Dragonworld: The Drive For Power

Prequel 3: Fate Decides

Charge

Drops of sweat were rolling down his cheeks. The waiting. The waiting was always the hardest. He would be lying if he said he didn't have knots in his stomach right before entering the fight.

He waited for the signal, the horn and the general's shout that would tell him to hurl himself into the fray. The men under his command held their horses steady, ready to charge the enemy. 

In front of him, the battle was already in full swing. The army of Akelon was engaged with the forces of Dasmoydan, the southern kingdom with which it was almost perpetually in the state of war.

"Let's get on with it," someone in the ranks shouted, eager for action, but restrained by the steady hand of a commander who hadn't yet given the word.

Not yet. Not yet. The resolve was there. The signal still wasn't. 

Faikel looked around, at the men saddled next to him. He noticed the various ticks that betrayed their nervousness. One chewed the inside of his cheek, another kept adjusting the grip on his spear, sweat slipping down his temple despite the cold wind. A younger rider's leg bounced against the stirrup, not from the horse, but from the tension coiled in his own limbs.

Even the horses felt it, their hooves scraping the dirt, nostrils flaring, ears twitching at every distant cry or clash. War had a scent, and beasts knew it better than men.

"Don't think about it. Just follow the charge. Your blade knows what to do better than your brain ever will," said Faikel, piling on them the old soldier wisdom to calm them down. 

Yet, he too had trouble getting rid of the knots in his stomach. Better to focus on something else, he thought to himself.

It wasn't easy. The sites and sounds of the clash unfolding in front of them pulled at him. Screams rose sharp above the thunder of hooves. Steel rang against steel. Men fell, vanished into the mud and churn.  

The mercenary's eyes took in the field, scanning far and wide. The right flank of the Akelonian army was led by the duke of Estel, a young man from a high-ranking family, but one who had already acquired much experience in the world of fighting. Next to them, in the middle, fought the mercenary forces commanded by Pilash the Large.

Barrel-chested, with legs like oaks, it was a wonder his horse could carry the man. Pilash the Large, his ego was as big as his belly, possibly bigger. He fancied himself the second coming of Dorigo the Magnificent, the legendary mercenary captain of times past. 

Faikel had heard stories of the man before joining the sell-swords under his command. In one tale, he swung his axe so hard that he cut an enemy soldier in half. 

His traits were larger than life, a blend of brutal strength and unrelenting intensity. He was especially known for his powerful hands, and his foul mouth.

Above all, he always paid his men on time. For a mercenary, that is what mattered the most.

Pilash might have been the company's leader, a man hard to ignore, but Faikel's attention was locked elsewhere, on the battlefield's left flank. There rode the northern clansmen, hired by the Akelonians to bolster their army. 

The knights from the clan lands were a breed apart. They fought like men possessed, wielding their swords with the ferocity of wolves and the discipline of masters. There was no shortage of tales about them, their fierce fighting spirit renowned far and wide.

They would often travel south, to earn coin, but always with an eye towards sharpening their skills, forever seeking new ways to hone their edge and prove their worth. Akelon's purse had long proven heavy enough to draw them in.