Wandering Soldier, Chapter Three

 Far away in the distance, there was thunder.

Below, the soft loam boomed.

It was cold and damp, the dew settling on the sparse grass and pine needles surrounding her bathed the clearing just before the trees in a silver sheen. As Gorenne slowly opened her eyes, a spider’s web held taut between two fallen branches gently glistened in a shaft of the early morning sunlight waved eerily close to her clammy face. Startled by the sight, she quickly scrambled backward and winced. Her body was sore. She hadn’t rested, nor eaten, and the night was disturbed by the taste of blood drowning her. Touching her mouth, she winced again. The wax man had split her top lip with her own sword. Allowing your opponent to take your weapon was a rookie mistake, and one she hadn’t made in years. How she could be so silly was nothing she could fathom. Gorenne whipped her head about to find her sword, her gloved hands and plated knees sifted through the damp pine needles in hopes that it may have been covered, but after a few moments she gave up, for it was nowhere nearby her. Just as the disappointment began to set in, she furrowed her brow and whisked her head to look behind her. In the air, the clash of sword and shield bounced back from the tree line. The earth below her, though dampened by her plate and leather, hummed to the thunderous chaos of what met her eyes that day, for what she witnessed was just as she had imagined. All the people who lived and fought by her were dying to a fierce and immaculately organised retinue of soldiers dressed in red.

“Oh no…” she whispered, her chest clenching, tears trail down her cheeks as the world she strove so hard to keep afloat was sinking, and by an enemy she had never seen before.

And her sword was gone. Her sword was gone! How can she do anything without her sword? Maybe she’ll find one on the battlefield, but her sword was made for her. It was her sword. That was the sword that she used. It was balanced, it felt good in her hand and nobody else’s because that sword was hers. How could she be so stupid as to lose what separated her from a helpless fool? Maybe she was a helpless fool. Maybe she wasn’t a soldier, because a soldier without a sword was still a soldier, and at this moment she didn’t feel like one. If anything, she felt just like the naïve farm girl from all those years ago seeing her fancy dancing with someone else, like all those words they shared meant nothing to him.

No! She was not a helpless fool! She was the sword, the sword wasn’t her. She had fought countless battles without that sword and at no point did she lose once it came to showing her mettle to the enemy. It was just a sword. Just a sword. If that brunette was trying to help her, the least she could have done was reunite her with it! Gorenne told herself to keep her mind at bay and ran headlong toward the massacre, but stopped as a glint of something caught her eye. Could it be? As she bolted toward it, the glint became a shape, the shape gained form and upon that form lay the story of her journey, how a dumb girl became the woman she was that day, even if she did tend to forget it. The ivory hilt bound with a deep leather grip, the amethyst pommel stone she found in a distant river shaped over the years to make her blade complete - Avvianashoos, from the Origin dialect, waited for her. Picking it up, Gorenne felt the weight within her lifting for but a moment. Her story was yet to be over, and some might say it was just about to begin. Turning toward the field and away from the trees, a battle cry rallied from deep within her lungs, and therein within her heart she knew she was ready to shape her destiny.

The battle did not welcome the living, though. As Gorenne rushed in with her sword held high, the border between life and death hurtled closer toward her unyielding determination. Desperate to make a final stand against all she believed in, she half expected to strike the wall and be flung back, but instead, an enemy was forced back by a spear, that spear was shattered by a hammer, the man behind that hammer fell to the sea of bodies with a caved in skull. It was as though a door had opened for her, a portal between heaven and hell. If heaven kept her from those she loved, then to hell she will march and all the pain be damned to the swing of her beautiful yet mighty weapon. As she passed the wall, the world had changed. The air was hot and stank with the smell of blood and excrement, the cacophony of the dying and the death defying shook her chest to its core, but to Gorenne that sound was familiar. It gave her life. Her heart raced, each parry of another’s weapon, every strike she dealt gave her power. The hairs tickling the back of her neck alerted her to a strike behind her. Gorenne spun in the blood soaked soil, her blade sang in the air as she swung it wide to cleave the attacker’s bowels in twain. As the striker fell, Gorenne shoved her dying body aside against a new foe who saw her and began to wail in misery. As Gorenne moved to drive her sword in their ribcage, their head split open by a great silver axe. It was Hodlin. Unlike Gorenne, he never carried his weapon unless it was truly necessary. Just as their eyes met, Gorenne’s with a little joy, his with shock and surprise, they parted to meet their next foe. The battlefield was no place for reminiscing.

As Gorenne turned, she swung her sword up in one’s face, then drove it back down to the right in the chest of another, then as she brought it up it sliced the artery in another thigh. Yes, there is a major artery there and cutting it open will cause you to bleed out in mere minutes. As all three fell in quick succession, she saw one of the men from the night she confronted the captain. He stood wearing nothing, wielding a shield and a rapier and fought like a cornered animal. His shield would catch and push away, his blade flew beautifully, the upstroke carrying such force as to fling the blood of his enemies high overhead in a grand sweep. Gorenne saw a flash of red to the corner of her left eye and turned to face another wearing that unusual uniform. As she charged toward them, they grinned at her and nonchalantly threw the head of one of the cavalry girls she saw from the tent aside. Gorenne felt nothing but the desire to stand tall at the end. Friend or enemy, all death in the throes of war were left to mourn afterward, but a tiny pang of joy struck her when she saw the head fly through the air just she barrelled toward the brute. Rather than be caught at the end of her edge, Gorenne’s sword turned and slid down the other’s toward the hilt. Thrusting, the brute swept her blade away, but Gorenne followed through and whipped it back in, but he predicted that. It should have been, she knew, but it surprised her that he was willing to duel. He saw the battle as something to entertain himself. He must be good. Gorenne felt a small grin touch her lips as her sword came back toward his neck, to which his own weapon swished up and bounced hers back. She moved to take on the other side and quickly darted her edge back – a feint – and drove the point around and back up to slice his abdomen. Instead, he immediately responded and parried her away yet again.

As she felt wave after wave carry her further to ecstasy, she felt the wind change behind her, telling her a new dance approached from behind. As she motioned to dodge the swordsman’s strike and spin away from the one behind, the one in front thrust his sword past her, and the threat behind her was no more. Giving him a quick glance, she felt a peculiar sense wash over her, one she had never encountered, or if so it was rare. She knew what he wanted and what he wanted was her. That gave her fireworks. Nobody else she had ever met had this effect on her. In another time, perhaps in another world, they would have been fierce lovers bound to eternity and yet there they tried to kill one another. Gorenne laughed as their swords became one with their wielder’s whim, flowing from their arms through the air to clash with one another over and over. Fate and destiny, eh? What a fascinating thing it is to be alive! The throes of their duel kept a bubble around them, and whilst ever they danced, the world was naught but their own to do as they saw fit.

That bubble burst as a crossbow bolt struck him square in the ear, his smile faded as the force of the arrow drove his great figure to the patch of earth below. She spun around and saw who it was, one of the men she knew personally perched higher on the hill, and he was pointing desperately to the other side of the battlefield. Whatever it was, he wanted her there, and fast. Gripping her sword anew, she pushed forth, and a sense of dread washed over her like an icy pitfall. Most of the bodies that lay dying were her own, the Captain’s own. It was easy to tell they had put up a glorious battle, but what she had witnessed was their glory, that day, was to be their last. They must have known. The Song of the Last kept them going. The vast majority were the soldiers in red, but at least half of them were buried under the mercenaries. Fighting a battle with these odds was easy for them, but their lack of preparation led to this. As she pushed past the soldiers, her sword cutting through what felt like countless soldiers, she finally heard a faint voice broken by its constant screaming.

“Fall back! Get out of there now!” It wailed. It was Gaffida, the loudest speaker she had ever had the chance of knowing. Gaffida could scream a person to deafness, and she was proud to do it, too. Gorenne felt a little relief knowing she was alive, but just as Gorenne saw her, two others stepped between her and a soldier barrelling from the chaos toward her, but it was too late. Her head flopped backward, the other two drove their halberds in the other’s sides, then stood tall and began to take her place as the caller. Even two voices couldn’t compete with Gaffida’s, but none could be done about that. After a dozen more were cleaved away, Gorenne broke free of the battle, seemingly unscathed.

“Gorenne! Fall back! Fall back now!”

“The battle is lost! Get away from here now!” Gorenne screeched.

“We still have more to call!” one of them cried.

“Do we?” She shrieked, shaking them while she clutched their arms. “Go in there and see for yourself! It’s over! We’re on our own!”

“No we’re not! Frelon’s still alive!” He roared. Gorenne felt her heart sting. The Captain is still alive? Her mission, after all this time, was still ongoing? She was pushed away by him and everyone, uncovered something disastrous that nearly cost her life in such a foolish way. She thought all was lost, but here she stands, alive and with a purpose. “Where is he?”

The battle raged on behind her and seemed to be bound to that one large area. Badel led her across the rise and up to the edge of the tree line where about a dozen mercenaries sat around a figure lying on the sparse grass that looked as though he should have died. It was Captain Frelon. His dark hair was matted where it usually stood proud as the man wearing it. His right leg was missing halfway to his knee, and what scattered armour he managed to gather on his person was what kept him from dying. Everywhere else, his body was filled with holes and gashes. He may be alive, but his breath was ragged and hoarse.

“You have an extensive definition on what you consider to be alive, Badel,” Gorenne said plainly.

“Well he’s alive, isn’t he?” Badel sounded annoyed. His voice was grated, but when Gaffida was the caller, Badel’s voice was smooth as cream cheese.

“Gorenne, I-” It was the red haired girl from the tent. Why does she keep running in to the same people? She turned her head away as Gorenne’s eyes met hers.

“Don’t bother. I’m not here for you.” She responded tautly.

“She was the one who dragged the captain out. We saw and helped her.” Another spoke, a younger soldier whose armour and sword he propped against were far too big for his gaunt figure. Gorenne had seen him around the camp whenever they bedded down, but he always seemed to avoid her. “As she should have done. I expect others to do the same. Then-”

“Cut them some slack, Gorenne”, a soft, yet harsh whisper snapped at her from somewhere.

“Captain, I-” Gorenne started, almost automatically, yet stopped her words. Why did she respond to the Captain? She glanced down and saw his deft, usual smile pointing toward her, those flickering eyes bemoaning her stubbornness. Gorenne collapsed to her hands and knees and crawled over to the Captain, her chest suddenly pounding against her plate. “Captain!” She choked. Pushing past the others. Her eyes kept locked to his and sat beside him, then positioned him on her lap.

“Gorenne, he needs rest, what are you doing?” As they came toward her to pull her away from him, Captain Frelon raised his hand, ushering them away. They still respected him as she had done and reluctantly moved back to their position, albeit a margin closer.

“You look terrible. Have you been drinking again?” Gorenne’s eyes welled up as she spoke, a smile lingered.

The Captain chuckled a little, then coughed. Blood seeped down his chin. “You should have joined me like I asked.”

“I wanted to,” Gorenne’s voice shook, a tear dropped from her and landed on his cheek. A few moments passed as they watched each other, remembering the good times, regretting the moments they could have had. Maybe she should have shared a drink with him once again. Maybe he would have believed her had she done so. Why did she doubt him?

“I don’t know why I doubted you back then. I was wrong.” The captain’s voice trailed off, his eyes rolled back as the Stars reached out to take him. As tears washed streaks down his bloodied face, his words were like the wind against her face if it blew through a lone tree in an open field. “I wish I believed you.”

“I wish I was wrong,” she wept, as the captain’s bloodied, lifeless body lay in her arms.