פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּB
Chapter Thirty-One: Third DayStef woke up with a splitting headache, stumbling to his bare feet and shaking away the daze. He eyed the unfamiliar surrounding in confusion, and tried to piece together the events of last night, but couldn't pierce the haze. He touched the red linens he had cast away and the soft lacy pillow. His eyes lit upon the only other piece of furniture in the chamber, a dark mahogany bureau. He padded over and found his clothes and cloak neatly folded on its surface. There was a small clay vase with the slightly wilting Gilded Crowns that he had picked the other day. There was a small palm-sized mirror framed in bronze. And then there was a stack of folded yellow-edged letters bound in a faded blue ribbon, and weighted with a small medal. With a finger, Stef traced the cold iron contour of the Carmine Cross. It was only issued posthumously.
The door opened and Zira entered with a small tray, containing a small tin cup and a moist cloth. She swept her gaze from the empty bed to his location by the bureau.
"I did not expect you to wake so soon." She set her tray on the edge of the bed. "When they released you last night, you could barely walk on your own feet. Unacceptable given your condition."
"But it was necessary." Stef slipped on his shirt, wincing slightly at the spark of pain in his nerves. "I was the only survivor. Or so they told me. I was the only witness. And, by default, the only remaining suspect."
"Do you remember what they asked you last night? Did they do anything to you?"
Stef closed his eyes, and felt images slowly washing through his mind like sand in a sieve. They were disjointed memories blending together in his poison-addled mind. He remembered struggling to speak and make his voice heard, questions asked but which he could not answer. At first, he had struggled whether to reveal Tayren's identity. Tayren still had family in Manetheren—the discovery of his betrayal would ruin his mother and sister. But he must've told them, or else they would not have let him free.
As Stef sat down on the bed to pull up his trousers, Zira offered him the cup she had brought, "My own mix. It'll help you flush the toxin from your system."
He inhaled the soft floral steam and took a sip. It was slightly bitter but it opened his lungs and warmth slowly seeped through his body. He downed the cup, mumbling "Could use a shot of ale."
"One'd think you would learn a lesson already from last night." Zira replied disapprovingly.
"I guess I'm just a slow learner." Stef sat down on the bed beside Zira. "You know I have to go."
Zira did not reply. Stef sighed and motioned at the dresser, "Who was he? You said I reminded you of someone."
"He was my brother. Confident and proud, the perfect defender of nationalism." Zira bit her lips. "When the call came for volunteers, he immediately replied. He was in T'Caar Company. The Lost Company. Yes, I see you recognize the name. They were the ones that the bastard Vanigan led into the Forest of Death. One thousand men dead because of the unfounded loyalty in their cause and leader." She was as bitter as Stef had ever seen her, and her words poured forth in a ragged pattern. "Oh, I know what he would say. 'I am a soldier and death is my calling'. I've heard your soldier's creed. I've heard him repeat it to me as I have heard you. You two are so damn alike. You would've liked each other." Her words were sobs, and she buried her face in his shoulders. He held her there, and she grew quiet. The warm pressure of her cheek and body against him felt right, and her hair smelled faintly of dry lavender. And there they stayed for a moment frozen in time.
Finally she raised her head and sighed, "You're going to go." It was not a question.
He removed his mother's ring from his neck and slipped it into her hands. "I'll be back. Hold this for me. When we have won, I will return."
"Just stay for a little bit." She pleaded, as she melted needfully into his arms. He acquiesced.
It was late afternoon when he found a ride out towards the front. Walking through the mud and sheet of rain, his gear slung over his shoulder, he had come upon a convoy of loaded horse-drawn wagons at the foregate. A wagoneer, glancing at his uniform, shouted, "Need a lift, son?"
Nodding, Stef took a seat on the back of the wagon, pushing his waterlogged cloak to the side, his back leaning against the canvas-tied cargo. He made a fold in the canvas to block some of the rain from his head, and watched as the city of Manetheren dwindled. He did not think about what he was leaving. He did not think about where he was going. He did not think about the father's sacrifice and the grief he should be feeling. He did not think about Zira's wet tears and his smoldering longing. He did not think. Thinking would only reduce him to a shambling mess.
The trip was uneventful. The rain continued unabated, and occasionally, the farrier enlisted Stef's aid in pushing the cart out of particularly deep mud holes. The cart finally eased to a stop at a point of hectic activity, where carts dumped their containers and immediately turned around.
After reporting to the controller pit and a thirty minute hike, Stef slid down the muddy incline to his squad's staging area. Muddy faces turned to watch his arrival. This was the moment of truth. Stef read their looks. Some relief, some skepticism, but mostly indecision. There was no doubt that they had been apprised of at least basic details of the night with likely a heaping dose of gossip or half-truths.
"Good to have you back, sarge." Cordin ended the awkward silence. There were grunts and mumbles in reply, and claps on his back. There was no doubt there were some reservations, but for all purposes, he was a soldier returning back into the fold, with nothing changed.
He dove back into his original life with vigor, pouring all of his attention to the constant forays of the Horde. There were Trollocs to kill, and after that, more Trollocs to kill. It was almost a relief to be occupied by the desperate mundane. He only had to think about what he had to do, and not about what the future held. The future be damned. Thinking about what could be could get a man killed.
Two days and two nights he passed such in the embankment. Three days they had to hold until the reinforcement arrived, and those three days Stef faithfully held. It was thus that Stef greeted the third day, leaning warily against the mud embankment. He stared across the fieldworks, hastily patched every hour. There is nothing like seeing the end of the marathon or poetically, the rainbow after the storm and hail. The smell of success, the belief that in the end, the struggles were all worth it.
There was an aura of eerie silence, save the wet splash of the Tarendrelle lapping rhythmically against the bank. Stef slept lightly to its soothing lullaby, closing his eyes more than being in actual restful sleep. But he knew the drill. Sleep was a valuable commodity, to be stolen in shifts and minutes. And right now was as good a time as any. The forays across the river had been dwindling, tapering off after the ceasefire the previous day. Stef had seen their emissaries arriving across the river, a man riding a pure white stallion leading the small human envoy, shaking foam off and trotting confidently through the hostile soldiers as if he belonged there. Though Stef had never seen that man before, he knew he hated him. But, there was a quiet peace that stirred gently in the ceasefire, until the emissaries stormed through the ranks and across the river in a fury, and sparking forth the battle once more, unabated through the night.
Stef shifted in his uncomfortable position, feeling the soreness of his cramped muscles in each movement. He peered across the softly steaming water, but there was only darkness. A slowly twisting darkness like a black pit of poisonous serpents. There would be a battle this day. The largest battle perhaps of the Trolloc Wars. There would be no alternative, no turning back. They had to crush the Horde quickly with the promised reinforcements from the White Tower. The hammer of the Covenant and the anvil of Manetheren. But, Stef certainly didn't look forward to it. Battles were won and bought, and there was only one currency. The only currency accepted universally.
He dug a half-eaten ration piece from his pouch – his last – and chewed carefully on the stale hardtack. The lingering effects of the poison still lingered in his systems, and his gums and teeth were more tender than usual. There was a slight tremor in his hand and a subtle stiffness in his joints.
The supply sergeant passed, dropping the provisions of the day, and finally tossing him a large crossbow-like piece, the arbalest. Stef examined the item, and then proffered it to the man Hawk, known for his piercing nose and the self-proclaimed archery expert of the squad.
"Can you handle an arbie, birdie?"
"I reckon so. About time they passed these toys out to the real men."
Stef just nodded, fingering the scavenged shield strapped to his mutilated arm and the daggers on his belt. He knew what was coming. He could hear the bugle calls and the ponderous hoofbeats. He made his way to each soldier, nudging the sleepers awake with his feet. But, most were wide awake. They were prepared and waiting. It was the third day.
A banner crested from the west, followed by a second, and a third. The highest was the Red Hand, the second was fire-winged Caldazar, and the third was Aemon's Wolfhead. Missing was the Shield of the Covenant. If all went as planned, they would soon be seeing the Rainbow Shield waving from the east.
The bannered group weaved through the narrow gap-paths in the fieldworks on their way to the river. They passed only a few yards from where Stef and his squad stood watching. In front were four harsh-faced Heart Guards, ashenderai cocked stiffly over their shoulder, their blazing eyes skimming across the milling soldiers. Three horsemen, drawn from each of the three grand-legions, carried the tall banners, lances and swords locked in their carriages.
Then came the man who was King. Accoutered in a full burnished steel armor, he rode proudly on his black chain-donninged charger. The Red Hand grazed his cloak and mantle, but his face was bare, and his hair bound today in a warrior's knot. His steeled hands rested calmly on ebony Alcride's reins. Sanction slept in its scabbard, its charmed hilt seemed to wink from the base of Aemon's belt. The King's steady gaze met the eyes of his subjects and his eyes were sad and brooding, knowing that many of those standing now will be dead at the end of the day and was seeking a way out. Stef had seen Aemon a few times in battle the past days. He was a king who loved peace, but a king taught to war. To his left rode the Marshall General Cathon in sign of deference.
Behind them followed six young women clad in simple white riding dresses on auburn mares. Upon the center of their garb was a simple red rose and each wore a scarlet glove on the left hand. They did not wear any obvious weapons and did not seem to serve any overt purpose. Stef did not recognize them at first, but their sigil eventually jogged his memory. He had seen them mostly in the company of Queen Eldrene, but did not understand why her handmaidens now accompanied the King. Twenty more Heart Guards brought up the flank.
They came to a stop before the river, the Heart Guards fanned out in front of the King, as if to protect him from the soldiers. The handmaidens stood behind the King, as if creating a shield between him and the river. Aemon touched something silvery on his chest and then Sanction, seemingly nodding to himself. There was silence. Even the catapults had stopped.
"Hear me." Arcanum began in an oddly muted voice, but somehow Stef could hear the words as if the King's lips were right near his ears. From the attention among all the soldiery, the same applied to all. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that all the Grand-Legions could hear clearly every single word that came from their King.
"Hear me, men of Manetheren. You know what is to come. I know what is to come. Before I left our city, the Queen asked me to relay a message to you men, and I will keep that promise."
He paused. "To the Husbands. To the sons and the fathers. To the brothers. To those who leave their homes to protect them. To those who are forced to war to keep the peace. We know your sacrifices. We know the price. Though we are never glad nor do we fully face the choices, we understand and we wait."
A massive hail of rocks began to slam into the opposite shore pounding at the opposition. It did not seem possible that the artillery could continue such a bombardment, but they succeeded. Stef knew instinctively its purpose. To drive any Trolloc from the waterfront to make landing successful. King Aemon continued unabated and undisturbed by the rain of rocks tearing asunder the opposite shore, his soft purposeful voice cutting through the din like a sharp knife.
"I could sing of valor or speak of glory and honor, but there are bards and minstrels in the world enough for purple prose, and we have fed you words enough to last you lifetimes. No, instead, I will do what none before me have done.
"I apologize. We apologize. You have given up everything, from birth to death for the sword, for the simple reward that should by birthright belong to you. I apologize for all the cruelties of fate and men subjected upon you, and hope that all hear in this letter my sincerity. I am so sorry. For the duties and responsibilities forced upon you. For the lack of choice we have given you. We sit upon the balancing point, the teetering edge between forces greater than we can comprehend. You should not be here. None of you belong here. For this I apologize. And apologies are empty without amends.
"Hear this all, hear this well. You are dismissed from the service of Manetheren. Bondsmen and liegemen, I have released you from your word and promise. Henceforth, you are all free. So speak I, the Queen of Manetheren, and through the voice of the High King. None of you are tied here to the approaching battle, and can leave if you desire. Without shame and without guilt. I give you your choice and your own destiny. Serve and lead yourself. I am only sad that this has come too late, but it has come nonetheless. For a late apology is still an apology.
"We are sorry. We are truly sorry. Forgive us.
"From the wives. From the daughters and the mothers. From the sisters and the widows. From Eldrene."
Aemon closed the letter, "Such is the word of Ellisende. And her words are…mine."
Stef blinked, closing his slack mouth. He had heard the words of the King, but in his mind's eyes, he saw the voice of Eldrene, Zira, and even his mother. He kneeled, wondering why the words had stirred powerful emotions within him. His eyes blurred. He had not cried when his father had departed in his youth. He had not cried when his mother was laid to rest. He had not cried when he had lost his arm and hand. But, now he felt tears clutching at the edge of his lids. A simple apology had unraveled a closed trove of resentment that he had not even realized he had nurtured.
"None are bound fourth to our task. Your choice is your own, free men of Manetheren. If this is not your choice, leave without shame or fear, for the choice is yours." Aemon's words were now his own. "But if you will stay, then you will earn my eternal gratitude. The Rose of the Sun has given to you your birthright to choose."
Stef heard Zira's voice in his mind's eye, pleading for him to leave with her. And he could now. Duty had been freed from his shoulders, and the Queen had given him closure. He could return to the city, lift a surprised Zira into his arms, and carry her away from here. Into a future. Two children and a puppy. A farm and a garden filled with gilded crowns. And a sword rusting over the mantle, never to be used. It was his choice to make.
Stef stumbled and kneeled in the mud, and dug his sword tip into the soft earth before him. And as if in communion, other soldiers fell in place.
"I am a free man of Manetheren, and I make this choice of my own will." His voice came fast and furious, digging into the wind like a hatchet, to blend with thousands of whispers into a roar. "To the Last Defense of Manetheren will I stand, and in my hand stands the sword. I wear Manetheren on my back, and I will defend her glory to my last breath. From the blood of Arad to the blood that flows within me, I am a soldier and death is my calling."
"Stand forth then, sons of Manetheren, upon your own feet," King Aemon replied.
Stef rose, and felt the familiar weight upon his shoulders. And all around him, the rest stood in union. The thunder of catapults scattered to a silence, leaving the opposite shore immersed in a dark dust cloud akin to the mouth of Thakan'dar.
"Let us fight then. For Manetheren." The King tucked the letter into his saddle. He turned his horse, and the Heart Guard split around him. He drew the legendary greatsword Sanction, and charged into the brackish river.
"Carai an Manetheren! Carai an Ellisende!" The words came into Stef's mouth and he sprang forward. Men skidded down the slope, into the frothing water. King Aemon cut through the river as the wedge-point, the Heart-Guard easily keeping with his steed. Behind rode the Queen's Handmaidens and the Generals, and then the flood of Three Grand-Legions of men now madly in love with their queen.
Stef forded hard through the water, but the footing was slippery. The waterbed was piled with layers of Trolloc corpses that had expired over the two days, and their bloated bodies trapped his boots at every step. The dark brackish water seeped into his clothes, sucking noisily into his boots. Then, they reached hard traction, and they were upon the shore in a sweep.
Stef pulled his blade and clambered up the dusty incline. Debris from the bombardment crunched under his feet. A hairy arm broke free from a pile of wreckage, closing around the sergeant's ankle. With a smooth motion, Stef sliced down with his sword and the monstrous hand fell free. They broke through the choking dust into the waiting ranks of braced Trollocs.
Aemon was the first into the shadowspawn, his greatsword cutting down droves of grotesque defenders with each swing, until they fell back away from his fury. The Heart Guard rained death at his flank, their deadly skills and Ashenderai's long range kept back any attacks on his flanks. The handmaidens rode through the holes in the defense, still unarmed. The mixed cavalry and infantry charged was not far behind.
"Footmen prepare to pass cavalry forward! Los Valdar Cuebiyari! Forward! For the Honor of Caldazar! Caldazar!" The command came for Stef's infantry squad to press past the Heart Guards.
"Together now. Pick your targets." Stef yelled to his squad, and he braced his sword with his handless arm, aiming for a goat-faced Trolloc directly in front. He ducked under its scythe, and jammed his sword into its chest. He locked his shoulder with the Trolloc's abdomen, leveraged his body, and heaved with all his strength. The Trolloc toppled back, smothering the swings of its comrades behind him. Stef clambered over the fallen Trolloc, and slashed into the unprepared shadowspawn behind him. His squad slammed through beside him and began to carve their path into its heart.
Stef's breaths came in exhausted gasps and his arm strained from the stress of impacts. But, his eyes were clear and no tension ran boiling through his nerves. He was calmer than he had ever been. He was no longer fighting because he was supposed to. He was fighting because he chose to.
They fought onto the ruins of what once must have been a bustling town at the outskirts of greater Manetheren. The cobblestone avenues where merchants and hawkers shouted and mothers shopped for bargains were now covered with struggling men and beasts. The houses where generations had dwelled were gutted and belched forth slew of enemies.
A sudden shadow sparked Stef's instincts, and he ducked aside, narrowly dodging a huge slab of marble, slamming into the ranks. He rolled, his sword gripped tight in hand, and immediately focused on the rooftop of what must have been the mayor's residence. Another projectile departed from the roof, drilling into the ranks.
"With me." Stef waved his sword. He cut his way towards the building, meeting the guarding Trolloc with a blow to the face from his shield, snapping its head back, and following with a sword to the exposed throat.. "Breach and secure." He motioned, and switched his sword for a dagger. Two soldiers kicked in the door, sending the waiting Trolloc stumbling back from the force. Stef sent his dagger through and into the throat of the shadowspawn. The door guards were in first, and then the rest of the squad streamed through, with Stef at the back, a second dagger in hand.
"Stairs." In a wedge formation, they sliced through the milling Trollocs, towards the circular stairway halfway down the hall. A hulking beast blocked the way, an ugly spiked mace gripped in its massive grip. Stef wasted no time placing his dagger between its red-flamed eyes. The beast toppled backwards, its massive bulk decimating the railing and the already fire-gutted foundation. The stairway crashed in a cloud of dust and debris.
The squad formed around the opening, keeping the Trollocs back. Stef bent his knee, and began to boost soldiers up through the hole. As the men began to disappear into the ceiling, the Trollocs became more bold, until four soldiers remained, fighting embittered.
"Now!" A voice came from above.
Stef jumped, lifting his arms up, and feeling support from above, as he was pulled up. A lunging Trolloc was greeted with a sharp kick to the chin. Then he was through the hole and into the second floor. Only a few Trolloc bodies littered the floor. Apparently, the shadowspawn were not as concentrated on the second floor.
"Quick, to the roof before they use the other stairs." Stef led the way, eyes scanning from side to side. He still had one dagger left, and the squad was in good shape. When they came within sight of the stairs, they found it guarded by a Trolloc sentinel. Before it could raise alarm, it was silenced by Stef's last dagger in his throat. Stef motioned them to a stop around the staircase, and retrieved his dagger and crept up towards the roof. He peeked through, scanned quickly, and ducked back down.
Stef pointed at the ceiling three times with three fingers. Then he was through, blade bared, his squad close behind. Three lightly armored onager crews were blasting away from the rooftop, oblivious to the silent death from below. Stef came behind the closest Trolloc and slashed its throat with a jerk. Around him were more silent thumps, as the rest of the squad did their work.
"Guard the stairs." Stef pointed to three soldiers and then turned to Hawk. "Can you get them to work?"
"Not with an untrained crew." He replied.
Stef leaned over the roof. The battle was still fierce in the road, with the Band making headway with the Horde's artillery silenced. He pointed towards the three onagers, "Then we need to d-."
"Fade!" A doorguard called.
"Not this again." Stef stared at the doorway. The three guards fell back in the face of the leading Halfman. One soldier was too slow or too exhausted, and a blow that should've been glancing became fatal. A second soldier found his aim true, stabbing solidly into the Fade's chest, but was flung away to slide nearly off the ceiling, clutching the edge. The third retreated hastily back.
The Halfman charged forward, but jerked to the side, a long Arbalest bolt through the chest trapping him to the side of a chimney. Three more bolts pinned the fade's arm and legs to the wall. Stef did not hesitate, moving forward upon the temporarily disabled Fade. He cut away the Fade's armed hand and plucked up the gleaming black sword. It was like touching pure grease. Stef could feel dark malevolence seeping into his skin, and tossed the sword away from the spawn's reach. The Fade writhed and gnashed, then fell silent where it was trapped. But it was still much alive, its eyes following Stef with pure venom. The sergeant tossed the sword aside with disgust and re-wielded his own clean steel.
"Good shot, Hawk." Stef commanded, "We've got us a prisoner, boys."
"Company approaching." The last doorguard called, "Red cloaks. Looks like we took the building."
"Leave the Fade to them. We have more rooftops to clear." Stef leaped from the edge of the roof, landing on the top of another infested rooftop, populated by the rare Trolloc archers. His squad followed suit, and they cut down the unprepared archers with ease.
The roof shivered underneath their feet, nearly tumbling Stef off the edge.
"What the bloody ashes was that?" Stef was answered by the boom of a fireball burning through the street, plowing a blackened furrow behind it, bowling aside men.
Cordin pointed to one of the few intact towers in the town. "It came from there. Top floor."
"Hawk. How many bolts left in the arbie?"
"One."
"Make it count."
"I'm on it. " Hawk unlimbered his arbalest, and propped it against his arm and shoulder. A second fireball spewed from the tower, spraying down upon the battle on human and Trolloc alike.
The ground shivered, and Stef sprung around to see Trollocs landing from another roof adjacent to theirs. His squad immediately reacted, diving into the newly arrived shadowspawn.
"Keep them off Hawk." Stef shouted, intercepting a Trolloc's advance.
"I think he spotted me." Hawk groaned. A heavy explosion rocked the building as a firewall sprayed off its wall, barely missing the roof.
"Shoot now!" Stef slammed the Trolloc in his face with his hilt, and kicked him off the edge. He crouched to dodge the lunge of a second one, and flipped it off after its brethren. He glanced around to see the flash of a fireball burning towards him. He dove, grabbing Hawk, and they tumbled away under a ledge. He felt the crisp of flames just barely missing his back in mid-air.
"I got him." Hawk exclaimed as he picked himself up, obviously to his near-miss. "One down, six to go."
The fireball had left a trail of embers, but the squad were mostly intact, and mopping up the rest of the Trolloc. Below them, the Band was forcing through the streets, house by house. There was a boom of onagers firing into the Trolloc ranks as crews began working the captured machines, which should last them until the Thunderlord could ferry his catapults across the river.
"They knew we would come today. No Trolloc would have prepared these plans and onagers on rooftops." Stef scanned the battle.
"Reinforcements." Hawk called, drawing the sergeant's attention to soldiers appearing from around the corner of the stairwell. "We've got this all cleared!" He called to the approaching red cloaks.
Stef opened his mouth to greet them, when he felt uneasiness at their approach, at their carry. Then, their leader raised his bow, and its arrow took Hawk through the throat.
The next arrow skipped through the spot Stef was standing, but the sergeant had already dodged to a roll. Arrows streamed across the rooftop, taking a quarter of Stef's squad down. Then the assailants drew swords—Manetheren gladius—and smashed into the surprised defenders.
Stef raised his blade in time to ward away the first onslaught. The attacker was unquestionably a man. He looked, dressed, and fought like a soldier of the Band of Red Hand, and his eyes stared back with sentience.
"Why are you doing this?" Stef pressed, staring into those intelligent eyes, desperately seeking answers. "Why are you fighting us?"
There was no hate or bloodlust in the man's eyes, as there would have been for a Trolloc. Instead there was the grim determination of a soldier. From close up in melee, Stef saw that the man's accoutrement was not entirely identical to his. Upon his cloak was the Red Hand, but within rested a black flame as if it was scorched there.
Stef was forced back by the man's ferocity. He could not kill the man. Not simply because he wasn't trained for the task, but that his mind wouldn't let him. Stef was a soldier—killing humans was anathema. But as he was slowly pushed towards the edge, his sense of survival over-ruled his conscience. He blocked an ill-prepared thrust, and slashed at the arm to disable him. But his assailant stumbled at the last second, and the sword sunk through the chest.
"No!" Stef stared at the sword in the man's chest. He had not meant to kill him. The man collapsed, slipping from the blade. His eyes still stared back, then his lips moved, and spoke.
"We have returned." His accent was unmistakably one that belonged to Manetheren. Then he died.
Stef stared confusedly at the rooftop. Around him were the fallen of Manetheren, where brothers had slain brothers. But why? His squad had won, but only half were still standing. The rest had fallen in surprise and shock.
"Sir, what happened here?" Cordin asked, his shoulders shaking as he stared down at his own man he was forced to kill.
Stef kneeled, staring at the face of the man he had murdered. He was about the same age as Stef, and showed the same ravages of war. It was like gazing into a mirror, or perhaps the future. His hand touched the cloak, his fingers running across the Red Hand and the Black Flame, then to the lapel. A tiny sigil rested there unique to every company of the Band. Stef recognized it.
"T'Caar Company." Stef uttered. Like its namesake, T'Caar Company had been ingrained into the lore and legacy of Manetheren, and its tragedy in the same grain as its namesake. "Apparently, they were not lost in the Forest of Death after all."
"What are you saying, sir?"
Stef could not tell whether to cry or laugh. "He was the one who led them into the Forest of Death. We had thought he had betrayed the company into a trap. But we never found the bodies." He gestured at the bodies littering the rooftop. "But the dead walk once more. They went willingly with him."
"Who?"
"Vanigan. Piotor Vanigan the traitor. And the Lost Company has returned with him." Stef shook his head, and turned the body, seeking for what he knew must be there. He pulled the cloak from the corpse, and turned it to the inside. A soldier always wrote his name upon the inside fold, so he could be identified if his body was too mutilated by battle or spawn.
It was there in bold black blood-ink. Sandric Coutir it spelt in chicken scrawl, but there was no doubt to what it read. No doubt to what Stef had just done. The sergeant leaned over, heaving the emptiness of his stomach. He had eaten little in days, and what came forth burnt his throat and left his eyes stinging. He crawled to the edge of the rooftop where he stared helplessly at the disarray in the Band.
The Lost Company were unleashed upon the soldiers of Manetheren, and had virtually destroyed the front lines in their attack. They had flooded the rooftops and their arrows were stitching death through the ranks. It was difficult now to tell who was friend and foe.
"We're being eviscerated down there." Stef whispered to himself. He crawled back to the body, staring into its familiar eyes and finally closed them.
"Sir, we need to do something." Cordin called. He raced towards the edge.
"No, you'll die!" Stef's blurry eyes followed the soldiers' jump down into the battle. He stumbled to his feet. "Cordin!" The sergeant's hand found his sword, and he leaped down after the young recruit.
He landed in a knot of Vanigan's soldiers, hitting the ground hard but with no injury. He flashed his sword through the midst of red, felling traitors after another. He was like a man possessed, his swords raining death among the men. His sword breezed through the soft flesh. It was not like the flesh of a Trolloc, hard and unyielding. Men were weaker, kept alive only by a thin shell. But each man he slayed drew pain in his own mind, leaving a lasting psychic scar.
He struck drunkenly at another soldier, who blocked his blow, and shouted, "It's me! Sarge, it's me!"
Stef shook his head, and stared into Cordin's eyes. Then he felt hands seizing his shoulders, and shaking him slightly. He glanced around at the familiar faces of his squad who had followed. He blinked his eyes, "I'm alright. Let me go. Let me go, damnit."
He tore away, and glanced at the dead men at his feet. At the dead men all around.
"We have to get back." Cordin said, "Sarge, you fought like a demon. But we can't hold here much longer."
"I was a demon." Agony seized his lips. "But you're right." T'Caar Company had shattered their momentum, and now the Trollocs were forcing the disheveled soldiers back.
"Where is the forsaken Covenant!" Stef screamed. "Where is bloody Tar Valon!"
The call came. The Trollocs boiled down upon the men, tearing across the ranks like a fever. There was no stopping them. Those who stood their ground were broken. Stef waved his squad back, and they fought for their lives. They were pushed back harder and faster, and they lost ground ten-fold faster than they had gained them.
"Help the King!" Someone shouted in desperation. Stef stared at the tornado of blades storming across what once had been a marketplace. King Aemon was surrounded by no less than five fades and two Dreadlords, and a thick ring of Trollocs. The surviving Heart Guards fought desperately against their enclosement, their ashenderai striking down shadowspawn with each blurred motion. But their already few numbers were whittling down faster and faster. Fire and blue lightning crackled over the King's forces, but scattered harmlessly away as if skipping over a shield. Then fire exploded from the hands of the Handmaidens at Aemon's side, flaring across a Dreadlord, and setting him aflame.
"Those women! They're channelers!" Stef gasped.
"But they're not enough." Cordin answered, "We must help!"
A Heart Guard fell to the blade of the Fade. And a second. Then, the ring of Heart Guards broke to the pressure of the pack of Myrddraal. And the Trolloc Horde rushed in.
"To the King now!" Stef hacked his way towards the marketplace, but the resistance was tough and the movement slow.
With the defensive ring broken, the King faced an onslaught on all side. The Queen's Handmaidens blazed with cold lightning but they were struggling hard against the last Dreadlord. The King was the sole focus of the Fades and Trollocs, but he would not go easy. Sanction howled through the air, but not even the legendary greatsword could stop the inevitable. A fade plunged his blade through the Alcride's maned neck, and Aemon plunged away from sight.
"No!" Stef fought with desperation. Fire blazed and crackled over the market place from the direction of the approaching Aes Sedai Airena, but the Trollocs did not shy away from her weaves, their eyes only thirsting for the royal target that was almost theirs. At the other end, General Cathon cut his way towards the beleaguered King at the head of a squad of Heart Guard cavalry. But, both were bogged down in heavy resistance. Time was running out.
From nowhere, an armored figure surfaced, cleaving through shadowspawn. The color-shifting cloak distorted his shape, and he moved like a wraith, breaking through shadowspawn like they were not there. The man called Warder cut past two Fades beside him, taking a glancing blow to his helmet. His helmet shifted and fell away, revealing the face of…Aemon? No, the face was older, but the resemblance was uncanny.
Then King Aemon resurfaced, his own helmet lost but his sword still in hand. He stared at his likeness in the Warder, uttering words lost in the din of battle. Then, his rescuer seized the King's shoulder and shoved him towards his approaching men, shouting "You must leave!" as Stef finally burst upon the scene.
The man called Warder and who looked like the King was surrounded by the Fades, and his swings stalled for time, covering for Aemon's retreat. But even with his power and speed, he was no match to so many, and he was swallowed by the darkness, still fighting.
Aemon stood unmoving as if in shock, until Heart Guards grabbed his arms and pulled him deeper into his reinforcing soldiers. Stef stood at his flanks, warding away blows by the enraged Trollocs.
"Retreat." Aemon finally spoke, his voice distant and choked in emotions. "We have lost too much today. The Covenant has abandoned us. We will retreat!"
Hacking away, the Band backed away, leaving thousands upon thousands of their own dead behind. It was a fight for survival now, and they were losing.
פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ