Young Writers Society

My name is Dimás. I was drafted.

The sun was high on this cloudless afternoon. The men who stood next to me—the faceless, stoic men under their helmets—blinded me with the brilliant reflections off their armor. I could do nothing but look forward in formation: a glittering spear in my right hand, and a towering shield in the other.

My armor was heavy and hot—the insides laced in thick cloth, wearing down on my large frame. This suit assigned to me was meant for winter combat, but when the enemy refused the peace treaty during the beginnings of the war, the sieges grew longer and longer until summer finally came.

It had been almost a year now since the war began; I was a hired guard for some important political figures before they all got themselves killed, though I could do little to stop it, for they were all fell to the poison in their wine.

I was drafted to the front lines after that. This would be my first open battle in this war. Knowing the odds of foot soldiers, this was also to be my last.

The rolling green hills beyond me contrasted blackened smoke and ash rising no more than 30 miles away. The enemy was fast approaching, when they would come was the question I couldn’t bear to ask.

‘Luthadel has fallen, then.’ I thought, ‘they’ll be coming here next…’

I could feel the morale of the men around me fall; my face dropped to a grim overtone. I looked over to the fellow man to my right, and realized I was the tallest of the crowd by a full foot.

‘They’ll spear me first.’ I brooded.

“Hey.” One of them spoke behind me, “What’s your story?”

We all turned to him, not sure which one of us he was suggesting. The inquisitor had a long, unkempt beard. He clarified through a simple nod to the weathered soul on my left.

“T’was a farmer, myself.” Another man answered with an accent, “Imperial bastards took me from my homeland during one of their campaigns. They stole all I had and drafted me. Now I’m here.”

“You’ll have plenty of crops in the afterlife, I’m sure.” The bearded man reassured him. The foreigner relaxed and nodded solemnly before turning back to the front.

“What about you?” He spoke again. His voice directed to me.

“Personal guard for Lord Fordring.” I answered, “-before he was poisoned.”

“Lord Fordring…” He echoed, “You must be Dimás, then. Damn shame they brought you to the front lines. Some say you have the muscles of an Ox, literally.”

“How do you know me?” I pondered, “I’m just a guard; I’ve made no name for myself.”

“Anyone associated with Lord Fordring has a title, Sir.” He smiled.

“You never told me your name...” I asked. He looked familiar under his beard.

“It’s Tirion. Tirion Rolfe.”

My eyes narrowed, “Shadow of Luthadel...” I whispered. The men around me tensed underneath their armor.

“In the flesh.” He smiles

“You should be under the noose right now for what you’ve done.” The foreign man interjected.

“I would be if they didn’t need bodies for the front lines.” He sighed, “The judge said I could go free if I survived: This is basically my execution.”

I froze.

‘Execution…’

The conversation slowly died after that, and I looked onward to the rolling hills. We had stood here for hours on end, and it almost crossed my mind that the enemy might just not show up, perhaps stay in Luthadel for the night, and my life be spared this day. I had no idea what time it was, then: the sun was obscured by the heaps of ash in the air.

All the soldiers were quiet for a spell. Not a sound was made but the soft clash of steel shoulder plates between men who could not bear to stand.

I thought of my home in Einarth. I wondered if my wife, Lydia, was still waiting for me; brewing that mead with snowberries mixed in: my favorite. She would wait patiently for my return after the war was over, but the day I left her for the draft we looked into each other’s eyes, understanding that I wouldn’t be coming back.

But she kept the ring, just in case.

I looked at my right hand which wielded the spear. Over the glove was a golden ring. It cost all I had from my years as a guard, but I wanted to make my marriage something grand: a sliver of nobility both of us desired so dearly.

I knew everyone in my hometown, from the merchants and nobles to the beggars and brothel ladies. They all had names to me—they weren’t family, but something close to that. Nostalgia flooded my mind, and it took me a few moments to notice the trembling ground.

I could hear a shouting in the distance. Somebody afar on a watchtower pointed to something beyond the hills. A commotion gathered in the army: whispering voices and cries of panic and bravery;

“What’s going on?”

“Is it finally happening?”

“Let them come!”

“Lord let me live!”

The earth quaked now. I knew what was coming: they would come with mighty horses, steel swords, and raw fury. A dark acceptance coursed through my mind at the realization.

“I am going to die.” I muttered, unconsciously wording my thoughts aloud. The foreign man to my left shivered with the clanging steel plates. My vision blurred this time, as though my mind had broken from the anticipation, and the tranquil confirmation of my pitiful demise.

A faint voice fell into my ears: Tirion. “It was an honor to fight with you, Dimás.”

“You, too.” I said, now dead to the world.

The sun grazed the hills now. Twilight. The ash stained with hues of orange and crimson red.

A figure arose from the hills, then another, and another.

“A battle at last!” some idiot cried. My breathing shortened. Heart pacing. They came in numbers over the hills.

Their distance closed, and a captain shouted.

“TESTUDO!”

I knelt to one foot and dug my shield into the ground, spear forward. Instinct. Others followed.

“ARCHER’S READY…” He raised an arm.

The enemy was no more than a mile away now.

“FIRE!!”

There was silence but for a brief moment, succeeded with the cutting of air as the sky blackened. Arrows flew like rivers of flint and feather. One by one they met their targets. Approaching men fell endlessly. Each man and steed killed was replaced with another, crawling across the piles of dead. They were almost immortal.

The arrows stopped, the shadowed sun blinding me again. No orders were given: the captain was gone.

We studied our foes: their faces distraught with a terrifying fury.

100 feet now: All silent.

80 feet: The heat was unbearable.

60 feet: My armor was too heavy.

40: ‘They’ll spear me, first.’

20: I saw the whites of their eyes!

10: I braced for impact!