An Insurrection
The blood couldn’t be washed away, even with all the rain. The faces of men were caked with muck and rotting entrails. Those lucky enough to still be alive could only stare and hold back the lump in their throats, if their stomachs were strong enough to hold down the bile in their empty bellies. Dead men strewn across a battlefield was enough to make a coward retreat. Seeing Norman Khan, who many believed to be the strongest man in all of Lorencia nailed dead to the king’s wall, made the most battle worn warriors ready to drop their swords and tuck tail.
Only Garvin Desh, an assassin of the highest order turned patriot gave them pause to stand and fight. Desh sat atop a brilliant black steed, shelled in navy blue armor and a flowing white cape. His blood soaked sword gripped in his right hand, and the flesh stuck between the spikes on his gauntlets, were the only signs that proved he’d seen any combat.
Desh watched with piercing blue eyes as the castle gate opened for the first time in two days. He was sure it was another wave of well-rested soldiers, but King Thurstan Dyork, himself, emerged flanked by Ludan and Carmine Bisch. They were known as The Black Twins, and champions of Lorencia. As King Thurstan strode from the gates atop his mount, thirty thousand of Lorencia’s finest parted to make room for him. He made his way down the aisle of soldiers with his snobbish chin stuck firmly in the morning air. Large drops of rain pelted his helm as Thurstan made a beeline for Desh, a smug smile dressing his face as he approached.
Giving his horse a kick, Desh started on a line to meet the king. Two men, dressed in similar fashion, looking twice as deadly as Desh, found themselves on his flanks. Desh slowly checked both sides to see who was following, and then set his gaze back toward the king. They were men of his order, Brack the Bald and Morn Shademaker. Few better to have at your back and steady enough to listen to some talk before blood was shed. Matching the king’s smugness with a grin of his own, Desh cracked his neck to both sides.
‘Still as pretty as a woman I see,’ Thurstan said, looking at Desh’s striking features, bringing his horse to a halt.
‘Save your worthless sophistries for the politicians,’ Desh said spitting to the side.
Thurstan was surprised at Desh’s austere response, but smiled nonetheless.
‘When I heard it was you out here leading the charge after Khan fell, I had to see it with my own eyes,’ Thurstan said. He narrowed his eyes as if to improve his vision. Desh titled his head to the side and the king scoffed at him.
‘Then the thirst of your curiosity is quenched?’ Desk asked, giving the king a sharp look.
‘Not quite.’ Thurstan paused for a moment and nearly turned around completely. He eyed Khan’s body and gave Desh a matter of fact look. ‘What is it that you are trying to accomplish here? Your troops are nearly spent, vastly outnumbered, and their morale is lost. You are not foolish enough to believe you’ll succeed here.’ Thurstan gazed upon Desh’s pretty face, hoping to comprehend the thoughts in his mind by reading them on the lines his expression would make.
‘The success of war isn’t determined by how many men lie dead.’ The king huffed at his words. ‘I would gladly move this army from the field if you would but grant the people food and protection.’ Desh’s face turned stern as he leaned forward, his sword steady at his side.
Thurstan scoffed, and then laughed as he began to speak. ‘You call this rabble an army? They are little more than brigands and peasants with knives and pitchforks.’
‘Better a
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