The Bitter, Bitter End

Paul’s teeth gritted against the cold as he tried forcing himself to stop shivering. I can’t show weakness, he thought, his hands trembling as he clutched them to his chest. 

The wind blew brisk over the battlefield, Death coming to count the souls he would take with him to Hades.

The blood on the small scrap of fabric soaked through and coated his fingers. It had done nothing to staunch the flow of blood. The body before him had died an hour ago. His lips were turning white, the same pale as all the other bodies around him.

Paul tried to stand, but collapsed once more onto the body of his brother.

Sobs racked his throat and he stopped trying to be strong. He let the weakness of his tears, salty on his lips, take him, just this once.

When the tears were gone and the sadness ebbed away, all Paul could feel was anger. It burned within him, hotter than the flames that had burned his city to the ground. It raged through him, making his ears burn, and escaped in a horrible scream that echoed across the plains. The wind stopped for a moment before returning in full force.

His anger gave him strength. He shakily got to his feet, still clutching the ripped piece of his shirt in his hand. It fluttered in the wind and he gripped it tighter.

“I promise,” he whispered in the wind. Then he shouted, “I promise!”

He fell to the floor once more, pulling his brother’s sword from his bloody fingers. “I will avenge your death, brother. If it’s the last thing I do.”

He stood and began to march towards the retreating victors.

King Huawei laughed uproariously. He and his generals sat around a table, feasting to celebrate their victory. General Kwen on his right had just made the most hilarious joke about one of the generals he had killed.

“You should have seen his squire!” he was saying. “He couldn’t have been more than twelve. Little spot thought he could defeat me after I killed his master!” The laughter echoed in the large tent.

The two kingdoms had been at war for years, and now Huawei could finally put this to rest. He could put the memory of his wife to rest.

He gripped his goblet tighter at the memory of her. He saw her face, twenty years ago, smiling and beautiful as she beckoned him towards her. Only flashes. A whispered word in the dark, laughter spilling from her lips, a spilled cup of water and an angry pout.

She had been taken from him too soon.

“My Lord.”

Huawei snapped from his memory. “Yes?”

One of his lords smiled across the table at him. “We wanted to hear a story or two of your victories on the battlefield.”

Huawei smiled coldly as a face came to mind. The man had been dirty, his face caked in blood and dirt. Huawei had recognized him across the fighting and slaughtered a path towards him. He had felt big in front of him, a massive king facing a cold assassin on the field.

“You!” he had bellowed, swinging towards him.

The man leaped and dodged, but he could barely keep the king’s heavy, angry blows back.

A voice had cried out and the man turned, fear washing across his features. And that’s when Huawei had struck, stabbing him through the heart, smiling as his eyes widened. He had looked down then, watching the blood blossom on his leather vest.

Huawei pulled out his sword and the man fell to the ground. A boy rushed up, screaming his name. Nathan. Huawei considered killing the boy, but he was scrawny, small, and only carried a dagger on his belt. A pack runner. 

He spit on the man’s body, knowing he was dead. “That was for my wife.”

The boy glared up at him, eyes burning with fury.

And Huawei had turned, jumping back into the fray of battle, his wife’s murderer put to rest.

“My Lord?”

Huawei grinned. “Only a large number of our Timalean enemies slaughtered, probably more than you and Lord Fendris combined.”

The men guffawed loudly. Huawei raised a glass. A battle won, indeed.

Paul found his way through the camp, the soldiers all reveling too much to notice his presence. Many were still also covered in blood, moving through the camp with a limp, even as they raised waterskins to one another.

He followed behind the wounded men, heading towards the center of the camp.

The king’s tent sat in the very center, loud and massive, the deep green color of the Kwedlean’s crest, banners fluttering at every entrance.

Paul skirted around the edges of the tent, his face warm. He quietly pulled Nathan’s sword from the sheath he had stolen off the body of a dead soldier, having been reluctant to disturb his brother’s sleeping form.

His fingers trembled. I can’t show weakness. The wind whispered at his back. Death was ready to reap one more soul tonight.

The blood soaked cloth whipped away in the wind, but Paul barely even noticed as he knelt next to the tent. He waited for the laughter to rise to a crescendo before rolling under the edge of the tent.

No one noticed him at first, and he realized how off his guess had been. The king sat on the opposite side of the tent. So it was the king who first noticed him there.

His eyes widened. Paul’s fury emanated from him in waves as he yelled, jumping onto the table. The laughter soon became shouts as the lords realized what was about to happen. Hands grasped for him, someone nicked his leg, and a sword swiped at his hand, taking some of his fingers. The food at his feet got swept away in all the ruckus. But he barely felt any of it as he lunged for the king, who still stared at him, mouth agape. 

Paul’s sword found its mark. The king coughed, blood spilling from his lips. He looked down at his blood soaked tunic, then back at Paul.

A sword sliced through his back, the tip protruding from his chest, but Paul barely felt it, barely looked down at it. His vision dimmed as his mouth filled with blood. It seemed Death would take two more souls with him tonight. But Paul had one thing to do before his life was over.

He spit at the king, his saliva mixed with blood. “That was for my brother.”

And he laughed with his final breath.