Glory

I was one of the first to fall at Torvean. I had ridden in that first great charge that drove the enemy back from the gates and made us think that victory could be more than just a dream. That’s what finally broke me. I had spent days preparing myself for death. I had convinced myself that I was ready, but when we made that first charge and the enemy fell before us like blades of grass a life-wish rose up inside me and grabbed at my throat. Then an arrow struck my charger mid stride. I remember a sick terror, and then nothing.

When I woke, I was covered in blood. There was a dead body lying across me (to this day I do not know if he was friend or foe) and his blood had covered me. I had landed clear of my horse but my leg was broken and my head throbbed. My first reaction was panicked escape, but when I saw the brutality of the battle raging around me, I froze in terror. I told myself that a man with a broken leg could not make one iota of difference in a battle this large.

I watched for hours, lying under a dead man, as my countrymen died.

Eventually, I could see only death. Then the sounds faded into the distance. Finally I raised my head to look for a way to escape and survive. And I saw them.

There were 12 of them, back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder. The city had been breached long ago by siege tower and malvoisin, but these 12 had the gate from attackers within and without. These 12 held the gate against thousands.

I have heard great fighters described as being like dancers, but here was nothing of a dance in what these men did. Over and over, then enemy would press in on them, trying to bury them with sheer numbers and time and again the enemy would hit their line and collapse before it. From where I stood, their swords looked like fire. Nothing could stand before them.

There was no hope this time. No chance at victory. Theirs was not a sprint to a destination, but a journey towards the horizon. They fought only to continue fighting. I lay, with only a broken leg, and I wept.

Searching around me, I was able to find the tools and materials for a splint. I set the bone and passed out again. When I woke, the battle was over. (Actually, I found out later that the twelve had become eight before pushing their way into the gatehouse. Eventually, they passed out of thirst and were taken unawares.) I had plenty of time and space to get the splint to my satisfaction. Then I rose painfully to my feet and roared my challenge.

In retrospect, I must have looked a damn fool. A single man, in so much pain that his run was more hop than hobble, charging across a sea of the dead and dying. I think the first man that I met was more curious than afraid. His death made the second and third cautious. The fourth, fifth, and sixth came together. After that I lost count.

Eventually, I stood surrounded. A ring of incredulous faces around me. I would try to charge, but they would simply move the ring. Then a man with a quarterstaff stepped forward and, blowing past my guard, struck me a rap to my broken leg. I passed out again.

When I awoke I was the honored guest of “the most glorious leader of the fifth legion of the undying armies”. Such bravery, he said, would honor his tent. So I ate him and talked with him and learned his heathen ways. Later, when they retreated back to their homelands, I was returned with all ceremony to my home and kingdom.

Three of the eight men from the gatehouse had survived starvation and thirst and wounds and infection. I told their story to the king and he gave them title and land. Then they told him of my mad charge on the gates of Torvean. Nobody laughed and I was granted title and lands as well.

My leg healed straight and true.