Chapter 3 - Eye of the Hurricane
It feels strange to hold your great helm in your hands again. You run your hands over the smooth steel, the texture bringing back memories—
You sigh. I have a new war to fight.
A cross of metal runs down the front of the helm, open slits for vision on the horizontal bars. A symmetrical pattern of small holes to allow breathing covers the lower part of the helmet, beneath the horizontal bars of the cross.
The top is slightly domed, allowing most blows to glance off. Flat tops cause the force of any blows to be transferred directly to the neck, possibly causing instant death.
You set the helmet off to the side as you lift your coat of plates. It is a somewhat dated piece of equipment, starting to be phased out among the richer knights and nobles for their new and fancy plate armor. You, however, are not a rich knight or noble and must deal with what you have.
You've already put on your mail hauberk, another layer of armor which covers your entire torso, both of your arms, and down to your mid-thighs in steel mail. Beneath this hauberk, you wear a thin, softer gambeson to soften the blows from blunt impacts. Your legs are protected by plate greaves that stretch up to just below the knee so as not to hamper movement.
The weight of the armor fills you with a strange nostalgia.
You raise your arms up and slide the coat of plates onto you. With a final tug, it fits over your body, and you press your arms through the holes. Your coat of plates covers your entire torso with its drab gray fabric.
The fabric's appearance is deceiving. Solid steel plates are held in place by the cloth, providing excellent protection. The plates protect the chest, back, and the lower part of the sides, but the areas near the armpits are exposed.
Nothing you can do there.
Next, you wrap your belt around your waist and pull tight, securing it in place. Attached to your belt is your trusty bastard sword, still in its sheath. The sight reminds you of the dagger strapped to your left greave.
Much to your horror, you realize that you're ready.
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You search around the room, desperately looking for something to extend your preparations. Some excuse that lets you stay in the peace of your room for a little bit longer.
There is none.
You step back, hearing the jingle of shifting mail, and stare at your reflection in the mirror.
What stares back makes a pit form in your stomach. A man of tall height stands there, a look of grim realization on his face. He's fully dressed in armor with a sword on his belt. A warrior, through and through.
With some effort, you tear yourself away from your reflection. You take hold of your great helm, tuck it under your arm, and head for the door.
You step out into the ominously still hallway.
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The next step is the armory. You make your way through the hallways; they are silent and still, the tension of the approaching battle causing the whole world to hold its breath.
You enter the royal armory at the center of the palace. Pushing the great, creaking doors open, you're greeted by a nearly empty room. Most of the armor is gone. Much of the weaponry is, too.
It's all in use.
It's an incredibly bizarre feeling, to know that all the weapons you once saw piled up in storage are now being fielded.
As you step through the dimly lit armory, your eyes scan over the weapons and armor that remain. You find a solid-looking heater shield discarded on the floor. It's roughly the size of your torso, with a shape that resembles a triangle with rounded edges. It's unpainted, the bare wood below exposed, giving it a plain but functional look.
You kneel, set your helmet down, and test the shield's weight.
It'll do. You strap the shield to your left arm so that your left hand can still be used. For practice, you raise your arm up and down, getting used to the extra load. Then you wedge your helmet back into the crook of your arm.
With defense covered, you move on to offense. A bastard sword is no frontline weapon. You'll need a polearm, specifically a spear. As you search for one, you briefly wonder whether you could use a lance. You'll be on horseback, after all.
You find yourself a solid enough weapon, roughly five feet in length. It's definitely on the shorter end for spears, but it will be the easiest to wield with only one hand.
It has a good weight to it, not too light or too heavy, with a sharp enough steel point on the end.
You grip it toward the center as you head back out of the armory.
Into the stillness once again.
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You're standing in the doorway of the great palace. One foot inside, the other outside. As you stand on this crucial point, you…
There isn't a cloud in the sky, freeing the midday sun to bake the land. You wipe a hand across your brow, already feeling sweaty.
Fortunately, the stables aren't far from the palace. The building is pressed up against the citadel wall, and much to your relief, it's entirely unguarded.
You draw near, your spear resting against your shoulder. You move in front of the stalls, finding nearly every single one empty.
But yours is not.
You're lucky that when you so carelessly discarded your steed, it was actually brought to the stables and taken care of. You suspect Darin may have had a hand in that.
It's a humble beast, not as flashy as the great chargers of most knights, but a solid mount nonetheless. You approach, quickly wedging your helmet against your side, freeing your hand. You gently place your now-freed hand on the side of its neck, murmuring…
The horse perks up at your sudden approach, though you can't tell whether it's with affection or fear. You don't blame her for the latter. You pushed her to her very limits.
You gently crack open the stall door, allowing it to swing outwards. Your horse remains still as you brush past her, searching in the back of her stall for her saddle.
The saddle is hung up nicely in the back of the stall, near the food trough, which you also find to be nearly full. Again, you assume it to be Darin's doing.
You first discard your spear and helmet, then you take hold of the saddle, pulling it down.
The tree, or base, of the saddle is made of wood, padded with horsehair, ironically, with a leather cover. There's a pair of stirrups, an invention "borrowed" from the distant and rumored empires of the far east.
You place the saddle onto your mount and secure it. You find your horse's bridle next to where the saddle was mounted. You secure this on her head, and her left eye, facing you, stares at you almost judgingly.
As judgingly as a horse can stare, anyway.
You hook your helmet onto the side of the saddle, retrieve your spear, and lead your horse out of the stall by the reins.
Once clear, you place a foot in the stirrups and hoist yourself up. She bears the weight without any complaint. You pat her affectionately on the head with your free hand.
You expected maybe an affectionate nuzzle back against your hand, but instead get an indignant whinny. You raise an eyebrow at this, but realize that your horse can't even see your eyebrow, much less know the significance of the gesture.
You sigh.
"Let's go…"
You give the reins a light flick, and Aurora sets out at a trot. As you exit the citadel walls, the thought hits you.
I'm going back to war.
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You're one of the last few riders to join the group assembling. It's maybe fifteen-hundred strong, comprised of the rich and elite.
And you're going with them.
The sound of men finishing their preparations rings out from all directions. They talk with nervous excitement to one another as they mount their horses, prepare blades and spears, and check over their armor. Soon, they start forming into narrow columns, only ten or so riders wide.
You gently push through the crowd, making your way to the front of the column. There, you spot the forms of Belos and Vedran. They're adorned in the armor of royalty. The highest-quality plate, the newest innovation in armor technology, with visored helmets and a layer of mail beneath. You are definitely, one hundred percent not envious.
Belos is speaking intently with an armored-up Sir Obren, who's clutching a trumpet in his hands. After a few seconds of exchange, Obren nods and rides away.
Aurora seems to glance at the well-armored mounts around her with as much envy as a horse can muster. You can practically feel your vain bastard of a horse looking at your poor equipment with disdain.
You ride up into position next to Belos and Vedran without a word. Belos turns to you, Vedran following suit, and asks, "Arthur Hornraven? Why are you here?"
"I… didn't think you would be coming."
"Well, I did," you reply with the same flat tone.
"What difference does it make anyway?" Belos asks rhetorically.
Vedran speaks up, asking Belos, "What the hell is he doing here?"
Belos shrugs. "Doesn't matter. If he wants to fight, let him."
There's a pause, the unspoken question on both of your minds remaining answered.
Finally, you break the silence. You try one last time, one last desperate plea. "Belos. You need to call off the assault."
He clenches a fist, looking toward you with eyes filled with unbalanced rage. "No."
You sigh. "I'll see you on the battlefield."
Belos waves his hand dismissively and turns away. Vedran turns toward you, eyes full of mistrust and scorn. You reply with…
He breaks eye contact first, and you ride back into position.
The shrill blast of a trumpet causes your heart to lurch.
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Adrenaline. Adrenaline. Adrenaline. The rush and rush of controlled panic. The horses start moving.
Your heart is pounding in your chest.
It is a feeling of raw, condensed dread. It is a sinking pit of desperation and despair. Imagining the sally is different from actually being in the sally.
It's the sinking feeling one gets when they know from the bottom of their heart that they've done wrong. The sinking feeling of all possible scenarios playing through their head at the same time. The sinking feeling of looming consequences that hover like the ravens, just beyond your reach but within your sight.
Your arms almost feel weak. You feel a cold chill. You feel shaky, off balance. You feel a pressure in your chest. One that builds further and further as you exit the gates of Wrido.
You're once again in a war. Blood. Death.
It's all here again.
Memories try to flood you. They press in, trying to remind you of Alverton. Of the three grueling years in the jungles of Krorid.
But the sheer dread you feel keeps them at bay.
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The column stands upon the dried plains of Kanton. It begins to widen into great rows. You find yourself in the second row, almost in the front. Multiple more stretch on behind you.
Your position is on the far-left side.
Staring ahead, you can see the great armies of the rebellion. Belos defiantly unfurls the royal seal of Kanton, but his single banner cannot compare to the sea of rebel banners that surrounds the city.
Thousands of them stretch on across the plains in battle formation. From so far, you cannot make out the enemy's composition. Sun glints off armor. The world holds its breath.
The ravens fly above.
When mounted and armored, it wouldn't be difficult for a knight to fell nine or ten peasants. Their twelve thousand men, however unmounted and poorly armed, have such a massive numbers advantage that gear will not matter.
Your one-and-a-half thousand or so riders will not break this massive line in a single charge. Not by a long shot.
You know the only way to inflict any damage is through hit-and-run tactics. Charge, strike, flee, charge, strike, flee, and so on.
But Rade is crafty. Despite his simplistic formation, you already know something is amiss.
If only—
The trumpet sounds.
You balance your spear on your horse and grip the back of your hauberk with one hand. You flip the mail hood forward onto your head, the mail rising to protect your neck.
You grip your great helm with both hands and place it onto your head, watching as a large portion of your vision is turned to inky blackness. You take a deep breath and grip your weapon once again.
Aurora stirs beneath you. Your fist clenches the shaft of your polearm tightly. You raise your other arm, hefting the shield higher.
The trumpet sounds.
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The world is eclipsed by the sound of hoofbeats. All at once, the formation begins to move. It moves forward as one mass, horses gradually building up speed.
One thousand yards.
The enemy formation readies. You hear the distant sound of enemy trumpets, signaling for some unknown purpose. The flanks stir.
You pay particular attention to these flanks. As best you can in the heat of the charge, you place yourself into Rade's head. What would he do? You almost laugh. It's obvious.
Ambush. You raise your shield further. Death is coming.
The charge continues on.
Eight hundred yards.
You feel the heat of the sun bearing down on you. The hoofbeats make your ears ring. Sweat trickles down your back and soaks your hair.
The charge continues on.
Six hundred yards.
As the enemy grows closer, you can start to make out the individuals that stand before you in a great mass of bodies. A sea of soldiers. No, a sea of peasants. A sea of boys.
A sea of those who will die.
You yourself are partly surrounded by a sea of boys. The eager and calloused, the reluctant and the naive. Fathers, lovers, and brothers.
All doomed to die.
Four hundred yards.
One of your own trumpets sounds once again. Fix spears and couch lances. You ready your spear, angling down so that it's in line with the average man's head.
All around you, men lower their polearms into position. The row in front of you does, the row behind you does. You watch out of the corner of your eye as a lance from behind you lowers into position just on Aurora's right.
Two hundred yards.
A trumpet sounds from the enemy's line. The men in front drop down, raising their own polearms in a defensive stance.
But your eye is drawn to the motion behind them. The rear ranks shift, an entire group of people moving in the same motion…
Here it comes.
The air is torn by a few hundred dull cracks. The sound is distinct from the hoofbeats. You look upwards toward the sky and the rising sun.
And watch as a blanket of arrows rises into the sky.
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Despite not wielding command, the old instincts kick in. Your eyes follow the arc of the incoming arrows. You throw your shield up and above your head, bracing it against your saddle.
The Erisians are back. They're shooting at me. The Erisians are shooting at my men.
"Shields!" you cry. "Shields, boys, shields!" Your eyes frantically drift to those around you. Some of the riders have their shields readied. But too many do not. "Shields, damn it!" you cry again.
"The Erisians are onto us, boys! Shields! Sh—"
The arrows strike the charging line. A hundred thuds of metal on shield and a hundred clangs of metal striking armor ring out. Screams begin to pierce the air.
A young man two spaces to your right lets out a shrill cry. He reflexively drops his lance, letting it fall to the ground beside him. An arrow is lodged clean through his under-armored thigh. He leans to the left, gripping at the arrow.
It proves to be his demise. The young man slips forward off the saddle. He lets out another cry, this time of alarm, as he falls. His wounded leg is tied up in his stirrups. His body catches, still barely clinging to the horse by the tied stirrup.
His head is struck against the ground. He lets out another loud wail of pain. His warhorse, trained to never stop when charging, continues on. His head is trapped near the hooves. There's an awful sound of snapping bone.
The man's screams go silent.
There's no time to ponder further as another barrage of arrows bears down upon you. You feel the shock of the powerful blow resonate up your arm. An arrow embeds itself into your shield.
"The Erisians are upon us!" you shout out deliriously.
Another barrage of arrows. More men fall, arrows striking the vulnerable points of their armor. Bodies, dead or dying, are dropped from the saddle, only to be trampled into a gory mess.
Hell is upon you.
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Your eyes remain alert, scanning for danger, even as another volley smashes into your shield. You can still see Belos, defiantly charging forward, Vedran at his side. You still see boys, destined for death.
And you see the flanks of the enemy curling inwards. They're moving to trap your forces.
Erisian bastards, you think, mind still trapped in a mix of memories and instincts.
The column nears twenty yards out. You can see the enemy. They raise polearms in packed formations. Pikes and billhooks provide a constant threat.
The flanks are starting to encircle. And those who flank are archers.
You have no time to think. Only act.
Your eyes turn back toward the enemy line. You brace your polearm.
Time seems to slow as the first line crashes into the enemy.
Lance and spear strike into the footmen below, throwing mangled bodies back. Horses charge headlong into enemy spears, collapsing and trapping helpless riders beneath them.
Sounds of bones grinding and snapping fill the air. Screams pierce the fighting as men begin to fall in agony. Horse collides with man, sending limp bodies to the ground. Blade and spear collide with shields and armor, filling the air with the sounds of combat.
The knight in front of you smashes into the line, dropping a footman with his lance before charging on, trampling an enemy underfoot.
You follow behind him, charging into the newly opened breach. You see the terror in the eyes of the infantry as Aurora thunders into their line. A soldier stumbles beforemyou, narrowly dodging the rider on your right.
He puts himself directly into your kill zone. You rear your spear back, waiting a second for you to ride closer. He looks up, eyes wide with surprise and alarm. He cannot escape you.
Your spear shoots forth with the accuracy of a warrior as experienced as yourself. Combined with your horse's speed, it pierces clean through his unarmored throat. It overpenetrates, smashing through his spine as it extends through the other end of his neck, killing him instantly.
You wrench your spear free, nearly losing your grasp from the sudden shock. Blood and gore fly through the air and drip from your weapon.
You try not to think about the kill. You try desperately. But it still hits you.
I just killed again.
But there's no time to ponder. You turn just in time to watch the knight in front of you be dismounted. Peasant infantry swarm him like bees to a wasp.
He desperately turns from side to side, hacking away at the swarm with his blade, but there are too many. One infantrymen swings his billhook like an axe, catching into the mail on his back. He wrenches back, pulling the knight from his saddle.
His cry of horror can be heard over the white noise of the battle. They dive upon him, beating him with clubs and polearms. The sight is repeated all across the line.
You wheel your head around, vision obscured by your great helm, desperately looking for Belos's banner.
You cannot find it.
Before you can continue your search, pain explodes up your back, and you fall forward in your saddle. You turn around, only to find a halberd-wielding infantrymen rearing back for another attack.
Quickly, you turn and catch his blow with your shield, feeling the shock run up your arm. With gritted teeth, you discard your polearm, finding it to be useless in such close quarters.
You draw your blade and push your assailant back with a shove of your shield. He stumbles, recovers, and rushes forward for another strike. Again, you block the blow with your shield. You counterattack quickly, swinging your blade up around your head before leaning into the blow and striking for the man's unarmored throat.
With a splatter of blood, your blade slides through its target. The man stumbles back, hands clutching for his now-destroyed throat. He collapses, still desperately trying to hold his blood back from flowing.
There's no time to recover.
The enemy is already upon you.
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You parry away another blow with your sword, block another with your shield, but they just keep coming. Nearly five or six rebels have taken an interest in you, and they swarm around Aurora, striking away at you.
You tug at Aurora's reins, trying to pull your horse free of the trap you find yourself in. She, with a burst of speed, charges to the right, crashing into a surprised rebel.
He cries out in panic and then pain as Aurora tramples him underfoot. At the same time, you lean and slash at a second footman swarming you. The blow catches him on the shoulder, not penetrating his armor but causing him to recoil with pain.
But they will not leave you alone. Another infantryman stabs at you with a spear. You barely raise your shield in time. The spear bounces up and off the shield, redirecting toward your head.
It nails your great helm, knocking your head to the side as the sound of metal on metal resonates through the tight space of your helmet. You steady yourself and turn in the saddle, facing the men who continue to swarm you.
Another horn rings out from the enemy line, and you watch your attackers share a glance with one another.
They do not attack you. Instead, they begin to… fall back.
The enemy force begins to disengage. You turn again and can see the enemy beginning to reform. More and more of the enemy disengage from the fighting and fall back, quickly joining the line behind them.
This line is only twenty yards from your position. And the troops in it are fresh.
You take this brief moment to catch your breath. Your whole body is boiling from the heat and exertion. Your helmet is claustrophobic and partly blinding. But you cannot break for long.
On your left, you can see the flanking archers, finally in position, start to draw.
You raise your shield as the arrows begin to fall again.
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Multiple arrows embed themselves into your shield. You cringe and take the blow unscathed, but you hear Aurora beneath you let out a whinny of pain. An arrow is sticking out of the poor horse's flank.
She stirs beneath you, clearly in pain from the attack; you look at the site and bite your lip nervously. It's a bad injury. She needs treatment. Soon. Very soon.
You survey the battle from your position. Your commanding instincts kick in.
Survey. Decide. Act.
On your left, the flanking archers ready themselves for another shot. All around you, dead men lie still, while the dying thrash in agony. In front of you, the enemy infantry who managed to escape the charge have reformed into a second, more coherent line.
Your cavalry are in a disorganized mess. Many are already dead. Some are still locked in combat with single foes up and down the battlefield. Many are dismounted, their horses killed from under them.
And many more retreat.
But toward where Belos was leading, a massive chaotic melee has formed. Knights fight dismounted, desperately struggling over the small bit of land.
You take a deep breath. You need to decide.
You flick Aurora's reins, urging him to move. She gives some protest because of her wound, but obeys anyway.
A second later, another volley from the flanks pours down. You feel multiple arrows slam into the back of your coat of plates, bouncing off the steel plate inside. Though pain still shoots through your back, evidence of bruising.
You ready your blade as you charge toward the chaotic melee.
As you draw near, you can see the battle more clearly. A rough semicircle of dismounted knights have formed, fighting over what appears to be the fallen form of a man. A second armored man is crouched over the first.
You can see Sir Obren holding the banner of Kanton in one hand and a blade in the other, using his powerful plate armor as his defense. The ground around them is littered with the dying and dead, and as you ride to join the fight, Aurora tramples over yet more bodies.
You raise your sword above your head, holding onto the reins with your other.
You have a plan.
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