Mud & Mercy

The broadhead punched his gut as mud gripped his knees. He rasped, sword slipping, and hacked down a spearman. Another arrow whined, ripping his neck open. Red jetted, soaking his gambeson, pooling with the rain. He’d gutted a raider once, years back, under a red boar banner – just like the one flapping ahead now, through the haze.

‘Them?’ he choked, sinking, sword cold in his hand.

Mud dragged at his boots, thick as tar. He stumbled, sword catching in the mire, jerking his arm as he yanked it free. A spearman lunged – shaft whistling through the rain. He twisted, mud spattering his dented helm, barely dodging the thrust. His blade sliced the thigh, blood gushing black in the downpour.
The spearman staggered. He lurched, shoving weakly as the mud dragged him down. Fatigue dulled his swing, but the blade still bit deep into the neck. The spearman crumpled, another bastard claimed – for what?

A horn’s wail tore through the storm. He turned; breath ragged. Enemy flanks closed in. Their short bows loosed. The first arrow hit before he heard the twang.

Pain burst through his gut. His legs faltered. The storm blurred, the mud beneath him shifted into something else.

Flames.

He was a young boy again, cowering behind a cart as the red boar banners swayed in the torchlight. The village burned, smoke thick in the night air. Men screamed – some cut short, others howling as they were dragged from their homes. His mother’s hands, strong despite their shaking, pressed him into the mud “Don’t move. Don’t breathe.”

Boots squelched through the filth. Raiders laughed, drunk on slaughter. The first man his father faced had a notched axe and a cruel grin. The fight was short. Steel flashed. Blood sprayed. His father’s body crumpled. His mother bit back a sob, hands trembling against his back.

The raider turned.

He saw them.

For a moment, he only watched. Then his mouth curled into a grin. He wrenched the boy’s mother from the mud, her scream tearing through the night like a banshee. He clawed for her, but a heavy boot slammed him down. He gasped, choking on dirt, as a shadow loomed over him – a man with a single eye, the other a dark, soulless void of scarred flesh.

The one-eyed raider leered down at him, grip tightening around the mother’s arm.

“Got fight in him,” he mused, voice thick with amusement. His grip shifted to his belt. “Shame. Would’ve made a fine thrall.”

His mother thrashed. Screamed. Cursed. The boy fought against the boot pressing him into the filth, tears burning in his eyes.

Then a dagger flashed, and the pleading stopped.

He felt it before he saw it. The shift in the air. The wet sound of steel sliding from flesh. His mother slumped; her lifeless body discarded into the mud beside him.

The raider wiped his blade clean against his tunic and walked away with a guttural laugh thick with malice, trailing into the flames.

The fire burned on. The night stretched, endless. When morning came, the village was gone. So too was his childhood.

A thunderous clap ripped through the sky. The storm swallowed him once more. Rain battered his face. The red boar banner flapped ahead, barely visible through the downpour. He coughed, the taste of iron thick on his tongue.

“Them.”

His breath shuddered.

His grip tightened around his sword, but his fingers were numb, the weight slipping from his grasp. The storm howled. Men screamed. The clash of steel and the hiss of arrows were distant now, muffled by the roar of blood in his ears.

The second arrow struck.

His body convulsed, the force knocking him onto his back. The sky reeled grey, endless. rain hammered down. He gasped, tasting blood. It pooled in his throat, thick and coppery. The world blurred. The storm flickered.

And then he heard it.

A laugh.

Low and mocking. A sound he had not heard in years, yet it had never left him.

He forced his head to the side. The battlefield swayed before him – shadows moving through the rain, men dying in the mud.

And there, standing amidst it all, watching.

A man.

A single eye gleamed in the gloom, the other a hollow void of scarred flesh. His grin curled beneath a damp, matted beard – unchanged by the years.

He stood untouched by the storm, his presence unwavering, as if he had always been there – waiting.

The soldier’s breath hitched. He tried to move, to crawl, but his body would not obey. Cold seeped into his limbs.

The raider only watched.

And then, he laughed again.

Low, mocking.

The soldier blinked. Rain blurred his vision. Shadows shifted.

When he opened his eyes again –

The raider was gone.

The battlefield raged on. The red boar banner still flapped above, its sigil bleeding into the storm.

A shiver ran through him, but not from the cold. His fingers twitched, curling weakly into the mud. The rain washed over him, red mingling with the brown, seeping deep, pulling him down.

His lips parted, but no sound came.

His gaze drifted upward. The storm raged on.