Charge
Drops of sweat were rolling down his cheeks. The waiting. The waiting was always the hardest. He would be lying if he said he didn't have knots in his stomach right before entering the fight.
He was waiting for the signal for the group under his command to charge the enemy. In front of him, the battle was already in full swing. The army of Akelon was engaged with the forces of Dasmoydan, the southern kingdom with which it was almost perpetually in the state of war.
Faikel's eyes took in the field. The right flank of the Akelonian army was led by the duke of Estel, a young man from a high-ranking family, but one who had already acquired much experience in the world of fighting. Next to them, in the middle, fought the mercenary forces commanded by Pilash the Large.
Barrel-chested, with legs like oaks, it was a wonder his horse could carry the man. Pilash the Large. He fancied himself the second coming of Dorigo the Magnificent, the legendary mercenary captain of times past.
Faikel had heard stories of the man before joining the sell-swords under his command. In one tale, he swung his axe so hard that he cut his enemy in half.
His traits were larger than life, a blend of brutal strength and unrelenting intensity. He was especially known for his powerful hands, and his foul mouth.
Above all, he always paid his men on time. For a mercenary, that is what mattered the most.
Despite Pilash being his mercenary company's leader, and the man's overwhelming presence, Faikel's gaze turned elsewhere. His eyes were mesmerized by the left side of the battlefield. There, the Akelonians had contracted the mighty clansmen from the north.
The knights from the clan lands were a breed apart. They fought like men possessed, wielding their swords with the ferocity of wolves and the discipline of masters. There was no shortage of tales about them, their fierce fighting spirit renowned far and wide.
They would often travel south, to earn coin, but always with an eye towards sharpening their skills, forever seeking new ways to hone their edge and prove their worth. Akelon's purse had long proven heavy enough to draw them in.
Among the group rode several sporting a large dragon on their chest. One of these horsemen wore a golden helmet on his head. Clutching a large sword, he seemed an imposing figure.
"Okam, the Dragon clan's lord," said one of the men next to Faikel, pointing towards the riders.
The mercenary recalled fighting against them once, long ago, in another engagement. Luckily, now they were on his side.
They handled their steeds with magnificent precision. Galloping up and down, swinging their swords, it was as if the man and animal were one.
Okam was particularly skilled. With greying hair, and a worn out face, he didn't seem the youngest anymore. Yet, the power he put into his swings of the sword could humble any young warrior at the peak of his powers.
As the fighting erupted in full force, Faikel kept steady, watching. He didn’t like being part of the reserves. Too much time to think, looking at men fighting and falling, not knowing when he himself would be called upon to join the fray.
His eyes flicked left, to further down where another group of Akelonian reserves waited. Those under the command of Kalus Kenteln, the lord of the south-eastern region of Akelon. It seemed his troops stood like statues. They didn’t shift. They didn’t blink. They simply waited.
From the corner of his eye, Faikel could see his commanders approaching. He would get his orders soon enough.
General Sanmal, the leader of the Akelonian forces on the field, rode in behind Faikel and motioned for him and several of the other mercenary commanders to join him and the duke of Atelbar, his second in command.
"Gentleman, let me remind you of the strategy," said the general, steadying his horse, while keeping one eye on the fight in progress.
"Cunning strategy," chipped in Atelbar.
"Cunning or not, if executed, it will win the battle," continued general Sanmal.
"It involves the three main groups charging at once," said the duke of Atelbar, while pointing at the troops fighting, "while keeping Kalus Kenteln's forces and a group of mercenaries in reserve."
"You are the reserve," continued the general. "You will charge at an opportune moment, to sway the victory in the Akelonian army's favor."
The general pointed to the left: "Kenteln's forces will charge straight at the enemy on the left, while on the field Pilash's and the duke of Estel's forces will split apart, creating a hole between them. Immediately, you will stream through, fresh forces to pierce through the tired enemy."
It was a good plan, Faikel thought.
"The win is assured," said the duke of Atelbar, his face looking almost arrogant. "You just have to keep the enemy at bay, until general Aktal's forces arrive and finish them off."
Faikel's eyes remained on the battlefield ahead, at the men fighting and dying. He had trust in his comrades. He knew they'd ride with determination when the call came. And they'd hit like hell.
A horseman rode up fast to general Sanmal, a message on his lips.
"Sir, there is news from the west. The supreme commander of the armies of Akelon chief general Aktal and his forces have been attacked by the enemy. They will not reach us in time. Together with his grace, the duke of Oberon, they are fighting the forces of the kingdom of Dasmoydan," said the rider.
"Damn it, that's not good news," replied the general. "Pass it down to the other commanders. We cannot hope for reinforcements. We will have to do everything ourselves."
"General, any instructions?"
"You, the duke of Atelbar, will lead this group of reserves as they charge. Make sure they hit the enemy with full force," said the general. "I have full trust in Kalus Kenteln, and his fighting skills. They will smash the enemy on their side."
"Yes, general. I will do as instructed," said the duke. He then looked down the field to the left. "Kalus is one of our best men. I would gladly put my life in his hands. He has always pulled through."
The general nodded and then motioned for the messenger to go.
Faikel watched the scene with interest. None of the other dukes would be as acquiescent to the general's orders. Not Oberon, not Kenteln, not Estel. Their pride wouldn't allow it. Despite the clear hierarchy in the chain of command, they would still try to argue a little.
Atelbar was different, Faikel had observed. For all his arrogance, he knew when to keep quiet and follow the plan. In any case, leading the charge would be his chance at glory. And that's what all these high nobles really cared about. To get songs about them sung by bards at dinner parties.
Glory was a currency among those high-up worth more than gold.
The mercenary kept his eyes on the nobleman, knowing a motivation speech was coming.
As the messenger rode off, the duke looked over at the enemy massed across the field.
"The invaders must perish," yelled the man clad in gold-colored armor riding atop a horse. In charge of the reserves, the duke of Atelbar eyed his troops with a strict gaze.
"Reinforcements aren't coming. We have to finish the job ourselves," shouted the duke.
Faikel knew his job was going to be harder. Yet, his trust didn't waver. He had fought with these men before, and they never let him down.
Around him, horses shifted, restless beneath the weight of men. He glanced down the line. His eyes passed over grizzled veterans, and wide-eyed recruits, all waiting for the signal that would send them crashing into the fray.
Faikel didn't pray before battles. The gods didn't care for such a little peon like himself. If they did choose to offer their protection in the heat of the fight, it would be because they deemed him worthy due to his actions on the field. Thus, he didn't mince any words. He would fight, and offer his gratitude later.
He was a man of few words. Rather, he always led by example. The men who followed him knew this. The mercenaries were steady, their glaze switching between the battle unfolding ahead of them, and the men standing around them.
"Let's bring it to them," shouted Faikel, trying to strengthen his men's resolve.
In the distance, the other group commanders were shouting their instructions. Everyone was on edge, waiting for the horn to sound, the signal for the charge to begin.
The duke of Atelbar realized the gravity of the situation. As the beating of the war drums intensified, he shouted words of motivation.
"Men of Akelon, take up your weapons, hold them high," he said as a collective shout arose from his men. They raised their weapons above their heads, trying to intimidate the forces standing on the other side of the field.
They waited in anticipation. As the horn sounded, their minds went into overdrive.
"Charge!"
The word split the air like lightning through a storm cloud.
"Charge!"
In a thunderous eruption, hooves struck the ground with primal fury. The earth trembled beneath the mass of charging horses, the rhythm of their gallop syncing with the fevered pulse of every rider. Mud flew, churned up in violent clumps, as steel flashed and banners whipped in the wind.
The duke of Atelbar led the front, gold-hued armor glinting like fire beneath the overcast sky. His horse surged forward, nostrils flaring, foam flecking its sides. Behind him, the line of cavalry thundered in unison. It seemed like a tide crashing toward the enemy.
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Faikel leaned low over his saddle, the wind screaming in his ears. The field narrowed in his vision, all space collapsing to the fast-approaching enemy line. There were no thoughts now, no doubts. In his mind, everything was clear. It was only the rush, the weight of steel, the pounding of hooves, and the certainty that this moment would decide everything.
The forces of the duke of Estel and Pilash the Large parted, revealing a straight, open line towards the enemy. Everything was going according to plan.
The clash was seconds away. The distance shrank like a wave rushing the shore.
Faikel pointed his sword towards the enemy. He was about to strike.
At least it seemed so. Then, suddenly a huge scream rose up. The earth started shaking. It felt as if an avalanche suddenly unleashed and was heading towards him.
Men to his left started falling off their horses. Others changed direction, and headed straight for him. It was chaos.
He could hear the sounds of battle coming from his left side.
Faikel had to steady his horse to keep himself from falling. Some of the men in his group were too late to do the same, and fell off, or were pushed off by other men falling on top of them.
Faikel had no idea what was happening. No one around him did. The fighting seemed to stop.
Then, it dawned on him. Someone, a large force, must have crashed into the Akelonian line from the side. That's what unbalanced them.
But who? From what he could remember there were no enemy reserves in sight. Had they kept some of their forces hidden?
Then he saw it. It was clear.
Men with Akelonian banners, men with Akelonian ribbons, were cutting down other men with Akelonian banners and ribbons.
Someone must have switched sides.
Then a shout ran along the line.
"Kenteln betrayed us. Kenteln attacked us," yelled men on the left.
"Kalus Kenteln, you bastard! May the gods damn you," someone yelled.
Faikel's mind reeled. The name rang in his head like a struck bell. Kenteln, the trusted general, hero of the Western Reach, sworn sword of Akelon, had turned. The man who was supposed to break the enemy flank had instead shattered their own.
Through the dust and frenzy, Faikel caught glimpses of the horror. Kenteln's forces, who had marched under the same banners, eaten at the same fires, now drove their blades into their countrymen. Betrayal gleamed brighter than steel in that moment.
A riderless horse bolted past him, wild-eyed, blood-spattered. Another man stumbled toward him on foot, his helmet gone, his arm hanging uselessly by his side. "The left's broken," he gasped. "They've turned on us. They're everywhere."
Faikel's stomach dropped as the truth solidified. This wasn't just a fluke of battle. It was orchestrated. Premeditated. Treason on a scale that would tear Akelon apart.
"We have to fall back!" Someone shouted behind him, but Faikel didn't move. Not yet. He scanned the field, searching for the duke of Atelbar, searching for any command, any rallying point amid the carnage.
Instead, he saw blood. Fire. The banner of Akelon being trampled under hooves.
And above it all, distant and terrible, the glint of Kenteln's standard, raised high, unashamed, flying now beside the sigil of the southern invaders.
In that instant, an arrow hit him from the right.
Faikel didn't scream. He quickly grabbed at the arrow, trying to take it out of his arm.
The right? Did someone betray them on the right too?
He moved his head around, his teeth gritted, trying to fight through the pain.
"The enemy is still there and fighting," said Faikel, to himself, to no one, and to anyone. With the shock, he had almost forgotten his original mission.
The Dasmoydanian troops were still there, and they were still fighting, now with an even more powerful fervor.
No one would save them now. Faikel had to fight his way out of the situation. Either that, or he would be dead.
He knew the first thing they would need to do is to calm themselves down. With his good hand, he tried motioning to those around him.
"Calm," he yelled. "Calm yourselves."
Faikel raised his left hand high, palm open to the sky. It cut a stark shape against the drifting smoke. He held it there, unwavering, as if daring the frenzy to notice. A few eyes caught it. Then more.
The men around him began to steady themselves, staying put. Faikel pointed towards the front. That's where the Dasmoydanians were. That's where the focus should be. Kenteln's troops were still far away. They weren't the priority. For now.
"Guys, hold steady," someone yelled.
"We are still here," yelled another.
Faikel nodded. That's when he started to really feel the pain. He could see the blood pouring out of his arm, out of the spot where the arrow had hit him, where the wound was.
"I have to hold," Faikel mumbled to himself. He couldn't let himself be overtaken by the pain. Not now.
In that instant, a horn sounded. Signal for retreat.
"Retreat! Retreat," shouted one of the commanders still on horseback. "Orderly retreat!"
"Orderly," repeated another one, trying to calm his men down.
Men scrambled to obey, though their movements were sluggish, dazed. The chaos hadn't cleared. It only shifted shape. Faikel gritted his teeth, gripping his reins with his good hand, the other now slick with blood. His vision swam for a moment, the edges going dark.
He pulled his horse around, steadying it as best he could. Around him, some men staggered on foot, others mounted up quickly, spears dragging through churned-up mud. One rider helped a fallen comrade into the saddle behind him. Another simply rode past, too broken to look back.
Faikel looked once over his shoulder. The battlefield was strewn with bodies, both friend and foe. He could still hear the screaming.
But the horn had sounded.
And they had to live. To fight another day.
—
What fate has in store for you
Faikel sat there to the side. Someone had bandaged his arm, but his clothes were still bloody, a silent reminder of what had just transpired.
He stared ahead, his eyes unfocused, his mind trying to take in the scene. People were bringing body upon body. All were to be deposited next to each other. All were dead.
Off to the left, Faikel noticed a man sitting alone in the grass, not far from the corpse line. A soldier. His helmet was gone, his armor dented and hanging awkwardly from his frame. He looked strong, built like a stone mason or a smith, but it was evident his spirit was gone. His face was buried in his hands, tears coming down his cheeks.
The man stayed hunched over, silent sobs rocking his broad frame. The battle was over, but something deeper had broken. The mercenary had seen this many times before. The carnage of war had a way of crushing the soul of even the hardest of men.
Faikel had to look away. He understood that in moments like this, a man needed his privacy. He had to have space to come to terms with what had just occurred.
As he turned his head in a different direction, something caught his eye.
He saw a group of large men, with tough looking faces, carrying a score of bodies. Their look and dress betrayed the fact of their origin. These were men of the clans from the north.
Several of them were sporting dragon crests on their chests. The ones in front had an especially unusual look of dejection. Four of them were carrying a stretcher. On top of it was a body. Faikel recognized it.
"Okam," he whispered. The legendary warrior was dead.
He had seen him in battle. The way he carried himself showed a precise mastery of the sword. He seemed invincible.
And now he was dead.
Faikel kept looking straight ahead. At the bodies. He could recognize some of the faces that were lying on the ground. Some of them were men he had known.
He didn't shed a tear.
This was the way of the world. Death was what defined it. In his life, he had come to know death in an intimate way.
He knew sooner or later, it would come for him too.
Somehow, he came to accept that. He wouldn't say he wasn't scared. That would be lying. However, somehow he came to terms with the type of life he was thrown into.
Sometimes, you are thrown into the world haphazardly. You are put in a position without your asking.
You have to accept your burden.
"Sir, do you require any more help?" A black-haired man in a dirty uniform came up to Faikel.
Faikel, his train of thought lost, brushed away his question. He recognized the man.
"Balko?" He had seen him a few times before. A lowly recruit, who had made it to sergeant.
Faikel remembered him as not laughing much, always serious and sensitive.
"Yes, sir."
"You don't have to call me sir. I am just a soldier. Just like you," said Faikel. "You are Balko, right?"
"You are correct. Sergeant Balko."
Screams came from all sides, the sounds of wounded men. The mercenary once again focused his gaze on the signs of carnage in front of him.
"What a mess we have here," said Faikel. "Even mighty warriors like Okam from the Dragon clan had fallen."
"It's a sad sight indeed. Mighty warriors. What I am more worried about are the hundreds of common soldiers lying scattered all across," said Balko, his face showing a worried look. "The nobles, they will all get a grand burial, their families will continue to live in splendor. The common soldiers, not so much. "
Faikel could see the pain in the man's eyes.
"You're right," he said quietly. "They fought just as hard. Bled just as much."
Balko turned his gaze back to Faikel, the pain in his expression deepening.
"I was born in the dirt, a lowly peasant. Now I see countless peasants, just like my family, scattered across the field, on both sides," Balko said.
That gave Faikel a pause for thought.
The common soldiers.
He had seen them be slaughtered by the thousands. These were men who would never return to their families. Without their main breadwinner home to plow the fields, the wives and children would often sink into abject poverty.
"Such is the nature of this world," said Faikel. Looking back at the village he grew up in, poverty, war, and death were eternal parts of his world. That wasn't going to change. He had learned to accept it, and to live with it.
"It doesn't have to be," said Balko.
Faikel paused for a moment, not knowing how to continue. The man named Balko lingered above him for a moment, and then seeing another man in pain, quickly rushed over to the wounded fighter.
As the man left, Faikel took a deep breath.
"No need to sit here like a useless bum," he mumbled to himself. He gritted his teeth, and tried standing up.
As he got up to his feet, he stumbled around a bit. He was still feeling a bit light-headed.
His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, shaky, unsure, half-numb from pain and blood loss. He took a step forward, dragging his boot like it weighed twice what it should, then another, unsteady and limping.
The world tilted slightly. He blinked hard, trying to bring it back into place, but the blur only grew sharper.
A few more paces, then the strength gave out. His knees buckled like splintered wood under strain, and he hit the ground with a hard thud.
"Oh my!" He heard a woman's voice scream somewhere behind him.
He managed to turn around and lay on his back, his head pointed towards the heavens.
"You shouldn't be moving like that," said the woman approaching. "I just bandaged you up."
"You should have given me some of those magic potions you have," replied Faikel, seeing that it was a witch. Witches often lingered around the war camps, helping the soldiers recover from their wounds.
"Who says I didn't?" The witch stood above the man reeling around in the grass.
"Should have been something better," Faikel said, clutching his wounded arm.
"Ungrateful," the witch laughed. "I could have just left you like that without doing anything."
Faikel grinned behind the painful expression.
"Why didn't you? There are many other soldiers all around, still untreated," said Faikel.
"I have a feeling about you," said the witch. "Something tells me you are not like the others. You are special."
"Special?"
"Fate has something more in story for you," said the witch, while looking straight into the mercenary's eyes. "But not yet. Not yet. You must still walk many miles, fight many battles, before you set on the path destiny has laid out for you."
Faikel wasn't sure what she was talking about.
"You will suffer a thousand cuts, taste the smell of victory, only to be wrapped by the stink of defeat, again and again," she continued. "Fate will test you."
The mercenary just shook his head. He didn't understand what the witch was talking about.
He didn't care about all that. He didn't care about fate. All he ever wanted was to get through the day.
Faikel shifted slightly, wincing as a fresh jolt of pain raced through his arm. The witch's words lingered like smoke, curling in the back of his mind, but he brushed them off like he would a buzzing fly.
"I don't care about fate," he muttered. "That's for kings and priests and old men with too much time."
Still, something about her stare gnawed at him, like she saw something he couldn't.
He pushed himself up again, stubborn as ever. The world swayed. His legs trembled. For a second, it seemed like he might make it. But then the ground rushed toward him.
Before he could hit it, the witch caught him by the shoulder, her grip surprisingly firm. "You're not ready to fall again," she said, steadying him.
He grunted, embarrassed more than grateful. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," she said, her voice low, like she already knew how this all would end.
Faikel pondered what to do next. He felt weak, like he wasn't in control of himself. He hated that feeling.
"You are a tough man, but not always so tough," laughed the witch.
He stood still for a moment, catching his breath, staring at the battlefield in the distance, blood and dust mixing in the dying light.
This was who he was. Not a chosen one. Not a figure of prophecy. Just a soldier. A man who followed orders.
He didn't rebel. Never had. Never questioned the ones above him, nobles, priests, generals, gods. They told him to fight, so he fought. Told him to hold the line, so he did.
His will wasn't his own, not really. It belonged to duty. To the quiet discipline drilled into him by years of war.
The witch had said fate would test him. Maybe. But for now, Faikel did what he always did. He straightened his spine. Tightened the wrap on his wound. Looked to the next task.
"Where to now?" He asked, voice calm, eyes hard.
The witch smiled faintly. "Where you're told, mercenary."
And he nodded. That was enough.
