Sacrifice

The Lord’s messenger, the fool, could not have been more wrong. He had arrived in the early morning and brought word of lawlessness at a nearby village, when his lordship and her ladyship had already long retired for the night. Bandits and raiders, he had asserted with utmost confidence. A decision was made post haste, and we had rode at sunrise, the rising sun on our backs, a half day’s trek on horseback ahead of us. It was a seaside port village, integral to the smooth functioning of the realm and thus a detachment of the king’s best fighters was sent, with I to lead them.

They did not fight like bandits, that much were certain. Their strikes; swift and precise, not the graceless flailing you’d expect from raiders, seeking merely to intimidate the weak into submission. Their ambush was meticulous, sole entry to the seaside hamlet blocked with a wagon ablaze, archers atop rooftops and swordsmen hidden in tall grass embankments either side of us. An elegant pincer from the front and rear even I, wounded shambles that I was, could appreciate. They’d caught us in a web, right where they wanted us, and were now readying for the final pounce. But what had confirmed my suspicions more than anything else, was their armour. The finest steel, elegantly shaped and expertly crafted. But more importantly, adorning the bordeaux trim and emblazoned white raven of house Branhaven.

We had barely escaped on foot, our mounts either slaughtered or fled out of hysteria. Our relief however, was short-lived. The orchestra of thundering hooves behind us was creeping closer by the minute. It became clear to me I was slowing us down, clutching at the crimson soaked tourniquet adorning my lower thigh. The short sword had done a number on me, hooking between my leg plating and tearing through flesh with relative ease. I tried to ignore the steady trickling down my leg, but I could feel myself growing weary. Our steady pace routinely delayed by my pained, awkward limping.

“Leave me” I grimaced. “I’ll hold them off, buy you some time.” A chorus of opposition followed, led with the authority of Ser Godwyn’s booming voice “We will not!” he roared fiercely. I stopped, unsheathing my sword with a mighty *shing* quelling all discourse and putting a hush to the party. Despondent silence befell them, of which only 4 others remained since the preceding bloodbath. “We are outnumbered. And in this state I will not make it. The kingdom of Annora will not lose four more of its finest knights.” I struggled to maintain my footing, searing pain surging up my leg like a bolt of lightning. “We’ve already lost enough for one day. There will be no further dispute. Go, that is an order. Send word to Lord Annorwyn to call the banners. Tell him treachery is forthcoming, and it bears the sigil of a white raven.”

Looks of solemn acceptance writ large across their faces, they knew further protest would only draw more ire. I was a stubborn bastard and none knew that more so than the men of the Kingsworn. They hated that I was right and with great hesitance they hurried on. There was no time for heartfelt goodbyes, not with the threat of mutiny among the ruling alliance an ever present danger. I allowed myself a breather, the moment threatened to consume me. I shrouded behind a nearby pine at the edge of the forest, one of a number which peppered the great road north to Annora. My greatsword was heavy in my tiring arms, I readied it regardless. The sound of hooves pounding dirt just seconds away. I glimpsed a half dozen riders rounding the corner 100 metres back.

5 seconds pass. It takes all my strength to lift my greatsword, muscles burning with the fatigue of battle. A far cry from the usual effortlessness with which I carried it. I step out from behind the pine, spot the lead rider closing in and swing the heaving blade in a low horizontal arcing motion, cutting down his horse. It crumples in a bloody heap. The rider landing awkwardly on his leg with a splintering crunch. A further two mares become tangled in the carnage and hit the deck, their riders along with them. In the ensuing chaos, I lose the hefty blade, favouring my dagger and manage a plunging stab between the armour of a fourth rider, severing his femoral artery as he panicked for his weapon. I turn to continue my rampage on one of the fallen riders when I suddenly feel steel pierce my shoulder. I collapse forward into the dirt, gasping as the wind is plunged from my body. I feel the warmth of blood pooling beneath me. The milky twilight glow sifting through the canopy above coming into view as I’m kicked over onto my back.

As I laid there, my thoughts and memories, all my life came flurrying at me all at once. Merging into one grand evocation. So fast it was hard to isolate any one thing for more than a second. However, one recurring thought persisted, strange as it sounds. That messenger. I hadn’t recognised him at all. I’d been Commander of the Kingsworn for all of Lord Annorwyn’s rule and not once seen him in a position of any notable renown, lest a royal messenger. Yet there he stood, with word from the local lord, the seal unbroken, bearing the official insignia, it all seemed according to due process. The certainty in the words on that page irked me nonetheless. The more I thought about it the more it reeked of a ruse.

All of a sudden everything that had preoccupied my mind while the life slowly leaked out of me faded out of view and I found myself back in the present moment. Staring up at the night sky of Annora, dusted with a few thousand sparkling stars. It was beautiful. One in particular, so large and bright compared to the others it seemed illusory. It was then that my eyes adjusted and it occurred to me that this was not some abnormality of the night sky, but the glint of a blade ready to come down and end me there and then.

I had made peace with death a long time ago. That didn’t stop me from whispering an old Annorian prayer. I had no loved ones nor many friends to think of in these final moments. The Kingsworn were my true family. Soon the blade looming over me was falling and time slowed. It seemed to take hours upon hours for it to fall inch by inch. All the noise in the world filtered out and all that remained, was this blade. My imminent exit from the world of the living. I thought of my men and hoped they would escape and prayed they had arrived at the same conclusion as I. This was all planned, all of it. From the message designed to lure us out and leave the capitol vulnerable to the ambush at the village. All an elaborate ploy, and the worst part, it had worked far too easily. House Branhaven was making a move for the throne and played us like damn fools.

A whooshing sound followed by the *shluck* of ripping flesh interrupted my thoughts and when I gazed upward, an arrow had punctured the throat of my assailant. He clutched at the mess that spewed from his gaping wound and fell to his knees, his other arm letting go of the axe which sunk into the dirt a hairs length from my cheek. I mustered up all my remaining strength, contorting my body in an effort to see who had come to my aid. It was hard to make out, my vision was fading fast and the black vignette was closing in, but there was no mistaking it. I knew those royal blue cloaks better than anything, they belonged to my brothers in the Kingsworn.