Prologue
Why a field? Johnathan asked himself, out of breath, with his legs burning from exhaustion. Experience alone had formed him into a fast runner, but the two men chasing him rode horses, and the sounds of hoofbeats behind him were drawing ever closer. A field. He cursed once more, his breath coming out in white jets.
It was a clear night, and Johnathan could swear the only sounds were his breathing, and the horses drawing ever closer behind him. However, there was fortune in this dire situation. Barely 200 yards away a thick line of trees formed. A forest, a place where he could lose the horsemen. However, 200 yards was a long way, and he was running out of time.
He tried to push his legs farther, move them faster, but they only replied with pain. He was at his limit. Still, the distance was closing fast. Johnathan dared to look behind him at his pursuers. One wore a suit of mail, a guardsmen. The sound of the chain links clicking against each other had finally reached his ears. The other was an innkeeper, no doubt riding the horse of one of his customers. That was the man who had picked out his face among the crowds at his inn. Both of the riders held a club, and both were gaining on Johnathan.
He turned his gaze back to the line of trees, only a hundred yards away now. He wouldn't make it. It dawned on him then that he shouldn't have made it this far, the men behind him were riding slow, giving him false hope. It was the type of cruel treatment Johnathan had grown used to. He looked at the riders once more and saw that he was right; they were riding much more quickly now. A look of rage plastered on both of their faces.
Johnathan was only 60 yards away from the tree line when the first blow struck him, in the small of his back. The force of it blew the air from his lungs, and knocked him off balance. As he was falling the second blow fell, clipping his shoulder, sending a second explosion of pain through him. As he hit the ground, cutting is lip, he knew it was only the beginning.
The beatings always took time.
Fourteen blows fell on his, none striking his head however. When the two men had finished they both spit on him, throwing curses at him. Then came the part that always hurt worse than the beatings, than the exile, then the utter rejection of a society who had held him in as high a regard as the king. It was the names.
“That was for my daughter, Julia, you b*****d!” Shouted the innkeeper, kicking Johnathan in the ribs before mounting his horse.
“Aye, and for my wife, Isabelle.” Said the guard more calmly, giving Johnathan a look of disgust that lasted until he and the innkeeper turned their horses away, back to their village. Leaving a broken Johnathan to crawl into the forest.
Chapter I
The sun had begun showing itself on the horizon when Johnathan finally managed to light a fire. The night had been spent, for the most part, inching his way across the forest floor. Distancing himself from the village whose name he had forgotten. It wasn't uncommon for a second, and third group of men to come searching for him, to beat him themselves. It must frustrate them to no end... Johnathan began musing, while watching the flames, that they cannot kill me, after all, breaking a royal decree means death. It always amused him, the most hated man of the world, even by the king, could not be killed because the king commanded such. Of course, Johnathan had welcomed death at times, an end to the exile, the beating, the hate, the names of those his actions had indirectly killed and made suffer. It was actually surprising that someone had not taken the risk, broken the law, planted a dagger in his heart, or ran a blade across his thought. Admirable restraint on their part.
As the fire finally began to warm him, Johnathan took a clump of moss from his pocket, and began to chew it, slowly. It was hardly filling, and less than hardly tasteful. However, he had come to realize over the years that food was food. Soon an hour had passed, and then two. As the sun climbed higher into the sky it brought little additional warmth though. The cold season was beginning, and the chill blocked the sun's heat like an invisible shield stretching across the sky. Of course, the numbness would be welcomed by him to ease the pain of his wounds, but there was a stubborn part of his mind telling him to stay warm. It was the defiant part that said everyday; “That's right, you may beat me, shun me, and treat me as something less than a man, but I will live!”
The strength of such defiance, such willpower, shocked Johnathan sometimes. It is what kept him from placing his head in the path of a falling club, arching down to strike his back. It is what kept him warm, and feeling his pain throughout the cold season and what kept him chewing moss that tasted like dirt. Survival could be worse than death at times, but it meant the possibility of seeing a better day. At least, that's what Johnathan told himself day by day.
As the sun began to reach it's zenith Johnathan finally stood. His joints cracked loudly against the still silence of the forest. As much as Johnathan hated to admit it, he was aging. He was beginning to near his mid forties, if the date he heard yesterday had been correct. He had once been a tower among men. Over six feet tall, and well muscled from his career of blacksmith gone-soldier, and soldier gone-general. However, in the past few years his body had withered to a shell of it's former self. It was a struggle just to cover a few miles in a day. His body would easily be able to take such work not ten years ago.
He sighed, grabbing a large stick to help steady himself and began walking north. Don't dwell on the past, it'll get you nowhere. Johnathan reminded himself, gritting his teeth as pain from his back assailed him. It seemed every man and his horse was brutally proficient with using a club. The two men last night had managed to hit him in all of the right places. As a soldier in the Raelin War, Johnathan could appreciate such precision with the weapon, even if it caused him more pain than necessary.
Johnathan tried to keep his mind wandering as the minutes of painful walking turned to hours. He instead focused on old military drills, the basics. He went over them in his head over and over, many dozens of times. The moon rose and fell again before Johnathan snapped out of his trance. In front of him spanned many dozens of more trees. This forest is endless. He thought to himself. He turned his gaze to the sky to try and figure out the time, when something caught his eye. Smoke, rising to the north of him, faintly. The wind was blowing in his direction, so it was hard to tell just how far it had traveled, but the point remained. He was close to civilization again. With renewed strength Johnathan began moving forward, until the smell of morning meat being cooked reached his nose.
He had been asked before, sometimes when being chased, sometimes when being clubbed, why he bothered to show his presence at all to a world that hated him. The answer was simple, Johnathan was a social person. If he had spent the last years without any human contact, he'd have been driven mad. He preferred to keep his sanity, and suffer through pain, than become a mad hermit, living in exile. Thus, he was doomed to walk amongst the people who despised him.
As the first house came into view Johnathan pulled the hood of his cloak up, and bowed his head slightly. Even if these people, who looked to be far cut off from society by their location, knew of him ,he probably wouldn't be recognized. The once cleanly shaved tower of a man who commanded armies barely resembled the half-skeleton wandering the countryside. Still, Johnathan didn't want to take any chances. As more houses of the small village came into view a nasty cough began to make itself known in Johnathan's throat. He had felt such a cough before, when his army had been campaigning in the mountains of Ghard. The illness had no name, but it was caused by the cold, and Johnathan knew well the next symptom. As his cough grew into a vicious hacking he noticed that he had caught the attention of a villager, a man with a bow slung on his back, dragging a deer carcass behind him. The hunter ran to him, letting go of his kill. Visitors are probably rare here. Johnathan thought to himself, seeing the look of confusion on the man's face, even through his quickly fading vision.
“I... need a... bed!” Johnathan spat out between his fits of coughing. It didn't matter anyway, he knew he wouldn't make it to a bed anyway. As his knees buckled under him, he hoped he would pass out before collapsing completely, his back was in enough pain already.
He got his wish.
Chapter II
It was as good a day as any for the battle to take place. The first battle of the war, and Johnathan had the privilege to be on the front lines. I may even spill the first blood of the war! He told himself, immediately after which his thoughts corrected him. No, the archers will kill the first men. Still, looking around he couldn't help but feel joy. The Bellirian army was massive, over 100,000 men were stationed here alone, and this was but a segment of the entire army.
Johnathan, standing an entire head taller than the typical Bellirian man, fixed his eyes once more on the army before him, the enemy. He felt his grip tighten on the large club he carried in anticipation. Most of the army, aside from the commanders, wielded clubs. They both cost less, and performed better in the cold weather against the lightly armored, fur-clad Raelin soldiers. The Bellirians were dressed much the same way, except the officers wore a suit of mail as well.
The Raelin army across the field had piled up what looked to be everyday items, furs, and what few rocks and branches were around into a fragile, makeshift, wall. It was the quickest defense they could put together, having only arrived onto the field an hour before. Johnathan tensed as he heard the commanders begin to shout orders, closing gaps, and readying arms. It didn't take long for the command Johnathan was waiting for to ring out, like a battle cry in itself from the voices of the gods that were leading them.
“All men, charge!”
Johnathan and the men around him exploded into motion. Arrows from his force flew overhead in an arc of death. Looking around him, Johnathan saw that there was no more line, it was more akin to a wave, sweeping across the plane, and Johnathan was one of the edges. If his legs ached from propelling him across that field at full sprint, he couldn't tell. His only focus was the makeshift wall, and the men behind it.
A second and third wave of arrows sailed towards the wall, the force of impact collapsing the fragile barrier in some places. As he began to look for the easiest part of the wall for him to break through, Johnathan noticed the first line of blue. Every soldier in the Raelin army wore a long strip of blue cloth on their right arm, which noticeably stood out between the brown of their furs, and the white of the snow around them.
A volley of arrows was released from the line of Raelin soldiers, right into the approaching wave of soldiers. Johnathan's club slammed back into his shoulder as an arrow hit it. A sickening thud echoed behind him in a chorus as arrows met their marks through fur and flesh. Johnathan ignored the screaming of the wounded, and the pain in his shoulder, as he gave one more burst of strength to his legs. A fourth volley of arrows hit the wall, and then Johnathan was upon it.
The archers had dropped their bows, and were in the middle of readying spears, when Johnathan leaped over a partially collapsed portion of the wall. He swung his club twice, one caught a man in the side of his head, the other blow struck the hand of a man's weapon arm. Both blows were answered with the sound of cracking bone. That was all of the time that Johnathan had before the Raelin soldiers had readied their spears. Bellirian troops began pouring over the wall en masse behind Johnathn, meeting the Raelin soldiers head on. The mêlée had begun.
Johnathan's movements became automated. He did strike a few more blows, but most of the time he was battering away spears. Slowly the wave of Bellirian troops were pushing back the blue-armed Raelin army. When Johnathan finally gained a brief respite from the battle, he took an exhausted look around him. With pride he gazed at the vast, if less so than when the battle began, wave gaining the upper hand.
He set his eyes in front of him once more, when he noticed something that couldn't have been in place when the battle began. It was a second makeshift wall, lined with rows of archers. Archers that had arrows knocked and ready, they didn't even have to aim to hit the Bellirian soldiers. Johnathan shouted a warning to to the men around him, but it was no use. Seconds later the harmonic sound of hundreds of bowstrings being released filled the air. The terrible sound of arrows ripping through flesh followed immediately after.
Johnathan raised his club into the air and gave another shout, this one of rage. Before his very eyes the the world shifted. His club grew longer, thinner, and took on the elegant shape that was an officer's sword. Hundreds of chain links began forming, first on his arms, and then all of the way down to his legs. Day turned to night, and instead of shouting into the sky, he was shouting downward, into the face of his aide-de-camp.
“I know full damn well the the battles have all been the same since the Alderic Plains! Victory, with heavy losses on our side, I was there!”
Johnathan stopped for a moment and caught his breath, trying to calm himself. He and Albert, his aide, had been arguing for a while. In fact, Albert was the only man in the army who could argue with Johnathan, purely because of how long they had known each other, eight years. The problem was tactics, the Bellirian army had won every engagement since the start of the war, close to ten years ago. However, territory gains had been minimal, the army had been fighting through mountains for years. Morale was low, the public wanted an end to this war, and the king wanted the Raelins destroyed, his only opposition on the continent.
“Albert, we simply cannot keep going on like this. The loss of life has been staggering. We have barely a third of our entire army left, I only have 12,000 men left under my control. That's 88% casualties in ten years. General Richardson won't arrive for another week, and my spies report that we're going to be hit hard by a force more than twice our size tomorrow. We need to catch them by surprise, charge at them while they sleep, capture them while they're still drawing their weapons!”
“Sir, But such a cowardly move, surely we are above such trickery.” Argued the small Albert, clearly distressed, almost begging Johnathan to change his plans.
“Honor and cowardice be damned on the battlefield! I have one job, win this war with as few losses as possible, which I am clearly not doing. Now, go out and inform the men. We march within the hour. If there's trouble with the order, tell them to think of their families, their country, and the brothers they have to avenge.” Almost immediately after the words left his mouth Johnathan added, as an afterthought, “And give the men swords, knives if there aren't enough. Tell them to stab, it'll cut the enemy down more quickly.”
“Yes, sir.” Replied a clearly troubled Albert, after several seconds. As the small man left, Johnathan let out a sigh of relief. His orders would be carried out, Albert would make sure of it. When he left his tent is was snowing out, the snow never seemed to stop falling in the mountains. Movement caught his eye, and he watched as a number of officers began walking toward him, around twenty of different rank. They didn't look happy. This will be a long hour, and I already feel breathless. He thought, preparing himself for the shouting, and expression of authority he would need to use.
However, as the men grew closer, their faces were unfamiliar. Their cloths became those of commoners. Commoners who began forming a ring around him. Slowly the world shifted once more. Johnathan fell to his back, to a firm, but not uncomfortable surface, the snow was gone. His armor became rags, his muscle vanished, and his sword changed to a walking stick, propped against the wall of the small room in which Johnathan now rested.
Even though I knew about the hallucinations, reliving of memories, I still couldn't fight it. He thought to himself, bitterly. Mountain sickness, he hated it more than anything else. For the most part because he had far more bad memories than good ones.
One of the men noticed Johnathan had awoken, and quietly nudged the man standing to his right. His slight girth was a giveaway that he managed the village. Overall, the balding, tall man was unimpressive, but, Johnathan sighed with relief when he saw no malice in the man's eyes, simply, curiosity. The man stepped forward, stopping at the edge of the bed, looking Johnathan over.
Finally, he spoke the obvious question. “Now, who the blazes are you?”
Johnathan chuckled, already feeling himself slip back into unconsciousness.
“John, I'm John and nothing more.” He managed to reply, before the darkness overcame him once
Chapter III
I've gone from being a blacksmith, to a soldier, to a general, to a hero, to an exile, to a woodcutter. Johnathan thought to himself, amused, while wiping his brow. He was no longer bedridden like the day before. It was almost startling how quickly his body could recover with a few full meals and some rest. Of course, the sickness was still there, it took weeks to leave completely. The hallucinations, the memories, would persist for a few days yet. However, Johnathan had been through it before, he could suffer through it again.
In all of his days Johnathan had never come across a village quite like this. It was entirely self sufficient, relied on no outside supplies. Everyone shared each others' bounty, whether it be in meat, or firewood. From what he could tell, the village didn't even have a name. They had no identity outside of their own names. The last outsiders that stumbled across the village were a family of merchants who decided to settle down and stay, over twenty years ago.
He had worked out an agreement with them, as simple as any. He would work, and in return he would be fed and given a place to sleep. It was the most simple binding contract. Yet at the same time, it was exactly the one he needed. A place to stay where nobody knew who he was. He was not yet strong enough to forge, to fix what was needed around the village, but that time would come someday soon. It had taken years to find it, but he was finally at a place he could call home.
Johnathan took a glance at the quickly fading sun as he returned to work. Already half a day had passed seamlessly with the sound of chopping wood. The action itself was mesmerizingly simplistic. One hand near the bottom of the axe, one near the head. Slide one hand down to the other as the axe falls. As his hand reached the bottom one though, he was no longer holding an axe, it was a sword. The block of wood had become a a man's neck, and the sun had disappeared behind thick gray clouds.
The sounds of battle were all around him.
The battle had been going on for hours it seemed. His arm swung tirelessly, turning blue cloth red with the blood of his enemies, and occasionally the blood of himself. For the most part his new suit of mail protected him against being cut, but not all blows were turned aside, not that he could feel them anyway.
Men all around him were dying, as was the nature of battle. Raelin soldiers were clubbed to bloody messes, and Bellirian men became living pincushions against the Raelin spears and arrows. It was a bloody fight, a fight no different than the last dozen, and probably no different than the next dozen. It wasn't until other soldiers took their place in front of him that Johnathan realized he was shouting.
“Fill the gaps in the line men! I said fill those damn gaps!”
Right, the line, his brain was processing his duties even while Johnathan was unaware of it. He only had three duties during the battle. Stay alive, kill as many of the enemy as he could, and make sure the line stayed intact. Such was his role in a defensive battle, the role of an officer.
“Keep this damn line intact!”
However, he could tell his men were wavering. The men who had positioned themselves in front of him had already been cut down. He was swinging again, with the endless energy of a man fighting for his life. Suddenly, it wasn't flesh Johnathan's blade struck, but steel. An enemy officer stood in front of him, sword in hand.
Twice more their blades crossed, before a sudden slash from the enemy brought a shower of broken chain links from Johnathan's chest. He paid the blow no heed, however, and instead sunk his sword deep into the stomach of the enemy officer, before violently twisting his blade, and kicking the soon-to-be corpse away. He felt the arms of his men tug at him, pulling him back behind the line.
Looking down, he saw fresh blood running down his torso. So I was cut after all, huh. He thought to himself after removing his glove and touching it. Still warm, had to be his. As he continued to gaze at it though the suit of chain faded, as did the furs underneath. The bleeding wound turned to a scar, and the battlefield changed to a stone room. It was relatively plain looking, the only decoration was a single tapestry on the wall, depicting the charge at the Alderic Plains. Other than that, a single desk, covered with papers, stood in the center of the room. It was Johnathan's study.
Currently, his good friend Albert, now his personal assistant, was helping him don a particularly cumbersome suit of armor. A suit purely for ceremony, golden designs covered the armor which, while visually appealing, were unnecessary in Johnathan's eyes. Oh well, it was the king's orders. Johnathan was to give a speech, which he detested, and he was to give it while looking his best, something he also detested.
Still, he couldn't help but feeling a great joy, and a great sense of pride. The war was over, ten years of bloodshed had ended with Bellirian victory. The entire known world was now under his lord's control. The losses were heavy, but soldiers volunteered with the expectation to die, dealing with death was something Johnathan had learned to do as the man leading them to their doom.
“Perhaps, sir, you should go over your speech one more time. You wouldn't want to be caught in the middle of your speech, having forgotten what to say next.” Spoke Albert, while adjusting the straps on Johnathan's plate leggings. You're like my mother Albert, and that's not necessarily a good thing. Johnathan thought, sighing inwardly. Still, he saw the logic in the action, and it wasn't as if a final recital would hurt him.
“Citizens of Belliria, families of the soldiers, the wounded, the dead. I hear my name praised in every city, every village, however, it is not I who deserve such praise, but the soldiers who fought...”
Johnathan's words were twisting, losing their original form as the left his mouth. The sword at his side became a hammer in his hand. His armor turned into a thick, leather apron. His gloves thickened, and he became covered in sweat. He was also moving quickly out of the smithy that once belonged to his father, muttering under his breath, “War?” over and over.
Men were cheering outside on the streets, some barely containing their joy.
“We've got our war!”
“The greatest kingdom will be greater still!”
“Finally those vile Raelins will be put to rest!”
The cheers kept coming, not one person was unhappy. Everyone seemed overcome with a fervor, including Johnathan. His heart began to beat faster, the rumors had become true. They were finally at war again. The last war to ever be fought, for the Raelin were the last enemies left to conquer, the world would soon belong to the Bellirians.
Sheets of paper were being passed around, those who could write were signing, those who couldn't were having others sign for them. Recruitment sheets, dozens of new soldiers stood on that street alone. “We have our war.” Johnathan muttered to himself, nodding his head. He stepped back inside, trying to keep himself from running to his desk where his quill lay. As he went to lay down his hammer though, the shape changed.
It grew longer, the head flattening until it became an axe. His thick clothing changed back into his simple traveler's cloak. He was back in the forest again, outside of the nameless village. Johnathan let out a small sigh of relief as the hallucinations ended. Looking toward the sky he saw the sun in the same position as it was the last time he looked. Barely any time had passed.
“Damn mountain sickness.” Johnathan cursed, before splitting another piece of wood.
Another hour or so passed before it became hard to see. Johnathan had made a lot of progress in that time, he had managed to chop up two trunks into firewood before a sound from the direction of the village caught his attention. A woman was approaching, carrying food. As she drew closer Johnathan recognized her as the one he was staying with, Rebecca.
“Everyone stopped working nearly an hour ago, I brought you the meal you missed.” She was holding out a plate of steaming meat, with some bread on the side. Johnathan thanked her, before setting his axe down, and sitting on the stump he used to split wood.
Without another word she turned and left, he figured the point of her visit was to tell him to stop working. Whether it was from care, or keeping with some village rule Johnathan couldn't tell.
