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The Vanguard By Geoffrey C. Porter I kicked my heels into the horse to keep up with the others, and for the first time since the start of this ordeal, I thought to myself: I'm too young to die. The horse galloped forward, and in the distance, I could see to the edge of a great field of tall grass. The tops of their black helmets rose up in the distance climbing up the slope of the other end of the field like a line of charcoal. I looked to the left and right, a line of black as far as the eye could see. I rode at the front of the vanguard, so far in the front that I was only two places from High Lord Kirl who lead the charge. Kirl drew his blade, and I instinctively drew mine in a flash with the rest of the vanguard. I remembered back to the stories the elders told around the fire about The Horde: stories of hellspawn and demons. As the distance closed between us, I could discern the footmen in the front of The Horde carrying long pikes and shields. They wore pitch black plated armor from head to toe, pitch black. A great volley of arrows flew up from the rear ranks of the enemy. Kirl raised his sword high. He grimaced with concentration and shouted out a word from our cryptic ancient tongue. The swarm of thousands of arrows changed paths as they descended landing harmlessly to the left and right of our vanguard. Galloping at full speed we closed the distance to The Horde in a flash. The enemy pointed their pikes down at us and met our charge. A pike caught me in the gut and I jumped upwards careening high over the first line of footmen. It hurt, but it didn't pierce my chainmail. The smith promised me it would be good for two or three solid blows then no better than common steel. It threw my mind into gear--I'm going to die, I thought to myself. I plunged my sword into the chest of the closest of my enemies and in a flash I saw the high points of his life: his first true best friend, his first experience with a woman, and his training with The Horde. It rushed through me, and I pulled my sword free. The sword drank up the blood and gleamed clean and shiny in the sun. An enemy tried swinging at me and my blade moved as if with its own mind parrying the pike. I took control and pushed the blade through the faceplate of the other soldier, again, another life flashed before my eyes. A burning rage erupted in my heart, these people were the same as we are--why do they attack us? In a heartbeat, I thought back to my own life. Three months ago it changed on a new year's morning with my youngest sister jumping on my bed, shouting, "The call-to-arms! The call-to-arms!" I growled back at her, "Get out of here." Thinking: could it be true so early in the year and just three years after the last invasion? I rolled over in bed and went back to sleep--not about to give up my warm bed over the cries of a six year old. Then a few minutes later I heard a knock on the door and I said, "Yes?" "They've called the conscription, son. Get up and get breakfast." I crawled out of bed, ran my fingers through my hair and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. I made my decision as I jumped down the last three steps of the stairs: I would fight. Mom set a plate down on the table and poured me a cup of milk. Dad said, "They're expecting everybody to report today, Memnock. You don't need to take anything with you--just go down to the town center after breakfast." I nodded. Mom said, "He shouldn't have to go. There are rules. We already lost one son. He doesn't have to go." Dad glared, "I faced The Horde three times, woman! It's not a death sentence." My Mom reached up and touched her eye like to rub back a tear and whispered, "I miss Jericho." Dad said, "We all do. There won't be many this time, what with the last conscription being just three years back. He's needed. We'll still have Jacob." I spoke quietly between bites, "I'm going to fight." Mom and Dad simply nodded. I finished the last of my food and went to my room, what used to be mine and my big brother's room. I wanted to at least be wearing my best pants and shirt. I donned my coat and headed to the front door. My little brother saw me and looked down at his feet. I ruffled the little bugger's hair and said, "Don't worry, Jacob. We will break their line. We will send them running back to the ocean." Jacob twisted his head out of my reach obviously preferring not to have his hair ruffled. "I want to fight!" I thought silently to myself, if I fail you might just get your wish. "You're too young, little brother." "I'm too young for everything but chores!" I laughed and reached for his head a second time. He dodged out of the way and ran. I headed downstairs. My Mom, Dad and little sister waited at the door for me. I nodded to them and said, "Well, I'm off." Mom tried to smile, "Just remember, you don't have to do this. You can change your mind." Dad sniped, "He's not going to change his mind." I smiled and said, "Goodbye." I made it to town and some soldiers directed me to the army's training field. When I made it there I was told to stand in line, then one by one young men would step into a tent, then step back out of the tent through a separate opening wearing a blue bandana on their arm. When I got to the front of the line I kept hearing people cry out right after a person stepped into the tent. It came to be my turn, and I stepped into the dark tent. I saw a veteran fighter with rippled muscles and scars, unshaven. He looked me in the eye. Then he whipped his hand out from behind his back and threw something at my face. I caught it. I cursed to myself. It hurt my hand, a chunk of iron, and it would have hit me right in the face! The fighter asked, "What's your name?" I almost threw the iron pellet back at him. I replied, "Memnock." He wrote down my name in a book, glanced at me again and asked, "Your brother was Jericho?" "Yes." "You look like him, and just like Jericho, you've made it into the Vanguard. I'm putting you with Lord Patrick." He stepped forward and tied a red bandana on my left arm and pointed towards a flap in the tent, "That way." I asked, "What do I do?" "Find Lord Patrick and tell him you caught the iron." I stepped through that tent flap into the troop compound. I went from person to person asking about Lord Patrick until I finally found him with a group well dressed men wearing purple with gold borders on their tunics obviously a group of Lords. I told him I caught the iron pellet, and he laughed at me. I simply stared back at him. He noticed the quizzical look on my face and explained, "Most young men hear about the test, and make a conscious choice. If they want to be in vanguard they try and dodge the iron. If they don't want the glory they let the pellet hit them..." "I never heard of anything like it... What's it mean--to catch the iron." "Boy, it means either you got very lucky, but you're actually inept, and you'll be one of the first to die, or it means you were born to fight in the vanguard. You'll ride by my side, and I'll be right next to High Lord Kirl." I smiled, hoping for the latter. Lord Patrick turned to face the other Lords and seemed to ignore me. I asked, "What should I do?" Patrick pointed to a pile of rusty old swords, "Take one of those swords, go to one of those trees in the field over there and hit it." "Then what?" "Hit it again. Until you can't hit it anymore." I nodded. I went over to a stack of swords and picked out one of the less rusty ones. The edge of the blade looked dull and here and there it had nicks in it. I felt the balance. It clearly weighed heavy towards the end and seemed far heavier than it needed to be. I walked back over to Lord Patrick and interrupted, "Excuse me, my lord, will I carry this sword into battle?" Patrick looked me in the eye and laughed out loud, an annoying habit. "No. They will forge a blade for you to use." A few weeks later I was summoned to the armory tent. I stepped inside and Lord Patrick waited. He handed me a sword in its scabbard, he said, "There is your fury blade, Memnock, take it..." I took the sword and drew it. I hefted its weight and smiled. The balance was perfect and the edge razor sharp. Suddenly it purred in my hand, like a young kitten almost. I looked to Lord Patrick. "It's alive?" "Yes, forged with dragon's blood, attuned to you. It has your name on the hilt." I looked and indeed carved on the hilt was the word, Memnock. I smiled and sheathed the sword. Months passed as the army trained and trained. On the eve of the battle I met Kirl for the first time. He stood next to a boiling cauldron of red liquid. Patrick waited for me. An ancient hag poured some of the liquid into a silver cup and held it out to me. Lord Patrick said, "Drink it, Memnock." I took a sip and said, "Eww, what is it supposed to taste like?" Kirl replied, "Dragon's blood. Drink it... It'll prepare you for the battle tomorrow." I drank it down. It burned in my stomach. It tasted of ash, soot, copper, and salt. Setting the cup down, I looked to the lords. Kirl grinned, "In the battle tomorrow, you'll be at Lord Patrick's right, if he should fall then form up with me." I pondered the situation, "What if you fall, Lord Kirl?" Lord Patrick laughed with some passion, "If he falls, Memnock, all is lost." Kirl said, "My boy, if I fall in combat, you can consider yourself in charge. Advance. The plan is a simple one: we need to punch through the body of the Horde and reach their command pavilion, hopefully killing some or all of their generals. In the past if we've reached their command pavilion they'll order a retreat, we'll have to give chase. Understood?" I nodded, "Yes, my lord." Both lords seemed to ignore me at that point--I looked to Lord Patrick, "What should I do, my lord?" "Most men try and sleep, some know they can't and just stay up and play dice and burn fires." I smiled. I knew that meant I could do whatever I wanted, a rare luxury in military life. I said, "Thank you, my lord." As I walked towards my tent my thoughts drifted. The earth below my feet seemed to get swampy and mushy. It felt odd, but I felt strangely at ease. I wanted to get plenty of sleep so I went into my tent and lay down on my mat. I drifted off into endless colored dreams. I dreamed of so many things it felt like an afterlife's worth. Dreams of harvest time played over and over in my mind; intermixed with dreams of my family, and then there were the dreams of women, dozens of dreams of women. I woke to the sound of drums, the first time they'd played the drums since the start of my conscription. They thumped so loud and my head felt so strange that it felt like they vibrated through the very Earth. I donned my chainmail and strapped on my blade. I stepped out of the tent, and a maiden ran towards me carrying another silver cup of red, frothy liquid. She shouted out, "Memnock!" My first thought was that I was dreaming, but that I should play along. I smiled and said, "Over here." She stepped towards me and held out the silver cup, "From High Lord Kirl." I took the cup and drank it down. The sheer acid taste of it burned my throat and woke me to the reality that this wasn't a dream. As the battle raged around me I struck down opponent after opponent, trying to fight my way back to the rest of the vanguard. With each enemy I struck down I seemed to breathe in their life force and grow stronger. My blade stayed clean and sharp the entire time, then I noticed it started to cast off white light and move faster than I could possibly swing it myself. That's when I saw a behemoth of a man strike down Lord Patrick with one swift blow to the neck sending his head flying off. He stood a hand and a half taller than me and almost twice as wide with black hair and pale blue eyes. His arms and legs rippled with muscle. Unlike the other enemy warriors he wore no armor, save for a horned helm and leather protecting his groin. His axe blade glistened red with blood in the stark morning light; blood of my fallen brothers. I charged him aiming with all my strength for the point on his neck where it attached to the shoulder. He saw me and flashed his teeth at me; then he moved the axe with a swiftness I couldn't believe and blue sparks flew as the axe crashed into my arcane blade. I felt the jolt and redoubled my effort striking over and over at his face and neck. For every strike I made the axe flashed and sparks flew, neither metal dented under the stress. He flipped his grip on the axe, and I saw it out of the corner of my eye aimed for my neck. I ducked straight under it and saw an exposed kneecap. I lashed out with my sword slicing an inch deep cut right through the knee. My enemy screeched in pain and dropped his guard. I didn't have time to revel in it; I spun around, lopping his head off. I looked around, in a circle around me the fighting had stopped and both sides watched. Then I heard a low roar from my side of the line. I saw a great crash of lightning and heard the word, "Rally!" louder than thunder from Kirl. I ran like the wind through the tall grass and over the bodies to where Kirl stood. I reached Kirl first. The Horde surrounded us but more of the vanguard approached, I looked to Kirl, "My lord! Why do they attack us, they are no different from us?" Kirl smiled, "It's because we use magic, Lord Memnock. Don't you feel the power flowing through you?" I paled at the thought. Why not use magic? Magic strengthens the farmer's plow. Magic seals the grain silo. Magic heals wounds. I took note though--I could feel arcane energy flowing through me like never before. The vanguard finally formed up around us and Kirl howled, "Advance! Advance!" My guts pulled me forward back into the hornet's nest of enemy swords and pikes. In the distance, with just a few more ranks of enemies in the way, I could see the honor guard surrounding the Horde's generals. I wrote this story for Ed Davis's Advanced Fiction Writing. |
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