53. Archer
Archer
Iam sick of the fucking mud. The way it squelches beneath the leather soles of my boots and seeps through my clothes, the way it dries on my skin. Even the fucking rations taste of it, like wet grainy dirt on my tongue.
I toss the strip of smoked meat I was chewing to the ground with a growl of frustration.
“You not gonna eat that?” Bryn says from behind me, picking it up and wiping it on her uniform.
“It’s all yours.”
“Maybe don’t go throwing perfectly good food away, eh? Might blow your cover. Everyone will know the mighty Black Flame is actually the spoiled wayward Prince of Desires.” Bryn rips off a chunk of meat with her teeth.
“It’s been fifty fucking years of fighting in the muck,” I grunt at her, taking my shovel in my hands and digging it into the soft earth at my feet. “Don’t think anyone can accuse me of being spoiled now.”
“You still whine like a prince.”
“And you still chew like an animal.”
The war against Malevron has been waging for five decades, but the last five years have felt the longest. We are losing.
Everyone knows it. In the last few months we have pulled back to defend Anwyn, the territory of the High King and Queen that lies on the southern coast of what used to be the House of Mirrors, but is now the poisoned lands of Morzanmyre.
For the past three days, I have been a part of the unit digging the trenches to fill with sharp stakes, to slow down the enemy advances, and to bottle neck them in certain directions.
It’s not long until dusk falls now. Covered in mud, I peer over the edge of the current trench onto the Wailing Wilds, where further north the screaming winds gave the plains its name.
“Scouts say he’ll be here within the hour,” Bryn volunteers, still gnawing on the piece of cured meat.
I push my hair off my brow, likely just smearing more fucking mud through it. “These trenches won’t hold his forces off for long.”
“No, they won’t,” Bryn agrees. “The commanders want to debrief with you, it’s why I’m here.”
I wipe my hands and face off on a rag, casting it aside before I pull my mask and hood in place, and turn to my friend. “Then lead the way, Bryneira, I’ve got enemies to burn.”
“Don’t we all,” she mutters.
The commander’s tent is pitched at the entrance to Anwyn—my parents’ territory at the edge of the realm. Their palace, Anwyn’s crown, sits atop a mighty cliff overlooking the great seas there. It’s where my brothers and I grew up, though the happy memories from those days have faded fast.
Bryneira shoves aside the canvas flap and ducks inside, with me on her heels.
The command tent isn’t as full as it once was.
In addition to Bryn there are but two Azkari leaders: Commander Undergrove from the House of Reveries, and Commander Belrose from the House of Whispers.
There are also two human captains, representing Hanniel and the distant eastern realms: Captain Alastor and Captain Falkner.
We have seen many mortal leaders come and go in the fifty years the war has waged so far, each appearing younger and yet more tired than the last. For some, the war is all they have ever known.
“Commander Hartford,” Commander Undergrove greets Bryn, and then dips his head to me. “General.”
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told them I’m not an actual general, not officially, they do it anyway. The tug at the corner of Bryn’s mouth says she still finds it amusing all these years later.
“Where are we with strategy? Has it changed since we last spoke?” I stride into the heart of the tent to where they’ve set up a massive map that covers the span of the table.
Captain Falkner looks pale. “The trenches are ready?”
“As they’ll ever be,” I tell him, bracing my hands on the edge of the table and surveying the maps and wooden figures that represent our various units.
We are outnumbered, that much is obvious.
Malevron has amassed a loyal and fanatical following over the last five decades—Azkari from all four houses have banded together in support of his birthright, mortals from all over the realms who have felt abandoned by their own rulers, and of course, the monsters he created in the House of Mirrors…
all with their own factions within the Silver-Tongued Deceiver’s army.
“There has been one adjustment to our plans, General,” Commander Belrose says cautiously. His tone tells me I’m not going to like it.
I roll my shoulders to ease the ache there. “Go on.”
“A unit of Azkari have offered to clear a path for you,” he starts, shifting from muddy boot to muddy boot.
“Explain,” I command. Though Belrose is the higher rank, these past five decades have seen me take on an unofficial role amidst the allied leadership.
“They will take on the force surrounding Malevron, clearing a path for you to attack. Our spies tell us that he intends to fight with a mirror sword today, to lure you in close rather than fight with magic at a distance. He wishes to draw you in. We think you should let him. Once you do, you can use your black flames—”
“Then our soldiers will be within range of the fire,” I cut him off.
“They know that, General,” Belrose says gravely.
I clench the pommel of my sword at my belt. “They mean to sacrifice themselves?”
He dips his head in confirmation. “They do.”
“I won’t do it,” I snap. “We’re already outnumbered as it is.”
“If you can get to Malevron, it’s a worthy cause,” Captain Alastor interjects. “Their names will be carved into the annals of history. We cannot keep going like this.”
Bryn places a hand on my arm. “You might find a way to avoid it,” she says. “But you won’t know until you’re in the thick of it. We’re running out of time.”
I scan the weary faces before me. This war is etched into every one of them. Countless lives lost. Territories burned to the ground. Ways of life completely overrun by violence and basic survival.
The beat of drums sound in the distance as Malevron’s forces march towards ours.
“We need an answer,” Bryn gently prompts me. “No one else stands a chance. We know this.”
I know she’s right. I’ve known it for some time. “Fuck,” I mutter.
“Is that a yes?” Commander Undergrove presses.
“Just tell me where,” I say through gritted teeth.
It isn’t long before I find myself on the frontlines.
Outside, the air is crisp, though it smells of horses and leather and grows thick with fear by the second.
A battle horn sounds. The Wailing Wilds are a desolate place, and the wind begins to scream around us as the allied forces find their formations.
Bryn gives me a mock salute as she mounts her horse, ready to lead the cavalry charge. Every time she does so, I wonder if it’ll be the last time, and the very thought forms an ache in my chest.
“It’s an honor to fight by your side, Black Flame,” an Azkari say as he takes up his position beside me with the rest of his unit.
I have no words for him. Instead, I take a moment to study each of their faces, praying that I can find a way to live up to that name, to be their dark shield when they need it most.
Dusk cloaks the sky in shades of red, an ominous backdrop ahead of the blood to be spilt. Not for the first time I’m struck by the absurdity of it all—the senselessness to the impending slaughter.
On the horizon, Malevron’s forces are waiting.
Bryneira rides her stallion up and down the ranks, her sword raised above her head as she calls our army to attention.
“Allied forces of Lorevael!” she shouts, her voice projecting to the far reaches of our lines.
“I’ll leave the pretty speeches for the men, but I will say this…
We have fought long and hard these past fifty years, I know we are tired.
But every battle is a dent in that bastard’s mirror armor, and we will break him—piece by piece. Who’s with me?”
A roar of support booms from our ranks, just as the sharp blare of a war horn cuts through the wind.
I unsheathe my blade and will black fire into its steel.
Bryneira brings her sword down, pointing its tip right at the heart of Malevron’s army. “Charge!”
The thunder of hooves shakes the ground, from distant rumble to deafening drumbeat, shortly followed by the screaming of horses—high-pitched whinnies mixing with terrified snorts and labored breathing.
A war cry rips from my own throat as I move with the Azkari unit flanking me, mud sliding beneath our boots.
The sickening crunch of the initial impact ripples through the frontlines—splintering wood, breaking bone, tearing flesh and the screams of dying men.
The copper-sweet smell of fresh blood is immediate and nauseating.
Dust clouds churned up by hundreds of hooves, creates a choking brown haze, threatening the swallow the banners and standards rippling above the chaos.
For a moment, I’m not the Black Flame or Ke-Vor, I am one with a living wave of flesh, steel and fury.
We surge forward, jostled and almost crushed by horses and soldiers on all sides.
The enemy line seems to rush towards us.
I swing my flaming blade amidst the madness.
Strike. Parry. Dodge. Stay alive. Repeat.
I leave severed limbs and a river of blood in my wake.
My tunnel vision narrows my focus to what lies ahead.
Malevron.
Fury ripples through me, fueling my flames. There he stands. My brother. The war monger, the traitor to Lorevael, to me. He brought this upon us all. He did this to us, our family, our kingdom. I swing my sword, the black fire swallowing its steel. I need to end this. I need to end it now.
There is the strange slowing of time as he pauses, sensing my gaze upon him.
He looks up, our eyes meeting from behind our masks—
“Now!” The command leaves my lips as I barrel towards him, cutting down all who stand between us.
Around me, the allied Azkari unit reforms their lines and carves a path through the enemy ranks ahead, creating a direct route to Malevron.
He stands tall, squaring his shoulders as he faces me.