Switcheroo

Instead of reading a literary criticism today, stop by the blog of Alissa Leonard and read my flash story "Escaped from the Labyrinth," my entry in her 17th Finish That Thought Contest.  I will post my normal Tuesday post on Sunday instead.

(Note: My story ended up "Special Challenge Champion")

Grace, Please Lead Me Home (5/5)

     Nom marched over to his new position.  The Urian cavalry ahead and to the right of him made yet another charge into the Ueklandian flank.  The barbarians were pushed backward, a large portion of their outermost column trampled or speared.  The infantry and cavalry formed a right angle, surrounding their foes and continually battering them.  As the cavalry retreated, Sir Connor swung wider and rode up near Nom.

     “How are you feeling?” he asked.  His spear was severely bloodstained.

     “Not very well, but I’m strong enough to fight,” Nom replied.

     “We could use your help in our left center.  Our bowmen have been overrun.  Get on; I’ll ride you over there.  This area is pretty secure.”

     Nom walked over and mounted Sir Connor’s auburn charger, dry-heaving and digging his heels into its sides as it sped to a canter.  Nom’s broadsword, freshly cleaned, was sitting in his scabbard at his side.  It wouldn’t be of much use however, for it was almost too heavy for him to wield in his left hand while he was still unstable from being hung-over.  The only other weapon Nom had was a dagger on his left hip, but using such a short weapon against the long-hafted axes of the Ueklanders would be folly.

     The battlehorse sped past the entire right side of the battlefield, a quarter mile of scattered melees.  The Urians were winning for sure here, but from what could be hurt on the left side from this distance it did not sound like it was the same there.  Sir Connor stopped his horse just past the center of the field, allowing Nom to dismount.

     “I’m going to help out the left flank.  May Remish bring you strength,” he said, and rode off.  Nom looked around.  The Urian defense here was down to its last three lines in some places, and if it collapsed than the Ueklanders could get behind the other soldiers and wreak utter havoc.  Nom pushed through the last lines, which consisted of heavily trained halberdiers to Nom’s relief, and unsheathed his sword barely in time to parry an oddly equipped Ueklandian swordsman.

       Nom hacked the oppressor down, then another, until he was heavily winded.  Nom took a moment to breathe, looking down for only a fraction of a second.  Unfortunately it was too long.  A Ueklander sprinted toward him and swung at him with an iron mace.  Nom lifted his sword to block the strike, but the force was enough to knock it from his hand.  The brave assailant extended his arm and brought it down on Nom’s unprotected head.  Nom stood for a moment, drew his dagger, and stabbed the man.  The world tinted dark.  Then all went black.

Grace, Please Lead Me Home (4/5)

     Markus stretched his arm back into his quiver and drew a bolt.  He loaded, tilted the crossbow slightly upward, and squeezed the trigger.  The glorified dart flew nearly straight ahead before arching down to unknown effect.  Load, fire, load, fire, he thought.  The monotony was killing him.  The Ueklanders were getting closer and closer, but all he could do was load, fire, load, fire.  To make it worse, his brown quiver had only twenty bolts remaining in it.

     An eagle soared through the sky fifty yards in front of him.  Markus adjusted his angle and fired, dropping the screeching bird down onto the shouting barbarians.  Now that’s much more effective than any single bolt, he thought.

     “Ha, that’s a cool idea, killing Ueks with birds, I’ll have to try that,” said a man beside Markus, whom he knew was named Roger.  Roger did likewise, barely striking a soaring hawk the first time he saw one coming.  The effect was quite the same.   Several other people started repeating Markus’s actions, making sure to tell the others they were firing so that only one bolt was used per bird.  They missed a lot, but if they did the bolt itself would fall on the Ueklanders anyway. 

     Markus was grinning ear to ear.  Then he hurt the battle cry.  “Ueks straight ahead!” someone shouted.  Markus took a cord from a side pocket in his quiver and tied the crossbow to it.  He drew the short sword from his belt and waited.  His body shook.  His hands went slick.  The man just in front of Markus crumpled.  Markus stepped forward and threw a blind jab, miraculously placed into the axeman’s ribcage.  Markus withdrew his short sword and kicked the stunned savage into the man behind him.  He reached into his quiver and hurled a bolt into the face of the Ueklander that was effectively pinned down.

     Another one jumped over his fallen comrades’ bodies, club raised.  Markus grabbed the man’s club hand with his off-hand, slammed his knee into the man’s groin, and delivered a killing stab.  The shock in his left arm caused it to go numb.  Ueklanders came in from every direction.  Markus sheathed his sword and dove to the ground, looking dead to all who saw him. 

Grace, Please Leave Me Home (3/5)

     “Back into formation soldiers,” shouted Sir Kane, the head of Nom’s unit of men-at-arms.  The camp became alive with men strapping on armor or ramming some food into their bellies.  The moon was in its waning quarter, the lack of light causing many to stumble or put on their surcoats inside out.

     Nom was still unconscious and woozy, lying in his tent.  A red-soaked bandage was wound tightly around the stump of his right forearm.  His tent mate shook him awake, causing him to open his eyes a crack and groan.  The pain and stiffness was intense, both on his arm and in his throat.  A sudden need to vomit caused Nom to stumble into a bipedal stance and rush outside, bile brown and liquid.  After severe bouts of wretching, Nom wiped off his mouth and laid back down in his tent, for he hadn’t thought to take his armor off before getting intoxicated and was already prepared for battle. 

     “Wake up, armsman,” a young man shouted several minutes later.

     “Father?” Nom’s face was sincere.

     “Come on Nom, you know me.  The savages are approaching, we need your…” the boy slowly lifted his finger to point at Nom’s bloody bandage.   “What?”  He stooped down beside Nom scarcely before a bead of drool ran down his clean-shaven muzzle.  “Good Remish, Nom.  Your sword hand…”

     Nom coughed and groaned.  “Smashed.  Gone.”  He did a quarter turn and puked again before resuming unconsciousness. 

     The boy’s features tightened, but he was too shocked to really be disgusted.  “So that’s why you’re acting so strange.”  He turned his head to shoat outside, “Sir Connor, you must see this.”

     “What is it William?” the knight asked as he entered the tent.  His expression was even worse than his squire’s.  “Nom, what devil from the Underland did this?”

     “Just a big stick,” Nom slurred.

     Sir Connor shouted out, “I need some fresh bandages in here.”  He began to unravel Nom’s soiled dressing, revealing jagged bone and blood-caked flesh.

     “Here, Sir,” said the entering surgeon that had done Nom’s amputation.  “Oh, how is he doing?”

     “Thank you.”  Sir Connor cleaned out the wound and swathed it with the new wrapping.  “William, go fetch me some water.”

     Loud screaming could be heard very close at hand.   The sounds of a pitched battle became continually more eminent as the squire struggled back to the tent, oak bucket in hand.  Some of the contents sloshed out as he entered.

     Sir Connor looked up and said, “I bucket!  I suppose it will suffice, but use some sense William.”  William set the bucket down and backed off.  Sir Connor parted Nom’s lips, cupped his hands to get some water, and poured it into Nom’s mouth, tilting his body slightly to keep him from drowning.  He continued to do this, pausing between each cycle, for quite a spell.

     Nom finally woke up, the alcohol cleaning out of his system, and rushed toward a bush.  Sir Connor grinned and said, “William, you stay and look after Nom, I am going into the right flank to assist the heavy cavalry.  When Nom returns to himself, tell him to the go to the outside right infantry quarter where I can keep an eye on him.”

     “I will, Sir.  May Remish keep you safe and strong.”

Grace, Please Lead Me Home (2/5)

     A short distance away stood a young draftee.  He carried a large crossbow against his side, swinging it gently.  Nothing about the boy seemed particularly special, save his fearful demeanor.  The man, named Markus after the great warrior Markus Orhelis of long-told fable, was breathing heavy, stress blatantly evident to anyone that saw him.  He had watched as his best friend, whom stood beside him in the battle line, was killed by an arrow nearer than a yard from himself.  Markus was now terrified.

     “Why don’t you get some rest, sonny,” an older man from a neighboring farm said to him with pity.  Markus looked at the speaker blankly.  Several silent moments went by.

     “Why did he have to die?  That arrow just missed me; I should have been behind it, not George,” he said, breaking the silence.  Tears streamed down his face.

     “Hey, boy, don’t cry.  We’ve all got to join Remish in the silver city up in the sky at some point or another.  Death is not the end, ho, it is just the beginning.  Your life isn’t over now that your friend has fallen.  Fight on for George’s sake, in his honor and memory press on.”

     “I don’t think I can.  George was my only companion.  With both him and my parents dead I have nothing left to live for.”

     “You’re brave, my boy, more brave than can be said of myself.  You’ve got a quiver of bolts to live for; you’ve loved to shoot since you were but a wee farm boy.  Look at the horizon.  Is not the sincere beauty of a sunset strong enough to put a tingle into your heart?  That’s what living is for, experiencing, doing what you love to do.  Don’t just build yourself a wall to cry behind.   Live.  For Remish’s sake live on.”  Markus’s expression lightened.

     “Thank you, Armand.  I will.  After I take a long rest.”  Markus walked into his standard issue tent and fell into a deep yet tormented slumber, unknowing that the man who would become his greatest living friend slept just a few hundred yards away.

Grace, Please Lead Me Home (1/5)

Rather than posting a true piece of flash fiction, I'm going to post the first part of the first chapter of last year's failed NaNo run.  This year's was neglected, but I hope to work on it further in the future.


     One thousand heartbeats thumped simultaneously as a sea of blue and a staggered field of green came upon each other.  Hoots and hollers, swords on maces, bones splintering, the battlefield filled with noise.  A new sound erupted into the chaos, the sound of crossbow and longbow volleys.  Two thick clouds of brown flashed for a moment in the sky before dropping down and meeting turf or more often flesh.

     The soldiers of green, Ueklanders, wore only dyed shirts and loose britches.  They growled while cutting their prey to ribbons, grunting away the pain when wounded.  Some of their victims would argue that they were of canine kindred due to their savage zeal.  They wielded the axe, shortbow, and cudgel with mastery, their instruments of death made crudely with as little metal as possible.

     The fighters opposite them, the Urians, were of a different sort completely.  Most wore chain shirts and some had plate armor, gauntlets, and shields.   They fought with dignity, valor, and for some even chivalry.  Tempered longswords, longbows, and halberds were the most commonly used weapons by them.

     Among the waves of blue and white surcoated warriors was one soldier of particular character.  He was a giant.  Not a giant of southern myth that could look over mighty oak trees, but of a more humble type.  He stood two heads higher than a man of tall build, was heavily muscled, and wielded a broadsword in one armored fist.

     The giant’s name was Nom.  Born the runt of twins that miraculously both survived through infancy, Nom overcame numerous struggles in his life.  At the age of ten his ailing parents both died of a mysterious fever that left him and his brother unscathed, leaving the two to fend for themselves.  Nom’s brother died soon after the event, killed by a wild boar that Nom killed with his bare hands.  Nom grew rapidly and caught the attention of a nobleman who watched him kill a grey bear while passing by in his carriage.   The man, Baron Olwren, took him to the castle to be a man-at-arms, which he took to quickly and well.

     Nom waved his sword in a massive horizontal arc.  The blade cut deeply into the upper torsos of three Ueklandian axeman, spraying blood onto the uniforms of himself and all around him.  His victims stood still for a moment, rage still in their eyes, then each in turn were pushed down to make room for the eager men behind them.  He fought long and hard, slashing and thrusting through line upon line.  Looking from the air you could see a slight depression forming in the back of the green mass across from where Nom stood. 

     The Ueklanders, fearless in nature, began to avoid the destroying man and his massive sword.  One of them, however, ran up to face him, a crude iron mace in his hand.  He dodged the backhanded swing meant to sever his head and came inside of Nom’s sword range.  With a powerful two-handed swing of his cudgel, the Ueklander mutilated Nom’s sword hand, forcing him to drop his sword.  Nom’s eyes swelled with tears and he had to bite his lip to repress the pain.  Nom pulled back his fist and slammed it into the face of his oppressor, dropping him to the ground.

     Nom fought on all day.  He moved his sword to his weaker hand, keeping back tears at the pain of its badly fractured twin.  Men fell around Nom but he continued long after until the call for mutual rest set for darkness by the Urian King and Ueklandian Warlord came.

     Nom strode to the Urian encampment.  He stripped off his bloody surcoat and armor.  With a pained expression on his face, Nom pulled off his right gauntlet and saw the grotesque sight which lay beneath.  His hand had multiple compound fractures, severe swelling, and had begun turning green with infection.  Fear struck Nom hard.  His hand was a necessary tool for his profession and he didn’t know how he could go on if it had to be removed. He moved toward a nearby surgeon briskly.

     “Sir, can you please look at my hand?” Nom asked him, eyebrows knit.

     “That’s what I’m here for,” he replied.  The surgeon put on a face of amazement and scanned all six and a half feet of Nom’s bulky form when he looked upon him.  He adjusted his gaze to examine Nom’s crippled hand stifled a cough at the gore. 

     “This hand is quite mangled, my good man,” the surgeon said.  His expression morphed into sadness.  “I’m afraid it is going to have to come off.”  Nom went numb inside.  He would have to leave the life of a crippled man.  A tear cut through the blood and grime of his cheek.

     The surgeon plucked up a bottle of hard liquor and a saw from the instrument table beside him.  “Drink this,” he said soothingly.  Nom took the bottle from him and tore off the cork, then tilted the liquor to his lips and sipped.  Nom’s face twisted at the taste and accompanying burn.  Nom’s thoughts turned hazy.  He stumbled and nearly fell.  The world faded away.