The Battle of Last Rites
The Battle of Last Rites
The sun hung low behind a shroud of smoke and dust, casting a pall over the battlefield. Even in midmorning, there was no warmth to the light - just a grim, gray haze that seemed to linger over the blood-soaked earth. The battlefield stretched wide, scarred by the footprints of hundreds of soldiers and the dying remnants of last night’s skirmish.
For Leoric, a simple farmer turned foot-soldier, the world had narrowed to the weight of his spear in his calloused hands, the tightness in his chest, and the dry, metallic taste of fear in his throat. He shifted his weight, boots sinking into the churned mud beneath him. He hated these moments. The ones just before battle that let his mind wander too far.
The war was in its third year now, but it had started long ago. Rumors of mages appointed to religious posts in Treador had rippled across the empire, stirring unrest. The Emperor had denounced it as sacrilege, a blasphemous affront to the very foundations of their faith. Yet to Leoric, it had felt distant - like thunder from across a valley. He had neither cared nor known much of matters of court or distant kings. His life had been simple, spent in the fields of southern Durram, tending to his crops and livestock. That was, until the war swept him up in its wake.
He pushed those thoughts away and glanced to his right. Garran stood beside him, as usual, his broad frame towering over Leoric’s leaner build. Garran had been a woodsman, someone who took pride in cutting timber with precision. Now, he wore rusted chainmail and clutched a great-axe that had hacked at more limbs than branches. Garran caught Leoric's glance and offered a grim smile.
"Betcha thought we’d never end up here, eh, Leo…" Garran muttered, though his voice was tight.
Leoric shook his head slowly, knowing he didn't need to answer. The battle ahead was enough to make any man question how they had ended up on this Fate-forsaken field, fighting for a crown they had never seen and an emperor they barely knew.
The War of Heretics, they were calling it. It had sounded noble at first, with priests and lords speaking of purity and the need to cleanse Treador of apostasy. But now, after three years of blood and death, it felt like a hollow cause. Was it really about mages appointed to religious positions? Or was it just another excuse for kings to fight kings?
Leoric shifted again, trying to ignore those thoughts that brought on the awful empty, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. His fingers instinctively tightened around the haft of his spear, the wooden shaft worn smooth by months of hard use. He had fought in skirmishes before, had felt the jolt of terror when metal clashed against metal, when a blade found flesh. But today felt different.
Ahead of them, the Treadori forces were assembling with a worrying calm, their auburn-and-gold tabards catching fleeting shafts of light that broke through the midmorning mist. Shields lifted in practiced unison, forming a shimmering wall of iron and bronze, while their curved falchion swords jutted out like thorns on a duskwolf’s hide. Archers stood behind, their bows taut and at the ready. These were not desperate conscripts or fearful levies. These were men honed for war, their movements as precise as clockwork, their resolve hard as the steel they carried.
"FORM UP!" Captain Rendyl’s bark cut through the thick air. His shadow moved with grim purpose, his armor still streaked with the dried mud and blood of the previous day’s slaughter. "Shields tight! Arms forward! If you falter, we all die! AND I DON’T PLAN ON DYING TO THESE SHEEP-BITING WHELPS!"
Leoric stepped into position, the familiar weight of his buckler settling against his arm. The haft of his spear was cold and slick, the leather wrapping worn smooth by use. Around him, the line shuddered into place, gaps tightening as men pressed closer together. Beside him, Garran hefted his axe, the massive weapon glinting dully in the muted light. His face was set, the scars on his jawline pulling taut as he muttered a low curse.
"They’re too fecking clean," Garran said, spitting on the ground in front of him. "Look at them. Like blades fresh from the forge."
Leoric didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the Treadori advance, on the rhythm of their movement. Shields rose and fell in time with their steps, swords angled forward, the tips gleaming like a warning. He had seen their kind before. He had seen what happened when a line like theirs met one like his - a patchwork of farmers, smiths, and spent veterans. He gripped his spear tighter.
Above them, the first volley of arrows came down, their dark shapes cutting through the pale sky. The hiss of their descent grew louder, sharper, before breaking into a storm of dull thuds as arrowheads gained purchase in both shield and flesh alike. A man two rows down let out a piercing scream, the arrow embedded deep in his thigh. Another man stumbled backward, clutching at his throat as blood gushed between his fingers.
Meanwhile, the Treadori moved under the cover of their archers, their shields interlocked like the scales of some great beast. Their war cries rolled across the field, not wild or frenzied but low and guttural, the sound of men who knew they were already winning. The ground trembled with their approach, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and steel.
Leoric braced, his breath shallow, the cold tang of iron filling his nose. The space between the two forces narrowed, shrinking with every step, until it was only the distance of a heartbeat.
The clash was deafening.
The Treadori smashed into the imperial line with brutal force, the collision sending a shudder through Leoric’s entire body. Shields splintered, men screamed, and the air filled with the clang of steel on steel. Leoric’s spear shot forward, the point driving into the chest of the first man who reached him. The resistance was brief, a sickening give of flesh and bone before the shaft was pulled back, slick with blood.
Another Treadori soldier surged forward, his sword aimed at Leoric’s throat. Leoric twisted his buckler just in time, deflecting the blow and lunging forward with his spear. The tip caught the man in the shoulder, a shallow strike, but enough to stagger him. Leoric’s muscles burned as he pulled back and struck again, the rhythm of the fight overtaking his thoughts.
Beside him, Garran fought like an animal unleashed. His axe rose and fell in brutal arcs, each swing accompanied by a wet, crunching sound that turned Leoric’s stomach. The big man grunted with each blow, his breath coming in harsh bursts, his boots slick with blood and mud. For a moment, it seemed as though they might hold.
But the Treadori were relentless, their shield wall an unyielding tide. For every man that fell, another stepped forward, their swords piercing forward in precise, almost mechanical unison. Leoric’s line wavered, its patchwork defense creaking under the strain.
Leoric’s arm ached as he thrust his spear again, the weapon slipping from his grip for a moment before he caught it. The ground beneath him felt alive, shifting with the weight of bodies, the churn of mud and blood. His shield bucked as another sword glanced off its edge, the force sending a jolt through his shoulder.
And then he saw it: the center of his line buckling, the men faltering. Rendyl’s shouts cut through the chaos, but even his commanding voice couldn’t hold them together. The Treadori pressed harder, their formation a hammer driving the imperials toward the jagged cliffs of the ravine at the western edge of the field.
The imperial line was breaking.
Leoric stumbled back, his boots catching on something soft - a body, facedown in the muck. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t. Around him, men were retreating, falling over one another in their haste to escape the onslaught. Garran was still fighting, his axe swinging wildly, his roars echoing like thunder.
But even Garran couldn’t hold forever.
A Treadori spear pierced Garran’s side, driving deep into his flesh. He let out a horrible cry, dropping to his knees as blood poured from the wound. Leoric’s heart lurched in his chest as he watched his friend slump to the ground, his axe slipping from his grasp.
"Nooo!" Leoric shouted, rage and despair surging through him in equal measure. He lunged forward, his spear driving into the man who had killed Garran. The Treadori soldier staggered back, the spearhead buried in his chest, but Leoric barely noticed. His vision was red, his thoughts a tempest of fury and grief.
But even as he killed the man, he knew it was futile.
The Treadori were everywhere now, their shields battering against Durram’s lines, their swords cutting through the remaining defenders with grim precision. Leoric fought on, his body moving on instinct, each motion more desperate than the last. His spear - his only real advantage against the onslaught - was still stuck in the dead man’s chest, the haft slick with blood and impossible to wrench free. A surge of panic shot through him as another Treadori soldier closed in, shield raised and blade poised to strike. Leoric fumbled for the shortsword at his hip. His hands were trembling, sweat-slick and filthy, but he managed to unsheathe the blade just as the enemy lunged. The Treadori’s falchion glanced off Leoric’s buckler, the force of the strike knocking him off balance. He staggered, his boots slipping in the mud, but as the soldier stepped in to press the attack, Leoric slashed upward with every ounce of strength he could muster.
The blade found flesh, cutting deep into the man’s exposed side. The Treadori soldier gasped, his shield arm faltering, and Leoric didn’t hesitate. With a guttural cry, he drove the shortsword into the man’s gut, twisting the blade before yanking it free. The soldier crumpled to the ground, clutching at the gushing wound, his breath gurgling and wet.
Leoric had no time to think. Another shadow loomed in his periphery - this one faster, more precise. The soldier’s curved blade sliced through the air at an angle, forcing Leoric to parry awkwardly. The impact sent a shockwave up his arm, numbing his grip. The enemy pressed in, relentless, strikes coming in sharp, calculated arcs that pushed Leoric closer to the ravine’s edge.
And then it came.
Another blade flashed in the corner of his vision, and Leoric barely had time to react before it sliced deep into his left thigh, stopping at the bone. He gasped, the pain blinding, his leg buckling beneath him. He staggered, dropping to one knee, his sword slipping from his grasp. His vision blurred, the sounds of battle fading into a distant roar.
He tried to stand, tried to fight, but his body refused to obey. Blood poured from the wound in his leg, mixing with the mud beneath him. He could feel his strength slipping away, could feel the cold fingers of Neyara reaching for him.
As Leoric fell to the ground, his world went out of focus. The clang of steel and the roar of voices faded, as if the battle itself were retreating into some distant memory.
He blinked, trying to ground himself, but his thoughts drifted far from the carnage around him. He did not see blood. He did not hear war. Instead, he saw the old stone wall that lined his fields - his father’s hands rough against the rock, showing him how to lay it properly, stone upon stone, so that it would last longer than any war ever could. That wall, the only thing standing between the wild forest and the fields they had worked for generations, had been a fortress to him. More than any castle wall built by kings.
He remembered the smell of his small house, the damp wood that never quite dried out in the spring, the way the fire always crackled no matter how much he stoked it. His hands had been good hands, built for farming, for coaxing the earth into yielding its fruit, not for holding a sword. He could still feel the weight of the plow harness in his palms, the steady rhythm of oxen hooves breaking the soil, cutting straight, deep furrows into the land. There was a rhythm to that life, a simple honesty in the way things grew when you gave them time.
Time. His mind wandered to those days spent watching the light stretch across the horizon, the sky so big it made the world seem endless. He had never thought about how much he loved those hours spent in silence, with only a gentle wind moving the wheat, the way it whispered like a secret being told just to him. He had lived his whole life on that land, among the low hills, where peace was a steady thing, as reliable as the turning of the seasons.
And then there had been her - Annelise. He could see her now, her hair a mess from the fields, the way she tied it up but always let it fall loose by the end of the day. She would stand in the doorway of their home, arms crossed with that half-smile she wore when she pretended to be stern.
Leoric had never wanted to leave, but he was pressed into duty like so many of his neighbors. The war itself had been a distant thing at first, something spoken about by men with more power than he would ever have. He had gone because they needed bodies, not because he believed in the cause. What did it matter who wore the crown or which Fate men prayed to? He was no heretic, but he was no zealot either. He just wanted to live in peace.
But peace had been stolen from him the day he left home, traded for the clamor of swords and the hollow promises of dukes and earls who never saw the fields nor the faces of the men they forced into service.
The weight of his shortsword fell from his grip, heavy and forgotten in the mud. As he lay there, staring up at the hazy sky, he felt none of the fear that should have come with dying. Instead, there was a strange calm that washed over him, like the quiet that came after a long day’s work. The sun would set, the fields would cool, and the earth would still be there tomorrow, waiting to be tilled once more.
The world he had known was far away now, but the memory of it held him. In these last moments, he didn’t see the war or the bloodshed. He saw Annelise, standing in the doorway, wearing that wonderful half-smile, soft golden fields stretching out behind her.
The battle was over for Leoric, and for so many men just like him.
But there would be no words spoken on his behalf. His war ended without prayer, without ceremony, just as quietly as the fields he had left behind.