Twenty Two Years Later...
Sundown came. Gloom fell into colorless twilight, smothered under a descending mantle of silvery mist. Exhausted soldiers trudged from their shifts at the barricade, and stiffly Daen walked over to assess their condition. Her forces had dwindled but she would not back out, not when her father‘s life was taken by the enemy’s hand. Anger raged within her like fire and she dared not retreat.
All because of her father, insisting on coming back to where her mother was born and raised. Unknown to him of the war that raged on between both Caedise and Malicae had raised to physical. He, giving full services to his younger brother Colin. But he too fell on the first wave of battle in the field where the stench of decaying bodies was unbearable. She was alone with no time to mourn the losses but avenge them. For Cid had taught her well in the art of fighting and war. To think that the war their families had gone for centuries before, the cause forgotten with time.
Of three hundred soldiers and one hundred slaves were left in the Caedise Castle, fewer than one hundred soldiers and forty slaves remained on their feet to serve. Most of the rest were dead, though a dozen wounded soldiers and a like number of slaves were ministered to in a camp stationed within the onyx castle. The incessant random arrows of the Malicae caused enough damage to keep men on the edge. No one could lie down, lest he offered a better target for a descending arrow. A few men attempted to rest under a pair of shields, but the experience encouraged cramping rather than rest. Leaving bodies with aching muscles after. Most warriors simply sat with their knees drawn up under chin, shoulders hunched, and heads bowed, as tight against the walls of the barricade as possible.
Night came, and the fighting wore on by the flickering flames of enemy brands. The milky mist in the defile glowed with their light, like some twisting fog-tend riled soul. The Caedise warriors considered that light, and sharpened their weapons, and if their voices expressed courage through quips, their thoughts were bleak. The fighting would probably not last until morning certainly not midday. They knew this as well as their General who tirelessly made her rounds to bolster their spirits.
Hours passed, men died, and the stars that seemed but crystals sparkling in the sky which stayed hidden by a veil of mist. Daen was crossing the clearing to inspect two men who appeared injured by thrown rocks when something struck her leg like a calf’s kick. She staggered and all but dropped to her knees as pain exploded in her left thigh. Two soldiers ran to assist her as she began to collapse from the arrow that was embedded from her upper leg. They carried her a short way and gently placed her so she could sit with her back against a relatively sheltered part of the barricade.
Fighting off the sweet threatening blackness, that encircled her vision, Daen said her voice merely calmed almost as if she had endured such pain before, “Gods were merciful, my life was not taken, at least. ” She forced herself to look at the arrow that was buried in her bare thigh. It had struck downward--one of the random shots into the barricade--and she could feel the arrowhead scrape the bone. Giving a silent thanks to her father’s art of medicine in battle she remained calmed by the whole scenario. “Push it through and cut off the feathers,” she ordered. “Then pull it out.”
The two soldiers exchanged glances, and she had to repeat her order, shouting through clenched teeth that they should pull the cursed arrow free.
The soldiers met eyes again, over Daen‘s head. Neither wished to speak the truth to their Lady and General: that to pull the arrow free would likely tear an artery and cause death in a heavy flow of blood.
Daen cursed, clearly, astounding the soldiers who helped her. She pulled one arm from the supporting hold of one warrior and, with surprisingly steady hand, reached out, grasped the arrow, and snapped the wood. “Push it through!” She demanded.
The shaft that still head the arrow head remained embedded in her flesh. The hole bled sullenly, swelling rapidly to violet.
“The wound will fester, M’lady,” one warrior said gently, surprised at his Lady’s courage. “It should be cut out and the wound allowed to drain.”
“I haven't the time!” Daen snapped, her melodic voice not as steady as her hand. The agony that cut through her had little to do with pain, which she had known before and kept it within, as now, when necessary she had to be strong for her men after all. “If the arrow is not removed and the damned head keep rubbing against my leg bone, I will likely loose consciousness. Most certainly I will not be able to walk and continue commanding our troops.”
The soldiers said nothing, but their unspoken reproach was noticed.
Daen reined in her anger and anguish of loosing the ones she loved. “Do you think one of us will be alive long enough for me to die of a wound gone bad? Tie off the leg and push the damn thing through!” They reluctantly obeyed. Pain caused Daen’s vision to swim, and for a few minutes she lost her sense of time and place. After a few moments in swirling darkness, her wits returned, and found the soldiers binding the wound; the agony in her leg fell off to a dull ache.
Ordering the warriors to help her to her feet and stood unsteadily a few moments. She refused to cut a cane from the bush, but stumped about with half-steps, her thigh throbbing angrily and each bump and jostle of motions brought a jolt of pain. But no man dared to dispute her authority; she was still in command of her army. Even though they question that command, she was a woman after all.
She promoted a particularly bright young soldier, Kale, to an acting commander, only to watch the young man die less than an hour later. Reacting in inspire frenzy, Kale had repulsed the largest Malicae offensive since dusk, the second near reaching the barricade surrounding the castle. The war cries of men, the clash of metal against metal, and finally screams of agony. The man’s sortie driving the attackers back, but only in exchange of heavy losses. The Caedise were exhausted by each passing hour, while the Malicae seemed inexhaustible. Daen took no time to promote any one else. There was no need, with Caedise numbers fallen below that of a small army. A second commander would be irrelevant.
Daen shuffled wearily over to the slaves and instructed a distribution of their rations. Given the deaths, there was now enough food for every man to eat as they wished. If the soldiers could not have enjoyed a hot meal, at least they would be restored by a full stomach. Daen took moldy cake and a piece of beef jerky. She had no appetite, but forced herself to chew. The painful throbbing in her left leg and burning ache of swollen flesh were unbearable. In the end, when no one was looking, she spat the tasteless morsels on the ground. She drank when the water skin was passed, and controlled the heave of her stomach. Her throat seemed dry from the cakes, and she wondered if she was beginning to get feverish. Then, as always since the death of her father, her thoughts returned to her command.
She had estimated that more than three hundred and sixty Malicae had fallen before the barricade throughout the day. The night’s numbers would be fewer, lowering as her soldiers tired. At least sixty-five enemies had perished after the hour of sundown. Her soldiers killing her father’s foes at a rate five to one. Losses increasing at a fast rate, however, soon it would become critical as her own forces dwindled, until, inevitably, the Malicae would win past the barricade and rush through to slay the survivors. Daen concluded her review with pride. The Caedise warriors had surpassed expectations, and the end might be prolonged until dawn.
Sitting back against the icy damp stone wall, Daen brushed back soaked lustrous autumn locks. Her face reflecting the fatigue that she had never known in her life.
The exhaustion brought on regret and guilt: that she would never be able to avenge the death of her father. She shouldn’t have demanded time from her father and drive him away from training the other commanders. She shouldn’t have insisted that her father dine with her instead of his officers in the servant’s hall. Every chance missed to educate those young soldiers came back to haunt her, it was her fault.
Too late, now, to wish a younger man here in her post. A hot flash of pain from her wound reawakened anger. Cursing herself a fool, she put aside sorrow and guilt. She refused, at the last, to be a woman caught up on black contemplations. She would do her father proud as she attempted to do so in the past. A battle continued to be fought, and morbid reflections required effort better spent on the field.
She propped her wounded
leg out before her and was racked by a pang of agony. She made no sound,
but only sweated under the weight of her armor. By the gleam thrown off
by banked coals, the flesh around the puncture looked red--a trick of light,
or inflammation. No matter, she thought. A wound was but a way to measure
growth for a warrior. Life was pain and pain was life one had to get used
to it. She managed a smile at remembering her father’s words when she was
first wounded in a spar. Her circling thoughts drifted as her body attempted
to fight off the aches of battle, injury, emotional as well as physical
exhaustion.
She must have dozed, for the next she knew, a soldier was shaking her shoulder, urging her to wake. Daen blinked gummed eyelids and fought to clear senses that normally came instantly alert. Without thought she attempted to rise, but pain coursed the length of her leg and caused her an audible gasp for air. The soldier offered a steady hand and tried to keep pity from his eyes. “General, we hear armed men approaching in the forest.”
Daen squinted at the narrow crack of sky above. There were no stars, not any lessening of darkness to indicate the hour. She had no way to estimate how much time had passed during her slumber. “How much until dawn?” She asked
The soldier frowned. “Perhaps two hours, General.”
“Bank the fire,” Daen snapped. Sure that the enemy had now encircled the castle and flanked by her position, she hobbled over to the men who readied themselves for the next assault. A frown was clearly shown upon her rosy lips. “If Malicae sent troops to crush us from the forest, why attack in the darkness?” She said softly, unaware, through her fever and her pain, that she did her musings aloud.
Then a crack resounded across the clearing. The barricade exploded backward under a wave of emerald green armored bodies, and Caedise defenders were hurled in all directions. A heavy log burst through with a grind of stones. The castle barricade had been breached by a ram, run up the short defile under cover of darkness, and wielded with devastating effects.
Malicae soldiers rushed screaming into the castle courtyard while the Caedise sprang to engage them. Daen called to the slaves to take cover within the series of secret tunnels underneath the castle. Soldiers fell thrashing in death or groaning in mortal pain. The fighting spread into the courtyard. Bodies draped twitching and crushed between wood and stone of the shifted barricade; other writhed, impaled. Some few fumbled to lift swords while they lay with broken legs and backs.
Daen absorbed this without pause to register the horror, for Malicae soldiers poured through the gap. The defile might only admit one of two men at a time, but it was open, and the Caedise were in retreat.
She drew her sword and hurried forward in a stumbling half-hop. Through a spinning haze of fever she was aware of the screams of dying soldiers and clash of arms the crackle of dry wood exploding at her back in a leaping wash of fire. A Malicae soldier spun backwards, stumbling from the blow of a Caedise warrior. Daen dispatched him with a reflexive slash, a grim smile tugged upon the corners of her seductive lips. Her leg might be ruined, but by the gods, her sword arm still functioned.
The battle raged across the courtyard. Men struggled in a dance with death, their swords shining with crimson in the night. Fighting, stumbling ahead, Daen squinted against the glare and tried to sort friend from enemy. The warriors on both sides looked like nothing so much as a scene from some demented battle hell as the fire burned in brilliant fury of oranges, yellows and reds.
Attacked by another Malicae, Daen ducked a sword thrust and countered with a single clean graceful slice to the throat. The warrior fell, gurgling as crimson liquid spread all over her armor, and precious seconds lost because Daen could not raise her injured leg high enough to step over the man’s corpse. The Caedise General’s knee trembled as she limped around, and pain jabbed her from ankle to thigh each time the leg bore weight. The agony knotted at her stomach, and she swallowed to keep from spilling her contents on the stony ground. Dizziness teased at her balance, and her vision swam.
Daen hobbled headlong into her last fight, where three Malicae soldiers hammered at the shield of a Caedise. Hide and wood parted with a crack, and the blade struck home. The Caedise warrior went down, and his dying cobalt depths met those of his General.
Then a figure in emerald was shouting and pointing his sword, warriors turned and converged. The clash of arms swelled on all sides. Believing to be amplified by her fever, Daen focused only on the recognition reflected on the enemy features.
“The Caedise General!” Someone shouted clearly and Daen was attacked by enemies. Her sword spilled their blood, but her feet were not nimble. Her guard was restrained by her lameness, and in the press of cut and thrust she was aware of other soldiers rushing from behind her. She could do nothing to prevent herself from being surrounded. Driven to her knees and crippled, she wrestled through spinning vision to ward off the blows hammered down on her. Stubborn into not giving up Daen continued on the defensive. The Malicae soldier before her suddenly stiffened. His expression of astonished disbelief as the soldier noticed it was a woman leading the army, and was swallowed by darkness as he fell. Daen caught site of a meat cleaver protruding from the Malicae armor, and a frightened slave backing away. Daen cut sideways with her sword, and at least one more enemy died before he could avenge his fallen comrade. The slave died anyway, cut from the chest to crotch by another soldier, and then the same crimson sword was pointed, gashing at Daen. More men pressed in from the sides. She fought them with the skill honed by eighteen years of her father’s tutoring.
Sweat ran down Daen’s temples. She blinked salty drops from her mist eyes and slashed through a white haze of agony. Dimly she noted a Caedise slave crouched near her, and hands attempting to prop her upright. Then the slave’s brown eyes went round and he lurched forward. His back lay opened to show white ribs and spinal cord, his weight driving Daen to the ground.
Blinded by dust and agony, Daen struggled to rise. Her ears rang and her hand would not grasp. Numbed fingers could not find her sword, and she was conscious to wetness flooding down her flank beneath her armor. She gasped, but there seemed to be no air to fill her lungs. Above her she could hardly make out a shape of a Malicae soldier, pulling back his blade from the thrust that had dispatched the valiant slave.
Daen groped in the dirt, found her sword, and struggled against the weight of the corpse to raise her guard. The soldier pulled the slave aside, then aimed a killing stroke at the beaten Caedise General at his feet. Daen raised her arm to parry and drew upon her last strength. Then sword met sword, and the hide screeched with impact. The blow deflected, but barely. The Malicae stroke missed the heart and glanced up to pierce through the armor and gambeson and, finally, through the flesh of Daen’s shoulder.
The soldier jerked back his blade. Flesh tore and bled, and Daen heard a distant, hoarse cry, as her suffering forced her own lips to betray her weakness before an enemy. At the ending of her life Daen invoked her will to greet death as her father once told her: with her head up and eyes open. Through the pounding of blood in her own ears, the Caedise general head a distant voice crying, “Caedise!” She only felt pride for that one brave soldier.
Blurred shapes swam
in and out of focus. Time seemed to gradually slow. Through the darkness,
a hand caught the Malicae soldier’s arm, yanking back the descending sword.
Daen frowned seeing that it was one of the Malicae themselves who did it.
She could not see his features well. She faintly wondered whether this
was the gods’ reward for a lifetime of service to them: for her valor in
attempting to run an army, she would not feel the death blow. “I am sorry
father, Colin, I failed you,” she muttered, believing herself bound to
the underworld; then the earth overturned, and she knew nothing as the
intricately wielded sword slipped from her delicate fingers. Clattering upon
the dusty stone floor.