Brave Men Die: Part 2 Read online

  ‘No, I’m saying you will be the death of me.’

  ‘Don’t hesitate. Just act. Fight. I will be fine on my own. I do not wish to cause so many young men to die because they are deemed to protect me.’

  ‘Just how many have you had?’

  ‘More than enough.’

  ‘What about when you cast?’

  ‘It’s not necessary. Daria knows so I don’t have to hide it. So if you are underfoot I’ll either have to get around you some how or take you out with them.’

  ‘Now who’s being funny and malevolent?’

  ‘Not funny, just malevolent. Now fight.’

  Pollux hesitated for only a second before stepping forward to meet the next blow on his sword before whipping the blade around his head and down upon the man’s neck.

  His face was set with grim determination as he slayed the next to come toward him. His blade danced around the enemies’, it cut and slashed at those who came his way. Soldiers around him killed and died in heartbeats. The battle was intense. Blood dripped down his brow and into his eyes. He blinked furiously to regain his vision. In seconds the first wave of Kyzantines had died, their bodies lying at his feet.

  As the bodies of the Fists pressed in around him, Pollux felt the heat rise. He knew Ara’s breasts would be pressed hard against his back and he tried to think of something witty to say but could only imagine what they would feel like pressed against his chest. These new thoughts were slightly disturbing and not at all appropriate. He was the captain of the Fists and these men around him were looking for him to lead by example and ravishing the pretty mage was not what they had in mind. Although it might have crossed their minds.

  The second wave charged in and Pollux took one step before his blade took off a Kyzantine head. These soldiers were different. Fully armoured, they carried heavier blades, large oblong shields, and wore enclosed helmets. The Kyzantine insignia was marked on their chests and they all wore the colours of the Empire. Pollux looked intent as the seasoned warriors came at him. He knew their job was to get through him to get to Ara. He couldn’t let that happen. A slender arm shot out over his shoulder, a ball of flame engulfing her fist. The palm opened and fired it into the right flank. Pollux was already hot and sweaty and Ara’s spell had just made things worse. The salty liquid ran down the side of his face and through the singed stubble on the right side of his face. He could smell his burning hair and realised that when this was done he would need to shave to make it look even. The smell of burnt flesh arose as soon as the flames hit the enemy. More men clambered over the fallen and burnt. They came in droves.

  Cronos stepped back from the front line as members of the Fists swarmed to take his position. He drank deeply from a waterskin that was offered and rested his weary muscles for the moment. Cronos looked around. His men were falling, even though they were taking two of the enemy with them every time. Their valiant efforts were not enough.

  ‘What news from the rest of the compound?’ he asked the water bearer, a soldier with a bandage wrapped tightly around his head, blood pooling on the white cloth were his ear should have been.

  ‘The right side of the wall has been breached. They are steadily getting a strong hold in the middle of the wall and pushing our troops back to either side.’

  ‘What about the number of losses?’

  ‘We have lost many sir, but more have been wounded and dragged away from the conflict like myself than actually killed.’

  The baron nodded and the man was off to give water to any other weary soul who needed it.

  The Fists’ new leader was standing a few metres to his right. Like himself and a handful of others, he hadn’t left the front line since the gate came down hours ago. Soldiers had come and gone, wounded, exhausted, but he remained and fought on. The lad was covered in blood, Cronos couldn’t tell whose. He killed another, all while protecting the young mage and putting his body on the line when they came at her to silence the casting.

  Cronos watched as more and more Kyzantines shifted the angle of their attack and made a straight line for the mage and the poor boy just stood in front of her and took everything they threw at him. Blade after blade crashed against his defence, his shield taking the brunt of the blows, the dents becoming obvious.

  Cronos turned and saw Byrn stride across to him, gulping down mouthfuls of water from a waterskin. His old companion had a fresh bandage wrapped tight around his head covering one of his eyes, blood beginning to seep through. It looked like this fight had already cost him more than he was willing to give.

  ‘Did you lose it?’

  ‘The tip of the blade’s thrust ended there. I was lucky he was so far back or else the sword would have skewered me.’

  ‘Are you still up for this?’

  ‘You think a scratch is going to stop me?’

  Cronos smiled. His friend had not lost any of his sense of humour over the years.

  ‘Help Pollux. They are coming for his mage and he could use the assistance. I’ll push further forward on the left and try to take some of the heat, but he needs another set of hands to defend her.’

  ‘Then who is going to watch your back?’

  ‘The gods and any one of these fine capable soldiers.’

  Cronos pushed his way to the front, squeezing between men who stood firm against the pressure of the attacking Kyzantines.

  ‘With me!’ he screamed, breaking through to the front line and skewering a woman in the abdomen.

  Those around him pushed forward and suddenly the Murukans made something from nothing, attacking the centre of the Kyzantine line and pushing it back all because of the baron’s presence. Within moments the baron was the tip of a spear of Fists smashing their way into the enemy line. He battered away wild swings with his shield and struck mightily with his sword, felling any within its reach.

  He saw that a now-helmeted Byrn had made his way to Pollux’s side and begun to relieve the pressure the boy faced. Between them they dealt with the heavily armoured warriors trying to get through to the mage. Although Ara was handling herself, ice blasting from her hands. Cronos caught a blade’s movement out of the corner of his eye and ducked as it went sailing over his head. The Kyzantines had bunched around him and were slowly driving him and his assault team back toward the gate.

  The baron lashed out, driving his sword through the abdomen of a Kyzantine. He turned to withdraw his sword in a fluid motion, watching the man fighting on his side succumb to the taste of bitter steel. Cronos pulled his blade out and turned to face the Kyzantine soldier responsible as the man’s blade drove into his chest. Cronos' eyes opened in surprise. Another blade sunk through his beard and into his throat as he watched five others eagerly swarm him.

  Cronos could hear the screams of his men as he went down, crying to rally to his position.

  ‘Form up and push!’ Pollux screamed. ‘Get to his body!’

  As his eyes finally came to close, Cronos watched his men come to fill the gap he had left. They killed those standing around him, pushed forward to seek vengeance. His last thoughts were that the men were following orders and that was something to be proud of.

  Pollux witnessed the second blade sink into Cronos' throat. He screamed and charged toward those who intended to mutilate the body of his leader, a man who took the time to treat him like another son. The Fists around him followed his lead. Pollux’s swing cleaved through two bodies, another slashed downwards from the neck and ripped open someone’s chest. Rage consumed him, fuelled his strength and ferocity. More Kyzantines came at him and they fell just as quickly. Pollux reached down and grabbed the baron’s forearm and dragged him back, yelling at the others to fill the gap and hold the line. A blade dragged across his exposed inner forearm. Men surged around him forming a solid wall of muscle and steel. He dragged the baron back out of the front line, digging in his heels and straining under the dead weight. Another hand reached down and grabbed the other arm. Pollux looked to see Byrn all bloodied and barely conscious. A bl
oody gaping wound covered his face where his left eye should have been that he hadn’t noticed before when he stood by his side. Between them they dragged the baron back behind the Fists who continued to press forward.

  Pollux could hear Octans yelling at the others to hold the line and keep those bastards out. He looked down at the body. The baron’s armour was dented and bloody. His hand still gripped tightly to the hilt of his sword. His eyes had closed with his final breaths.

  Pollux looked up at Byrn. The man could barely stand, let alone lead the last of the remaining men. His eye socket was a bloody mess. At the sight of the master of arms, Pollux’s decision was made.

  ‘Byrn, take his body back to the barracks. Take some men, keep it safe to the last.’

  Byrn looked at him. He realised what he was doing: giving him an out. A reason to stop fighting and have a breather, look after himself a little.

  ‘I can’t do that. Someone needs to maintain the men, keep them in order.’

  ‘I’m the captain of the Fists. They are the ones holding the gate. They are my men and obey my orders.’ Pollux took a breath. Did he really want to do this? Did he have a choice? His eyes ran over Byrn’s face, the sweat, dirt and blood said much, but the tears forming in the corner of his remaining eye told him what he needed to do. ‘I’m taking command of the forces. You, Byrn, will escort the baron’s body and defend it with your life.’

  He’d tried to sound authoritative, had made it a command and now he was holding his breath waiting for this to play out.

  ‘Yes Pollux,’ Byrn replied, surrendering. Byrn clearly knew he was a mess and was grateful for what he was doing. In his condition he couldn’t lead the men and another high-ranking casualty would break the morale of the men. ‘You’re more than just the captain now, Pollux. You’re General Fallon of the Buckthorne forces.’

  Pollux stood there speechless, his mouth open but no words were coming out. He hadn’t wanted that. He began to shake his head but Byrn thought better of it and interrupted him.

  ‘Just don’t let them through, he wouldn’t want that.’

  Pollux put one hand on Byrn's shoulder but remained silent, the look in his eyes communicating the loss both men felt. He took one last look at the baron’s still body and turned to the gate.

  Ara stood there at the back of the concerned Buckthorne men, for whom the man dead before them had been more than just the figurehead of Buckthorne. Her arms folded across her breasts and her eyes were downcast. Pollux walked toward her and the breach and stopped dead when she put her hand on his chest. He swore she could feel his heart racing through his armour. He didn’t turn his head to look at her, he couldn’t quite do it. Rather he looked at the battle, looked at his men who kept the Kyzantines on the other side of Black Claw.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Ara asked.

  ‘Doesn’t matter right now. I’ve got Kyzantines to kill.’

  Pollux brushed her hand away gently and walked off to the massing troops behind the gate. Ara stood there for a while, still, watching him walk back to be killed.

  ‘Be careful,’ she whispered, staring at his back before taking off after him.

  Pollux pushed his way back through the soldiers, offered words of encouragement as he passed. He got to the front line to be greeted by Octans cleaving a woman in two.

  ‘You’re the new captain, Octans.’

  ‘Pollux?’

  ‘That’s an order. Deal with it.’

  Octans looked at him sideways. ‘Yes sir.’

  Pollux held his sword in front of his body, waited for the attack, turned the strike away and countered, driving the blade into the man’s neck. His method was cold and calculated, the emotion and the rage of the baron’s death buried, and he threw himself into his work. There was nothing better for it. The next strikes came quickly in a flurry of blows. He blocked and parried and with the help of the Fists killed all those who came.

  He took a breath. There was a pause in the attack, a moment where the enemy held its ground and waited.

  ‘We need those doors closed. We have to buy some time to get them back upright and fix the bloody things.’

  He looked over at Octans. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘We are going to need a third to hold the other side.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ answered Tove, stepping forward.

  Pollux looked at him. He was their age, young and enthusiastic.

  ‘This is suicidal,’ announced Pollux.

  ‘I know sir, but we all got our demons to face.’

  Pollux stepped forward and the other two followed. The rest of the Fists stood around watching as the insanity unfurled before their eyes.

  ‘Get the gates,’ Ara screamed, realising what the fucking idiot had planned. Soldiers immediately set about lifting the doors.

  Out of nowhere an electrical storm burst into existence. Lightning struck the Empire’s soldiers, attracted to the steel they held, and formed an effective semicircle defence around the three. Pollux quickly deduced that Daria had been made aware of the breach and had acted, pouring her energy into defending the open doors. The Kyzantines retreated from the attack, the crackling spell keeping them at bay.

  Pollux stood at the opening of the Black Claw Gate. He was about a metre in front of the wall, vulnerable to any attack. The plan was simple: to make sure the enemy did not pass through or else the kingdom would be overrun. Even if he and the two others survived the attack long enough for the gates to be reinforced they would still be on the outside of them, keeping the Kyzantines back.

  He snapped his head around. ‘Get the gates fucking closed!’ he ordered. Spittle flew into the air. The enemy came rushing forward once they realised he was fucking insane. They ran through the electrical barrier that managed to stop most but not all, bodies frying as their companions burst through, encouraged by the threats of their commanders who stood comfortably out of range. Pollux knew this would be a real test, better than any drill, better than single combat in the arena. His actions here — the shift of his foot, the angle of his sword — the detail was the most important thing now and would determine if he lived or died. Pollux muttered a prayer to the watching gods to look over him and his men and keep them safe.

  Swinging his sword in a large arc from his lower right side, it cleaved through the torsos of three men as it swept to the left, stopping as he craftily swung it around his body, driving it into the next man. Octans and Tove moved to either side, making it impossible for the enemy to out number him. They effectively covered the entrance between them with space to swing and room to move. Blocking the first overhead strike on his shield, then turning another blade away with his sword, he stepped forward on his right. The press was frantic as those Kyzantines behind the spell urged the front ranks forward and they reluctantly came. Lightning flashed and a woman shrieked as she was electrocuted. The ones that made it through came all at once, shields and blades thrust in his face. He kept his body behind his shield as he lashed out at every opportunity.

  Pollux’s heart raced. He panicked as they kept coming. This was a fucking stupid plan. The others were being slowly forced back. Something needed to change. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In, out. His eyes blinked open and his arm launched out taking a man’s head clean off. He whipped his blade around his head and brought it down on a woman’s arm. It seared straight through the muscle and bone and she screamed as he kicked her back.

  Pollux’s attack gave him some room to breathe and inspired the others. They dealt with those in their faces and created some space. There was some room between them and the enemy. They came again but the three Murukans were ready.

  The enemy hesitated as murmurs moved through their throng. Pollux, Octans and Tove seized upon the opportunity and killed the last five that had made it past the storm as the other Kyzantines pulled further back and the twang of bows sounded at the back of the enemy force. The arrows filled
the sky as they flew up before hailing down upon their intended victims. All three raised their shields to halt the oncoming rain of death, but the first of the arrows struck a purple-toned shield that encompassed the three men. Pollux turned to look at the concentration on Ara’s face as she maintained the spell for the entirety of the downpour. With the arrows spent the Kyzantines charged again while the remains of the Fists barely managed to move the broken doors a scant metre.

  Octans stooped low and tossed the first soldier over his shoulder before ramming his sword into another’s guts. Viciously he stepped back on the fallen soldier’s neck, crushing the bones with his heel. Shifting his gaze forward, he watched on as the horde moved against them. With a wearied sigh he returned to the task at hand, slashed open a man’s face before driving him back into the others.

  Smashing his shield against another’s face, he broke another’s nose with the pommel of his sword. He glimpsed the blade come down but had no time to do anything about it. It cracked him on his pauldron and reverberated into his eardrum, deafening him. His arm was wracked with pain and he could no longer lift his sword. In anguish he kicked out, connecting with the man’s abdomen before swinging his shield into the advancing group to hold them at bay.

  Pollux and Tove were holding on, still fighting. His arm felt heavy. He needed to lift it. Panic climbed up the back of his throat. He needed to deal with this, get on top of things, or these were going to be his last moments on this earth. Octans couldn’t let them down. He gripped his sword tighter until the hilt squeezed hard against the newly forming blisters on his hand. He took a deep breath in, then out, and stepped forward into the fray. He took out a charging man by ramming the edge of his shield into his throat. The man lost his feet underneath him and fell in a bloody heap.

  Octans turned his head to see one Kyzantine ram a spear into Tove’s thigh. He didn’t scream but plunged his blade into the man’s chest before snapping the spear’s shaft. He hobbled back a step, found his balance, and killed another. Octans strained and lifted his sword arm. If Tove could keep fighting, he bloody well could too. He took the next strike on the steel’s edge, turned it away and slammed the blade down splitting open his opponent’s head. Octans tugged it out and put it straight back into another’s throat.