An Insurrection
A Sword and Shield Short
A.S. Washington
New Jersey
Published 2014 by Brickhouse Publishing.
Copyright © 2014 by A.S. Washington
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead; is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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An Insurrection
The blood couldn’t be washed away, even with all the rain. The faces of men were caked with muck and rotting entrails. Those lucky enough to still be alive could only stare and hold back the lump in their throats, if their stomachs were strong enough to hold down the bile in their empty bellies. Dead men strewn across a battlefield was enough to make a coward retreat. Seeing Norman Khan, who many believed to be the strongest man in all of Lorencia nailed dead to the king’s wall, made the most battle worn warriors ready to drop their swords and tuck tail.
Only Garvin Desh, an assassin of the highest order turned patriot gave them pause to stand and fight. Desh sat atop a brilliant black steed, shelled in navy blue armor and a flowing white cape. His blood soaked sword gripped in his right hand, and the flesh stuck between the spikes on his gauntlets, were the only signs that proved he’d seen any combat.
Desh watched with piercing blue eyes as the castle gate opened for the first time in two days. He was sure it was another wave of well-rested soldiers, but King Thurstan Dyork, himself, emerged flanked by Ludan and Carmine Bisch. They were known as The Black Twins, and champions of Lorencia. As King Thurstan strode from the gates atop his mount, thirty thousand of Lorencia’s finest parted to make room for him. He made his way down the aisle of soldiers with his snobbish chin stuck firmly in the morning air. Large drops of rain pelted his helm as Thurstan made a beeline for Desh, a smug smile dressing his face as he approached.
Giving his horse a kick, Desh started on a line to meet the king. Two men, dressed in similar fashion, looking twice as deadly as Desh, found themselves on his flanks. Desh slowly checked both sides to see who was following, and then set his gaze back toward the king. They were men of his order, Brack the Bald and Morn Shademaker. Few better to have at your back and steady enough to listen to some talk before blood was shed. Matching the king’s smugness with a grin of his own, Desh cracked his neck to both sides.
‘Still as pretty as a woman I see,’ Thurstan said, looking at Desh’s striking features, bringing his horse to a halt.
‘Save your worthless sophistries for the politicians,’ Desh said spitting to the side.
Thurstan was surprised at Desh’s austere response, but smiled nonetheless.
‘When I heard it was you out here leading the charge after Khan fell, I had to see it with my own eyes,’ Thurstan said. He narrowed his eyes as if to improve his vision. Desh titled his head to the side and the king scoffed at him.
‘Then the thirst of your curiosity is quenched?’ Desk asked, giving the king a sharp look.
‘Not quite.’ Thurstan paused for a moment and nearly turned around completely. He eyed Khan’s body and gave Desh a matter of fact look. ‘What is it that you are trying to accomplish here? Your troops are nearly spent, vastly outnumbered, and their morale is lost. You are not foolish enough to believe you’ll succeed here.’ Thurstan gazed upon Desh’s pretty face, hoping to comprehend the thoughts in his mind by reading them on the lines his expression would make.
‘The success of war isn’t determined by how many men lie dead.’ The king huffed at his words. ‘I would gladly move this army from the field if you would but grant the people food and protection.’ Desh’s face turned stern as he leaned forward, his sword steady at his side.
Thurstan scoffed, and then laughed as he began to speak. ‘You call this rabble an army? They are little more than brigands and peasants with knives and pitchforks.’
‘Better a pitchfork at your side than a sword in the chest,’ Desh replied harshly.
‘True.’ Thurstan couldn’t deny the fact. ‘But why do you care?’ He continued, looking Desh up and down, almost as if analyzing his very intentions, a confused annoyance written across his face. ‘Let’s not fool ourselves here. You’re a murderer, a thousand times over. How many men have you slain? How many families have wept because of you?’ Thurstan’s accusations were sharp and meant to sting.
‘The men standing behind me do not have me on trial for my crimes. I am a killer, ruthless in every way. The highest bidder has my allegiance. I do not claim to be something I am not.’ Desh smiled lustfully, licking the blood from his blade and swallowing heartily. ‘You on the other hand, claim to love your people openly, but allow them to be butchered by foreign invaders. Did you not expect that they’d rebel, being hungry and afraid of your enemies?’ Desh smiled again. ‘They don’t think rationally. They are debase and impulsive. As you say, they are indeed peasants and brigands, not noble men.’ Desh turned sideways on his horse, surveying the men who stood behind him in defiance of the king.
‘But why you?’ Thurstan asked. He could not fathom why an assassin, one he had employed on many occasions, would lead men into battle against him. There was no gold in it. Surely there was glory, but Desh’s reputation for butchery was well known. ‘What do you hope to gain?’
‘Consider it a change of heart. With no motivation other than gold, I’ve killed the dirtiest politicians, the most fearsome warriors, harlots, and priests. I’ve even killed the nameless at the whims of royalty like you and rich men with vendettas. Now I kill for a cause, one I thought you stood for. But I was obviously wrong.’ Desh huffed, almost cracking a smile. ‘Have you visited your wife’s grave since I slit her throat in your bed.’
The hairs on Thurstan’s finely trimmed beard stood up, his forehead a wrinkled mass of anger. If it were possible to see his knuckles through his leather gloves as he gripped the reins on his horse with the fervor of a dying man struggling for life, they had surely changed colors. Thurstan scowled at Desh, and closed his eyes to compose himself, as he breathed in slowly. The image of his naked wife in bed with her throat cut roused his anger. Her infidelity was a grievous enough injury to his ego. Yet, losing the opportunity to punish the queen in his own way angered Thurstan to no end.
‘I see I’ve hit a nerve,’ Desh said full of pride.
Thurstan snatched his sword from its scabbard, his teeth bared like a raging beast. Ludan and Carmine followed suit, their broadswords cutting through the cold air. Brack and Morn were armed now, unsettling their horses as they moved about. Thurstan pointed his sword at Desh with murderous intent, grinding his teeth and growling like a mad dog as he searched for words to speak. Desh stared at him unfazed.
‘Lorencia belongs to me! I say who has right to eat and be protected. March this mangy army from the gates of my city or suffer the wrath of Thurstan the Mighty.’ Thurstan whipped his horse around quickly and darted toward the middle of his army, followed by his trusted champions.
Desh yelled at him in the distance. ‘I’ll meet you in the middle mighty king!’ Mocking Thurstan’s threatening o
utburst, he laughed as he watched him ride away.
‘He looks angry,’ Brack said in a tone of indifference. He appeared bored as he scratched his baldhead.
‘More killing…’ Morn said as he let the words hang in the air as he stared at Brack and Desh with an unmatched lust in his eyes. Those grey dead eyes. Desh was happy the Shademaker was on his side and under his command. Morn was the biggest man he'd ever seen; ungodly strong and ungodly fast. His grave voice was more frightening. Reason enough to beg for mercy.
‘Aye brother…and I think he might actually fight. If so, he is mine…understood?’ Brack and Morn shook their heads in agreement and rode off to rejoin the rebels of Lorencia. He knew they didn’t care who got to kill the king, as long as they got to kill something.
Desh trotted toward the small army that stood awaiting his orders. The hope beating in the hearts of his men was that he’d send them home and tell them they’d be fed and watched over. They were not foolish. All of them saw the king’s anger boil over as he whipped out his sword. There’d be no retreat today, and many of them knew that they would soon die. It was better to die fighting for the barest necessities, than to spend day after day starving or waiting to be butchered before hunger took you. That’s what Desh kept telling them. He’d told it to them so much that they’d actually started to believe it.
If they couldn’t see it, Desh could see that each of them wore the eyes of men who had nothing to lose. The eyes of a man hanging off a cliff by one hand with his only choices being to fall to a rocky grave a hundred feet below, or to hang on long enough to pull himself over the ledge. Even the hardest of men didn’t wear those eyes, save for a few deadly moments, swinging a sword against a foe willing to drink his blood. Desh knew it well. He had worn those eyes many times. You couldn’t pay for those eyes in a soldier with all the gold in the king’s treasury. Desh knew that more than half the king’s men were mercenaries. They weren’t there for justice, honor, or glory, but for gold. Gold. It had a funny way with a man’s heart.
Sitting atop his steed just a few paces from the men who he had fought alongside for forty-moons, Desh spoke. His silvery voice echoed in strict defiance of a king he now deemed a tyrant. A man once counted among his allies, though mostly an employer.
‘Thurstan would have you starve. He would see your children eat scraps and your wives cleave to slain men weeping on the shores of Red Stalk Bay. He’d have you cold in the winters praying for reprieve while he sits in his pampered rooms behind his high walls; suckling wine and fondling women to his guilty pleasure.’ The men were roused, pounding sword and fist against shields, roaring like savage animals hungry for blood. ‘Our noble king won’t give you his love, his protection, or the animals he’d slaughter for supper. He won’t share of his feast or his soldiers. He thinks of you as nothing more than brigands and peasants, fit only to serve his whims and to surrender your land and taxes. What do you say to that?’ Desh roared the question. With pleasure he watched the tumult rise. ‘Will you bow the knee to this king?’ He raised his sword and pounded his armor with his fist. ‘I will not!’
The men screamed their displeasure, their voices howling into the open air. Thunder boomed as the rain continued to drench them. Lightning cracked across the sky and then more thunder rolled. Desh waited for the men to quiet and then spoke again.
‘Then have your say in the matter. Take your bounty from the king or have comfort in death.’ Desh turned and raised his blood-soaked sword high in the air again.
‘Take what’s owed!’ A man screamed. Then another screamed the words, and another, until it became a chant. Desh could feel the ground trembling under his horse.
Like a swarm the men were on the move, sprinting with unbridled aggression, careless and full of fury. Those on horses charged between the lines, quickly leading the rebels toward the king’s seemingly impenetrable army. Blind courage had replaced caution and swept away their fears.
Thurstan had been right. Desh’s small army was vastly outnumbered nearly five to one. As he sat there, watching from high on the hilly plains of Lorencia, he thought that he might have sent them to their deaths with no opportunity for success. They were about to clash with a monster big enough to devour them and have room left for seconds. His first battle had been much the same as a boy, under the order of an inexperienced captain. He’d managed to survive the ordeal. Since his childhood, he possessed the courage and ferocity of fifty lions.
‘I’ll die with you brothers,’ Desh said pulling on his helm. ‘I’ll finish what Khan began.’
Tightening his grip on his horse’s reins, he reared his steed and charged into the fray. It was almost impossible to see who was who through the rain and mist. The clattering of swords and the screams of dying men was deafening. The spraying blood was nearly blinding and the crunching of bones under his horse’s hooves was nearly unbearable. It was war, in all its gruesome truth, and for the first time it seemed, a war that truly needed to be fought.
He approached the swarms of men, looking around to find the best place to lead his horse and join the fight, but one of the king’s soldiers made the choice for him, sending a spear sailing for his throat. Using his sword, he deflected the projectile and swiftly kicked his horse to speed him along.
The soldier reached for his sword, but Desh was on him, cutting him through clean from shoulder to waist. The next soldier moved and then another, and then what seemed like a countless number came one after another, making their attempts and failing like a bird hoping to fly with one wing.
Killing men was the one thing Desh had been good at since he lifted a sword. It was his job, and it was what he lived for. He hadn’t been made to hammer steel, or tend the land. He was made to thrust his blade through the flesh and sinew of another man and listen to him shriek in terror and gurgle his last breath.
‘Fall back!’ He heard a man scream. Distracted, a young soldier no more than eighteen sliced him across the back, causing him to stiffen for a moment in pain. The blade had gotten through the narrow slit, just above his waist that was unprotected by his armor. He didn’t have time to pull on his chainmail and he could feel the warm blood running down his back and into his trousers. The boy made an attempt to cut him at the throat, but found him self under Desh’s weight, knocking his head against a hard stone.
Looking at the boy’s watery brown eyes, Desh knew he was too young to have felt the touch of a woman or have seen the fields any battles. If the boy had, he might not have come. Desh’s guilt welled up inside of him as he watched the boy’s eyes plead for his life. As much as he’d wanted to free the boy, he had learned that in war, the biggest mistake was to let your enemy live. He felt a lump in his throat shoot up and choke him, as he banged the boy’s head against the stone until the life in his eyes departed. The boy didn’t have his luck. He should have stayed home.
On his feet he trudged toward the middle of the fray, cutting down the king’s men as he went along. From where he stood, he could see the king atop his horse still flanked by Carmine and Ludan. That was when he noticed that the call to fall back hadn’t been from his men, but from the king’s. The odds had changed. The fear that once gripped the followers of Khan as he was nailed to the wall was now the reality of Lorencia’s finest. The men who were paid gold for their service had fled. Never trust a mercenary Desh had been taught; especially him with no stomach for blood or the lack of love for his own reputation. Gold could always be had on easier terms. There was always someone willing to pay for the demise of an enemy. Gold. It had a way with a man’s heart.
Desh knew that not even his death would break the spirits of his men until there was none left standing. His speech was only a prelude to their march of revenge for the king’s selfishness. While his men were filled with reason to fight until life escaped them, Thurstan’s men were there for the greed and conceit of one man. The resolve of his men would not fail.
For a hundred strides Desh marched toward the king without a single impediment until
Ludan and Carmine rode out, swinging their swords. Dodging their blades, he rolled backwards and kicked himself back onto his feet, turning to face them. Desh pulled a sword out of a man’s guts and twirled it in the air with his own.
Ludan and Carmine charged again, leaning in to attack and finish Desh. As they reached striking distance, both Carmine and Ludan lunged forward on their horses, hoping for their blades to feast on Desh’s flesh.
Waiting just before the blades landed, Desh fell straight back and cut the legs of the horses. The animals screeched and flung their riders to the ground as they fell. Carmine impaled himself on his blade, his body sliding down the length of it, his hands trying to close the deadly wound at his stomach. Ludan was lucky, falling sideways and landing on his shoulder and turning to find Desh standing over him.
Ludan’s luck was short lived. Stepping on his sword arm, Desh drove his sword through Ludan’s throat. The crowd roared as the black man choked on blood. A slain hero was always something to marvel at and even more so on this bloody morning. The death of the king’s greatest champions was another crushing blow to his already dwindling army.
In that moment, a thousand more of Thurstan’s men dropped their swords and tucked tail in retreat, scurrying over the hills, never to be seen again. Dead men strewn across a battlefield was enough to make a coward retreat.
Jumping down from his horse, the king sprinted toward Desh, his sword raised high. He swung recklessly, Desh sidestepping and tripping the king.
Thurstan’s face thudded against the hard earth. Desh thrust a foot into the back of his neck, sending his face crashing into the ground again. Dust blew up as the king breathed in and out, choking on the dirt. He had never been a fighting man. Thurstan had been called mighty because his army was fearsome in his youth. They’d marched undefeated for more than two decades. Brave men they were that rode into battle, as their king watched safely upon a hill, flanked by his elite guard. Only heat had forced him to break a sweat. Wooden splinters were all that forced him to shed blood.
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