A Good Day To Die

         The first light of the new day glinted off the pikes and breastplates of the Sandaran Infantry, and the full armor and crested helms of the vaunted Sandaran Cavalry sitting their saddles behind the footmen, while the archers stood behind the cavalry, bows strung with waxed strings, and arrows knocked, ready to fire at a moments notice. On a low rise less than fifty spans behind the Army of Sandar, atop a large podium erected for this moment, sat Erios, King of Sandar, along with his generals and closest advisors.
         For more than ten years the Sandaran army had tried to conquer the mountainous region to the northeast of Sandar, but the native clans of barbarians had made the Sandarans pay in blood for every inch of ground gained, and now, in the largest valley in the center of the mountains, the two armies stood across this field, a run of no more than five hundred paces, facing each other, each army knowing that today was the day, win or lose. Today this ten year campaign would end one way or another. The Sandarans refused to fail to obey an order from their King, and the King had ordered these mountains taken.
         The barbarian clans had fallen back as far as they could without leaving their sacred mountain home, though every step taken in retreat pained them more than any wound could have, and now, with no further to run except away from their ancient lands, they would turn and fight, to the end of them all if need be.The barbarians stood with their backs to a river, in much less orderly rows than the Sandarans, grouped in knots of twenty or thirty, mostly family members trying to stay close together, to watch each other’s backs in the coming melee.
         As the sun rose its full height from behind the mountains, King Erios ordered his archers to fire, and the sky darkened with a rain of deadly shafts.
Across the field, the barbarians took refuge behind their shields, though there were still many injured when the arrows struck, some sinking into legs or arms, a few barbarians without shields getting struck in the throat or breast, and a few arrows falling hard enough to drive through the shields and into the flesh they were supposed to protect. As wave after wave of arrows fell, the barbarian ranks began to become riddled with holes as more and more succumbed to the barbed arrows of the enemy.
         While the archers rained their shafts down onto the barbarian force, the infantry began their march to close ranks with the enemy. The tactic had worked well hundreds of times as the king had slowly expanded his reign over the years, the archers keeping the barbarians pinned down while the infantry closed within striking distance. Once the Sandaran Infantry was within sixty paces of the enemy troops, the arrows ceased to fall and the pikes dropped as the Sandarans charged in a deadly short sprint, smashing into the ranks of the barbarians and driving a deep wedge toward their center.
         The barbarians were strong and hardy fighters, however, and soon the infantry was hard pressed to hold their advantage against such a vicious foe. Most of the pikes were discarded in short order, as their length became useless in the close combat that always followed the initial charge, and the Sandaran troops drew the short, broad bladed swords at their belts.
         Many of the barbarians used heavier weapons, battleaxes and hammers and the like, and these massive instruments of war would smash through the strongest armor when in the hands of an experienced wielder. In a matter of thirty marks, the battle had become near evenly matched, with both sides taking heavy losses.Both sides now expected the cavalry to be ordered into battle at any moment, sealing the fate of the barbarian clans.
         Behind the Sandaran cavalry, atop his podium, King Erios watched the battle unfold just as he knew it would. At the very respectable age of seventy-four, Erios still stood just over six feet tall, with a body of corded muscle form a lifetime of combat, and leathery skin darkened to a deep chestnut brown from decades of camp life on the campaigns to build his empire. This last bastion of barbarians, and more importantly their strategically important mountains, was the last step in his plan of conquest. Once these mountains were his, he would build forts throughout them to protect his flank against the Elven Kingdom of Shemarra to the northeast. Then he could secede the crown to his son, Prince Derek, and retire to his hunting lodge, which he would build here, in this very valley, to spend the rest of his days hunting the magnificent game that prowled these mountains.
         Behind the King’s podium stood a large tent striped in the colors of the royal house, green and gold, with smoke billowing from the small hole in the peaked roof. Emerging from this tent, the King’s court Sorcerer, Havileth, strode toward the podium, to climb up beside the King, and survey the battlefield.
         In the midst of the battle, a youth who had yet to show his first whiskers stood with his back to a large spur of rock jutting from the ground, the axe in his hands whirling as if alive, moving with lightning speed from parry to parry, as the youth desperately held off the four Sandaran footmen attacking him. Seeing the youthful face of the black-haired savage, the four had thought to take themselves a pup, and instead found they faced a young
male lion, as the youth growled and roared in fury, trying to spot an opening into which he could slide his axe, hopefully beheading one of the soldiers. At that moment, lightning erupted from a clear blue sky, spearing down into the ranks of soldiers and
barbarians littering the field in a dance of death. Scores of jagged bolts of light leapt into knots of Sandaran and barbarian alike, the impact throwing men to the ground or tumbling them along like leaves before a storm, those that were nearest the strikes charred beyond recognition in an instant.
         As the four soldiers facing the youth were distracted by the tortured screams of their dying comrades, the young savage struck, his axe shearing the head from one foe and the arm from another in quick succession. As the other two soldiers renewed their attacks, the youth roared a final challenge and buried his axe deep in the chest of one, while the other’s short sword scored a long but shallow cut on his arm.
         On the podium, Havileth began to sweat with the effort of summoning so much lightning into existence so rapidly, and began changing his tactics, causing the earth to erupt underfoot as if the world were being torn apart.
         The young savage, discovering his axe trapped in the breastbone of his fallen enemy, released the weapon and turned to face his last foe, a short, light-skinned Sandaran with a shock of red hair, gripping a short sword in one hand, and a notched dagger in the other. The soldier lunged forward in an upward stab, but the youth spun away, drawing his own dagger, a poniard with a blade the length of his forearm. Returning the strike, the youth scored a deep gash on the soldier’s left forearm, but suffered a shallow stab wound in the thigh. Leaping back to gain room, the youth tripped over a Sandaran corpse as he came down, and the soldier scored a long gash across the youth’s forehead.
         Suddenly blinded by the blood running into his eyes, the barbarian rolled to the right, and came up swiping his hands across his face. When he could see clearly, the soldier was almost on top of him, rushing in with his short sword held overhead for a downward thrust. The youth raised his dagger to impale the onrushing soldier, and suddenly the ground erupted beneath him, throwing the youth and the Sandaran soldier in opposite directions. The young savage landed heavily in a deep thicket of dagger-vines, the inch-long dagger-like thorns piercing deep into his skin and shredding his leather clothing.
The soldier flew into a stone outcropping with a heavy thud, leaving a long red stain as his body slid to the ground.
         Within minutes, the valley lay silent and unmoving, as Havileth ceased his magical attacks. The barbarians and Sandaran Infantry alike lay scattered across the valley floor, broken and bloody, battered and charred. King Erios stood with a grin spreading across his face. He would have the sorcerer transport the two of them magically to Sandaris, the capitol city of the Kingdom of Sandar. Now that the barbarian army had been eradicated, it would be a simple matter for his troops to mop up the rest of the mountains, and a task he
wouldn’t have to see to personally, as he had all the battles and little wars fought to expand his empire.
         Traveling back to Sandaris by way of magical portal, the king left commands to burn the bodies of the dead, and begin routing out the families of the barbarian warriors, to have them swear fealty to the king, or otherwise be sold into slavery or killed.
         Long after the sun had set, and the warriors had completed their task of collecting and burning the bodies, one barbarian body lay undiscovered, and therefore unburned, which was well for the young savage, as he awakened shortly after midnight, to the smell of burning flesh. Weakly, the youth climbed to his knees, feeling his limbs to see if anything was broken. It seemed, luckily, that nothing was, though the ribs on his right side were tender from hitting the ground, and his ankle appeared to have gotten twisted in one of his falls. Luckily, his body had crushed the center of the dagger-vine patch, so that he wasn’t really tangled in it, just lying on top of it.
         Peering through the tangle of vines, he could see the bonfire piled high with the bodies of his kinsmen and their enemies alike, its flames reaching high into the night.
Here and there he could see the moonlight glint off the armor of a mounted patrol. The knights were pulling guard duty since they and the archers were the only members of the Sandaran army to survive, having not actually been in the battle.
It was obvious that he had lost his home. He knew that the king would move his own settlers in, or maybe just make all the lands of his people hunting grounds for the king and his powerful and pampered friends.
         The young savage knew that he must leave these mountains now and maybe never return. But he had heard only vague stories of the world outside his mountainous home, strange tales of unbelievable things. He knew of places in the outer lands only by myth and rumor, and though he knew a few names of places, he knew not where those places lay. With that thought came the realization that for him, any direction was as good as another, though it might be best not to travel into Sandar, which would limit his choices to north, south, and east. South seemed the easiest for someone in his weakened state, so the youth set his eyes southward and began looking for a safe path past the sentries.
         Sneaking past the pampered, city-bred knights would be simple, especially on the night of the new moon, when only the stars would shed their light on the world. Traveling through the mountains afterward, however, would be hard for someone in his weakened and injured condition. Some gear would be required if the young savage was to survive the trek. The only way for him to find the gear without going into the Sandaran camp, would be to take it from one of the knights riding patrol. Most knights, at least in his six months of experience with warring against them, seemed to carry everything they would need in their saddlebags.
         The youth knew that taking one of those mounted knights, especially while they would be alert on watch, would be incredibly hard for an uninjured man, but near impossible for him, unless he resorted to unusual tactics. Silently and slowly making his way out of the patch of dagger-vines, the young savage crawled swiftly across the ground toward the south end of the valley, making use of every piece of vegetation and every skill learned hunting with his father, to make it unnoticed across the valley floor and into the mountains.
         Watching the sentries, he had seen that they rode in circles in opposite directions, in concentric rings around the camp, about sixty paces apart, and starting at a hundred and twenty paces out. Drifting toward the outermost guard, the young savage drew within six paces of where the knight would pass on his next circuit, and hid himself in a stand of high grass. In his right hand he held a large rock, the size of a human skull; he had picked it up on his way here. The rock weighed heavily in the young savage’s hand, and as
the knight approached, the youth flexed the already large muscle bulging in his right arm. That side was tender, but he wouldn’t trust his aim with his left arm.
         As the knight drew abreast with the youth’s position, the young savage threw with all his strength and skill. Sailing through the air, the rock smashed into the face of the knight, who had doffed his helmet to feel the night’s cool wind. With the sound of crunching bone, the knight fell from his saddle, and the youth caught the reins of the knight’s mount before it could bolt and alert the other sentries. Knowing that he couldn’t safely ride to the mountains without being spotted, the youth stripped the horse of its saddlebags, which were found to hold rations, water, and a change of clothes a bit too small for the youth, as well as a utility knife and a tinder box.
         After examining the knight’s sword, the young savage belted on the scabbard and sheathed the blade, checked the knight’s dagger, which was elaborate but poorly made, and then took the mace hanging from the saddle. Tethering the horse beside the body, the youth slid quietly into the shadows of the night, disappearing into the mountains at the southern end of the valley. As the mountains closed in on the youthful savage, he had no thoughts of sorrow for all the clansmen who had fought and died that day. They had come to battle with the intention to earn glory protecting their homeland, and they had died glorious deaths.
         Such was the way of his people. Each died twice in their life, once the day of the first battle, when the child died and the man reborn took his new name, and later in life; hopefully much later, and hopefully in battle. To die in bed as an old man or in an accident, indeed to die any other way than in combat was to damn your soul to an eternity of torment by the shades of warriors past.
         So, in the age old way of his people, today Fergar, who had slain nine soldiers who fought under the White Moon banner of Lord Daeric, died his first death, and reborn in his image was Severus Nine-Moons.
Today was a good day to die.