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Sorrow's Ruin 18 Wyrdseer's Lament 18 Furious Host 18


Latest Post: The Desertion Of Isao Lycett


The Klevlik Warriors

Isao gripped the cold haft of his pike. One more charge. Once more, into the fray. He looked at the faces about him and desperation stared back. One day this will be over. One day, Gilda.

A call of horns signalled their time was nigh. That call used to make me proud. The roar of their commanders was taken up by those around him. ‘For King Amory! For Lord Willard!’ Isao shouted along with the rest, yet the air that filled his lungs with each yell no longer swept him along; his eagerness had been exhausted along with his hope.

And then their charge began.

The warriors of Klevlik smashed into their enemies, boys and men and terror. The din of war and survival’s struggle always accompanied such times and overwhelmed them all again now.

Isao cut into his opponent’s neck and the man folded, to be replaced by two more. He avoided their blows and for a moment thought he might keep going. 

A cut to his arm and he nearly lost his pike. 

A knock to his skull and the world went gray.

Isao crashed to the ground, buried beneath the charging hordes and those who would charge no more. He struggled to breathe, crushed. No! I’m sorry, Gilda. Then the battle swept on, chaos and madness and cries all about.

Soon he realised he was not going to die. Not yet. He managed to get to his feet, his chest on fire, his arm numb. The fighting had pushed forward and he found himself behind the front of the fray.

He spied his pike, and grabbed for it with numb fingers. With a hoarse roar, he went to launch himself back into battle, and stopped. Somehow, he stopped. His roar had been hollow and now forgotten. He couldn’t force his feet forward and just stood as men jostled about him. He watched as men ripped each other apart.

And then, he thought of Gilda again. He glanced to the woods, and knew he would take no more part in the killing. He shoved through those remaining about him, and raced away. A few shouted, but none had much attention to spare him.

Deserter. Coward. 

Tears filled his eyes, yet he kept going until he plunged past old oaks and into shadows. The noise of battle quietened and he could see no one following.

Gilda, I am coming. It will be okay, it must. He touched his slashed arm and nearly cried out. We shall hide, perhaps make our way to the border. He started to force his way through the undergrowth. It could work, we could be safe. If only I can get there.

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