The Union 244 Sick

Half of the legion was put in rotating sentry duty while the half rested. Campfires were lit in every corner and Brent had ordered a wall of palisades to be built. And sure enough, the enemies a.s.saulted four more times in the night. The sudden clash of steels and the death of men in the darkness of the night had become too familiar. A death here, a death there. It was horrible and yet what could they do?

The elephants didn't attack though and that was a relief. Sarah wouldn't risk losing her precious beasts. She was probably saving her ace for the Rooster. An insult to him and Goldentooth.

Brent pushed the piece of wood towards the other embers in hope that the campfire near his tent would last longer. Cupping the neck of a bottle, he drank from a bottle of cheap brothel wine he got from Mythrille. The taste was a little horrible, bitter with some suspended solids.

"You should sleep sire" his squire said beside, an energetic youth Brent took into his service just a month ago.

"Sleep while my men are dying?" Brent raised a brow. It was meant to make him intimidating but his squire smiled instead.

"The men will die whether you sleep or not sire. Better rest to clear your mind"

"You make sense. Unfortunately I am not a man who listens to sense. You've heard the things my own men are talking regarding me, haven't you?"

The Squire nodded without reservation. c.o.c.ky lad, Brent thought.

"They call you incompetent. A few were bold enough to call you a fool. They say that you only ascended to your rank because of your blood. They p.i.s.s on you. They want you replaced"

"Your should learn how to put a hold into that tongue of yours boy" Brent said, maybe a little unfriendly. Those insults were not the Squire's own words.

"But the sire wants to know. I just quenched the sire's curiosity about the things his men say behind his back"

"Maybe so" Brent grimaced upon hearing a scream of death from the distance. The enemies were attacking again, the fifth time since sundown. He should be there. He should be encouraging his men and manning the defenses. He did try earlier but found out that he was just a distraction. The Centurions and the Prefects were trained on what to do. He was useless. And so he decided to just sit here in front of a stupid campfire while Castonians defend the camp with grit. It wouldn't matter if he was near the fighting anyway. He couldn't inspire. He couldn't command. He couldn't think of a plan. He was just a strict n.o.ble with b.a.l.l.s for brains.

"That's the fifth time" The squire said the obvious thing. "And the sire is still sitting here, drinking wine"

"What could I do then? They don't want me. I am useless in their eyes. I am the most useless General in the whole army" Brent felt his face heat up, furious at his own self. "What they say is true. I don't know anything about commanding. I am not a leader. I am not an inspiration to them. I've seen the way they look at me. They despise me. They want me dead. I don't have an ounce of respect from them. Is everything that happened, all these muddled mess, my fault?"

It is, Brent thought. All of this was his fault. All of the deaths were his burden. A stupid man shouldn't act smart. Knowing one's limit would save others.

Suddenly the squire grabbed the bottle from his hand and drank the whole thing in one huge gulp. The c.o.c.ky lad had the audacity to grunt in pleasure.

"These, all these, are your sin" The Squire said "You are a sinner. You shouldn't have accepted the position of a General in the first place. You should have stayed home in your fief. You don't have talent."

Brent didn't have time to be angry at the lad. The lad's words were truth anyway. That's right, Brent thought. I should have stayed. It is my fault men are dying.

"But alas you are here" The Squire added, now with a small mischievous smile "You are the General of the Goldentooth legion sire. Nothing can change that. You made wrong decisions. You are stupid, more stupid than my halfwit brother Cen. But you now have a responsibility. Being idle is a far more heinous crime than incompetence. You are just trying to find an excuse for all the mistakes you did. Weak? Without talent? A lesser man? All excuses for your cowardice. The Queen didn't put you in that position in a whim. You are more than just a stupid n.o.ble who doesn't know how to lead a legion. The Queen saw something in you. It is your job to find out"

Those statements were like needles to Brent. He was probably the only n.o.ble a squire talked to this way.

He chuckled. The boy made sense though. He wasn't fond of listening to sense but the words were shoved down his throat.

Brent rose and grabbed the bottle of wine from the Squire. He raised it above his mouth and savored the last remaining drops.

"Follow me you sharp-tongued c.u.n.t" Brent said "I am not General Marvin. And h.e.l.l no, I am not the King. I am Brent the stupid. And I will lead Goldentooth in my own stupid way."

"What are you going to do sire?"

Brent didn't reply. He walked to the center of the camp. The fifth attack had ceased now. He unsheathed his sword and raised it high.

"This sword belongs to my Grandfather" His voice was loud, drawing the attention of the soldiers. "He is an Earl just like my father and I. Now my Grandfather loved the habit of chopping heads of things with this sword. Heads of swines, heads of birds, heads of dogs. He is a troubled man"

"Your Grandfather is a sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d sire!" One of the soldiers shouted followed by laughter from the rest. The camp became jolly despite the threat of the Wismarines.

"Aye he's a sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d that one. But we all have a sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d in all of us. Sarah Wismar is a sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d. King Harold is a sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You've seen how the man stutters" Scattered chuckles breezed through the listeners. Harold raised his hand "We are also sick b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. You and I are. We are the sickest of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. You know why? Because we are fighting and dying for loyalty. A man dying for an intangible thing is sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

The laughter turned into nods now. Brent wasn't good with speeches. But he was good with expressing himself.

"I hate that I'm loyal to the Union. I despise it. I know you do too. But we are addicted to loyalty as if it is Basilisk Root. We are loyal lads, all of us. We can't stop being loyal and we are sick b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Now we are in a bind here. Sarah Wismar means to destroy us all. She is slowly nipping at our forces and looking for a gap. Now I don't want that crazed woman to laugh her a.s.s in victory. We will show her why she shouldn't deal with sick b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like us. I need volunteers! We will drive our swords direct into their camp, slaughter as many war elephants as we could while our comrades escape. We will buy the rest of Goldentooth time, enough for them to reach safety"

He was met with blinking eyes. The grins died. His request was unreasonable. The volunteers would have to sacrifice themselves to let the others escape. A few hours would be enough to let the rest gain a distance to safety. But who would accept to be one of the sacrificial lambs? No sane man would. But the Goldentooth legion wasn't composed of sane men.

No words were needed. It was silent yet half of the men moved and gathered their weapons. All of them knew that it must be done. It was a folly. But they were all fools.

Brent gave his red cloak to a Prefect, transferring the Generalship. Tonight, he wasn't a General. He was just like the others. He was a Castonian.

The other half of Goldentooth began their escape. Brent held his spear firmly. He eyed the lights at the distance where the enemies were camping.

"You are the most stupid General sire I have heard of sire" Brent heard his squire said. He was both surprised and sad seeing the lad.

"You are probably right. This is the only thing that I know. The only thing that I'm sure of"

Brent said with a low chuckle. The lad grinned back.

In a moment they began their dash towards the enemy camp. Only death waited to their front. But the only way was forward. Brent knew that this night would be his end. But he was too sick of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d to care.