I know I've mentioned it a couple times before, but I think it's about time that I put up some of my writing (other than for Sepia jousts). Therefore, if anyone's interested, I'm going to start posting the first book I wrote on here in something of an episodic format. Hopefully it'll provide the impetus for me to finish editing it. There are large number of characters in this book, so I've included a list of the characters so far below (I'll expand it as I go).
The King’s Own
The Trap
14th of Grakuary, 599
Village of Tumbri, north of Menzobaria
Iron shod hoofs clattered on the cobblestone street, and the horses’ breath made plumes of white steam. Mail and weapons clanked, and the king’s flag snapped in the cold wind. Snow drifted down from pewter clouds, and gathered on the thatched roofs. When the company reached the town square, Captain Vladimir Kapov signaled a halt. Before them was a statue of Arbatros’s first king, William the Great, the top dusted with snow. All around them, the town was quiet, the only noise the snorts of their horses and the clack of hooves as the horses shifted their feet.
Vladimir looked over at his scout platoon commander. “Lieutenant Thompson, I want you to send your scouts through the village and see if you can flush any enemy out. Victoria, go with them; I’ll keep Octavia for support.”
“Yes sir,” the two women replied.
“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Thompson echoed. Then he turned to his sergeants, “Send out your troops in teams of five.”
“Yes sir,” his squad commanders replied, quickly divided the soldiers into teams, and moved out of the square.
Vladimir motioned for one of his squads to dismount, and swung off his own horse. “I want to set up a command post and possible wounded collection point in this tavern here.” Drawing his sword, the well-worn wire-wrapped leather handle fitting comfortably into his hand, he approached the door of the building cautiously. With his shield hand, he grasped the door handle, then glanced back at his troops. The indicated squad had dismounted and drawn swords, maces, and battle axes, and was waiting, ready. Vladimir listened closely, but all he could hear was the snapping of their cloaks and the flag in the bitterly cold wind that whistled through the narrow streets, the snorting of the horses, hooves pawing the ground, and the soldiers shifting on their horses, mail clinking. Vladimir looked at Octavia, and asked, “Anything?”
She squinted in concentration and replied, “Not anything active, but I’m picking up a few traces.”
“How old?”
“I’m not sure.” She drew a wand and muttered a few words. Then she said, “Either it was something pretty strong a while ago, or something weaker more recently, but definitely nothing active.”
“Good,” he nodded to his soldiers, “Ready?”
“Yes sir.”
Vladimir grasped the door handle more firmly, turned it, and opened the door. He heard a soft noise in the back of the common room, which was dimly illuminated by the weak light coming through the small windows. Vladimir brought his shield up, and braced himself for an attack. He heard the twang of a crossbow, then another, and he dived down, throwing his shield above him. The first bolt went wide, cracking into the doorframe above his head. The second skipped off his metal-coated shield with a clang. Vladimir was up and moving forward before the second bolt hit the ground.
Three men charged him, two with battleaxes, the third had a sword; all were wearing chain mail armor. Swinging his sword across, he caught the first axe-man in the stomach, opening up his belly. Blood spurted out, splattering Vladimir’s armored forearm, blemishing the bright steel of his vambrace. He could smell the iron tang of the blood, which steamed in the bitter cold. The man staggered and fell, dropping his weapon as he attempted to keep his entrails from spilling out onto the floor. The axe made a dull thump as it hit the rush covered wooden floor. Vladimir swung his shield across to the left to knock aside the swordsman’s swing. As he blocked the second axe-man’s strike with his sword, he could hear the crank of a crossbow being reloaded, the wood of the bow creaking as it took the tension.
Vladimir stabbed forward, the tip of his blade punching through his opponent’s armor and piercing his chest. Blood gushed out from the wound as he withdrew his sword and swung it across to parry another attack from the swordsman. Their swords met with a clang, sparks flying in the chill winter air. Their breath formed cloud of steam in front of them, and their boots scuffed the rushes on the floor. Hearing the thrum of a crossbow, he twirled away, and the bolt missed. Vladimir whipped his blade, now covered in bright scarlet blood, across and decapitated the swordsman. Blood jetted out of the man’s neck, painting the ceiling of the room crimson. Behind him, his troops charged into the room.
* * *
Private James Black gripped the leather handle of his short bow more tightly, and drew the arrow lying across it back a little more as he scanned the windows of the surrounding buildings. This was his first deployment, and he wanted to prove himself. He shivered a little as the cold wind stirred his cloak and cut through his scale mail and surcoat.
“You alright, Black?” The lieutenant called from across the street.
“Yes sir, I am.”
“See any movement?”
“No sir, all quiet.”
Lieutenant Jason Thompson turned to Victoria, “Any magic?”
“I’m picking up something, but I haven’t figured out exactly what it is,” the slender mage replied.
“Where’s it coming from?”
“That building up there, the Boar’s Head.”
Jason motioned for two of his men to check out the building. It was a two-story structure, stone for the first, the second’s white paint peeling off. A wooden sign with a painted boar’s head creaked in the wind where it hung from a metal bar protruding from the building. The lieutenant signaled for James and one of the other men to cover the building’s windows with their bows. James brought his bow up, drawing back the arrow. It’ll be just like practicing at the range, he told himself as he took aim at one of the windows, but this time the targets are for real. Two of the scouts approached the door. The first one tried it, but it was locked.
“Get ready,” the scout called, then stepped back and kicked the door, his heavy boot connecting solidly. The door flew open, and five crossbows twanged. Before he could move, four bolts hit the scout, throwing him back into the street, blood spraying out of his wounds. Windows banged open, and crossbowmen appeared.
A man emerged in the window James was covering, and he released the arrow on his bow. The missile flew straight out, and he watched his target fly backward. From another window, a fiery pea shot out towards the street. Victoria’s hands blurred, words poured from her lips, and the pea vanished. James heard his companions loose their arrows, and more crossbowmen dropped.
Then the crossbowmen opened fire. Quarrels sped out, a deadly steel tipped swarm that reached out to slash into horse and man, skip off the cobbles, and punch through the scale mail armor the scouts wore as if it were nothing. At a shout from Victoria, a bolt of crackling blue lightning shot out and blasted two crossbowmen back, leaving them lying scorched and charred on the ground.
Ionized air hissed around the bolt’s path, and the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. All around, horses neighed and whinnied in pain and fear, and men lay on the ground, their lifeblood draining out onto the street as they gasped for their last breaths, which steamed in the air. Quarrels thumped into buildings, struck sparks off the cobbles, and dug into flesh.
Seeing the enemy slaughtering his troops, Jason yelled, “Ride! Ride! We need to break out of the ambush!” Then he drew his sword, put his heels to his horse’s flanks, and charged towards the Zhuravi infantry moving to encircle his command.
He galloped down the narrow cobble street, his horse’s hooves pounding on the stones. The stone and wood buildings leaned low over the street, the sky a pale grey in the space between them. Startled by his quick reaction, the infantry on the street turned, looks of surprise on their faces. His first blow cut one of the men open from shoulder to hip, and sent him whirling away.
James heard the lieutenant’s shout, and, dropping his bow into its sheath, he drew his sword and followed. Looking down, he saw a dead Zhuravi soldier, probably his own age, lying on the ground. There was a look of surprise and shock on the boy’s face, and blood still steamed as it seeped out of a stab wound in his chest. Fighting the urge to vomit, tasting bitter bile in his mouth, James looked around, trying to find the lieutenant. After a moment of searching, he saw the lieutenant, surrounded by enemies, with a pile of corpses scattered around his horse’s feet.
Putting his heels to his horse’s flanks, James charged towards the lieutenant, just as one of the soldiers hit the lieutenant’s elbow with a sword. The lieutenant’s shield arm went limp, but, twisting his whole body, he swung his shield back to smash the metal boss at the center of his shield into his attacker’s face, sending him flying. Around him, James could hear the sound of battle, swords clanging off shields, armor, and other weapons.
As James neared the lieutenant, one of the soldiers, hearing his horse’s hoof beats, turned to face him. Once again, he was startled to see that his enemy was little older than he was. He hesitated, then slashed down, cracking his enemy’s skull open, bone splintering under the hard steel of his longsword. The young Zhuravi soldier fell away, and James continued his charge, blood running down the fuller on his sword. Another of the Zhuravi soldiers around the lieutenant turned, thrusting a spear at James’s horse. It reared, almost throwing him off. Then his horse’s hooves lashed out, one catching his attacker in the chest, smashing ribs and throwing the man backwards. His horse came back down with a clatter of hooves as the lieutenant finished off the last of his opponents.
A lance of ice struck James in the shoulder, almost throwing him off his horse; he teetered for a moment before the lieutenant pushed him back upright. Even that simple movement sent pain shooting through him from where the crossbow bolt was embedded in his left shoulder. He could feel hot blood running down his back and soaking into his clothes.
The wind picked up again, carrying with it the stench of death- the smell of freshly spilled blood and the bitter reek of bowels voided in death- and working icy fingers through James’s clothes. The screams of the dying echoed off the town’s close-set buildings.
Jason called for what remained of the patrol to follow. Then he urged his horse forward, watching James to make sure he didn’t fall. His elbow throbbed, and his sword arm was covered in blood, now cooling and hardening in the biting cold.
* * *
As they approached the square, there came a shout, “Stop and identify yourselves.”
“Lieutenant Thompson and his patrol, returning from scouting.”
“Very good, you may pass.”
The survivors galloped into the square around the same time the rest of Jason’s unit was returning. He looked back to see who had made it. Victoria, James, and about a dozen others, most wounded, followed him. The captain walked out of the large tavern that faced out onto the square, his plate and mail clinking. He could tell that the captain had been fighting; blood splattered his cloak, discoloring the black fabric. Awkwardly, Jason swung down out of the saddle, trying to protect his injured arm.
“What happened?” The captain asked.
“We were ambushed sir. There were about eighty enemies; a whole mess of crossbowmen, some infantry, and a wizard,” Jason replied.
James was surprised that the lieutenant had been able to get a count on the enemy at all. He had been too busy trying to stay alive to even think about counting. Then he winced as the crossbow bolt in his back sent another throb of pain through him.
“Alright. Get your men into the tavern to see the medic. Try to get back out as soon as possible, though. I’m going to need all the soldiers I can get to hold the square. Victoria, I need you back with me,” the captain ordered.
The golden-haired mage nodded and walked over to him.
“Of course sir,” Jason replied. He directed two of his soldiers to gently lift James out of the saddle. Despite their caution, James let out several gasps of pain as they helped him down. Then Jason led his troops into the tavern.
Opening the door, a wall of warm air met them. A bright fire crackled and popped in the fireplace, casting a flickering glow over the dark wood tables and chairs, the light reflecting off the time-polished surfaces. Heat suffused the room, forcing some of the chill out of their bones. The rushes on the floor had been cleared away, and the oak floorboards had several dark splotches marring the otherwise neat and tidy appearance of the tavern. A man and a woman with white armbands sat in chairs by the fire. Several scrolls lay on the table near them, next to some bandages and numerous potion bottles. The more senior of the two motioned for Jason and the men helping James to come over to him, and directed the rest to the other medic.
“Let me have a look at that elbow.” The senior medic took it gently in his hands, pulled a cross out from under his surcoat, and muttered a string of words and moved the cross in a complex pattern over Jason’s wound. Immediately after the medic finished, Jason could feel warmth spreading through his arm. The cut closed over and disappeared, forming a thin scar where it had been.
“Could you give me a hand getting this young man up onto that table, then help me take out the bolt, sir?”
Jason grabbed James’s legs and helped the two other scouts swing him up onto the table, facedown. He could see James grit his teeth as the quarrel shifted in his shoulder. Jason held James’s hand as the medic reached for the shaft of the quarrel. “You did good son, now we’re going to fix you up. Just a little more pain, then you’ll be good as new,” Jason said, trying to talk him through it. “You were really brave, and probably saved my life today.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, if I’d been attacked by all of them at once, I’d likely be dead right now."
“Ready?” the medic asked, tightening his hold on the bolt with one hand and putting his other against James’s back.
“Yes,” James managed to get out between clenched teeth as he braced himself against the pain, tightening his grip on the lieutenant’s hand. The lieutenant returned some of the pressure.
The medic pulled on the quarrel, hard, and it came out of his back, tearing flesh. Blood spurted up, adding to the blood that already spattered his back. He slumped on the table, gritting his teeth against the pain. The medic moved over to a bowl of water, rinsed his hands, dried them on a cloth, and grabbed a scroll off the table. The thick parchment crackled as he unrolled it, and the dark ink reflected the light from the fire. He walked over to James, put one hand on the still-bleeding wound then began to chant, reading off the scroll, making gestures with his hand on James’s back. When he finished, the wound closed and formed a small white dot here the bolt had stuck.
In the silence that followed, they could hear shouts and the sound of battle- the clash of sword on sword and the blast of a fireball- coming from outside. A moment later, the captain’s cry of “Charge!” followed by the thunder of hooves and further clashes of steel reached their ears.
The junior medic was bandaging some of the soldiers and giving a few potions on her side of the room. A short while later, everybody was ready to go. The scouts were preparing themselves to go back outside into the cold and the fighting when the door opened and several soldiers stumbled in, all wounded. Following them was a cold draft of air and the sound of combat close to the tavern. Jason looked at his troops, checking to see if they were ready. Receiving nods and eager looks, he motioned for them to follow him, and strode out the door into the biting cold. Once outside, he stopped, trying to assess the battle.
Snow was falling more heavily now, big white flakes coming down from heavy clouds. The sky was growing dark, making it difficult to see. Even so, he could make out the battle well enough, as it unfolded right in front of him.
All across the square, Zhuravi soldiers and the captain’s men fought, and bodies covered the ground. The company was holding its own, making the enemy fight for every foot they advanced across the plaza. The majority of their contingent was now on foot, most having lost their horses in the initial charge or in the subsequent hand-to-hand combat. Seeing his scouts’ horses still tied up near the tavern, he called for his men to mount up. Leather creaked and metal clinked as they climbed onto their horses. Grabbing their spears and bows, they formed up behind him.
Jason looked around the square, trying to gauge where the fighting was the heaviest. He spotted the captain right in the thick of it, sword darting left and right, parrying, blocking, and cutting down his opponents.
“To the captain!” Jason yelled, then put his heels to his horse’s sides and charged, sword held high. Across the square they charged, hooves thundering on the cobbles, pennants flapping in the chill wind. Upon seeing them, a number of the enemy broke and ran. As they neared the line, some of his men began to fire their bows, heralding their approach with steel tipped death. His little wedge formation crashed into the enemy line like a sledgehammer.
Opposing soldiers were thrown backwards, skewered on spear points, slashed by swords, or simply knocked down by the horses and then trampled. Jason’s sword slashed back and forth, hacking at enemy as fast as they appeared. The wind whistled in his ears, blew through his hair, and made his cloak fly out behind him. Those enemies around him cried out and fell away, blood spraying up with each blow of his sword.
By the time Jason reached the captain, over a third of the remaining enemy had taken flight, running back into the surrounding streets and buildings. Several structures had been set on fire, probably by a stray fireball or other spell. Close behind the captain stood Victoria, holding a bloody sword in one hand and a wand in the other. She had only suffered a few small cuts and wounds, but the dark circles under her eyes showed the strain casting numerous spells had had on her. The captain cut down the three enemies closest to him then turned to Jason. Flickering flames from the burning buildings illuminated half of his face, casting the other half in shadow. Dark blood ran down his sword, covered his gauntleted hand, and splattered him from head to toe. All around him, the corpses were piled several men deep.
“Privates,” he motioned to two of Jason’s scouts. “Give Victoria and me your horses,” he ordered.
“Yes sir,” the privates chorused, and swung off their horses. The captain and Victoria mounted up.
Vladimir winced as he swung up onto the horse, a cut on his leg opening up again and his tired arms complaining as he forced them to keep working. He looked back at Victoria, and saw that she was in little better shape than he was. She had watched his back, kept him alive, and paid a heavy price for it.
“Alright, let’s chase these bastards back to where they belong,” he said. Then he touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and charged towards the nearest clump of enemy soldiers. He cursed to himself for having led his men into a trap like this, but vowed to get them out of it.
* * *
Several hours later, with night fully upon them, the survivors of Vladimir’s company gathered in the common room of the tavern. The medics worked on the wounded as he gathered his surviving platoon commanders to figure out how many of his troops had survived.
“Alright, how many of us are still combat-ready?”
“Sir, we’ve down to about ten from first platoon, sixteen from second, a dozen from third, and eight from my scout platoon. We’ve lost Denko and Iron Staff, and Octavia is wounded pretty badly, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson replied.
“We lost Lieutenants Atwell and Nekan as well,” Lieutenant Kallov added.
“Well, it’s a good thing that we seem to have killed most of them and run off the rest.” He paused, “I had Victoria send a message to headquarters. They said that they should have reinforcements out here by tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good. Are they sending more medics, sir?”
“Yes they are; we shouldn’t have to worry about losing anyone else.” He stood, “I’m going to do a walk around, see what our perimeter looks like.”
Vladimir limped out, tightening his cloak around him to keep out the frigid night air. Outside, the snow had stopped, and the moon and stars shone down from the heavens, shedding a pale light over the bodies in the square, now covered by a thin layer of snow. He walked over to where a soldier was keeping watch from a nearby building’s doorway, bow in hand. As he approached, he could tell that it was James, one of the new soldiers from Jason’s platoon. Gone was the uncertainty and nervousness of the morning; before him stood a quieter, more confident young man.
“How are you, lad?”
“Alright, I guess, sir.” James hesitated, then asked, “Are we going to see more action soon?”
“Yes, I expect we will,” the captain replied, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “And I’m sure you’ll be ready for it.”
Copyright © Scott Schaper, 2012
List of Characters
The King’s Own Legion
First Company, First Regiment
Captain Vladimir Kapov-Age 36
Victoria-Age 25
First Platoon
Lieutenant Vincent Nekan-Age 27
Second Platoon
Lieutenant Demetri Kallov-Age 26
Platoon Sergeant Brian Jennings-Age 29
Third Platoon
Lieutenant Wilson Atwell-Age 24
Scout Platoon
Lieutenant Jason Thompson-Age 32
Octavia-Age 29
"Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction." - Ronald Reagan
"Judge them not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." - Martin Luther King, Jr.
"Pick up a rifle and you change instantly from a subject to a citizen." - Jeff Cooper
"I like my enemies like James Bond likes his martinis- shaken, not stirred."
My first book, The King's Own
14th of Grakuary, 599
Village of Tumbri, north of Menzobaria
Iron shod hoofs clattered on the cobblestone street, and the horses’ breath made plumes of white steam. Mail and weapons clanked, and the king’s flag snapped in the cold wind. Snow drifted down from pewter clouds, and gathered on the thatched roofs. When the company reached the town square, Captain Vladimir Kapov signaled a halt. Before them was a statue of Arbatros’s first king, William the Great, the top dusted with snow. All around them, the town was quiet, the only noise the snorts of their horses and the clack of hooves as the horses shifted their feet.
Vladimir looked over at his scout platoon commander. “Lieutenant Thompson, I want you to send your scouts through the village and see if you can flush any enemy out. Victoria, go with them; I’ll keep Octavia for support.”
“Yes sir,” the two women replied.
“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Thompson echoed. Then he turned to his sergeants, “Send out your troops in teams of five.”
“Yes sir,” his squad commanders replied, quickly divided the soldiers into teams, and moved out of the square.
Vladimir motioned for one of his squads to dismount, and swung off his own horse. “I want to set up a command post and possible wounded collection point in this tavern here.” Drawing his sword, the well-worn wire-wrapped leather handle fitting comfortably into his hand, he approached the door of the building cautiously. With his shield hand, he grasped the door handle, then glanced back at his troops. The indicated squad had dismounted and drawn swords, maces, and battle axes, and was waiting, ready. Vladimir listened closely, but all he could hear was the snapping of their cloaks and the flag in the bitterly cold wind that whistled through the narrow streets, the snorting of the horses, hooves pawing the ground, and the soldiers shifting on their horses, mail clinking. Vladimir looked at Octavia, and asked, “Anything?”
She squinted in concentration and replied, “Not anything active, but I’m picking up a few traces.”
“How old?”
“I’m not sure.” She drew a wand and muttered a few words. Then she said, “Either it was something pretty strong a while ago, or something weaker more recently, but definitely nothing active.”
“Good,” he nodded to his soldiers, “Ready?”
“Yes sir.”
Vladimir grasped the door handle more firmly, turned it, and opened the door. He heard a soft noise in the back of the common room, which was dimly illuminated by the weak light coming through the small windows. Vladimir brought his shield up, and braced himself for an attack. He heard the twang of a crossbow, then another, and he dived down, throwing his shield above him. The first bolt went wide, cracking into the doorframe above his head. The second skipped off his metal-coated shield with a clang. Vladimir was up and moving forward before the second bolt hit the ground.
Three men charged him, two with battleaxes, the third had a sword; all were wearing chain mail armor. Swinging his sword across, he caught the first axe-man in the stomach, opening up his belly. Blood spurted out, splattering Vladimir’s armored forearm, blemishing the bright steel of his vambrace. He could smell the iron tang of the blood, which steamed in the bitter cold. The man staggered and fell, dropping his weapon as he attempted to keep his entrails from spilling out onto the floor. The axe made a dull thump as it hit the rush covered wooden floor. Vladimir swung his shield across to the left to knock aside the swordsman’s swing. As he blocked the second axe-man’s strike with his sword, he could hear the crank of a crossbow being reloaded, the wood of the bow creaking as it took the tension.
Vladimir stabbed forward, the tip of his blade punching through his opponent’s armor and piercing his chest. Blood gushed out from the wound as he withdrew his sword and swung it across to parry another attack from the swordsman. Their swords met with a clang, sparks flying in the chill winter air. Their breath formed cloud of steam in front of them, and their boots scuffed the rushes on the floor. Hearing the thrum of a crossbow, he twirled away, and the bolt missed. Vladimir whipped his blade, now covered in bright scarlet blood, across and decapitated the swordsman. Blood jetted out of the man’s neck, painting the ceiling of the room crimson. Behind him, his troops charged into the room.
Private James Black gripped the leather handle of his short bow more tightly, and drew the arrow lying across it back a little more as he scanned the windows of the surrounding buildings. This was his first deployment, and he wanted to prove himself. He shivered a little as the cold wind stirred his cloak and cut through his scale mail and surcoat.
“You alright, Black?” The lieutenant called from across the street.
“Yes sir, I am.”
“See any movement?”
“No sir, all quiet.”
Lieutenant Jason Thompson turned to Victoria, “Any magic?”
“I’m picking up something, but I haven’t figured out exactly what it is,” the slender mage replied.
“Where’s it coming from?”
“That building up there, the Boar’s Head.”
Jason motioned for two of his men to check out the building. It was a two-story structure, stone for the first, the second’s white paint peeling off. A wooden sign with a painted boar’s head creaked in the wind where it hung from a metal bar protruding from the building. The lieutenant signaled for James and one of the other men to cover the building’s windows with their bows. James brought his bow up, drawing back the arrow. It’ll be just like practicing at the range, he told himself as he took aim at one of the windows, but this time the targets are for real. Two of the scouts approached the door. The first one tried it, but it was locked.
“Get ready,” the scout called, then stepped back and kicked the door, his heavy boot connecting solidly. The door flew open, and five crossbows twanged. Before he could move, four bolts hit the scout, throwing him back into the street, blood spraying out of his wounds. Windows banged open, and crossbowmen appeared.
A man emerged in the window James was covering, and he released the arrow on his bow. The missile flew straight out, and he watched his target fly backward. From another window, a fiery pea shot out towards the street. Victoria’s hands blurred, words poured from her lips, and the pea vanished. James heard his companions loose their arrows, and more crossbowmen dropped.
Then the crossbowmen opened fire. Quarrels sped out, a deadly steel tipped swarm that reached out to slash into horse and man, skip off the cobbles, and punch through the scale mail armor the scouts wore as if it were nothing. At a shout from Victoria, a bolt of crackling blue lightning shot out and blasted two crossbowmen back, leaving them lying scorched and charred on the ground.
Ionized air hissed around the bolt’s path, and the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. All around, horses neighed and whinnied in pain and fear, and men lay on the ground, their lifeblood draining out onto the street as they gasped for their last breaths, which steamed in the air. Quarrels thumped into buildings, struck sparks off the cobbles, and dug into flesh.
Seeing the enemy slaughtering his troops, Jason yelled, “Ride! Ride! We need to break out of the ambush!” Then he drew his sword, put his heels to his horse’s flanks, and charged towards the Zhuravi infantry moving to encircle his command.
He galloped down the narrow cobble street, his horse’s hooves pounding on the stones. The stone and wood buildings leaned low over the street, the sky a pale grey in the space between them. Startled by his quick reaction, the infantry on the street turned, looks of surprise on their faces. His first blow cut one of the men open from shoulder to hip, and sent him whirling away.
James heard the lieutenant’s shout, and, dropping his bow into its sheath, he drew his sword and followed. Looking down, he saw a dead Zhuravi soldier, probably his own age, lying on the ground. There was a look of surprise and shock on the boy’s face, and blood still steamed as it seeped out of a stab wound in his chest. Fighting the urge to vomit, tasting bitter bile in his mouth, James looked around, trying to find the lieutenant. After a moment of searching, he saw the lieutenant, surrounded by enemies, with a pile of corpses scattered around his horse’s feet.
Putting his heels to his horse’s flanks, James charged towards the lieutenant, just as one of the soldiers hit the lieutenant’s elbow with a sword. The lieutenant’s shield arm went limp, but, twisting his whole body, he swung his shield back to smash the metal boss at the center of his shield into his attacker’s face, sending him flying. Around him, James could hear the sound of battle, swords clanging off shields, armor, and other weapons.
As James neared the lieutenant, one of the soldiers, hearing his horse’s hoof beats, turned to face him. Once again, he was startled to see that his enemy was little older than he was. He hesitated, then slashed down, cracking his enemy’s skull open, bone splintering under the hard steel of his longsword. The young Zhuravi soldier fell away, and James continued his charge, blood running down the fuller on his sword. Another of the Zhuravi soldiers around the lieutenant turned, thrusting a spear at James’s horse. It reared, almost throwing him off. Then his horse’s hooves lashed out, one catching his attacker in the chest, smashing ribs and throwing the man backwards. His horse came back down with a clatter of hooves as the lieutenant finished off the last of his opponents.
A lance of ice struck James in the shoulder, almost throwing him off his horse; he teetered for a moment before the lieutenant pushed him back upright. Even that simple movement sent pain shooting through him from where the crossbow bolt was embedded in his left shoulder. He could feel hot blood running down his back and soaking into his clothes.
The wind picked up again, carrying with it the stench of death- the smell of freshly spilled blood and the bitter reek of bowels voided in death- and working icy fingers through James’s clothes. The screams of the dying echoed off the town’s close-set buildings.
Jason called for what remained of the patrol to follow. Then he urged his horse forward, watching James to make sure he didn’t fall. His elbow throbbed, and his sword arm was covered in blood, now cooling and hardening in the biting cold.
As they approached the square, there came a shout, “Stop and identify yourselves.”
“Lieutenant Thompson and his patrol, returning from scouting.”
“Very good, you may pass.”
The survivors galloped into the square around the same time the rest of Jason’s unit was returning. He looked back to see who had made it. Victoria, James, and about a dozen others, most wounded, followed him. The captain walked out of the large tavern that faced out onto the square, his plate and mail clinking. He could tell that the captain had been fighting; blood splattered his cloak, discoloring the black fabric. Awkwardly, Jason swung down out of the saddle, trying to protect his injured arm.
“What happened?” The captain asked.
“We were ambushed sir. There were about eighty enemies; a whole mess of crossbowmen, some infantry, and a wizard,” Jason replied.
James was surprised that the lieutenant had been able to get a count on the enemy at all. He had been too busy trying to stay alive to even think about counting. Then he winced as the crossbow bolt in his back sent another throb of pain through him.
“Alright. Get your men into the tavern to see the medic. Try to get back out as soon as possible, though. I’m going to need all the soldiers I can get to hold the square. Victoria, I need you back with me,” the captain ordered.
The golden-haired mage nodded and walked over to him.
“Of course sir,” Jason replied. He directed two of his soldiers to gently lift James out of the saddle. Despite their caution, James let out several gasps of pain as they helped him down. Then Jason led his troops into the tavern.
Opening the door, a wall of warm air met them. A bright fire crackled and popped in the fireplace, casting a flickering glow over the dark wood tables and chairs, the light reflecting off the time-polished surfaces. Heat suffused the room, forcing some of the chill out of their bones. The rushes on the floor had been cleared away, and the oak floorboards had several dark splotches marring the otherwise neat and tidy appearance of the tavern. A man and a woman with white armbands sat in chairs by the fire. Several scrolls lay on the table near them, next to some bandages and numerous potion bottles. The more senior of the two motioned for Jason and the men helping James to come over to him, and directed the rest to the other medic.
“Let me have a look at that elbow.” The senior medic took it gently in his hands, pulled a cross out from under his surcoat, and muttered a string of words and moved the cross in a complex pattern over Jason’s wound. Immediately after the medic finished, Jason could feel warmth spreading through his arm. The cut closed over and disappeared, forming a thin scar where it had been.
“Could you give me a hand getting this young man up onto that table, then help me take out the bolt, sir?”
Jason grabbed James’s legs and helped the two other scouts swing him up onto the table, facedown. He could see James grit his teeth as the quarrel shifted in his shoulder. Jason held James’s hand as the medic reached for the shaft of the quarrel. “You did good son, now we’re going to fix you up. Just a little more pain, then you’ll be good as new,” Jason said, trying to talk him through it. “You were really brave, and probably saved my life today.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, if I’d been attacked by all of them at once, I’d likely be dead right now."
“Ready?” the medic asked, tightening his hold on the bolt with one hand and putting his other against James’s back.
“Yes,” James managed to get out between clenched teeth as he braced himself against the pain, tightening his grip on the lieutenant’s hand. The lieutenant returned some of the pressure.
The medic pulled on the quarrel, hard, and it came out of his back, tearing flesh. Blood spurted up, adding to the blood that already spattered his back. He slumped on the table, gritting his teeth against the pain. The medic moved over to a bowl of water, rinsed his hands, dried them on a cloth, and grabbed a scroll off the table. The thick parchment crackled as he unrolled it, and the dark ink reflected the light from the fire. He walked over to James, put one hand on the still-bleeding wound then began to chant, reading off the scroll, making gestures with his hand on James’s back. When he finished, the wound closed and formed a small white dot here the bolt had stuck.
In the silence that followed, they could hear shouts and the sound of battle- the clash of sword on sword and the blast of a fireball- coming from outside. A moment later, the captain’s cry of “Charge!” followed by the thunder of hooves and further clashes of steel reached their ears.
The junior medic was bandaging some of the soldiers and giving a few potions on her side of the room. A short while later, everybody was ready to go. The scouts were preparing themselves to go back outside into the cold and the fighting when the door opened and several soldiers stumbled in, all wounded. Following them was a cold draft of air and the sound of combat close to the tavern. Jason looked at his troops, checking to see if they were ready. Receiving nods and eager looks, he motioned for them to follow him, and strode out the door into the biting cold. Once outside, he stopped, trying to assess the battle.
Snow was falling more heavily now, big white flakes coming down from heavy clouds. The sky was growing dark, making it difficult to see. Even so, he could make out the battle well enough, as it unfolded right in front of him.
All across the square, Zhuravi soldiers and the captain’s men fought, and bodies covered the ground. The company was holding its own, making the enemy fight for every foot they advanced across the plaza. The majority of their contingent was now on foot, most having lost their horses in the initial charge or in the subsequent hand-to-hand combat. Seeing his scouts’ horses still tied up near the tavern, he called for his men to mount up. Leather creaked and metal clinked as they climbed onto their horses. Grabbing their spears and bows, they formed up behind him.
Jason looked around the square, trying to gauge where the fighting was the heaviest. He spotted the captain right in the thick of it, sword darting left and right, parrying, blocking, and cutting down his opponents.
“To the captain!” Jason yelled, then put his heels to his horse’s sides and charged, sword held high. Across the square they charged, hooves thundering on the cobbles, pennants flapping in the chill wind. Upon seeing them, a number of the enemy broke and ran. As they neared the line, some of his men began to fire their bows, heralding their approach with steel tipped death. His little wedge formation crashed into the enemy line like a sledgehammer.
Opposing soldiers were thrown backwards, skewered on spear points, slashed by swords, or simply knocked down by the horses and then trampled. Jason’s sword slashed back and forth, hacking at enemy as fast as they appeared. The wind whistled in his ears, blew through his hair, and made his cloak fly out behind him. Those enemies around him cried out and fell away, blood spraying up with each blow of his sword.
By the time Jason reached the captain, over a third of the remaining enemy had taken flight, running back into the surrounding streets and buildings. Several structures had been set on fire, probably by a stray fireball or other spell. Close behind the captain stood Victoria, holding a bloody sword in one hand and a wand in the other. She had only suffered a few small cuts and wounds, but the dark circles under her eyes showed the strain casting numerous spells had had on her. The captain cut down the three enemies closest to him then turned to Jason. Flickering flames from the burning buildings illuminated half of his face, casting the other half in shadow. Dark blood ran down his sword, covered his gauntleted hand, and splattered him from head to toe. All around him, the corpses were piled several men deep.
“Privates,” he motioned to two of Jason’s scouts. “Give Victoria and me your horses,” he ordered.
“Yes sir,” the privates chorused, and swung off their horses. The captain and Victoria mounted up.
Vladimir winced as he swung up onto the horse, a cut on his leg opening up again and his tired arms complaining as he forced them to keep working. He looked back at Victoria, and saw that she was in little better shape than he was. She had watched his back, kept him alive, and paid a heavy price for it.
“Alright, let’s chase these bastards back to where they belong,” he said. Then he touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and charged towards the nearest clump of enemy soldiers. He cursed to himself for having led his men into a trap like this, but vowed to get them out of it.
Several hours later, with night fully upon them, the survivors of Vladimir’s company gathered in the common room of the tavern. The medics worked on the wounded as he gathered his surviving platoon commanders to figure out how many of his troops had survived.
“Alright, how many of us are still combat-ready?”
“Sir, we’ve down to about ten from first platoon, sixteen from second, a dozen from third, and eight from my scout platoon. We’ve lost Denko and Iron Staff, and Octavia is wounded pretty badly, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson replied.
“We lost Lieutenants Atwell and Nekan as well,” Lieutenant Kallov added.
“Well, it’s a good thing that we seem to have killed most of them and run off the rest.” He paused, “I had Victoria send a message to headquarters. They said that they should have reinforcements out here by tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good. Are they sending more medics, sir?”
“Yes they are; we shouldn’t have to worry about losing anyone else.” He stood, “I’m going to do a walk around, see what our perimeter looks like.”
Vladimir limped out, tightening his cloak around him to keep out the frigid night air. Outside, the snow had stopped, and the moon and stars shone down from the heavens, shedding a pale light over the bodies in the square, now covered by a thin layer of snow. He walked over to where a soldier was keeping watch from a nearby building’s doorway, bow in hand. As he approached, he could tell that it was James, one of the new soldiers from Jason’s platoon. Gone was the uncertainty and nervousness of the morning; before him stood a quieter, more confident young man.
“How are you, lad?”
“Alright, I guess, sir.” James hesitated, then asked, “Are we going to see more action soon?”
“Yes, I expect we will,” the captain replied, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “And I’m sure you’ll be ready for it.”
Captain Vladimir Kapov-Age 36
Victoria-Age 25
Lieutenant Vincent Nekan-Age 27
Lieutenant Demetri Kallov-Age 26
Platoon Sergeant Brian Jennings-Age 29
Lieutenant Wilson Atwell-Age 24
Lieutenant Jason Thompson-Age 32
Octavia-Age 29
Sergeant James Black-Age 17
Corporal Grigori Kulikov-Age 23
Private Daniel Fitzpatrick-Age 16
Corporal Grigori Kulikov-Age 23
Private Daniel Fitzpatrick-Age 16
"Judge them not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." - Martin Luther King, Jr.
"Pick up a rifle and you change instantly from a subject to a citizen." - Jeff Cooper
"I like my enemies like James Bond likes his martinis- shaken, not stirred."
My first book, The King's Own