Lord Valeroșu stepped closer, bent his head, and whispered his quiet admonitions. Not to me, to the commoners at my feet. It was then I felt something. I felt that their doom resulted from a desire stronger than instinct. My senses are numb to this. My mind nearly strains itself attempting to fathom. Despite instinct, many in this world act short of self-preservation. I bear Valeroșu’s whims. I survey the crowd. I suspect we would all be executed for acting on our desires.
“Why?” The man below me, now conscious, spoke.
“Why?” A curious question.
“Why is this happening? Why must we suffer? Why do you serve this man?” Then the echoing. I hear a deafening noise from the crowd - horror and amusement. It's disharmonious. I turn and see the stiff bodies hanging by the ropes, rocking below the wooden steps back and forth, back and forth. Rocking.
They’re dead… All of the soul’s on the lord’s list, dead in front of me. Of all the moments fate would deem action, there is naught to be done. Yet I feel emptiness on the precipice of a peculiar sensation. I can sense the despair in the air, the sorrow of selfless folk starving, and how senseless these deaths have been… When ‘tis senseless, is it not murder? A howling wind dampens the noise around me, but can neither confirm nor deny my question. There are tremors in my veins pulsing into my trembling hands. The sensation takes me back to a cold day when the sky was grey, and mist shrouded myself and many men along a rough, death-ridden pocket of mud.
Ditches. There were ditches that harbored servants like me. And above the dirt, within a few paces, lay the camp apart bustling with men-at-arms. Torches relayed the position of our Duke’s men, their lights - signals penetrating the mist.
As I sit in my hollow space, I see but one armored comrade across from me. He looks back through his visor, and for a moment I swear I see a semblance of a grin.
“INCOMING!”
After hearing a shout, we witness a ball of fire tearing the sky, until it smashes in the center of our encampment. And so our men rally from around the camp, knowing the enemy to be close. Very close indeed.
I can tell by the wail that at least one man has suffered. Sprinting for the point of impact, I reach the white tents below pale crimson banners. I see him wailing in pain, his arm torn and spilling. Yet I cannot fixate on his dismemberment, for the inevitable horn has sounded, thus rallying every warrior as few tend to the suffering conscript. My lot lies with those marching. But I catch the sound of hooves. Contrary to our formation of a line, several of the lord’s vassals strap their horses and rush into the mist at breakneck speed, whence the fireball came.
Men-at-arms line up along the camp outskirts in a standard battle formation. Hundreds… maybe a thousand. I couldn’t hope to count. Once the infantry is set, accompanying horsemen cover our flanks, and outside the ranks I see Lord Valeroșu galloping on his dark armored stallion. Always, he prostrates before his army in a full suit of armor, ever-prudent and bold before the onset of battle. Helmet fastened, he draws and lifts his longsword, whirling it overhead and chanting his rallying cry. Then sauntering down the line, he arrives with eyes temporarily set on me. And looking down, he grants me a confirmation-seeking gaze. He expects me to lead them, leave them in a mist so thick that no outcome other than chaos could ensue. I nod.
Suddenly, a horn blows from across the masking fields. They’re coming to us. We brace ourselves: shields in front, spears aligned, and a steady march forward in a mist that pitted us against the unknown.
“There’s no need for fear. It shall only hinder you.” I hear this man beside me. Turning, I see it is he from the ditch, a comrade seeking to gauge my readiness for battle. I respond in kind, “One must be capable of fear.” I say this despite having forgotten fear. Why did I say it?
We turn our attention forward. Now, we can hear the marching sound of another body. It grows nearer. Nearer. The stomping of their troop treads nearly in unison with our own. Each passing second without visibility feeds the fervor of our line. Unlike my comrades, however, I can sense their proximity. I know the position of the enemy troops and I pick up the pace, quickly exceeding the speed of my company. In time, they match my march after me. They halt when I do, resume as I do, taking after the intensity of my gait and, as necessary, follow. I never intended for this, yet sensed that it would. My lord must have known as well.
I’m running now, running with an army at my back. We see the enemy—only a swift second before colliding. They march beneath banners emblazoned by a sun. The distinct eight-sided star. But there is no sun, only warriors and peasants charging en masse across a mist-laden field. Volatile war shouts erupt at the onset of battle. “FOR VORACIA!”
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