Pieces of Eight

Chapter 2

They'd clashed at sunrise; it was now very nearly sunset, and the fields finally seemed to be calming down. Soldiers still roamed the trampled, blood-soaked grass, but now they moved slowly, their eyes downcast and sweeping, their swords naked in hand but down by their sides. Every now and then, one of them would break from the line to crouch near one of the fallen, perhaps not quite dead yet: upon inspection, they would either signal another group not too far away, or they would push their sword into the waiting body and end the suffering of the person on the ground. Largely male, some female, all spattered with gore and faces twisted in fear and agony. Some met their eyes defiantly, some spit at them, some could only wheeze. But all were quiet, as if out of respect for the carnage around them. No one said a word.

Brandyn was one of a group of ten who had been sent out to scour the fields for the not-quite-deceased. So far, he'd sent back fourteen of his own army to be treated and hopefully saved, and dispatched another eight of the enemy. He wore the scarlet and silver colors of his fiefdom, the bustling town of Knotte, governed by the Duke Fredando. Duke Fredando had sworn allegiance to Queen Minnah at the start of this whole mess, when King Fulten of neighboring Ecretia had first sent his personal army into the neighboring land under the command of Queen Minnah, including Knotte. There had been little discussion and little delay: their duchy had gone to war as well, in support of their monarch, as tradition and loyalty demanded. There was no other way.

Brandyn's commander was a man named Morten, and he was a swollen, gray-haired man with a taste for beer and a mind for getting things done with quickly. Mustachioed and portly, he lumbered around the battlefield swinging a club, but now marched ahead of his hand-picked missionary force armed with a small axe, which he occasionally buried in a skull or two. Morten had gruffly muttered something about needing volunteers and, unsurprisingly, when no one raised their hands eager for the next task, picked ten young men at random and hauled them out with him to comb the fields. Brandyn supposed he was lucky: he could be lying among the dead and dying, his intestines being trod on by passers-by.

"Over here, sir!"

Morten swiveled his head around, cushioned by his large jowls and not so much by his little neck, and quickly located the source of the voice. Another of their number, a scrawny lad named Jakob, had stepped out of line to crouch near another body. Morten swaggered over several more bodies to reach the one Jakob had found, rumbling, "What the matter, boy, no stomach to do it yourself?" already hefting his axe as he drew nearer.

"No, sir, it's not that!" Jakob protested, making a jerky movement like he meant to get to his feet between his general and the person he'd found but then quickly thinking better of it. "I-I think this one is important."

It was enough to make Morten lower his axe, his droopy eyes perking somewhat in intrigue beneath his heavy, wild brows. "Is that so?" he asked, finally deigning to step closer and lean over to take a better look.

"Oh-ho-ho, so it is!" he crowed, clapping Jakob on the shoulder hard enough that the scrappy young man stumbled and nearly fell to rest near his find. "Good work, laddie! An extra portion for you at supper tonight. Run and fetch another officer, that's a good lad, we'll need to let the general know about this!"

Jakob scampered off to do as he was told, and Morten idly swung his axe around in his hand while he waited, whistling while he did. The rest of the dispatch, having nothing more to do for the moment with their commanding officer occupied, took to milling about in the same general area. Brandyn took advantage of the break in formation to creep closer and steal a few glances out of the corner of his eye at the person that was apparently important enough not to kill on sight.

It was one of the enemy generals, he realized with a shock: he wore the black and silver of Fulten's personal army, and his armor was fine and custom-crafted. While his cloak and helm were missing, the signet of a bird on his chest denoted him as a general. There were six, Brandyn knew, all under the command of one other: a fearsome woman who had been proving difficult to outwit on the field. This man was indeed important, and while he didn't look like much now, his blonde hair nearly entirely red from blood and his gray eyes unfocused and closed more often than not, Brandyn knew that, if he could be saved, he would prove quite valuable.