The Exiles

30b. Battlefare

Ovek stood in a sea of bodies, standing or dead, slicing Rita's swords through the air, flesh, and arteries with practiced ease. His wife was away from him on this battlefield, unlike battles they'd fought together since they wed, standing by his side, through death, through victories, but he had a piece of her, woven from her hands, and that was enough for him. She was there in spirit. At least, that is what he told himself. Again and again. For Rita.

Despite his name, Ovek the Merciful, there was no mercy in his advances or deflections. His grip held tight to the deadly weapons at his disposal. His feet faded and lunged as if working from memory. This was what he was born into, an endless cycle of war and birth, and kingdoms and crumble. He'd been in many battles as a young lad; stood beside his father on his crusade to unify the lands under one Chymer flag. Those had not been simple days. And now that he was a king himself, he understood more than ever he was fighting to unify a torn land too, crown or no crown.

This was his legacy. This was where he was to make his stand. If final, then let it be.

He stepped across from soldiers, wearing the Chymer colours — a golden sphere, bright like the sun in a sea of cerulean blue. It ached his heart to strike at these men and women who had once been his. He hated striking them down, tearing through their flesh, hearing their cries – for mercy – yet he could not yield. He could not slow down his advances, his attacks and his lunges. To do so would be merciful, and he could not afford to be merciful. Not here, not now. His children were on that field with him. Their lives were at stake, as were those of many men and women who'd barely lived.

Amer to his right, dipped in and out of view, between soldiers far too many and too big. The soldiers assigned to him, to aid him and guard him, were dwindling with every hour, every day, but his boy was doing well, weaving words and realities that fell many Chymer soldiers. But words took time to speak, and occasionally, when Vanylla was nearby strategically being moved around the battlefield to where casualties were many, in a chariot protected by weaves and metals. Amer would not need words to leave his lips with her around. But these children were barely soldiers, barely trained, for what could they have possibly learnt of battlefare in a handful of days?

To his left, Attin blurred in and out, appearing here and there, moving soldiers around to give them better opportunities to take down an enemy or move them out of harm's way. Yet, every time Attin travelled with his weave, Ovek glimpsed exhaustion wash over the boy's face. He could not keep this up for long — they'd been battling for days on end, only calling a truce at sunsets, and beginning afresh at sunrise.

Fourteen days, it had gone on. Fourteen days, and with each day, Ovek saw how little advances they made. They were no closer to freeing Rita than winning this war. No closer to fulfilling his promise to ride the land of his brother's tyranny.

Ovek parried an attack without taking his eyes off Attin then, his heart lodged in his throat. For days, every time Attin blurred and reappeared, exhaustion dripping off his face, his eyes darkened and his cheeks gaunt, an uncomfortable fear had gripped Ovek's heart, for he could see just how easily the boy could reappear into an advanced blade, then away from it. And now, in that split moment, Attin appeared, straight in the pathway of a blade glistening red.

He screamed a blood-curdling scream as its sharped edges sliced into his side.

A soldier relieved Ovek of one of Rita's blades as he warned his son too late.

Anteri soldiers near Attin sprang to action, cutting down the soldier who dared harm the boy. Ovek felt a blade strike his own face, cutting his cheek. His blood spilled and his anger rippled. How could he let his son come to harm so easily? Rita would not forgive him if they lost her dearest boy today. So the father in him struck all those down around him with ease, with that same anger that had allowed him to weave upon Council Rock.