An Insurrection (2 page)

            Sitting atop his steed just a few paces from the men who he had fought alongside for forty-moons, Desh spoke. His silvery voice echoed in strict defiance of a king he now deemed a tyrant. A man once counted among his allies, though mostly an employer.

            ‘Thurstan would have you starve. He would see your children eat scraps and your wives cleave to slain men weeping on the shores of Red Stalk Bay. He’d have you cold in the winters praying for reprieve while he sits in his pampered rooms behind his high walls; suckling wine and fondling women to his guilty pleasure.’ The men were roused, pounding sword and fist against shields, roaring like savage animals hungry for blood. ‘Our noble king won’t give you his love, his protection, or the animals he’d slaughter for supper. He won’t share of his feast or his soldiers. He thinks of you as nothing more than brigands and peasants, fit only to serve his whims and to surrender your land and taxes. What do you say to that?’ Desh roared the question. With pleasure he watched the tumult rise. ‘Will you bow the knee to this king?’ He raised his sword and pounded his armor with his fist. ‘I will not!’

            The men screamed their displeasure, their voices howling into the open air. Thunder boomed as the rain continued to drench them. Lightning cracked across the sky and then more thunder rolled. Desh waited for the men to quiet and then spoke again.

            ‘Then have your say in the matter. Take your bounty from the king or have comfort in death.’ Desh turned and raised his blood-soaked sword high in the air again.

‘Take what’s owed!’ A man screamed. Then another screamed the words, and another, until it became a chant. Desh could feel the ground trembling under his horse.

Like a swarm the men were on the move, sprinting with unbridled aggression, careless and full of fury. Those on horses charged between the lines, quickly leading the rebels toward the king’s seemingly impenetrable army. Blind courage had replaced caution and swept away their fears.

Thurstan had been right. Desh’s small army was vastly outnumbered nearly five to one. As he sat there, watching from high on the hilly plains of Lorencia, he thought that he might have sent them to their deaths with no opportunity for success. They were about to clash with a monster big enough to devour them and have room left for seconds. His first battle had been much the same as a boy, under the order of an inexperienced captain. He’d managed to survive the ordeal. Since his childhood, he possessed the courage and ferocity of fifty lions.

‘I’ll die with you brothers,’ Desh said pulling on his helm. ‘I’ll finish what Khan began.’

Tightening his grip on his horse’s reins, he reared his steed and charged into the fray. It was almost impossible to see who was who through the rain and mist. The clattering of swords and the screams of dying men was deafening. The spraying blood was nearly blinding and the crunching of bones under his horse’s hooves was nearly unbearable. It was war, in all its gruesome truth, and for the first time it seemed, a war that truly needed to be fought.

He approached the swarms of men, looking around to find the best place to lead his horse and join the fight, but one of the king’s soldiers made the choice for him, sending a spear sailing for his throat. Using his sword, he deflected the projectile and swiftly kicked his horse to speed him along.

The soldier reached for his sword, but Desh was on him, cutting him through clean from shoulder to waist. The next soldier moved and then another, and then what seemed like a countless number came one after another, making their attempts and failing like a bird hoping to fly with one wing.

Killing men was the one thing Desh had been good at since he lifted a sword. It was his job, and it was what he lived for. He hadn’t been made to hammer steel, or tend the land. He was made to thrust his blade through the flesh and sinew of another man and listen to him shriek in terror and gurgle his last breath.

‘Fall back!’ He heard a man scream. Distracted, a young soldier no more than eighteen sliced him across the back, causing him to stiffen for a moment in pain. The blade had gotten through the narrow slit, just above his waist that was unprotected by his armor. He didn’t have time to pull on his chainmail and he could feel the warm blood running down his back and into his trousers. The boy made an attempt to cut him at the throat, but found him self under Desh’s weight, knocking his head against a hard stone.

Looking at the boy’s watery brown eyes, Desh knew he was too young to have felt the touch of a woman or have seen the fields any battles. If the boy had, he might not have come. Desh’s guilt welled up inside of him as he watched the boy’s eyes plead for his life. As much as he’d wanted to free the boy, he had learned that in war, the biggest mistake was to let your enemy live. He felt a lump in his throat shoot up and choke him, as he banged the boy’s head against the stone until the life in his eyes departed. The boy didn’t have his luck. He should have stayed home.

On his feet he trudged toward the middle of the fray, cutting down the king’s men as he went along. From where he stood, he could see the king atop his horse still flanked by Carmine and Ludan. That was when he noticed that the call to fall back hadn’t been from his men, but from the king’s. The odds had changed. The fear that once gripped the followers of Khan as he was nailed to the wall was now the reality of Lorencia’s finest. The men who were paid gold for their service had fled. Never trust a mercenary Desh had been taught; especially him with no stomach for blood or the lack of love for his own reputation. Gold could always be had on easier terms. There was always someone willing to pay for the demise of an enemy.  Gold. It had a way with a man’s heart.

Desh knew that not even his death would break the spirits of his men until there was none left standing. His speech was only a prelude to their march of revenge for the king’s selfishness. While his men were filled with reason to fight until life escaped them, Thurstan’s men were there for the greed and conceit of one man. The resolve of his men would not fail.

For a hundred strides Desh marched toward the king without a single impediment until Ludan and Carmine rode out, swinging their swords. Dodging their blades, he rolled backwards and kicked himself back onto his feet, turning to face them. Desh pulled a sword out of a man’s guts and twirled it in the air with his own.

Ludan and Carmine charged again, leaning in to attack and finish Desh. As they reached striking distance, both Carmine and Ludan lunged forward on their horses, hoping for their blades to feast on Desh’s flesh.

Waiting just before the blades landed, Desh fell straight back and cut the legs of the horses. The animals screeched and flung their riders to the ground as they fell. Carmine impaled himself on his blade, his body sliding down the length of it, his hands trying to close the deadly wound at his stomach. Ludan was lucky, falling sideways and landing on his shoulder and turning to find Desh standing over him.

Ludan’s luck was short lived. Stepping on his sword arm, Desh drove his sword through Ludan’s throat. The crowd roared as the black man choked on blood. A slain hero was always something to marvel at and even more so on this bloody morning. The death of the king’s greatest champions was another crushing blow to his already dwindling army.

In that moment, a thousand more of Thurstan’s men dropped their swords and tucked tail in retreat, scurrying over the hills, never to be seen again.  Dead men strewn across a battlefield was enough to make a coward retreat.

Jumping down from his horse, the king sprinted toward Desh, his sword raised high. He swung recklessly, Desh sidestepping and tripping the king.

Thurstan’s face thudded against the hard earth. Desh thrust a foot into the back of his neck, sending his face crashing into the ground again. Dust blew up as the king breathed in and out, choking on the dirt. He had never been a fighting man. Thurstan had been called mighty because his army was fearsome in his youth. They’d marched undefeated for more than two decades. Brave men they were that rode into battle, as their king watched safely upon a hill, flanked by his elite guard. Only heat had forced him to break a sweat. Wooden splinters were all that forced him to shed blood.

More men fled in every direction seeing their king fallen, as Desh’s men marched faster toward the city gate. Morn grabbed the king by the back of the neck and hefted him from the ground with a giant paw of a hand. The grip nearly crushed the king’s neck and he clawed at Morn’s hand in futility trying to free himself. Ahead of everyone, Morn walked Thurstan to the castle wall. Desh followed, as he watched the king squirm.
            ‘Treat him as he treated Khan.’ A voice bellowed in the distance. His outburst earned an eruption of approval from his battle-hardened comrades.

‘He’s no where near the man Khan was!’ A raspy voice boomed.

‘Aye!’ A thousand men roared in unison.

Morn raised Thurstan up and pushed him against the wall, his neck teen feet from the ground.

Desh looked at him as Morn held the king firmly in place. He tried to put up a fight, but the Shademaker punched him near senseless and Thurstan halted any further attempts to free himself. There was nothing he could do against the Shademaker. Looking in those grey dead eyes, Thurstan knew the man was Death made flesh.

‘Good man, may I have your pitchfork.’ Desh called out to an old fellow standing off in the distance, just a few feet away from the commotion of the king’s predicament.

‘Of course mighty friend.’ The old man said as he approached and handed over his garden tool.

Desh looked down at his feet and shook his head. ‘The irony of it all.’ The king looked at him puzzled, Desh twirling the pitchfork in his left hand.

‘What?’ The king said vocalizing his confusion and looking down at Desh with wild contempt.

‘Better a pitchfork at your side than a sword in the chest.’ Desh said cocking his head to the side with a wide grin on his face.

The king made a breathy sound, full of fear and horror. He’d remembered the words between them. Thought he’d be the victor this day. The mercenaries he’d hired ended all hope of that outcome. Gold. It had a funny way with a man’s heart. Thurstan wet his lips to speak, but a fight for his life was upon him.

Without warning Desh slammed his sword through the king’s chest. He could hear the crunch of bones and then the rumble of stone having used all his might to plunge his sword into the king’s chest. ‘All the battle hardened warriors have tucked tail and run,’ Desh said bursting out into laughter, watching Morn bang the sword deeper into the king. The stone behind him gave way as Morn hammered it. Thurstan kicked his feet, and grabbed at the sword’s blade in a futile attempt to pull it out.

 ‘Gurghk,’ Thurstan choked on his own blood and his arms dropped to his sides.

‘It is far too much to see Thurstan the Mighty nailed to his own wall,’ Brack said with a hearty grunt. He’d said the same thing when Khan fell, knowing the men’s heart might turn to mush. ‘Shame really.’ Brack scratched his baldhead.

‘What is?’ Desh asked confused.

‘His army lost heart before you skewered him to the wall with your blade,’ Brack said grunting again as he began to laugh.

 ‘This victory should have been Khan’s.’ Desh looked puzzled as he listened intently to a sound that was all too familiar. His expression stopped Brack from speaking as Desh turned to face the castle.

‘More killing…’ Morn said, seeing Desh’s surprise. His eyes were overflowing with lust again as he listened to the throng of men cheering all around them. Dozens of them had already begun flooding into the castle. The spoils had to be had. That was the way of war. Hungry men would feed themselves in victory.  Fear was in the air. The screaming of women and children echoed from inside the castle walls.

Desh turned hard and began to push through the crowd of men cheering his name. Those who could see Desh marching toward the castle doors pushed others back, making a way for him to walk. Morn and Brack had made their way to his sides, watching intently those around them. In war, you could never be too careful.

A half dozen other men fell in behind Morn and Brack. Brack turned to see who was following and recognized one as Beld Slimhand. The other men wore his sword-in-skull emblem upon their armor. They embraced, clutching hard at one another’s forearms. That’s how warriors greeted. Takes a lot more pressure to crack the arm bones than it does the hand. One could never be too careful in the company of killers.

The great hall was filled with women, children, and old citizens, far too unfit for combat. Armored guards sworn to defend them had surrendered their weapons to Desh’s men long before he’d heard the screaming. Three of them lay dead, clean swords on the floor near them. Another clung to life, reaching up as Desh approached. Stepping over the man coolly, Desh strode forward toward the unoccupied throne at the back of the hall.

Setting himself down upon the red cushioned chair adorned with jewels, he leaned to one side, resting his chin on a balled fist. Brack walked slowly up the short set of steps onto the dais and stood on Desh’s right. Beld Slimhand quickly found himself upon the dais on Desh’s left and ordered his men to stand guard before the stairs.

From the throne Desh could see everyone in the hall below him. The citizens of Lorencia stood against the wall clutching one another in fear. Their protectors stood with them. Their armor shelled bodies were the only thing standing between the people and Desh’s men. They thought them to be savages, but they only killed armed men. No one was harmed. When Thurstan’s last contingent of men dropped their arms they too were spared.

Morn was shocked by their restraint as he kneeled over the guard still clinging to life, tugging as his gauntlets. Morn knew the look well. Life was far more precious to the man now. He wanted his wounds to close. He wanted to be saved, so that he could live.

‘Please,’ the guard muttered, his voice ragged and full of suffering.

‘The killing is nearly done,’ Morn said with kindness in his commanding voice. He studied the man’s face as he set Thurstan’s crown on the floor beside his head. His eyes shined still, but not with the lust of death as they always had. A morsel of compassion was there. ‘I shall be merciful so that your misery might end.’ With those words Morn covered the guard’s eyes with his hand and slipped a short blade into his throat. Severing the large vein as he cut sideways, the guard’s hand dropped to his sides and he fell silent.