning, he straightened his back and made desperate attempts to sort his ragged beard. Conrad looked at the messy ball of fuzz dangling from Rynd's chin, and wished he'd have been given the chance to grow a beard instead of the undeserving commander.
"Soldier," he said in his deep, gruff voice. It sounded as if he was constantly chewing on stones.
"May I ask why you were following me, sir?"
"No, you may not. I'm not even sure I know you, boy, but I see you stuck to that Biter like a spear in a boar."
"We are friends, yes."
"And that poncy boy, big lad."
"Arten, sir?"
"No, you're not him."
"I know I'm not sir."
Rynd huffed and shook his head. "You were ogling me before."
"Was I?" Conrad kept his hands behind his back, wringing his wrist with his palm.
"Aye, you were." Rynd sounded angrier, but Conrad very much doubted anything more than words would be thrown. Rynd had a reputation, and the Eighth had theirs.
"Why?" Rynd asked.
"I was looking around," Conrad said dryly. "Bored of my current company, as you can see by my swift exit. My eyes found you on the march today; a man in what appeared to be a similar situation."
"Haha," chuckled Rynd, pulling his flask from his hip once more. "I wasn't bored of my company, lad, I was sick of them. There's only so much you can hear of their boasting, their flaunting. Land, women, battle, they'll establish a pecking order over just about anything, those lot. Nobility, though there's nothing noble about them."
Rynd offered his flask to Conrad. Taking it from Rynd, Conrad could feel that the near emptiness of the thing. He peered inside to see that there was still some alcohol left. Taking a swig, Conrad nearly spat out whatever foul concoction was in the flask, his face scrunching up as if he'd just swallowed a lemon.
Rynd burst out in a red-faced, drunken guffaw. "Ho, you should see your face. Tis only a drink, lad, no need to cry about it."
Conrad wiped his eyes. "Here, take this piss back."
"Oh, don't tell me you're like that lot. Only drinking the finest wine made from the finest grapes of the Arch."
"Sir," Conrad said dryly. "Do you think I'm being paid enough for the finest anything?" He gestured down to his left boot, which had acquired a fresh hole just today.
Rynd giggled. It was the typical drunk giggle, uncontrollable, insufferable for anyone who wasn't equally intoxicated. Conrad would've left then were it not for Rynd being his superior.
"Ah, fuck," the old Badger said. "They don't pay any of us enough for that."
"If you're complaining about your wage sir, I'd gladly take that burden from you."
"Funny," Rynd took another swig. Surely there wasn't anything in there by now. "May I give you some advice, lad?"
"I think it would be impolite to refuse."
"Ha. You'd do well in the courts. Very polite, and you can dodge a question."
"Was that the advice, sir?"
"No. My advice is to throw all cares to the wind. If you've a good head on your shoulders, skill with the blade in your hands, use that for yourself and no others. Else you'll end up like me, giving your sweat, your blood, your best years to the same country that sends you to lead a death march into the Low Wood."
Rynd looked at the floor, the redness and joy in his face replaced by a deep, heavy sadness. His shoulders slumped, and he let out a long breath. He seemed less of an esteemed commander now, and as much the tired, defeated old man he was underneath the armour and medals. Conrad would've felt sorry for him, were it not for a few words that played on his mind.
"A death march sir?"
"Figure it out boy," Rynd said as he stumbled away. "Why else would we be sent out here? We're shambling corpses."
Johan Rynd, a decent – though not great – military mind, stepped back into the dark, occasionally lit by the occasional torch. He bumped into tents, into people, eventually tripping in the mud about fifty paces from Conrad. It was a sad, slow thing, his arms barely stopping his face from slapping straight into a puddle. Rynd lay there for a moment, collecting himself, muttering something inaudible to Conrad. Then, with a sudden motion he punched the ground. And again, and again, shouting obscenities and curses as men watched all around him. Were the rest of them not equally as drunk and unlikely to remember the event, it would've been career suicide.
They laughed, the men. Watching the man who would lead them, who had led them, through countless battles, lose himself in that moment. Conrad didn't feel like laughing. He waited for the Old Badger to pick himself up and storm off before returning to his own tent. None bothered him, a couple of men jeered, though they ended up with a punch from Rynd just as the ground did.
So this is what it's come to, Conrad thought as he slumped into his bedroll. Rynd's broken, the rest drunk.
A slow, creeping sunlight let him know another day was dawning. Perhaps it already had. This day, this particular day was one Conrad knew would come, but not one he expected quite so soon. It was the day he became fed up with the military. It wasn't the meagre pay that caused his disillusionment, nor the consistent travel. Without Biter and Arten, without anyone worth talking to, Conrad had decided there wasn't much point in sticking around in the Drevonish army.
What else was there though? Going back home wasn't an option. Not yet anyway. Give it a couple more years and father may have finally calmed down.
Could turn to mercenary work? No, there was a certain charisma needed for that, a charm Conrad had begun to pick up from time spent with Arten, but hadn't mastered enough for good pay.
Conrad shut his eyes as his options dwindled, resigning himself to military work for a few more years. Separated from Biter, Arten, it would be dull, monotonous killing. Still, that could be enjoyable. In a twisted sort of way.
The morning was dreary, the mood soured by hangovers and a sudden downpour of rain. It was heavy, drowning out most cheerful conversation, silencing the marching soldiers so that they could only listen to the drizzle. Conrad listened gladly, letting the rain wash over his face, keep him from sweating under his armour.
As the morning passed, and the rain with it, Rynd ordered a halt to the march. Echoed communication throughout the line let Conrad eventually know that they'd reached the Low Wood, and that the Old Badger was sending scouts down to check the safety of the path ahead. You could never be sure with the Wood. It was a massive, sunken swath of land, where mushrooms grew to be the size of oaks, spreading out noxious gases and spores that once inhaled, could turn a man to madness or just kill him. No people lived in the Low Wood, or if they did, none had cared to find them. Any creature that could survive in that foul place for more than a week would be as vicious and deadly as a beast could be. It was a shortcut into northern Vovequia, sure, but it wasn't one that seemed worth taking. The time to traverse it safely, the men you'd lose, would make the journey as costly as the regular roads. Besides, as Conrad had heard from Biter and the other older men in the army, any force that entered the Low Wood always came out changed.
Luckily enough for Conrad, Rynd wasn't feeling suicidal enough to lead the march through the Low Wood. Well, the march didn't really go anywhere after they'd halted, on account of the Vovequian ambush that was sprung all around them.
The arrows came as the rain of the morning had. Quick and hard they fell on the men around Conrad. A warm splash hit Conrad's face as a shaft weaved perfectly into a man's open mouth. He choked for moment before falling towards Conrad, knocking both men to the ground.
Horns blared; hooves thundered from all around. Men roared and screamed from all around as battle was joined. Battle, in fact, may be an exaggeration. Without Gunners, or sufficient cavalry to counter the Vovequian knights and longbowmen, the Eighth and their support would be cut apart within minutes. Lying under the weight of a dead man, Conrad pondered Rynd's words from the night before.
A death march indeed, he thought. Though not one I intend to die on.
Under the corpse, Conrad could've pretended to be dead himself, though that was risky. A man or horse could crush his skull with one misstep. Even if they didn't, following this massacre the Vovequians would be more than happy to poke their spears and swords into any man that didn't seem quite dead enough. They'd relish in this victory; so far as Conrad could remember, it would be their first of the war.
An arrow squelched into the back of the dead man atop Conrad. He felt it scratch against his breastplate. A sudden urge to move filled his belly.
Throwing the dead man from his chest and grabbing the sword he'd dropped, Conrad stood up again. In the moments he'd laid down, it appeared the battle had already devolved into a scramble for survival. From all sides except one the Vovequian cavalry was pressing the flanks of the Eighth. There didn't appear to be a Drevonish horse in sight, all had likely either been run down or fled in the face of a superior force.
Were it not the closest Conrad had ever come to an assured death, it would've been a splendorous sight. The banners, the colours, the efficiency in battle. No country in the world had mastered the art of cavalry quite like the Vovequians. It was almost a shame how quickly powder, cannons and guns had rendered them irrelevant.
Having devastated another portion of the small Drevonish force, the Vovequians cycled away from the melee, allowing their foot troops to engage while the cavalry built for another devastating charge.
Smart, Conrad thought as fought his way past a pikeman. Keep us fighting, while you get to swap out whenever you need a rest.
"Hold the line!" cried a Zweihander on Conrad's right. It appeared he was coalescing some form of resistance. Conrad had no interest in holding the line, but this was where the rest of Drevon's forces were pooling. Others were looking towards the steep path down into the Low Wood, but none were brave enough to risk it. Conrad glanced at the path, looking further to the fluorescent mushrooms that grew just high enough from the cavern to be level with the ground beneath his feet.
Not yet, Conrad thought. It's as much of a death sentence in there as it is out here.
He spun as another pikeman charged towards him, easily dodging the telegraphed blow. As Conrad turned, he slashed downwards with his blade, cutting the pikeman from shoulder to hip. He decapitated another Vovequian a moment later, sparing an unknown comrade from a sword in the back. Nothing could've spared the man from an arrow piercing his neck a moment later though.
Another arrow whizzed through the air. Conrad spotted it, raising the flat of his blade as a shield. He stopped the arrow from hitting his chest, but deflected it into his thigh instead. There was pain. Stabbing, burning pain. It was enough for Conrad to cry out, but not enough for him to stop. He carried on at a limp, moving as fast as he could along the edge between land and the Low Wood.
There was at least a few hundred feet between where Conrad stood and the forest floor below. Moving further from the path, only a sheer drop would allow Conrad entry into the woodland below. Glancing down was enough to make him forget the pain in his leg for a moment, only to fear the fall that awaited him were he to make one wrong step.
Another charge crashed into what was left of the Eighth. It looked like a thousand knights, with all the rage they'd gained from watching their country burn, decimated any hopes the Zweihanders had of holding on. As the cavalry carved through the front, the Vovequian foot flanked around the sides, pushing the Drevonish further towards the Wood. The Eighth routed en masse, broken in spirit but with nowhere to go. The knights circled them like wolves around a wounded deer, slashing mercilessly at whatever stood near their feet. Shrieks and howls pierced the air as the fine men of Drevon became little more than cattle for slaughter.
Conrad watched on helplessly, limping away from the chaos, hoping to escape in it.
His hopes were dashed as another arrow lodged into his shoulder blade, forcing him forwards, nearly falling down into the Low Wood.
A knight spotted the wounded, vulnerable Conrad and charged him with a mighty roar. He seemed proud, the knight, in his pursuit of a wounded foot soldier. By Conrad's eyes, he wasn't the most noble of opponent, but one that would certainly seem an easy kill.
Bracing at the charge of the knight, Conrad shifted his weight, so that his wounded leg could rest somewhat. The knight was thundering forwards.
Panting, blinking the sweat from his eyes, Conrad waited for the knight. Like a wall, he did not move. Seconds passed; the knight approached. His armour was gilded, with ornate roses and leaves adorning the shoulder plates. His horse wore a similar, garish design. Conrad had never liked gold. He found it pompous, too much of a statement, so it was with little regret that he would kill this man and his shiny horse.
A moment before the lance caved in his skull, Conrad lowered his blade and leapt to the side, air rushing past him. With great power, and little flourish, he carved his blade upwards. Both horse and rider were sent screaming into the abyss below, killed or doomed to die by the blow.
Though Conrad was impressed by his strike, there was no time to revel in the swing, the sheer brilliance of it. From behind, a swordsman cut into Conrad's back, followed by another aiming to stab at his belly. Conrad elbowed the first man, his steel guard shattering the swordsman's nose. Swiftly he dodged the stab and swung back wildly as the pain from his injuries threatened to overcome him.
The second swordsman eyed Conrad up, pacing around him with trained footwork. It appeared that unlike most, this man knew how to control his bloodlust in a battle. He'd seen Conrad fell a knight and another swordsman, and he could also see the Zweihander's wounds getting the better of him. This man knew his best course of action would be waiting.
"Come on then!" Conrad roared, throwing off his helmet and letting it fall into the Wood behind him. "What are you waiting for?"
Conrad didn't get his answer, nor did he get a final fight with the swordsman. Two arrows, almost simultaneously pierced his breastplate, sinking deep into his chest. With their combined, punching force they knocked the wind from Conrad, the sword from his hands and the ground from under his feet. Before he knew it, he was falling backwards, then plummeting downwards, plunging headfirst into a sea of fluorescent blues, greens, and purples.
He could conjure up no thoughts as he fell. No regrets, no curses at the Vovequians, there was a simple numbness in his mind. His head was empty, at peace as he tumbled down. His body felt nothing either. There was no pain as he crashed into a branch on his way down, no aches from the arrows still stuck into him.
The only thing Conrad could feel was an immense, overpowering coldness. It didn't last long though. Within a few seconds he hit the ground, then everything went suddenly and completely dark.