The Second Age Year 872
Twenty-fourth day of the fourth month
Cenric mounted his horse and tried to get comfortable in the saddle while holding his lance. As he mounted, his horse turned its head around, nudging him with the edge of its mouth, snorting and showing its teeth. It pulled on the bit and stomped its hooves on the ground, seemingly reacting to Cenric’s inexperience as he tried to hop onto the saddle. He felt his hips wobble. He put his legs in the stirrups, holding onto the reins with one hand. With his other hand, he patted the horse’s mane and whispered in its ear. “It’s ok. Don’t be scared,” he said, continuing to pat the horse until it calmed down. He was interrupted by Noctis, who was standing next to him in full armour. He held Quintus’s standard in one hand — a red flower on a white background with golden trim — while gripping the reins of his horse and his mace in the other. His well-decorated, scabbard-bound bastard sword was strapped to his back.
“What the matter? First time you’ve ridden a horse?” Noctis asked him. Who was on a horse next to him. Sitting comfortably on his horse, with his horse seemingly not caring that he was riding it. As if he and the horse were one, who shared one mind and soul. “I thought Wilders were good horsemen, or am I mistaken.” he continued.
“No, this isn’t,” he replied. He had ridden horses a little when he was young in his home village, and Tharos had been more than happy to teach him horsemanship. “It’s just the first time I’ve ever ridden a horse into battle,” he admitted, sleepily stretching his cheek, most of which was covered by the side guards of his helmet and a worn-out leather chin strap.
“Oh, I see.” Noctis exclaimed, raising an eyebrow beneath his helmet. “Well, if you want my advice… It’s not the horse that’s scared, it’s you. You see, these are warhorses, and they hate nothing more than a rider who looks like he’s about to wet himself. So steady your nerves, kid; you and that horse might live longer.”
However, Cenric didn’t hear him. As he turned his head, he surveyed the scene before him. It was the most frightening thing he had seen so far, more terrifying than any monster. Several groups of men were lined up half a mile in front of him, each comprising at least a few hundred soldiers. He thought he could see Tharos and Rayner in the front row, surrounded by men carrying shields adorned with flower or cat symbols. They were armed with axes, spears and swords and wore leather, scale and chain armour. Surrounding him was a group of a hundred mounted men on armoured horses, all similarly armed, armoured, and carrying lances and maces. They were standing on a small, flat hilltop with a slight slope overlooking the battlefield. Further away, at the back of the lines and alongside the massive shield wall, he could see others armed with crossbows, javelins, and slings. A large village nestled a few miles behind them, tucked between rolling hills, grasslands, and forest. Opposing them was an even bigger force, twice or even three times their size. There were more than he could count — or wanted to. They were marching in formation a few miles ahead. Their armour and shining shields gleamed in the distance, reflecting the sunlight.
They were en route to the fortress that they had been paid to capture. However, they stopped to obtain supplies from the surrounding villages. Thankfully, the villagers gave Quintus what he asked for without putting up a fight, much to Cenric’s relief. Although the villagers were his enemies, Cenric didn’t want to see the villages destroyed or their inhabitants killed. Just as they were about to leave, another army appeared on the horizon several miles away. It was one of the smaller armies from the city of Ferrum, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. It was marching in their direction. Cenric had no idea how the army had found them, but he knew it would end in bloodshed as usual. They wouldn’t have enough time to flee, which is why Quintus had decided to stay and fight on the grassy plains a few miles outside the village. This was despite the opposing army’s ambassador having offered terms. Cenric turned his head towards Noctis. He saw him trying to get Quintus’s attention, but Quintus wasn’t paying attention. At that moment, he was focused on the battlefield before him, sitting imposingly on his horse. He wore a suit of black, full plate armour. The bat skull helmet he wore starkly contrasted with the handsome, youthful face underneath. Indeed, his entire appearance contrasted with his surroundings. To Cenric, he looked as if he had ridden out of a nightmare. Quintus then turned his head towards Noctis.
“Yes, Noctis. What is it?” Quintus replied, looking at both Noctis and Cenric. His visor was up, revealing his handsome, rugged face and piercing steel-grey eyes.
“Are you sure you want Cenric to join the cavalry? He can barely ride a horse and looks like he’s about to wet himself. Maybe we should have him sit out the battle.”
“Well, that depends. Would you like to take part in the battle?” Quintus asked him. “If you want to, you can stay at the back with the rest of the baggage train. You will not be shamed, nor will you bring dishonour upon yourself. You have already proven yourself to be a capable warrior in my eyes.”
“To be honest, I’d rather not be here. But I promised Tharos and I always honour my word.” he told them. “Or at least I try to.” he admitted to them both. He didn’t enjoy fighting or killing. He might have been fine with it if it had been to protect someone or uphold justice, but he didn’t enjoy war or fighting just for the sake of it. He wasn’t given much choice in the matter, but if Tharos and Rayner were going to do battle, then so would he. It was the least he could do to thank them for everything they had done for him.
“A noble settlement,” Quintus said before continuing, “You should be fine as long as you stay close and follow my orders.” He gave Cenric a warm smile. It was such a warm and serene smile that it made Cenric forget, for a moment, that he had been scared in the first place or that the horse was acting up. “And Noctis, you’re not one to talk. I remember our first battle together. You almost emptied your guts after the first charge.” As Quintus said this, Cenric could see the other riders sneaking a smile and chuckling under their helmets.
“It was only because you wanted us to charge at Iason the Giant with just a few dozen men against his several hundred..”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it? We turned him back and won the day.”
“At the cost of good men,” Noctis replied. “If it hadn’t been for me and Volcan. you would have been dining with the gods.”
“I’ll give you that, Noctis.” Quintus countered. “But a victory is a victory, and one doesn’t gain victory without taking risks.”
“So, is this normal for you both?” he asked, even though he probably knew the answer.
“If by normal you mean charging head-first into the maelstrom of madness, then yes. This is normal,” Noctis added, before Quintus could respond.
“Don’t make it sound like you don’t enjoy it, because I know you do.” Quintus countered. “How would we be able to drink at our leisure and entertain each other with pleasant conversation?”
“But we could done that now.” Noctis retorted. “Without all this hassle and bloodshed. We could have avoided getting involved in the Twin Cities and just had a beer at a nearby tavern.” Noctis exclaimed.
Quintus chuckled for a moment. “Shut it, Noctis.”
As Cenric watched, he saw a small group of people wearing light robes and carrying several scrolls of rolled-up parchment. One of them was Titus. They were Quintus’s household servants. “Yes, Titus, what is it?” Quintus asked.
“Your Highness, all your men are in position and your captains are now asking for your orders.”
“Once the enemy is within a mile of us, begin marching towards them. Loosen the formation on the left and right wings, but tell the centre to hold firm and maintain the shield wall, and allow them sheaves to get pushed back; the left and right are there to stay put for as long as they can. Tell the archers and skirmishers to attack the flanks, but to stay close to the main formation. Leave the rest to them, to adjust to the circumstances.”
“What about you, Your Highness? It’s not like you to be at the front.” Cenric then saw Quintus smile warmly at Titus. “Don’t worry. I will join the battle in person as soon as first contact is established.”
“Understood, Your Highness,” said Titus, writing things down on several sheets of paper and handing them to the others in the group. They then rushed off into the battle line.
Quintus then turned to him. “If you wish to back out of this battle, now is your last chance. The enemy will be upon us soon.”
He looked down at the ground for a moment, then looked back up at Quintus. “Thank you. But I will stay and fight.”
“Good,” said Quintus, closing the visor of his helmet with a small thud and click as it locked into place, replacing the pale hue of his ivory complexion with a milky white that resembled the skull of some bat-like creature. From beneath his helmet. ‘Men!’ he called out, his voice echoing like thunder from beneath the helmet. “When I give the order, you are to change no sooner nor later than I say. Understood?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” some of the horsemen cried out. Others banged on their shields or rattled their swords in joy, even after hearing that simple speech and the other men crying out in agreement. Cenric felt as if a fire had been lit within him. As if the fear of charging into death didn’t exist.
However, all went quiet as Cenric heard the sound of blowing horns. About a mile and a half ahead, the Ferrum army was approaching quickly. They were marching towards Cenric and his men with their shields raised and their spears at the ready. Some of the spears were actually pikes. At the back were archers, crossbowmen and slingers who began firing their volley as soon as the army was within a mile. The Quintus soldiers blew their war horns and charged at the army of Ferrum like starving dogs as soon as they got within a mile. Arrows, bolts and stones flew through the air. Cenric couldn’t describe what happened next when the two groups of armed men clashed with the force of rolling thunder. From the hilltop, he watched the melee of metal and men in horror, seeing men being beaten to the ground, crushed by clubs and maces, and pierced by spears and arrows. He saw heads and limbs being cleaved by axes. This was accompanied by a chorus of human bravery and suffering: roaring and the clanging of steel on steel. As the battle progressed, he lost track of Tharos and Rayner. Every now and then, he could see the flash of Rayner’s crimson hair among the combatants, but it was becoming obscured by the shifting colours of the armour, now stained with mud and blood.
As the battle raged on, Cenric saw the centre wing being forced back by Ferrum’s army. Row upon row of men pushed them back, but they did not break. As he continued to watch, he noticed that the left and right wings had hardly moved. As more troops poured into the centre, the left and right wings began to push forward. If they kept pushing, it looked as if they were going to slowly encircle the enemy army — even though they were outnumbered by a considerable margin.
“So, when are you changing in? The men are under pressure. They’re going to break soon if we don’t do something,” Noctis said.
“Give it a few more moments, Noctis. We need them to commit more men to the centre before we can charge.” Quintus responded confidently.
“Oh, so we’re doing that old trick, to try to cut off the head of the snake.” Noctis replied.
“Ye of little faith.” Quintus replied back.
Looking ahead, Cenric could see that most of the fighting was taking place in the centre, with the left and right wings starting to close in and nip at the sides and heels of the large force of men who were fighting in the centre. Amidst the chaos, he saw a large group of armoured riders charging into the maelstrom, taking advantage of the huge gaps in the battle line. Gaps large enough for men and horses to pass through. Quintus then shouted an order. “Charge now!” he cried, rushing down the hill, followed shortly by all his riders. Cenric took this as his cue to go. Cenric gripped his reins and urged his horse forward, joining the pack and trailing behind them. His legs and bottom felt like jelly as he bounced up and down in the saddle on the descent. “Keep your lances up until impact!” he thought he heard Noctis shout over the thundering of hooves. It was hard to hear, though. All he could hear was the thunderous clop of hooves on grass and the other sounds of battle echoing across the plain. They charged straight into a dense mass of metal and flesh.
He ducked and weaved his way through the combatants, dodging several projectiles that flew past his ears and face. Some of them even grazed the top of his helmet. This caused him to stagger for a moment, but he had to keep going. His heart was pounding in his chest and everything was a blur — a sea of chaos. Looking ahead, he saw that they were about to collide with a group of riders. They were led by a heavily armoured man wearing polished silver armour and a helmet in the shape of a rodent’s head. Next to him was another man carrying a bright yellow banner bearing the image of a rodent, who was equally armed and armoured. Cenric didn’t recognise the man or understand the symbolism. All he knew was that he and many other men and horses were about to collide. Within seconds, he saw everyone lower their lances, so he did the same. There was an impact — a crunch of horses and men — and he immediately lost all sense of direction. He couldn’t find Quintus or Noctis anywhere. Hand-to-hand combat raged all around him: shields clashing, swords, axes, and maces being swung, and spears and lances being thrust or thrown. The air was filled with the sounds of shouting and screaming, mingling with the smell of blood, sweat and the neighs of horses. As he tried to focus and look around, he felt something at the tip of his lance. He realised that he had stabbed a horse through the chest, right up to its neck. He had almost impaled the horse’s rider, causing the horse to rear up in pain. The rider lunged forward and swung his sword at Cenric. Cenric let go of his lance, which was deeply embedded in the horse’s neck, and swerved out of the way. He raised his shield and quickly grabbed his axe. Without thinking, he swung the axe and hit the man in the neck. It bit into the man’s neck, cutting through the thin chain-mail he was wearing under his helmet.
A torrent of blood gushed from the man’s wound until he was trampled to the ground by his horse. Cenric didn’t know the man’s name and didn’t harbour any animosity towards him. But he knew that this man was just another person he had killed. Before he could regain his bearings, however, a silver glint flashed in front of his eyes as a large, curved sword swung in from the side, aiming for his head. Grabbing his shield with his free hand, he tried to deflect the blow. The sword was deflected and slashed into the side of the horse, opening up a massive wound. The horse tried to throw Cenric off as blood gushed out of the wound, causing it to lose its balance. Another sword strike followed. Thinking quickly, Cenric threw his shield flat at his foe like a disk, missing him but hitting his horse straight in the head. his horse finally succumbed to its wounds and fell to the ground, throwing him off. Meanwhile, the other rider — a heavily armoured warrior covered in dirt, grime and blood — was thrown from his horse, which tried to escape through the crowd of men and horses before being stabbed through the chest by another warrior’s lance.
When Cenric stood up, he saw the warrior in silver armour do the same. As he rose to his feet, the warrior spoke from beneath his helmet. “That horse cost me a lot of gold. You’re going to pay for that, boy.” As would be expected of an Invicti nobleman, his voice was harsh and angry. However, it sounded young — perhaps someone at least a decade older than Cenric. Cenric didn’t have time to think, though, as the silver warrior rushed forward, sword drawn. Gripping his axe tightly, Cenric countered, and they clashed — axe against sword — sparks flying as neither warrior gave ground or quarter. As they fought, Cenric tried to find a way to break his opponent’s defence. His opponent was better armoured and more skilled than he was, and most importantly had a more versatile weapon. Cenric could either counter-strike or try to hook the sword. However, every time he did so, his opponent would counter with a thrust that would leave him with a series of small cuts where there were gaps in his armour.
Once again, he and the Silver Warrior traded blows. Once again, his attacks were parried and countered. They clashed once more in a contest of wills and weapons. During another exchange, he spotted an opportunity. His opponent was just about to strike with a wide thrust. Cenric darted to the side to avoid it, then swung his axe to exploit an opening. As he swung, he felt his axe hand being grabbed — it was a trap. “Nice try, wilder trash. Better luck next time,” said the man in silver armour, twirling his sword and preparing to slash Cenric’s neck and torso. Almost frozen with fear, Cenric tried to think of what he could do as the cursed sword came down on him. He remembered Tharos’s words: “If your opponent is bigger and stronger than you, use their size and strength against them.” Use their strength against them. Cenric pulled the silver warrior forward, ducking down and rolling onto the ground. He folded his legs up until the silver-armoured warrior’s body started to move forward. Using the momentum, he kicked the warrior onto his back. In the process, Cenric lost his axe and the silver warrior lost his sword. Now, Cenric was fighting for his life as he and the silver warrior grappled with each other. They rolled around in the grass and mud, their armoured fists and elbows smashing into each other. Cenric managed to get on top, pinning down his opponent and smashing their face into the mud in an attempt to smother them. As his opponent struggled, Cenric tried to reach for his dagger, tucked into his belt. But as he took his eye off the silver warrior, he was suddenly hit in the face with an armoured elbow and knocked to the ground again. The taste of iron flooded his mouth.
He tried to get to his feet. He could feel the sharp, stinging sensation of the silver warrior stabbing repeatedly at his legs with his dagger. Then, with one of his legs placed on Cenric’s chest, the warrior pinned him in place. The silver warrior took off his helmet, which was clogged with grass and mud. Beneath it was a young man with black hair, dark brown eyes, sharp, almost rat-like features, and a tanned complexion. He looked ugly to Cenric. He held a long-bladed dagger in his hand. “Nice try, kid. But it’ll take more than a nameless wilder to kill Julius Rodent, the Silver Mouse,” the Silver Warrior bragged as he prepared to stab Cenric in the neck. “So, any last words?” he asked Cenric, looking at him with a sneer. “Yes, you seem to like hearing your own voice.” Cenric countered, grabbing the dagger. The two of them fought over the dagger. Cenric tried to disarm Julius, but with every passing second, the dagger inched closer and closer until he finally let go just as it was about to hit him. Cenric pulled Julius towards him and lunged, smashing his helmeted head straight into Julius’s face, knocking him back, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground again. Without wasting any time, Cenric grabbed his own dagger and lunged at Julius before he could react. The stab was true and the dagger pierced Julius’s face, going straight through his eye socket. Julius froze in shock as his remaining eye and face twisted uncontrollably before stopping. Cenric pulled the dagger out, and, overcome with rage, stabbed Julius several times in the head and neck. He then stopped, his entire body shaking.
He’s dead now. There’s no need to worry about him any more. Cenric thought to himself as he tried to get to his feet. He felt his breath coming in heavy gasps; his limbs felt weak, and small streams of blood were dripping from them. His heart was pounding in his chest. This might have been the first time he had killed someone whose name he knew. As he tried to regain his bearings, two more heavily armoured people set upon him. One of them was carrying a bright yellow banner with Rodent on it. “Julius!” they shouted. “You will pay for that,” they said, looking at him with rage and flushed faces. Cenric looked around quickly and picked up a dropped lance to fight them off. For the next few moments, there was a flurry of swinging and stabbing with blades and pole arms. This group of men managed only get a quick slash to the arm and a few to the legs before Cenric countered the attack. His mind was in a haze; he was in a rush, and no words passed through his mind. The only thoughts he had were about killing his enemies, second by second. In his first counterattack, he stabbed one of the warriors in the neck with a lance, killing him instantly. Trailing his lance, he then stabbed another warrior in the thigh. However, as he brought the last one low to the ground, the warrior grabbed the banner that was falling to the ground and went to stab him with it. With the strike being true. It had hit him so hard that he pierced the his breastplate into his stomach with the sharp end of the banner. The last thing Cenric felt before everything went dark was the cold sensation of blood flowing from his wound as he crashed to the ground. His last thoughts were that he should have stayed behind when offered the chance. Perhaps he would not have died at the tender age of fifteen, on a battlefield of little importance in the grand scheme of things. At least he had been useful to Tharos for as long as he had been, and he had helped save a few people. I guess that’s what mattered most to him in his final moments.
