Varre’s honor guard acted quickly. The soldiers rushed over to their monarch and surrounded him, ensuring his safety as they scanned the surrounding area for remaining threats. One of the knights circled around their liege, lifting his limbs and checking him over for hidden wounds for damage. The backplate of the suit was scratched from the count’s strike, but the metal held. It didn’t even bend.

  “Clement,” the king mumbled, “medic, get him… get him a medic.”

  The guards only moved to fulfil Varre’s orders once they ensured that he was safe and sound. A couple of them left the formation, riding towards the fallen enemy to examine his body. They dismounted and walked around the count, investigating the gruesome scene.

  The king watched them from a distance, but with their faces obscured by helmets, he couldn’t gauge anything from their reactions. Eventually, one of the knights pulled a potion out from a pouch at his belt and poured it onto the bleeding stump, while the other took out some cloth and wrapped up the injury. They lifted the body onto one of their mounts, then one of them rode towards the hilltop, where the healers were based.

  “Your majesty,” one of the guards guarding their monarch began, “we need to return as well. Get you checked for injuries.”

  Varre slowly turned away, looking back on the battle. The fighting was largely over. Many of the rebels died in the initial charge and those who survived quickly surrendered. They didn’t even try escaping. It was a pointless endeavor when the enemy’s heavy knights outnumber your infantry.

  Clement’s last charge was also already dealt with. It looked like most of the count’s closest supporters decided to give up their lives for the cause, choosing death before dishonor. A few might have surrendered, or broke off and ran, but the king was in no mindset for investigating such details at this point.

  Once he had confirmed that the battle was over, he meekly nodded and followed his Royal Guard back to the hilltop.

  As they slowly moved, he watched Clement, as he was carried just a hundred feet away or so. The knight holding him couldn’t rush either. No one knew if the count could recover from his grisly wound, but shaking him around wouldn’t help. Even if timing was of the essence.

  By the time the procession arrived at the hamlet, the soldiers were already celebrating their victory. And their commander. A great victory was achieved today. Though many of the troopers were still out on the battlefield, either returning, busy securing captives, or racing after any remaining stragglers, the news was spreading quickly throughout the camp. The rebels were destroyed. And though some Langogneans survived, they were soundly beaten and most likely were fleeing all the way back home.

  Varre tried raising his sword as a gesture of victory, but his hand jerked away as soon as it touched the handle. The weapon drew blood today, the image of Clement’s chopped off arm instantly returning as soon as he felt the hilt. Instead, he raised his left arm, to resounding cheers.

  His mind was slowly recovering, but still mulling over what he had done today. His actions had already killed thousands of people. His own soldiers, sacrificed for the sake of greater goals. The rebels, dying for a cause they probably didn’t even understand. And even the Langogneans, simply drafted in service of a duke they’ve never met before. But killing someone in person, with his own hand, felt different.

  Still, he held onto hope. Though the wound was gruesome and Clement would be crippled for life, perhaps the healers could save his life. And who knew what magic could do. Perhaps, the count would be right as rain tomorrow! Then again, everything that’s happened here was his fault. Did a murderer like that even deserve another chance at life? Who could decide that?

  Well, ironically, Varre could. As the king, he was the judge, jury, and executioner. No matter how much he protested such responsibility, he was the most qualified person in the land to deliver a death sentence. Perhaps this fate was what Clement truly deserved. No matter what promises had been made to Nilo, perhaps the count deserved death. Maybe the healers should let him die. Or, they should save his life, only until the rebel leader can be properly tried and sentenced to a real execution back in Westbridge.

  There were so many options. So many decisions. But soon, everything would become clear.

  After the procession arrived at the hut occupied by the healers, they needed a single look at the count to confirm he was dead. It was far too late to do anything.

  Ironically, that lifted a weight off of Varre’s shoulders. He may have been a killer now, but at least he didn’t have to worry about his decision anymore. It was a done deal. He couldn’t turn back the clock and change what happened on that hillside. Besides, he was at war. Half the people in this camp were killers too, slaying his enemies to save their country. Now, he simply was feeling the same way they were.

  He just needed to explain what happened to Nilo.

  As the healers quickly checked over the monarch, one of the guards ran to fetch the young aristocrat. There was no reason to delay. Varre’s friend deserved to hear what had happened.

  As soon as Nilo entered the building and saw his father’s corpse lying on one of the cots, he froze. Blood drained from his face and he looked towards the king. “What happened?”

  Varre told him everything. He told him of the battle and how the enemy was outmaneuvered. He told him how the count’s last soldiers were surrounded from both sides by loyalist reinforcements. How Clement, driven into a corner, decided to throw everything he had into a last charge, trying to take his rival down with him at all costs. He even told his friend of the duel between them, and how Varre accidentally dealt a lethal blow to his opponent.

  Accidentally, he thought to himself, such a convenient word. But does it excuse what I’ve done? Would it change anything if I had done it on purpose?

  Nilo listened intently. He didn’t move, and his face didn’t show any reactions as his friend recounted the tale.

  Once Varre was finally finished, the young man spoke up, after a few moments of silence. “I… see. I don’t blame you. He was a traitor after all and it’s not like he gave you a choice,” he sighed, “father was always like this. He was smart, yes, but he always threw a tantrum whenever one of his meticulous plans failed,” he chuckled, though the sound was without mirth, “and now he ended up like this. His greatest plan yet, resulted in the greatest failure,” he looked back on the fallen count, “forgive me, but… I think I’d like to be alone now.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The aristocrat quickly walked out of the room. No one tried to stop him.

  Varre looked at the now empty doorway and decided to go to bed. This day has gone on for long enough and perhaps tomorrow, things would become clearer.

  As he walked down the street, trailed by a team of Royal Guards, he saw his men celebrating in the streets. He smiled sadly, remembering his order earlier this morning to prepare wine barrels for the evening. Back then he planned on joining his troops. Now though, he really wasn’t in the mood.

  Ironic, he thought to himself, I’ve been trying to organize another feast for months and I’ve always been too busy, or it wasn’t the right time… Now that I actually have a good reason for it, I suddenly don’t feel like it anymore.

  Of course, there was still a lot of work to be done after the battle. The survivors needed to be counted, loot had to be collected and stored safely in carts, captives had to be given a place to sleep, guards had to be assigned new patrol routes… Not to mention that the enemy forces were still somewhere out there.

  Though all of the rebels have been beaten back, many of the Langogneans managed to flee. Light cavalry chased after the enemies running from the Northern flank, but those on the East and West got away without pursuit. These enemies could theoretically reform, reorganize, and attempt a counterattack. But with the losses they took, it was unlikely to succeed.

  But Varre wasn’t alone. He had generals for tasks like this. He had no doubt that Captain Hakon was already busying himself with assigning guards to watch over the campsite, while Jan sent out fresh scouts to watch for enemy movements. The king could leave everything to them, and return to his quarters to sleep.

  -*-*-*-

  When Varre woke up the next morning, the sun was already high up in the sky. The hut that he was sleeping in was the largest in the entire hamlet, which wasn’t saying much, but at least it had a couple real windows.

  The king slept like a log and none of his servants saw fit to wake him early. Not even Benjamin. The camp survived the night without their leader’s orders. His commanders and advisors did their jobs. Now, it was time to join them.

  Though the chamberlain wanted his liege to get as much rest as needed, he did not leave him alone. As soon as Varre stood up, he noticed the middle aged man looking up at him. He was sitting in a chair, reading through some reports, but stood up as soon as he noticed his monarch awake.

  “How are you feeling, your majesty?”

  “Fine,” the king responded laconically, “what’s going on?”

  “Everything is under control,” Benjamin assured him, “the enemy captives have been secured and disarmed. Most of our injured have been taken care of too. The healers worked all through the night, your majesty. Only minor wounds remain.”

  “I see. And our casualties?”

  “I’m sure Count Jan will be happy to deliver his report when you see him,” the chamberlain gestured at the meal laid out on a small table, kept warm by candles burning beneath the plates, “but you should eat something first.”

  Varre was in no mood to argue. He sat down and began eating. He didn’t really have an appetite, but didn’t want to hear his servant complaining either.

  “What time is it? I must have been sleeping a while,” the king noted, in between bites of sausage.

  “It’s nearly noon. But that’s good. You needed the rest,” Benjamin smiled warmly.

  “And the army?”

  “The commanders decided that the soldiers should spend today recovering after the battle. We can return on the road tomorrow.”

  Varre accepted that with a nod and returned to his meal. He considered asking about Nilo, but decided it was probably too early to speak with his friend. Both needed some time to think about what happened yesterday.

  Once he was done, he left the hut and moved to the next building over, where the other commanders were already waiting for him. He was tailed by several Royal Guards, as he walked through the busy street between the shacks. It couldn’t really be called that though. It was simply a dirt path, that led through this settlement on the way to some more noteworthy towns further South. In fact, more people passed through this hamlet today than had in the entire previous year.

  As soon as Varre entered, the commanders all welcomed him with huge smiles. They weren’t aware of his internal struggle. They still occupied their minds with the grand victory.

  Baron Gregory seemed to lead the charge and yelled out, “all hail the new hero of the Langogne war! A true heir to his uncle!”

  The other officers applauded loudly and cheered in their liege’s honor. Of course, this battle was at a much smaller scale than the conflict Mikkel fought in twenty years ago, but it took him years to finally beat the enemy back. Varre did it in a week.

  “Alright, alright,” the king calmed down his officers with a gesture, “now tell me what happened. How many did we lose?”

  “Your majesty,” Count Jan began, clearly beaming with pride, “we, or should I say, you, achieved an amazing victory yesterday,” his speech was interrupted by another short round of cheers, “we managed to completely wipe out Clement’s rebellion! Three hundred dead, and seven hundred captives! Plus, most of the knights were taken alive too.”

  “And our casualties?” Varre urged.

  “I’m getting to that,” the senior commander grinned, “next up, we’ve got Langogne! Almost one thousand dead. And another one thousand surrendered. And that’s just during the battle! Six hundred fled North, probably running back home with their tails between their legs, while around five hundred escaped to the South. Our light cavalry is busy scouring the countryside, looking for survivors and we’ve already captured two hundred of them. Unfortunately, only about a hundred fifty knights were defeated, most taken alive, but without their infantry they are no longer able to continue the war.”

  “They didn’t have a chance,” Gregory added excitedly, “your brilliant charge in the North killed a few, with our horsemen mopping up the rest. Most of the casualties came from the flanks. Some died fighting our defensive square, but our cavalry charges were absolutely devastating,” he swung his fist through the air, as if to underscore that, “the survivors had no choice, but to surrender. Only their knights, fast on horseback, or the infantry that happened to stand on the outskirts got away! It was amazing!”

  The king smiled softly. At least that meant that two enemies were out of the picture now. He worried that Langogne might have escaped with enough soldiers to continue the war, but it seemed they wouldn’t get the chance.

  “Good work. And what about our side?” he repeated for the third time.

  “We managed to deal this absolutely devastating blow to the enemy, while only losing six hundred men of our own!” Jan raised his fist in the air, “mostly on the flanks. The soldiers paid a heavy price, but they did so to defeat Langogne! Our greatest rival! Their sacrifice will not be forgotten!”

  Varre smiled a little wider. The commanders were right. The loss of six hundred good citizens was lamentable, but they took out three thousand enemies in this battle. Most surrendered of course, but the ratio was astronomical. It was an amazing victory, by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Right now, our men are busy reorganizing themselves after the battle, but we should be ready to continue on the road tomorrow,” Jan explained, “of course, we could spend some extra time here trying to replace our casualties, chasing the enemies that escaped South, or going after the remains of Langogne’s force, fleeing North. But I have a hunch that’s not what you’re after.”

  Varre cleared his throat, putting on a serious face. “You assume correctly. Men, when I first called on you, we had but one enemy. Clement and his rebellion. Yesterday, it was soundly defeated. Not even scraps remain. Not even Langogne’s help could save those traitors from what was coming to them. The war should have been over by now. But it isn’t. We have a new enemy now. A scummy bastard that decided to use this opportunity to enrich himself and make a blatant grab for power.

  “We defeated Clement, we defeated Langogne, but we are not yet done. We have to face one more enemy before we can return to rebuilding our nation in the peace and prosperity that it deserves. Now, we have to face Duke Charles.”

  He is slowly coming to terms with it, but it will take time.

  Will their friendship survive?

  On both sides, though one clearly came out ahead.