text: The patter of rain echoed against 5,000 helmets, as thunder echoed overhead. It sounded as though the gods themselves had begun to bang their own war drums to match Lord Halsbury’s own. Grey skies stretched as far as the eye could see, so dense were the clouds that Sir Richard could scarcely believe the sun still existed. None of this was new to him. He’d survived a dozen battles before, slogging through forests and fields and mountains for years to further his Lords cause. A dozen battles. A dozen times that he had stood in the calm before the storm wondering whether this would be his last day on earth, whether he would ever see his beloved again. The men he had killed still lingered on the edge of his memory, their faces like remnants of a terrible dream. However much their faces faded the memories remained. How could he forget the smell of dead men? Of blood and piss and shit and all the other indecencies death imparts on a human body. How could he forget the sounds of a thousand dying men screaming for their mothers, their wives, their children? How could he forget the overwhelming sense of relief, at realising he would get to see his darling Maggie again? How he would get to kiss the back of her neck and rub his hands through her hair. How he would get to hold his darling children in his arms at least once more. No, none of this was new to Sir Richard, but familiarity did not breed enjoyment. Sir Richard despised war. He loathed fighting for another mans gain. Oh he understood why he must, for he had sworn a sacred oath and he could not go back on his word. But as his Lord won each battle, so his ambition had grown. At first he had been satisfied with securing rule within his own lands. Those battles had been easy, fighting against farm boys armed with pots and pikes. The damned fool boys fought themselves rebels, heroes like in all the folk songs. Sure as day they did not envisage they would die, staring up from the mud at Sir Richard’s demon helm, crying for mercy. But once his own rule was secure, Lord Halsbury’s greedy eyes turned north, to other more bountiful lands. And as he gained more with each victory Lord Halsbury craved more and more. And with every battle Sir Richard lost a little piece of himself. This battle would be different, Sir Richard could tell just by looking across the field. In battles past Lord Halsbury’s army had always had the numerical advantage, easily outstripping their enemies forces. However finally after many defeats the other Lords had wised up, combining their armies to create a force twice the size of Lord Halsbury’s. Sir Richard had warned against the upcoming engagement. Standing around the map in his Lordships tent Sir Richard had again and again repeated his worries. The enemy numbers are too great. The muddy terrain would work in their enemies favour as the Lordships cavalry charge would be slowed. But no, Halsbury would not listen. His mind was set on glories and riches, poisoned with desire for power and money. The battle would go ahead, despite all Sir Richard’s misgivings, and it would be the men who would suffer for it. Sir Richard looked across their sea of faces now. Grim battle hardened men stared across the field, grey eyes set against their enemy, hiding the inevitable fear coursing through their veins. The younger, greener troops stared with terror, not even trying to conceal the panic they felt. At least the rain was doing a good job of covering up the urine pouring down their legs. How many of these men wouldn’t get to go home. Too many this time, Sir Richard thought. His mind slipped back to a song he heard when he was a boy: To battle we march, banners wave in the breeze In churches and chapels, mothers make their pleas As the trumpets blare, and the drums beat their tune The mothers do cry, bring our brave boys home soon Green boys laugh and they joke, to them wars a game Those that come back, they’re never the same Those who’ve fought before, stand silent and grim So tired they’ve become, of killing at their lords whim But march forward they do, for honour and duty Killing has lots it’s luster, war lost it’s beauty They leave their loved ones, answer their lords call For duty comes first, and all men must fall The battle does rage, with man killing man The foolish boys fought, the smarter of them ran The lord sends them forth, with barely a whim These boys are just peasants, their lives mean nothing to him And as the flames burn, across the fields of death Soldiers rise and they fall, drawing their last breath Men cry and shout, beg for mercy with fear No matter what singers say, there is no glory here But victory is ours, and so our sons will return Victory is not as it seems, as the mothers soon learn And the bells they did toll, for the men as they came Though their bodies returned, their minds weren’t the same As the scholars did write, of the wars in their tomes The wives mourned their lovers, and went back to empty homes To what end do we fight, for who stands to gain As our men lay there dying, screaming curses to the rain But what do our lords care, as they send men to die Riches and power, with peasant lives they do buy They can sit fretting not, in their golden lavish hall For what does it matter, as all men must fall The crackle of lightning awoke Sir Richard from his thoughts, as the drums of war began to beat a faster pace. As if in answer the thrum of thunder echoed overhead, creating a deafening symphony, being orchestrated by death herself. The lines were being set, battle must be near he thought. He lowered the visor of his demon helm, reducing his vision to naught but the two scowling eye holes in his helm. This armour was crafted to instil terror in his enemies. The red demon he was known as, his armour blood red with ornate carvings. Swirling lines depicting flames spread across his breastplate while skulls adorned the plates on his shoulders. Standing at 6 foot 7, when full adorned in his plate and mail there was no more fearsome sight than Sir Richard Moore. However at past forty now his speed and power were not what they once were. His thick black hair was now streaked with grey and when he woke in the mornings his body was racked with new aches and pains. Still, his enemies need not know that. To them he was still the red demon, killer of hundreds of men, hero of the battle of Belgrave Mill. AHWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO The horns sounded as the cavalry thundered past Sir Richard, lances gleaming like silver spires reaching up the sky. Five hundred strong the horsemen of Lord Halsbury charged onto the muddy, rain soaked field. Sir Richard heard the sound of the enemy bows long before he spotted the cloud of arrows against the grey backdrop. Arrows fell like hailstones amongst the horsemen and in a matter of moments the sound of rain and thunder was accompanied by the screams and screeches of dying horses and men. Another volley of arrows appeared in the sky and fell amongst the cavalry charge, and then another as the horsemen slowed, struggling to charge up the muddy hill toward the enemy. Sir Richard knew the charge was in trouble, even from here he could see the horses were being to flag. He looked to the reserve forces, behind the main infantry unit where Lord Halsbury sat atop his black horse observing the battle in front of him. If the cavalry charge failed, Sir Richard and the rest of the left flank would be next. The left flank was all horse, but mostly lightly armoured with very few knights among them. There was a time when Sir Richard would have taken it for an insult to be placed here, on the outskirts of the battle, but he was past such petty attacks on his standing, all that mattered today was survival. The cavalry was almost at a stand still now, with a trail of horses and men downed across the field. Those left on their feet were being rained on with flights of arrows. He heard the horns across the field as the enemy infantry began to move in, toward the struggling horsemen. Even a man as delusional as Lord Halsbury could see that the battle was already in trouble and so with a wave of his hand he gave the signal. It was time for Sir Richard to join the fray. To the sound of a dozen warhorns, the soldiers moved forward. Slowly at first, a methodical pace to ensure they kept their formation. To his right Sir Richard could see the infantry begin their march toward the enemy. It appeared his Lordship was throwing everything he had into the fray. Quicker and quicker the horses galloped. Ahead of him Sir Richard could see the wall of enemy shields. At this distance he couldn’t make out the sigils, but he could see the colours. The red of Lord Fanton and the green of Lord Towers dominated the shield wall, with pepperings of purple and white dotted about. At two hundred yards out the arrows began to rain down upon them, but at this stage the horses were at full charge, the lighter armour working to their favour on the slippery terrain. He saw men fall to his left and right but Sir Richard continued forward, he could see the faces underneath the helms from this distance, could see the fear and doubt wracking the faces of the spearmen when faced with the charge of cavalry. From within the shields spears protruded creating a porcupine comprised of wood and iron. Fifty yards out, Sir Richard braced himself, for he knew what was coming next. He always hated this part. CRASH Flesh and metal collided as the horsemen crashed into the already crumbling shieldwall. Men were thrown from horses and bodies trampled beneath hooves as the cavalry charged full speed into the waiting spears. The front few lines of enemy men were flattened or tried to flee as Sir Richard lay into them with his longsword. Left and right he hacked at them, carving off a spearmens arm at the elbow and then driving his sword through the helm of another. An arm reached up to drag him from his saddle and he hacked the hand off, sending the man screeching to the floor, his face a mixture of terror and anguish. More men came at him, thrusting spears into his horses sternum. The cry of his poor horse was worse than any sound he had heard that day, and with four spears lodged deep in it’s belly Sir Richard horse came crashing to the ground. Sir Richard leapt to his feet slashing around him. The shieldwall had completely broken now and the battle had devolved to a myriad of individual battles, where men fought one on one for survival. Sir Richard moved through the field. The first man to come at him thrust at him with a spear, Sir Richard parried and drove his sword through the mans stomach, the poor fool hadn’t even been given chainmail. The next man was covered in plate mail, a knight by the look of him, Sir Richard swung low, trying to cut the mans legs from under him but he blocked with his shield and sent his own sword careening toward Sir Richard’s head. Sir Richard ducked and drove his sword up toward the knights chest, but the blade scraped across the plate metal. The two men traded blows for what felt like forever, with chaos raging all around them. As the knight pressed the attack Sir Richard began to tire. In his youth he would have cut this man to pieces with speed and strength, but now his arm was tiring. The knight drove Sir Richard to one knee, continuing to rain blows down upon him. As the knight raised his sword for another attack he slipped on the mud, the rain and blood and carnage creating a slippery cesspit. The knight went crashing to the floor and Sir Richard took his opportunity, he jumped up and drove his sword straight through the mans gorget with all of his strength behind it. Blood bubbled up through the mans visor as he gasped for air that couldn’t reach his lungs. With one last shudder the knight lay still. With no time to rest Sir Richard pressed forward. Again and again men came at him, seeking to end his life. Again and again they were cut down or sent running. An archer jabbed at Sir Richard with an arrow, his thrust was brushed aside and Sir Richard’s sword slashed across his face. Another knight on horseback wielding a Morningstar charged at him. Sir Richard rolled out of the way and grabbed a shield that lay abandoned on the floor, it’s owner lay dying just inches away. The knight circled around Sir Richard, hammering down on upon his shield with the Morningstar. Richard waited patiently for his opening, he’d fought enough horsemen to know not to expose your defence too early. As the horsemen turned for another attack Richard saw his chance, he charged the horse, driving his sword into it’s side and horse and knight alike tumbled to the ground. As Richard rose he heard a weakened cry, “Mercy. Mercy. I surrender”. The knight’s leg was trapped beneath the dead horse, twisted beyond all recognition. He waved a token of surrender, a small cloth with his coat of arms on it spotted with blood. “Mercy Sir please. I surrender”. Sir Richard took the offering and moved on. Around him men were dead and dying, the familiar smell of blood and shit was rife in the air, accompanied with the moans and battle cries of 10,000 men, each fighting their own battle for survival. He could see his troops struggling, the sheer numerical disadvantage slowly beginning to take it’s toll. Sir Richard always knew a commanders greatest strength was his voice and he had always been blessed in this regard. “Soldiers to me! Move forward! To glory and victory, forwaaard!” His cry boomed across the field and his men rallied to him, cutting foes down with a renewed frenzy. Up ahead he could see the enemy leaders, sitting atop their coursers, surrounded by their honour guard. If he could just strike them down, the enemy would break and retreat Sir Richard knew. With a primal scream and a swing of his sword Sir Richard willed his troops forward. Onwards they charged deeper and deeper into the enemy lines, hacking and carving their way through their foes, engulfed in a blood lust that seemed to slow time itself. Sir Richard had felt this before, the battle sight, where time itself seemed to slow as the fighting raged around him. No matter who came at him, he parried and slashed, cutting down men and sending others fleeing. The flames leapt around him and bodies fell, splashing into the mud only to be trampled on moments later by friend and foe alike. This was the dance, the bloody brutal dance that he had trained for, that he had lived for the best part of his adult life. He was so close now, less than 20 yards away from his goal. Their helmets gleamed as a few rays of sun snuck through the clouds, as if guiding him to his target. If he could just get there, this would all be over, he could save these men so they might go home to see their families. The first of the honour guard charged him and Sir Richard drove his sword with unmatched ferocity down on the soldiers helm, driving steel through iron, skin and bone. He yanked his sword free and plunged it into the neck of another, who was busy fighting someone else. There were only a couple of soldiers between him and his goal, he was going to do it, he was so close, for the first time in the battle Sir Richard had hope. And then pain, blinding sickening pain overtook him. A spear drove into the back of his knee, driving him to the ground. In absolute agony Richard turned, bringing his sword round in a deadly arc slicing through his assailant’s ankle and parting leg from foot. His attacker fell screaming to the dirt allowing Richard to pull the spear out from his leg causing a fresh wave of agony to wash over him. So close, he knew, he couldn’t give up now, not when he was so close. With a grit of his teeth he forced himself to his feet, just in time to parry a blow aside and drive his mailed fist into the exposed face of his opponent, again and again Richard hit the man until all consciousness had left him and then threw him aside. He could see the Lords faces now, panic in their eyes as they realised that death was approaching. Only one man stood between Richard and his goal, one man between him and the end of this bloody war. His arms ached, his leg was wracked with pain, barely able to support his weight anymore, his vision a blur of mud, sweat and blood but ever the soldier Sir Richard drew himself up ready for one more fight. “Are you ready to die, old man?” his opponent taunted. Even under his golden visor Sir Richard could tell the man was smirking with an arrogance that only came through youth and training. Sir Richard didn’t deign to respond with words, instead he answered with steel launching a ferocious attack. High, low, high again he slashed, driving his foe backwards, his leg all but forgotten in the heat of the battle he attacked with the desperation of a man who had everything at stake. Again and again he launched his sword at the man with the force of a ballista, but the man was skilled and parried each stroke, turning it aside and keeping his feet. Relentlessly Sir Richard continued the assault, he parried a counterstroke and swung at the mans head, connecting with a savage blow that sent him staggering off balance. Richard saw his chance he lunged at the man with everything he had, his blade bearing straight for the mans exposed armpit. But he had misjudged, putting too much weight on his injured leg and Sir Richard’s aim was not true, missing his mark and scraping harmlessly off the mans breastplate, and with that Sir Richard fell forward into the dirt. As he rolled over discarding his helmet to the mud, exhaustion taking over he looked up to see the golden visor staring down at him. The man lifted his visor to reveal a face no more than twenty five years old, with eyes as green as emeralds and the arrogant smirk Sir Richard had known would be there. “Nothing personal” the man said and with that he drove his sword deep into Sir Richards side. The rain felt good on his face, it’s soft drops tickled his face as he lay there drawing what ragged breaths he could. He could hear the horns of surrender and the realisation took him that finally, after all these years Lord Halsbury’s greed had taken it’s toll. The bell had come a due for Lord Halsbury and his ambition. As he lay there in the mud dying, his vision slowly fading, Sir Richard’s thoughts turned to his family, to his wife who even now would be fussing over dinner for the children, to his three young ones who he would never get to see grow up. Even now, with pain wracking his body a small smile crept to his face as he thought again of the day he first laid eyes upon his wife, even now he could remember her beauty, the playful glint in her eyes, the soft feel of her hair and the way she smiled as she looked up at him.