Aurora Wolf

The Dragon Flag

by

F.S. Lloyd

From the heights, the battlefield sprawled with men in constant movement. The two armies, or rather what was left of them, fought on but the outcome was clear to those who understood war. Behind the enemy’s front line a red splotched field of the dead lay in their wake. The rebel army’s left curled around the right flank of the Royal troops and would soon turn the corner and roll the footmen up. The silence around the small group of horsemen grew increasingly oppressive.

“My lord, we should withdraw,” coaxed an older man with white hair and tarnished plate mail.

The youngest horseman looked at the grizzled veteran, an eyebrow raised. This second man wore simple armor, bereft of any gilded lions or inset jewels. The only indicator of his royal blood was the thin, iron circlet that rested on his brow.

“I’d hoped that our reserves would swing the tide, Pendren,” the King said.

The older warrior shook his head. Another banner fell on the battlefield below them. “It was as we feared, sire. The reserves were insufficient after we sent Sir Ethan and his contingent to the Borderlands. Only our veterans are keeping us in the fight. Prince Andrew’s mercenaries are just too numerous.”

The King slapped his reins into the palm of his hand, a scowl plastered across his youthful face. King Kellen pointed at a distant figure in shinning silver armor that battled in the center of the Royal lines. The man’s skill with the sword was evident even from their distance post.

“We better get your son out of there before we lose him. Before we lose all of them,” the King said. The men around him tensed in preparation for the order. But the King waited for another moment, his reluctance obvious. Finally he sighed. “Sound the retreat.”

At the rear of the group of observers a common foot soldier stood, nervously eyeing his superiors. Pendren turned and gestured to him. The foot soldier was a new recruit, as were many of the soldiers in the King’s army. This one, however, was also a distant relative to one of the Dukes of the realm and as a result was given the job handling the communications flags between the King and the rest of the army.

#

 “Red flag, not the blue flag,” he chanted to himself. “Red flag, not blue flag.” He reached down and grabbed at the red flag, but the blue flag jumped into his hand.

His head felt foggy for a moment, but it cleared and he was certain he held the correct flag. A tingling sensation raced up his arm as he thrust the flagstaff into the air. His training by the ancient Signals Sergeant consisted of the grizzled brute yelling at him to wave the flag more vigorously. It was a lesson he learned well.

Now the blue flag flashed back and forth over the observation site.

#

 The blue flag, was made from the hide of the last dragon defeated by the Royal Army. It was their greatest trophy and only used to signal a charge. With a roar the thin ranks of the Royal army threw themselves at their opponents with renewed ferocity.

Above the battlefield the King with his retainers watched in growing horror.

“What the hell is going on?” the King yelled. The group of observers as one turned and stared as Davin, son of William, third nephew of Duke Dyrian, threw away a kingdom. And he did it smiling the whole time.

#

Sergeant William Werth reacted from years and years of training. Along with the rest of the Sergeants he shouted the command: “Forward!” He saw the surprise on a number of the veterans’ faces. They all knew that the situation called for a retreat. But as he watched, an amazing thing happened. The veterans stepped forward into the line; dragging the green recruits with them, drawn by the power of the blue banner they called The Dragon Flag. He also knew that in their hearts they were still the King’s men and he called them to victory if they could only grasp it.

“The King! For the King! For Glory!” A chorus of men shouted.

And as quick as his fear appeared, it vanished. The change astonished him.

#

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Davin said for the umpteenth time. “I don’t know why I grabbed the red flag instead of the blue flag.” The boy grimaced. “I mean the blue flag instead of the red flag. I’ll do better next time.”

King Kellen looked on as his army threw itself against the wall of rebel troops. The good news was that the right flank looked secure and the center of his line swept forward to melee past their battle Captain. He watched as Pendren’s son saluted him from the battlefield and then turned and rejoined the fight.

“Sire, we can still call retreat,” Pendren said.

The King shook his head. “We can’t. The Dragon Flag has never failed my line. It has flown only during victory. They know that. If we called for a retreat, we would break their spirit forever. Perhaps it really is magical and this is fate.”

“Is there nothing else we can do?” Another of the advisors asked.

The King nodded and pulled the iron circlet off of his head. He tossed it to Davin who fumbled and almost dropped it in the mud. The King pulled on an open face helm. “Hold onto that for me,” he said and kicked his horse into motion.

The advisors looked at each other in shock. Only Pendren pulled his sword and followed without hesitation. The rest of them came to their senses and charged after.

#

“Keep going! Move forward there!” Sergeant Werth yelled. A veteran of three campaigns under the old King and now this disastrous piece of work with the new one.  It was his twelfth year in the army. He’d made Sergeant just in time to be put in charge of a group of complete morons. The same morons that were currently doing their best to get him killed.

“Llew, close up your ranks or that fellow is going to rip your balls off!”

For once the soldier listened to him and Sergeant Werth was pleased to see the center of the line come together. He admitted to himself that only five minutes ago he had been saying his prayers to the Storm Lord for a clean death. But the King showed more iron than he had thought possible and the men were responding to the power of the Dragon Flag. But the initial shock of their charge lapsed and the rebels were digging in.

A man fell, his helmet cut clean through by a massive, blonde-haired rebel, wielding a two handed sword. The reserves were long gone and only the Sergeants paced behind, yelling commands.  He signaled his intentions to another Sergeant, removed his shield from his back and stepped into the gap created by the fallen man.

 To his left and right, his men fought to the best of their ability. That generally meant that they were hacking with wild abandon or hiding behind their shields. It depended on the soldier.

The blonde giant laughed at his challenge and pressed forward.

Sergeant Werth was used to laughter. He’d faced more of it than he cared to consider because of his size. Where most of the young men in the army stood a good five feet ten inches, Werth barely scraped five feet three.

The giant thrust at him with the sword. Missed and changed to a backhanded slash that he barely angled his shield up to meet. The heavy sword connected and the force of the collision staggered him.

His opponent grinned maliciously and brought the sword against the shield again as if it were a game. Werth’s shield arm dropped as if numb. He lowered his head and forced himself to risk a step closer faking unsteadiness.

The giant’s eyes narrowed and the Sergeant hoped for what would come. He tensed his legs and when the enemy raised the two handed sword for an overhead stroke, he lunged in low. His own sword, shorter, which had been largely ignored, stabbed into the big man’s thigh.

The following high pitched squeal momentarily drowned out the sounds of battle.

Sergeant Werth stepped inside the giant’s reach and bashed his shield up into the enraged face. He wrenched his sword free, twisting it as he did so. The blade came loose, followed by a welling rush of crimson.

Despite the leg wound and the busted nose he delivered to the giant, the battle sword came down.

Shield up, deflecting the blow, he drove the short sword up, seeking the soft, exposed flesh beneath the enemy’s torque. He felt the blade sink home and then stepped back, as the now lifeless form collapsed.

The entire exchange took no more than ten or fifteen seconds, which Sergeant Werth considered to be unacceptable. He definitely felt old. He returned behind his line, surveying the current situation.

“Close ranks!” He yelled and the men shuffled closer together. There was no doubt about it. The rebels pressed forward again.

The right flank was in trouble. He was prepared to shout an order when a group of horsemen rode up. A natural rivalry existed between cavalry and footmen. He’d been in the middle of more than one barroom brawl with them. He hated their superior attitude.

“Damnit! I thought all the cavalry was committed on the left. Where the hell have you been?” he said.

The youngest of the group grinned at him. “We were delayed. I thought we might be of better use here anyway.”

“Oh did you? Thought you might save us by yourself then? What are you, a moron? Can’t you see that we are truly fucked here? Why don’t you ride up to the King and tell his lordship that Sergeant Werth said he was an idiot. That’s how you can be of better use.”

An older man, who looked vaguely familiar, flushed crimson. “Sergeant,” the man began but the younger horsemen held up a hand and he fell silent.

Sergeant Werth, taking a closer look at the quality of their armor, slowly realized all wasn’t as it appeared. Thankfully the far right flank chose that exact instant to fall.

Sergeant Werth saw it happen out of the corner of his eye. His position behind the lines gave him excellent line of sight.

When the army arranged for battle on the field he had known right away that the right flank was trouble. The sheer number of green troops made it a weakness. He had been part of the army for so long; he also knew that the other veterans were reluctant to participate in this fight because of it. The combination kept him glancing at the far right for reassurance.

So when he heard a shout from a fellow Sergeant, he zeroed in on the commotion. Two men standing next to each other died in quick succession. One of them looked like an old man who had no business being in a fight.

But the other was a surprise. His name was Uln. Sergeant Werth knew and respected the man from previous battles. They’d even shared a drink on occasion. But the fates were not on Uln’s side this time.

Uln was a skilled swordsman and as the Sergeant watched he killed two rebels in short order. But as he stepped over their bodies, his foot caught in their trappings and he tripped.

Sergeant Werth grimaced as a broad shouldered rebel punched a spear through Uln’s helmet, sending him on to the afterlife and the Endless Sea.

The sudden loss of two men in the battle line created a hole that the rebels rushed.

The horseman smiled grimly at Sergeant Werth.

“Sergeant, if you don’t mind, I think we’ll head over in that direction and see if we can’t un- fuck the situation for you. I’ll pass your thoughts onto the King and I’m sure they will be carefully considered.” He kicked his mount into motion and the horsemen followed him into battle.

Sergeant Werth’s earlier feeling of unease morphed into dread as a cry went up from the battle.

“The King! The King!”

“Oh shit,” he said. “I’m probably going to end up in the stocks for that. Or worse.”

He noticed another hole forming in his own section of the line and gripped his sword hesitating to leave his position. “Ah to hell with it. I’ll probably die anyways.” With a primal yell he launched himself back into the battle and uncertainty.

#

The King believed that the Dragon Flag was responsible for this opportunity to change fate. Knowing this to be true, there was only one thing for him to do

All the horses, their barding, their riders and all of their equipment, weighed thousands of pounds and were moving at a gallop when they slammed into the rebels that pressed through the battle line. The initial collision disintegrated the newly formed rebel position. Men were trampled, their bodies crushed beneath the horses’ hooves and their riders’ blades.

Most of the rebels had never seen a cavalry charge, much less fought against one. They were ill trained and used the weight of numbers as their main strategy. Soon after the horses joined the battle, rebels began streaming away; many discarded their weapons as they went.

“With me!” The King yelled as his long sword swept down on the heads of the fleeing rebels. The men in the Royal lines gave a ragged cheer and followed their King through the gap that almost destroyed them. Now the tables were turned and the horses, laboring with flecks of white on their muzzles, fought their way behind the enemy’s lines.

Still the horses died. Rebels who were trampled stabbed out in fear and enough of them struck home to bring down a horse or two. Others were killed with the rare spears scattered among the rebels. The heart of one horse ruptured and it collapsed in mid-stride. Near the end of the charge only the King remained mounted; his stallion staggered from exhaustion, eyes wide, foamed mouth and blood in its nostrils.

The majority of the fallen horsemen survived their horses’ deaths and they made up for their advanced age with experience and sword skill. They surrounded the King as best they could and hacked their way toward his goal. Both armies’ lines had disintegrated into a melee with soldiers stabbing, punching and screaming at each other.

Near the center of the rebel army a pavilion of purple cloth had been erected. It was there that the rebel’s only contingent of professional troops stood, waiting for orders.

“Andrew!” The King yelled and urged his horse towards the tent. The spearhead of dismounted cavalry battled their way forward until they engaged the silver armored men around the pavilion.

A man in golden armor, wearing a crown of silver and rubies, waited. He held a long sword that was the twin of King Kellen’s. Physically the two men bore a strong resemblance to each other but Andrew, leader of the rebel army, was older by a handful of years and his hair held a touch of premature gray.

“Cousin,” Prince Andrew said “so good of you to come.”

“It’s what Kings do,” King Kellen said. “They kill usurpers and traitors.” Around him the warriors of both sides fought on while the two men spoke. “It appears your mercenaries and rebels don’t have the stomach for battle anymore. Perhaps you should pay them more.”

Andrew’s face clouded. “Perhaps. Maybe I’ll pay them with your gold.”

“You could just melt down that ridiculous armor,” King Kellen said. “I will give you this one chance to surrender. If you do I’ll send you and your men on to the Windmist Isles.”

Andrew smirked. “I appreciate your offer, cousin. But we both know that I wasn’t born to live on some barren rock. Luckily, I don’t think that will be necessary.” The rebel leader gestured with his sword and the billowing fabric hanging from the sides of the tent collapsed. Inside stood a rank of archers, bows strung and arrows pointed at the King.

“Tell your father I said hello,” Andrew said. The bows loosed and the arrows whistled across the short distance. 

The King did the only thing he could. He yanked on the reins and the horse reared. He hated to sacrifice the valiant beast but the alternative held even less appeal. Four arrows thwacked into the horse’s chest as it stood on its hind legs. One of the broad headed arrows must have punctured the heart, killing the stallion.

The King knew that the animal was dead and as it toppled over, he threw himself from the saddle. The ground rushed up at him. Pain exploded in his left shoulder and the wind knocked out of him. He saw the feet of eager rebels running at him.

“Shit,” he said.

Then another figure stepped in front of him. It was the short Sergeant from earlier.

“I’ll just un-fuck this for you, my lord. Shall I?” Sergeant Werth said.

The King waved his hand. “By all means, Sergeant, give me a moment to collect myself.”

#

The silver clad regulars of Prince Andrew came at Sergeant Werth in a rush. Their easy kill slipping away and the King’s advisors were fighting hard. One of the rebels attacked Sergeant Werth from either side. He ducked one and parried the other. He jumped back to avoid a swipe at his stomach and heard the King yelp.

“Sergeant! You’re standing on my hand,” the King said from behind him.

“Sorry, Sire. What are you still doing down there?” Sergeant Werth blocked a thrust.

The two enemies facing him made eye contact with each other. Sergeant Werth knew that fighting two men at the same time was trouble. He had a scar in the back of his neck to prove it.

He gauged the distance between himself and the nearest warrior and then lunged. His target parried his blade but that was only a distraction. His leg snapped forward, striking the enemy on the side of the knee. The man screamed and fell.

Before the other man could react, Sergeant Werth spun around. His sword struck the enemy’s shield once, twice and then a third time. His opponent, likely a veteran as well, did not lower his shield. That would have given Sergeant Werth, too, easy of a kill.

The two traded searching blows. The man’s skills were obvious and likely trouble. Sergeant Werth knew that his opponent was someone of substance because his armor and weapons were the highest quality.  But they weren’t show pieces. There were deep grooves in the man’s gauntlets, which spoke of action. But most important the man’s eyes never looked panicked.

In the middle of his assessment, the enemy threw himself to the left and slashed down with his sword. Sergeant Werth reacted without thought and raised his sword to block. But the man somehow stopped the attack in mid-swing and slid to his knees. The move caught Sergeant Werth by surprise. With a clear opening the enemy warrior stabbed at his exposed abdomen. The sword crumpled his armor and drove the chain links beneath it into his side. He felt blood spilling down his leg.

His opponent moved in for the kill. Sergeant Werth felt time slow as the man stabbed him again, this time in the shoulder. His own sword felt sluggish in his hand and his shield slipped and fell to the ground. He barely fended off a killing blow with his weakened sword arm and stumbled away.

Then there was a flash of steel from the side and the enemy’s sword hand was cut from the wrist. The man’s victorious smile vanished; replaced with a look of horror. The King having returned to the fight, followed through and cut the man down.

“Sergeant I don’t have much of an army left. I can’t afford to lose good men. Even the ones who are opinionated and disrespectful,” the King said. “Shall we?”

“Damn right, sire,” Sergeant Werth said.

They fought side by side, hacking through the layer of mercenaries that surrounded Prince Andrew.

The cousins faced each other for the second time. But this time Prince Andrew’s eyes flitted from side to side. Sergeant Werth could see sweat on the man’s brow.

“My lord King,” Andrew said, “perhaps we can come to an arrangement. Nobody else needs to die today.”

“I think just one more should do it, Andrew,” the King said. Something in the King’s voice or in his eyes left no doubt about the outcome. Andrew’s gambit had failed. The Prince cried out and turned to run. The King sprang forward. His sword struck once, opening the traitor from neck to waist.

The silver armored warriors threw down their swords as soon as Prince Andrew fell, raising their hands in surrender.

Sergeant Werth expected the King to look triumphant but when he turned around he simply looked tired. Their eyes locked together and Sergeant Werth nodded.

“Hail the King!” he shouted, raising his bloody sword in salute. The men behind him heard and repeated the words.

Many of the enemy soldiers joined in. The King raised his own sword in return and the cheer grew louder.

Then he sheathed his weapon and bent down to pluck the sword from Prince Andrew’s hand. It was a fine blade. He tossed it to Sergeant Werth who caught it.

“Top Sergeant,” the King said, “let’s go home.”

“Sergeants! Attend to your men,” Sergeant Werth cried out in a strong voice as a field surgeon approached him.

On the heights, overlooking the battlefield, the Dragon Flag snapped in the freshening breeze.

Battle flag by Lars Opland