Chapter 27

Lugos frowns and steps forward, then again until the two of us are mirroring the other while moving in a circle. My eyes immediately search for any weak spots in his flashy ebony armor but other than the typical few behind the knees, the underarms, or his bare hands I find none. Suddenly he lunges forward and I parry a strike before countering. My blade slices at his protected shoulder but has done nothing. Not wanting to lose my momentum I twist and take another swing though he blocks it with ease. We take turns ducking, parrying, lunging, striking, and attempting combinations, all to no avail.

"Will you just die already," he mutters, attacking again. As we fight, it becomes clear that just because he chose to sit atop his horse the entire time--his armor remaining pristine--did not mean that the Bulgin couldn't fight. In fact I encounter many close calls as the two of us try to hack away at each other. Remaining on horseback has also allotted him more energy than myself and I struggle to keep up. Noticing, he smirks and takes a low swing at my ankles forcing me to hop over, throwing me off balance.

Anticipating this, he places his boot on my chest as I land and kicks me backwards sending me to the ground. Looking up, I can just make out his form which is obscured by the sun and instinctively roll out of the way. I heard his blade made contact with the earth with an audible thud. But before I can get up the old man rejoins Lugos looking bloody and battered. He grips my hair and forces me up onto my knees pulling at the roots. I feel the sting of a cool blade as he presses his into my throat. I also feel the warmth of my blood as it mixes with the temperate air before a slow stream runs down into my undershirt.

"Just say the words, my lord," the old man says.

Refusing to wait around and hear whatever Lugos will tell him, I pull out my second dagger from my waist band and drive it straight down into the old man's foot. He lets out a wail and releases me and in one swift movement I snatch the dagger and turn around before shoving it upwards into his side hoping for his kidney. The color drains from his face and I know I've hit my target as he collapses to the ground.

Retrieving my sword I pick it up and once again block a strike just in time from Lugos. "You are a magnificent swordsman, I'll give you that," he compliments in an annoyed tone. "Kniving too."

As we fight, his movements become more wild and less calculated and I learn to predict some of his moves. But as time goes on we each grow more exhausted and it's only a matter of who will slip up first. When my overhead swing comes down and slices off his left ear, I am left open and the tip of his greatsword catches my left hand as he drops his weapon in pain. There is a blinding heat that shoots up my arm and I stagger back, holding up my hand. Where my left pinky and ring finger was have been replaced with two bloody stumps. Panicking, I look at Lugos and am thankful to see that he has dropped his guard and fumbles with his ear that is hanging on by only a sliver of skin.

His eyes dart to mine and rips off the rest of his ear, tossing it aside. Lunging at me, he tackles me to the ground, straddling me. Blood coats the side of his face, his eyes wide with a crazed expression. His fingers find my throat and he begins to strangle me, crushing my windpipe. I try to pull his hands away but my strength has all but failed me and I can only paw at him with one good hand. He grits his teeth and lets out a strained laugh causing spittle to rain down on my face. My vision slowly fills with black flecks and I know I only have a few seconds before I'm unconscious. Giving up on trying to release his grip I reach up and claw at his face and I'm able to jam my thumb into one of his eyes. He lets out a bellow of pain and his grip loosens. Pulling my chin down, I crane my neck and sink my teeth into the flesh of his right hand causing my mouth to fill with the taste of iron. He finally lets go of my throat completely and I suck in a desperate breath of air, choking as my lungs fill with oxygen.

"You bastard!" he hollers and then punches me in the face, once, twice, then a third time. On the fourth swing I catch his fist before it connects and bring it down to my mouth. I clamp down on whatever fits into my mouth and there is an audible crack as fingers break. As he lets out another wail I thrust my hips forward, bucking him off me before rolling on top of him. Lifting my knee I drop it down as hard as I can into his groin and search for something I can use as a weapon, finding one of his men's helmets close by. Without hesitation I snatch it up and bring it down as hard as I can onto Lugos's face, ignoring the pain in my left hand repeating the motion over and over again until he no longer looks human. There is no final exchange of words, no victory speech, only the sickening sound of flesh and brain matter.

Someone from behind me catches my arm as I bring the helmet down to strike again. "Good God Thomas the man is dead," a familiar voice says.

Turning around I find Rory with worried eyes covered in blood. A patch of his beard is missing, signaling someone must have ripped it out. Looking around I see that a group of fifty or so men from both sides watch with horrified expressions. Behind them many men still fight to the death, oblivious of Lugos's death.

Snatching my arm from Rory's grasp, I get off of Lugos's body, regain my feet, and pick up my sword before stumbling through the crowd. "Enough!" I try to yell but my voice is hoarse and only an unpleasant screech escapes my lips, causing me to wince at the pain. Clearing my throat I am about to make another attempt when Gale places a hand on my shoulder.

"It's okay Tom." His grey eyes that are usually hard soften and he forces a weak smile. With a steady hand he strips off a piece of his undershirt and wraps my left hand forming a makeshift bandage around my missing digits. I give a hollow nod of thanks.

"ENOUGH!" Rory booms from behind me, gaining the attention of those closest to our vicinity.

"It's over!" another man shouts and soon word of our victory spreads like wildfire. As it does I continue to stumble through the mass of men, sword in hand. Some bow their heads as I pass by while others try not to stare and begin tending to those around them. I offer those that are dying and cannot be saved a quick death. More than anything I wish I could offer my gratitude to my own soldiers that are conscious enough to understand but I cannot, so one final handshake will have to suffice. This goes on for a half hour when one Bulgin spits a mixture of blood and saliva in my face and refuses me, saying he'd rather suffer. Feeling my face twist in anger, I refuse him this and finish him off swiftly before wiping my face.

The early afternoon slowly shifts into early evening when all those that can be saved have been carted away. Still struggling to speak, I do my best and announce that I will allow the surviving Bulgins to return home and report their defeat to their king, Lugos's uncle. When one of his generals asks if they can retrieve his body, I give my head a shake intending to keep my word about displaying his fallen Lord.

When dusk has settled, I scan the field and see that the majority of those that have fallen have been collected and laid respectfully side by side. If I had to guess, I'd say we lost about one third of our army. Over the next few days large pyers will be built and the bodies will be burned, seeing as that Paevia is too far away to travel with the dead. I instruct as best as I can to return to camp and we make the trek back in relative silence, with the only sound being our horses hooves, the occasional cry out of grief over a loved one, and the coo of swallows in the distance.

As we walk back--half on horse back half on foot--I reply the last few hours in my head. Was I right to kill Lugos so swiftly? Should I have given him one final chance to bend the knee and surrender? Am I an animal for the brutality of his death? Surely I could have taken his life another way. My eyes shift to my left to see Rory watching me carefully. Thankfully he says nothing. I then remember the looks on some of the men's faces after I got off of Lugos...are they frightened of me? "Doesn't matter," I think. "It's over."

Warren then comes to mind and his death hits me once again. I inhale sharply and squeeze my eyes shut for a brief moment as I continue walking. "We won, mate." I think, willing my friend to hear wherever he may be. "Did you though?" I wonder. In warfare there really are no victors, just one side who outlasted the other. My fathers words from many years ago come to mind, "Wars are just pissing competition." We're no better than toddlers who mindlessly squabble amongst one another. Didn't Claire say something along these lines once? Us Paevians only won because we had the advantage of better armor and I got the upper hand against Lugos which would have gone the other way if I didn't have my second dagger. There was no honor in taking his life...not really. And now I'll be viewed as some big shot who--what--saved the day? Really, all I am is a selfish man who didn't like a woman he was promised to and defeated a country to prove his point. What kind of man am I? What kind of king will be? Certainly Paevia deserves someone better. The temptation to follow in my youngest brother's footsteps reaches an all time high. Crispin hasn't always had it so easy, especially growing up and mine and Rory's shadow, but he was always able to get away with more, so much so that when he relinquished his rights of becoming king he only got a stern talking to. Then there's Rory, so powerful and strong on the outside but a soft spirit on the inside. My father always saw this in him and allowed him to live more freely than myself. The pressure to get married and father children was always placed on me.

Glancing back at Rory, I see him wiping silent tears from his eyes which only proves my point. Still, I cannot blame him or anyone else for my birthright.

Giving my head a curt shake, I force those thoughts from my head. I've accosted for those sins and there's nothing I can do to change the past. The only power I have is over my future. Of Paevia's future.

Wiping sweat from my brow, I allow my mind to think no further than the next few days to come. Building the pyres, breaking down camp, organizing our rations for the trip back home, and taking Claire back and the other nuns to the abbey.

Nearing our camp I see a few trails of smoke dance their way into the dark night sky. Noah and a few others are most likely in the medical tents doing what they can for the severely injured, perhaps Claire and the others help where they can as well. Dragging our feet, we slowly file into camp, tossing our weapons at our tents. A few give me a pat on the back as I pause at my quarters, unbuckling my sheath. Some head straight for the river to wash off the gore while others just collapse on the ground letting exhaustion take over. Knowing I need to get my hand looked at as well as check in on the injured, I maneuver myself through the familiar paths that lead me to Noah.

As I near it's clear he has his hands full as countless of men have been placed on blankets surrounding the tent, signaling that there's no room inside. Claire's red hair comes into view as she exits the tent and helps lift up a man's head to drink water. I feel no emotion as I see her, which worries me. "Is something wrong with me?"

As I walk up she meets my gaze and a large smile flashes across her face. She finishes with her patient and runs towards me, slamming into my chest in a hug. "It's so good to see you," she says, pulling back. Noticing my hand, her brows furrow. "You're hurt," she states before reaching up to my battered throat. Her touch that is usually as light as a moth wings brings pain as she prods the tender flesh.

I give a nod. "Aye. Lost two fingers," I reply hoarsely. Peering over her head I decide not to bother Noah and allow him and the others to help those that need his healing hands the most.

"Well let me clean and dress you at the very least," she says, guiding me by my good hand. I have the urge to pull away but I resist and question why do I feel this way? I suppose I want to be with my men, grieve together as only they would understand the swirl of emotions I am experiencing.

She takes me to one of the dining tables and instructs me to stay put as she leaves to retrieve some supplies. As I wait, I take in the camp and those in it. Fires have been lit and men sit around them, some in silence, some with their faces buried in their hands. Others chat lively as they recap their triumphs. Someone has broken into the ale reserves as countless men drink deeply from tankards, only pausing to rip into cured jerky. My stomach grumbles once again reminding me of my own hunger. Scanning the faces I make mental notes as I check off those who have survived, but when I see the familiar face of Markus twisted in agony as he grieves for a loved one I can only assume the worst–that his twin brother Channing has died. A man I do not know the name of wraps a strong arm around him but says nothing, knowing there isn't much he can do other than offer his presence.

I give my head a swift shake. "How can that be? Last I saw him, he was fairing very well?" but then I am reminded that none of us are promised another day. "It's my fault," I think. Channings wide grin and handsome face comes to mind, always seeming to be in good spirits.

When a hand is placed on my shoulder I jump, startled.

"It's just me," Claire says, sitting down next to me.

"Sorry," I reply.

Gently, she takes my hand and unwraps the cloth Gale had placed earlier. Blood and flesh have dried to it and as she removes it I give a wince. "Oh my," she whispers to herself.

Taking a breath, I peer down at the wound to inspect it myself. Where my pinky and ring finger once was is now two meaty stumps at the knuckles, the bone brilliant white compared to the blood which hasn't seemed to completely clot. "It's going to take a lot more than clean bandages and corn liquor," I say wearily.

Claire gives me a nod. "I bought thread for sutures and something for the pain," she replies. "I'll have to rearrange some skin," she mutters to herself. Raising a brow, I silently question how she knows this. She dabs the cloth with the liquor and passes me the bottle, allowing a swig before getting started.

The liquor burns my flesh and I clench my jaw, squeezing my eyes shut but as I do the day's events replays over again in my mind. The loud booms from the Bulgins metal contraptions on wheels, the cries of pain, the stench of death as bowls loosen, the heavy smell of iron in the air. Warren's final words, the sound the helmet made each time it connected with Lugos's face. The rows and rows of my fallen men that are currently laying out in that field. Do their ghosts linger? Are they confused, in agony in the afterlife?

A sharp, white hot pain shoots up my arm and my eyes open. Looking down, I see that Claire has started the first suture on my ring finger. A tear escapes my eye and I wipe it away quickly. "Why am I crying?" I mutter to myself.

"Because you're exhausted, in pain, grieving..." Claire responds automatically. "You've been through something traumatic," she says, looking up at me. "You're only human after all, Thomas."

I give a shrug. "It's just another war–same as any," I retort, but I feel that there may be some truth to her words. "Perhaps you are right, though. I don't understand why this one feels so different from all the rest?" She continues with the sutures and I force myself to focus on the canvas of the large tent above me to keep my mind off the pain.

"I'm no soldier and I wasn't there today, but I would guess it's because of the reason behind this war, or because the losses might have been more profound," she says softly before stealing a glance at me. "I'm assuming you lost a few very close to you?"

I give a nod and wipe another tear from my eye. "Aye," I answer, struggling to say his name. "Warren...Max...Sven. Others that have not been accounted for yet," I answer. "I don't really want to talk about it," I add after a pause. Another sharp pain shoots up my hand and I wince. "Are you sure you know what you're doing? I can wait until Noah has time tomorrow to look at it."

I watch Claire as she offers a soft smile and nods. "Believe it or not I do--or at least I think I do. At the abbey we hosted a group of mercenaries who stayed with us for a few weeks. Fair pay in exchange for room and board while they gathered supplies. One day a few returned from hunting. Two of them had been mauled by a small bear. It took many of the nuns to stitch them back up, and many prayers to see that they lasted the night. Only one lived," she says, "and it was the man I had helped work on. So that has to mean something."

I can't tell if she is teasing me, or fully trusts in her abilities. Regardless, I'm too tired and exhausted to care that much. If Claire says she knows enough to stitch my hand, then so be it. Afterall, this isn't the first time she's given me sutures I suppose.

For the rest of the time being I remain silent and allow her to work. I watch those that come and go from Noah's large tent, making notes of those that have made it and those that have been carted outside before a sheet is draped over them. Thankfully, the latter is a smaller list.

An hour later Claire informs me she is done. Holding up my hand I inspect it, noting how she has saved what skin she could before sewing it close, leaving a small hole for it to drain as it heals. "Call me impressed," I say. "Thank you."

She gives a nod. "Would you like me to look at your other injuries?" she asks, standing up.

I give my head a shake, too tired yet antsy to remain seated much longer. "I think I'm going to go wash off in the river and deal with the rest tomorrow."

Her eyebrows furrow, slightly troubled. "I don't think that that's a good idea. You need a cold compress for the bruises on your face. You've a cut on your neck that needs tending to. You could get an infection an-" she begins, but I raise a hand, cutting her off.

"I just want to be alone, Claire. It's not you, I promise," I say before running my good hand through my hair, though it gets caught in the parts matted with blood. "It's just-" I begin before letting out a sigh. "See you tomorrow." Turning on my heel, I leave her standing there and make my way to my tent to grab a fresh change of clothes not really paying attention to what they look like. Removing my boots I toss them off and leave them sticky with blood at the foot of my bed before walking barefoot to the river. The ground is cool against the soles of my feet and offers a distraction from all the thoughts that swirl around in my mind.

When I near the rivers edge voices of my men carry into the night air and I pause, preparing myself for the upcoming interactions. Taking a steadying breath, I walk down the trodden path that has formed over months of use. Someone has brought a few torches and drove them into the soft bank, illuminating the dark waters enough to where I can make out a few dozen men. Some greet me by name, others allow a simple bow. Quickly I strip off my clothes and wade waist deep into the tepid water that has been warmed by the days sweltering heat. Conversations pick up again, mostly small talk. There are a few mentions of the war and how so-and-so took down three Bulgins in one minute, or how so-and-so might lose a limb if Noah's expert hands can't save it. Once the more chatty ones leave, the few that remain are here for the same reasons as I am: to grieve in peace.

We stand a few yards away from each other, washing then rewashing our bodies as we mourn silently to ourselves. None of us speak nor make a sound. An owl eventually lands on a branch overhead and watches us curiously for a while until another hoots in the distance. It flies away and one by one our own numbers dwindle until it's just me and a soldier are left who's name I do not know. I then find myself feeling ashamed.

He doesn't speak to me, perhaps he has no words or perhaps he believes given my stature he isn't allowed. Regardless, I feel it is my duty to say something. "How are you?" I ask after a moment.

In the torch light I can make out his dark complexion as he turns and faces me. He's young, perhaps on his late teens or early twenties. His hair is shaved short on each side allowing a short mohawk on top. With an athletic build and tall stature, he's relatively handsome. He offers a swift nod. "Well enough, your grace. Yourself?"

Sighing, I raise a shoulder. "I'm not sure. I've lingered here in this river searching for that very answer and considering it's just down to the two of us I suppose I'm still trying to figure that out."

The man lets out a chuckle and cups water with his large hands before splashing himself. "Aye. Bittersweet--being able to claim victory I mean. I thought I'd feel like celebrating if we won but all I can think about is the men I killed today."

Nodding, I swirl my fingers around the water's surface. "First one?" Given his age, I'd have to assume this is the first time he's been in battle.

"Aye," he replies.

"It gets easier for most," I offer. "Just give it time."

"And if it doesn't?" he asks with furrowed brows.

"It'll consume you."