"We're still trying to compile all of the reports," the lieutenant cautioned uncomfortably, "but there are a few facts of which we may be certain. Most of them, admittedly, are not good."
A cruel snicker hissed from Hlewagastiz's lips as he beheld his terrified subordinate, leering at the soldier with the same disdainful revulsion one might give to a feral mutt, or a blood-sucking insect. Ashamed and helpless, the lieutenant hung his head and cringed, leaving his king to slobber noisily from his goblet.
"Of course the news is bad!" Hlewagastiz roared, carelessly splattering drops of mead into his unkempt beard. "You incompetent fools haven't brought me good news in months! Always the same pathetic failures – always the same pathetic excuses!" The king's fury reached a climax as he pounded his fist rowdily against the arm of his throne.
"My…my deepest apologies King," the lieutenant stuttered, his anxiety growing worse with each passing moment. "I was merely passing on the scouts' initial reports, as you ordered. I did not mean to offend you, my lord."
Hlewagastiz returned with a disgusted snort, but for the time being his barrage of insults was stopped. He abruptly became quite sober, slouching deep into his seat as his face became heavy with weariness and depression. Once more he began to bring his cup to lips, as if to rejuvenate himself with its power, only to toss it away at the last minute, its contents sinking into the aging rushes.
"Should I…fetch another cup for you?" the soldier began, but there was clearly no point. Hlewagastiz was beyond all forms of reason and human understanding by this point; he seemed to exist in an alternative reality, or perhaps saw things that nobody else could see. The king thought that made him rather unique, although most others would venture to replace 'unique' with 'strange'. The lieutenant wasn't even sure if his words were getting through anymore; at the moment Hlewagastiz was slumped catatonically in his throne, staring off into space.
"Behold how easily evil triumphs," the king mumbled, still intently gazing at empty air, "when no man is willing to rise against it. Heruwulfaz will rule over the whole of the world, and all my efforts – all my tormented, sleepless nights – will be as if for nothing." His voice was faint, and laden with terrible sadness.
The lieutenant watched his lord uneasily, torn between his desire to flee and his fear of reprisal. Hlewgastiz hadn't spoken sense in a very long time now, but there was at least one thing on which the two men were agreed: Heruwulfaz would win the imminent battle. His host was the bolder, the better trained, and the better motivated. He was a brilliant and accomplished young man, while Hlewagastiz was little more than an animated corpse, stumbling comatose through the motions of mortal society while his mind was lost somewhere far away. A competent and energetic ruler could have still snatched a victory for the remaining forces of Skandza. Hlewagastiz was not endowed with either of those qualities.
The Skandzan king slowly managed to rise to his feet, his eyes still locked eerily into space. For a few moments he tottered limply about like a marionette, trying silently to find his balance. In all his repertoire of mad and unnatural displays, this one was entirely unprecedented. His lieutenant stared longingly at the open door, trying to calculate his odds of escape on the fly.
"If I must put my life on the line here," Hlewagastiz declared with sudden clarity, "in defense of the Old Ways, I shall be glad to do so." Having evidently found a renewed source of vigor, the king quickly strode over to his banquet table, which in recent times no longer played host to sumptuous food and drink, but instead a giant map of the Skandzan Kingdom, with crude wooden figures used to represent known detachments of soldiers from both sides.
Hlewagastiz wasn't entirely certain how to read the map, which was just as well given that he probably would have flown into a mad rage if he knew what it reported. A long, ominous line of figurines were arrayed in a semi-circle around the capitol, their pedestals carved with the insignia of the Sweboz Confederacy. Even more Sweboz armies were depicted crossing the great sea to the south. Amidst this vast horde, a single Skandzan soldier was placed over the capitol, defiantly baring his spear against the swarm of oncoming foes. At the very least, Hlewagastiz knew the events depicted on the map were bad; that was probably the reason why he had since given up on strategizing.
"You said you had reports to present," the king barked to his lieutenant as he sat himself down in front of the map. "I'd very much like to hear them now, if you don't mind."
Hlewagastiz's sudden transformation in mentality was almost too much for the poor soldier to comprehend; he struggled to remember what he was had wanted to say as he dashed over to his lord. "Yes – of course, my king. I just received word about King Heruwulfaz-"
"He is on his way, then," Hlewagastiz concluded darkly, pulling one of the Sweboz figurines further up towards the capitol.
"Yes, my lord. His attack is imminent. When I came to warn you, my scouts estimated he was a little less than two hours away. That figure will be even less now; given the time you have dallied." The soldier briefly cringed at his unintentional insult, fearfully of any provocation that might interrupt the king's miraculous burst of sanity.
"We don't have much time left," Hlewagastiz agreed with a sigh. "Tell me what else, quickly."
"As you will have possibly deduced," the soldier continued, "Lord Fruhijaz did not turn back the Sweboz with the army you gave him."
"He was defeated?" Hlewgastiz said with mild shock. "I thought a warrior as capable as he would have been able to handle a few stubborn Sweboz."
The lieutenant spoke the next few words as if they scalded his tongue in passing. "My king, lord Fruhijaz was not defeated, per se. He actually has defected to the Sweboz."
A remarkable anomaly began to unfold on Hlewagastiz's face; his features began to steadily cycle through the full range of human emotions as he gradually processed this latest revelation. Tiny blood vessels bulged and began to tremble as a strange choking noise bubbled from inside the king's throat. Just when the terrified soldier thought his lord might burst into flames, Hlewagastiz began to relax again; he placed an exhausted hand over his eyes and exhaled. "This is unfortunate," he observed rather unemotionally.
"Others…have joined him as well, my liege." The lieutenant decided it best to simply plow through the rest of his bad news all at once. "In fact, most of your noble lords have left the city to join Heruwulfaz in his camp. They have taken with them the better part of their loyal warriors – only your own personal troops, and those of the honorable Lord Gilogaz, remain to defend the crown."]
"Why?" the king asked simply, barely keeping his voice even anymore. "Why have they who once applauded me and did me honor so quickly forsaken me for a foreign dog!"
"There have been rumors," the soldier whispered, as if his own words terrified him, "baseless ones, I'm sure – which seem to suggest that you were responsible for your father's death. I can only assume that your former vassals believe these rumors to be true."
"That's absurd!" Hlewagastiz blurted, far too quickly and far too emphatically. He threw a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder. "My father died from illness – it was the plague, everybody knows that!"
His lieutenant shrugged and threw up his hands helplessly. "I don't know what to tell you, my king. All I know is that there have been stories going around that you poisoned your father, because you wanted to take up the throne for yourself."
In another instant Hlewagastiz was on his feet once again, towering over his subordinate in an indignant rage. "For myself! No!" he insisted, almost pleadingly. "I did it to save our kingdom!"
The lieutenant hastily motioned for the king to be silent, eying the doorways for signs of potential eavesdroppers. "Your majesty," he pleaded, "I seriously recommend you not discuss this any further."
"Be silent!" Hlewagastiz demanded, returning to his usual imperiousness. "If my memory must be tarnished forever by this fact, then if nothing else at least let it be the truth!" He spun around and began a frenzied pacing. "I loved my father dearly, but I love this kingdom more; and I cannot bear to see it fall into the hands of dirty foreigners and egg-headed reformers. I know that he would have understood."
"This is not the time for apologetics," the soldier said softly, but firmly. "If you believe that you did the right thing, then you must see your choices through to their conclusion." He rapped his knuckles on the map between them. "The host of Heruwulfaz approaches rapidly, and our forces still await your orders for battle. If you still yet believe in the Old Ways, now is the time to prove it."
"I do," Hlewagastiz insisted, as if he needed to convince himself of it, "and I will. Though odds are stacked against me – and though my enemies crowd around me like vultures – I will still fight to the last!"
For the first time in many troubled weeks, the lieutenant felt himself grin. "Now that sounds more like the boast of a king."
War drums crashed, and the whole countryside for a mile around seemed to shake and tremble as the vast horde of Sweboz made ready for battle. The placid field on which they camped suddenly devolved into a chaotic cacophony of noises, sights, and smells as hundreds of men struggled to make themselves ready for the coming bloodbath. Some devoted their precious remaining time to bathing and hygiene, trying to at least look presentable before they cut down their foes. Others turned to games and rituals, in hopes that they might chase the possibility of death from their minds.
It had been a long time since Okaz had ever felt nervous about a battle, and he certainly wasn't going to start today. By now he had fought so many men in so many places that they all seemed to blur together, until Okaz could rarely ever tell who he was fighting, never mind where or why. Each one of the deadly encounters he was thrown into was little more than an exercise anymore; a round of mundane practice for his fighting skills. It was not a fun way to approach the job of a warrior, but at the very least he was good at it.
For the moment, the old warrior lay motionlessly beneath the tattered rag he called a tent, taking deep breaths as the tantalizing smell of sizzling meat wafted through his head. Part of him – the baser, more animalistic part – hungered to arise and join in the lunchtime feast. A second later, and he had thought better of it however; as good as the food might taste now, it wouldn't feel nearly as great in the heat of battle. Instead, Okaz grabbed his washrag and wet it again, polishing his weathered shield for the umpteenth time. Better to keep his thoughts on the coming battle.
The harsh bleating of war-horns suddenly shot through the camp, rousing all the warriors to stand as they quickly sounded off the order to form up for battle. A strange sensation rippled uncomfortably through Okaz's stomach; it took him a moment to realize he was excited, or possibly nervous. After such a long time spent in apathy, the emotion seemed to hit him wrong; it felt unnatural and unwanted. As he pushed away the flaps of his tent and his eyes feel naturally on the sprawling city ahead of him, the churning sensation only intensified further.
It is revenge, Okaz concluded as he gathered up his weapons and belongings. My body must know that vengeance is at hand.
Yes, it made sense alright – and vengeance was something worth being excited over, after all. Surely any man would be anxious at the prospect of putting his nightmares to rest! Okaz had already suffered long enough for crimes that were not his own. He had thought subjugating the Rugoz would grant him peace, but if anything it only left him emptier; less human and more…warrior. Doubtless, this would be the end of it all; one final, heroic effort was all that was needed. Today, he was determined to win back his life; even if it had to come with a mountain of corpses.
"Wait – Okaz! Before you go!"
The old warrior turned in time to see his king galloping recklessly through the camp, at the same time clumsily trying to secure his helmet with his free hand. Moments like these, in which Herueulfaz's youth and inexperience briefly surfaced from beneath the façade, did much to make the towering king seem more human; a quality most agreeable in a monarch.
Okaz managed to suppress a snicker, and hid his smile by quickly dropping into a bow. "My king commands?"
"I'm taking you off horseback for this one," Heruwulfaz explained as he finally managed to fix his errant cheek flap. "One of Fruhijaz's horses broke a shoe, and I don't have time to get it replaced, so I'm going to give him yours."
Okaz was somewhat taken aback, but he obediently passed the reins of his steed to the king. "Where would have me then? With the duguntiz?"
"Yes, I think that would be best." There was an uncomfortable pause as the king lingered. "You don't mind, do you? Honestly, it'll probably be safer on the ground anyway."
Okaz seriously doubted that was true, but it was never a good idea to argue with one's king. "Of course, my lord. I shall do as you wish, always."
"Come," the king said kindly, "walk with me. The battle is about to begin, I think."
The two men finally began to make their way out of the camp, traveling with the rest of the stragglers toward the mob that had formed out in the field. Okaz grimly realized that it was smaller than the one he had seen last year fighting the Rugoz ; even with the reinforcements from the Skandzan turncoats, their forces numbered less than five-hundred. From the looks of it, Hlewagastiz's personal troops numbered somewhere around six-hundred, most of which were milling about inside the confines of the village.
"They outnumbered us," Okaz observed, "but after everything that's happened there might be some reason to question their morale. Do you have a plan?"
Heruwulfaz nodded confidently. "Hlewagastiz has numbers, but his host is uniform in its construction – in particular, he has no archers or horsemen to speak of. I think we ought to sit at range and pelt them on their approach."
Okaz shrugged, "I have neither the authority nor the wisdom to pass judgment upon you, my king. I can only say that, personally, I believe your plan is sound."
The king chuckled modestly, "you waste too much effort on paying me respect, Okaz. If my kin are afraid to tell me their minds, how can I ever hope to succeed in my rule?"
"I agree," Okaz responded flatly, "but in this case rest assured that I have spoken truly." He was feeling especially terse at the moment; the alien sensations were twisting about in his gut again.
"Go," Heruwulfaz finished, sensing his companion's unease. "Find a spot in the battle-line – I'm going to sound the attack in a minute. And stay alive!" he added as he rode away, "that's an order!"
The warrior tightened the grip on his spear as he formed up, his king's farewell echoing in his mind. "Stay alive," he muttered sarcastically to himself. "I suppose I can do that." A few of the warriors next to him tried to strike up a conversation, but the look on his face shot them down in an instant. Okaz had no time for childish banter; this was important.
These moments in a battle were the worst ones of all, primarily because absolutely nothing was happening. Hlewagastiz's army had deployed across from the Sweboz, banging drums and yelling out their boasts to anyone who would listen. Despite the gravity of the coming battle, they seemed to be largely at ease, almost to the point of being unprepared. They were probably waiting for Heruwulfaz and Hlewagastiz to speak, as was the traditional start to a battle in the Northlands. Traditionalists to the end, Okaz thought with a smirk. By his reckoning, they were about to receive a very rude awakening from their quixotic nostalgia.
"Archers, advance!"
The warriors heeded Heruwulfaz's call, as a band of the thinly-built skutjonez stepped out from the line and began to cross the field. The Skandzan army seemed to be puzzled by the maneuver; in their telescopic understanding on the world, they thought it unthinkable to begin battle without the preceding rituals. Fatally, they made no move to defend themselves or get to cover, standing totally exposed and totally unawares. From his spot in the frontlines, Okaz could barely contain his anticipation. Let's see you try and escape this time.
"Fire!"
There was a momentary pause as the command was processed, and then an instant later the sky was darkened by a furious volley of arrows, whistling gleefully as they shot across the width of the clearing and into the hearts of their targets. Even from here, Okaz could make out the alarmed screams of the Skandza, angrily cursing their foes as death rained down upon them. The Sweboz, unmoved, fired off another salvo.
"They are charging!" somebody shouted, and sure enough Okaz noticed that the Skandza had recuperated enough to mount a counter-charge. The whole lot of them swarmed across the field like a mighty human wave, screaming curses and swinging their weapons wildly in a blind rage. The archers began to pick them off a couple at a time, but the horde press on undaunted, vaulting the bodies of their fallen comrades with impressive dexterity.
"This is it, brothers!" Okaz called to his kin on either side. The Sweboz archers quickly pulled back in the face of the oncoming swarm, and now there was nothing standing between Okaz and his righteous vengeance. He heard no orders given, but the petty formalities of command would not hold him back any longer. With a bestial roar he hurled himself towards the Skandza, his fellows charging in sync at his side.
Everything he had ever learned about combat flowed seamlessly through his mind; his limbs and body moved unbidden, reacting instinctively to the tide of the battle around him. Just as the two armies were closing together, Okaz felt himself jab out with his spear; a hard tremor reverberated up his arm as the metal point struck beneath the enemy's exposed throat. A second later, another hapless victim had risen up to take his place; amused, Okaz bashed the young man in the face with his shield and ran him through at the midsection.
He was no longer Okaz of the Markamannoz, a humble warrior from the southern borderlands. He was no longer a weary observer, struggling to right the wrongs he had been forced to bear witness to. He was a faceless warrior in a crowd of pathetic weaklings, mewling feebly as they were cut down by their betters. A sort of grisly dance began to unfold, as Okaz bounced between targets, buying himself time on one flank so he could focus on another. In time, his brothers in arms found themselves enraptured in the same energy, and together a bloody swathe was cut into the enemy formation.
"The cavalry have come!"
The sound of coherent human speech came as a corrosive shock to Okaz, who was suddenly totally alert and totally confused. "What are you talking about?" he panted to a comrade, as he and his enemy cautiously stared each other down.
"Look!" the other cried, pointing a finger beyond the heads of the Skandza. "Our horsemen are charging!"
A second later, all questions were answered as a thundering mass of horses smashed into the rear of the Skandzan lines, sending grown men flying like children's dolls. A general panic overwhelmed the remaining enemies, and save a few courageous individuals, they tossed their weapons to the ground and began to run. Infuriated, Okaz tried to hunt down as many cowards as he could, but he had not realized just how exhausted he was. He was forced to watch as the rest disappeared into the settlement.
"It is not yet time to rest," a warrior cautioned, although he himself was gasping for breath. "More still are coming."
The next wave of enemies had indeed arrived, passing their disgraced kin as they charged down the path out of the city. Okaz gave the new arrivals a quick assessment; they seemed to be Hlewagastiz's best and most loyal soldiers, given the quality of their equipment and the royal heraldry on their shields. Their arrival on the field meant that the hardest struggle was to come, but also one of the last. If the Sweboz would win now, they could win the whole battle for sure.
Something bright and shiny suddenly flashed at the corner of Okaz's vision, and he turned wincingly to look into the face of Heruwulfaz, bright red and covered in grime and sweat. The warrior quickly lurched into a bow. "Hail, great king. You look well."
Heruwulfaz laughed happily, "better than I have been in a long time, my friend! I trust things went as well in the center as they did on the left?"
Okaz nodded towards the Skandzan warriors forming up, "well we have them down to their veterans, for what that's worth."
"Then what do you say we finish them off?" As he spoke, the king drew his sword once more, crusty patches of blood still clinging to the tip. With theatrical flourish, he pointed the blade high into the air, causing the metal to shine in the heat of the sun. All eyes rested eagerly upon him.
"With me, sons of Irminaz! Attack!"
All of Okaz's fatigue seemed once more to evaporate in an instant; the familiar blood haze could be felt creeping over his mind once more. His feet began to pound the earth beneath him, and a moment later he found himself hurtling into battle once more, his brain already casually picking out likely targets and threats.
His first victim went down easily, screaming in horror as he clutched the gory hole where his eye had once been. Pleased, Okaz spun around and prepared to attack his next target, when a gray blur suddenly flew into his field of vision from the side. His shield automatically jerked up, but the blow had been well-struck. The warrior lost his balance and fell hard onto the ground. Through tears of pain he saw his assailant towering over him, his sword raised in preparation for the finishing blow.
"Hlewagastiz!"
The Skandzan king suddenly turned around in confusion, forgetting all about his hapless victim as he locked eyes with the treasonous Fruhjiaz. Hlewagastiz snarled and readied his sword. "So here he is," the mad king began, striding causally through the mass of fighters as if he were simply an actor on stage, "the most fickle Lord Fruhijaz. I must commend you on your little stunt – I admit I never suspected you might turn your back on your own countrymen!"
"Half the warriors who have railed against you today are Skandzan!" Fruhijaz insisted. "It is you who have done the betrayal, not me!"
Hlewagastiz waved his kinsman down impatiently. "Bah! It is only treason when done for selfish reasons. Everything I have done, I have done because I believe it to be right."
"How can you still say that!" Fruhijaz cried exasperatedly. "You must have some understanding of how insane all of this is!"
"History will vindicate me!" Hlewagastiz roared. "When all of the once-proud tribes chafe under the rule of petty tyrants, and men can only ever dream of being free, they will realize just how right I was – they will mourn for my failure!"
Fruhijaz lowered his arms and stepped forward, his face heavy with sadness. "Hlewagastiz-"
He would never finish his sentence. As he advanced toward his king, unarmed and in good faith, Hlewagastiz gave a mighty swing of his sword, burying the blade deep into Fruhijaz's neck. For a surreal moment, it seemed as if the nobleman might survive his wound, as he stood rigidly on his two feet, blood pouring from the gash in his neck. A few seconds later, he toppled to the ground and died.
The Skandzan king took a deep breath, but whatever empty platitude he was about to produce was cut off by a heavy blow to the back of his head. Stars flashed across his eyes as he stumbled forward, rolling to the ground with a dense thud. The Sweboz quickly formed a human circle around the prostate usurper, holding their shields out like a palisade. Hlewagastiz opened his mouth to rally his warriors, but there were none to be found. He was all alone.
"I think you have killed enough for one day," Heruwulfaz remarked as he stepped towards his fallen enemy. "Although I must admit, you are very good at it. This field is littered with men whom you have heartlessly sent to their deaths."
"Flippant and conceited," Hlewgastiz gasped exhaustedly, "even in victory. You will…never understand."
"Probably not," Heruwulfaz retorted, "for I can never understand the man who is driven to kill his own father."
"You would have too," Hlewagastiz grunted, "if you believed it was necessary. If you thought it was right."
Heruwulfaz shook his head pitiably. "You truly are a mad king. You believe the Confederacy brings the bonds of slavery."
It was difficulty for Hlewagastiz to remain conscious any longer; his head drooped weakly around on his neck. "I don't believe it…. I know it."
Heruwulfaz slowly took another step towards his opponent, who began a pathetic attempt to wriggle backwards through the dirt. "No – don't! Stay back! Don't you dare touch me! I am the King of Skandz-"
The sword shot through the Skandzan swiftly; the life in the mad king's eyes seemed to flicker and fade away. His last, pathetic cries were left to echo off into the countryside. With the resignation of a man bound to duty, Heruwuflaz returned his bloodied sword to its sheath.
"I too have killed enough for one day."
