I Acts of bravery did they wonderfully excel, Our Francish souls will fully swell, When we know in the WarmLands they dwell, And none would remember the red night that fell.
Sir Hughes Wingate of Albion and his men had arrived too late. A mile from Joyous Garde, in a glade, he found Cesaire Custine de Sarreck. His back against a great tree, as if he was sitting. Wingate could see his silvered plate mail pierced a dozen times over. Streams of blood distorting the purer silver colourof the battered armour. His great two- handed sword buried point down in the soil six feet from where its master lay. Many ofthe invading barbarian easterlings lied dead about him.
Piled up, one upon another. Wingate knelt beside him. Gently cradling Cesaires head in his arms, he opened his eyes, the light was ebbing out of them. His mouth moved, but no words were audible. Slowly, Cesaire gave voice to his parched lips. "Hughes, you've arrived." He whispered. Hughes nodded, its all he could do. "They broke through like water between a gap, we tried as long as we could to hold them. I'am sorry. I have paid." Wingates eyes looked over the slain enemies, easily two score, littered about. Cesaire paused, then he spoke again, wearily; "Joyous Garde lays destroyed. Wyrms legions appeared before its gates, together with fire-breathing drakes. The men fought valiantly. But Joyous Garde has been sacked. Go to Franc Land and save my people. Fare well Hughes. I failed."
"Not so! You have not failed. You have conquered. In the WarmLands we will meet. God will look on you kindly. Be at peace." Wingate gently kissed his forehead. With that Cesaire joined the ranks of Gods Thousands.
II Honour to those who in life did lead, defined and guarded the Holy seed, Never betraying what is right, Consistent and just with all there might.
The battle had gone sour.
A rough hewn man stepped forward from the enemy lines. This dark-haired, slit eyed messenger approached Cesaire and his band of three hundred warriors.
"Peace be with you," said the messenger. "Our IlKhan offers you terms of surrender-"
"No. No peace. No surrender." Cesaire interjected.
"What? IlKhan Thule offers most generous terms."
"I will not surrender myself nor my men to crafted devils such as you. Return to your master and lick his hellish boots" Cesaire stated.
The messenger grimaced. "Surrender is your only possible hope for salvation. The sky will be so thick with arrows that they will blot out the sun."
"Good! I like to fight in the shade! but be sure, we will fight on." Retorted Cesaire
"Then you will surely die."
Cesaire looked around. It was early summer. The blue speckled Francish rose was in bloom. Gently rolling green hills seemed to go on forever in all directions. In front and on the flanks were the easterlings and to the rear flowed the 1 mile wide River Perpetual-Flow. There was no escape for him and his men now. Sparrows wheeled overhead, while Blue Jays soliloquized from the few trees which stood about Necessity Field, oblivious to the conflict of man. The warm June sun gently smiled on both combatants. The air was drowsy with the hum of bees.
Cesaire stood for a short time taking in the Francish flora and fauna, trying to sear every sight and sound into his memory. It might be the last time he would see it. For a moment, and a moment only, his face wore an expression of pain.
One last time he looked at the bright blue and cloudless sky and then around the horizon and finally up into the messengers face.
"If that is my fate, so be it", he smiled at the messenger, "indeed it is a good day to die!"
A laugh, no, more a cackle came from where the IlKhan sat on his warhorse, but it was not him who grinned so jovially, but another. Soldiers stepped aside, a darkly robed man stepped towards Cesaire. His face was shrouded by a hood and his build slight. Not an impressive figure at all, especially compared to the burly warriors that gave way to this new actor.
The messengers horse became unsettled as Thules herald tried desperately to retain control over his runner. Both man and animal obviously disconcerted by the hooded villain.
"Cesaire of Franc Land, King of a fell people, if u wish to protect your little kingdom, you would be most judiciously advised to reconsider, for you are in a most precarious position", he rasped in a venomous tone, more snake than man.
"Who are you and by what authority do you speak on Thules behalf?", Cesaire added agitated.
A snigger, then, "I am Pentanagast the sorcerer, Pentanagast the intelligent, Pentanagast the Fallen Star!"
Cesaire wasn't completely surprised, but this Pentanagast looked so human. Monsters should at least look like monsters.
There was little wind this day but suddenly, after a sharp call from Pentanagast, a burgeoning gust began to blow across the battle field. Trees were uprooted and thrown from one side of the field to the other. The flow of the river was momentarily halted as the combatants were sprayed with water, foul and fish. Amongst the chaos stood Pentanagast, unmoved, untouched. With a word from Pentanagast the sorcerer, the wind ceased as suddenly as it had come.
His scorn openly evident now, Pentanagast spoke;
"This is done as a sign of power. I am a servant of Wyrm the Dark, Devourer of Worlds. Don't be foolish Cesaire, come, take my king as your king and be glad, for not only will the Franc Lands safety be insured but the many kingdoms that make up the westernese will be given into your hands." He smiled wickedly.
Cesaire thought a moment more, then, he said, "I am a captive of the Spirit of Truth. I cannot and will not betray God to such as you. Here we will stand, I and my men cannot do otherwise. God help us. Amen."
"Ahh," the whispered tones of Pentanagast pierced the deathly silence, no soldier dare stir while Pentanagast spoke, "You have chosen your road, and you choose the narrow path to God," he shuddered as he spoke the Almighty name.
"Don't be foolish Cesaire!, God can -" his voice was cut-off in a fit of coughing, a wracking, choking cough that caused him to tremble at the utterance of that terrible name, it hurt him so speaking it out aloud. He could not carry the conversation any longer. Pentanagast the intelligent retreated back into the folds of man power which stood about him.
The words he was going to speak would forever remain unknown to Cesaire. The messenger, turned to ride off, when Cesaire turned him back with a request.
"Messenger, tell Thule that he should burn what he now worships and return to what he worshipped before. He cannot hope to live while he is in alliance with the Fallen Stars."
The messenger nodded and disappeared into the black, grey and brown that was the surrounding army.
Cesaire realized he didn't have much time to orgainize his men. He could tell that Pentanagasts display of hellish magic had shaken them.
They had all trained hard over the past months. Now it was time to see if that sweat would pay off. He spied the look in each mans eyes, he could see the icy stare of demoralization looking back at him. Pentanagasts show had probably achieved Pentanagasts goal - the shaking of his men's morale.
Cesaire cursed.
Their was no way out for them now, they could only hold as long as possible pinning down as many of the invading horde as they could while the smaller kingdoms of Albion and the reamining western kingdoms prepared for the onslaught. He hoped they would not share the fate of Franc Land.
III
The drummer beat and piper blew,
300 hundred marched straight and true,
Every sword arc built them heavenly treasure,
Very soon they would enjoy it in full measure.
Cesaires mood was stern, and his mind clear.
Cesaire let the horn blow. He wanted every man to rally, there was little time and no respite. He thought to organize the men into a wedge and make for Thule. Perhaps his death would break the enemies morale. They would push for Thule until no man was left standing. Never in all his years as Warrior-King of Franc had he tasted defeat, he would stand and fight to the last.
The contingent of men quickly and precisely reorganized themselves into a wedge formation. Nothing less was expected of the kings bodyguard, all were veteran soldiers, all were his companions over the many wars they had campaigned in. This is how they had been trained, this is how they fought, to constantly reorganize in the face of a challenge. Once the men had become comfortable with a maneuver they would be trained in another. Every situation was met by reorganization.
"Men of Franc Land, listen to my words", Cesaire spoke.
"We have only one path and one path only. Make for Thule. Thule must die if we are ever to insure beloved Franc Lands safety. I expect each man to give good account of himself. Set your sights on the serpent man, Pentanagast and his eastern "lord" Thule, and send them home to hell - belly up. If we fail, then in the WarmLands i will meet you all. Even if we die this day, make sure that your acts of valour will allow your soul to reside with pride. Do not die a cowards death."
Cesaire took a breath. He moved to the back of the contingent. He jammed the royal banner, a black lion on a sea of blue, into the dirt and moved to the front of his men. Every warrior new what it meant, there was no need to vocalize its symbolism. They were all determined not to retreat beyond the Francish flag.
Cesaire drew his sword, a great two-handed double edged weapon, heir of his fathers father, some say Adam himself wielded it, but that was family lore only. He pointed it upward above the enemy, the sun glinted off its iron form, a beacon above the coming storm. He waited for the enemy to advance on.
Looking over the enemy line, he could see the movement of men within the ranks of the easterling formations. Horses pawed at the grassy ground, anxious for something to happen. Barbaric flags could be seen along the entire line. They were a grim and silent group, waiting for the order to attack, bloodlust filled each mans eyes. Truly they were barbarians.
He could hear the rattling of his own men's equipment as metal items banged against metal armour. He could see the pennants of each of his men fluttering above the soldiers. Each man had struck his family crest as Cesaire had. A kaleidoscope of coloured hues, each pennant spoke in the gentle breeze, each family shield he knew, each family son he knew.
For a moment both lines were static, separated by some hundred yards of open, flat grassland. No one moved. Each side waiting for someone to take command of the situation. The only sound was the rattling of equipment and the fluttering pennants of the Kings Guard.
Then, unexpectedly, a chant began to stir amoung the soldiers of Franc Land. Slow and soft at first slowly climbing to a crescendo of stern and dark voices resigned to there fate;
"Thule to the Waste Lands we will send you!"
Sword and spear began to beat on shields, adding to the sternness and volume of the soldiers song, sung over and over as if in some mystical way each repeated stanza added strength to the soldiers will;
"Thule to the Waste Lands we will send you!"
"Ride the Spirit Wind and no rock will crush you,
Know the Word and no arrow will catch you,
Trust in God and no blade will cut you.
Thule to the Waste Lands we will send you!
Prepare a room in the mansion of the LORD,
Heavenly host, set the banquet table in the hall of heroes,
Thule to the Waste Lands we will send you!
We will fight until our time of dying,
and even then our souls will reside within the Spirit,
Thule to the Waste Lands we will send you!
We have no place to run and there is no where to hide,
feel the pull of the afterlife, the Angels watch us with pride,
Thule to the Waste Lands we will send you!"
Cesaire smiled wryly. His heart soared. Thule sat silently, his gaunt face was deathly white. Cesaires eyes could not penetrate the darkness of Pentanagasts hood. Probably for the better, looking into the serpent mans scorn-filled eyes would not aide his plight.
A horn was blown, as is the way of the barbarian, and a hundred thousand easterling voices filled the silence of Necessity Field. Throats at a hoarsed pitched yelled incomprehendable curses. They ran across the no-mans land of grass, chewing up the yards in moments. The Kings Guard ran out to meet them.
They sang on.
Like the incoming tide, the easterling ocean smashed into the Francish line. Finally, the warriors were joined in melee. Swords whistled. Spears splintered and broke. Momentarily, the barbarian force gave ground to the heavily aromoured Franc Men, the narrow area of battle giving Cesaire another tactical advantage, but as they pushed further away from the river they were engulfed. As a river flows into the welcoming ocean, the blue and gray of the soldiers of Franc Land was absorbed by the darker browns and grays of the easterling horde.
Soldiers hacked and slashed. There was a ringing of metal mingled with the grunts of human effort. Some fell dead, others fell screaming to die in agony later or be trampled to death by their comrades. Pools of life blood began forming under the combatants. The grassland was being churned under foot, mixed with the blood of men. Necessity Feild was stained for eternity. Cesaire finally realized there was no glory in war, only the death of brave men. But every step brought them closer to Thule. Onwards they pushed, as they hacked there way closer to the heart of this dark army. As easterlings fell dead, some were dead before they struck the ground, new, fresh troops would move to the front ranks, nonetheless, the Francish force forced its way forward. Cesaire was again filled with the battle lust. They were fighting with such unstoppable fury, easterling fell again, and again. They were performing deeds of song. He hoped that Franc Land would remember its king. He hoped that Franc Land would remain after he had gone.
The last king of Franc watched as his banner, a Black Lion on a field of blue, ran rippling in the wind. He looked towards Thule and the demon spawn and lifted his sword to defy them. His bright blade slashed left then right, settling a many a barbarians tomorrows.
IV
Mottled rows of blue and armour gray,
finally gave to Thules dark array,
The Francish king was last to fall,
that the dark men would breakthrough after all.
Pentanagast whispered into Thules ear;
"Stop wasting your men, withdraw them and let the archers finish it."
With almost a hypnotic obedience Thule, Ilkhan of MenGolia second only to the Great Kha-Khan himself gave the command for his men to fall back. Horns blared, officers repeated Thules command all the way down the MenGolian line.
MenGolians withdrew a good distance from the oncoming Francish force. A few were left behind caught by Francish swords. Cesaire, caught in a wave of stupefaction, watched as the easterlings withdrew, just when they were starting to get the upper hand against the Francs.
Thule, a warrior in his own right, against Pentanagasts advice galloped forward to speak with the remaining Francs.
"Warrior-King Cesaire, do not go on fighting, you have proven yourself a noble lord. You have done more than any man could possibly be asked to do. No Francman could condemn you. I will allow you and your men to leave unhindered to return to City Aquilona and tell your people there would be no need to go to the trouble of fighting against such a large force as mine."
"We value our freedom. My answer is a steadfast no," Cesaire responded. He also noticed that Thule used the word 'mine' instead of 'ours' when referring to the countless men that was the galloping easterling army. Perhaps he wasn't a complete puppet after all.
Thule frowned, "Freedom! Yes! each man is free to follow his own fancy! Your little country is divided, you have no single ruler." Cesaire replied, "We are free -yes- but not entirely free, for we have a master and that master is God. Your words betray you, you know nothing of freedom."
Thule smiled. He was in good humour. "Very well each man to his own destiny. Each man to his own master." His warhorse reared, turned and galloped back to the awaiting easterling line, carrying its lord with it.
Another mouthed , yet inaudible, order was given by Thule. Again horns blared and sergeants yelled. Orderly gaps appeared in the Easterling army. Brightly clothed bowmen came running between the gaps and formed a line in front of there brothers-in-arms. Once each man had taken ther positions, they aimed and let loose a flurry of bronze arrows. Cesaire gave the order for a charge as soon as he realized what Thule was doing. Each man yelled battle cry's and dove towards the barabarian horde.
To no avail.
Again and again, as if the combatants were trapped in some infernal loop, Thules arrows whirled, and whined through the summer sky. Arrow head kissed Francish armour and in that passionate embrace came an earth shattering orgasm of rent steel, flesh and finally bone.
In front of them, in the west, the crimson and orange lantern that was the sun had nearly faded. A dark bank of clouds had crept in above, their underside was stained red. The air was still warm. The sound of the River could be heard rushing from behind.
Cesaires was bleeding under and over his armour. His undergarments were wet with sweat. He was so close to the king and his hellman master, he had to keep going. But he was so tired, so weak. The velvety darkness was calling him. His spirit cried No! With one last great exertion of contorted muscle and a suddenness that surprised all who stood witness, the great two-handed sword, heir of his fathers father, flew as if it were a great spear towards where Penatangast stood. History would say of Penatanagast that he was a coward, but still he possessed the dexterity of a cat. Barely, an alert sorcerer side stepped the mighty weapon. It landed, buried half way up the six foot blade, where Penatanagast, the intelligent, stood.
Cesaire blinked. His men were dead. Franc Land was in the hands of savage easterlings. His hand fell to his side. His armour had become so heavy.
Thule, after a quick assurance from the soft voiced Pentangast that the Knight-Lord was finished, drew his sword from its scabbard and moved in to finish the imputent Franc. Last of a vanquished people. Cesaires fell to the ground against a great Arabian tree. Untouched by Thules sword.
Sir Hughes Wingate of Albion and his men had arrived too late. A mile from Joyus Garde, in a glade, he found Cesaire Custine de Sarreck. His back against a great tree, as if he was sitting...
_____________________________________
From the walls of City Aquilona, the last and most powerfull of the Francish Kingdoms, its defenders watched as a second sunrise could be seen to the east. A burning red fire filled the sky, joined by a sound much like thunder. Over the hills came the galloping terror of the easterling horde. Like ants they swarmed towards City Aquilona. A Francish Queen watched sadly.
It could only mean one thing for her. The Francish Queen began to weep. Somewhere a Francish king was dead.
Copyright Michael Mifsud 1995