SAR MAEVAN

  Maevan’s eyes fluttered to the light of the morning that was slowly creeping through his tent’s flap. He pulled himself up, supporting himself by the elbow.

  A soldier outside blew the warhorn again. Maevan groaned in annoyance, as the loud noise bellowed through the camp. His head was ringing, he was still hungover from the night before.

  The night before…shit, he thought. He looked to his side, and he saw her. The whore, wrapped in a blanket, still asleep, and still naked. He moved to pull the blanket off, before the horn blew again. Bloody hell, he thought, twisting his head towards the flap again. He pulled himself out of bed and donned his tunic again. He pulled on the chainmail coat and pants.

  He grabbed a peasant running towards something by the arm, he gripped it tight, feeling the leather twisting into the man’s flesh. “What the hell is that cunt blowing the horn for?” he asked, spitting and gritting his teeth. The horn blew once again.

  “They’re attacking, sar,” the man’s voice was wavering. He’s afraid.

  “Where’s syr George?”

  “I don’t know, sar,” the man answered. Maevan gave him a stern look.

  “Help me get in my armor, you’re my squire now.” The man looked dumb founded, idiotic and stuttering. “Do I have to repeat myself? Get your ass in the tent and help me get my armor on.”

  Maevan stormed into the tent, the man followed inside. His whore had already woken up, still naked, yet he barely paid her any mind.

  The man told him that his name was Otto. “Otto,” Maevan declared, pulling out his longsword, “I name you as my squire from today onward. And I order you to help me get my armor on.”

  Otto kneeled in front of Maevan. “I pledge to serve you well, my liege. For I will–”

  Maevan cut him off, “Yes, I know. Now grab the damn armor and start strapping it on.”

  After what felt like an eternity of straps and plates and claps and etc, all while that damn horn blew over and over again, Maevan was finally fully donned in his plate, he stepped out of the tent.

  Men were still running around, donning their own plate and chain and ring mails and a few knights even had the honor of having plate mail on.

  Outside, mounted men were waiting, their banners held high, and on a watchtower, Maevan saw the damned fool who was blasting the horn.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth, “Hey! You cunt, stop blowing that thing, everyone’s awake already!”

  The soldier looked down at him, "I'm sorry, malord,” he apologised.

  “What do you see up there?” Maevan asked. Otto was in the stable getting his horse out.

  “A host, malord,” the watchman shouted back, “a thousand infantry, a few hundred cavalry at the sides. They fly the banner of the Dragonprince."

  Fucking hell, Maevan thought. If the Dragonprince was here, he’d better take his horse and run now instead of waiting to do it later. “Is the Prince there?” he shouted back.

  “It doesn’t seem like it, malord,” the watchman responded, “I don’t see anyone in the black suit of armor, malord.”

  The Dragonprince was famous for his deep black piece of armor that looked like it was burnt charcoal, and enough jagged pieces to cut entire pieces of meat on. And if the prince was not there…that meant he was with it. “Does it look like there’s anyone at the lead? That might be the prison trying to blend in?”

  “No, malord.”

  Fuck! Otto returned with the horse and Maevan quickly mounted and took off outside of the gate. Hundreds of men were pouring out now. Most barely even had their helmets on. By his own count, a quarter of the men were helmless. And a few were even in simple tunic, and a surprisingly large number of them lacked their spears or shields.

  “Men,” Maevan shouted as he spurred his horse forward in front of the line of men scrambling. “Do not break! Keep steady, and hold your wall!” he declared. The battle was hopeless, he knew. The prince had his trick, and once he used it…they were all going to die. “Keep your shields up, if you have them. Keep your spears in the gaps, and do not waver. If you waver, you crumble, if you crumble, you fall. And if one of you falls, all of us do.”

  They didn’t give half a shit, Maevan could clearly see that. They didn’t care about him trotting back and forth. They all just wanted to live. Most of them would throw their weapons down and offer Maevan’s head to the enemy if it meant they could go home back to their families.

  He trotted to the head of the column of infantry. They were outnumbered in mounted men though, and that was an issue.

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  Fywern was wealthy and their armor represented that. The knights had full plate and uniform instead of whatever they could get, and even the peasant levies wore full plate, and had uniformality between them.

  Maevan counted as quick as he could. He’d learnt to count troops when he was younger, yet he was very much shit at it. He was getting better though, and he counted about two thousand infantry men, and seven hundred or so cavalry.

  It was not wise to march on the prince, he thought. He ordered the march south, and this battle was all his fault. He felt guilty, he felt fear. He can face an entire normal army, yet even the thought of one of them on the field required him a change of breeches.

  His squire handed him the war horn. The two hosts stood tall, which was about eight miles from each other. He used his cloak to wipe the saliva from the tip of the horn…and kept his look straight.

  The man that took his position at the Fywerni host was dressed in full plate gilded in gold, and he wore a surcoat that bore the sigil of what looked to be House Gargaery-an anvil being struck by a forging hammer. Most probably Lord Gargaery, Maevan couldn’t remember his name though. Something to do with Joe.

  He looked up at the sun, it was now beginning to reach its height. Maevan took a deep breath…thought of his actions, considered every action and thought that brought him here…and he pulled the horn up to his mouth…

  He took a breath…and he blew into the horn. It crackled out a noise that sounded like souls screaming as they died, and the noise was somehow destroyed and broken.

  He heard the Fywerni warhorn bellowing out from the other side of the field.

  Men started marching, and horses started trotting, and Maevan led the column of infantry, lance in hand. His sword was at his right side, easier for a quick draw.

  He saw Lord Gargaery kick his horse into a charge, and so did he. The two charged each other, and he could hear his mounted men and knights screaming as they too charged.

  He could not hear anything but hoofs hitting the ground over and over, and for a split moment, he could hear nothing at all. He focused on Lord Gargaery.

  The two met in what should’ve been a clash of lances, but Maevan pulled his lance down and hit Lord Gargaery’s horse. The animal pooled out blood as the lance broke into a hundred pieces and Maevan twisted his head away to not gauge his own eye out.

  He turned back and saw the lord struggling on the ground, his horse was dead, a piece of his lance was in the animal’s neck, and the lord’s own lance had pierced it and killed it sooner, possibly.

  Maevan could hear the clash of the rest of the cavalry men, men groaning and screaming and yelping and crying. He unsheathed his sword, the Rammsteel blade was dyed pure white, and it glowed in the sunlight beautifully.

  He spurred his horse forward at Lord Gargaery who was still clearly trying to clear himself from his fall, and Maevan jumped his horse on to the lord. He could hear the metal of his armor bend…and he could hear the bones of his ribs crack and buckle under the weight.

  The lord gasped for breath, yet the great helm did not help him. The lord was trying to say some words but his throat was clearly too crushed to speak. He reached out his hand, wavering…and it fell. Maevan heard a final loud CRACK and the lord’s mouth began spitting out blood, and his eyes turned lifeless.

  Maevan slightly smirked, and wheeled his horse around back towards the battle, he tightened his grip on the reins and on the sword, and urged his horse on forward.

  The infantry lines had met, and unsurprisingly, his men had collapsed and the Fywerni line was flooding in through the middle. He spurred his horse on and charged down a man who was heavily injured, and cut through him with his sword like butter.

  He kept on going, slicing and cutting through at least twenty men, all of those who fell in moments. Thank the gods for Rammsteel. The white blade was slowly beginning to slowly turn red, even the hilt began to turn, and his armor was too.

  He turned back after cutting a line through, and charged back around. He could see his mounted men were winning, yes! He thought.

  Then he heard the sound of death. The bellow sent a jolt up his spine and made his whole body and bones shake.

  He looked up, and heard it again. Then he heard the flap of wings, they’re close, he thought. He tried to turn his horse, oh he did try…but before he could think of anything else, he felt his horse go out from under him.

  The animal gave out, and tossed Maevan aside. He hit the ground like a hammer on an anvil, and even with the armor, he felt his back sting, and his head was beginning to pain.

  He clenched his fists, and realised his sword was gone. It was on the ground a few feet away from him. He heard it’s bellow again. His legs were tired; he was tired.

  Maevan groaned and turned to his side, and slowly began pushing himself up, and took a knee. And finally pushed himself up. The armor was not even half an aid. He ran over and grabbed his sword. His arm was beginning to pain as he lifted it up. Yet groaning, he lifted it anyways and tightened his grip with both hands.

  He could see his horse on the floor, bleeding out just like Lord Gargaery’s. Someone hit him with a lance. The bellow came again. Just fucking kill us already, Maevan thought.

  The battle was wildly far from him now. The Fywerni line was collapsing. All that lay near him were corpses. No wonder he was able to be singled out.

  He could see that most of the Fywerni cavalry men were gone, but his own was disbanded and were chasing the Fywerni. He needed them back. They could win. If the cavalry just encircled them…

  Another bellow.

  Maevan had enough, and turned to the sky, “Come down and kill us already!” he screamed…

  The sky cracked open, and he ran. Shit! He wasn’t fast but he was able to get out of the way as a giant open mouth descended upon the field. Black as midnight and scaled and full of spikes and horns as a demon.

  It flew over head, and opened its great mouth and a steam of deep black fire shot out as it swept barely a few feet above the ground. Maevan lay on his back, watching as his men were set alight.

  The Dragonprince.

  He sat upon the beast, strapped on like he was riding a horse-Maevan saw. The beast was his Great Dragon, and he used it to burn ally and enemy alike.

  He could hear them screaming, and men ran around and rolled around on the ground trying to put themselves out…and the prince didn’t stop.

  Maevan watched in horror…