A calm wind swept across the grassy field whispering over the tall grass and rustling sparse trees at its edge. Bohort tried to look out over the far horizon, pretending that the beautiful late afternoon breeze was bringing the smells of campfires and not the foul stench of the dead.
It was a futile self-deception, but he tried regardless.
With a sigh he bent over, creaking in his full harness and wincing at the soreness it never used to bring. His armour had been ill fitted since he went to half rations. It rubbed at his hips and collar painfully and slid as he ran. It never used to. Placing his sword against the creature's neck he leaned his weight down and felt the sharp blade move downwards before it stopped a moment before the rewarding pop of its vertebrae splitting reported the task complete. He tried to ignore the guardsmans garb that marked the defeated undead as a soldier from Deuannia.
It was a futile self-deception, but he tried all the same.
The creature properly vanquished, he allowed himself to take a few steps and then slump to the floor, resting his arms over his knees as his longsword and shield clattered to the ground. Around him, other knights went about the grim business, their brilliant shining plate spattered by the congealed black gore that ooze from the soldiers of the Onyx Aristocracy when cut . To the far side of the field a plume of black, acrid smoke marred the sky. A pair of Pyromancers tended the fire, feeding it with defeated corpses. Bohort rested his head on the back of his hands and forcibly blinked, unsure if it was to hold back tears or to clear the grime of combat.
The unmistakable metallic ring of moving armour stopped a few strides away from the Knight. He did not bother to look up, instead speaking to the floor between his knees.
“Can I be of assistance Ser Didrane?”
He could picture Sir Didrane standing there. Her cuirass still fit her well, but Bohort wagered she’d spent the coin to make it so. Her increasingly hollow cheeks would be splattered with black ichor. Her once enchanting blue hair cut to stubble and likely covered by a sweat stained arming cap.
“Are you well Ser Bohort?” She asked calmly. Too calmly, as if she was afraid he might lose himself.
Sir Bohort the Brave of Gwendolyns Reach raised his head and stared up into the perfectly blue summer sky twisting his head to avoid the billowing plume of corrupt smoke. Eyes squinting against the light.
“I am tired.” He replied gravely. As his eyes adjusted and he carried his glance down the hill he saw a trio of bow-armed rangers gathered around a prone form clad in the fine full-plate harness of a King's Knight. “I no longer sleep well.”
“To be vigilant during times of hardship is mighty.” Quoted Didrane as she followed his glance. Bohort shook his head slowly in response, not bothering to voice objection.
“Our losses?” He asked, glancing up and confirming that Ser Didrane looked how he thought she would, though the cap was in her hand, stained with the black blood she had attempted to wipe from her face leaving it smeared across brow and cheeks. A local to these parts of the kingdom he knew her burning loyalty would keep her standing long after he fell.
The younger knight helped him to his feet as she tallied the numbers in her mind. “Lady Kay, Ser Ector and Dray lie still, I think Arcadian will be full tonight with their company.
The rangers say they have lost none. Same with the Wizards, but they fear they have little mana left to spend.”
The names rattled off evenly and Bohort felt each like a blow against his armour. Ector and Dray were his age, but he seldom spoke to them. Lady Kay had been a hero as great as any in the Realm. A true loss.
“To die in service to the crown is to guarantee a great travel beyond the spheres.” Quoted Didrane absentmindedly. Bohort did not respond.
Looking over his shoulder, Bohort could see down the hill where the defenders had made their stand for the last three months. Behind it sat Weiland, the capital of the Kingdom of Bordevar and the seat of the Platinum Crown.
Weiland was primarily a farming village, its wheat and barley made into bread and beer. A fine enough place, with its single tavern and a church to the spheres little taller than the barns that dot the countryside. A quiet backcountry farming community of simple people, surrounded by four times as many tents in the regal colours of the military of Bordevar and a freshly placed stockade. Too low to even hide Weiland’s low structures The last city of Bordevar, sheltering the shadow of its last defenders. Beyond the low hills further south refugees from the rest of the Kingdom rested and gathered their strength as they waited instruction to where they should flee next. Bohort knew of nowhere they could go.
“The common people are to be protected, for they know not the dangers.” Again, Didrane, again a quote. But Bohort was through with stoic ignorance.
“Do not quote the Ethos to me Didrane.” He muttered, bled dry and tired beyond belief. “Bohort?” Queried the Knight, confusion and dismay clear in her voice.
“We don’t need to protect them, we need them standing up here on this hill with us! We don’t need to accept death in the service of an empty crown, we need to fight every death like monsters! We are not being vigilant, we are simply lying in the bed we made with our failures!”
He turned away from Ser Didrane as she snarled in disagreement. He could hear her sliding her helm back over her face, disappointment hidden by blank steel.
“Ready up Bohort, the enemy comes again.” Her voice was sharp with her disapproval as she stepped away down the hill towards the reforming knightly forces. Bohort sighed and returned to his armament.
He tried to pretend that he was a just knight of a mighty kingdom truly dedicated to the pursuit of good and truth. That soon enough reinforcements from elsewhere in the kingdom would arrive over the hills. That all was well.
It was a futile self deception, but he tried nonetheless.
Toggle search
Toggle menu
624
691
11
4.8K
Esterrapedia