Fantasy/Sci-Fi Writing-story I’m submitting to the anthology.
Original writing. This literally came straight out of my head onto the page.
Carn looked up from sharpening his sword among his comrades. It was his fourth day on the battlefield at Brideon and so far nothing had happened. Carn was impatient. He had checked his weapons countless times, surveyed the battlefield twice, and oiled his chain mail. He could even see the enemy troops in their camp across the grassy plain of no man’s land. Why Can’t we just attack already and be done with it? he wondered to himself. He sheathed his sword and carefully unfolded the letter than Anna had given him before he joined the war effort 6 months ago. He had read it so many times that he could almost recite it by heart. Still, seeing the words that her hand wrote gave him small comfort in the whirlwind of violence and desperate measures that his life had become. My dearest Carth, it began. Carth. He remembered when people used to call him that. Those were good days. He and Anna were to be married next harvest. They had plans for a house and maybe children if Carn could save up the money, but that life quickly evaporated soon after the joined the army.
Now everyone called him Carn, a nickname he had earned with blood. In the first skirmish that he fought in, he and another soldier had become separated from their company. Carn fought his way threw an entire line of pikemen to be reunited with his team. He slew twelve enemies that day, more than half the company combined, earning him the nickname Carn, short for carage. The other soldier hadn’t made it. Carn never told his company, but if it hadn’t been for that soldier, he wouldn’t have made it back. The soldier had thrown himself on the enemy pikemen to create an opening for the both of them. He shuddered, brushing wetness from his eyes and stilling his shaking hands. He didn’t even know the soldier’s name.
He shook himself out of his reverie and folded the letter back up, tucking it into the lift inside pocket of his tunic, near his heart. He took a drink from his canteen and stood up, stretching and trying to look at ease. he knew how grueling it could be to have to sit before a battle, waiting for an order that might never come.
Today was different though, he though at he walked over to where the captain was sitting.
“How are you feeling today, Lieutenant?” asked the Captain as Carn walked up to him. He held out his hand.
“Not bad, Ames,” answered Carn, grasping the Captain’s hand and pulling him to his feet. I’ll be a helluva lot better when we’re through with this.”
“Aye,” said Ames, “but that might be sooner than you think.” Carn brushed his sandy blond hair out of his eyes.
“Any news from up front?” he asked
“Aye,” said Ames again, “but if you don’t mind, I’d rather tell the whole company at once,” he gave Carn a wink, “Can’t be playing favorites now, can I?”
“No, sir,” replied Carn, “Would you like me to gather them now?”
“Naw, I’ll just yell, It’ll be easier that way,” said Ames, “Oi, you lot, 2nd Lion Company, up here, front and center!”
There was a scrambling among the many soldiers among the ground and eventually seven men came forward.
“Right, everyone here?” asked Ames, “Carn? Bradley? Sean? Marcus? Good,” he continue, “wait, where’s Jack?”
“I’m here!” shouted a tall man who had just run out of the crowd with one boot on.
“Right, son, make it quick next time,” said Ames.
“Yes, sir!”
“No need to yell my name son, I’m not a woman you’re bedding,” said Ames. Jack blushed crimson and hung his head.
“Right you lot,” said Ames, addressing the eight soldiers in front of him, “today is our lucky day! I just received orders from the front, we leave tonight.”
There was a murmur of assent that rippled through the soldiers
“About damn time,” muttered Marcus, a large broad shouldered man with an unkempt beard.
***
Revised story up to the same point. Somewhere around the 5th-6th revision
Carn looked up from sharpening his broadsword, gazing out from the rocky ledge where he sat. The vast expanse of the Riddian army sprawled out below him, the many battalions spread out like a shantytown of mottled patchwork tents, a stark contrast against the morning sky. Scarlet banners hung limp on notched and battered poles, the Silver Lion tamed in the dead air. Each soldier wore a shirt of chain mail and a charcoal grey tunic emblazoned with the same lion. Carn’s own tunic was as worn and tired as he felt. It was frayed on the edges and his chain mail was showing through in places. There was a faded red stain across its left side and the silver emblem, once proud and strong, was now bleached and threadbare. He picked up his beaten steel helmet, staring at the seven stars of Vek’s arrow engraved on the front. It was slightly dented on one side, the result of a deflected arrow. He sighed and looked wistfully at the horizon towards the rising sun, towards his home, Riddium. Towards Anna.
He set his sword and helmet aside and pulled out his iron dagger. Testing its edge, he scratched another mark on the boulder where he sat, making a grand total of four tallies. Four. Four days at Briden, the westernmost city in the Riddian Empire. He could see the tall ebony-black spires of Duke Tristan’s palace jutting into the sky like jagged mountains, sunlight gleaming off their peaks. The city was enclosed by a thick stone wall at least five men high and three abreast. He could see miniature men scurrying across the causeway, dwarfed by his elevation. Carn and his company were charged with defending that wall. If it were breached it would give the Andret empire their first strong foothold in Riddian territory. It was the gateway to the East, but so far nothing had happened. The front was silent. Both camps existed in a stasis, a stalemate, with neither side willing to make the first move. The Riddians had the might of the city behind them, while the Andrets were dug in so deep that they probably couldn’t even be taken if the Riddians dropped from the sky on top of them. He wished they would just leave so he could go home. He wished something would happen to break them out of the deadlock. It was driving him crazy.
Carn stilled his tapping foot. It didn’t do him any good to wish for things that wouldn’t come, so he went back to checking his weapons. He had inspected them countless times in the past days, maintaining them to the point of obsession. His standard issue steel broadsword was in good condition. Its leather wrapped hilt was still mostly intact although in a few places the metal underneath was showing through. The straight crossguard was still in generally good condition too, if not dented only a little. His small dagger was razor sharp but the handle of his hatchet needed repairs. During the last fight at Bristborn he chipped it on the helmet of an enemy soldier. Hatchets are for cutting wood, not killing people, he grumbled to himself as he picked up his whetstone again and tiredly went back to sharpening his sword.
In addition to maintaining his weapons,he surveyed the battlefield twice in the past hour from his elevated perch and oiled his chain mail until it shone. He could even see the enemy troops in their camp across the grassy plain of no man’s land. Carn could just imagine the Andrets sitting there, all dug in and waiting for them to attack, polishing their black raven insignias and honing their defenses. Already he could see trebuchets being built and trenches being dug. He knew that with each passing moment, the enemy became more comfortable in their terrain, but no order had been given to engage. Why can’t we just attack already and be done with it? he wondered to himself as he rasped the whetstone across the edge of his broadsword for a final time. He looked up and saw vultures circling overhead and, looking across the battlement, saw messengers scurrying back and forth among the many tents. It won’t be long now, he thought, remembering the old children’s rhyme:
Where vultures prey
and skies deceive,
the wiser man
does best to leave.
He tested the edge of his sword against his fingertip. Satisfied, he sheathed it and gently unfolded the tattered letter that Anna gave him before he joined the war effort six months ago. He remembered how she had saved up every penny she could to have someone write it for her. He had read it so many times that he could almost recite it by heart. Still, even if it wasn’t by her hand, seeing her words gave him small comfort in the whirlwind of violence and desperate measures that his life had become. My dearest Carth, it began. Carth. He remembered when people used to call him that. Those were good days. He and Anna were to be married next harvest, they had plans for a house and maybe children if Carn could save up the money, but that life quickly evaporated soon after he joined the army.
Now everyone called him Carn, a nickname he had earned with blood. He remembered the first skirmish that he had fought in. It was only three days after he had completed basic training. The banners didn’t hang quite as limp in those days, and his uniform was brand new, Silver Lion shining brightly in support of High King Raster.
He and his company were meant to be away from the main battle at Caytron to defend the vulnerable west flank of the army. It was supposed to be an easy assignment, just keep your eyes open and kill anything that moved, but the Andrets had other plans for the night. It was a dark night with no moon. The stars shone faintly in the sky, Carn couldn’t even see the enemy line, but the Generals decided to go through with the assault. He and his company were stationed near the edge of an old forest. Every now and then an animal would bolt in the woods causing the men to start. He remembered waiting for hours in the dark for the green flare to signal that the fight had started. That flare never came.
It was in the early hours of the morning, that time when the whole world is closest to death, when Carn saw motion on the edge of their camp, quick shadows darting through the woods. At first he thought it was just a trick of the firelight, for the night was black as pitch. He was younger and less experienced in those days and he turned away and thought nothing of it, attributing the movement to a wild animal. He often wondered what would have happened if he had gone to investigate. He wished he had, he might have saved countless lives.
Just minutes after Carn turned away he heard a shrill horn sound in the night. Thinking it was an order to attack, he and his company leapt up only to be greeted moments later by knights from the Andret army streaming out of the trees. Carn drew his sword and threw himself into the battle. No amount of training could have ever prepared him for that first night. As he was fond of saying: in basic they’re quick to teach you how to kill a man. What they fail to tell you is how you feel afterwards. He still had nightmares about that night: the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, how it felt to have hot fluid pour over his hands, slipping in his friends’ own blood, the sickening crunch of ribs yielding to cold steel and the death rattle of dying men.
Eventually, Carn’s company began to slowly push the soldiers back towards the woods when a horn sounded and yet another Andret strike force blindsided the Riddians, this time with cavalry.
The charge separated he and another soldier from their company. One second, he was fighting alongside his captain and then the next he was cut off by a wall of spooked horses and barbed pikes. The rest of the battle was a blur to him. He remembered the thundering of hooves and the stench of fear. He remembered blood spraying through the air as he decapitated one enemy and cleaved in the skull of another. He remembered being flat on his back with a snake faced Andret captain leering over him, black eyes wild. The next second the man was trampled by his own cavalry, a hoof through his skull. Blood ran in rivulets down Carn’s sword and stained his hands crimson. He slew twelve enemies that day, more than half the company combined, earning him the nickname Carn, short for carnage.
The other soldier hadn’t made it. He and Carn fought back to back, side by side for what felt like hours on end. Carn could feel himself tiring, his broadsword felt like lead in his hands and his arms shook every time he blocked a blow. He began to refrain from actually cutting through men with his sword and started to swing it like a club, trying to knock them unconscious.
Finally, the only thing separating them from the rest of his force was a single line of pikemen. Carn never told his company, but if it hadn’t been for that soldier, he wouldn’t have made it back. The soldier had thrown himself on the enemy pikemen to create an opening for both of them. He remembered the scene in slow motion; the soldier’s young face set in lines of grim determination as he charged ahead of Carn to make it to the line first. He shuddered. That soldier was a boy who died a man’s death. Carn was supposed to have his back. Now the image of him impaled by that filthy Andret bastard was forever burned into his retinas. Carn clenched his fist, brushing wetness from his eyes and stilling his shaking hands. He hadn’t even know that soldier’s name.
He shook himself out of his reverie and folded the letter back up, tucking it into the left inside pocket of his tunic, near his heart. He took a drink from his water-skin and stood up, stretching. He knew how grueling it could be to have to sit before a battle, waiting for an order that might never come. He collected his weapons and started making his way down from the cliff to the camp. He wanted to find Ames, maybe an order had come through. Anything was batter than waiting.
Today was different though, today, he was hopeful. He walked through the camp and over to where the captain sat. He was a big man, bigger than even the blacksmith that worked the Market Street forge in Riddium, and he had wild brown hair and piercing blue eyes that looked out from under his heavy brow.
“How’re you feeling, Lieutenant?” asked the Captain as Carn walked up to him. He held out his hand.
“Not bad, Ames,” answered Carn, grasping his hand and pulling Ames to his feet, “I’ll be a helluva lot better when we’re through with this.”
“Aye,” said Ames, “that might be sooner than you think.”
Carn brushed his sandy blonde hair out of his eyes. “Any news from up front?” he asked hesitantly.
“Aye,” said Ames again, “but if you don’t mind, I’d rather tell the whole team at once,” he gave Carn a wink, “can’t be playing favorites now, can I?”
“No sir,” replied Carn, “would you like me to call them over?”
“Naw, I’ll just yell, It’ll be easier that way,” said Ames, “Oi, you lot, 2nd Lion Company, up here, front and center!”
There was a scrambling among the many soldiers upon the ground and eventually four men came forward.
“Right you lot,” said Ames, addressing the eight soldiers in front of him, “today is our lucky day.” He smiled, “I just received orders from the front, we leave tonight.”
There was a murmur of assent that rippled through the soldiers.
“About damn time,” muttered Marcus, a large broad shouldered man with an unkempt beard, “what were they doing up there? Smoking cassup?”
Editing FTW? I think so.
Jacob H. Baugher IV 