Hope Sundered

Major Parcivon sat in his tent and brooded. The goblet of wine in his hand brought him no comfort. He eyed the parchment on his table with contempt. Its contents revealed the orders no one wanted. The news of Morlo’s defeat hit like a tidal wave, but no one desired to be his replacement.

Parcivon knew it wasn’t personal, but it felt like punishment. His company was the obvious choice, being encamped the farthest away from the city on the eastern side. This fact did nothing to assuage his smoldering resentment.

Half a dozen other leaders came to mind, all better suited to stoop this low. He knew they were all laughing at his misfortune. Hunting down a ragtag band of farmers was a waste of his time. If he missed the city’s breach, he’d curse Morlo’s name until the day he died.

Parcivon had retraced Morlo’s steps with the help of his surviving soldiers. He was now a half day’s ride from the ambush site, though he didn’t expect to find the Avelirians there. They were no doubt hiding and praying to their god not to be found. Parcivon simply couldn’t fathom how Morlo had managed to get himself and half his men killed.

Zordecai’s orders made it clear he and his men were not to return to the city until this and any other stubborn militia had been eliminated. Aveliria needed to understand their resistance was a fool’s hope.

With a stretch and a yawn, Parcivon decided sleep was more productive than sulking. The sooner he got up the sooner he could complete his mission. In the meantime, he’d dream about leading the first charge through Wyndham’s sundered gates, securing his own name in Azrahteran history.

⸞ ⸎ ⸟

There was no dramatic war cry. No adrenaline-fueled scream to heighten the charge and strike fear into the hearts of the enemy. No promises of vengeance for the fallen yelled into the night. Only brutal aggression.

Sollin and his men descended upon Parcivon’s camp like a summer deluge. They swung their blades and clubs and axes with wild abandon, rushing past tents and carts without stopping, without even looking back to see if their blows had been fatal. They maintained their momentum even as the Azrahterans raised the alarm and attempted to form a defense.

The heavy breathing and grunts of exertion were soon replaced with the screams of the dying and the occasional clash of steel. Sollin’s men punched straight through the camp, killing many and grievously injuring those they didn’t.

They scattered horses and kicked up campfires, further adding to the chaos. Errant embers found dry canvas, and soon random fires blazed to life, giving the Avelirians a much-needed ally, as they were still outnumbered almost two to one.

Sollin’s men didn’t stop, didn’t turn around. They kept running as fast as they could, disappearing into the night, carried by the same cloud of silence in which they arrived.

⸞ ⸎ ⸟

Major Parcivon struggled free of the collapsed heap that had been his tent. One side was consumed in flame, choking him with acrid smoke. He could feel the heat radiating upward, but it felt cold in comparison to the furious indignation raging in his heart.

He looked around his ruined camp. Men on fire were running about, flailing and screaming. Others were trying to help fallen comrades. Still others were standing around in shock, too confused to do anything.

He called for his attendant but soon learned the young man was dead. He appointed another and reorganized his remaining force. The fires were extinguished and those too injured to continue were put to the sword. They salvaged what they could and took a head count of those still fit for battle.

“Barbarians! Savages! Feral animals with no regard for civilized warfare!” he raged to his new attendant. All thoughts of the city fled Parcivon’s mind. “We can’t allow these Avelirian cowards to take an underhanded shot at the mightiest army in the world and live!”

He also knew with dreadful certainty he couldn’t return to Zordecai in shameful defeat. The general would ensure he suffered a slowis death was very slow and unbearably painful. It would be better by far to die in battle.

Parcivon’s path was now set. History would either remember him as the man who corrected Morlo’s mistake, or an even greater failure than his colleague.

History, like his general, was cruel.