Desolate

Rainsford stood at the window watching the approaching flames. They marched through the night to claim their prize. Word from the front had been that Queen Ann’s troops had fought to the last man, refusing to rout and refusing to die easily. They had made the fields muddy with blood and bone. And it had made the Northern Barbarians all the more eager to claim the city, to take its collective frustration on the defenseless and wealthy city-state.

Rainsford fingered the sleeve of his Captain’s uniform. There was a tingle in his breath, the kind of nervous excitement he felt before a duel. But this feeling was colored with a tinge of dread. This wasn’t a duel to first blood, not even a duel to the death. A duel to the death implied he stood a chance to win and come out alive.

The line of troops reached the gate, and with the skeleton crew defending it they would breach within the hour. At the end of that hour, they’d be at the castle. They’d be here.

Rainsford clicked his boots together as he deftly turned about face and strode out of the chamber. He headed for his Queen’s chamber, where his charge sat and awaited the news from the front.

Crossing the vestibule and entering the sitting room, he found the Lady sitting with her young daughter on her lap. Rainsford dropped to a knee before her, eyes downcast. “M’lady, the front has completely collapsed. They’ve reached the gates.”

Rainsford glanced up at the woman he’d been in charge of defending since she herself was not much older than the young daughter. Her face was stoic but Rainsford’s trained eye detected the clenched jaw and bottom lip quivering ever so slightly.

“Then all is lost,” she said.

“Yes.”

The woman stood, placing her daughter back onto the couch. She walked with cold composure to the back room and returned two vials full of dark red liquid. “Drink, my sweet child. It is time for us to sleep.”

“I don’t feel tired yet,” the young girl said, her confusion putting a pout on her lip.

“I know, my dear, but mommy must sleep too. See?” And she downed the first vial. She handed the second one to her daughter and watched as she drank its contents.

When Rainsford returned his gaze to Queen Ann, her eyes blazed with righteous fury. “Take as many of them with you as you can, Captain Rainsford. Queen’s orders.”

Rainsford saluted and clicked his heels, spinning and moving with purpose out of the room. Knowing that the two girls would be dead before he even had his full plate on made his heart twang with regret, and he quickened his pace to get away from that room of death.

In the armory, men were rushing about to and fro, orders were being shouted, news from the gates coming and going. Rainsford found his armorer who was running by with an arm full of plate, and he grasped the boy by the shoulder to stop him.

“My plate. I need it donned as soon as humanly possible.”

The boy looked up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes, mouth slightly ajar. Rainsford gave the boy a reassuring squeeze. “They don’t normally kill the noncombatants. My armor, if you please. I plan on dying with my feet firmly planted.”

The boy’s eyes welled up but he turned and headed off. Rainsford followed with a more relaxed pace. Forty-five minutes until they’d be nearing the castle. With the matter so squarely set, he was finding himself more and more at ease. His charge would not feel the ravages of the conquering army. Now all that was left was to die gloriously.

His armorer was quick and efficient, strapping each piece of plate on with rapid familiarity. Thirty more minutes. Rainsford belted a half-sword and grasped his freshly polished halberd in both hands. When he arrived at the entrance of the castle, he met fifty other armed guards, only three other knights. The rest were men-at-arms, heavily armored but no full plate. A full row of shields and spears, some halberds, and some crossbowmen. Rainsford inspected his men.

“I can think of no better men to die with.”

A loud cheer erupted from the men. Shields were slammed. Chants of “Captain Rainsford!” and “Till Death!” started as the Captain took the helm and led the men to the bridge.

Screams and clattering and smoke billowed up from the dying city below the bridge. Torchlight illumined the paved road leading to them, and as the first savages came into view, they began yelling. Rainsford called for the shield wall, and as the savages began charging up the road, the first row of crossbows thwacked out their deadly load. A line of men crumpled, but many didn’t even break stride despite having broad bolts sticking from their limbs or chests.

Rainsford stood behind the first wall of shields, and the men opposing them slammed into the wall. A second volley of crossbows was already shot out, and the spears of his men thrust out, and the pained screams of the dying could be heard over the tumult. A man stumbled back in front of him, and he thrust the tip of his halberd over his falling brother and skewed the savage trying to break into the formation. The fallen spearman found his footing and shored up the hole he’d opened, thrusting his spear with new vigor. Rainsford walked on, yelling encouragement and occasionally thrusting his halberd over the top of the formation, catching an enemy in the face or chest whenever he could.

Rainsford snuck a peek over the wall and was stunned to see the sheer amount of bodies pressing onto the bridge, pushing with all their might from behind. Dead and dying men were being crushed and trampled as Rainsford’s men were pushed step by bloody step backwards, unable to stand their ground against the onslaught of bodies.

A hush stole over the bridge as savage men parted, making way for a massive brute of a man. The monster wore the hide of a gigantic brown bear, the head of the animal serving as the man’s helmet. He wielded two broad axes, and he sheared through a spearhead and battered the man wielding it, killing the man-at-arms in a flurry of blows. He screamed in his coarse language a challenge for a champion, and Rainsford accepted.

His men parted for him, and a clearing opened on the bridge. The massive man chortled a laugh and gestured to Rainsford obscenely. Rainsford took a fighting stance, halberd out, and stood his ground. The big man charged, his dual weapons flashing. Using the superior reach of his halberd, he parried away the first axe and scored a hit on the big man’s arm. Blood ran in thick red drips, pulsing out in the rhythmic spasms of the heart. A death wound, given enough time.

The challenger whipped his arm back and forth, spattering blood onto the bridge. A cheer erupted behind him as he charged forward again. Rainsford replanted his feet and thrust his halberd, but the brute caught the weapon with the haft of his axe and attempted to wrench it free. Abandoning the weapon, Rainsford drew his sword and slashed twice, one catching the giant on the chest and the other on the wrist. As the big man stumbled back, a spear came from the crowd catching Rainsford in the forearm. The spear punched through the steel but failed to enter his flesh. Rainsford pushed his attack as he heard chants of “Dishonor!” coming from his men. He landed another superficial slash, but the fur-clad giant was already swinging his axe. The axe haft caught the spear now jutting from Rainsford’s arm, and the momentum twisted it grotesquely. He felt a pop in his elbow and his blade dropped to the ground with a clang. The second axe caught him in the chest, biting into the plate just enough to slice skin.

Rainsford slapped with his bad arm, using it as a cudgel. He felt his arm cracking further and he screamed as another spear came from the crowd, ripping into his leg. The giant laughed as he wrapped him into a bear hug and shoved him over the edge of the bridge. Rainsford had enough time to watch his men rushing forward, yelling and chanting.

He slapped against the roof of a building, tumbling into a wall and hitting the ground with a bone-crunching crash. One of the spears had been pushed deeper through the plate, and he could feel blood pumping from the torn wound. His limbs were battered and twisted, and he’d lost several pieces of armor from the tumble. He looked up at the bridge, unable to even lift his own head. He coughed blood into his face-plate. Not like this, Rainsford thought, as his vision faded to black.