When the Banshee Whispers

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The rebellion in Eysteinn was a bloody one. Half the country seemed to be at war with the other half. We spent nearly a year fighting at the border to keep it from spilling over into Jurgin.

It was in the swamps to the south that Reidar Halvdan earned his name. The River Lion they called him for his strategy of waiting below the surface of the water with a reed for air. When a barge would come by he would leap onto its deck and lay waste to the crew. It was also in those waters that he lost half his face. The dwarf fire drake, a dragon the size of large dog did its best to eat the talon. In the end, it lost.

It was also during that bloody conflict that I was given my first title. I hated how good I was at killing. How natural it came to me. I simply swung my sword and men died. I read Cara's letters each night with blood stained fingers.

Six months into the fighting I had earned enough of a reputation to become a battle strategy. "The left line is faltering," the commanders would shout. "Send the Blood Prince." My squad killed more enemys than half the rest of the army combined. The commanders would cheer when I entered the taverns and bunk houses. None of them seemed to care that my squad also lost the most men. No one talked about the allies that died while under my command. They'd just send more men to take their place.

I tried to forget the faces. Tried not to see them when I closed my eyes. Faces of men I'd just met. Of enemies I'd never know. But they waited for me each time my eyes fell shut. Just as the banshee waited for me before each battle. She was always there. Standing on the edge of my vision. Weeping.

During one of the more bloody battles at the boarder I sat in the command tent watching as the lines shifted. Men bashed against men as they fought hard. I could see streaks of white light rising and falling throughout the battlefield as valkyries ascended those worthy as they died. It looked like there were near a dozen of the angels walking the battlefield. The gentle breeze blew and carried the smell of blood and gunpowder into the tent.

"North line is weakening," one of the spotters was saying. I looked to my commander. He held his hand up. Not yet.

The moments before I was called out to fight were always a troubleing time for me. My training and reflexes urged me forward. Watching my countrymen being slain twisted my stomach and made my hand itch for my blade. But at the same time I dreaded that moment when I was unleashed.

"Sirs," a panting and wounded messenger burst into the tent.

"Report," the general in charge barked.

"Scouts report troops moving in from the north west. They are flying Jurgin orange."

The general nodded. "About time those reinforcements showed up."

"Partial collapse on the north lines," the spotter shouted. My hand twitched.

"How far out are the reinforcements?" my commander asked.

"Half hour," the messenger replied.

"North line doesn't have that long," the spotter shouted.

I looked from the general to my commander.

"Ride out and meet the army," the general told the messenger. "Tell them to push in from the north." The messenger nodded and was off.

"Prince," the general turned my way. "Hold that line until the reinforcements get there." I nodded as was gone.

My twenty men and I tore through the line like a wedge. Immediately we formed a circle two men deep and pushed back. Allowing the regulars to reform their shield wall and reload their weapons.