Fractured Realm: A Fight for Justice

XXIV

Chapter I

‘Only the dead have seen the end of war and the

misery it brings.’

Anon

Snow white clouds hung pristine and incongruously above the bleak, dark clearing. The early blast of winter’s first chilling and showery breeze gave the emerald green blades of grass a shimmering knives-edge wetness. The tree line was as foreboding as a moonless night’s sky and as impenetrable as a solid shield wall. In the centre of the gloomy dell were the ruined and tattered remains of Arshak’s Keep. The arch traitor’s castle was more a pile of bricks than a fortress. No walls were left complete and none redoubtable. His forces had nowhere left to run. The last of the rebels stood back to back, tired and weary, though hands still clutched determinedly to their swords.

They were surrounded. This would be, for better or worse, the end.

Facing the walls, just inside and on the edge of the small tree lined valley, an array of banners in a multitude of colours fluttered with the cold morning breeze. The Imperial army stood fast; captains wearing tarnished and battered plate armour strode through the ranks of soldiers demanding order, commanding alertness, yelling encouragement. Shivering men responded, some with enthusiasm, some barely able to stand, others mumbled prayers to a variety of deities, wishing for survival or courage in the coming conflict. Many kissed their lucky talismans hanging around their necks. While the veterans of this long campaign, obvious by the look of stoic disregard for life and death that lined their faces and was etched in the eyes and on their souls, looked to the edge of their blade and the robust shields for solace.

Upon a towering, powerful obsidian warhorse a man emerged from between the assembling lines of the Imperial force. His eyes blazed with an inferno of zealous hatred, General Marcus Kerr unsheathed the two handed broadsword clasped to his back and pointed the keen blade towards the bedraggled remnants of the once mighty rebellious war-machine.

For eight long, hideous years the lands of Mernovia had been torn apart by the ravages of civil war, with neighbour turning on neighbour, friend against friend and even brother attacking brother. Families and cities were torn apart, ravaged, ruined and laid waste. Ultimately, it had been men such as Marcus that had stood firm, loyal men, honest men, men who knew the worth of their Kingdom and their King; veritable beacons of light in a world of shadows. He had brought together the trusted and fractured forces of King Reinhardt IV. His army, though lesser in number, but more devout of purpose, had broken the siege of Trent five years ago. He had crushed the massed hosts of the despot Arshak and driven those who survived away from the ramparts of the capital city. But it had taken many long, hard months of continuous conflict before the Traitor was pushed back from the surrounding countryside and in that time the rebels had laid waste to farmland and farmers. The hostilities continued for longer, harder years, until finally the remainder of the treacherous scum were forced back to this place, their last stronghold and area of refuge.

Lifting his sword even higher to the heavens for all to see, Marcus looked over the field to where he could see Arshak, standing amidst the last of his knights, a desolate lonely man, amongst a gang of soon to be dead men. Marcus could think of it in no other context. He tried to find the eyes of his enemy, but they were too far away, hidden behind a blackened and bloodied helm.

‘Men, we are here today,’ his voice carried throughout the clearing, rising in power as he bellowed over the ranks of soldiers. ‘We face the last of this vile scum, the pitiful leftovers of these base turncoats. Look before you to those who dared see our lands torn asunder. Those who destroyed our homes, killed our friends, butchered our children, used our women and made our soil their own. We fight not just for our King, but for justice, we fight with right on our side and courage in our hearts. This has been a long war, an evil war. I would see it end this day. Death to Arshak! Death to the Traitors! Long Live King Reinhardt!’

All men need encouragement, running towards death is not natural. But the hearts of Marcus Kerr’s warriors were already heavy with sorrow, for all had lost someone near and dear. Their hearts were filled with anger at the depravities acted out by the enemy. And their heads were being reminded of all this by Marcus’ rousing words. The Imperial soldiers beat their spears and sword hilts against their iron shields, roaring in fury and determination.

The rebels conversely shuffled nervously; even Arshak took a step back, such was the force and vehemence of the rhetoric from General Kerr. His face though was hidden behind a dark burnished iron helmet and he gripped his axe tentatively. There would be no retreat, no surrender. Everything had gone too far for that and despite himself, he was sorry, it should never have come to this.

Marcus Kerr lowered his weapon, pointing the sword directly at Arshak, imagining the four foot of steel decapitating the man. He then turned in the saddle and faced his men.

‘Follow me men, for I shall give you victory!’ Marcus roared and charged forward, kicking the flanks of his foam mouthed horse as its hooves pounded into the soft ground.

The clash of the two armies was as stormy as tree-high sea waves breaking upon the unyielding jagged coastline rocks. The last few months had been the most furious of the terrible conflict and slaughter, the very worst of the eight dreadful long years. Everyone knew the end was near. The remaining elements of the rebel armies had been harried and pushed back to their last safe haven. But it was safe no more. With their walls broken and Keep reduced to rubble, and with all avenues of escape cut off, they had to fight to the last man. Cornered injured tigers would have been less fierce. The men of Arshak fought with relentless intensity, slashing wildly, teeth bared in anger and defiance, claws of steel and hearts of violent ferocity.

Blood drenched the earth.

Twice the Imperial army was cast back, forced to retreat to the shelter and relatively comfortable repose of the trees. It was not lack of numbers nor of resolve. It was simply a lack of energy. The men were tired and swinging a heavy blade was tiresome work, especially when you needed to use your shield to block incoming blows; even more so when this had been your only life for eight interminable years. Each time the indomitable General Kerr had rallied them, leading them back into the fray, marching at the fore of all his men, oblivious to incoming arrows. His personal retinue of knights held their shields high and swords low as they cut a bloody swathe through the rebel army.

It was early afternoon and the Imperial army had literally run out of power for a third time. Men were bloodied and bruised, many collapsed, utterly exhausted, under the shade of leafy birch trees. Armour was cast off, belts unslung, sheaths and blades dropped into the muddy ground. Helms were allowed to slip from aching fingers. Everywhere the smell of exhaustion filled the air. This was not about today, today was the end and when the end of the marathon was within reach the body might begin to collapse. It knew the race was nearly over, it knew its victory was assured, but sometimes it cannot summon up the last vestiges of strength and will to cross the line. That was how defeat began, Marcus knew this and he would not allow it.

Both sides had suffered loss, a ring of bodies lay motionless upon the ground around the ruined keep. Amongst the canvass of death there were the odd spots of movement where a man lay on the cusp of passing onwards to the longest of sleeps. No one would move to rescue their comrades, this had been a hateful war and if anyone tried they would come under arrow fire from the enemy. The once massive rebel army had been reduced to a paltry few, if he took time, Marcus thought, he could count them all. Yet they stood defiantly, their armour caked in gore as they tightly gripped notched and dented weapons. There was no rest for them. Within his heart the General was gripped by a sudden sorrow, deep and sincere; these too were sons of Mernovia and they showed how a man should fight and die. Then he spied Arshak who stood at their head, corpses piled high about him and Marcus Kerr remembered his oaths and his hatred for the accursed traitor.

‘One more time brothers,’ Marcus wailed like a mad man, rallying, raging up and down the scattered groups of weary and tired men. He physically pulled them to their feet, staring ferociously into their eyes, his invincible attitude, his unbeatable soul infected their hearts and minds. The fire of his passion and conviction spread from man to man, spurring them on for one last charge. The Imperial army concentrated around their general. He, who from the first day of this nightmare until today, had been a symbol of hope, a light in the dark, for them all.

‘Follow me, not for King, or Glory, not for revenge or hatred. Follow me now because I am tired, as you all are tired.’ His voice was quiet, but clear, with each syllable it increased in volume, power and might. ‘I want to go home men! We all want to go home! They are all that is stopping us!’ He gestured towards the final few of the enemy army. ‘We must win today men. Follow me home!’ his words rose to a final tumultuous crescendo ‘Let’s go home! Home! Home!’ And the cry was taken up by every throat, by every voice and they sang in unison as they thundered towards their foe.

Once more Marcus led his men, running with the speed and grace of a man half his age. His sword swept smoothly left and right creating a bloody path through the remaining rebels; his knights adding to the pile of bodies that littered the ground, as axe rendered flesh and sword shattered bone. The ruins of the keep had become a charnel house, men struggled passionately to kill one another whilst the same men struggled equally violently to live. Black clad rebels butchered plate armoured knights, decapitating and maiming Imperial troopers. Arshak led the defence; his axe clove in two a gnarled veteran, whose intestines splashed onto the crimson stained stony ground.

The decrepit fortress was echoing with the cries of hurt and the shrieks of agony. Blood encrusted warriors yelled out horrifically as they cut, wounded, butchered and killed one another. Spears shattered against iron shields and skulls were broken open by wicked maces. Death, in all its multitude of guises, swept through the decimated castle, as Imperial and rebel soldiers had limbs pruned from bodies, torsos punctured, necks torn open. Some were completely eviscerated, others beheaded and some seem to have been literally shredded to pieces. No slaughterhouse would ever be as bad, no war would ever again be as brutal, as cruel, as sadistic and evil. Marcus studied the carnage before him and he could not believe the horror and he had seen more than his share of wickedness.

Arshak locked eyes with Marcus, seeing him dispatch one of his remaining lieutenants with marvellous, graceful ease, driving his blade through the man’s shoulder and down to his groin. Both leaders butchered a path towards one another, cutting down all who stood in their way.

‘At last we meet as equals on the field of battle,’ Arshak boomed, his voice the sound of rolling thunder.

‘You are no equal, you are a rebellious dog, do not expect a quick death traitor!’ Marcus spat out the words. ‘I would see you suffer for your trespasses against the crown.’

‘So be it,’ without warning Arshak launched his attack.

He moved with lightning speed, unleashing a succession of rapid strikes against the venerable Marcus, knocking the general’s sword from fatigued hands. The bodyguards were already in motion and dived in front of their hero, protecting his body with their own. Arshak cut down two of the battle tired men, his axe clove through their finely crafted ancestral mail, slicing off appendages and biting into flesh. Such was the force and speed of the Traitor’s strikes, it was almost impossible to see the blade’s impacts until afterwards, when the men seemed to simply fall apart. Their sacrifice had bought much needed time and the General was able to regain his sword and more importantly his composure.

It was Marcus’ turn to surprise Arshak and he leapt at the exposed flank. He slashed at the traitor’s midriff, watching helplessly as his blow was deftly deflected by Arshak’s double headed axe. Both men were relentless in their attacks, sparks danced about the pair as their weapons clashed. Slowly the sounds of battle began to die down, the screaming ceased and the remaining Imperial troops gathered round in a rough circle, watching the clash of the titans before them.

Arshak’s advantage was his strength, Marcus’s his speed.

The men that observed the duel were over awed by the display of martial prowess. They stood motionless, captivated and enthralled, as their eyes struggled to focus on the two blurs before them. They were digesting every minute detail, so that one day they could pass on this unbelievable story to their future offspring.

‘Marcus, Marcus!’ trooper Simon began to chant to encourage his General, make him aware that he was not alone; the spirit of every man was with their leader. His call was taken up by the thousands of others around, those who had a clear view and even those at the rear who had no idea what was occurring.

Arshak delivered a series of three rapid overhead strikes, driving Marcus to his knees. As the commander of the rebels glanced swiftly left and right, there was the sudden realisation that he was utterly alone, all his men who remained steadfast by his side were dead, though more than a few had fled during the inevitable chaos battle creates. It hit him like a lightning bolt. His legs felt weak, behind his helmet tears streamed down his cheeks. He had lost, it was all for nothing. These men who now jeered him, his enemies; they were not bad men, they were misguided and had been lied to. Mernovia was his land too, he fought for what he knew was true. He had fought for that which was right. But now it was all so very wrong. And in defeat he would be the ultimate monster. The last eight years, all the death, it weighed heavily upon him. He relaxed for a moment.

That eon of non-existent time was all it took.

Marcus took advantage of Arshak’s uncharacteristic hesitation, leapt to his feet and instantly drove his sword deep into the traitor’s thigh, twisting the blade as it penetrated the blackened armour and bit into flesh. He thrust harder and Arshak stumbled down onto his knees, crying out briefly. The General grabbed the rim of the ruined helm and ripped it from the traitor’s head. He pressed his knife blade hard against the skin of Arshak’s neck staring deeply into the man’s cold blue eyes.

‘Be done, finish it,’ Arshak hissed through gritted teeth, blood shot eyes staring deeply into Marcus’s own. He let go of his bloody and blunted axe that had felled so many, it was the last act, the final stage.

It signalled the ignominious defeat.

‘Oh No! Death is too easy. A soldier’s death for your men, they were only fool enough to follow you. But you, you are a traitor. A more dishonourable way will be found for you to live out the rest of your worthless life!’ Marcus replied wickedly, his lust for blood was great, but he knew in this moment that Arshak’s death would not be by his hand. A roar of triumph echoed all around him. The day had been won, the rebels had been beaten and after so long, maybe peace could finally return to the land.

‘I am no traitor!’ Arshak tried to regain his feet and stand, but two bloodied knights pushed down upon his shoulders and he was again grovelling in the mud and blood.

‘You broke your oath Arshak; you butchered those you swore to protect. You have set our lands ablaze with your war. What are you if not a traitor?’ Marcus saw the wounded rebel leader open his mouth dumbly.

‘I did what was right!’ Arshak at last pronounced proudly.

‘You murdered Prince Matthew, his wife and two sons. You led a rebellion against the Imperial court! You are a traitor, and will die a traitor’s death.’ Marcus saw the light of understanding in Arshak’s eyes, though the quisling only smiled. Those knights who defiled their oaths, found themselves placed upon a breaking wheel, their limbs and bones smashed and destroyed, eventually when they could scream no more, their tongues were cut out. And for the final ignominy they were left on a cross, usually tied by the hands and feet, able to watch as their bodies slowly faded away from dehydration or from the feeding birds that would feast upon their helpless forms.

‘I killed the prince, this is true!’ Arshak was satisfied with himself, he knew the truth. General Marcus Kerr, the loyal lapdog of the degenerate King had no concept of truth, except that given to him by his Master. ‘I hacked him down for the back-stabbing disloyal, bastard that he was. I would never deny this. But of women and children I am no murderer, I am no low-down vagabond and I most certainly did not touch any member of his family!’ Arshak barked out defiantly, but the shallow skin on his face was turning ghostly white as blood fled from his body, the wound in his leg was severe.

‘I’ve had enough of your lies, gag the wretch.’ Marcus turned away and looked to the assembled soldiers. He smiled warmly as he looked upon the battered, muddied, blood-drenched, gore-spattered mass of humanity that stood wearily awaiting his words.

‘This is a sad day, many comrades have fallen, let us bury our dead, raise a cup to their memory. And tomorrow, tomorrow we can finally go home.’ There was no raucous roar, just a solemn nodding of heads by the assembled masses, sleeves were rolled up and shovels dispensed to begin the arduous task of burying the multitude of friends that had departed for the afterlife.

Marcus was so tired, his bones were aching, his muscles were screaming and his mind was already wandering back to his wife and son. The only other thought playing through his mind was ‘It is over, it is over!’

‘Come on boys, move it! These bodies aren’t going to bury themselves,’ a battle scarred sergeant yelled out to his men, as they moved sluggishly in pairs. Each duo was carrying one of the bodies of their fallen comrades to be cast into the mass grave. There would be no elegant ceremony, no moving words of comfort. Just the quiet squishing of wet soil beneath tired feet and the dull thud of bodies, as the corpses were thrown on top of one another.

Simon Stant and Piotr Bleimer threw another carcase into the mass grave, wiping sweat from their brows.

‘I believe that was Tristan,’ Piotr wheezed, doubling over as he struggled to gain his breath. The air was polluted with the thick odour of blood and death. The remains needed to be laid to rest quickly, not for their souls, but for the health of the living.

‘How can you tell, the poor buggers brains had been caved in.’ Simon retorted rapidly, the bigger man had removed his shirt, revealing a torso of solid muscle adorned with a forest of wiry auburn hair and a multitude of scars.

‘Yes, but did you not glimpse the tattoo on the shoulder?’ Piotr had regained a semblance of his composure and footing, yet sweat continued to run freely down his forehead, stinging his eyes and gathering at the corner of his cracked lips.

‘Of course, I saw the tattoo. It was an image of the god of war.’

‘Yes, Tristan had one.’ Piotr stated bluntly.

‘So did a thousand other men Piotr. Every soldier has some symbol or item of dedication to Kan the God of blood, death and hatred, upon them.’ Simon was exasperated by his friend’s constant stating of the obvious. And today he wanted to hear none of it.

The pair paused in their usual aimless dialog as sergeant Hapsburg passed them, his steely gaze burning into their backs, searching out the slackers and shirkers. They rushed to the mound of bodies, quickly lifting another from the pile before casting it into the ground. The sergeant watched dispassionately as the pair disposed of two more devastated lumps of inert humanity before moving on.

‘Well I am sure it was Tristan,’ Piotr said softly, when he was sure Hapsburg had drifted beyond ear shot, his tone was slightly hurt.

‘So what if it was?’ Simon snapped angrily, obviously tiring of the subject.

‘The bastard owed me four gold crowns,’ Piotr grunted as they threw another nameless pallid white corpse into the open ground.

‘Death cancels a lot more than debt,’ Simon growled, putting an end to the argument.

When all the remains of the deceased had been buried and night had come with its ebony gloss, the lights from the campfires matched the multitude of shimmering stars in the sky. Soldiers huddled round the great bonfires, jostling for proximity to the warmth from the flickering amber flames. A sense of relief resonated throughout the camp, the liberation was a palpable odour. Many had joined the ranks as teenagers and war had been all they had come to know; an endless cycle of fire, death and loss. But now, now they would have to come to terms with a life of peace. For so many peace had been bought with their sacrifice and they would never reap the benefits.

General Marcus Kerr sat in his spartan tent, sipping meagrely at his goblet of wine, allowing himself a moment of well-deserved relaxation. The number of the fallen had been counted, and it made for grim reading. Nearly two thousand were dead, with hundreds more soon to join them before the night was out, due to the grievous nature of their wounds. He had scanned through the hastily prepared list of names twice. He looked for those he knew personally, there were more than hoped for, but less than he had expected.

He tried to shake the ghostly faces of the recently deceased from his mind, yet they remained firmly in his peripheral vision. They did not blame him, they were there to remind him of the cost of this war, of the terrible price it had been to families and to the country. As he became comfortable with their presence he realised he wanted them to stay. He needed them to be with him. They would provide strength and purpose in peace, as they had delivered their lives in war.

He drained the contents of his cup, turning his thoughts to his reunion with his wife and child. Jasper would be a young man now, almost sixteen. He longed to be back in his ancestral home in upper Trent, walking the dogs and tending to his plants.

‘General,’ a deep voice called from outside of Marcus’s makeshift abode.

‘Enter,’ he replied, rising from his seat as he saw his old friend the Grey Warden, Knight Randall entering his crude bivouacked home.

‘It brings me joy to see you still standing amongst the living, dear friend.’ Marcus said, smiling as warmly as he could.

‘As it does to see you, old friend,’ Randall moved to the vacant seat opposite the General’s own.

‘Will you have a cup of wine? I have a fine bottle made from my own vineyards.’ Marcus was justifiably proud of his own winery, bottling and even distributing his own product, usually rich deep full-bodied reds. Tonight the taste was heavy with blackberries and a touch of cinnamon. He had brought this aged bottle with him and it had travelled, as he had for eight long years. It had rested for ten before that. It was delicious and yet he felt almost guilty enjoying the flavours on his own and at a time such as this. This was his private toast to all those who had given up their lives.

‘Of course I shall, is tonight not a night for celebration and libation?’ Randall’s words did not reach his eyes, for a victor in a civil war is never victorious. He knew what the General was enduring. He too would give thanks to the dead, for they allowed the living to still live.

‘Exactly,’ Marcus produced a bottle of his wine, quickly filling two goblets with the blood red substance.

‘To victory and a new tomorrow,’ Randall spoke softly, reflectively, raising his cup to clink against the General’s own. They both drank deeply, savouring the fruity undertones, and the warm sensation that spread throughout their bodies. ‘That my friend is truly a great wine.’ He finally managed a half laugh.

‘I know,’ Marcus replied, a wistful smile glanced off his lips. ‘What will you do know that the war is over?’ He looked up at the knight, it was the time to look forward, not backwards.

‘Rebuild, my order, the Grey Wardens have suffered heavily, our lands were ravaged and our military forces reduced to myself and a few companies of acolytes.’ The knight glanced into the cup, imagining the red wine as the blood of friends and foes. His forehead creased in despair. The mood in the tent was sober. He tried to smile and lifted his eyes to look at his General. ‘But what about you, what does the future hold for the revered and highly decorated Marcus Kerr?’ Randall smiled, but it was almost sorrowful, as he drained the remaining liquid from his cup, before helping himself to the bottle on the table.

‘I aim to deliver Arshak to the King and the Council in Trent, with all haste. And then I will ride straight to my villa and be at my wife and son’s side. He was only eight when I left. I cannot wait to see the man he has become. And I ache for the arms of my wife around my body.’ Marcus saw Randall nod in understanding, yet knew the knight would never fully comprehend how he felt. His order forbade him from taking a wife or creating a family. The order was his family, more accurately the Order had been his family, there was so little left.

‘You’ve been too far from their embrace and for too long.’ Randall tried to empathise.

‘That will come to an end soon,’ Marcus leaned back in his chair drinking deeply from his chalice, allowing thoughts of his family to swamp his mind.

Arshak Tril slouched on the soft earth. He was chained to a post in the ground, gagged by a foul strip of cloth and blood still seeped through the dirty bandage that covered his thigh. He could feel the infection setting in, as a putrid milky white liquid dripped to the soil from his multitudes of untreated wounds. Spit and leathered boots had rained down upon him from a mass of exhausted and angry soldiers. He did not hate them for their actions. He knew full well that from their perspective, their loathing was justified. He had brought civil war to the lands, crimson fields had been created from the lifeblood of all their brothers, fathers and sons. Yet if only they knew why, why he had started a war, why he had killed the Prince. It was for the stability and safety of the kingdom. A kingdom that now genuinely stood on the precipice of despair and destruction. He, Arshak, had been the last hope.

Would they understand? He tried to think soberly. The question hung in his mind and he stared blankly into the darkness around him. It did not matter, nothing did or ever would again. He was a dead man, his revolution had been quashed, his army destroyed and his hopes shattered. His name would be forever associated with treachery and disloyalty. Arshak’s mind was in turmoil; the morale foundation that had kept him true, absolutely sure of his task, had decayed, for the first time in almost a decade he began to doubt.

He had started the war to save the Kingdom, not tear it apart. How many lives had he destroyed? How many children had he made fatherless? All for what he believed to be right? He could not allow himself to shoulder all the blame. Many had tried to ostracise him. More had tried to silence him. His should-have-been friends had tried to ignore him. His enemies had ensured his rapid fall from grace! Only a few of the righteous had understood. But those few he had made many. Where did it go wrong?

Thomas, it all came back to him, the vile, conniving, evil man! Arshak no longer thought it would be his role in this life, but he knew that someday, someone would end the pitiable existence of the wretch.

Eight more nights they had endured in cold tents, then on the ninth day since the battle, daylight broke through the thinning, high, grey clouds. It shone down brightly on General Marcus Kerr and his glorious army, marching home to Trent, to the great capital of Mernovia. Thousands of boots thundered in unison into the ground, mounted knights cantered at the army’s head, banners fluttered resplendently in the light breeze and a multitude of eager and fresh faced young squires trotted in their wake.

‘And there it is, the city of Trent.’ Marcus spoke to himself in a semi-whispered, reverential tone. He gazed upon the splendour and magnificence. It was breath-taking. Brilliant snow-white ivory towers reached up to the skies. The roofs, of especially hardened glass slates, glittered in the sun like pristine diamonds. He imagined he could see the gleaming brass horns dotted along the walls. But he knew he could hear them, blaring out their crystal clear tune. The city was crying out to him, welcoming him home. A raucous, ragged cheer of joy rose up from the columns of soldiers, as their pace quickened and the weight of heavy backpacks lightened.

‘Soon my love, soon,’ Marcus breathed into the wind, wishing the words to the ear of his beloved wife.

Chapter II

‘Political power stems from the point of a sword.’

Praetor Lee Kirt

The resounding boom of Trent’s huge trumpets echoed throughout the city. The vibrations were of such magnitude that they shook loose a number of burgundy coloured tiles from slanted roofs of the lower, poorer buildings and made many inhabitants look around in silent, fearful shock. For the menacing, deep blasts had become a sign of impending doom, or ill-news from the war-front, during the last eight years. Today though the symphony was in a higher key, a glorious triumphant sound. There were no panicked screams from startled women and frightened youth’s. There was no mad dash, scrambling of the garrison to man the walls. The bright noise was the prelude to the arrival of so many loved ones, made absent by conflict. But for all the joy that swept through the cobbled streets, a swirling of sadness followed in its wake. Many would be returning home, however not all who had left would be coming back. A fact that many young mothers, clutching infant children, realised as they moved with franticly beating hearts towards the city’s main gates.

Simon and Piotr strode victoriously through the enormous emerald gateway of Trent, flower petals fell upon their heads as droves of citizens lined the streets, heaping cheers of praise upon the returning soldiers. Crying women darted through the column of men searching for husbands and sons, many found their loved ones and let the hot tears of their pent up worry cascade down upon their cheeks. But not all tears were of joy, as for every happy reunion, there was a sobering moment of solitude and grief for those whose search ended fruitlessly.

Simon and Piotr did not look for any loved ones, they had none. They did not know the names of their fathers and their mothers were faceless whores who had dropped their crying, naked infant forms upon the church steps, almost as soon as the umbilical cord was severed. The only warmth either man had felt had come at the cost of a silver coin.

‘Everywhere looks different,’ Piotr muttered disappointed.

‘What did you expect after more than eight years away, time waits for no man, little brother.’ Simon spoke lightly, yet his eyes betrayed his true feelings of sadness and emptiness. What now lay ahead for them? ‘Let us wait until we are excused and then we can venture into Old town and see if any of our old haunts are still open.’

‘As long as Fat Amy’s is still open I will be happy!’

Simon rolled his eyes, his brother in arms had the simplest and cheapest of tastes, ‘of all the brothels in Trent, why do you always insist upon Fat Amy’s? Her girls aren’t even that kind to the eye.’

‘Did you ever have a go with Sally Long?’ Piotr asked.

‘No, the only relationship I’ve ever had at Amy’s was with their ale.’ Simon grimaced, ‘and even that was bitter and unpleasant, like the women.’

‘Well,