Darin purses his lips and looks out at the field. After a pause, he says, "It'd be like pullin' a rabid dog back from its prey. It'd be less risky to let our boys have their… 'fill,' so to speak."
"I see."
The two of you fall into a shared silence and continue to watch the pursuit.
Next
.It's a grisly sight.
Rebels are cut down in droves. Young men, levied by their lord for a war they do not understand, are butchered by their own countrymen while they flee.
Such is the way war is fought.
Your victory was so solid, the enemy formation shattered. Splintered sections of their line begin to reform and re-establish order, raising shields and retreating in an orderly fashion. But such groups are few and far between.
Your infantry pursue the routed infantry on foot, sprinting with adrenaline-fueled stamina, killing without remorse or regret. Your archers continue to loose volleys from their static locations behind your infantry, claiming more lives. Desperate rebels flee like deer from wolves.
Once the rebels reach the bridges and what's left of your crumbling earthworks, they achieve some modicum of safety.
The bridges are as chaotic as the field itself. Unlucky rebels fall screaming into the Atiming, knocked off by their panicked comrades. Brave soldiers turn to fight back against your forces, attempting to cover the retreat of their compatriots.
Many other rebels decide against crossing the crowded bridges. Instead, thousands run for the cover of the forest.
Those able to flee are lucky. All two thousand young men encircled by your forces will be put to the sword.
It's a damn slaughter, one even your jaded eyes have trouble watching.
You close your eyes and look away.
Next
There's a unique quietness that descends upon empty battlefields.
Once all the living have left, only the dead and dying remain strewn across the grass and snow. It's silent, except for the occasional groan of the wounded or call of a raven.
Cursed birds, you think. Already they descend, picking at the dead. It's barely been four hours, and the scavengers of the air are already eating their fill. Soon, human scavengers will flood this area, seeking the loot from bodies. To pick their teeth for dentures and their blades for pawning off.
Those slain have entered rigor mortis, becoming unnaturally stiff and still, their bodies bent at unnatural angles. It only adds to the uncomfortable stillness in the air. It's as if the dead are still in disbelief at their own death, refusing to lie limp.
There are thousands of these stiff bodies littering the muddy ground. Broken, lifeless bodies. You're not sure the exact amount, but your estimate is that four thousand, two hundred rebels now lie dead on the field.
You're still not sure about your own losses. Darin has already gone back to his tent to calculate casualties, like he always does.
It's midday now, but it doesn't feel like it. Clouds, black ones, have begun to choke away the sun, drowning away the light. Despite the peace on the field, you feel none within yourself.
A storm is coming.
Already, you feel the familiar screaming in your skull. Your mind rages against a system you cannot control. And so you hate and hurt yourself, because at least you can control that.
And because maybe you deserve it, being the architect of the slaughter in front of you. The sacrifice of a thousand young men, all infinitely more deserving of life than you.
The familiar hatred turns to familiar exhaustion.
Next
You really don't have the energy to hate yourself. Not now, at least.
"Marshal?"
Your thoughts come to a screeching halt. You jolt around at the sudden noise. Obren approaches slowly, still dressed in his plate armor.
"Do you ever get hot in all that metal?" you ask.
A smile creeps across his face, a strange sight in such a place. "I just slide some ice behind my breastplate. Works every time."
You remain impassive. "I've heard stranger ways of keeping cool."
"Yeah. I guess you have…"
He stands beside you, gazing out at the field of dead. After a moment, he sighs and says, "I can't do much joking. Not in a place like this."
"A place like this…" you echo idly, lost in your own thoughts again.
The two of you stand there in silence for a few minutes, then the knight breaks the silence once again. "Marshal… I think it's my birthday today."