by Mike Morris
He Who Fights
Mike Morris
Contents
Title
Quotation
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part III
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part IV
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Afterword
1. In the year 702 Post Nostros
2. 702 Pn
3. 702 Pn
Untitled
HE WHO FIGHTS
A Nathaniel Rane Novel
by Mike Morris
He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Prologue
"Don't take my son!" the woman pleaded, holding onto her boy with all her might. "He's too young."
"He's old enough," snapped a soldier in a blood-stained tunic and battered chest plate of the city guard, as he tried to pull the lad free. The child looked no more than twelve. "Be grateful we're not taking you too."
The woman lunged, sacrificing her grip on her son to dig her nails into the soldier's face. She was fast, gouging a bloody streak across the soldier's cheek before his fist caught her in the jaw, knocking teeth and most of the fight out of her. He wiped the blood off his cheek with the back of his hand and spat on the woman.
She had some spark left and anchored herself around her son's feet. It made no difference — she was dragged screaming down the street along with the boy. Another soldier planted a solid kick to her ribs. The crack of bone was enough to silence her cries. A second boot, harder than the first, sent her rolling into the gutter.
"Please," she sobbed. "He's all I have left. The Rastaks have taken everything else. We came here for protection, not to fight."
The soldiers ignored her, and marched the boy down the street, holding onto an arm each. The boy, petrified and crying, had the body of someone more used to starving than warfare.
"Someone stop them," cried his mother as she stumbled after them but the other refugees averted their eyes. No one wanted a visit from the soldiers next.
Nathaniel Rane watched from the end of the street, aware that he should feel something for the woman's plight but didn't. The soldiers nodded at him as they passed, hard men equally numb to the task given them.
The woman reached Rane and, on seeing his black uniform under his leather long coat and his shaved head, threw herself at his feet. "You're a Legionnaire, do something please!"
"There's nothing I can do," said Rane. Up close, she looked more like the boy's grandmother than his mother, but war did that to a person. Aged you so fast that if death didn't come calling in the shape of a sword or an axe, it would just steal away the years until a cold night was enough to finish you off.
"But your oath. You swore an oath," said the woman, grovelling at his feet. “You’re supposed to protect people like us.”
Rane sighed. "Guards," he called out.
The two men stopped, looked back, weary at yet another hold-up in their duties. "Yes sir?" asked one.
"Let the boy go. He's too young and too weak to be of any good to us," replied Rane.
"But our orders..."
"If you want to complain, tell your commanding officer that Captain Nathaniel Rane of The Legion of Swords ordered you to let him go."
"Yes, sir." They released the boy and he ran back to his mother's arms. With a shake of their head, the guards headed off to look for more recruits to press-gang down the next street. They probably thought Rane a fool but chances were they were all going to be dead in the next twenty-four hours anyway. Whether the boy stood on the wall or not wasn't going to change that. At least now, he and his mother could be together for a few hours more.
Rane continued on his way to the West Tower of the city walls. The woman had been right about his oath. Everyone in the Legion of Swords had sworn to protect and serve those weaker than themselves. If they didn't honour that, they were nothing.
The Legion was made up of soldiers from the five allied nations from the southern half of the continent — Ascalonia, Fascaly, Nortlund, Naijin and the Souska Islands. Every man and woman was a master with the sword, dedicated to a frugal life, loyal to each other and bound to that oath. Rane was proud to be one of their number. He’d grown up a street urchin only a few miles from where he now stood but the Legion had given his life meaning and he considered his fellow soldiers his family. Yes, Rane had sworn an oath to protect people like the woman in the street and his failure to do more for them wore heavily on his soul. But that was the time they found themselves in. It was the end of days for all.
Two streets down, he passed a funeral detail placing bodies on a pyre already stacked high; refugees succumbed to injuries, disease or hunger, and soldiers from every nation killed on the walls that day. Yet more deaths to lay at the feet of the Rastaks and their king, Mogai.
Two soldiers stood nearby with burning torches in their hands, ready to set the pyre alight. It probably wasn't the first they'd lit that night and it certainly wouldn't be the last. A priest said prayers but his words were directed to Odason, the God of Life, instead of to Heras, Goddess of Death. Something else the war had changed.
The people of the five nations had worshipped both equally, for that was the duality of existence, but Mogai and the Rastaks had changed all that. Mogai claimed Heras was the one true Goddess and waged war in Her name and honour. His troops slaughtered innocents as sacrifices to Her. His strength and power came from Her gifts. His army was bolstered by Her demons, gathered from the underworld to massacre all in their way.
No one understood why, after all this time, Heras had started playing a greater role in mankind's lives — after all, no one was spared Death's touch in the end. But Mogai had found a Goddess grateful for his sacrifices.
Abandoned by Heras, the people of the five nations had called on Odason for help and His protection but He seemed not as willing to meddle in human affairs.
A group of refugees stood near to the fire, weeping and wailing — both for the dead and themselves. Rane wished there was a way to offer them some sort of comfort but there was none to be had. At least they were still alive for now. Without thinking, he ran his eye over them all, noting who might be fit enough to fight and who wasn't. He didn't stop though — the soldiers would call and make their selection soon enough.
He crossed the courtyard and headed into the Western Tower, nodding greetings to anyone he passed and trying to look as positive as he could. Too many faces had an air of resignation about them, worn down by death's constant presence. If he could bolster the
ir morale even just a little, it was worth faking a smile or two.
Inside, he took the stairs to the parapets, climbing slowly, trying to use as little energy as possible — the last few days of heavy fighting had allowed for no more than the odd hour of sleep snatched here and there as they repelled wave after wave of attacks on the city walls. He'd lost count of the times that day alone they had faced the Rastaks and their pet demons, brandishing sword and club, tooth and claw, with the sole intent of wiping everything in the city from existence. Now all Rane wanted to do was find a dark corner somewhere, curl up in a ball and close his tired eyes for just a few minutes but he knew that wasn't going to be possible. There was still too much to do; sentries to check, ammunition to resupply and soldiers to reposition. A long night lay ahead, and still the morning would come too quickly.
He paused in the stairwell a few steps away from the top and blinked some life back into his eyes. He couldn't let the troops see how exhausted he was. He had to give them hope and strength, even if he had none.
As he stepped out onto the parapet, he was grateful for the bitter wind that slapped him across the face, waking him some more. It wouldn't be long before the weather turned against them as well. If they lived that long.
As he always did when he reached the top of the wall, Rane first looked to his right.
Candra, the capitol of Ascalonia, lay spread out before him. For centuries, it had been the heart of government, of trade, of learning. A city to boast of, a place to be envied. It was where he'd been born and no doubt where he'd die.
Sitting on the Southern banks of the River Tryste, the Royal Castle loomed above all. Covering over twelve acres of land, Queen Ryanna and what was left of her government sheltered behind its walls. Three ships were harboured on its river banks, in case escape was necessary. The Queen and her council could flee down the Tryste and out to the Pacini Sea to sanctuary in the Souskan Islands. Rane wouldn't have that luxury.
To the west of the castle was Temple Square, where temples to Odason and Heras sat facing each other. The Square itself had become a shanty town of refugees camped out under whatever could protect them from the elements, filling the air with prayers begging protection. One day soon, they'd find out if their words carried any worth.
It had been five years since Mogai united all the tribes of the Rastaks under what he called the one true faith and launched his invasion south over the mountains. They’d swarmed through the five nations, putting all non-believers to the sword. Bloody years during which Rane had seen far too many lives lost; the brightest and the best of mankind snuffed out long before their time. And still more would follow. Perhaps, by the morrow, Candra, the capital of Ascalonia and the allies’ last bastion, would fall beneath the Rastaks blades.
He gazed out over the rooftops of the city, sheltering the last of the free world, and wondered what would happen to them all when that happened? Would they all be sacrificed to Heras’ glory? Or would the Raskans keep some alive to be used as slaves? Rane’s oath wore heavily on him. They were the ones he’d sworn to protect but his sword wasn’t enough to save them. The Legion of Swords wasn’t enough. All he could do was die trying.
When he couldn't put off the moment any longer, he looked to his left.
The enemy was spread out as far as the eye could see, camped just out of cannon range, warming themselves around fires of their own — the death-loving Rastak soldiers and all their pet demons; the ten-foot Jotnar, the vicious dog-like Bracke, the mountainous Grenduns and the winged Valkryn.
Rane had tried guessing at the enemy number once but had given up. What did it matter if there were forty or fifty thousand of them? The only thing in their way was the thirty-foot wall on which Rane stood and what was left of the army — nine thousand men and women from all the allied nations; Nortlunders, with their blond hair, crazy beards and elaborate tattoos, battled alongside dark-skinned Souskans while Naijins stood side-by-side with Ascalonians. Only Balrus in the West had refused the call, claiming neutrality, but no one believed them. Everyone knew the horse eaters were negotiating with Mogai, intent on saving themselves at the rest of the world's expense.
Different languages carried on the wind as men and women huddled around fires, pretending death wasn't waiting for them with the dawn. A few of the more seasoned fighters slept, taking advantage of the respite in a way that seemed impossible to the newer recruits. Dotted along the line were the soldiers from the Legion of Swords, the only professionals amongst the lot of them. They were easy to spot, like Rane, with their shaved heads, leather great coats, and the curved single edged swords that only they carried, lending their experience to everyone around them, adding steel to frayed nerves.
Rane first call was with one of the gun crews. Thomaz, a young Nortlunder, still struggling to grow a wisp of a beard on a face far older than his years, stood by the front of the cannon while the other four men and women of his crew sat around a small brazier, keeping themselves warm. Their skin was stained with soot and gunpowder and streaked by sweat and blood. They struggled to rise as he approached but he waved them down. The days of demanding a soldier stand when an officer was present were long gone.
"How are you, Thomaz?" he asked. The boy seemed shocked that Rane knew his name but Rane always made a point of remembering who was under his command. It made a huge difference to fighting men. Not everyone in the Legion felt the same though. Many thought the new recruits were nothing but fodder to be fed to the Rastaks, so why bother putting names to the dead?
"Been better, sir," said Thomaz.
Rane smiled. "Haven’t we all."
Thomaz nodded in the direction of the enemy. There was no hiding the boy's fear. "There's a lot of them out there to keep us busy."
Rane followed his eye. "True."
"Can I ask you a question, sir?"
"Certainly."
"Are we going to die in the morning?" The boy's voice almost broke with the words.
"How old are you, Thomaz?"
"Nineteen."
"Do you have a Legionnaire assigned to you?"
Thomaz nodded. "Her name's Myri Anns."
Rane looked past Thomaz and saw Myri talking with another group, demonstrating a basic sword movement. A tall, lean Souskan and as ruthless as they came. She caught his eye and nodded back.
"She'll certainly look after you," Rane told the boy. "Tomorrow when the Rastaks come, listen to her. Do what she says. And don't be too scared. We've got good soldiers here with flintlocks, cannon and good old-fashioned steel on top of high walls. Stand strong and you'll survive.”
“If you say so, sir,” replied Thomaz, sounding far from convinced. He looked over the massed hordes again. “Why do the Rastaks hate us so much? They’re human too, aren’t they?”
“Aye, they’re human.” Rane scratched his head. “They just believe in different things to us. The Rastaks only worship Heras, and they think the more lives they sacrifice to Her in this world, the greater their reward will be in the afterlife.”
“Is that true?”
“Our priests say no. Their’s say yes. Who knows who’s right or wrong? All I know is this is my home they threaten and I’m sworn to do everything in my power to stop them.”
“But no one has ever won in battle against them. Not with those demons on their side too.”
“We will.” Rane squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Tomorrow will be different. You’ll see. Now get some rest — you'll be busy enough in the morning."
"Thank you, sir."
He left the crew and walked over to Myri, who'd finished her lesson. Her troops were lucky — if there was anyone better with a sword, Rane hadn't met them yet.
"Nathaniel." Myri's voice had the beautiful lilt that only came from the Southern nations, and immediately made Rane think of warmer climes and happier times. Many a Legionnaire had fallen for because of her dark-skinned beauty and others wanted her because she was one of the deadliest fighters alive, but she'd laughed most of their attentions
away. Myri was too busy keeping everyone alive. Rane had had a fling with her when they had both been raw recruits, but that seemed a lifetime ago. He'd be surprised if she even remembered it happening. He was surprised that he remembered it so well.
"Myri."
She nodded back towards Thomaz. "Still trying to inspire the troops?"
"Someone's got to give them some encouragement."
"Any news from the rest of the world?" At least Myri had the decency not to tell him how foolhardy he was.
Rane leaned over the wall, gazed down at the drop to the ground below, the spikes embedded there. "Just that it's all fucked up. You should have stayed in Souska. At least the sea should stop the Rastak advance."
"Do you really think that?" laughed Myri. "Some death worshipper will give them ships soon enough. Maybe not this year, but not long after. A bit of water won't be a deterrent for Mogai."
"We're not beaten yet."
Myri laughed. "Always the optimist."
Rane wished he was, wished he believed there was some miracle coming to save them but hope, as with everything else, was in short supply. "I better be getting on," he said eventually.
Myri held his arm before he could move off. "If you've got any sway downstairs, it might be a good idea to get some food up here for everyone if we're to stand a chance. Dried biscuits aren't exactly filling."
