"In desperate times, conscripted criminals refill our ranks. Sometimes, however, you find a diamond in the rough. The most elite earn their name; Conquerors. Strong as a battering ram, resilient as a fortress gate, their flail is as dangerous to the wielder as it is to the enemy. But in the right hands, it becomes unstoppable. Rise, Conqueror, and live up to your name."
Those were the words that General Cross himself had spoken to me not a week ago, while I knelt in the mud amid the bodies of the fallen. At the time, I had felt honored, courageous, and as mighty a warrior as he seemed to believe I was. Now, though, I had doubts.
We hadn't held the keep at Silver Rock for long, and my ascension to the rank of Conqueror had followed just after the fortress fell to us. Now, we risked losing it. The war had not been in our favor since the death of Appolyon, and General Cross's defection from her legion. Infighting in our ranks had weakened us and allowed our enemies to seize the advantage. Silver Rock had been held by some of Appolyon's most devoted followers before we took it back, and now the soldiers of the Dawn Empire hoped to take it from us.
I didn't care. Cross had been right in his speech, I was a criminal long before I'd been a soldier, and I still thought like one. I'd only gained renown in battle for savagery, and it was a savagery born of desperation rather than bravery. Let our leaders argue their politics and discuss strategy amongst themselves. Strategy won wars, but tactics won battles, and kept a man alive. That was the reason I'd abandoned the arming sword given to fresh meat and taken a flail from a fallen Conqueror; tactics. A good swordsman knew how to disorient a foe, strike with differing forms and stances to bypass any defense, but I wasn't a good swordsman. A highwayman favored smaller weapons, easier to conceal and tougher to predict. A simple hunting knife had been my preferred arm back when I'd been holding up peddlers on the road, but a knife was a weapon of last resort on the battlefield. I'd kept mine, thankfully, but the flail had appealed on a deeper level. The structure of it allowed me to fight unpredictably even without much actual skill in fighting, and my style was something that trained warriors weren't used to. A Knight was taught to fight by training, but a criminal learned to fight by fighting.
The Chosen were approaching now, rising over the crest of the hill at the end of the road and moving swiftly towards the gates of the keep. A thrill of terror ran up my spine at the sight of so many soldiers, and I already knew we were badly outnumbered. It would have been wise, I thought, to pull what troops we had behind the gates and retreat inwards, but Cross had ordered a vanguard to defend the gate itself from the Chosen. What they'd been chosen for and by whom was a question I'd often asked, but no one seemed to have a good answer. I liked to think that Cross had a good reason for moving men to the front during a defensive battle, and he seemed a savvy enough leader to know how to play a losing hand, but it was hard to have faith in our leader when he remained inside the fortress, and we remained out here.
"You ready, lads?" another Conqueror turned his back on our foe to face us, and I recognized the crest on his helmet. His name was Stone, though whether it was first name or surname nobody knew, and he was one of Cross's most trusted lieutenants. He and a Warden I didn't recognize were leading the vanguard today, with me, two Lawbringers, and a single Peacekeeper. We had a force of foot soldiers to support us, perhaps fifty strong, which wasn't so bad, but the soldiers inside the walls numbered over two hundred strong. Why were they hiding inside?
A rousing cheer went up from the men around me, which I reluctantly joined in. Truth be told, I would be more than happy to abandon my weapons and flee, but desertion was punishable by death, and if I ran, the Peacekeepers would catch me. There was no choice but to fight.
"That's an awful lot of slant-eyes…" one of the men next to me muttered. I recognized his face and voice but couldn't come up with a name. "Think we've got a chance?"
"General Cross has a plan," replied one of our Lawbringers, Alexander Cordet if I wasn't mistaken. "We follow his lead and we'll win, jut like we always do."
"Worst comes to worse, we can always make Convict take his helmet off and scare them away," our Peacekeeper, Maria, mocked. A quick smattering of nervous laughter, which I decided to join in. The joke was at my expense, sure, but it wasn't like she was wrong; I certainly wasn't a hit with women underneath my helmet. My real name had been irrelevant after my arrest, so most folk simply referred to me as "Convict" in the army. I certainly looked the part: a jagged dagger wound carved a permanent grin onto my left cheek, while vicious burns marred my jawline from ear to ear, extending up to just above my right eye. Time had helped the scars fade, a bit, but the flesh was still pocked, sagging and wrinkled. I was lucky my right eye still worked at all, to be honest. The burn continued down my neck to my chest and extended from the edge of my left shoulder down to the tip of my fingers. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten them.
The slant-eyes stopped marching, only a hundred meters or so away from the gate. I could make out the snarling demon face of the leader's faceplate and saw him raise his fist as a signal for his men to wait. His army moved with utmost discipline and responsiveness, coming to a halt and bringing their weapons to rest. Our men shuffled their feet nervously as the daimyo took three rapid steps forwards, out onto the field, and drew his sword, planting its tip into the dirt.
"Men of Ashfield," his voice in Common was heavily accented, and it took me a moment to realize he was speaking Common at all, through the stiffness of his speech. "You are alone and outnumbered! Your warlord, the demon Appolyon is dead. Her Blackstone Legion is in ashes. Lay down your arms and surrender your fortress to the Dawn Empire. Mercy will be met with mercy, and bloodshed with further bloed. I await your reply!"
I could guess what Stone would say when he took three steps of his own forwards and cupped his hands around the mouthguard of his helmet.
"You want it? Come get it!" he waved an arm at our enemies in challenge and hunched his shoulders, bringing his shield to bear and starting to build momentum in his flail. Another roar of approval from the rest of the vanguard. I didn't bother to join in, acting hot-blooded in the heat of battle would be the death of me. Passion alone didn't stave off death.
"I show you honor!" the daimyo drew his sword out from the earth and leveled it at Stone, "You would be wise to return that courtesy. Hand over Holden Cross, and surrender your keep. This is your last chance!"
"It ain't happening," Stone hollered back at them and I saw the daimyo's shoulders heaved in a sigh of what may have been regret.
"Do not say you were not warned," he called, and wiped the mud off of his sword. There was pure silence between our two armies as their force surveyed our vanguard. They're just flesh and bones, flesh and bones, I muttered to myself, rolling my shoulders and preparing myself. Death was a part of life, and if all men really were equal in the eyes of God, then the lives of my opponents had just as little worth as my own.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears so loudly I couldn't hear the bellowed command of the daimyo, or even the battle cries of his men. I heard our own men readying for battle, preparing to meet them, but distorted, as though I was underwater. The world seemed to slow down, and I was cripplingly aware of the way my helmet restricted my peripheral vision, of how it made my breathing sound far too loud and strained. The enemy was charging, and the time to fight and to kill was upon us. I crouched low into a knife-fighter's stance, holding my shield at an angle. My style wasn't orthodox, but it worked for me, and relied on making my shield just as much for offense as defense. The flail was powerful but took a moment to wind up. Once it got moving, its speed was quite fast, but in the interim, I relied on using the rim of the shield to bash both enemies' bodies and incoming strikes.
A hail of arrows rained down from the walls of the fortress and cut down the first oncoming wave of slant-eyes, while others tripped and stumbled over the thrashing bodies of their comrades.
"Go now!" Stone roared like an animal and led the charge directly into their ranks. It was unwise, I thought to embroil ourselves in the fray this soon: our archers wouldn't be able to fire another volley for fear of hitting us, but I would be condemned as a coward if I stayed here. Following the others, I sprinted into battle, whirling the flail in rapid circles.
I didn't cease running as the vanguard met the besiegers, and the spinning head caved I in the face of the first man to cross me. Another tried to strike at my flank as I knocked his friends aside in scores, but a backwards kick to his knees made him stagger, before I whirled and took his head off.
I was vaguely aware of my comrades fighting alongside me but didn't bother to watch them; my own struggle was the only thing that mattered. I shredded the common soldiers of the Chosen with relative ease, using the flail's wide swings to keep the fearful among them at bay while using my shield to knock away anyone who got too close.
The body of one of our own footmen crashed into me from the side, and I staggered, turning to try and see where I was being attacked from. The massive studded club of an equally massive warrior crashed into my chest. If not for my layered brigandine, I was certain my chest would have caved in. As it was, I had bruised my ribs, and nearly fell over from the impact. Stumbling, I kept my footing and noted the way both our footmen and the enemy's seemed to back away from the two of us. I surveyed my opponent.
He was a huge fellow for a man of his race, nearly my height and at least twice if not three times as broad. His arms were gargantuan and bare, revealing impressive musculature while his face was concealed behind the shrieking mask of an ogre. He held that long club in both hands, which was a testament to its impressive weight, and I was certain that if he'd been aiming for my head, even my helmet wouldn't have prevented my brains from being splattered all over the battlefield. My shield wouldn't be able to block a strike from that weapon head on, but if I could shunt it to the side, I might stand a chance.
He came at me, bringing the club upwards in a sweeping uppercut that would have smashed my manhood if I hadn't stepped lightly backwards. I was a smaller man than he was as far as girth was concerned, with a narrow build more suited to running than fighting. He was bulky and strong, while I was lean and hungry. It would be like watching a coyote try to face down a bear, or perhaps a bull. I got the flail swinging and swung twice in a quick series of circles before changing my stance and altering the angle of attack. A lightning fast series of blows from the head of the flail thundered against him, but he maneuvered that club with greater dexterity than I'd anticipated, and while I succeeded in driving him off of me, I hadn't done any damage. He's faster than he looks, I noted, alter your fighting style.
Conquerors were men known for their patience and defensive methods, a fact that our enemies had to be aware of by now. But at heart, a highwayman was a highwayman, and speed over strength had always been my forte. Get in his head, force him to panic. Fear induces mistakes. I sprang at him, using a telegraphed overhead swing to bait him. He stepped into it, anticipating the move, which was exactly what I needed him to do. My flail thudded harmlessly against the club and bounced back. He made a long sweep to try and knock me back, but I didn't bother trying to take it on my shield. Instead, I redirected the momentum of the flail as it swung towards me, bringing it around, ducking beneath the swing and flinging the flail up into the club as it swung. The chain caught the club's haft rather than the head and wrapped around my enemy's weapon. I heard a surprised breath, before hauling with all my might. He stumbled forwards, refusing to release his only armament and I rammed the edge of my shield into the space between his helmet and chest piece. A tremor ran up my arm as the shield crushed his throat and he dropped the club to claw at his neck feebly before dropping to the earth. I tugged the flail, letting it unwrap from the club's haft, and turned to meet my next opponent.
More footmen rushed me, expecting strength in numbers, and I gave ground, keeping them at bay while I regrouped with the rest of our men. Our foot soldiers were slaughtered to the man, the curved slashing blades of our enemies more than a match for us, and those of us who survived were retreating towards the gate. Stone and I acted as flank guards, our whirling flails protecting the sides of our formation, while our single remaining Lawbringer and Warden held the front. Maria, fenced in by our defense, lobbed blade and incendiaries at the enemy to help hold them off. Anytime now, Cross, I thought as a slant-eyes wielding a long-bladed spear nearly skewered me. I batted the blow aside with my shield, swung wide to keep her off of me…
A sudden harsh cry sounded from the west, and Holden Cross charged into the fray, riding at the front of an impressive cavalry charge. Perplexingly, all of them were moving out from around the side of the wall, as if they'd been outside the walls the entire time… how was that possible? As far as I knew, Silver Rock's fortress walls only had one exit, and we were right in front of it.
The Chosen were in disarray, unready to face such an expected show of force. They had brought no horsemen of their own, and though they still had an advantage in numbers, Cross had taken the element of surprise, while each one of his mounted warriors was worth five light infantrymen.
"Rally to the General!" the Warden ordered us, "Push them back!"
I attacked my enemy with renewed vigor, able to fight with a clear head, while she was distracted by the arrival of our reinforcements. I understood Cross's plan now, though not how he'd pulled it off. We had been the bait to his trap, a means of luring in the enemy so that he could attack from the side. He'd probably had to rustle up every single horse in the town to mount so many soldiers, but the results were more than worth it. My flail swept the slant-eyes' feet out from under her, and I whirled it into a downward blow to the chest that smashed through rib and heart in seconds. I had only been fighting a few minutes, but already by breath had settled into a steady heave; the flail was an exhausting weapon to wield, especially for a man of my build, but if my time as a soldier thus far had given me anything, it was endurance. I could keep going for as along as it took to stay alive. The battle was far from over, it would be hours before we had either chased off the marauders entirely or beaten them into submission, but morale was higher, and the odds were on our side now.
I slammed to the brim of my helmet into the face of a sword-wielding slant-eye and jabbed with the shield, stunning him. Another jab, a left cross, backhand, uppercut, before slinging the flail around his neck, kicking out a leg, and crushing his throat with the chain. He went down, and I yanked the flail back to my hand as two new opponents approached me. The enemy's footmen knew better than to come near my flail without help, and now I was being eyed by a fierce-looking man with two swords and a hooded figure holding what appeared to be a pair of… sickles?
This was bad; I could handle multiple footmen at once, and single elite soldiers, but two of them against one of me wouldn't end well. I was separated from the rest of my comrades, alone and surrounded by the enemy. The two of them moved in simultaneously, and I was forced to make a quick decision. I would have to engage one quick and efficient before taking out the other. I feinted at the swordsman, then changed direction, redirecting my swing towards the masked man and knocking one of the sickles out of his hand. He gave ground and I turned back towards the swordsman, taking the slash of his shorter sword on my shield. I shoved, hurling my foe away and turned back to try and get a better look at the hooded man. He had changed position, taking advantage of my limited vision and circling my flank.
I swung wide, turning, trying to see where he was… a sickle bit into my hip, held, and I grunted in sudden pain. My leg quivered, threatened to give out, and I whirled, starting to drop to a knee while I brought the flail around. The head of my weapon crashed into the hooded man's arm, and I could almost hear the crunch of bone as my weapon shattered his wrist. He shrieked beneath his mask and stumbled away, leaving his remaining weapon embedded in my side. The swordsman, where had he gone?
The back of my neck prickled, and I flung my shield up over my head just as that wickedly curved blade crashed into it. The wood of the shield gave, and the short sword pierced through almost to the hilt, missing my arm by inches and leaving the tip hovering above my visor. My arm was trapped, and the second sword swung around at my unprotected chest. I couldn't parry with the flail, but I tried anyways, flinging the chain up before the blade. The chain caught and wrapped around the edge of the sword and the slant-eye pulled back on the blade, hauling my flail out of my hand. A kick to the back of my helmet told me that the hooded man wasn't out of the fight just yet, and I sprawled on my belly, my shield-arm twisted up behind me. I was trapped, the straps of my shield holding me in place, and the hooded man pulled his sickle out of my hip with a jerk. I made a sound hardly befitting a warrior, and my hand crept for the hunting knife. I was about to die, but they wouldn't be walking away from this either. The swordsman couldn't use his short sword as it remained embedded in my shield, but his longer blade angled itself at my exposed neck. I could just see the sunlight glint dully off the blade as my head was craned sideways.
My fingers closed around the knife hilt and I ripped it out of the sheath, stabbing directly into the calf of the swordsman. The razor-sharp blade slid through the meat of his leg like butter, and I heard his sudden cry of anguish. He let go of both his weapons, and my shield-arm was free. I whirled, throwing myself at the hooded man and letting the weight of my body and armor crash into him. His sickle buried itself in my shoulder, just beneath the pauldron, but I didn't let that stop me. My weight bore him to the earth, and I drove the knife through his neck, twisting the blade and letting his blood run over my fingers as he gurgled and choked.
A sword clanged against my helmet, knocking me off of my fallen enemy, and I realized that in my desperation to survive, I'd let myself get separated even further from my comrades. My ears were ringing from the blow to my head, and I tried to stagger back to my feet, but a boot cracked against my ribs where the studded club from before had struck. I couldn't think clearly, couldn't distinguish where I was being attacked from. Focus, you're going to die unless you get ahold of yourself. I forced myself to keep my eyes open and saw a Chosen footman about to put his sword through my visor. I moved on instinct, grabbing his boot and yanking with all my might. He lost his footing and started to fall, while I shot upwards, gripping his shoulder and guiding him to fall onto my knife. He made a quick, pained sound as the blade pierced his flimsy armor and punched into his chest. I threw him off of me, searching the mud for my flail. Another sword blow dented the brigandine across my back, bruising me, and I forced myself to turn, still barely crawling on my knees, ramming the rim of my battered shield into my attacker's kneecap. He stumbled a step back and I pursued as fast as I was able, bashing and swinging with the shield to bring down as many of these bastards as I could before they killed me. I was cut off; escape and survival weren't options anymore. Fitting that my first battle as a Conqueror would turn out to be my last…
Foes surrounded me, and I dropped onto all fours, panting. My wounds were bleeding profusely, making me weak and woozy. My head spun and my helmet felt as though it was constricting me. Shouts and cries in the slant-eyes' own tongue, but I didn't speak a word of it to understand. The swordsman with the mismatched blades was limping towards me, screaming at his fellow warriors. I didn't understand hi words, but I could guess the meaning: "This one belongs to me."
I smiled, and my chest started to heave with laughter. What a dull life this had turned out to be. Three years a bandit, six months a soldier, and this was the end of it. The swordsman was using his longer sword like a staff to hobble towards me, even as Cross's horsemen massacred his comrades. I could appreciate his determination; he had as much chance of surviving this battle as I did right now.
The Chosen's back arched as a dagger punched through his belly from behind, and Maria tossed the dying swordsman to the earth before running towards me. My ears were still ringing and my head hurt. I wanted to sleep, and my eyelids felt heavier than the head of my flail. I did my bet to shake it off. Conquerors were meant to be resilient, and I was sure that while my wounds hurt, none of them were fatal. The battle wasn't over; Cross's cavalry charge had disoriented our enemy and pushed them back away from the fortress, but the Chosen were making us fight for every inch. Maria helped me get back on my feet.
"Can't leave you alone for a second, eh, Convict?" she muttered, handing me my flail. I took it gratefully and gave it a quick spin, taking comfort in the familiar heft of a real weapon. My knife went back into the sheath, and I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off my fatigue and injury. Keep going, I reminded myself, following Maria as we moved to clean up the stragglers that remained by the gates of the fortress, they're just flesh and bones, just flesh and bones.