Illyon slowed to a stop when he was sure that he was far enough to be hidden from Verim's sight. He twisted in his saddle, looking over his shoulder at the field he left behind. He was closer to the wall now, but he could see the smoke billowing up into the sky. It was wrong.
He had seen smoke from war before. It had always been from afar, often wistfully, but the smoke always rose into the sky in lazy wisps that disappeared the moment that he caught a glimpse of them over the trees. But this smoke was thick and dark, rolling across the ground in a tumultuous wave. Illyon could not see the fire that caused it, but he could hear the screams as the fire reached the men.
Illyon turned back to face the wall. If he continued riding, he could return behind the safety of the stone, where the flames and battle would not be able to reach him. He could say that Verim sent him to warn the second wave of soldiers to hold back. But claiming such would surely be condemning Verim to die. He had seen the terror in Verim's eyes when he sent Illyon away—this battle was something he had not anticipated, and that would only serve against them.
His stomach clenched as he turned his mount around, back towards the battle. The horse shook its head and took a step back, the whites of its eyes flashing. Illyon gritted his teeth and dug his heels into the horse's side, and even then, it set off at an uncertain pace, trying to veer away from the smoke. Ser Gaarwain had advised against him riding Tridon into battle, as he was not raised as a war horse, but this horse seemed hardly better. It grew increasingly restless under him as they rode closer to the battle, and would not step forwards unless Illyon kicked it sharply. He could agree with the horse. His eyes began to sting as he came closer to the battle, although he was not close enough to the fire to be surrounded by the smoke.
By the time he was close enough to see the banners scattered, abandoned on the ground, the sky was dark and he was pressed against the horse's neck, coughing. The sound of steel clashing and the shouts of soldiers seemed faint under the rush of blood in his ears. He felt as if the heat from the fires raging around him were beating behind his eyes and in his skull. Every breath he took only seared his lungs and made the throbbing in his head worse.
Illyon grasped for his sword hilt, but the horse jerked around, unseating him slightly from the saddle. He could barely keep his eyes open as he fought to regain his balance, reaching for the reins. Illyon barely felt the arrow that shot past him, grazing his cloak, but he saw it pierce the horse's flank, a second before the horse reared, letting out a high pitched shriek that reminded him of a woman's. The horse reared, throwing him free before tearing through the smoke.
His armor saved him from a rough fall, but he hit his head against the inside of his helm, dazing him even further. Illyon lay on the uneven ground, struggling to catch his breath. He was pathetic. Illyon had believed that he would be able to stand a battle. In his mind, he fought against men twice his size with practiced ease and the fight was a rush of exhilaration. But in reality, he hadn't even drawn his sword, and he was terrified. The smoke and screams sent tears streaming down his face, and every inch of his body ached without being struck by an enemy.
Verim had stayed behind—not calm, but still composed. He must have known what they were heading for. Illyon could not think that he would be able to continue to ride if he knew that this was what he was riding for.
"A leader must not show fear or confusion." he had heard his father instruct Verim. He had been behind the shelves, curious of what his father would have to say to Verim without him present. "Your army is simply your arms and legs—you must be their heart and mind—and you must not let them know you are frightened."
Illyon shook his head, and sat up, groaning quietly. He ripped off his helm, crumpled from his fall. He drew his sword, and stabbed it into the ground, using it as a lever to hoist himself off the ground. He stumbled as he pulled it out of the dirt again, but he quickly found his balance again.
A knife flew through the smoke, and Illyon raised his sword to block it, but it shot past, just above his blade. He let out a sigh of relief as it glanced off his chest plate with a resounding clang, dropping to the ground without any damage being done. A man followed the blade, forcing Illyon to raise his other arm. The sword caught against his gauntlet, but without enough force to even dent the metal. Illyon shoved the man away from him as he shifted into a better stance. He couldn't remember a single word that Ser Gaarwain had taught him, but his feet moved instantly into place, and his arms seemed to know how to hold the sword even without his mind knowing.
The man lunged at him again, but this time, Illyon was able to dodge the attack, slashing at the man as he shot past him, the force of the lunge sending him running several steps past Illyon. But he turned back to Illyon with surprising speed, and lowered himself, almost like an animal bristling. He paused just long enough for Illyon to note how small the man was—he would just barely come up to Illyon's shoulder, and was much slighter than Illyon as well. But he didn't have enough time to see the man's face before he lunged again, stabbing at Illyon's legs.
Illyon narrowed his eyes, and swung at the man. His lessons came flooding back to him. He could let the armor protect everything vital. He knew that he would be slower than the man, who seemed to not to be wearing any armor at all, but he would be able to land more crippling blows.
The man seemed to know this as well. He dashed towards Illyon to slash and stab at what unprotected areas he could reach, then danced back, his sword raised to block blows that Illyon returned. This continued for what seemed like to Illyon, hours. The man was quick to step just out of reach of Illyon's sword, each swing missing by a hair's breadth.
Illyon was now well and truly exhausted. The smoke made it difficult to draw in a breath, and his eyes still stung from the smoke, and he had to blink often to clear his eyes from tears. The man ran at him again as he lowered his arm. Illyon was able to raise his sword again in time, his arms trembling from the effort. He threw the man off, and raised his sword to counter another blow, but in the next second, the man was sweeping around him. Illyon recognized this technique. He could not say how, or from when, but he did.
He ran forwards, tripping. He was on his feet by the time the man turned around, his shoulders straightened in triumph. Illyon ran without thought, sword held out in front of him. The man didn't scream in pain like he thought all men did in death. A quiet gasp escaped his lips as Illyon's sword passed through him, blood spilling from his chest onto the hard, baked ground.
Illyon could clearly see his face now. And he knew why the man was so small in build.
He was not a man.
He was a boy of eight—perhaps even younger. Illyon sank to his knees, his eyes locked with the boy's now vacant ones. He could not move. The boy crumpled to the ground as Illyon's fingers slowly loosened the grip of his sword. Illyon's stare slowly lowered back onto the boy. He could not feel the heat of the flames or the pain of the smoke anymore. He could not hear the battle around him.
All he could hear was his own heart beating, feeling as if the sword tore through his own chest.
