After the Battle
by Donnie Denome
They were called the Second Chance army, though a better name
might the Last Hope. Comprised of thieves, lunatics, and those so destroyed by
poverty they had no other choice, they held the defense when no one else
could.
Liry, a pitiful emaciated girl, sat among the corpses of the
real army, knowing the end was nigh. The simple fact they had roused her out of
her niche in the stone wall of the asylum, handed her a uniform, and told her to
move before she was sorry spoke volumes about the state of the battle. She
wrapped her thin shawl tighter around her and moved on through the stink of the
mass grave. The bitter wind blew and with it came the war calls of the enemy, so
close now.
“We will not last past the next night.” Kye crept up behind her,
his eyes wide at the destruction.
She nodded, the only answer she could
give.
“Ai,” he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, “face your death
with honor or die unremembered.”
She wondered who said such wise words but could not voice her
question. He pointed to the growing light of the enemy’s torches. “I wonder how
many are like us.”
The two found refuge in a tent-shrine to the first wave of men
who fell. It was not designed to be a place of rest, only to honor the still
restless spirits. Still, they slept among the ruins, knowing it would be their
last night of sleep.
In the morning, a horn sounded across the plain. They smiled at
each other thinly before parting ways. She walked off to get water for some of
the older men— the pickpockets and paupers— but he pulled her back. “If… if we
somehow survive this, I… I want you to meet me back here. Could you do that, and
do it every night until we die? It would be nice— as nice as dying can be— to
die knowing I spent my last night with you.”
She nodded again.
“You won’t die a mute. And I won’t die the son of a pauper.
We’ll die heroes, if we die at all.” His words were so much more optimistic than
the night before. “We’ll die as part of the last
charge.”
“To your posts! To your posts if you still can!” The call
sounded over the great expanse, echoing through the many ruined barricades and
blood-filled trenches. He pressed a small dagger— a great blade to them both—
into her hand and then waved her off before she could
protest.
Her post was a tiny rock outcropping. It was also staffed by a
number of men who leered at her and the other women. The ten-or-so of them
clustered behind it, three deep and three
wide.
“Miss?” One of the other women handed a small throwing knife.
“Please, take this. I couldn’t fight even if I wanted to.” She gestured to her
swollen belly. “My child will thank you.”
She accepted the knife. The others, seeing that she had twice
the weaponry most had, pushed her to the front. She hid there for the hours upon
hours as arrows fell like rain and blood ran like rivers. The smell of putrid,
rotting flesh only upset the little moldy bread in their stomachs. Yet they
stayed at last post, fighting for a tyrannical state they neither knew the
leaders of nor had ever received any leniency from.
The first to die were the men. They overestimated their power
and, like maniacs, charged against a faceless enemy twice their size. Their
corpses, lying strewn like child’s toys, caused the rest to heave so hard that
the woman who had given Liry the knife began to labor. And so she was useless,
too, as well as the two that ran to assist
her.
It was Liry, then, and a young man. They exchanged glances. The
beasts that had taken their allies were so close now that their stink lay heavy.
There was no chance. And so they charged, for wrath and ruin and the knowledge
they would die with more honor to their names than they ever could have gained
in the asylum or on the street.
She swung the dagger at the first beast. It lumbered on and she
swung again, dogging its great club. Finally, it fell, and as it did she threw
her knife with such force it penetrated the thing’s ribcage and lodged itself in
its heart. She scampered onto the corpse and repeated the process with an
uncountable number of the fiends.
Yet even if she and Kye survived the day and the Last Hope had
done their job— to what end? They sat, crying and bleeding, among their dead
comrades. “It’s gone.” He pointed to what once was the great city. “It’s all
dust.”
Liry buried herself in his chest, thinking of the men and the
woman with the knife who died in childbirth and her attendants and the boy she
charged with— now just bodies. Creed, standing, ability— those did not matter.
They had no city now, no rank. They were either living or dead and the dead
deserved what the living could afford them.
Kye took her and showed her where he had fought and she took him
to see her post. They picked the baby out of the wreckage and placed its body
next to its mother’s heart. The only colors as far as the eye could see were
those of ruin: black, grey, and the rich iron-red of
blood.
Slowly, they gathered with the other survivors. Some suggested
going back to the city but saw that it was no better. Some suggested leading a
last charge into the very heart of the enemy but they were too few. Too many
leapt upon their swords. Finally, the remaining huddled together for another
night, facing the uncertain blackness that was their final
fate.
by Donnie Denome
They were called the Second Chance army, though a better name
might the Last Hope. Comprised of thieves, lunatics, and those so destroyed by
poverty they had no other choice, they held the defense when no one else
could.
Liry, a pitiful emaciated girl, sat among the corpses of the
real army, knowing the end was nigh. The simple fact they had roused her out of
her niche in the stone wall of the asylum, handed her a uniform, and told her to
move before she was sorry spoke volumes about the state of the battle. She
wrapped her thin shawl tighter around her and moved on through the stink of the
mass grave. The bitter wind blew and with it came the war calls of the enemy, so
close now.
“We will not last past the next night.” Kye crept up behind her,
his eyes wide at the destruction.
She nodded, the only answer she could
give.
“Ai,” he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, “face your death
with honor or die unremembered.”
She wondered who said such wise words but could not voice her
question. He pointed to the growing light of the enemy’s torches. “I wonder how
many are like us.”
The two found refuge in a tent-shrine to the first wave of men
who fell. It was not designed to be a place of rest, only to honor the still
restless spirits. Still, they slept among the ruins, knowing it would be their
last night of sleep.
In the morning, a horn sounded across the plain. They smiled at
each other thinly before parting ways. She walked off to get water for some of
the older men— the pickpockets and paupers— but he pulled her back. “If… if we
somehow survive this, I… I want you to meet me back here. Could you do that, and
do it every night until we die? It would be nice— as nice as dying can be— to
die knowing I spent my last night with you.”
She nodded again.
“You won’t die a mute. And I won’t die the son of a pauper.
We’ll die heroes, if we die at all.” His words were so much more optimistic than
the night before. “We’ll die as part of the last
charge.”
“To your posts! To your posts if you still can!” The call
sounded over the great expanse, echoing through the many ruined barricades and
blood-filled trenches. He pressed a small dagger— a great blade to them both—
into her hand and then waved her off before she could
protest.
Her post was a tiny rock outcropping. It was also staffed by a
number of men who leered at her and the other women. The ten-or-so of them
clustered behind it, three deep and three
wide.
“Miss?” One of the other women handed a small throwing knife.
“Please, take this. I couldn’t fight even if I wanted to.” She gestured to her
swollen belly. “My child will thank you.”
She accepted the knife. The others, seeing that she had twice
the weaponry most had, pushed her to the front. She hid there for the hours upon
hours as arrows fell like rain and blood ran like rivers. The smell of putrid,
rotting flesh only upset the little moldy bread in their stomachs. Yet they
stayed at last post, fighting for a tyrannical state they neither knew the
leaders of nor had ever received any leniency from.
The first to die were the men. They overestimated their power
and, like maniacs, charged against a faceless enemy twice their size. Their
corpses, lying strewn like child’s toys, caused the rest to heave so hard that
the woman who had given Liry the knife began to labor. And so she was useless,
too, as well as the two that ran to assist
her.
It was Liry, then, and a young man. They exchanged glances. The
beasts that had taken their allies were so close now that their stink lay heavy.
There was no chance. And so they charged, for wrath and ruin and the knowledge
they would die with more honor to their names than they ever could have gained
in the asylum or on the street.
She swung the dagger at the first beast. It lumbered on and she
swung again, dogging its great club. Finally, it fell, and as it did she threw
her knife with such force it penetrated the thing’s ribcage and lodged itself in
its heart. She scampered onto the corpse and repeated the process with an
uncountable number of the fiends.
Yet even if she and Kye survived the day and the Last Hope had
done their job— to what end? They sat, crying and bleeding, among their dead
comrades. “It’s gone.” He pointed to what once was the great city. “It’s all
dust.”
Liry buried herself in his chest, thinking of the men and the
woman with the knife who died in childbirth and her attendants and the boy she
charged with— now just bodies. Creed, standing, ability— those did not matter.
They had no city now, no rank. They were either living or dead and the dead
deserved what the living could afford them.
Kye took her and showed her where he had fought and she took him
to see her post. They picked the baby out of the wreckage and placed its body
next to its mother’s heart. The only colors as far as the eye could see were
those of ruin: black, grey, and the rich iron-red of
blood.
Slowly, they gathered with the other survivors. Some suggested
going back to the city but saw that it was no better. Some suggested leading a
last charge into the very heart of the enemy but they were too few. Too many
leapt upon their swords. Finally, the remaining huddled together for another
night, facing the uncertain blackness that was their final
fate.