Go For Stories

The village was laid to waste; the dead and dying littered the streets and the smoke of burning buildings filled the air. For an unprepared village, Rokyl mused, they had fought with courage. From his unit alone he lost almost fifteen men. He understood the Order to be a peaceful people. It seemed that the Earl was right; peace can only be achieved through conflict.

He walked the streets, assessing his unit and their behaviour. He was posted to the east side of the village, along with four other units of forty men. They had been seen coming, as he knew they would. The other half of the Pyre hid in the forest and waited to stop anyone who attempted to flee.

Rokyl’s men had fought well and with honour. While some had strayed and attacked innocent people; a stern order from him and they backed off. Even so, the number of children lying facedown in the dirt depressed him.

He neared a building on the corner. From the look of the mangled sign he guessed it to be the bakehouse. Two half images of bread painted on wood swung on metal hooks. Rokyl thought it odd that the door should remain closed. Surely someone had swept this part of town. He opened the door and entered the building.

The instant he stepped over the threshold, a blur leaped across the room and tackled him to the floor, sending his sword sliding across the room. He took no time to think and he rolled, kicking the assailant off him before regaining his feet. His attacker now stood between him and his weapon. Still wearing his apron, the baker had a wild look to his face – a mixture of fear and anger – and held a large knife before him. He lunged at Rokyl, who side stepped the blow before spinning around beside the man.

Rokyl dropped to the floor beside a table and grabbed his sword. Rolling onto his back, he thrust it forward, sticking it in the attacking baker’s chest. The assailant stopped mid-slash with a look of wretched defeat etched across his face. Blood ran down the blade and onto Rokyl’s hand and armour. Blood gurgled from the baker’s mouth as he struggled to breathe before expiring with no great spectacle. Rokyl lifted his knees to keep the dead man from falling onto him. He kicked the body from his sword and rolled to the side.

That was when he saw the two children huddled against the wall; hiding behind the table that their father now lay dead beside. Their faces were white with fear as Rokyl stood and moved towards them. A young boy held his even younger sister close to his chest. Both had been crying for some time by the wetness on their garb and their swollen, red eyes.

He reached out his clean hand and wiped the tears from the face of the boy.

“I’m very sorry, lad.” And he was. He had likely just orphaned these children. “You’re the man of the household now. Look after your sister.”

In the most heartbreaking way, the boy sniffed and nodded his acceptance.

“I will,” the boy said, his voice cracking with miserable determination.

Rokyl left the bakehouse with a heavy soul. He had just killed a man in front of his children in the name of his country. That boy would likely grow to be an enemy of the Earl and the sovereignty at large. And who could blame him? It wouldn’t be Rokyl, that’s for sure.

A scream cut through the air. Despite all the shouts and sounds of battle he had heard today, this one stood out. This wasn’t a scream of pain, this was the scream of a cornered woman. She screamed again and again as Rokyl ran towards the sound. The screams led him into an area that was dark and the buildings loomed over him like sinister spirits. He sprinted past an inn and around a corner to find four laughing soldiers had trapped a young woman in a dead end. They had already stripped her of her clothes and she fought desperately to cover her naked body.

“Stop!” Rokyl commanded.

The soldiers did as ordered and turned towards Rokyl.

“Why?” asked the nearest soldier, a short, wiry man with long, dark hair.

“This is wrong,” said Rokyl. “Look at her.” He pointed to the frightened woman who now crouched in the corner, sobbing. “She is frightened. We have already destroyed her village and massacred her people; she has suffered enough.”

“No she hasn’t.” Another soldier said, his eyes never leaving her breasts. “We earned her. She’s ours.”

“If you touch her,” said young Morgalin, rounding the corner, “you are disobeying a direct order from your superior.”

The first soldier sneered at Morgalin. “Why should I listen to you? I saw you out there, swatting at teenage boys with your eyes closed. You’re no fighter and you’re not fit to talk to me.”

Morgalin stepped closer. He pressed his face up against the soldier and bared his teeth. “I could cut you down in a heartbeat. Go on, if you want to see whether I’m lying, disobey this man.”

“Ha! You are only two men. What can you do against us?”

He pushed Morgalin away and turned his back. He stepped forward and slapped the hysterical woman. She fell silent in the instant the sword plunged through her attacker and blood dripped from the tip of the blade.

Morgalin leaned into the man he had just impaled and whispered in his ear.

“Nobody questions me and lives.” He drew the sword from the man, taking his time. The soldier sobbed as he fell face first into the dirt.

Rokyl needed no other incentive than this and fell in beside Morgalin as the other three soldiers attacked. The fight was brief and bloody. Morgalin cut low, through the armour of one man, disembowelling him and sending his intestines to the ground. Rokyl slashed twice, cutting the throats of the other two. All three soldiers fell almost in unison, leaving Rokyl and Morgalin standing in the middle.

Morgalin wiped his sword clean on the nearest body, picked up the shreds of the woman’s dress and handed it to her.

“I’m sorry that happened. Here, cover yourself.”

The woman spat in Morgalin’s face. “Don’t think you have redeemed yourself, murderer.”

Seeing the look on the youth’s face, Rokyl stepped forward and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“Never mind her. You did the right thing. Let’s go.”

They walked away, leaving the woman to recover her dignity alone.

“Tell me, Morgalin. Where did you get that sword? It cut through his armour like butter.”

Morgalin lifted his shining blade. The steel was so pale it looked white and the two handed hilt was wrought in the shape of a grey serpent’s head.

“This was my father’s. He was a blacksmith. Spent years trying to forge the perfect blade.”

“Well, I think he managed it,” said Rokyl, holding out a hand. “Do you mind?”

Morgalin handed him the sword. Rokyl swished the blade through a full figure eight. It whispered through the air, as if divulging the secrets of the world. He laid his fingers beneath the blade and flipped it full circle and into his upturned palm. Not once did it feel like he was not in control of the weapon. He reversed his grip on the hilt and offered it back to Morgalin with the tip pointing towards his throat; a sign of trust.

“Hold tight to this. If I were anyone else, I would kill you for it. I wouldn’t even think twice before doing so.”

“I will protect it with my life,” said Morgalin, retrieving the weapon.

“It’s more likely to protect you. Come, the fighting has ended and the Earl’s bidding is done. Tonight, we drink.”

Yet he felt no real cause for such a thing.