Chapter 9 - All is Lost...

The gates exploded in a rain of bricks and timber around Private Vincent, who stood completely frozen less than a dozen paces away. He even thought he might have seen a soldier sailing somewhere through the air above him, but he couldn’t tell for sure. There was too much chaos, too much noise, too many things happening at once.

The men that had been holding the gate were there one second, and then the next, they were just... gone. There were no screams, no bodies to be seen, just a colossal boulder and cloud of dust in their place instead, like they had never even existed at all. One of the gate’s massive doors was completely smashed, little more than a pile of firewood now, while the other leaned over precariously, clinging on desperately by one hinge.

First the deafening crash, and now everything was so damn quiet. He swallowed, feeling very alone as he realized he was now the closest one to the open gates. His sword was already in his hand somehow, even though he hadn’t even remembered drawing it. His hand was shaking so badly he could barely hold it steady.

Then he heard the first one, the chittering laughter of the gnolls. Just a single one at first, calling out almost curiously, then others joined in. Before long it was dozens, and then a chorus of droning peals of laughter that sounded like a screeching swarm of locusts. The other door fell forward in a heaving crash, kicking up a cloud of dust. He coughed and held his shield up in front of him to block as much as he could. Then he saw them... The first pair of yellow eyes glinting through the dust. By the time the dust settled, there were more than he could count... all staring back at him. He swallowed and turned, getting ready to run. Then a voice behind him yelled, “Fire!” He had to duck as a volley of crossbow bolts whistled right above his head. The gnolls behind him yelped as the first ones through the gap fell to the ground, peppered full of bolts.

“Form ranks! Form ranks now, dammit!” First Sergeant Goren’s voice called out from somewhere, a beacon of order in the chaos.

Vincent was suddenly swept up by a mass of moving bodies. Soldiers to his left and right forming lines around him, shields raised and swords at the ready. Vincent did the same, relieved to see his sword arm wasn’t trembling so quite badly anymore.

He’d been the best swordsmen in his small village. First, practicing against others with sticks, as all young boys do, then with practice blades in the ring for sport after he became a young man. Joining the army seemed like the only logical choice after that. This was his first real fight against the gnolls though, his first real fight against anyone outside the ring, for that matter.

“Don’t worry lad, we can do this.” The mustached soldier next to him said. “Let them fill those bastards full of bolts first and soften them up.”

Vincent nodded and gripped his sword tighter, trying to remember everything First Sergeant Goren taught him in the sparring ring. He didn’t always win, but he did pretty damn well against the other newer soldiers his age. They’d always used metal swords that were blunted and heavier than the real thing. This one felt light as a feather and by the gods, was it sharp, he had made damn sure of that. So how different could this be than the sparring ring?

“Fire!” A voice called out again, followed by the reassuring bark of more crossbows firing bolts overhead. He ducked reflexively, even though they were more than a foot above him. More gnolls coming through yelped and fell in a bloody pile in front of the gates. There were still more crossbowmen on top of the walls firing down at them as well. Vincent allowed himself a nervous smile. Maybe they’d show those bastards the right end of a sword tonight, after all.

Then he heard the baleful cry of that damn war horn again, from somewhere outside the gates. That got his hand shaking again, right back the way it was. The mocking laughter of the gnolls increased to a feverish pitch and then they pressed in, swarming over the bodies and through the gates.

“Forward!” Someone yelled. He didn’t want to go forward, but the men to his left and right, and the row behind him were, so he had little choice in the matter. He was practically being lifted and carried with the others like a leaf on a stream. He had always thought he’d be one of the brave ones, but now that he was here, in the front ranks, all he wanted to do was turn and run. There was nowhere to go. They were trapped in here like salted herring in a barrel. He couldn’t breathe. Vincent wanted to tug at the chainmail around his neck, loosen it up so he get some air, but he didn’t have a free hand with this stupid shield and sword.

The gnolls were getting close now. “Stop!” He yelled, but who would listen even if they could hear him? There was no stopping them, the gnolls were coming forward in a furious tide of steel and fangs.

“Hold, steady!” The mustached man yelled. The gnolls were upon them now. Vincent raised his shield and closed his eyes. Then there was a clash of screeching metal that rattled his teeth. The gnoll in front of him barked and howled, inches from his face. Vincent wanted to smash his sword in its teeth, but there was no room. No room at all. He couldn’t breathe again. He managed to get his sword arm raised above his head, but he couldn’t do much with it after that, so he just pushed his shield against the gnoll’s and cursed the best he could. Then something hot and wet sprayed against his face. Blood. Was it his? It didn’t feel like his. Vincent glanced out of the corner of his eye, not daring to take his eyes off the gnoll completely. He saw the mustached man clutching at his throat, blood gushing from between his fingers. Oh gods. He wanted to drop his sword and shield right there and run. But where was there to run?

“Close the ranks! Close the ranks, dammit!” He heard First Sergeant Goren bellowing behind him.

Then he saw it, a flash of steel glinting in the moonlight, coming right for his face. Vincent’s sword rang as it whipped out in front of him and snapped the gnoll’s sword away in a deft parry. His entire arm rattled to the bone from the force of it, but damn, was he fast with this real blade. Gods, he was happy the training swords were so heavy now. Maybe a real fight wouldn’t be so bad after all. The gnoll in front of him wasn’t done, though. It barked and then swung from a different angle. Vincent parried again, fast as a viper, then smashed his shield into the gnoll’s, sending it lurching backward into the one behind it.

Vincent saw his opening and lunged forward, catching the gnoll in the ribs and running it through nearly to the hilt. Blood gushed from the wound, making the hilt all slippery in his blood-soaked hands. There was a look of surprise on the gnoll’s face for a few seconds, then its eyes rolled into the back of its head, and it fell forward on him, flopping like a fish.

“No!” Vincent yelled. “Get off me, you bastard!” He tried to push it away with his shield, but it was too heavy and he couldn’t pull his sword free with his slippery, blood-soaked hand. This isn’t how it was supposed to go, not how his first fight was supposed to go at all. He’d never had to pull his sword free of someone’s ribs in the sparring ring. Never had slippery blood all over his hand. He’d scored a hit. Best to three, just like in the ring. Now, back to our corner to start over again, right? Why hadn’t anyone trained him for any of this?

“Stop! Get off! Get off!” He yelled again, but it didn’t do any good. The gnoll couldn’t speak his language, or speak at all now, dead as it was. The next gnoll was coming now, wicked axe held high. Vincent squirmed as he tried to push the corpse off him, tried to twist his sword free. It was too late though, the gnoll was coming and all Vincent could do was stare up at the axe like a lamb before the slaughter. He tried to twist away as it chopped down, tried to raise his shield, but it was pinned under the gnoll’s lifeless body.

There was a crunch and a soft, wet, popping sound. Then he was lying on his back in the dust, the dead gnoll’s face right next to his. There was this terrible pain in his face, and he couldn’t see out of one eye. Couldn’t see! He wanted to reach up and touch his face, see how bad it was, but he couldn’t move his arms. All he could see from his other eye was a forest of angry legs, stomping the ground around him and kicking dust in his face. One of the boots stepped right on his hand, hurt so bad he wanted to scream. Couldn’t they see him down here? Why wasn’t anyone helping him?

“Help!” He wheezed, but all that came out of his mouth was a mindless, gurgling groan. Then the gnoll didn’t feel so heavy anymore and all the chaos faded away into quiet darkness.

******

Being stuck in the second rank was a lot like just waiting for your turn in the chow line, except you were waiting for something a lot worse than army food... if that was possible. There wasn’t much he could do for the man in front of him. He just held his shield up for him in case he got knocked backward, while also trying not to crowd him, even though he kept getting shoved from behind. Just look out for the man next to you. That’s the most important part of being a soldier, Private Erich reckoned. Erich ducked as the man’s sword nearly knocked him in the head on his backswing.

“Careful, you idiot!” Erich yelled, giving him a good shove with his shield. But who could hear anyone in all this noise and madness? The man just yelled something unintelligible, probably not even to him, then swung his sword at the gnoll in front of him.

Erich gripped his sword tighter in his hand, trying to find some measure of reassurance in the piece of sharpened steel. He’d been the son of a blacksmith, had always played around with the unfinished work in his father’s forge. Pretending the scythe blades were swords, that the shovels were pikes, that the plows were giant shields. Then he’d go off and vanquish imaginary kobolds and goblins, or even imaginary orcs and bugbears if he was feeling brave. He looked down at the blade in his hand. For all a sword’s glory in the imagination of a scrawny twelve-year-old, its magnificence was lost on him now. It felt as small and impotent as a cheese knife in his sweating hand.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Erich shouted as the man’s sword whipped back again, nearly clipping him on the shoulder, but then it dropped from his hand. The man fell backward onto Erich’s shield, nearly knocking him over. Erich saw his face, saw the man’s scared eyes looking at him for answers or help as he clutched his torn-out throat. Erich wanted to help him, but there was nothing he could do with the sword and shield in his hand, with the countless bodies pushing behind him, or the gnolls bearing down on him. Erich shook his shield until the dying man slid off and disappeared into the bodies on the ground.

Now, all of a sudden, it was his turn. He was in the front lines and by the gods, he wasn’t ready for this. How could anyone be? This was all his father’s fucking fault, anyway. His fault he had to run off in the middle of the night to conscript in the Duke’s army after he turned seventeen. He wanted to stay, wanted to become a blacksmith, but he had to escape.

The gnoll swung its hook-beaked sword at him, the blade still covered in blood from the last poor bastard it carved open. Erich managed to block it just in time, but the shuddering impact knocked him backward. He felt a shield at his back, shoving him hard and sending him reeling forward off-balance. The gnoll was waiting for him, popping his shield up and smashing into Erich’s jaw.

His teeth crunched together, he bit his tongue, and tasted blood. It hurt so bad it made him sweat, made him flush hot all over. Reminded him of the heat of the forge. Reminded him of the heavy hands of his father. Metal wasn’t the only thing he hammered away on. Especially after he had a few drinks and a few bad hands of cards at the tavern. He spit blood out of his mouth and the warm feeling inside him only got hotter, like the flames of a furnace. That was fucking it. He’d bloody had enough. Had enough of being pushed around, hit, and beaten. It had happened his whole life, and he wasn’t going to take it anymore.

The gnoll wasn’t there anymore, his father was now. He could see his blotchy, red, broken hammer of a nose, his cauliflower ears, his leathered skin. He could smell the alcohol on his breath. Could hear him laughing at him right now.

“Fuck you! You Bastard!” Erich tried to yell, but all that came out was a gurgling growl more inhumane than the gnolls. Erich grunted as he swung his broadsword in a perfect and deadly arc at his father’s head. Clang! He felt the reverberations jolt up his arm like lightning, making his fingers numb from the force of it. The skull gave under the force of his blow, like soft, orange steel. The now mostly headless corpse of his father stood tottering for a second, then fell backward onto his father standing behind him. His father looked just as surprised as Erich was to see him for a second time tonight. But it made little matter, there was no time for introductions, only time for steel. Time for him to pay.

“Come on! Let’s go! You bastards!” Someone was yelling somewhere next to him. Orders echoed from behind him, but he could hardly hear them now, couldn’t understand what they were saying. They were commands for someone else, not him.

He was only focused on rage, ignoring the forest of deadly metal points gleaming in the air in front of him. He stepped forward, jaw clenched, heart pounding, blood pumping in his skull so hard its thundering beating was almost all he could hear, pounding in his head like an anvil. His lungs took deep, powerful breaths he could hear in his head like bellows fanning coal, fanning the fire and molten rage pumping in his iron veins.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Someone was yelling. Was it him? It was him. He was the one yelling, roaring now like a dragon.

Erich may not have been the most graceful of swordsman, but he swung that sword like a blacksmith’s hammer. Clang. His father snarled, spraying spit in his face as his sword cleaved into his shoulder. His lifeless body fell to the ground like a sack of coal. Clang. His sword smashed a wooden shield to pieces. Clang. His father dropped his broken shield to clutch at his open throat, gurgling and falling to the ground. His father stumbled forward now, looking scared, barely holding his weapons up. Clang. His skull dented just like iron straight out of the fire.

Erich took in another heaving breath, tried to refill his massive bellows, tried to fan that coal again, but he could feel it going out. He looked up, but his father was gone now and there was a gnoll looking at him instead, just as surprised as he was. One on the other side of him too, and to the front. What had bloody happened? Gnolls were suddenly all around him. Where were the others? He’d pushed so far forward, he’d pushed past everyone else. Pushed nearly all the way to the gates.

Something hit him in the back of the head, hard. Dropped him right to his knees. He felt dizzy, hazy, drunk. He looked up and saw his father standing above him. He’d messed up bad this time, he knew it. Knew his father was mad at him, was going to beat him good this time.

********

Crank, reload, shoot. That was the mantra that got him through every other battle, and it would be the mantra that got him through this one. It was what he tried to drill into these young pups. Sergeant Clark cranked his well-oiled crossbow, finishing reloading in half the time as the other soldiers, still struggling with their windlasses. Hadn’t he told them to use a little pig’s fat on the gears? But these youngsters never listen, that was just the way with them nowadays.

He picked a target from the crowd and fired his crossbow. He didn’t bother to see if he hit his target, just went straight back to reloading. He knew he had hit it. Besides, what would it matter if he missed? That was none of his business, not the business of a good crossbowman. His business was putting more bolts down range at the enemy. Time spent watching your bolt flying through the air was time that wasn’t spent reloading another one. It didn’t matter if they were orcs, goblins, elves, or gnolls; the more bolts you could put in the air against those bastards, the quicker it would all be over.

Sergeant Clark had shot crossbow bolts ever since he enlisted, more than a decade ago now. He had shot crossbow bolts at every major battle in Austerland’s recent history. He shot bolts at orcs in the battle for Baskavia, rained fire down on the goblin scourge Zyl-Tan in the battle for Dagger Pass, and even against the despicable wood elves in the siege of DeGaullis with Commander Peshka. Although, Peshka had only been a young lieutenant then, and he himself had just been a private, fresh from training like these other young pups.

“Hold the line!” First Sergeant Goren shouted from somewhere behind him. The line of soldiers was starting to crumble in front of him now. Hardly a line at all anymore, just a mass of churning bodies screaming and trying to kill one another. Not at all like the siege of DeGaullis, men had much more discipline back then, not like these young excuses for soldiers nowadays. Several gnolls were already slipping inside the fort through the crumbling flanks of the line. Those would be the bastards he would pick off next.

Crank, reload, shoot. As he fired his next bolt, something caught his eye before he could get back to reloading. A black-clothed figure appeared on the left flanks, dark cloak whipping behind him as he darted from gnoll to gnoll, cutting down any that made it past the soldiers. Clark had heard the other soldiers mention that an Inquisitor had shown up in the night but thought someone had made it up just to scare the new recruits.

Crank, reload, shoot. He knew that he had to. He cranked his windlass but couldn’t stop himself from watching the Inquisitor fight. Weaving his sword like a needle, threading it through every gnoll that tried to get past. He swung some sort of spiked metal chain or whip in his other hand that whistled through the air faster than Clark could track. The spiked chain lashed out behind him, catching a gnoll that tried to run past him by its leg, taking it off below the knee. He narrowly dodged the attack of another gnoll charging in front of him, stabbed the one flailing on the ground, twisted into a pirouette, then stabbed the one in front of him through the throat. Two gnolls dead before he could finish reloading. He knew had to get back to reloading but couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the Inquisitor. Never seen anyone fight like that, not in all his years or any of the battles he fought. Not with weapons like that, certainly, but it was his unnatural grace and zealous disregard for his own life that made him so deadly. He seemed to have no regard for the danger he was putting his life in, didn’t even have armor on. All his movements were so decisive, so certain, not a second of hesitation. Not a hint of anger on his face, just cold mechanical precision, the same as his crossbow.

He heard a whistling sound and wind brushing against his face. He lifted his hand up lazily as if it to swat at a fly, but it did little to stop the arrow piercing Sergeant Clark through the throat.

*******

Corporal Farris ran past the gnolls at the gate. Ran past the soldiers fighting them. Ran right past the crossbowmen, shooting bolts into the fray. He even saw one of the unlucky bastards get shot right through the throat with an arrow, but he was glad it wasn’t him. There was no crossbow in his hands, no sword either, just two buckets of sloshing water. He was the stableman, and there were more pressing matters right now than the gates. He panted as he ran. The buckets of water sloshing in each hand were throwing him wildly off balance. Other soldiers ran past him in the opposite direction, weapons drawn and shouting. Some were yelling at him, pointing in the other direction, but he didn’t have time to stop.

A flaming arrow sailed past him, close enough for him to feel the sizzling heat from it. He lurched sideways, almost tripping from the extra weight of the sloshing buckets. Why did the fucking dogmen have to light their bloody arrows on fire before shooting them?

He rounded the corner and saw the stables. Damn. This was bad. Orange flames licked at the night angrily and had spread across the thatched roof. He dropped the buckets, the water poured on the ground, they were going to be as useful as horseshoes on a hog now. He couldn’t stop the fire now, just had to get them out of there. He could already hear them; their panicked cries made his heart skip a beat.

“I’m coming!” He yelled, not sure why. His heart pounded in his throat as he ran inside the doorway, ignoring the thick black smoke pouring out. The smoke immediately burned his eyes, filling them with tears. He could barely breathe, could barely see, had to rely on muscle-memory to make his way to the first stall and fumbled blindly for the latch. The metal burned his hands, but he yanked on it anyway freeing the horse. He breathed a sigh of relief as the horse’s instincts kicked in and it bolted for the door. He didn’t have time to see them all out one by one. He kept moving on to the next stall and then the next. He made it to the end, freeing each horse on one side. Halfway done, one more side to go. Farris turned to get the other side on the way out, but he nearly collapsed from being so lightheaded. The air scorched his throat and he coughed as his lungs seized from the smoke. Everything was starting to fade to black. He had to get back outside, refill his lungs with air again. Then he could save the rest.

He made it back outside, right before his shaking legs felt like they were about to give out from underneath him. The cool night air was a panacea to his scorched throat and burning lungs. His head started to clear after a few more steadying breaths. He heard the other horses screaming in panic and pain again. “I’m coming!” He wheezed and pushed on the door, but before he made it inside, he felt a bug pinch him on the back, then there was a small shiny piece of metal sprouting out of his chest. It looked like a tiny metal acorn or like he’d just been awarded a medal for bravery, except it was all covered in blood.

He turned around and saw a gnoll standing a dozen paces away from him, holding a bow in its hands. “You bastard!” He wheezed as he stumbled inside. Couldn’t the gnoll see he was already headed into a burning building for gods sakes? Why waste the arrow on him? Breathing through all this smoke was hard enough already.

He stumbled back inside the burning stables. Breathing was even harder now, his lungs refused to cooperate, and just made wet, gurgling sounds whenever he tried. He couldn’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth either. The horses screamed in terror as a huge wooden beam split in half and fell from the roof, wreathed in flames. He had to hurry. No time for self-pity. He lumbered forward to the first latch, his blistered fingers ignored the searing pain from the hot metal. The smoke didn’t even burn his throat anymore. He felt so lightheaded and tired now, he had to hurry. Just a few more left. Farris rushed over to the next stall, and then the next one. Just one more left. He stumbled on something and fell forward, hitting his head hard. He felt dizzy, like he was going to pass out. The arrow didn’t even hurt anymore. It was just so damn hot. Just needed some water. Where had he put those buckets? So thirsty now. Some water and a little rest and it would be better. His throat was so parched. What was he doing in here again? He heard the horse cry out again, snapping him back to the horror of the present. Farris lunged for the latch on the last stall and opened it. The horse thundered past him, a look of fear and perhaps even gratitude in its eyes, as it ran by. Farris turned to run out too, but he was lying on the ground for some reason. So very tired now. Best get some shuteye after a hard day’s work. Just wished he could get a drink of damn water. His mouth was so dry. He’d have to get some tomorrow before he fed the horses. He would just take a little nap first, right here in this sunny meadow.

********

Morten opened his eyes, staring up at the stars in the sky and the orange orbs streaking lazily overhead. He felt peaceful. He was laying in something soft that held him in a warm embrace. He wanted to just close his eyes and go to sleep right here. Then the pain thudded into him like a hammer. He groaned and grabbed his head. His ears were ringing, and his ankle hurt. Pain was good though, it meant he was still alive. He fumbled and reached around until he found his dented helmet and lifted it to put on his head. Hay fell out of it, into his hair, but he hardly seemed to notice. He was lucky to be alive, had landed in a haycart just off to the side of the gates. He could see the men fighting there now, trying to hold the gnolls back, but many were starting to slip through. Morten reached around him reflexively, empty hands searching franticly for his crossbow, but he had lost it somewhere in the fall, and his squad was nowhere in sight. Morten looked up and saw the western tower still standing in the distance. Had the others made it already? He had to try to get to them.

Morten shook his head and started making his way toward the western tower. His ankle was tender, but he pushed through the pain the best he could with a limping jog. He turned a corner, cutting past the burning stables. Then froze.

“Oh fu-“ Morten’s voice caught in his throat. A gnoll stood right in front of him, bow and arrow pointed right at his chest. There was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go.

Then a riderless horse thundered out of the burning stables, saddle on, empty stirrups dangling by its side, smashing right into the gnoll. It sent its limp body flying through the air like a rag doll. Morten swallowed, grateful for this slight turn of luck in his favor, then continued off toward the tower.

“Morten!” A familiar voice called out. “Over here!” Morten looked up and saw Finn and the others in his squad making their way across the courtyard to the tower. Everyone was there except Corporal Higgins. Morten allowed himself a sigh of relief, then started hobbling after them, swearing as he tried to ignore the pain in his ankle.