Crooked Hearts

Episode 1

EMRYS

Marching through the narrow path, surrounded by mountain slopes and trees as my boots squelch through the sticky and muddy ground, rainwater from last night's storm cling to the earth. I look up at the sky but see nothing but thick canopies that allow only a handful of light to pierce through, their leaves like a thousand eyes staring down at me obscured by mists, mists that slithers around us like trails of ghosts, Thick and suffocating.

The misty woods, no scouts have ever returned from this cursed place. Yet the commander of the army insists on marching through, a tactical error but who are we to protest it? In a military hierarchy, orders are orders. Some argue that we are being used as bait but they cannot tell us that we are walking to our deaths, fighting in the vanguard is one thing but a suicide march? But that is just drunk talk.

I turn to look behind us but cannot see the soldiers who are supposed to be guarding our flank, either they are falling further and further behind, or the mist has grown thicker. Or were they telling the truth? What if we are bait? Lambs for slaughter? I shake my head to dismiss the thought but it clings to me, and uneasiness weighs down my heart. There is nothing certain in life, it is always a gambit but this?

I turn to look at Arthur, his dark green eyes focus ahead, the girls always say that they are charming but all I see is the eyes of a killer, cold and calculated. Though he is handsome with good jawline, his thin lips frowning, straight brows furrowing as something plagues his mind, most likely the same thought that haunts me. His hair are medium length at the top but thin at the sides, looking sharp yet casual in a messy side part.

I scan our surroundings but can barely see past fifty metres now, not being able to see anyone and yet I feel eyes on us, enemies hidden behind the thick fog. Waiting and watching for the right moment to ambush us, I reach for the hilt of my sword. Turning to a distant howling of wolves, then to a rapid pattering of steps behind the mist, and my heart races. Someone was standing close to our formation. "Calm down, Emrys." Gunther smiles, "They won't dare attack the full might of the army." A deafening roar cuts through the silent woods-a war cry, I draw my blade to the sound of metallic rasps around me.

Thousands of steps charging down the slopes all around us, and among them are the whistling sound of arrows, my eyes wide as I duck. Grunts and shrieks of pain around me, arrows catching them on the chest, arms and heads with a few thudding on the ground. I stand back up, and Gunther flies backward as a spear catches him in the chest, a powerful throw that impales him to the man behind him.

The Northern Warriors appear from behind the mists like ghosts, clad in mail armour adorned with furs and warpaint. Carrying axes both short and long, swords and spiked maces. It is a nightmare, a hell of our own making, we never should have set foot in this place. Like pawns we followed orders blindly, digging our own graves as the Emperor feast in his palaces. "Dear God, I promise I will repent if I make it out of this alive." I whisper softly.

I swing my sword as I take a step back, blood splattering as my blade cuts him cleanly on the neck. Screams of terrors and rallying cries, the sound of pierced flesh and cut-off limbs amidst clashing of steels, men falling left and right as blood waters the earth. Too much of everything at once, chaos. "Emrys!" I turn to Desmond.

A berserker, a beast among men, cuts through them like carving a cake. I rush towards the Berserker and stop a blade's reach away as he turns to face me. My heart trembles as I meet his menacing gaze, stopping him to boost our morale and simultaneously dropping theirs is a good tactical decision, but am I capable of such a feat? I inhale sharply, there is no room for hesitation on the battlefield.

I strike at him, my blade slicing through the air fast as lightning, barely missing flesh with each swing. He strikes back; our blades clang like thunder as I block it, vibrations crawling through my arm from the weight of the heavy blow that forces me a few steps back. And he grins, coming at me with a series of blows, and I move with the force of his swings as they come at me. Where we were taught to anchor our stance, I flow instead.