Into The Fray - A fictional, violent medieval event.
The day grows hot and humid amongst the trees. Sweat rolls down my forehead and stings my eyes. Despite this I feel a chill, like the evening air at the end of the harvest season. Nobody speaks above a whisper. The loudest voices are the monks administering last rites to those who wish it. The influx of men seems to have all but stopped. There are many men here, more than I would have guessed, though there are not enough real warriors. I hope its enough. I can see on the faces around me that they share my thoughts. We Wait.
I check the leather cord wrapping of my sword hilt. Still firm. I have gone over all of my weapons, belts and possessions countless times since the call to arms came in the early hours of dawn. The others seem to be finding things to do as well, sharpening blades, inspecting weapons and shields - anything to keep their thoughts off of what is to come. I am thankful for my weapons; plain but sturdy tools given to me by my father. They are like old friends that have served me well in the past. I catch others eying my gear. Most of the men on this side of the camp are poor farmers. They cannot afford a proper weapon, much less a sword, so instead they carry field tools; hatchets, forks, crude spears and small knives - weapons which will be dropped as soon as enemies start to fall. I've seen it many times before. Eyes will be searching to snatch better weapons from the ground, from bodies, even pried from cold, stiff fingers. I do not blame them. I would not want to face the coming hours armed with farm tools. Invaders always have better weapons. Defenders use what they have and look for opportunities to upgrade.
Riders, fast approaching - the sound of heavy hooves and the clinging of armor are unmistakable - at least to me. The fresh recruits fidget with their weapons, unsure of what is happening. Knights, shining like angels in their steel plate, break through the trees and ride toward the tents. Farmers gawk and stare slack-jawed as they pass. This is probably the first time many of them have seen a knight. For some it will be the last. The enemy will no doubt have their own heavily armored cavalry. Its the mounted soldiers I'm worried about. Danes. That is what they are saying. Well, if thats true then at least there won't be many on horseback. Still, the Danes were no small threat. They come out of the womb with axe in hand, it seems. This is my second battle in as many years - my fifth in total. I see many young men here today. Men that will have their first taste of war. I hope they received their last rites already. A horn blasts through the hot summer air, ringing in the trees. Time to move. We fall into ranks as we push through the forest.
We make our way toward the field where we are to meet our enemy. This field will be muddied with blood by nightfall, a Killing Field. Crops may not even grow here next year. I try and push the dark thoughts from my mind. I try and find calm, but it will not come. It never does before battle. Or after. As we emerge from the cover of the trees we see them sprinkled amidst the forest's far edge; strong, rough looking men with long curved axes. I know those axes. I have had nightmares about those axes. Knights ride up and down our line, giving words of encouragement and barking final orders. They organize for the first charge. Time slows down. Each minute feels like an hour. Frozen in time, the world is quiet. A horn sounds across the clearing and the barbarian army advances, raising spear and shield like some spiky, angry beast.
The knights charge forward in unison, sunlight glancing off their polished armor and swords. The Chargers have armored breast plates - They have learned from past battles. Deafening cries erupt around me and I realize I'm screaming with them. We run after the knights, eager to spill the blood of our attackers, knowing what they will do to our families should we fail this day. Enemy spears lower, leveled toward our knights. I hear the crash of wood, bone and steel as cavalry meets soldier. Dust kicks up as the knights hack and enemy spears seek the flesh of horse or man. We run behind them, closing ranks. I mind my footing as I sprint. I have seen clumsy men trampled to death before they can draw weapons. I smell dust and blood as we approach. Arrows rain down on us from behind the tree line, buzzing past like angry hornets. Thats new. We shouldn't be in bow range yet. Long bows, perhaps. Definitely not Danes. Must be mercenaries, perhaps English? I put the matter aside. No use trying to avoid the incoming arrows, they fly too fast. I am in God's hands now. As we rush into the breaks in the enemy line created by the knights, the world is chaos.
I leap over the broken bodies of the fallen, sword in hand and seeking an opponent. A dirty, blood-streaked face appears before me wielding one of those damned axes. Those long-handled curved-headed instruments of death. I have seen those axes remove arms, legs and heads with one blow. This is no fresh recruit before me, grinning a rotten-toothed smile of murderous intent. He's quick and strong and its all I can do not get cleaved in two. I manage to parry a few of his slices but the blows are powerful and jolt my arms numb. I backstep and lose footing, falling backward onto a body.
I turn my head and am face to face with a boy, not more than 15 years old. Pink bloody froth bubbles from his pale lips as he mouths words he cannot give voice to. His eyes are already starting to glaze over. The long gash across his chest exposing his splintered ribs and spasming heart snaps me back to reality - to the problem at hand. With a cry my assailant lifts his great axe above his head. I see my sword just out of hands reach and roll over to grasp the hilt. Seeing this, the barbarian crashes his weapon down and there is a sharp ring and a flash as he cleaves through the sword's blade, shattering it. I feel a sharp pain on my face and my vision goes red. As he wrenches his axe free from the dirt he laughs at me and spits upon my chest. As he hefts his axe for the death blow, I kick out my leg with all my strength and strike him just below his knee. There is a satisfying crunch as he howls in pain and reels backward, falling and losing his grip on the large weapon.
I scurry to my feet, fumbling at the leather thong on my belt that is attached to my hammer. It comes free and I step toward my fallen foe. He kicks with his good leg and I easily dodge, his boot glancing off my thigh. I raise my hammer. He draws his long knife in defense, but the force of my swing knocks his blade aside and the spike of my hammer bites deep into him. Air is forced out of his lungs and his eyes go wide in shock. A rivulet of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth as he weakly struggles to pull my hammer from his chest. I lean forward and pry on the spike, twisting it. Bones crack and grind as blood gushes from the rend in his flesh. I do not finish him off. Let the crows have him. Suddenly I am aware of the ache in my muscles and the stinging in my face. I reach up and feel something. I pull out a sliver of steel from my brow and my eye is flooded with blood. My father's sword is no more. I would take this barbarian's axe as payment, but the heavy weapon seems foreign and clumsy to me. The battle has moved into the trees. We seem to be pressing them on for the moment. I cut a strip off of my tunic and wrap my head to control the bleeding. I tighten my grip on my hammer as I scan the trees for my next adversary. Perhaps I will even find a new sword today.
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it! This is my first post here. The story came to me while looking through a book I have on ancient weapons. I was imagining what the owners of those weapons would have been like on a medieval battlefield. Please post your thoughts!
