A story I wrote a long time ago, this is simply a re-telling.
The story is not really super original, its something I saw in a clip once. The clip however, had a different take then mine, so I've made my own changes to it.
The arrows kept the men down. The shrill whistle of arrows overhead sounded like the Grim Reaper's scythe slicing down their necks. Angrily, the Captain of the guard pulled down the new squire. "Keep your head down!" He hissed angrily. "You want a bleedin' bullseye on yer forehead to help them?"
The squire hid lower than the rest of the men, shamed by the insult. The Captain gave a grumble, muttering to himself. They replaced an old veteran with a new squire...who soon enough, will probably need a replacement himself. A chilling thought shook the Commander's spine, though he hid it well; despite his callous nature, the loss of life amongst those around him affected him deeply.
The Captain gave one look at the flag behind him. The symbol of their proud army was there. A raven, it's wings spread on a blood red background. A fitting symbol for the famed army of the Crimson Knights. A smile drew across the commander's face. That symbol meant many things to him. For the enemy, it was a shout of defiance. To the enemy, it said: 'Here we are...and here we shall stay!'
To him, it meant the promise that troops would rally to the flag. Reinforcements would come, so long as the flag remained standing. The army would not leave their best men stranded. No. They would come...
An explosion of dirt and gravel from a thrown boulder rocked the earth, shaking the Captain from his trance. He turned to watch, seeing a hurtle of bodies fly up along the air. He viewed the sight with a sort of resignation...there was nothing he could do for those poor men. They were losing more and more good soldiers as they waited here.
There came, from behind, a rallying cry. A charge of cavalry, a small group of scouts, lead the foray. Horsemen skilled in melee combat ran past them towards the enemy, screaming in bloodcurdling fury.
Quickly the Captain seized the moment. Grabbing the flag, he stood up atop the wall they were hiding behind, his head turning left and right. His hand was cupped at his mouth, as the flag he carried wavered proudly in the wind. "Rally to the flag! Rally to the flag!"
"Chaaaarrrggeee!" As one man, as one centralized unit, the knights rose up from behind the walls and rushed forwards. Arrows flew from crossbows and swords were drawn pointed towards their enemy...their hated enemy that had kept them entrapped for so long.
Their foe was numerous...their foe was strong. But the men fought valiantly. The Captain waded through bodies, a blade in one hand and a gauntleted fist ready to strike. Faces were smashed, skulls were cleaved, bones were chopped. Unleashed on the battlefield, the Captain was death incarnate himself, his blade tempered not only by experience but by the righteous fury of the death of many fallen comrades.
But then it seemed, the battle was lost. Enemy reinforcements pulled in; Pikemen, armed with deadly spears, dehorsed the cavalry that had given the small company what boost they had, and a line of heavily armored swordsmen, fresh into the fray, found the tired company that had little rest to be of little challenge to their blades. More and more good men were dying, and the Captain could do little more than yell for his men to stay in formation.
'Blitch'. The nasty, moist sound of an arrow penetrating flesh. The Captain's eyes jerked closed in pain. He gritted his teeth together, nearly biting on his tongue. His left arm grew limp, and his sword clattered to the floor. As he stumbled onto his knees, he saw it at last.
The flag. It had fallen onto the floor, it's proud banner stomped on by so many feet. The sounds of steel clashing on steel, of arrows whistling through the air, all of this around him seemed so distant. The sounds of men screaming in pain and in anger, of horses neighing in fear...they all seemed so surreal, as if from some dream.
And yet, all of a sudden, as if possessed the Captain arose. With his workable right hand, he grasped the pole of the flag. And then...he ran.
He ran onwards past his men. He ran onwards past the enemy. He ran onwards past incoming arrows and thrown daggers. He ran like a demon in the wind.
When at last he reached the top of the hill, the enemy found their mark. Arrow after arrow pummeled his back, gouging his flesh, pouring crimson fluid onto the ground. With his last breath he plunged the end of the pole into the ground. As he slumped, face down onto the ground, he turned his head to one side so he could see the flag. His vision grew hazy...everything seemed so dark, so faint, so cold.
The flag wavered proudly in the wind, the fabric rustling in the breeze. And before the Captain passed away, he smiled.
The enemy had won the battle, but for the Captain...the enemy had lost the war. The flag was still standing. The promise was still there. More men would come.
Here we are, the Captain thought.
And here we stay.
The story is not really super original, its something I saw in a clip once. The clip however, had a different take then mine, so I've made my own changes to it.
The arrows kept the men down. The shrill whistle of arrows overhead sounded like the Grim Reaper's scythe slicing down their necks. Angrily, the Captain of the guard pulled down the new squire. "Keep your head down!" He hissed angrily. "You want a bleedin' bullseye on yer forehead to help them?"
The squire hid lower than the rest of the men, shamed by the insult. The Captain gave a grumble, muttering to himself. They replaced an old veteran with a new squire...who soon enough, will probably need a replacement himself. A chilling thought shook the Commander's spine, though he hid it well; despite his callous nature, the loss of life amongst those around him affected him deeply.
The Captain gave one look at the flag behind him. The symbol of their proud army was there. A raven, it's wings spread on a blood red background. A fitting symbol for the famed army of the Crimson Knights. A smile drew across the commander's face. That symbol meant many things to him. For the enemy, it was a shout of defiance. To the enemy, it said: 'Here we are...and here we shall stay!'
To him, it meant the promise that troops would rally to the flag. Reinforcements would come, so long as the flag remained standing. The army would not leave their best men stranded. No. They would come...
An explosion of dirt and gravel from a thrown boulder rocked the earth, shaking the Captain from his trance. He turned to watch, seeing a hurtle of bodies fly up along the air. He viewed the sight with a sort of resignation...there was nothing he could do for those poor men. They were losing more and more good soldiers as they waited here.
There came, from behind, a rallying cry. A charge of cavalry, a small group of scouts, lead the foray. Horsemen skilled in melee combat ran past them towards the enemy, screaming in bloodcurdling fury.
Quickly the Captain seized the moment. Grabbing the flag, he stood up atop the wall they were hiding behind, his head turning left and right. His hand was cupped at his mouth, as the flag he carried wavered proudly in the wind. "Rally to the flag! Rally to the flag!"
"Chaaaarrrggeee!" As one man, as one centralized unit, the knights rose up from behind the walls and rushed forwards. Arrows flew from crossbows and swords were drawn pointed towards their enemy...their hated enemy that had kept them entrapped for so long.
Their foe was numerous...their foe was strong. But the men fought valiantly. The Captain waded through bodies, a blade in one hand and a gauntleted fist ready to strike. Faces were smashed, skulls were cleaved, bones were chopped. Unleashed on the battlefield, the Captain was death incarnate himself, his blade tempered not only by experience but by the righteous fury of the death of many fallen comrades.
But then it seemed, the battle was lost. Enemy reinforcements pulled in; Pikemen, armed with deadly spears, dehorsed the cavalry that had given the small company what boost they had, and a line of heavily armored swordsmen, fresh into the fray, found the tired company that had little rest to be of little challenge to their blades. More and more good men were dying, and the Captain could do little more than yell for his men to stay in formation.
'Blitch'. The nasty, moist sound of an arrow penetrating flesh. The Captain's eyes jerked closed in pain. He gritted his teeth together, nearly biting on his tongue. His left arm grew limp, and his sword clattered to the floor. As he stumbled onto his knees, he saw it at last.
The flag. It had fallen onto the floor, it's proud banner stomped on by so many feet. The sounds of steel clashing on steel, of arrows whistling through the air, all of this around him seemed so distant. The sounds of men screaming in pain and in anger, of horses neighing in fear...they all seemed so surreal, as if from some dream.
And yet, all of a sudden, as if possessed the Captain arose. With his workable right hand, he grasped the pole of the flag. And then...he ran.
He ran onwards past his men. He ran onwards past the enemy. He ran onwards past incoming arrows and thrown daggers. He ran like a demon in the wind.
When at last he reached the top of the hill, the enemy found their mark. Arrow after arrow pummeled his back, gouging his flesh, pouring crimson fluid onto the ground. With his last breath he plunged the end of the pole into the ground. As he slumped, face down onto the ground, he turned his head to one side so he could see the flag. His vision grew hazy...everything seemed so dark, so faint, so cold.
The flag wavered proudly in the wind, the fabric rustling in the breeze. And before the Captain passed away, he smiled.
The enemy had won the battle, but for the Captain...the enemy had lost the war. The flag was still standing. The promise was still there. More men would come.
Here we are, the Captain thought.
And here we stay.
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