Brother, Betrayed Page 28

  “There is a time when you must surrender your desire for victory in order to preserve hope for a new day, in order to preserve the lives of those who fight for you, to justify the lives of those who die for you. You cannot win every battle.”

  Oman paused, taking in his father’s words. “So you have sounded the retreat, then?” Oman asked him. But something in his father's reaction made fear sink inside him.

  “Yes,” the king replied finally, “the retreat has been sounded.”

  Oman let out his breath, feeling a forced acceptance as it left him.

  “Now,” the king said and Oman felt him tighten his grip on his arms, realizing he had held him the entire time, and was holding him with purpose, “you must understand this, my son. The situation is more dangerous than a simple retreat. They are pressing us even now, and it is possible that we may not beat them back to Anteria.”

  “So we will stay and fight,” Oman said and swallowed.

  “The most important thing,” the king said, stepping closer to Oman, “is that you reach the castle safely. You are the future of Arnith. You are its promised king. We will do all in our power to ensure you are able to return there safely.”

  “But, the…” Oman started to argue.

  “That is why, Oman, half of the soldiers will stay behind and try to hold the line long enough for you to get a safe distance away.”

  “Is that…”

  “Stop. It is their duty. We are pressed on three sides, so I have decided to stay.”

  “What!”

  “To give our enemies a target worthy of putting all their attention towards.”

  Oman was silenced.

  “These soldiers will take you back to Anteria.” The king motioned to the door. Oman shook as he saw several soldiers standing in the doorway of the tent, realizing they had been there all along and he hadn’t noticed them. They looked solemnly back to him. “There you must regroup the army and defend the city against the coming attacks.”

  “No!” Oman was finally able to say. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me!”

  The king was not angry. “My son,” he said. “My time in this world has been long. Yours is only now beginning. This is my last service to my kingdom, and I do it proudly.”

  “I can’t let them kill you!”

  “The choice is not yours,” the king replied in a hardening tone.

  Oman watched his father look away from him, to the soldiers standing at the doorway. They came towards them. Oman braced and tried to break free from his father’s grip. But the king held him. “No, I won’t let you do this!” Oman cried, trying with all his strength now to get free from his father’s grasp. The soldiers came up to him and roughly grabbed his arms as he tried to shake them away. He was about to throw his body against them in a rage, but his father placed his heavy hand on his shoulder, and something in his grip kept him from fighting. His father’s hand now not comforting, but steadying him.

  “Oman, my eldest son, my first born. My strongest wishes go with you that you reach Anteria safely.” Oman clenched his jaw. As he kept his father’s eyes, hot tears starting to well up in his own.

  “Father,” Oman pleaded.

  “My son. Lead this kingdom with a good heart. Listen to your reason as well.” Oman shook his head again, not believing. “The kingdom is yours, now. And your word will govern it as soon as you cross within the walls of the city. Do not be angry with these soldiers,” his father said, nodding to the soldiers that had a hold of him, “for it was my last command as king that they do whatever was in their power to return you there safely.”

  The king reached for the sword on Oman’s belt. He drew it from its sheath and lifted it in front of him. “Your sword is sharp and good,” Algoth said. He held it in his grasp. “It will serve me well in my final battle.” The king reached for the strap holding his own sword from around his armored waist. He stepped closer to Oman, speaking firmly, “This is the sword of our ancestors, wielded by every king of Arnith. And now I pass it to you. For he who wields the sword, wields the people and the power of the greatest human kingdom of Miscia.” Another soldier came up beside the king and took the sword, bowing as he held it with both hands. Letting it go, the king looked back to Oman. “I have delayed you too long,” he said. “Your journey must be swift and immediate.”

  As the feeling of the soldiers pulling his arms towards the door jerked Oman, the restraint his father had put in him blew away like a thin smoke in a wind.

  “The king! You can’t let the king die! Father!” Oman cried, fighting them with all his strength. Still, they were able to pull him towards the door.

  “This is the single greatest honor I can do for my kingdom,” the king said in a clear voice.

  “Father no! You don’t have to do this! You don’t have to stay!”

  The king started to turn, and Oman only at last saw his back, watching his father lean down and brace himself on the table…

  “No!” Oman screamed, fighting with his limbs, his heart, his soul, to break free from them. “Don’t you see? He’s going to die! You’re letting the king die!” His words did not cause the soldiers to pause. They pushed him through the folds of the tent’s doorway and into the morning sun. Oman’s hot, teary vision immediately saw the camp of soldiers around them gathering and packing their supplies. Close in front of them was the back of a wagon with a line of soldiers beside it, looking towards him, waiting.

  “We are sorry, Prince Oman,” one of his captors said. Oman saw in one of the waiting soldier’s hands several lengths of rope.

  “Treason!” Oman cried. “Treachery! You cannot hold me against my will! You cannot listen to my father, he’s gone mad! He’s going to die! You’re letting the king kill himself!” The soldiers gave no response, other than to pull him towards the wagon. None of the soldiers or knights around him heeded his warnings. He cried out in anger, as if it would give him the strength to break free from the madness.

  “You traitors!” he cried. “You swore an oath to protect the king!” His breath was caught a moment. “Murderers!” he forced from his burning chest, his rage and tears blinding him as he felt them stop. He jerked his arms, but it didn’t break their grip. He was roughly pushed down and his body was on the ground, but not in the dirt. Something cushioned him. He forced out a scream, feeling them pull his arms behind him, and then the rough feel of rope as it was pulled, twisted and tightened around his wrists and his legs.

  The holds on his limbs shifted and they turned him over. But his gaze, instead of falling on their faces, found something high above them. Something black and small, floating on the air high above the trees. Oman blinked the tears from his eyes and his vision sharpened, seeing that it wasn’t one, but an uncountable number of the large, menacing black birds. They were swirling and cycling without effort, always looking down. Waiting, anticipating. He saw their black cyclone of death was over the battlefield.

  Oman’s mind saw the cursed birds on the blood sprayed ground, squawking and biting at each other, flapping their wings as they bickered over pieces of the decaying flesh. And there, the body they were defiling. Oman saw his father’s face, with empty, dark caves where his eyes should have been. The horror of it was sucked in his lungs and he blinked at the foreboding sight of circling death above him. His mind returned to him fully, realizing he could not avert that terrible fate. The bindings bit at his skin as he strained his muscles. Dark, empty sockets. His eyes went to the soldiers’ faces around him. His motionless hand positioned, reaching for his sword, fallen away from him. Other than his heavy breathing, he stared into their eyes silently. Red beaks digging underneath his stained armor and pulling out strips of his flesh, devouring. “You can’t let this happen,” Oman pleaded.

  “We have our orders,” one of the soldiers replied, but the characteristic response was shadowed by obvious grief. Oman looked up into the man’s darkened face.

  “You can’t let my father do this. You can’t let him die alone
. I have a right to be by his side, to fight with him.”

  The man’s face tightened a little, then shook his head no.

  “How can you deny me that?” Oman cried hotly. “How can you?” he demanded, looking to the other soldiers around him.

  “We must leave now, their army draws on apace,” the soldier who was nearest to him said.

  “No! You have no right. You will not touch me again!” Oman commanded, but regardless they lifted him. “No!” he screamed, and tried to fight them off, but now with his arms and legs bound, his struggle was even more futile. “He is not your father! He is not your king! You cowards! You will not fight by his side!” Oman stopped and gasped. The soldier in front of him lifted a twisted cloth to his face. Oman cried as the soldier stepped into him, trying to shake the soldiers away as they held him tightly. After several breaths the cloth was forced in his mouth and he felt them tie it behind his head, though he fought them violently. He tried to cry out again but it was muffled, and his fast breaths were weakening him for they were now strained. He bit down on the cloth, fighting to keep back a swell of tears, but, unabated, they started to roll down his face.

  They lifted him up. Oman felt them carrying him… knowing where they took him though he could not catch sight of the king’s tent, or any of the camp around them. They lifted him up to the back of the carriage, holding him carefully as he twisted in their arms. They lowered him, face down to the padded middle floor of the wagon.

  He was tense and jerking, but his hands and legs were held tight. He closed his eyes to the feeling of pain inside him as he felt the wagon start to move. It wasn’t any physical pain that he was struggling against. It was a loss and guilt, deeper and more terrible than any mortal wound. Oman cringed and twisted, tears rolling onto the blankets beneath him. His motionless hand reaching for his sword, dry blood down his open, wordless mouth, his eyeless head looking towards the black, sunless sky.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  THE DIKARTIANS

  “We are prepared to advance,” was heard above the swaying wheat of Arnithian farms as a foreign invader treaded across it. Arnithian wind blew against their leader’s hair and he looked with pleasure at peasants fleeing their fields and retreating towards the city, leaving much of their crop unharvested.

  “They are not prepared for our arrival,” the leader said, and signaled his army to advance. Soon they could observe the last Arnithian citizens desperately running inside their city’s gates before they closed upon them. The intruders then heard ringing, crisp through the afternoon air, the rising bells and alarm of the city. But it was only a moment that the representation of the city’s panic could be heard where their enemy approached, for the charge was sounded from the fields in front of the city’s walls. The enemy quickened their pace and strived for the city’s main gates, hoping to reach them before the city’s guards had a chance to organize archers and militia upon the wall.

  As the enemy realized that no opposition was ready to meet them, they sprinted towards the gate. They came under the shadow of the wall and threw themselves upon the gate before any arrow was released their direction. The metal portcullis before the wooden door was obviously weak, having never been tested by enemy hands before. A group of the Dikartians shouldered the metal of the gate as they heard shouts from above them. Other enemy soldiers, as they reached them, raised their shields to defend against the coming Arnithian arrows.

  The arrows came, and found a few targets, but by then more of the Dikartian soldiers had joined the group before the gate and compensated for the fallen. Orders were shouted from the remaining Dikartians, holding them before they all rushed to the stone walls of the city. They formed ranks, and lifted bows notched with arrows, ready to release upon their targets on the wall.

  The Arnithians focused their arrows on the intruders below the wall, grunting and causing creaks and complaints from the main gate to their city. More orders were given among the intruders’ ranks and a volley of arrows was released into the air above their heads. The Dikartian archers watched as their targets upon the wall abandoned their attack on the soldiers below them and dashed aside, quickly finding refuge in the segregated columns along the stone wall.

  “They move wisely, even under these conditions,” the enemy leader stated, observing the archers along the wall resume their attack on the breach below them once the bombardment of Dikartian arrows had subsided. “Double arrows towards their men on the wall, perhaps we can deter them enough to give us easy access to the gate and be inside their walls before nightfall.” The enemy archers obeyed, aiming and releasing arrows at will to create an almost constant threat upon the city’s guards on the wall. They risked aiming at the enemy forcing open their gate less often, and were intermittently struck down for their persistence.

  “The gate is lifting!” one of the enemy officers shouted and all attention turned to it. In a moment of stillness, they could hear the creak and strain of gears as their front soldiers were able to lift the metal gate. Then came a great commotion from beyond the wooden doors, and the archers renewed their aim. Voices and ruckus became louder from beyond the city’s walls, but again the enemy’s attention turned to the gate, visibly lifting now as their soldiers strained against it.

  Then, unexpectedly, the intruders lifting the gate felt a sudden resistance, and then shouted as they lost their hold.

  “They are in the gatehouse!” the leader of the Dikartians heard one of his soldiers report as he watched the portcullis begin to lower, without regard of his soldiers that still tried to force it open. At the same moment the number of Arnithian archers upon the wall doubled, then tripled. The archers released their arrows upon the group of Dikartians below them, and on the rest of the Dikartians well within range beyond.

  “There are the rest of their guards,” their leader observed, eliciting a few grins. “Very well, we will match them,” he ordered, giving signal with his arm to fire, “and wear them down until there’s nothing left.”

  The aged warrior closed his eyes and breathed in the autumn air deeply, as if summoning strength to complete his duties from the land of his ancestors, or from a reserve of it within himself. When he opened his eyes and gazed at the soldiers around him, it was as if he looked upon his brethren rather than his command.

  “I cannot ask you to join me out of honor, for there will be no honor for us. I do not ask you to join me for glory or for valor, for when the sun sets on this battlefield tonight, there will be none of us left alive. No Arnithian will ever speak of your courage, no bard will ever sing of your deeds. For no one but the enemy will survive. Therefore, we will give them a battle so horrible that they can never speak of it. Today, I ask you to join me out of vengeance. Let their memories of us be so terrible that they never dare sing of their victory, out of fear that they will wake our ghosts! Follow me,” the king proclaimed as he discarded cumbersome armor and shield, “into our enemies’ nightmares, where we will never sleep!” The king brandished his sword and gave a cry of defiance that was joined by his men, startling the enemies’ horses and the enemies’ hearts as they saw the glittering death charge down from the hillside.

  It wasn’t long before the Dikartians saw the castle guards diminish under their constant assault of arrows. They didn’t even attempt to mount the wall, seeing their archers were so effective. They were able to bring forth sturdy poles to use as levers to pry open the portcullis. Soon the invaders found that there was very little resistance from the archers above them. They wedged their long poles into the ground and forced the metal gate again.

  The intruders heard much commotion from within the gatehouse, and they knew that their opponents were trying to prevent them from gaining entrance into their city. As the Dikartians pushed and strained they heard a great creaking and cracking from within the walls of the gatehouse, presumably caused by the city’s guards attempting to use some log or board to restrict the rebellious gears. The cracking worsened and the portcullis began to lift again. The enem
y soldiers cheered and encouraged their fellows at the gate. They forced the metal gate to rise and soon put thick logs underneath to prevent it from returning to the ground. Men could crawl under the opening now, but none did so. They continued to lift the portcullis higher, finding it was easily giving way now, and adding logs atop the ones they had already placed to prevent it from lowering.

  The enemy lifted it above their heights, and without signal, all of the Dikartian soldiers in front rushed towards the gate for the singular purpose of tearing it down with fist, club, and sword. In their delirium they didn’t notice movement on the wall above them, having dismissed the remaining archers as a threat. With little warning, other than a few startled cries, hot oil was poured and splashed on the clustered Dikartians below. The less armored of them, the runners, sought refuge but the mass was too crowded to allow for quick escape. But the rest did not scatter, for the oil was painful but not scolding hot.

  But they realized their mistake as flame was glimpsed above them, burning at the end of a strung arrow.

  “Take him out!” was shouted from behind the mass and arrows quickly obeyed to prevent him, but the archer had released and returned behind the wall. His would-be death met nothing but air and stone, but his shot instantly found its target and set the group of Dikartians to sudden flame with a great whoosh and gust of air. Cries and screams joined the roar of the flames, and then replaced it as the last of the oil was burned out and the Dikartians scrambled to douse the fires that remained, on fellow soldiers and on the ground.

  “Fall back!” was shouted from behind them and then repeated. The front men quickly abandoned their position and obeyed.

  Oman was numb and weak. He could feel the floor beneath him jolt and shake. He felt the gag was removed from his mouth. He tested his arms, moving them to his sides, feeling the bindings were gone. He slowly opened his eyes. He was on the floor of the wagon; he saw legs of soldiers seated next to him. They remained seated as he turned himself over and pushed the blankets off of him. The soldiers were silent, watching as he struggled to find his balance with the movement of the wagon as he sat up. Oman breathed out as a tinge of anger returned to him.