Title: The Earl of Heid
Author: Anouk Sun Amun
Disclaimer: I own none of this. It is all the intellectual property of David and Leigh Eddings.
The clouds hung low that day. They had not released the pouring rain as they had previously, but threatened it all the same. It was the perfect setting, really, for what was about to take place. The shores of Lake Venne were not the most appealing location at the best of time and the threat of a battle did not do much to improve it.
With that grim thought the Earl of Heid nudged his chestnut gelding into a walk. For a moment the horse foundered in the sludge before gaining his footing and following his master's command. As they began moving along past the rows and rows of bedraggled foot soldier the creature's hooves sank deep into the mud with each step. Pulling itself out for the next step caused the mud to splatter over those closest. The earl felt sorry for his mount. The conditions for the men were not much better, but at least they understood what they were fighting for and would, hopefully, gain something from it.
With another gentle kick the gelding moved into a trot and the Earl cast a glance over the well-ordered lines of soldiers that made up the Thalesian army. King Sarak had insisted on sending an advance part, lead by himself, to the battlefield ahead of the main force. Back in the planning room in Emsat it had seemed like a reasonable idea. Now they were about to face the Zemochs the mistake was obvious. They had not counted on meeting the enemy this early on and there was no way their current numbers were sufficient to best Otha's hordes, especially after the weeks long forced march from the coast.
The Earl continued to appraise the troops. Most of them were standing with sagging shoulders, their rain-splotched armour seeming to drag them down further. These men were trained to fight in the freezing wastes of Thalesia, not knee-deep in mud in a foreign country.
As he moved past the front rows of the common soldiers the Earl spared a glance down at his own appearance. Like a great number of the officers he had opted to wear the heavy, ornamental plate armour for the march to battle. It had not escaped the harsh rains. Where once it had been highly polished steel it had faded to a dull grey covered with light orange rust. From his shoulders hung a dirty white surcoat, now plastered to the armour beneath after yesterday's downpour. With a sigh he tightened his grip on the reins and looked ahead to the royal entourage.
The Earl rose towards the gathering, slowing when he came close. "Hail, Sarak," he called, mustering as much confidence as he could manage. Even to him it still sounded weak.
The King turned in his saddle but those near him continued to look out over the lake and the mud flats surrounding it. Sarak was a towering man, nearly seven feet tall, and made quite an impressive sight sitting astride his equally large warhorse. The giant rose-shaped sapphire in his crown, the Bhelliom, only added to the image. Having him at the head of the army made sense. Hopefully his armour-clad figure would scare off a few Zemochs before any fighting took place. Heid realised this was no more than wishful thinking, but he had to believe in something.
"Heid," the King replied in greeting and turned around again.
The Earl took it as acceptance and sat his horse beside the King's. Other officer and officials moved out of his way as he went past them.
Sarak's face was grave as he scanned the horizon once more. Around the entourage his expression was mirrored. Heid assumed he wore a similar hopeless look, probable had been since the news of the approaching army had arrived at the camp.
For an incalculable amount of time they sat there, still as statues, waiting for nothing more than their fears to be realised. And realised they were, coming over the distant hills in the form of white-robes Styrics hellish creatures none cared give a name. From then on thing happened quickly. Panicked conversations started and suddenly cut of as the Thalesian monarch raised his sword, still waiting. Quiet descended as the enemy mass rushed forward, never seeming to end. Then, when they were close enough to distinguish facial features, Sarak rose in his saddle and brought his sword down, at the same time kicking the flanks of his mount.
So it was that the last battle of the Thalesian force began: rushing forward in a frenzied charge to certain death. It was eerie really. For the Earl of Heid it was strangely serene. There seemed to be a purpose behind it for him.
Even stranger was the fact that in the midst of the fight several long and bloody minutes later he managed to find his way to his King's side. They were most definitely losing. Above the heads of fighting men and beast he saw the tall crown of Sarak and rode towards it, at a loss for anything else to do. He drove his heels into his gelding's sides and barrelled straight through the struggling and dieing towards the giant of a man.
Through some cruel twist of fate a riderless horse reared in front of him no more than a few strides away from the King. When he managed to move around it he saw nothing but the unmoving form of the man nearly falling out of the saddle, a swordhilt protruding from his chest. As he watched the Thalesian crown began to topple off his head, towards the waiting hands of a few blood-covered Zemochs braving the hooves of Sarak's panicking horse.
In the moment they began reaching up for the jewel-adorned object that Heid realised what they were looking for: the Bhelliom. With one last, desperate kick to his mount's flank he dove forward to intercept it before the Zemochs could get their hands on it. They may be able to best the armies, but they would never take that crown. Not, the Earl thought, while there was someone to stop them.