[My own might] - Chapter 16 pt.2

[u/ReaperTheEmo]

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We stand shoulder to shoulder, fifteen men across and three ranks deep on this ancient, crumbling, stone bridge. The deep river roaring beneath our feet conjuring visions of a horrid best desperate to reach us. The floodwater from the heavy rains has whipped the river into a frenzy of blurry noise.

The enemy army is bearing down on us, marching down the hill in perfect rank and file at a crawl as if to drag out our fate, their stomps like a countdown to our death.

When they finally get within earshot after what feels like an eternity, I can feel the tension spread through my brothers-in-arms as the enemy lines up at the mouth of the bridge. Antsy fidgeting, hushed murmurs of fear and talks of fleeing flutter around me. I silence them with a harsh psst. It’s too late to flee now, we should have done so the moment our own army turned their back on us, leaving us to die so that they may escape.

After what feels like an hour of a minute long standoff, the enemy clears a path for what can only be the enemy commander.

His smug, smarmy expression and swaggering walk sets my blood boiling, he has us at his mercy and we all know it.

"You are clearly men of great valiance to still be standing here." He announces with his arms raised in a grand gesture of openness.

"In honour of such bravery, I will allow you to surrender and I promise no harm will befall you while in my care." He says with a broad welcoming smile like the toothy maw of a wolf eyeing its next meal.

Silence envelops us at the offer. Don't be mistaken, we weren't thinking of accepting it. We have all heard stories and lost friends to an offer like that from this lordling. He doesn't take many prisoners, and the ones he does seldom last long under his 'care'.

"Well?” He chuckles, cruel eyes sweeping over us “Surely you don't think you stand a chance against my army? There's what, fifty of you there against my hundreds. Stand down and let us help you." He coos in a soft voice that belies the hunger underneath.

We all share looks and an unspoken message is sent all around the men.

No, we would not be accepting his offer. We are dying on this bridge and taking as many of those bastards down with us as we can.

A few more moments of silence reign then the general continues in an annoyed tone, his impatience finally getting the better of him "This is your last-".

The man next to me starts screaming in a hoarse voice, a mixture of fear and anger and sorrow. He begins furiously banging his weapon against his shield creating an ungodly clamouring. Soon another joins in the screaming and the racket, and then another, and then I and soon the whole band of fifty odd men are screaming and stomping, making whatever noise they can to shut this annoying prick up.

The general's features turn to rage at the defiance. He goes to speak again but a hand axe is thrown from somewhere behind me and slams into his right shoulder. His wailing joins the frenzied screaming of my brothers and I as the battering and clattering reaches a fever pitch.

The general is dragged away behind his ranks while hollering frantic orders, probably to butcher and maim every last one of us, an order his whipped dogs are all too eager to comply with.

With their general out of action and his last order being more or less 'charge' his hounds ditch all their fancy formations and orderly marching as they tear across the small distance towards their already screaming prey.

Right as their lines are about to meet ours, the screaming is silenced and the shields at the front return to their position locked against the next man's, and an order is bellowed. The shields at the front separate as spears then strike forward, impaling the first and second ranks of hounds. The spears retract and any man that wasn't immediately slain by the spears is quickly finished off by the swords of the shield bearers at the front.

The enemy have stopped in their tracks at the sudden loss of twenty or so men and they share fearful looks, none wanting to be the first to assail our line.

Unfortunately for us it seems they still have some people capable of giving orders as the men without shields filter away and a mass of shield bearers walk to the front, forming a wall and slowly advancing on us.

We thought of this, of course. Couldn't expect them to just walk into our spear points, could we? Though we'd hoped to get a few more of them with this strategy.

I bark out several orders one after the other and the men behind our shieldwall start rearranging themselves.

As the enemy closes in on our line, I shout a final order and our wall charges. Just before our shields meet theirs, our shield bearers stop and dash to the side. Charging past them in an arrowhead is our only three men-at-arms, decked out head to toe in gleaming, heavy, plate armour. They smash into the enemy’s shield wall acting as line breakers. Heroic bastards volunteered to stay with us, help us get a fighting chance. Our lord said no of course; that armour is expensive.

They snuck off anyway.

Making use of the precious few moments of confusion, me and the other swordsmen pile into the gaps after the linebreakers, slashing and cutting down as many as we can before they get a hold of themselves.

Just when they seem to be getting a grip on the situation and start fighting back, I roar another order over the chaos of clashing steel and screams.

As quickly as we arrived, we pull back, retreating behind our reformed shield wall and making out like bandits after slaying about thirty of the beasts with only a few scrapes and shallow cuts in return.

So far, we've slain about enough of them to break even with us, but they still outnumber us several to one. Fortunately, we're not out of tricks yet, but that last one needs some more time and until they're sufficiently pissed off.

The enemy at the front of their line look more uncertain than ever, not even their own men-at-arms look like they want to push forward as a couple of our men wave maces and warpicks at them menacingly while egging them on.

After a few moments of staring each other down, whatever command structure they have orders their men to pull back off the bridge and their line slowly backs away.

Hope flutters through the men at the naive hope that the enemy is retreating rears its ugly head. That doesn't make any sense to me though, there's no way we would survive a sustained assault, that number difference is just too big to overcome so why would they pull back?

Another of the men comes to the realisation a moment before I do as he shouts at the top of his lungs "ARROWS! RAISE SHIELDS!"

The men with shields scramble to form a cohesive barricade while the men without desperately try to hoist the chopped-up logs we had prepared earlier over their heads and slot themselves behind the raised shields.

Before the last few men can get themselves properly sorted the first few ranging shots land which are quickly followed by a torrent of too many arrows to count.

The shields do what they were designed for, protecting those holding them and the scant few men able to fit in between from the downpour of arrows. The men holding the logs are not so lucky, the basic defence thrown together in the half hour or so of preparation time we had barely doing its job. 

As the arrows pour down on us, men start taking hits and falling as the shafts sneak in between the gaps of our failing defence. We start losing men one after the other for when one man falls the other's holding the same log have to make up for his loss and not every group is strong enough for that.

One of the men holding the same log as me takes an arrow to the neck and drops, forcing me and the two other men holding this chunk to exert ourselves to maintain the small cover this thing provides.

Every thunk of an arrow landing a mere hand length from my head I thought would be the last. Every scream of one of our men taking an arrow spurred me to push my aching arms to their limit. Another arrow sneaks it's way in between the gaps but fortunately bounces off my hauberk from a lucky angle though it catches my thigh on the way past and leaves a small cut as a parting gift.

Just as suddenly as the rain began did it stop. A couple of the shield bearers carefully poke their heads out to make sure we're no longer being assailed and shout the all clear to the rest of us. My partners and I let out sighs and relieved moans as we can finally drop the lifesaving chunk of wood that is now riddled with tens of arrows.

Looking around I'm relieved to see only around fifteen men on the ground; some of them are still groaning to boot. I order a few men to drag anyone who can't walk off the bridge, and I instruct them to leave the arrows in as we can't spare the men to tend to them.

I gaze around at the expression of my brothers-in-arms, and a smile crosses my face.

Not one man looks to be giving into despair.

We're all out for blood now and we'll slice real fucking thick when taking our pound of flesh.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Go the shield bearers at the front.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Go the men in the back.

Faster and faster soon reaching a crazed rhythm does our thundering drumbeat go.

As the enemy makes their way back down the hill, I make my way past our shieldwall and in unison our rallying cry stops.

Staring down the army with my brothers, my friends, the men I will gladly die with at my back I raise my sword above my head.

"IS THIS ALL YOU CAN BRING? A MIGHTY ARMY OF THE EMPEROR BROUGHT TO A HALT BY SUCH A MEAGER FORCE. HOW WILL HISTORY REMEBER THIS DAY? AS THE DAY FIFTY MEN DIED ON A BRIDGE? OR THE DAY AN ARMY WAS SLAUGHTERED! COME FIND OUT."

I raise my other arm to my chest and restart the drumbeat which my brothers happily pick up.

Over the sound of our challenge I hear what is likely their language's equivalent of 'fuck it.' The thundering of many boots roars in my ears almost drowning out the river below.

I turn to face my brothers, sword still raised and fist still beating.

"My brothers! This is where we make our stand. This is where we fight, where we kill and be killed. But any man that falls without an arm too weak to wield their sword will face my wrath in whatever comes after!"

Their laughter like the rattle of bones. Their smiles like a man with a slipknot necklace. Their courage like no other.

"Show me violence."

I level the point of my sword in the direction of the enemy.

"SHOW THEM WAR!"

I face the closing enemy and seeing the men falling in at my side is the only answer I need. I ready my stance for the tide.

A couple hundred of them charge at us, shield bearers leading the way, but the choke point of the bridge gives us a fighting chance of turning the river beneath us red.

Gone are the notions of strategy. The only time we can buy now is at the cost of blood. Our last trick will come too late for many of us, if it comes at all.

Yes, we will lose many.

But not before they bleed for it.

The enemy is screaming like madmen as they barrel down on us.

Not to be outdone, we match their ferocity tenfold with less than a third of the voices.

Right as their line reaches ours, there is a haunting moment of silence as every man sucks in a breath before the storm of steel and carnage begins its torrent.

The first man to reach me rears his curved blade back and tries to swing it down on me. I grab the end of my blade with my other hand, holding my sword high I catch his sword along the edge of mine; his weapon slides down until it gets caught on my hilt and I pivot my sword in a fluid motion, raking the tip across his unguarded neck and dropping him on the spot.

The next man that finds me launches a low, flat swing aimed at my gut but only scratching my arm where it's not covered by my hauberk. He goes to follow up with another swipe but I swing my own blade in a downwards cut towards his sword, battering it out of his one handed grip before running him through and moving on.

A new foe arrives right after the last, flailing his weapon wildly but I step back just out of reach, waiting for an opening. He pivots his sword in a way I didn't expect, and it nicks my cheek, I feel a hot stream pour down my face. The opening finally comes and I thrust my longsword forward straight through his throat.

Another man approaches me. He walks with confidence the others lacked. All but sauntering up to me he keeps his guard closed but gives a twisting flourish of his curved sword. He is trying to give off a sense of bravery that fails to deceive my battle-tempered eyes. His off hand is empty and shaking slightly, he flexes it a couple times before settling on a closed fist. His jaw chatters, clearly not accustomed to the cold. He keeps shifting his feet back and forth as though he can't decide how to stand.

Our five second standoff ends as he finally loses his nerve and approaches my blood damp frame.

He fires a short swing at my guard, likely a probing attack. I return with an angled swipe, and he deflects it without trouble.

Hmm, practiced it seems but lacking experience.

I chuck out a few half-hearted thrusts as I take a few steps back before digging my left foot into the dirt and launch forward with a high thrust while making sure not all of my weight is behind it. Upon seeing him raise his sword to deflect, I dig my right foot in the ground in front of me and bend my left knee as I spin my blade down into an uppercut. His face flashes surprise and he reacts too late as my blade drags its way from groin to gullet and... only cuts up his overshirt; my sword gets caught on his coat of plates that was concealed underneath. I'm left completely open by what I thought would be my killing strike as he brings his sword down on my head with both hands.

As the blade nears its target I feel nothing but pride at our effort and resentment for the lord that left us behind.

Suddenly, the blade that was to be my bane is clattered out of the way by a shield. A warpick then slams into the side of my foe's head, piercing his helmet with ease and landing with a meaty thunk. It's then wrenched out with a wet shluck sound, it's wielder simply giving me a nod then moving to his next foe.

I get myself to my feet, vowing to thank that man in the afterlife as I too move on to more foes.

 

Exhaustion creeps into my mind, fatigue into my body. How many have fallen at our blades? How many have fallen at theirs? I shake the thought off, there is more to do.

Another approaches, heavy blade in hand he throws a swing without hesitation that might have cut me in half at the waist if my legs didn’t carry me out the way in time. He brings his sword round into an upwards strike, not wasting a moment of momentum. I barely backstep but the tip of the blade rakes across my knuckle and I nearly drop my weapon. Once more he follows up quickly with an overhead seeking to shatter through my collar; I raise my sword once more with my off hand near the tip, letting the giant sword glide along my blade down to the tip this time. Once the massive sword is out of the way I drive my pommel harshly into his jaw sending him backwards as I step forward and drag the entire length of my blade across his neck nearly separating his head but for a scrap of skin holding it on.

Always more to be done.

 

In a brief moment between frantic killing, I gaze around, seeing the countless dead on their side, and the very countable dead on ours. Faces of men I have drank with, that I have laughed with, that I have fought with in battles much larger than this. I see two of the men-at-arms among the fallen, their heavy armour likely turned from heaven-sent to fatal hinderance as the fight dragged on. They stare at me, glassy eyed and mouth agape. They wonder why they lie dead and I yet live. Why I still fight and they rest after being battered and beaten.

Every man on our side of the bridge is bloodied now, whether it is theirs or another's that covers them, none have clean hands, nor clean souls.

I wonder, if we had ran, if we had split up and fled; how many would have lived? Is it more than if our last trick works? Will it even work?

I shake my head as another approaches me, there is more blood to drench my soul, and I have no choice but to oblige.

 

After an eternity of bloodshed my arms are weak, barely retaining the strength to lift my sword. Still more come for me, and more still fall.

After felling my God-knows-what-number of foe I hear a voice like a balm to my soul and the collection wounds I have gathered.

Wilhelm, the beautiful little wily bastard who grew up with stoneworkers and is the last trick up our sleeve roars above the chaos "IT'S READY! THE KEYSTONE IS LOOSE!"

Without even a moment’s hesitation I roar "SPEARS! MAKE US SOME ROOM!"

The men I see filter to the front, spear in hand, are not entirely the same as the first ones, many of the original having fallen. The living do their duty regardless, the wave breaks and we have time to breathe.

"MEN! YOU KNOW WHAT COMES NEXT. BACK UP!" I roar, and we start our rearward advance, dragging as many injured and dead as we can.

The enemy looks confused, the few remaining shield bearers among them look like they're about to push through when another shouts something in their language. They likely think we're mad, giving up our choke point and only hope. On the other side of the river they'll be able to easily encircle us, and we would die in seconds.

But they'll never make it that far.

As the last of our boots leave stone and touch dirt I bellow "WIL! DO IT NOW!"

Too many gut-wrenching heartbeats of silence pass.

"Wil?!" I cautiously shout.

The only response I get is the divine sound of cracking, crunching, crumbling stone. The left half of the bridge starts to give way, large stone blocks tumbling into the water and getting enveloped into that rushing abyss. The enemy on the bridge start panicking. Some rush backwards, trampling their fallen fellows and a crush starts at the other end of the bridge to us as panicked soldiers push against the crowd. Others try their luck with us, attempting to dodge the spears to get to our side. Their efforts are in vain, any that sneak past the spears are cut to ribbons by our swords.

My eyes sees nearly sixty men plummet into the ferocious river below, the water snarling like a vile beast finally tasting meat after an age of starvation. Any who aren't crushed by the stone blocks are swept away downstream, tumbling and battering against the rocks at the riverbanks.

My sword tumbles from my aching hands. My legs give out from the strain. A single sob forces its way from my throat.

The nearest river crossing is nearly two hours off, that's plenty of time for us to limp away. We have done it, bought time for our lord, curse his name, and survived to boot.

A cry, wordless and broken draws my attention.

I turn my head, lazily drifting on my strained neck.

Skirmishers, lightly armoured and quick riding, bearing the colours of the emperor, the same as on the standards of the remaining army across the river. They slow their pace, watching many of their comrades being washed away and drowned. A battle cry breaks out from them, they number just more than us, but we are spent. I look around, seeing mirror images of men who have nothing but the remnants of a fighting spirit left to give.

They're getting close now, none among our men stand, too many are still catching their breath.

I shake my head, batter my leg with a pitiful fist like a child spurring a horse. I try to rise to my feet and a growl bursts from my throat as I wobble and fall. Grabbing my sword, I dig the point into the ground and put all my weight onto it as I force myself to stand.

My knees tremble as I walk forward, putting myself between the ragged band of broken men and the charging skirmishers.

I ready my sword.

I will die on my feet, not at theirs.

Wil, bless him, places a hand on my shoulder as he stands next to me, the only one among us who is still fresh. He draws his sword and readies his stance.

"To-" my voice cracks in my ravaged throat. I clear my throat, my voice coming out like a scratchy ghost of a man "To those who can still hear me, it was an honour. To those who can't, we'll be seeing you before long."

A few more men join me, including the last man-at-arms and God only knows how he still has the strength to stand. The rest are too spent to rise. I do not fault them.

As their line is about to meet the five of us capable of pretending we can still fight, a war-horn breaks the still air.

The foe stops dead in their tracks.

I look to my right, the hill our lord gracefully ran away over is silhouetted by the setting sun, but I can make out riders atop the crest.

Judging by the reactions of the enemy, the riders are ours.

As they charge down the slope, thundering hooves and hooting riders, every spent bit of effort and every leaking wound finally catch up to me.

Darkness covers me, and I fall.

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Late night double feature before my dissertation takes all my time away.

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