Hope Sundered

Morlo and his men returned to Sollin’s camp late that night, as promised. They rode in hard, taking out the lone sentry before descending upon those still sleeping. Many were slain before the militiamen even knew he was under attack.

Confused and scared, Sollin rushed toward the nearest skirmish, plowing through with his sword and shield. Squaring up with two of his men, he overcame the pair of cavaliers facing them. They moved throughout the camp, bringing down one rider after another.

Morlo charged in from behind, blasting Sollin from his feet and cleaving the man to his left in half. The third member of their trio fell beneath Morlo’s steed. He pulled up and circled around, looking for Sollin. His marvelous axe hung low in his grip, its keen edge slick with the blood of a dozen victims.

Fear and anger propelled Sollin to his feet, but a dizziness accompanied a welt on the back of his skull. Through a haze he saw his attacker stalking toward him.

“What’re you doing?” Sollin demanded, fighting off relentless waves of dizziness.

Morlo sneered. “You fat, foolish Avelirian. You’ll trust anyone at first glance, just as the militias in the south did. Now you’ll share their fate, as will those who come next. You’ve told me everything I need to pick off your reinforcements, one group at a time.”

Sollin’s stomach lurched. He’d failed to see through this man’s ruse by ignoring the most obvious clue: no Avelirian would own such an exquisite weapon! Because of his careless oversight, dozens of lifeless bodies lay strewn about the camp like broken branches after a thunderstorm.

A white-hot anger shoved his guilt aside. “Oh yeah? Well…why don’t you come down from your horse and face me like a man!”

Morlo’s cackle was swollen with contempt. “And surrender my tactical advantage? You really are an idiot.”

With a barbaric roar Sollin charged, sword held high and shield out before him. Morlo yanked on the reins and his mount reared up on its hind legs, poised to pound the man into the earth like a tent peg.

Sollin ducked under the horse’s flailing forelegs as they came crashing down. Its hooves slid over the curve of his shield, but the weight of the blow still drove him to his knees and twisted his left arm back at a grotesque angle.

Ignoring the agony engulfing his left shoulder, he plunged his sword up into the exposed flesh. The horse cried out and buckled, throwing its rider before collapsing on its side.

Sollin’s shield fell from his left hand’s useless grip. With his sword lodged in the horse’s abdomen up to its hilt, he was weaponless. Far from finished, Sollin scooped up a rock, rose to his feet, and staggered over to where Morlo’s prone form began to stir.

Sollin hurled it at Morlo’s head and connected, cracking bone and spraying blood. Morlo screamed and rolled over to protect his face from further onslaught, giving Sollin a better idea. He picked up the double-bladed axe and with another mighty yell, brought the weapon down hard on the man’s neck.

“Your axe is mine now,” he growled at the decapitated corpse.

Like a man possessed he ran wild through the camp, chopping down anyone in his way. Bolstered by his ferocity, men rallied to his side. The militia soon turned the tide. In just under an hour, they liberated their camp of its Azrahteran presence. Only a handful of horsemen escaped.

Sollin looked at his dislocated left arm, wondering if it would need to be amputated with a detached sense of curiosity. He knew it would bother him once the shock of the battle wore off.

He was relieved to find Crenshaw alive, despite the blood trickling down the right side of the bartender’s face and crimson stains darkening his shirt. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Crenshaw assured his friend.

Sollin’s arm, however, required immediate attention. He winced and bit down on a thick piece of rope as two of his men reset it. The damage didn’t appear to be permanent. Despite the good news, the constant throbbing was almost unbearable.

Crenshaw offered him his bottle of spirits to numb the pain. Sollin accepted with a shaky hand. It was strong and tart, whatever it was, and very effective. After several long pulls a dull ache replaced the burning discomfort in his shoulder.

Sollin’s heart hurt far worse. Morlo’s words stabbed at him, penetrating his emotional defenses as easily as a sharp knife through a tunic. He looked around at the men lying on the ground before him. So many brothers, husbands, and sons would never return home to those they cherished.

“What was I thinking, Cren? I can’t lead these people! I have no idea what I’m doing. Half our people are dead, and it’s my fault! If only I’d been more suspicious or asked more questions. I should’ve sent scouts to follow Morlo and confirm his story. I should’ve picked up on his accent, his manner, his confidence. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” Crenshaw said with enough force to grab Sollin’s attention. The miller from Nuth looked up into the knowing eyes of his trusted friend. “None of this is your fault. Morlo deceived us all.”

“But these men trusted me with their lives! They expected me to lead, to keep them safe!” Sollin fought the urge to weep but lost. “Just like Narlend,” he finished with a whisper.

Crenshaw shook his head. “No, Solli. There were no such expectations. Not then, and not now. Everyone here understood the risks. We volunteered to fight because honor and justice demanded we defend our homeland.”

Sollin looked down and shook his head. “Morlo was right. We’re nothing but a band of simpletons.”

“On the contrary, his actions tell me the Azrahterans believe we’re formidable. They fear our militias uniting, becoming larger and stronger, so they’re trying to keep our groups small and scattered.”

“Well, they’ve succeeded!”

“Not so! As you said earlier, more are coming. Don’t lose hope! That’s your responsibility as a leader to these men, not strategy and skill. As crazy as it sounds, hope is our greatest weapon. The enemy can’t ever take it from us as long as we refuse to let it go!”

Sollin smirked. “Quite poetic old friend, but not very practical.”

“Isn’t it? I’ve tended bar for a long time. I’ve listened to countless men share their dreams and regrets, and at the heart of every story is hope. This one hopes she’ll accept his proposal. That one hopes his son will become a better man before it’s too late. It keeps us going when we can’t see a clear path forward, or when we’re so far off the path we fear we’ll never make it back.

“We just had our first taste of the enemy. Maybe they were the best they had, maybe not. Either way, we’re still here. Sure, Morlo was crafty, but he’s dead now. You earned that axe you’re holding, and I say it suits you well.”

Sollin looked down at the well-crafted weapon in his hand. “It is a mighty fine axe.”