Sword of Destiny

His hand clawed at the dry earth, the tips of his fingers stinging where he’d scraped them raw. But that was the least of his problems. The spearing sensation would just not abate. It turned out that steel in the gut was just as painful as it looked.

“Arrgh!” The punishment flooded his body and his back arced. It was punishment because he’d faced the ridiculous, and this was the price. It was foolish really, but he hadn’t had any options. Not really. It had been the only thing to do.

The shooting agony eased, and his body flopped in response. He opened his barely functioning eyes, noting the sight before him. There was assistance there, salvation perhaps. His prince was still alive, still trapped beneath his dying mare, but the tide had now turned. His master was the strength, and he was the weakness. He was dragging himself towards a meagre sanctuary, and he was dragging himself to his…

Could he call the prince a friend? Certainly not, that was too strong, but he was dragging himself to the only place he now had. He needed help, and the prince seemed to have been there recently. Only here and now, they were alone. So utterly alone. What could the prince realistically do?

There was a taste like rust in his mouth, and he retched. But he resisted the full vomit, tonguing the acid to the back of his mouth. His wounded stomach scraped across the parched earth, and again he all but vomited. It took an almighty effort to stop himself – a strength of will that he barely had left in him. His jerking motion dislodged something from the crease about his tongue, and he shifted it around his stained mouth. And given the taste, it could be only one thing; flesh. They didn’t tell you about that in the books.

The prince looked at him, sorrow in those eyes even despite the man’s own predicament. But he was now the weakness, and the prince was his hope. The flesh in his mouth was disgusting, and he heaved, ejecting the offending item involuntarily. A tooth went with it. He checked with his tongue and confirmed. The second upper right incisor was gone. And he’d always been so proud of his teeth.

His head left him, a symbolic grey haze shrouding his senses. When it cleared, he was face first in the dirt. His tongue was in contact with the ground, and the grainy taste of the world was upon him. It mingled with the residual flesh and blood to leave a horrifying taste, but there was precious little he could do about it. He clawed with his right hand and a nail bent back on itself. That pain barely registered.

“Kantal!”

His prince! Of course. Yes of course. He was returning to his senior officer. He lifted his head, and it was like lifting the world itself. When he finally got the trapped man in his sights, the image swayed from side to side. He couldn’t keep his damned head still. The man was so close now, but the voice still seemed distant. It was like the prince cried out from another time and place. He shook his head, but that was not a good idea. The dizziness was overwhelming, and he conceded. When he next opened his eyes, he could taste the stomach acids mingling with the other horrors in his mouth. Would that ever wash out?

But no! He had come this far. He was still alive, and that was something. A lot really. Legs! He still had lower limbs. How had he forgotten that? With every effort still left to him, he climbed onto all fours, struggling with his balance. Air breathed over the deep slash to his stomach, and it was like molten steel had been poured over him. Strangely euphoric. His head left him again, but he retained his knees, and was soon capable of forward movement. It was slow progress.

By the time he reached his prince, it was almost as if the sun had departed. But that was clearly an illusion – a consequence of the cannon wastage. In this veil, the sun may as well never have come up. Time had no meaning in this nightmare. And it was a nightmare.

“Kantal.” The prince broke into a deep cough – one of those that sound like the lung will pop out. Too much smoke perhaps? Then why was he not coughing? Too soon, and when it did come, it was like someone had reached down his throat and was throttling his guts. The back of his acid stained throat tickled, and the vomit threatened again. That was not going to get any nicer any time soon. Best to sleep. He closed his eyes.

“No, you must not! We must get help.”

What help? He obeyed – of course he did – and managed a laugh. He actually managed a chuckle. It was perverse. The battlefield was empty but for their near corpses. Delfinia must surely have departed, and they would be left to rot in the eternal graveyard that was the Bloody Gash. They were doomed, and no amount of royal optimism would change that.

But this was no bad thing. He would die trying; a purpose to his act. That was more than he could ever have asked for. But he feared that his prince would not share his sense of satisfaction. It would be nice if the prince could escape, but that seemed remote. Perhaps he could give the prince some peace.

“Thank you, sir.” To speak was to drain what little reserves he had. His head crashed back to the dry ground, consciousness fading. His eyelids were heavy. So heavy. It was time to sleep.

“No Kantal. Open your eyes! That is an order.”

It was futile, but he obeyed. He was conditioned. The prince’s face was vibrating, juddering from side to side. The sensation brought bile into his throat; more vomit. And yet he didn’t think he had any sick left in him.

The juddering turned gradually into a shudder.

And the shudder turned into a tremor.

And then it was impossible to ignore. He focussed on the interruption. The prince smiled knowingly, and the reality sank in. He was a fool. Of course they wouldn’t leave the prince. They were being rescued.

His prince actually managed a grunt of a laugh, though it was heavily filtered. This was no place for joy. The rescuing officers came into view, and the prince looked at him with sorrow in his eyes. Sorrow and something else.

“I have never seen you like that before.”

Wasn’t that the truth? It was not a sustainable state. He forged words through his swollen lips.

“I was saving it.” The ‘s’ came out as a whistle where his tooth was missing, and he scowled. How would he afford to get that replaced? Perhaps he wouldn’t need to. He may well still die.

The prince locked him with a gaze. “You can’t beat a mandahoi, Kantal.” The mournful face of the prince stretched at the corners, becoming a smile. A big smile. “But you, sir, can beat three.”

He turned his head back to the haze; to the battlefield behind him. There, from where he had hauled his devastated body, lay a pile of the Grey. And spearing the tower of corpses was one hell of a blade. His blade. The bastards had near killed him, but he had had the last and the Father had opened the path for him. He had proven his point, and he had saved his prince.

The sight of the blade caught him, and he smiled. She looked good there, speared through the bodies of her victims. But she would be better by his side.

“You won’t let them leave...”

His voice trailed off and another screaming darkness consumed him. He slipped into the protective ignorance, hoping that the prince understood. The heir to Delifinia nodded through his fading vision, but did the man really understand? Did he? He couldn’t leave that blade on the battlefield. Blessed Mother, he hoped the prince did understand. Otherwise, there was no point in going on.