The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

He looked around, reassured by the presence of Kavia, Vallen, and other familiar faces nearby, all of them under Sergeant Glin’s able command, chosen to hold the center of the line. The group, all veterans of that initial rearguard, had formed an easy camaraderie in the past days. Glin’s brother, Jahn, was visible anchoring the right flank with his own group of seasoned veterans.

  To everyone’s surprise, the Nebaran warlord ordered an immediate charge of her full force of infantrymen, neglecting to use her archers or cavalry to any advantage. The Ketanians watched them approach in a disciplined and orderly double-time march, ranks stretching nearly as far as the eye could see.

  “The bitch’s patience has run out,” Glin muttered, echoing Elyas’s thoughts. “Either that or she cares naught for her men’s lives.”

  “Her overconfidence could prove her undoing,” Elyas replied. Had the defenders been in better shape, that might have been true, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit optimistic.

  Kavia snorted and spat on the ground. “If you truly believe that, why don’t you approach His Majesty about issuing a rallying, heart-rousing speech?” She cast a dark glance at the king, but her half smile at Elyas took the sting out of her words.

  Odd that the king doesn’t take this opportunity to rally his men. He imagined his own father at the head of his warriors during his days commanding a mercenary company, certain that he would’ve found some words to impart to steel the men’s courage in the final moments.

  King Clement simply stared at their approaching doom with his advisors around him. The Nebarans were five hundred paces away and closing steadily.

  “Bugger this shite.” Glin took a few steps out of rank and turned to face the soldiers, raising his broadsword overhead. “It’s been a pleasure fighting beside each of you, my friends. May the gods bless your swords and arrows and guide them true. Our wives and younguns, friends and family all are relying on us to strike true and make these bastards pay. I pray we shall meet again in the afterlife to drink ale and boast of how many of these whoresons we slew this day.”

  The men within hearing range all gave a ragged cheer, as did Elyas, and he couldn’t help but note how their eyes took on a more resolute look, fear and resignation hardening to anger and determination.

  Moments later, the command went out to loose arrows. Kavia instantly sent a stream of arrows arcing into the enemy’s midst, to deadly effect. Elyas and the others followed suit, thousands of arrows descending in a deadly rain upon the approaching Nebarans. They threw up shields, pausing briefly to weather the storm before continuing, now at a full-on charge. Elyas loosed another four or five arrows before he was forced to toss his bow aside and draw steel. He edged over to cover Kavia with his shield while she continued to rain death upon their foes, finding an unprotected throat here, an eyeball there. Others she simply settled on crippling if they were well protected by their shields, striking thighs and knees. One unfortunate bastard took a foot of arrow through the groin, his wails heard even over the thunder of pounding boots. Hundreds fell in that bloody charge, but the numbers were simply much too great, and the holes were swiftly filled by men hurdling and even trampling their fallen comrades.

  The great wave fell upon the defenders with a tremendous clamor of bodies and steel slamming together. Elyas caught two men against his shield, protecting both himself and Kavia. At nearly point-blank range, the archer buried a shaft through one Nebaran’s open mouth, his battle cry suddenly silenced as shattered teeth spilled out. The second man’s bearded face was twisted in a snarl, spittle flying into Elyas’s face, but Elyas was the more skilled, his strength the greater. He shifted his shield to strike the man’s elbow and divert his blow, while his own sword split open the Nebaran’s conical helm.

  The next minutes—or perhaps hours, for time suddenly held little meaning—went by in a chaotic swirl of death and misery. Elyas’s arms ached from swinging his sword and holding off his foes with his shield. To his right, Vallen fell with a cry, a sword through his chest. Kavia ran out of arrows and was forced to fight with her buckler and punching dagger. Glin was a steady rock to her left, and their unit held the line for what felt a long time yet could’ve only been a matter of minutes. Men fought and died all around, the air filled with cries of pain and the clash of steel.

  Elyas cut down another Nebaran soldier before him with a thrust of his sword through the man’s chest. His foe’s mail parted easily before the enchanted sword, and he fell, a red rose blooming in the middle of the golden lion upon his surcoat. Elyas blinked the sweat from his eyes, momentarily finding himself in the clear. Glin and Kavia remained nearby, along with a number of familiar faces. Their group had managed to weather the charge, even pushing their foes back with heavy losses, but from the looks of it, they were rare exceptions. The field still swarmed with black and gold like a fallen nest crawling with hornets.

  Glin shouted suddenly, pointing to their left, where the line had fallen apart. Elyas followed his gaze and grunted in shock to see King Clement, Prince Jerard, and several knights plugging the gap, desperately trying to stave off the hole in the line from collapsing further. The royal guard fought to clear a space around their king, but he was having none of it, his magnificent white destrier lashing out with hooves as the king laid about with his sword.

  “For Ketania!” he roared. “Rally to me, men!” The king cut an inspiring figure with his polished, gleaming armor and mighty horse, men falling before him as if he were an incarnation of Anhur himself.

  This was the monarch, King Clement Atreus, whom Elyas had expected to lead them, not the broken, grieving man he’d seen the past days. He felt a surge of hope in his breast.

  With this strong, inspiring king leading the way, perhaps we might yet win the day!

  But then tragedy struck. Prince Jerard cried out to Clement’s right, a spear buried in his side. As Elyas watched helplessly, the prince was dragged from his saddle, falling beneath a wave of stabbing swords and spears. His panicked horse was cut down beside him.

  Another wave of Nebarans struck Elyas and his companions just then, and he was fighting for his life once more, losing sight of his king. Over the next moments, he glimpsed King Clement through the crush of bodies, tears streaming down his cheeks, face livid with rage as Nebarans fell like chaff before him.

  But then a demonic form dove from the sky in a flurry of great leathery wings, and King Clement was plucked from his saddle. The beast, the same that had harried the army incessantly during their march, dug its claws under the king’s pauldrons, its wings pumping mightily to lift the ponderous weight of the fully armored king aloft. They rose up over the ranks of men, heading south into the thick of the Nebaran horde.

  King Clement hacked at the fiend’s clawed foot with his sword. The blade cleaved into its leg, the wound spewing black ichor. The demon screeched in rage, losing its grip with its wounded foot, and the king swung downward, clutched momentarily by only one clawed foot before its grip gave way altogether. He fell about five paces to land atop the ranks of Nebaran soldiers, crushing men beneath his weight. A knot of foes rushed in, surrounding the king with a wall of prickly steel.

  “To the king! Defend the king!” The royal guard captain exhorted his men, the elite warriors hacking furiously to reach their king’s side in battle, but they were momentarily thwarted.

  Despite their valiant attempts, the royal guard was only a score of men among thousands of foes. They made some progress, but not nearly enough. With Elyas’s height advantage, he could just make out the king left alone about twenty paces distant, clambering painfully to his feet in a circle of surrounding foes. Clement swept his gleaming sword around to keep his foes at bay, but none attacked.

  “For the king!” Glin shouted. “Save the king!” He plunged forward with a pair of men to either side. Elyas and Kavia followed on his heels, as did several others.

  He’s only a score of paces away yet might as well be a mile.

  Glin had instantly grasped what took Elyas a mo
ment longer to realize: they were easily the nearest to the king’s location and in the best spot to help since they hadn’t been pushed far from their original position.

  Glin led a furious charge, his two shieldmen beside him. Nebarans fell before their blades, many backpedaling to avoid their fury. The man to Glin’s right went down, a spear through his side. Before the Nebaran could withdraw his weapon, Elyas crashed into him, knocking him sprawling—a quick thrust, and he lay still. Four more Nebarans took his place, forcing Elyas back from darting blades. His foot came down awkwardly on something, and he fell. Anhur must have favored him, for a spear thrust where his side would have been an instant before. Kavia’s dagger punched into the man’s neck, and he fell.

  Elyas rolled to his knees, seeing he’d stepped on the boss of a fallen man’s shield. He swung his own shield and struck a foe’s knee with the iron rim. His longsword lashed out and took a second man’s leg just below the knee. Blood spurted in Elyas’s face, but he ignored it, regaining his feet with a roar. Something hit him in the shoulder, but he shrugged it off, bulling forward after Glin.

  “Ketania!” he shouted. “For the king!”

  Nebarans pressed in on him, but just ahead, Glin and his shieldman battled valiantly forward still. Behind him, Elyas sensed Kavia and a pair of other Ketanians struggling against the press closing in behind until a woman’s cry drew his attention. He whirled to see Kavia fall, a bloody sword withdrawing from her hip. He leaped in and, with a slash of his sword, sent the man’s head flying.

  Kavia’s pained eyes met Elyas’s, her eyes glazed with pain. “Anhur favor you, Elyas. See to the king.”

  Elyas nodded grimly then was bulling forward, head lowered and shield raised like a battering ram. Men grunted and cursed, his shield smashing someone off balance, and he hacked and slashed with his sword while his legs kept churning him forward. Glancing blows landed on his shoulders and back, but he barely felt them, his mail shirt holding up. A narrow passage between bodies opened up, and he charged through. A heavier blow struck the back of his mail shirt, but the chain links must’ve turned the blade, for he didn’t feel the expected hot knife of pain. He was momentarily knocked aside from a ringing blow to his helm. He blinked away motes of light and was actually somewhat relieved to find the weight of the ill-fitting helm had fallen away. He lashed out at his likely attacker, sending that man leaping away with a deep cut across his face, but didn’t pursue his opponent. Glin was just ahead, stopped before a solid wall of foes. The veteran exchanged blows with a trio of soldiers, then Glin’s shieldman to his left fell, leaving the sergeant alone.

  “Glin, got your back!” Elyas fell in beside his comrade, turning a thrust meant for the sergeant’s side, then caved in the helm of his attacker.

  He noticed Glin was bleeding from a dozen wounds, face bloodied from a deep gash on his cheek. A flow of blood had soaked his surcoat and leaked down the leg of his breeches from a wound in his side.

  “Get to the king, Elyas.” Glin’s voice was hoarse with pain. “I’m finished, but I’ll buy you the time.”

  Their eyes met, and Glin nodded, some understanding reached. He took a deep breath and then threw himself forward, shield leading the way. The burly man bulled over a pair of smaller Nebarans, his broadsword chopping wildly about.

  Elyas followed him, trying to defend his friend, but his efforts were futile. Blows struck Glin’s back, one an axe that chopped deep into his shoulder. Glin’s shield arm dropped, useless, but he kept fighting. Elyas felled the axeman then rammed his sword through another’s neck.

  Glin rocked back, stumbling into Elyas, who held him up. He gasped, seeing his friend’s helm crushed in, blood pouring from a red chasm in his head. Glin sagged, the life already gone out of him.

  With an angry bellow, Elyas let his friend fall and leaped over him. He shield-bashed a man in the face then took another’s head with a swing of his sword. The crush of bodies thinned out before him, and oddly, he faced a group of men with their backs turned. Elyas didn’t let that stop him, chopping a pair of them down in an instant, seeing a brief gleam of King Clement’s resplendent armor beyond them.

  “Your Majesty!” Without fully understanding what he was doing, Elyas plowed through the last rank of Nebarans and into the circle that had formed around the king.

  ***

  Nesnys was delighted by the carnage. She swooped down from surveilling the battle and landed before the brightly armored figure of the Ketanian king, encircled in the midst of her troops. Despite the king looking a peacock in his brightly polished armor, functional despite its flourishes, she had seen he was a competent warrior from the way he’d wielded his sword earlier.

  “If you have any honor, then fight me, wench!” Clement Atreus demanded. “If I prevail, take your curs back to Nebara with their tails between their legs.”

  “I’ll fight you, Your Majesty,” she said mockingly, sketching a bow. “You shall have your duel, yet your forces stand poised on the verge of defeat. Why would I be such a fool as to order a retreat for the sake of honor?”

  Clement sighed. “I suppose the master holding your leash wouldn’t accept that, would he? I find it hard to believe that old goat Ignatius is behind all of this.”

  “Your instincts are correct. That feeble mortal rules nominally. I’m a humble servant of Lord Shaol.”

  Clement scowled. “Then may Sol burn you with his purifying light and send your ilk scurrying back to the dark places whence you crawled out of.” He raised his sword and took a step forward.

  Nesnys smiled, Willbreaker already in hand. I shall deliver the crucial stroke right here and now—strike this mortal king down, and the kingdom shall topple.

  “Courage and honor!” Clement shouted. He lunged forward, impressively quick for an aging man in a suit of heavy armor.

  Nesnys swatted his sword thrust aside with relative ease. She probed his defenses, delivering a flurry of stabs and slashes. The old man was skilled. He parried and avoided all but one stroke, a low strike that glanced off one of his polished greaves.

  They circled each other, swords ringing out in their beguiling melody, Nesnys enjoying the fight and drawing it out for the sake of drama. Soon, the old king’s lungs were heaving like a bellows, his movements slowing. He took a wild swing with his sword. Nesnys ducked, striking his vambrace and folding the metal, and blood spurted. Willbreaker’s edge was red as she drew away, and a slick white shard of bone was visible in the king’s forearm. He dropped his sword and staggered.

  She expected him to fall, but with a fierce look of determination, the king recovered his balance and reached for his fallen sword.

  Nesnys took a long stride and delivered a swift kick to the king’s ribs. He fell over with a clatter of armor, rolling onto his back to regard her, eyes hard through the slot in his helm. His breath came in ragged pants.

  Around them, her troops murmured in excitement, a low buzzing sound almost like that of insects.

  “And so ends the Kingdom of Ketania and the House of Atreus,” she said. “Know this before you die—your line is finished, starting with your two sons, and ending with your young daughter. Her soft skin shall feel my blade, and I shall taste her blood on my lips.”

  The king bellowed in rage, struggling to get up in his heavy armor. Nesnys silenced him with a clean thrust of Willbreaker through his shiny, ornate breastplate. The steel split open with ease, and her blade sank deep.

  King Clement Atreus gurgled, blood bubbles bursting upon his lips, then breathed his last.

  Her men cheered her victory, but it felt disappointingly hollow. Even though she knew Ketania would be hers, deep down, she was unsatisfied by the duel.

  Would that this human king had proven a worthy opponent. Naught but another impotent grayhair well past his prime.

  “Your Majesty!”

  Shouts and the furious clash of steel nearby drew Nesnys’s attention from the fallen king.

  Two of her soldiers, standing with backs turned,
fell in quick succession as a warrior burst through the ring of her encircling soldiers, a bloody sword in hand. He was spattered with blood from head to toe. He froze upon seeing the slain king with Willbreaker protruding from his chest.

  The encircling Nebaran soldiers recovered their discipline belatedly and moved to cut the Ketanian warrior down, but a raised hand from Nesnys gave them pause.

  A stunning lack of discipline on their part, to let a lone warrior carve his way through them. This shall not go unpunished.

  “You killed him.” The Ketanian warrior stood breathing heavily, staring wide-eyed at his fallen king.

  “Indeed I did. He proved to be a lamentable lack of a true challenge.” Nesnys pulled Willbreaker free of the fallen king’s chest, and the blade slid out with a wet sucking sound. She studied the mortal before her with interest.

  He was young yet clearly a formidable warrior—tall, well built, and handsome beneath all the gore. On one forearm was a battered shield, in the opposite hand a well-crafted longsword.

  “Where did you get that sword, boy?” she asked, intrigued, sensing the blade’s enchantment.

  The young man scowled, eyes dropping to the sword in his hand, which he held up before him. “It was my father’s sword. And it’s drunk plenty of demonic blood in its time.” His face was belligerent and hard with righteous anger, but Nesnys noted his eyes still slid over her body as she took a couple sinuous steps closer.

  “You are awfully bold for a human whelp with his sire’s sword. Where has your sword encountered demons before?”

  “The Battle of Nexus.”

  “Ah, then we have something in common, for my father also battled in that accursed city. A pity I wasn’t able to partake in that ill-fated contest.” She looked around at her pathetic men, who were suddenly eager to put an end to this youth at but a word from her. “It took a fair amount of skill to battle your way through the ranks. What is your name?”

  “Elyas, son of Wyat,” he said, puffed up with pride.