The Enemy

A young soldier comes face to face with one of his homeland's foes.

          The sun crested the horizon, spilling over the high mountains to the east of the Pocket, he large valley that sat between the Imperial Kingdom of Maekovia and the Ich Alliance lands. The high mountains only allowed the sunlight to pass over its peaks mote by mote, restricting the encroaching illumination of the valley to a slow crawl.
          As the morning light expanded across the Pocket, the Imperial army of Maekovia renewed their vigorous assault upon the mercenary armies of the Ich Alliance of the Great Peoples. The mercenaries had steadily been losing ground as the Maekovian empire poured their seemingly endless resources into the valley. The neutral no man's land that had sat between the two nations for roughly one-hundred and fifty years was now growing narrower by the day. A great trench had been dug a month previously by the mercenaries in order to establish a defensible foothold against the approaching imperial forces, great furrows in what was otherwise a flat expanse of dirt and sand. The trenches had made for decent battlements for two weeks, but withering supply lines and slow attrition by imperial artillery had transformed the trenches into graves. After another week, the mercenary armies had received permission from their benefactors to retreat to their main camps. Before the order, others had decided that living with empty pockets was better than dying with full ones. Imperial commanders, emboldened by the steady withdraw, had ordered knight shock troops to storm the trenches as the mercenaries fled.
          Now instead of a peaceful withdrawal, the mercenaries had to fight and retreat. They fought with the advance forces as they tried to claw their way back to the Ich main camp. A lucky few managed to both survive these skirmishes and dodge the artillery raining down on the retreating mercenaries. But most of the mercenaries died with their back to the enemy, significantly crippling the mercenary armies. The Alliance, devoid of soldiers and on the verge of financial ruin, would be forced into giving up much northern territory to the Maekovian Empire, including the Pocket and any neutral buffer that had previously safeguarded Ich interests.
          Yet the failures of the Ich Alliance today would not be felt in their entirety for several more weeks. On this day, the fighting in the trenches was not easy fighting for the Imperials, despite the retreat of the mercenary army. The mercenaries were fierce soldiers of multiple campaigns, and if the Imperials would not let them retreat in peace they would at least pay dearly for it. Even though the organization of the mercenary armies had broken down amidst the chaos, smaller cohorts stayed back to slow down the advancing Imperials. Rudimentary games of chance and the volunteerism of old veterans had fated an eclectic group of the sell-swords to stall the Imperials as their other coin brothers fled.
          Despite the overwhelming number and superior equipment of the Maekovian forces, the mercenaries made them pay for each step. The mercenaries' single advantage, experience, allowed them to take down conscript after conscript. Among the trenches, east of the main fighting, a particular mercenary was beating knights to death with a great war hammer, defending his small space within the trenches as the battle rushed around him.
          The hammer-wielder swung at an Imperial knight, who raised a steel buckler to block the blow. The inexperience of the knight, newly minted in the flourishes of the Maekovian Lower Palace, was betrayed by his decision to block instead of dodge. The shield barely slowed the hammer as it smashed through both it and the head of the knight.
          "Stay back!" called Loath, another young knight, as what was left of his comrade fell limp at the feet of the hulking mercenary. Blood dripped from the war hammer as a mad smile played across its wielder's face. Four of their unit now lay about him, all mangled . Only three, including Loath, remained.
          Loath's command was hardly necessary. The other knights around him had been cowled by watching the mercenary beat their fellows to bloody pulps, and none were brave or stupid enough to be the next one. Loath had already seen their comrades along the valley stream over the trenches like a mighty river, while they were being stopped by one fat man with a hammer.
          "Does anybody have a crossbow?" Loath asked. None answered him. The mercenary turned his head, smile still on his lips. He seemed to recognize the Imperial words and was either not worried by such a possibility, or did not care. The mercenary was dressed in leather armor and the colorful motley that marked men who were paid to kill. Leather armor did not offer the same protection as the knights' light plate, but it was certainly able to stop any wayward arrows from a bow. Even if they had one, the mercenary would likely never give any of them the opportunity to load a crossbow. Loath looked about the trench guardian's feet, around the bodies of the dead knights to see a myriad of arrows sticking out of the ground. The ranged assault on the trenches had been intense, leaving the area littered with missiles. Loath also remembered the reports of the standard armor worn by the mercenaries, where the weaknesses are, and he conceived a plan.
          Loath yelled incoherently, waving his hands. The mercenary turned, rough fingers gripping the hammer tightly, ready for another foolish knight . Loath took off his own steel buckler and tossed it aside, learning from the mistake of the last corpse. The mercenary snickered. Loath raised his broadsword, pointed it at the mercenary with menace, and then charged.
          Loath watched as the mercenary, as he had done with the first of the fallen knights, raise his hammer to swing in a wide arc before him. The hammer, almost twice as long as a sword, would crush Loath before he could get his sword anywhere close to the mercenary. Yet the goal was not to use the sword.
          Loath dropped the sword, rolling underneath the swing of the mercenary's hammer. There was a brief moment of surprise flicker through the mercenary's eyes as the young knight clattered painfully against his legs, before they both tumbled into the trench.
          The mercenary quickly clamored to his feet, moving quickly for his girth. Loath had not thought of the awkward way his plate armor would restrict his movement, but he had just enough reach to grab at one of the several arrows sticking out of the ground. He found one, yanking it out of the dirt and stabbing the arrowhead into the mercenary's fleshy calf. The leg armor worn by most Ich mercenaries amounted to little more than shin guards, and left the back of the leg almost completely exposed.
          The mercenary screamed, shouting something in a language Loath did not understand. Loath, within easy reach of plenty of arrows, found another one to stick into the mercenary's leg.
          The other knights were not so stunned by Loath's gambit as to not take his lead. One charged, hoping this was his chance for glory and carnage. However the mercenary was battle hardened and knew where the true threat was. He would not be distracted by little arrows, no matter how annoying they might sting. He swung quickly. The charging knight was brushed aside by the hammer head with a muted gurgle, as both armor and ribs collapsed.
          Loath was trying to crawl away when the hammer head came down flat upon his knee. Loath screamed, hot pain racing up his leg as his knee itself lost any sense of feeling. With eyes swimming in tears and his mind blinded by anything except his crushed leg, he looked up to see the war hammer blot out the sun, to come crashing down in his face.
          But it never came. The first knight who had taken advantage of Loath's distraction may have joined the rest of the dead, but the other remaining knight had been hot on his heels. As the mercenary raised his hammer, Loath's comrade wedged his broadsword into their great opponent's neck. The mercenary went down without a sound, dropping the hammer in the trench dirt before slumping on top of the body of the last Imperial he had killed.
          The knight who had landed the killing blow wrenched his sword free. Loath had, through sheer adrenaline, managed to prop himself up against one of the trench walls. He could only stomach one glance at his knee before having to turn away. It looked like a mangled melon, and the sight almost made him heave up what little rations he had chocked down that morning. Loath took off his helmet, revealing a tanned freckled face covered by dirt and sweat. He grimaced as he tried to slowly move his leg to a more comfortable position. His fellow knight wrenched his own helmet off, too elated by the kill to notice Loath's obvious torment.
          "Did you see that? The fat Ich didn't know what hit him! Stabbing him was like spitting a greasy pig, but I managed, ha!" He made some skewering motions with his sword, overjoyed with himself.
          "You need to put your helmet back on," Loath warned, the words stifled by pain. "The enemy have been firing back at us the whole retreat. You don't know if-"
          It was then that a crossbow bolt caught the boasting knight in the eye. The impact of the bolt almost lifted the knight off his legs, propelling his body against the opposite trench wall with a smack. The knight died with a grin on his face, struck dead while celebrating his great victory.
          Loath, shocked, tried to shuffle away from the leering corpse before a jolt of pain reminded him that his knee was all but destroyed. . He breathed, carefully and slowly, as he was trained. The sounds of battle were slowly fading away as the retreat took the Imperial army away from the trenches. Loath looked to his right and left and realized he was alone with the victorious dead.
          "It is, frankly, awe-inspiring that your little gambit there worked."
          Loath yelped, again reacting reflexively and again grinding his teeth in pain as his body refused any movement of his broken leg. Loath looked left to lock eyes with what he had mistakenly thought was a corpse. The formerly dead man was one of the Ich mercenaries.
          "Sabas was legendary with that hammer, but I doubt he ever had anybody try to do something that stupid before. Who can predict the folly of the youthful?" The mercenary shifted slightly, chuckling. Loath noticed he had both hands firmly pressed against his belly, dark blood slowly leaking between his fingers. "I was going to ask him to release me from this miserable state once he was done with you lot, but now he is dead and we are left here with only ghosts to comfort us."
          Loath stared at the mercenary, who now talked and breathed and moved when mere moments ago Loath had thought him dead. Now it was speaking, forming words as it held its hands tightly against the wound in its stomach. Loath could now see a crude bandage had been wrapped around the wound, and the mercenary's casual speech had an undertone of immense strain.
          Loath felt around for a weapon, any weapon.
          "My name is Mesh, what's yours?" the common language broke Loath from his search momentarily. Loath's shock had kept him from making the obvious connection that he could understand the mercenary's words.
          The Reach man also saw the realization go across Loath's face. "Mercenary work is a universal business, I can speak a handful of different tongues, even if for some it is the most basic talk."
          The enemy's eyes fell on the Imperial Wolf that was painted on Loath's armor. "I can even speak the Imperial language if that makes it easier," he said, in heavily accented but otherwise perfect Maekovian.
          Loath relented from trying to find something to defend himself with, although his eyes never leaving the mercenary. Not that he felt as if there were no threat, but because of practical reality. The barest shift of his leg caused intense spasms of pain. The mercenary did not seem in any better condition, but then again he was more armed than Loath. There was even rumors of exotic abilities held by the Reach mercenaries, like deadly accuracy with a throwing knife...
          "Fine, be silent," the mercenary said. "Let this old man expire without even the succor of good conversation."
          The mercenary fell silent. Loath, immobile, craned his neck to see up and down the whole range of the trench. There was not a single living soul, friend nor enemy, to be found. Loath turned his head upwards, to the hot Eastern sun overhead. It beat down mercilessly, an intense dry heat that pervaded the battlefield despite it being the beginning of the fall season. Back home there would be preparations for festivals as the leaves changed into a dappled mess of red and orange. In the far north in the Imperial capital there may even be early flurries of snow. Loath eyes began to feel hot and wet, and he doubly cursed such thoughts for causing him to lose moisture. Then his stomach grumbled, loudly like a plow ox. Loath had not had any food since the field rations earlier that morning, which he had barely kept down.
          Loath felt something soft hit his head, bouncing off his head into the dirt. He flinched. The object was a small leather sack, tied closed with wheat string.
          "It's dried meat, just a notch above the food you Imperials eat on the road," The mercenary told him through wincing. "The food may just fall out of me if I had any, best not to go to waste hidden on my corpse."
          Loath tried to maintain some illusion of caution, yet his hunger made it difficult to not rip into the bag. He untied the bag to reveal strips of meat. The smell of spice that wafted from the bag overpowered any thoughts of poison. He drew out one of the strips of meat and bit off a piece of the jerky. The meat was tough, but it had been prepared expertly with an eye to taste as well as preservation.
          The mercenary, Mesh, watched Loath tear through the jerky before saying "You are more trusting than I had initially thought."
          Loath froze .
          Mesh shook his head, "It's not poisoned you dolt! I'm just saying you must have been hungry is all, to take food from my dirty Reach hands."
          Loath tied the bag closed while watching Mesh. His throat was now dried out from the salted meat, but it was preferable to the hunger. He looked at Mesh and then to the bag, and he held the bag out to the mercenary.
          Mesh face cracked slightly, but otherwise the gesture got no reaction. Mesh waived a hand dismissing the offering. "Like I said, it's not going to do me much good anymore."
          Loath pulled the bag back, feeling his face grow hot. Anger arose after the embarrassment, the stupidity of offering food to a dying man. Worse yet offering the man's own food back to him.
          "What I could use is an interested ear," Mesh said.
          Loath glared at the mercenary. "Why?"
          Mesh put his hands up to the sun, so energetically it startled Loath. Another bit of pain in his leg, which was now starting to settle into uncomfortable soreness.
          "Praise Azun! He speaks!" Mash proclaimed. He put his hands now. "I would just like to tell someone about my life before I die off. Call it a whim."
          Loath did not say another word, but nodded. Mash smiled.
                                                                                         ###
          I was born in the East reaches, near the borders of Tillstock and Korstad. Those were easier days, not necessarily unaffected by war and strife but such things were more inconvenience than reality. The market would not have coffee because a shipment was interrupted by a battle, or maybe you had to wait to travel to family as a war had moved slightly too far south. War was something that happened but not in any way that you truly noticed, like one of the many movements of nature.
          My father was a merchant in the local guild, a rather unremarkable presence in the trade of our city but not an insignificant one. He would barter with any member of the guild, high and low, and often struck deals that could satisfy any number of parties by filling their sackcloths with goods and gold. My own father's worth also benefited well from these trades. He died a comfortable man, having built a sprawling network that has a hand in every major commerce of the city.
          I was the youngest of five children, four of which were sons. It was determined that my brothers would receive the education in figures and business needed for the merchant's guild, while I had to satisfy myself with a series of apprenticeships with local artisans. I was meant to fit snugly into a profession where I could occupy myself but not be a smudge on my father's good name. However I did not have much attention for such matters. Most masters ended up losing interest in me and my lack of ability, or I in them for their lack of ambition. As such, I usually found myself wondering the streets of my city, busying my days in places of poor reputation. That was where I first encountered the mercenary life.
          Mercenaries would frequent themselves among the taverns, gambling halls, and brothels that every city has, including my own. There isn't much else for a man with no battle to fight and notes bursting out of his pocket. I often ended up in these places myself, and I heard these soldiers talk about their lives. They talked of fighting wars in far off lands, wars fought for kings, emperors, and guildsman richer than a god. I became enamored with the life of a mercenary, and I wanted to live my own adventures as one. It seemed like such a simple life, so easy. I had a decent sword arm myself and even a small amount of formal training. Surely, I too could make a living by bringing death to others.
          When I went to my father to ask about going off with one of these roving bands of mercenaries, he was not flustered or scandalized by the statement. He had already secured himself through my brothers, so he sent me off with a wave of his hand and even money for decent armor and a sword. He only had one missive: "If you insist on taking this path, then you do so without my name".
          I took no issue with the command, it was not a name I had much use for. I joined with the roving band in question, I forget their name now, and I began my journey as a warmaker for hire.
          After that day my life has been battle and money, an endless cycle of making one and losing the other. The money has nowhere to go except into this life and into our comfort. I would be battling in Tillstock one day and in a whorehouse in Monova the next. I have been across the Iaonos and have fought through many of its islands. Not all, mind you, just most. I have bled men out upon stone, sand, and grass. I have served at the pleasure of strong and cowardly men. I have done this all in the service of the almighty coin, because it was what I was good at. The only thing I was good at.
          You learn quickly that wars are only fought by those who can afford to go to war- kings, emperors, rich guildmasters, lordlings, those that are willing to pay such costs. They also pay those who are clever with their words to convince the common man to go to war for his country, but in truth they have no real stake in such wars. Take heed of the words of a dying man: the only man who benefits from a war is the one who is paid good, hard gold for it.
         

###

          "What a cursed existence," Loath spit on the ground.
          Mesh stopped, his story stunted by the knight's sudden outburst. Loath had been listening intently as Mesh recounted his mercenary life. Mesh shifted, grunting as new blood blossomed under his hand and over the dirty bandage keeping his wound staunched.
          "Tell me, boy, what noble reason makes your fight more honorable than mine?"
          Loath stated, with the surety of youth, "I fight for my home and its people, for its prosperity. I fight for something beyond itself, and when I die, it does not die with me. Unlike your greed, which will disappear with you."
          Mesh smirked. "And where is your home, my young knight?"
          "Maekovia."
          "Maekovia itself is a sprawling city-nation far to the north, and I can tell by looking at you that you do not hail from there. From where in its vast empire are you from?"
          Loath made for another quick response, but the word died in his mouth. Confusion crossed his face before he answered. "I believe that my home was called Instock before it was part of the empire."
          Mesh nodded. "A newer addition to the empire, relatively speaking."
          "My father does not remember the Kingdom of Instock, so I certainly never knew it as such. My home, since my birth, is the Maekovian empire".
          "Your father," Mesh mused, "and your mother, if they live. What do they gain from you dying here, in a land they have never seen? Will they be content with knowing you died for an emperor that lives hundreds of miles from them? Will they think you died for something greater?"
          "They are proud of my service!" Loath yelled.
          "Of course they are, what other way is there?" Mesh tried to yell back, but the last word was drowned out in a short burst of wet coughs that wracked Mesh's body.
          The coughing continued, Mesh's hand still pressed firmly against his bleeding wound. Loath watched as the enemy mercenary began to fold in on himself as the coughing began to grow even more violent. Loath was sure that the mercenary was about to expire then and there.
          The coughing began to slow, being replaced with low laughter. Mesh lifted his head, and chuckling said, "Oh, your family would receive a mortal stipend once your death is recorded in the Maekovian ledgers in the Books of the Armies. Both of our legacies boil down to gold! Ha!" Mesh continued to laugh, only breaking to cough blood. Loath, unsure of what else to do, spit in Mesh's direction.
          A smile never quite left Mesh's lips, but otherwise the two further bore their pain in silence. The hours passed, with Loath rationing what little water he had on his person. Eventually, against his better judgment, he unfastened his breastplate and let it fall into the dirt. Without the weight he was able to adjust himself somewhat more comfortably, but he was still unable to move without his leg blinding him with pain. Eventually he began to fade in and out of consciousness as the heat and pain smothered his mind.
          He awoke with a start, as the evening light of the setting sun passed under his eyes. The bodies in the trench had remained untouched. The pain in Loath's leg had subsided into a paralyzing ache.
          Loath turned his head toward Mesh, and saw that the mercenary's hand had slipped from his wound. A crimson stain now marked Mesh's brightly colored trousers. The enemy soldier himself lay inert, his head rolled to the side, having finally succumbed to his wounds.
          Loath shifted slightly, and all at once the pain returned. Loath fought through it this time, reaching over for a nearby sword. Not quite close enough to reach while sitting. He fell on his side, grimaced as his leg continued to spasm. He drug himself closer to the sword until he could feel the tip of the blade with his fingers. Loath pawed at the blade until it slid closer to him, and he gingerly picked it up by the edge. The longsword was little under a meter, but that was enough to stick above the top of the trench.
          "What do you hope to do with that?" a voice asked him weakly.
          Loath looked up at Mesh, who peered down at him with hooded eyes. Mesh's hand had returned to his wound, but he applied no obvious pressure. Loath thought that he likely lacked the strength.
          "Making a flag," Loath said through gritted teeth as he sat up.
          "It's a little late to surrender."
          "We were the advance force," Loath said, figuring military secrets would not be wasted on a dying man, "there is a rear force, about three cohorts, advancing behind us and they should be passing through soon."
          "Ah, I see," Mesh made a low noise that could have been a chuckle, but came out more like a wheeze. "We were never going to win this pointless border war."
          Mesh tilted his head toward the blood red sky as Loath scanned the trench for a makeshift flag. They now sat side by side, each one wading through his fate in his own way.
          "Will you be willing to do an old man a kindness?" Mesh asked.
          Loath stopped his search. "I am in the midst of performing such kindness, making a signal for the advance force to rescue us. I will take your thanks in advance if you're so inclined."
          "So I can die bleeding captive to my foes?"
          "Imperial law and Sainted law are unified on the ways of war. Surrender peacefully and you will be given the same aid as any one of my comrades." Loath pointed at the hammer mercenary. "Do you think some of that motley you all wear will make a proper flag?"
          "I am a dead man now, no matter what illusion my speaking may convey otherwise," Mesh said. "I would ask that you allow me to die here, by my request."
          "You have a knife strapped to your leg. There are killing tools all around us. Do it yourself."
          "That is a fair point, young knight. Unfortunately I lack the courage."
          Loath balked. "You speak of a noble death-"
          "I never claimed any nobility."
          "You ask for death on your own terms yet you cannot wield the knife yourself?" Loath mocked. "Then hang onto life and maybe you will be saved by the grace of the Empire."
          "There is no saving me, by grace or otherwise," Mesh said.
          Loath waved a hand dismissively as he tried to cut at the cloak of a nearby dead mercenary. He had to drag it forward some, grunting in pain, before cutting at the cloak with his sword. It came apart crudely, but it would do for his purposes.
          "Please."
          Loath stopped, the colored strip of cloak in one hand and the sword in the other. He rotated his body again so he could see Mesh. Mesh did not return his gaze but instead kept his eyes upon the sky, which was now filling with stars.
          The word had been tinged by the barest hint of a sob, and Loath could see a wetness in Mesh's eyes.
          Loath looked at the sword in his hand, then plunged it into Mesh's neck. Mesh's hand gripped the sword instinctively as the blade went in, but then almost instantly loosened as his life drained into the sand. Mesh hand slid off the sword's edge as his head tilted to the side listlessly.
          Loath dropped the bloody sword, his hand shaking. He gripped his wrist and closed his eyes, drawing into himself. Loath spent a moment curled in on himself, blocking out the battlefield around him. Ignoring the corpse of the man who had been alive and speaking to him the entire day. Of Mesh.
          Loath steadied his breathing. He opened his eyes, reached down and gripped the sword that he had used to end Mesh's life. Loath tied the shredded cloak around the end of the sword opposite of the hilt. Then he waited. Mesh's body slid away from him and crumpled into the sand.
          The sun was setting and a soft darkness had fallen on the battlefield before Loath heard the sounds of approaching boats. Torchlight appeared around the trench with the cries of fellow soldiers. Loath lifted the sword above his head and swung it back and forth in wide arcs. It was just tall enough to poke above the trench. There were more yells and the light from the torches began to move toward Loath. He tossed the sword away.
          Imperial soldiers streamed into the trench, checking the Imperial honored dead while ignoring the mercenaries. One bent down and inspected Loath's broken leg. Loath watched as a dark mood crossed the soldier's face as he called for a medic.
          Another soldier, this one wearing a short half capelet signifying a captain rank, stepped down into the trench. He surveyed the carnage of the trench.
          "You will be honored in the Lower Palace for your service here today, knight," the captain said. The captain's eyes stopped at Loath's bloody sword, then to Mesh's slumped body beside the knight.
          "Who is the Reachman?" the captain asked.
          Loath glanced at Mesh's body, then back to his captain.
          "I don't know," Loath answered.
          The captain nodded curtly. He gave the many bodies lying in the trench one last look before giving a stern order to another soldier to collect the Imperials for transport back to the Capital.
          "Burn the rest," was the last part of the captain's command.
          Loath was taken back to a medical camp, not far from the trenches. As an imperial doctor attempted to set his leg back in place, he remembered seeing the harsh fire and smoke rise into the night air above the trenches.