This is for everyone who has ever cared.
This is also for anyone who enjoys fantasy. Or historical fiction. Or truthful rants. Or truthful stories. Or just likes to be entertained.
This is also my first attempt at publishing anything of significance, so be kind when discussing it with neighbors, coworkers, friends, and relatives. Especially if they’re mine.
- J.S. Van Winkle
Table of Contents
Fantasy (From the World of Kalium)
A Chance Meeting (4)
Duel at the Imperial Cemetery (27)
The Inn at Tro’Mause (40)
The Whore and Drago Koyle (50)
Historical Fiction
His First Patrol, His Last Patrol (58)
Contemporary Fiction
The Juicy Rapture (74)
Rants and Ramblings (83)
Castration of the Saying “Bad Guys”
Did You Vote Today?
Forgive BP? Forgive BP? I’d Rather Have the Gestapo Knock on Mein Door
How About another Cup of Road Rage?
Protesting Planned Parenthood? Why?
Self-deception of the Muffin-Tops
Little People in Big SUV’s
The Disappointment of Champions
The Gridiron is My Religion
The Twenty-First Century Clan Meetings
Voyeurism Hath Become the Norm
Why “Tea Baggers” Need Dirty Sanchez’s
Women’s Size Zero is Absolute Bullshit
You’re “Fucked” Insurance
Non-Fiction
What it means to Be Irish American (111)
A CHANCE MEETING
Never one for being taciturn, Sir Trevan Lorell ordered a pint for himself and a pint for the woman at the bar as well. He threw down two copper coins and continued talking to the innkeeper - more to sound important then for want of companionship. “The Imperial Blood Knights have been raiding small towns and farms along the border, and Durheim heavy infantry was seen marching towards Dallashire yesterday. The King has ordered ‘E’ Company of the Twenty-Seventh Mounted Rangers Division - my company - to fortify this town and the surrounding network of roads.”
In the interim the woman had taken a few sips of the refreshing lager, and was staring at Sir Lorell with an inquisitive glare. Made painfully aware of his mismatched eyes of red and blue, Sir Lorell glanced quickly at the woman and then smiled a shy smile. Too late, she was already interested in him. “What kind of knight are you?” Her voice was soothing but strong, with an allure hidden by a strong edge. Not understanding her question, Sir Lorell could only sit and stare at her with a dumbfounded expression.
The blonde began to laugh and idly twirled her hair in her fingers. “What I mean is what kind of man buys a girl a drink, and then doesn’t entertain her with his company? Am I too intimidating to look at, Sir?” He silently scolded himself for already looking like an idiot within the first minute of their meeting, and would have been insulted by her mockery had he not been so embarrassed. He took another copper out of his coin-purse and distractedly threw it on the bar as a tip for the innkeep. The man closed his hand around it and slid it off the bar into his waiting pocket with the ease of tired habit.
“So where are you from?” He could have smiled at his own awkwardness, for here was a woman who knew she was beautiful and who knew how men operated. The sunlight shining through the windows and illuminating her face in its warm glow only added to her beauty, and made his befuddlement even more pronounced. She smiled slyly at him, drank another sip of the lager, and edged her seat closer.
“Is that the best question you can think of? Very well. So where do I begin?” She sighed and looked into her drink. A slight tremor crawled up her neck, and she suddenly looked lost. “I was a merchant’s daughter once, until the bovine plague took my parents, during the year of disease,” she began. “They died rather peacefully, their bodies giving up on life while they slept. I remember telling myself ‘if I was to be robbed of my parents, than death while dreaming was the most merciful way they could go.’”
It looked to Trevan like she was someplace else, reliving a nightmare she had tried to suppress. He felt insanely guilty for some reason, and made to change the subject, but she beat him to it.
“Sorry,” she continued as she shook herself and met Trevan’s eyes with her own. “Not very often I get asked about my past, and even rarer that I talk about it.” She took another sip of her pint, and broke into a smile. Whether forced or real, Trevan couldn’t tell. “My aunt and uncle soon took me in and raised me as one of their own. I grew up in their inn. This inn, as a matter of fact,” she said as she waved her hands in a gesture to encompass the building. “Been here for seven winters now, working when they need me, selling my paintings when they don’t.”
She smiled disarmingly, her emotional shield back in place, and let out a petite burp.
Trevan took a long pull on his drink before setting it back down, and rubbed the excess foam from his mouth onto his grimy tunic sleeve. “So, am I getting you drunk while you’re working? I would hate to think I am depriving you of your living.” She put a hand to her mouth and gasped, feigning surprise.
“Ahh! The soldier found his tongue, his wit, and his charms, all in one sip of beer. I’m impressed.”
She looked around the room to where the bustle of afternoon traffic had increased since his entrance. “I make my own hours”, she said with the bluster of someone with confidence in their social station “and besides I’m not needed nowit really isn’t busy this time of day and there’s three other girls working. So yes, you can get me as drunk as you want. Who knows, if you’re lucky maybe I’ll even let you catch a whiff of my undergarments.” She laughed even louder when she saw the flush of cherry red rise across his face.
He finished his pint, stalling so he could think of something to say. “I would truly like to get to know you a little better first, before we go sniffing each other’s undergarments. But I can tell you how that scenario would turn out. I would fall completely in love with you, while the stink of mine would make you want to marry a horse.”
“I married a horse once,” she shot back “and his shit-catchers smelled pretty clean, given his situation. Though his constant need to run and fuck mares, combined with his love of oats soon grated on my nerves. That and staying up late to rub his flanks put me in one hell of a bad mood in the mornings.”
Abashed, he once again scrambled for something to say to the witty and charming woman sitting in front of him. She could only smile as he struggled in her web, a fruitless endeavor she had seen men do time and time again when confronted with her personality.
Sir Lorell had never met anyone quite like her before, of that he was sure. Mostly it was meek serving wenches, whores, and the occasional farmer’s daughter that graced his presence. They usually wanted money, or escape from boredom, or gossip about the younger soldiers in his company. None of them had ever looked at Trevan with real interest or even attraction - it was always his damn mismatched eyes that unnerved them and sent them scurrying away once they got what they wanted from him.
“Another two pints innkeep,” was all he thought to say. He produced two more copper coins and slid them down the bar into the waiting hand of the proprietor. The man looked at her, looked at Sir Lorell, shook his head in amusement, and then grunted as he filled up the two pints and slid them back down the bar. The knight immediately brought the pint to his lips and began to down the beer, while gesturing to her drink in a ‘please, enjoy’ pantomime.
“Thank you once again Sir,” she said as she daintily picked up the pint. She made to sip it like a lady of the court, but after a moment of hesitation, and with Sir Trevan watching her intently, she tipped up the pint and began to chug it. Their eyes locked and she placed her pointer finger down on the bar and tapped it.
The race was on.
He finished his pint just ahead of her, and stifling a loud burp with the back of his hand he smacked his lips in satisfaction. Downing the last of her drink, she slammed the empty pint glass down and belched loudly. It drew a wide smile from the knight and unabashed he let the rest of his burp out. A few patrons within ear shot glanced over and shook their heads in puzzlement. They both laughed at this, their faces flushed and a semi-glazed twinkle in their eyes.
“By the gods I’ve never met a woman who could chug as fast as you. I don’t know if I want to smell your undergarments - you might have a penis down there!”
“A bigger one than yours, I suspect.”
“I don’t doubt it. The way you swagger around the place I’d bet my next bounty that you got the shaft of a battering ram and the balls of a bull!”
Before she could form a response a grave faced Corporal dashed through the door. The youth darted through the crowd in an attempt to approach Sir Lorell faster, knocking over a table in his urgency. “Sir,” the breathless man saluted, “enemy outriders have been seen a few miles from town. Our scouts also report a regiment of Durheim foot soldiers moving down the Red Hills Turnpike. They’ve split into companies and are slowly fanning over the Pensey Junction, towards Harbro’s Crossing. We need you at the barracks now, sir.”
The Red Hills Turnpike was twelve miles distant, Pensey Junction nine, and Harbro’s crossing a mere three. The bastards are moving faster than we hoped they could, he thought.
“My name is Trevan,” the knight said as he stood and shook her proffered hand “and it was an unexpected pleasure talking to you today. I only wish we had more time to banter about penises and undergarments.”
She giggled at his comment, dropped her hand from his and ever so lightly and gently hugged him. The smell of her perfume and womaness invaded his nostrils making him shudder with an unexpected desire. She drew him more tightly to her and, with her lips brushing his ear, said “My name is Anne Marie.” As she withdrew from his embrace she continued, “and I look forward to meeting you again …” For the first time since meeting Anne Marie, the knight saw her struggle for words, and end up saying nothing. He of course could think of nothing to say.
With a heavy sigh and bow Sir Trevan left the woman, and exited the Inn. He really hoped to see her again.
* * *
“Corporal Garson”, Sir Lorell said to his officers as he nodded towards the aforementioned soldier “has filled me in on the situation. Gentleman, you know as well as I do that we have one of the best trained and best outfitted companies in all of Third army. You also know that we are heavily outnumbered and are about to be surrounded, pushed into a fight we’ll be hard pressed to win.” He paused to let the weight of his words sink in and slowly scanned the gathered men, looking for any signs of dissent, anxiety, or gods-be-damned weakness.
Lieutenant Henry Mallers, the second in command of E company, with his predatory stance, golden hair, and patrician face seemed to be unaffected by Lorell’s words whatsoever. But that was just who he was - a fatalist who never wore his heart on his sleeve. He was a rare man - brought up in a noble house where military service was expected of him - but unlike most of the rich bastards peppering the army, Mallers actually knew how to fight, how to inspire men in dire situations, how to garnish loyalty from the middle and lower classes. A cultured gentleman in the ballrooms, a dirty brawler in the bar rooms, a tactician in the war room, and a selfless officer on the battlefield - Sir Lorell could never have asked for a better lieutenant.
Staff Sergeant Roy Dunlevy - the oldest man by far in the company - shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and scratched his balls. Hacking up a wad of phlegm he spit it out on the ground, all the while silently muttering to himself. He was another officer that Sir Lorell could trust, and count on. Dunlevy had been serving in the army for well over thirty years - as an archer, scout, warrant officer, and Sergeant-at-arms--before being promoted and subsequently transferred into E company.
Three summers had passed since then. Roy’s salt of the earth demeanor, coupled with his lack of respect for others born higher than him on the social food chain had led him to become Sir Lorell’s faithful watchdog, and detractor. When everyone else around him was agreeing with their commander - Dunlevy would make it a point to be the only voice of dissent. He’d also taken on the mantle of teacher for most of the officer corps and the regular rough-and-tumble soldiers of the company. ‘Granddad’ was the company-wide nickname he carried with grudging pride - as well as the company standard - on every march or muster.
The rest of the assembled officers took their cues from those two men; not a lick of worry or cowardice revealed itself on any of their faces. Sir Lorell smiled to himself and silently thanked the gods once again for having been so lucky with the makeup of his officer cadre.
“I heer those fooken bastards all got cunnies instead a’ cocks. Bring em on, I says! I know how to get a cunny cooing,” Dunlevy shouted.
The gathered men broke out into guffaws and outright laughter, their gruff voices echoing loudly throughout the lofty wooden building in waves of coalescing sound.
“Might’n be theys got both Roy,” added one of the officers from the back.
“Old Roy’d fuck ‘em both the same,” was his dry reply. The laughter continued.
“Alright, alright, settle down, settle down,” Sir Lorell remarked as he tried to curb his own laughter. “As much as your levity is needed in times like these Roy, we need to focus and come up with a strategy that will see us through these next hours.” The laughter from the men slowly dwindled away. Each officer tried to gain back his composure and professionalism, albeit slowly and with difficulty.
Warrant Officer Hans Welliams was the first to speak up. He was a metalsmith’s son, tall of limb and tanned to the color of oak from the years he spent training in the harsh sun. Through a stroke of luck he had got accepted into the Warrant Corps some years before. His sharp mind and ability to read people allowed him to effectively defuse situations between different companies of soldiers quickly, and with little blood. This innate ability had steadily ascended him to the company’s chief Warrant officer position days before reaching his thirtieth birthday.
“From what Master Scout Pellen’s men have reported, we should expect at least two companies of Durheim infantry bearing down on our position within the next few hours. Knowing those wild island bastards have no knack for deployment, tactics, or the four hells - even a grasp on strategy - I suggest we set an ambush in the wooded areas around the town. We hit them in force as they stagger up piecemeal, before they get a chance to bring their greater numbers to bear against our weak perimeter”.
“That is assuming they will not divide their forces, Hans. Flank out into the plains abutting the forests,” rebuked Sergeant-At-Arms Mele’n Falkern. He was a cautious soldier, of medium height and build, who never liked to show all his cards until the game was done. He also tended to overcompensate aggressively during tactical meetings and on the battlefield; at thirty-seven he had yet to kill a man, and thought of himself as less because of it.
“For all we know they might not even deem this town worthy of their attention, Mele’n. It’s the network of paved roads and way stations that have always been the more valuable strategic objectives to the Emperor,” countered Master Scout Jonas Pellen. He was usually the most silent officer, forever brooding, and he had a dark countenance coupled with a drab outlook on life that added to the mystique of his scout position. He had been orphaned at a young age, and some said he was adopted by the silent brotherhood of Kalamnic Rangers. Whatever the case was, Jonas had always been more comfortable alone.
“Gods be damned,” he continued, “but the nearest way station is two miles distant, and one ass-fuck of a place to defend. The nearest cover is an overgrown berm some four-hundred yards from the road. I scouted the grounds myself this morning - not an easy place to fight outnumbered.”
“Though being a mounted ranger company, the wide open space around the station might work to our benefit. Sir Galvon Brenner defeated a platoon of Terheim pikemen with just three other mounted knights not ten days ago at Ureen Ford. Using his advantage in armaments and speed, he scattered the enemy and demolished them as groups of two and three tried to cross the stream,” Corporal Garson piped in. Though the most junior of the men assembled in the barracks, having just graduated from the Academy, E company’s command structure allowed any officer to voice his opinion, regardless of rank or birth. Deny Garson was but twenty-one, pale and unassuming, a farmer’s son by birth, and yet Sir Lorell’s insistence on every man voicing his opinion without fear of reproach during the meetings allowed him to speak as an equal.
“You sound like a fucking text book,” Mele’n retorted.
“A mere maiden of the realm,” joked Mallers uncharacteristically.
“Enough,” Sir Lorell said. “Can’t form a battle plan if you idiots keep fixating on Corporal Garson.”
The banter made him smirk. It reminded him of the time, at the company’s inception, when a magistrator had coined E company’s officers as “a band of misfits.” In a report to division command, the man went on to say that E company “was wholly unfit for muster review, as they are led by a knight who cherishes their love and not their obedience, who allows the hierarchy of army command to wither away,” and that “I have worries about the battlefield effectiveness of said company.”
But Sir Lorell had not been a fool. Nor had his officers. They understood that the execution of a battle rested solely on the men knowing their places in the scheme of things. No officer under his command would test the hierarchy when lives were being shattered. It was that simple.
… And his approach to command had been vitiated time and time again since. E company was one of the most decorated units in all of the army.
“Deny’s gots a good poin’ though, Trevan. He might’n not made a cunny crow yet, nor got any wiskas on hes sack, but hes got a point.”
Corporal Garson flushed slightly at Dunlevy’s words. His flush turned into a crimson blush as the rest of the officers once again broke into laughter over the Staff Sergeant’s comment. To his credit Garson quickly regained control of his emotions and shot back at Dunlevy in a jovial manner.
“At least I know my dick still works Granddad, and the skin on it is as taught as a bowstring, not wrinkled like an old woman’s face after eating a lemon!”
Raucous laughter exploded from every man present including Dunlevy, shaking the single-paned windows of the barracks. It was loud enough that the rest of the company quartered outside wondered exactly what their officers were discussing, warfare or women. Sir Lorell even allowed himself to laugh momentarily, caught up in the youthful exuberance of the moment.
After a minute and after wiping the moisture from their eyes, the last peals of laughter died off. The officers once again tried to regain their composure. It was this camaraderie, Trevan told himself, that he lived for.
“Alright men, short of Corporal Garson’s sex life and the sad state of Sergeant Dunlevy’s phallus, does anyone have anything else to contribute?” Sir Lorell smiled as the men struggled valiantly not to break out in laughter once more. The stifled laughter continued briefly until the seriousness of the situation came crashing back. He waited a few more heartbeats. Satisfied that he would not be interrupted, he put his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth. He met the gaze of each man, nodding to him in turn, before completing his thoughts.
“As always, each of you has made a valid point. Durheim infantry is indeed a sad mockery of military discipline. They are unpredictable. They might be laying siege to a fort one day, only to catch the whiff of women from behind, and go gallivanting off the next day to find said women. They might retreat from a battle they can win, only to charge headlong into a conflict they can’t.”
He paused and silently burped out the rest of the alcohol from his time with Anne Marie before continuing. “The Durheim command structure is well-known to have a deep distrust and even a down-right hatred of other units. Any time two companies are fighting side by side, it’s only because there’s more than enough loot to satisfy both lots. Confounding I know, because this hostility is encouraged - but more importantly - it can be extremely effective when channeled properly. Coupled with their fanatical faith in their Moon God, the Durheim fight like men possessed.”
“Furthermore, General Talen has made it our Division’s priority to possess the Pensey Junction at all costs. Holding the army of the Empire on the Northwestern bank is the first step in counterattacking across the Niel River. Having said that, E company’s primary objective is indeed Haversfield’s way station, not Haversfield itself.” He nodded at Jonas Pellen. “Our top priority is to protect the way station at all costs. But, we know the Durheim will never leave an easily looted town behind them,” he continued, acknowledging Welliams’ concern. “Therefore we must leave some men in reserve to protect our supplies and our only bastion of safety this far North.”
“Therefore I propose a two part strategy. First platoon led by Warrant Officer Welliams will fan out on foot into the surrounding wooded areas and set up a series of rolling ambushes. At the most you will have a full company to impede, at the least a squad. Kill, disable, and maim as many Durheim troops as possible. You need to keep them occupied and off our flanks. If you risk being overrun, then fall back and redeploy inside the safety of the town’s walls. Hold on tight and resist whatever comes your way. You will be the only respite for the rest of the company. Any questions Welliams?”
“Only one sir - when do you want us to leave?”
“Right now, since you’ll need as much time as possible to set up the ambushes. If the rest of the company is not back by tomorrow morning assume the worst, and send a rider to Division headquarters. May the gods go with you sir,” Sir Lorell said as he brought his arm across his chest in salute. The rest of the officers followed suit, adding their own words of encouragement and wishes. Warrant Officer Hans Welliams made to say something but thought better of it, and instead returned their salutes. He quickly marched outside to assemble his platoon and don his armor.
Sir Trevan Lorell would never see his Warrant Officer alive again.
“So what is the second part, sir” asked Corporal Garson.
“Arr yes, ta secund pat” Roy Dunlevy chirped in, “da one in weetch we vali’ant few fook up a bunch of cunnies on da highway.” The Sergeant’s accent always got worse when he was nervous.
“The second part consists of a delicate blend of speed and force,” Sir Lorell answered, choosing to ignore Dunlevy’s banter. “As Garson so eloquently put it, Sir Galvon Brenner defeated a force ten times as large as his, simply by using the advantages given to him. Master Scout Pellen has checked the area, and has found us a berm to hide in. One of you will station a squad at the actual way station as bait - juicy, juicy bait - and wait for the infantry to swarm towards you.”
“When you say, ‘one of us’ sir, by whom do you mean,” asked Mele’n Falkern.
“Whoever lost at cards last night of course. The one who can’t bear the shame of losing to his fellow cheating officers.” The remaining Sergeants, Corporals, and others laughed as Sir Lorell pretended to guard his coin purse. “In all honesty,” he chuckled “I figured one of you would volunteer, or if not - I’d do it. Does anyone …”
“I volunteer sir!” Corporal Garson exclaimed, taking two steps forward from the group. He sharply snapped his leather boots together and raised his arm over his chest in salute. Though he couldn’t see it the rest of the officer cadre behind him took on the worried looks of parents. They were proud of his decision but worried for his safety nonetheless. Shooting each other sidelong glances, they looked towards Sir Lorell, hoping he would validate their feelings.
Garson had become the son some of them never had, or the stand-in for the ones they had been forced to leave behind to fight the invasion. Deny had always seen that as condescending, but it was a sense of familial love and mutual respect that drove the other officers to treat him as such. Sir Lorell knew this, understood it -since he too felt the same way about Garson - and yet he also understood the need for the young corporal to prove himself to his peers, and to himself.
“Very well Corporal,” Trevan said as he met his gaze “I would trust any of the men gathered here to perform this dangerous task. It requires a soldier who knows full well what he is getting into. One that knows the risk and willingly puts himself into harm’s way for his fellow soldiers. One who understands his chances of getting out of it alive are slim to none. One who needs not prove himself to me, or to any other in this company. I know that you are that soldier, Garson, and I applaud you for it.”
“Poot me in fer hes second in command, ser”
“Sergeant Dunlevy … sad to say, I can’t risk having two officers cut off from the rest of us.”
“Thatsa lod uf horse sheet … sir,” he added as an afterthought.
“Load of horse shit or not, I need the standard by my side for this fight. Inspiration may very well make or break us in this battle,” Sir Lorell countered before addressing the rest of his officers. “We may have advantages in training, morale, and armament gentleman, but it still will come down to which side has more to lose, more to fight for. I don’t want to risk losing any of you, but I sure as shit won’t risk losing all of you.”
Roy Dunlevy made to argue the point that Garson had never been in combat before, that this was too important of a command to place in the hands of the corporal. After stealing a glance around the room and catching the reproachful look Deny Garson was giving him, he thought better of it and remained silent, albeit grudgingly. The rest of the officers stood still, contemplative, and awaited their individual battle orders from Sir Lorell. It was the moment before the impending battle that would shape their destinies, for good or ill, and no man felt like breaking the silence.
The silence dragged on.
Motes of dust stirred around the room, catching the mid-morning sun as it penetrated the windows and the spaces between the wooden planks of the walls. It fell lazily - wherever the whim of the drafts inside the barracks pushed them -before settling on the dust-strewn floors, armoires, clerical desks, and weapon lockers. Satisfied his officers were ready - that each would do his part and fight until the last breath left him - Sir Lorell walked up to each of them in turn. He saluted them, relayed his individual orders, and then shook their hands.
He wondered how many of these men would still be alive by nightfall.
“Gather your command and saddle up. We leave town in ten minutes. May the gods go with you.”
* * *
The horse flies lazily buzzed around his face, whether seeking the salt from his pores or just trying to be annoying, Sir Lorell didn’t know. But - by the gods - it was hot. The mid-day sun beat down mercilessly upon the dismounted Rangers as they laid prone in the berm. For the first time since they arrived at the way station Trevan began to question his plan. The two platoons and their horses were concealed from the Northern approaches to the road, of that he was sure, but the waiting was starting to become unbearable.
He looked up and down his battle line; his men were just as uncomfortable as he, squirming and writhing in their heavy armor and battle gear. Their horses, as if mimicking their riders, were just as restless as they lay down on their bellies. He had told his officers that noise discipline was a must, yet he could see his soldiers struggling not to voice their discomfort. Struggling to keep their horses calm and quiet was even harder.
His plan--as all plans in the history of warfare tended to be - had been predicated on absolute surprise. But if they were forced to wait any longer - sweltering in the gods-awful heat - then he couldn’t guarantee that tactical surprise could be achieved. That thought alone scared him more than any thoughts of the upcoming battle.
He swatted a fly away from his face while fighting the urge to scream. He took his chain mail gauntlet off to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his leather liner. A horse near him began to neigh nervously, setting him on edge, but was soon quieted by the calming words and strokes of its rider.
Where was the gods-be-damned Durheim infantry?
As if hearing his thought Scout Master Pellen appeared at the lip of the berm, low-crawling noiselessly, his face greeting Sir Lorell through the pushed back blades of the tall yellow grass. Pellen held up his hands and reported the situation through the company’s silent language.
An upturned palm - infantry approaching - two fingers circling the palm - two companies encircling the way station - four fingers thrust up - four hundred yards - a fist punching out - engagement in five minutes.
Sir Lorell nodded, mouthed a thank you to Pellen, and turned to his men. Up and down the line, all sixty soldiers and officers looked to him for his command. Feeling the weight of responsibility he closed his eyes and prayed to whatever deity might be listening. Taking a slow, deep breath he exhaled, and opened his eyes to focus on the task at hand. A sense of conviction only found on the cusp of combat entered his being, steeling his face into a fierce scowl.
He shot up and whistled. Unsheathing his sword he swung it in a violent arc before grabbing the reigns of his horse, mounting it in one fluid motion. The mount stood up and shook itself free of the dirt and grasses that had clung to it. The men and officers of second and third platoons followed suit. Wordlessly they guided their horses over the berm into the stirrup-high grasses, and withdrew their swords, horse bows, and spears. Sir Lorell was the last one over the berm, as was customary to Bretonic tradition. What he saw made him pause.
The Durheimese may very well have been called ‘companies’ by military standards, but what was charging towards Corporal Garson and his men was anything but ‘standard’. In good conscience Trevan could not call them ‘companies’. Rabble was the word that came to mind. Each Durheim soldier seemed to be racing the others for the glory of first blood, and any coherency they may have had before vanished in the haze of the sun-baked grasslands.
Garson sat absolutely still on his horse outside the reinforced structure of the way station, playing the part of the bait. The host, in its lust for battle, only saw the five Rangers at the way station. They were completely oblivious to the sixty or so others that had just risen from the berm.
Trevan thanked the gods his plan had started to work. Now all that was left was to press home their advantage. If they succeeded it would be a short, bloody victory.
Three hundred yards. Sir Lorell steadied his horse and grabbed his shield from the saddle.
Two hundred and fifty yards. He grabbed his steel helm and placed it on his head.
Two hundred and twenty five yards. He nodded towards Dunlevy, who raised the standard.
Two hundred and ten yards. He raised his sword in the air.
Two hundred yards. Sir Lorell swung his sword forward.
“CHARGE!”
Second and Third platoons of ‘E’ company let go a roar that echoed across the grasslands, across the scattered units of Durheim Infantry, across the cobblestone roads of the Pensey Junction, across the stone and wood way station, across Deny Garson and the four other Rangers at his side. They screamed bloody hell and kicked their horses into a gallop.
With the wind whipping across his sun burnt face and black hair, Sir Lorell raised his sword and pointed left, towards the North. First Platoon, left flank. He raised his shield and sword, dropping the reins momentarily, and with his legs he angled the horse towards the right. Second Platoon, on me, right flank. Then he took his sword and tapped it twice on his helmet--a masterful feat to accomplish in the middle of a hard ride into combat--and regained the reins in his shield hand. Standard, on me.
Roy Dunlevy, the E company standard in one hand his long sword in the other, gained quickly on Trevan and was soon at his side. The red horseshoe and “E IIIII” were displayed prominently on the violently flapping flag, which snapped at every heartbeat, at every horse stomp.
First Platoon, led by Sergeant Falkern began its quick envelopment of the rear column of Durheim infantry - some eighty men who were mostly standing still, milling around in confusion, and seemingly leaderless. Shielding his eyes from the glint of the sun shining off of his trooper’s armor, Sir Lorell could not hide the grin slowly spreading across his face. The bottom jaw closes. Soon the top jaw will as well. Gods-be-blessed, its working!
That’s when the gods played their hands. Corporal Garson kicked his boots into the flanks of his horse and led his command headlong into the approaching tide of violent, tribal men. That was not part of the knight’s plan.
“Gods-be … ahhh fuck! What does he think he’s doing,” Trevan asked no one in particular, as even the closest of his men could not have heard anything short of their horses pounding the grass, and the pounding of their own hearts. Trevan caught Dunlevy through his peripheral vision shaking his head at the youth’s rash decision whilst urging his horse on to faster and more reckless speeds.
It seemed to every Bretonic soldier on the battlefield that Deny Garson had just willingly committed suicide. Rather than fighting his own impetuous nature and awaiting the rest of ‘E’ company to hit the scattered enemy en masse, as was Sir Lorell’s plan, Deny had decided to drive straight into the first elements of the Durheimese without regard for his own safety.
Trevan could only watch helplessly as the corporal and his men started cleaving through the heads and arms of the nearest Durheimese, slicing through their poor quality scalemail and leather caps with ease, leaving fountains of blood in their wake. As the tide of men inexorably surrounded them though, the four Rangers were systematically unhorsed. Deny was the last one to go down, his horse shorn at the knees by a savage looking Durheim Bloodkin, the necklace of finger bones signifying his leadership clear to Trevan even from where he was.
It happened so fast. He watched Deny struggle to rise against the shock of the fall and the weight of his plate armor. But it was too late.
With one downward sweep of his notched battle axe the Bloodkin calmly planted the weapon through Deny’s helmet and into his skull. The man went about it with little worry or rush - as if he was a lumberjack taking his first swing of the season - just getting started. The young corporal’s body thudded unceremoniously onto the ground, his last seconds of existence all but swallowed up by the waist-high grass. The long, black haired Bloodkin placed his foot on Deny’s shoulder plate and heaved with all his might, his corded muscles bulging. After a few pulls he wrenched the fearsome blade from the corporal’s head, splaying himself with brain matter. Ignoring the viscera as it slowly dripped down his armor he began to look for his next kill.
With a loud crash of men and horses First Platoon hit the Durheim rear and immediately started to roll them up like an old tapestry that had seen its last days. Trevan, despite his wish to keep the Bloodkin in view, took his glance from the gloating man to witness the envelopment. The Rangers had begun to scythe through the periphery of the enemy horde. Their bloody work was quick and efficient, as only elite warriors could manage. Chainmail-barded horses and platemail-armored soldiers soon began to intermix with the tall, leather and scalemail-clad Durheim infantry in the infernal heat of the afternoon, blurring the coherency of command and the definition of the battle lines.
In short - it was a slowly rolling ball of chaos - a slowly rolling ball of chaos and confusion that Sir Lorell could not affect the outcome of. The left flank was now in the hands of the gods, and they sounded like they were laughing.
It was with a heavy sense of apprehension that Sir Lorell finally wrenched his attention away from the left flank and focused it back on the enemy in front of him. He quickly found the savage Durheim commander in the midst of his own men. The Bloodkin, reacting to the envelopment, realized that he had walked his men into a trap. He suspended his own quest for killing and was busy trying to reorganize his men into some semblance of defense. Waving his arms and gesticulating wildly with his axe, the commander had started to form a staggered line abreast, hoping to blunt the Second Platoon’s thundering charge into his lines.
To Trevan’s left, Roy Dunlevy smashed into the makeshift line a heartbeat before he did. Battle proper was joined. The noise was deafening, and the taste bloody. It was too fast and fluid to feel anything, including fear. One only reacted.
Sir Lorell’s war horse trampled two hapless men, their screams quickly drowned out by the blood beating through his ears. He clipped a third Durheimese with the bottom of his shield, slicing though his bearded throat with ease, leaving an arterial spray in his wake. Dunlevy ran over two as well, impaled a third on the standard, and sliced the face of a fourth. A Ranger to Trevan’s right managed to trample another Durheim man, stab a second in the collarbone, and parry a pike thrust from a third before being unhorsed by another pike.
Then - just as with the First Platoon - it became a miasma of chaos.
A short sword was thrust at his leg. He parried it and kicked the man in the face, shattering bone and tissue. A rusty halberd grated across his shield, getting stuck in his battle harness. He hammered his shield down, snapping the poorly made shaft into two. His horse reared up and kicked the halberd wielder square in the chest, caving in his breast bone. A long sword got caught in his horse’s chainmail barding. Instinctually the animal backed up, relieving the Durheimese of his weapon. Before he could recover Trevan smashed his sword through the man’s leather cap, lodging it in his forehead. The sword dislodged itself with a sickening rip as gravity brought the soldier’s bloody husk to the ground.
Sir Lorell found himself hard pressed to stay alive. His baser instincts kicked in, and his existence dimmed to the three foot killing radius his sword carved out.
The reflection of the sun off of a pike caught his attention. It was slithering towards his chainmail gorget, a sure death blow - when it stopped suddenly, hovered for an instant - and then dropped. Whipping his face towards the direction it came from revealed Dunlevy withdrawing his long sword from the stomach of a Durheim pikeman. Trevan nodded his head in thanks. Dunlevy just grunted and urged his horse over to another knot of men fighting, his latest victim all but forgotten.
It was then that an ear-piercing roar echoed across the killing ground. It was a roar of challenge, a roar of confidence, and a roar meant to instill terror - into which troops Trevan did not rightly know. But it rang like a clarion call across the desperate groups of men grappling and killing each other at Haversfield Way Station - and it made them all take a momentary pause in their grim duties.
The Durheim Bloodkin, the man who had killed Deny, was standing on a grotesque pile of dead Rangers and their mounts. Their limbs, weapons, armor, and bodies were horrifically juxtaposed together, forming a mound from where he was issuing his roar. The man was actually issuing orders to his remaining countrymen, Trevan realized belatedly. Issuing orders and ignoring the three broken arrow shafts jutting from his right arm, trying to bolster his men’s morale.
He looked possessed. More than possessed - he looked violently alive.
Fighting the cold chill climbing down his spine and feeling there was nothing else he could do; Sir Lorell issued a challenge of his own. He dismounted his horse in one quick, practiced motion and landed deftly on his feet in a balanced battle stance. Without the slightest hesitation he began to slowly stalk up to the Bloodkin. Trusting Dunlevy to take the reins of his mount, Trevan issued his challenge again, this time smacking his sword against his shield. That drew the Bloodkin’s attention.
“Come on you bastard! You’ve delighted in killing young lads and men locked in combat with others! Let’s see how you do against one that is neither young nor distracted!” The knight pointed his sword at the Bloodkin and broke into a grim smile. “More than likely, you don’t understand a word I am saying, but my intentions are clear enough. Come, you unkempt waste of a man, time to meet your Moon God.”
With the battle still raging heavily around him the Durheim commander broke into a wide grin and began to laugh. It was a deep, feral laugh, starting in the pit of his stomach and ending at his bloody lips. He hopped down from the pile of human and horse corpses with surprising litheness, and regarded the Bretonic Knight in front of him with a look of cruel disdain. He pushed through a protective knot of his own men as he approached Trevan, barking orders at them.
Without thought, he suddenly stopped and swung his axe at the back of a Ranger locked in combat nearby. The blow sliced through the man’s back plate with ease and severed his spinal cord in one fluid chop. The Bloodkin laughed his deep laugh once more as the soldier’s body toppled over onto his feet. Maniacally grinning, he stepped over the discarded life and continued approaching.
Trevan meanwhile blocked the errant swing of a Durheimese swordsman with the bottom edge of his shield, punched the man in the face with the top edge - reeling him back on his heels - and finished him with a vicious downward cut that opened him from collarbone to groin. He parried another stab of a pike, spinning deftly around it, before letting it shoot past him. Fluidly, Trevan opened the throat of the bewildered soldier as he stumbled into his killing radius, unable to recover his defenses in time. Without remorse he ran through another Durheim swordsman as his back was turned.
There is no honor in combat. War is war, and if you have the opportunity to kill a man, his back turned or his attention elsewhere - you do it. One less enemy was one less enemy, he told himself in justification.
It was that simple, and it was that simplicity that Sir Lorell reminded himself of. It was that simplicity that made combat so much more understandable than anything else he had ever known in his life, whether the workings of the gods or the workings of women. It was that simplicity that drove him forward to lock weapons in combat with a man two heads taller than him. It was that simplicity that made his duty easy.
Trevan stepped over a fallen Ranger, the man moaning softly, a bloody semblance of life. He issued a silent prayer for the man’s soul, and gained the remaining ground between him and the Durheim commander. This was the moment - the winning or losing of the battle hinged on this confrontation - and the Bretonic Knight vowed to every life shattered that day he would defeat the Bloodkin - and look down upon his crumpled corpse. He vowed to his King that the Pensey Junction would remain clear of Durheim troops. He vowed he would blunt the invasion of the Northern passes.
He vowed he would survive and see Anne Marie -
Sharp pain rippled through his head.
And then all he knew was darkness.
* * *
His eyes fluttered open, revealing the soft glow of sunrise - or sunset -warming his face. Confusion overtook him shortly before the searing pain behind his eyes blinded out all other thoughts or feelings. Darkness took him once more.
* * *
“Trevan, you must stop moaning. You’ve been moaning for hours. The other tenants in the building might actually think I have a virile man in my bed. Or I have a prisoner I’ve been torturing all night and day.” He heard a light chuckle from somewhere beyond his consciousness. He sighed before the searing pain came back, and darkness descended upon him once more.
* * *
The smell of buttermilk biscuits, warm apple cider, sizzled bacon, and fried potatoes assailed his nostrils. He heard birds singing their innocent songs. He heard the soft rustle of leaves and branches. He heard the dulled murmur of a city going through its day. He felt a soft wind caressing his face. He felt a soft mattress and pillow underneath him, supporting, cradling his body. And he smelled - her.
Sir Trevan Lorell’s eyes shot open to reveal a blurry image of wooden rafters, their beams and crossbars forming a lattice work of structural support designs accented by the soft glow of morning light. As his vision sharpened he could make out the individual grains of the wood, their haphazard patterns being the only pattern nature ever intended. Slight wisps of smoke wafted above him, dancing and lapping throughout the room like currents in an ocean.
“Where. Where am I,” he groaned to no one in particular. As existence filtered back into his head, the pain lessened but the confusion grew. What happened? The last image he had in his mind was of the tall Durheim Bloodkin smiling, licking his lips and laughing - eagerly awaiting the clash of their weapons. The battle had been raging around them, and he remembered the conviction he felt. Vaguely, he also remembered that the tide of battle had turned for the Bretonic Rangers.
E company!
A sudden surge of worry erupted throughout his being, and he attempted to rise up from the bed he found himself in. Pain - like a thousand shards of glass puncturing his brain - shot through him and left him speechless, unable to rise but an inch. His vision swam and bursts of white filled the corners of his eyes. Defeated, he sank back down into the mattress, closed his eyes again, and started to moan once more, the tremendous torture his body felt all but unbearable.
“No, no, no Sir. We can’t have you starting that all over again. I already had to explain to the couple living across the hall I was doing my civic duty and nursing a war hero back to life. Granted, they probably didn’t believe me, but a second bout of moaning might force them to seek out the constable. I already have enough violent men in my life, I don’t need more.”
It was Anne Marie’s voice. The seductive allure he had fallen for was still present, but it had a new edge to it - one Trevan had not heard during their chance meeting from the time before. There was care, compassion, and worry tingeing it. It had a mother’s cadence, a lover’s intimacy, a sister’s protectiveness, and a cousin’s loyal undertone to it. It reminded him of being home with his family. It reminded him of those who would not judge. Those who would love him no matter what.
“And to answer your question Trevan, you are in my apartment, overlooking the textile district.” He heard a smile in her voice. “Though - I must admit, this is the first time a man has gotten into my bed by nearly getting himself killed. Usually they get me really drunk, promise me riches and baubles beyond comprehension, or swear they will pull down kingdoms for just one night in it. It’s admirable what you did - and a little romantic, I think.”
Despite himself and despite the pain wracking his body Sir Lorell formed a smile with his cracked lips, and groggily said “If I’d had known … all it took … to grace your bed … was pulling a kingdom down … I would have gone about it a different way … I think.” He barked a parched laugh and winced before gathering himself and asked “What happened … to my men? What … what … happened to E company … Anne Marie?”
He felt her hesitation in the air. She got up from a rickety chair across the room and walked over to the bed, the smell of food before her. “Why don’t you open your eyes, get comfortable, drink some cider, and eat - before we discuss that?” Her aversion to answering his question directly turned his stomach in knots and had him worrying about the battle all over again.
Obviously, he had been bludgeoned into unconsciousness.
Obviously, he had lived and had been taken back to Haversfield for recovery.
Obviously, by her carefree nature, the city was not in any immediate danger.
Obviously, some men must have survived.
He dreaded opening his eyes and reentering reality more than anything he had ever dreaded before. The dread of making love for the first time, of being in combat for the first time, of killing for the first time - paled in comparison. But just as the boy becomes the man, he knew in the depth of his soul he had to open his eyes, had to face whatever stark reality awaited him.
“Oh come now - looking at me in a nightshirt holding a tray of food for you can’t be that bad.”
He cracked a smile, opened his eyes, and immediately lost his breath. Anne Marie looked simply … angelic. Her face, the perfect balance of symmetrical beauty and carefree nature, was open and inviting. Her eyes were pools of bright green that reminded him of spring and entranced him with their desire. A slight rush had entered her cheeks, giving her a healthy glow, and her smile greeted him with its warmness. Her body - more voluptuous in the thin white garment than he remembered - showed off her womaness in a way his sore body responded to immediately.
And yet he felt … guilty. Duty has been his life for so long, duty his only lover, his only satisfaction. His men meant everything to him. And yet … he couldn’t help but try to ignore his duty as he stared at Anne Marie. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to, the feeling of his head warring with his heart.
Trevan caught himself staring down her sagging nightshirt, catching a glimpse of her finely shaped and delicate breasts. Anne Marie smiled, catching his overt act of ogling. His face burned red hot with embarrassment and he felt like a young boy staring at the merchant’s daughter through her bedroom window. “I’d like that … a lot,” he managed to whisper before meeting her eyes once more.
“Now the bandage,” she said cheerfully. She gently lifted his head from the pillow, felt the tightness of the bandage, and then checked to make sure there wasn’t blood or pus leaking from the wound. “Looks good,” she commented. “Now time to get you some food and drink.”
Trevan sat up gingerly in the bed. The sheet fell off of his chest, revealing his unclothed upper body, and a host of yellowed bruises and small cuts. His shock at being naked in her bed only made Anne Marie laugh once more, and he began to blush. She flashed him a coy look in response to his self-consciousness. Still laughing light-heartedly she handed him a clay mug of the cider, and watched him intently as he downed the drink in one long gulp. Smacking his lips he smiled at her.
“Thanks. Didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”
“You’ve been in and out of sleep for three days now,” she said as she broke a biscuit in half. “Here, you’re probably just as famished as well.” He took the biscuit from her hand, hesitating momentarily as his hand touched hers, before setting out to devour the biscuit in two bites. She laughed, and broke off a piece for herself.
“I can’t believe how fucking hungry I am!”
“I can imagine. Do you think you can be a big boy and handle the tray by yourself?” she asked sarcastically before handing him the tray. Without any sense of propriety he greedily snatched the food from her and began to devour it. Anne Marie watched him happily, a sparkle in her eyes. Since arriving at her door a bloody mess three nights earlier, she was glad Trevan was awake, animated, but more importantly - safe.
“Damn right I am! My gods” he said between mouthfuls of another biscuit “I haven’t tasted a biscuit like this since my mom made them for me as a child! And this bacon” he managed to spurt out as he grabbed three slices and shoved them into his mouth, devouring them without pity “tastes like it was cut right from the pig’s ass!”
The merchant’s daughter, the successful painter, his by-proxy nurse, began to laugh anew.
“I’m glad you like it. This is the third breakfast I’ve cooked since you were unceremoniously dumped at my door. The physician didn’t know if you were going to awake, ever, but I knew being in my bed would wake you up soon enough. How could you enjoy the bed and not enjoy the body lying next you, I had asked myself. I knew you’d want to taste …” she looked down at her body “my cooking.”
A piece of fried potato got caught in his throat and he coughed uncontrollably. Whether it was the food that made him cough, or her suggestion, Trevan didn’t rightly know, nor did he care. It was the first time he had truly felt happy and safe since the campaign had started the year before. It was a feeling he hadn’t expected to find all the way out on the fringe of the Kingdom, away from his friends and family, away from his home and community. It wasn’t a feeling he thought was possible during war.
“So what happened to my men?”
“Fine,” she dramatically sighed “I guess I can let you know what I know.” She stopped, a look of contrition washing over her face. Trevan’s men were like his family, she had to remind herself. “The physician and a rather rude man named Roy brought you to my door. Said you had taken a hammer blow to the back of your head during the battle. Said they needed someone to nurse you while they reorganized your company. Said I was recommended by my uncle. So I agreed. Also said they would be back in a couple of days to check on you.”
“And that’s it,” he asked.
Her shoulder shrug told him everything he needed to know. She wasn’t told much.
How many men did I lose? Who wouldn’t be going home to Bretonia because of my decisions? What happened to the Durheim? The questions nagged him. His sense of duty reasserted itself, battling once more with his desire to succumb to the comforts of Anne Marie.
When all the food was finished Anne Marie took the tray and the plates out the bedroom into an adjoining room. While waiting for her return, excited as to what might happen next between them, he began to scan the room he had taken his convalescence in for the past three days. He needed something to take his mind off of what might happen next - what the culmination of their chance meeting might entail - anything to keep his heart from bursting and his loins from exploding.
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