Everworld Knights

Roland lay dying. He knew that death was an option, if not for him, for the men that lay beside him. There was something mystical about it and Roland half wished that it would claim him. Lying there, among the bodies of his men, he wished to join them. This world was no longer for him. What did he have, if not the men that would lead him to reason? Lead him to victory? He may have been their leader, but without them, he would be nothing. “What do you think they’re going to do to us?” Mason spoke from beside, the familiar voice was welcomed behind all the negative thoughts that built. “They’re going to kill us, I'm sure,” Roland replied. Looking at the various bodies that lay dead or dying, men walked with their clubs, spears, and swords killing the Everworld Knight’s off, one by one. “Well that doesn’t really bode well for us then, does it?” Mason laughed, an arrow that caught him in the midsection choking the laughter with a pain filled gargle. “Not at all, my friend.” Roland squirmed, trying his hand at breaking free from the knotted ropes that kept him down. Unlike Mason, he faced no real pain; no real threat to his life, other than fatigue and incompetence. Mild scrapes sprawled across his body, but nothing that he wouldn’t have shaken off in an instant had the Everworld Knight’s taken victory of Sanguine Hill. And where he now sat, begging for death, he knew its sweet embrace would not take him. Today was a day unlike any other. His intuition lied to him, where it was generally a powerful ally. The Knight’s should have taken this victory. It was a simple task of slaughtering a group of Northmen, his King had given him the task, but the settlement promised here at Sanguine Hill, was nowhere to be seen. Only an open clearing, with the tribe forming around them in a circle wide, and dense with warriors. They met their defeat, fighting however valiantly. In their defeat, Roland could only consider one thing. His family and how they would fare, not seeing him home in the next week. Would it devastate them? Would they even care? Roland had long ago come to the conclusion that Alyssa, his wife, had only come to him for his status and power. Why this thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t say. Alyssa was never unkind or displayed the actions, but she never showed love in the traditional sense. Did that mean she was against him? It was what Roland believed after all, and how could he negate the thoughts once they buried themselves deep in his mind? “How are we going to get out of this one?” Mason asked, breaking his train of thought. Roland had no answer to his question. Like the others, those who weren’t rounded up, they would no doubt be killed, this was if they were lucky. If not, there was nothing more to believe but that they would be thrown into a life of servitude, working under the tribe. He even considered the weakest that would face the worst of it all. They wouldn’t be kept as slaves. They would be used for entertainment. Uncomfortable, unbiased entertainment that would force them to meet their ends in unimaginable torture. Roland knew of the Northmen and their harsh treatments of those who they did not deem worthy. Worthy of what? He wondered, lying there, considering his answer to Mason. “I don’t know.” He replied. The answer took long to come and with it, no resolution. Silence would have brought the same effect, only it would keep Mason in the mind of fear. A fear that he could not face, knowing that he would be killed. If not from the arrow, which would later be discovered chipped away at his liver, by a tribe member that dissected him for a banquet, or by one of the soldiers that moved around freely. It seemed they rounded up the strong and killed the weak. It was the circle of life and both Roland and Mason knew it. And though the answer brought no comfort, Mason considered it. Was he more afraid, or less? The only man that has ever been able to bring peace to those who surrounded them, now lay dying. Not physically, Mason could see Roland was fit and well, but emotionally. The battery that the loss brought to his mind was far worse than any death he could have suffered. “What do you think they’re doing with them?” Mason asked, turning to face a group of the tribe, carrying corpses towards a cart. They dropped them on the back and when it filled up, they were ridden off by the horses that led them. “I can’t imagine anything good would come of that.” Roland replied, “But whatever it is, being in deaths embrace will do them better than being out here with us. My biggest concern is of the living that they’re rounding up. Again, I don’t believe anything good can come of it.” Roland turned his head away, closing his eyes. The knots that tied his hands behind his back, starting to cut into his flesh with all the movement he made. A low, deep sigh rolled through him. He knew that between he and Mason, there was nothing. He would say his goodbye’s, in whatever way he could and allow his friend to gently, peacefully, drift into the eternal darkness. The air stank of blood, leaving a sour taste in Roland’s mouth. The greying sky gave off nothing but ill omen. A crack of thunder in the distance, confirmed Roland’s fears, breaking open the heavens and allowing the rain to pour. Three thousand men came to fight under him this day and a good deal of them lay dead. “He’s the leader.” Roland heard a voice from behind, turning to look over his shoulder, seeing two men. A thin, gangly individual that stood hunched over, with long claws for nails, greying hair and an oversized nose that did not highlight any features that would benefit him. Beside, stood a gargantuan of a man, in his hand a club made of wood, decorated with bone. Easily stretching two heads taller than the thin man – who was already tall – and three over Roland. He was built like a bear, with the hair to match. Roland considered he was of the Ursine, a noble race of bear hybrids, but denounced the thought. This man was too far from his homeland if it true and that would mean he must have been shunned by his society. Something that the Ursine valued worse than death. The thoughts kept him sane, playing out the options of the men that stood before him. The thinner man raised a talon-like finger, pointing to Roland. He did this to make clear who the leader was. Roland turned back to face Mason. Both knew that this was not going to end in their favor. Whatever these monsters wanted, could not have been good for them. The Northmen were not the communicative kind, Roland was briefed and they found their enjoyment in pain and suffering. A wile flurry of tenacity spurred over Roland, who twisted and turned in a last ditch effort to break free of his bonds but to no avail. “What do you want me to do with him?” The giant asked. The thin man leaned into the squirming Roland, who was soon realizing that escape was no option, inspecting him for wounds. The armor he wore showed no signs of direct attack. They were clean, shiny, even beneath the scars of battle they may have faced in their life. He moved towards Mason and did the same. The arrow that pierced his side was a point against him. The thin man considered his options, mulling everything over in his mind, often turning back to the rest of the battlefield, inspecting what others were doing. “Take the leader back to the camp. Kill this one. We could use the meat.” The conclusion finally came. The announcement sent a pit to Roland’s stomach, having him expel the contents of his stomach. “You can’t do this,” Roland shouted. He was ignored. “Don’t worry about it, Sire Everworld. I wouldn’t have made it back to camp anyway.” Mason said. The giant circling him, “Just do me the favor, yeah? Kill these bastards when you get the chance. That’s good enough for me.” Roland opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the grunt of the giant hoisting the large club over his head. “Die with honor,” Roland said, “He who dies in fear, dies without devotion.” The last words he would say to his friend, before the club was brought down, crushing his skull. Bone, brain and blood matter splattering off in all directions, with his head that popped under the weight of the club. He muttered the words again, repeating the last vow to his creed. Die with honor, he who dies in fear dies without devotion. He wondered if the worlds held true. When the world moved according to plan, there were no doubts to the Everworld Creed. It stood and held true, but Roland was fickle. His mind wandered the moment the going got tough. He’d always been this way and thus, excelled at everything he did to prove his might. It was necessary to show strength in any and all situations. It was necessary to uphold the honor of your King and your people. He knew that in this necessity, lay a truth that he could not bear. The weight of his actions here, at the battle of Sanguine Hill, would stretch out for eternity in his mind. The betrayal and loss of his warriors. Those who trusted him to bring them home. Would their souls haunt him? Would their deaths plague him? No. He knew they would not, but still, in their deaths, came a subtle hope. Nothing could get worse from here.