Marching On

by Tyler Hill

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

When he finishes, when we finally see him reach the head of the first column in the distance, we don’t see him pass the banner on. No squire, no officer, no standard bearer relieves him; it never leaves his iron grasp. He has vowed to carry it into the heart of the darkness and his word is as solid as the earth beneath our feet.

Our feet move us into the columns, our order still perfect, and we prepare ourselves for the day’s march. We know that the routine will come and take over, that our feet will carry us as far as he wishes for that day no matter how tired we may feel, no matter how much our muscles still ache beneath the rings of steel.

Our eyes slowly close, blocking it all out for a moment, escaping back home, before the marching, before the banners and cheering, before the declaration amongst prayers and fasting, before they came and unleashed hell among us. We see our wives, their soft and gentle eyes watching us above a beautiful smile, filling us with warmth and completeness. We can feel their caresses, their soft lips on ours, not the last kiss forced with a tearful goodbye not knowing what lay ahead, but the slow and carefree from before.

Our children run and play, their voices sweet to us as we watch them run beneath the brilliant sun. Finally, when we pry our eyes open again and are greeted once again by that vicious mass, it all fades away into nothingness. They are still somewhere deep inside, waiting to be called upon again when we need them, but for now they drift away, oppressed by the darkness.

We hear the trumpets’ distorted and hollow blasts and our feet begin to move with no conscious thought pushing them along. The first few steps make our eyes flicker as our sore heels press down into the ground, but with every press the pain comes less, or we just grow more accustomed to it. We know it never goes away; it just fades, smaller and smaller.

In front of us we see the shields and shoulders of our comrades on this march, moving up and down in rhythm with our own feet, and we know those behind us are watching our shoulders shift beneath the horizon.

We keep our eyes forward, perhaps down at the ground, but we don’t let them drift upwards. Sometimes we cannot help it, it calls to us, shrieking and crying out for our attention so that we might see what is coming for us, and we cannot resist. We let our eyes wander up, we let them pass over the immense black storm crumbling all around us, and then we go back to the shields in front of us, to the resistant flames.

Out of nowhere, our routine is broken by the blast of the horns; only they are different, far different from what they have been since we marched across the borders of the Empire. The notes are clear and crisp, breaking through the screaming wind with a penetrating strength. The deep calls reverberate around us and swim through our bodies, carrying that strength along.

Our eyes immediately turn to the horizon, to that barely visible line between the black and the earth; and we don’t see anything, but our eyes draw our attention to what we hear. The horns fade out and the wind overtakes, but there is something more, something new.

The drumming, the terrible vibrations sent through the storm and out across our columns can’t be heard yet, but they trickle across our armor and flesh, raising the hair on our arms and necks. Slowly, we feel it more and more, the brute strength of the black drums fueling the storm above us. They have come.

Horses pound the earth in between the columns, the officers astride them barking out orders and beating with the flats of their blades, whipping us into battle formation. The orders are unnecessary, for we know what to do. Even before we began thinking, before any thoughts appeared in our minds, our bodies were moving.

We don’t feel our feet as they hit the ground faster, the soreness in our heels forgotten and our fatigued muscles finding a reserve of strength that had been hidden inside. The flames come down from our backs to be strapped around our arms and we grip the leather tight, holding on for our lives. The spears we hold jut up in the sky but are waiting to be lowered, to be facing not the dark of the storm but the black of the enemy.

Massive lines are formed across the green, our ranks straight and solid. All the horses have stopped pounding the ground as the officers take their places along the line, all except one. He keeps riding. He disdains to put on his helmet, and his hair still flows freely in the wind behind him, along with the beautiful banner above him. Standing in the saddle, he holds it for all to see, his arm stretched out as far as possible.

Our eyes follow him, back and forth in front of us, unable to look away. We feel our hearts and bodies filling with pride and strength, and we know of the glory that is to come. The burning urge of the crusade returns to us and we remember the overwhelming emotions we felt when pledging to march to the end with him despite the cries and pleas of family and loved ones. Our hearts pound, beating against the rings of steel, our muscles tighten and beg to be unleashed. Finally, he stops in the center and turns towards the enemy, still standing, still holding our sun high.

Unable to resist, even with all this returning power flowing through us, our eyes once again turn up towards that vicious storm and the waves of black crashing through the heavens. Where is it? We know it is up there, we know it is behind and we yearn to see it. For a moment, just a moment, the darkness begins to win, it begins to force itself down upon us but we don’t let it, we bring our eyes back down to our Emperor and our banner and the power keeps flowing.

The drumming has grown louder, now it hammers the air all around us, drowning the shrieks of the storm itself. We see them on the horizon, their dreadful ranks breaking the clear line and streaming towards us. It is a cloud of red and black, a mass of evil tumbling along the ground towards us.

The horns blare again, straining against the drumming and we savor each and every crisp note before they inevitably fade. Our eyes drift up again, wondering, but we force them back down and squeeze our spears tight as we lower them, bringing the points down towards the oncoming horde.

Our breath shoots out in spurts, our chests heaving as we build up everything inside of us, every ounce of strength that we can muster. Their faces return to us, the final tear-stained looks from our wives as we leave them behind at the gates. We feel the tears building up behind our own eyes as they come closer, the drumming painful and agonizing all around us.

Finally, a glorious cry breaks forth from him, from our Emperor as he raises the banner even higher. His voice breaks through the dreadful drumming and pounding of the enemy and we feel our hearts are going to burst. We break out screaming, our lungs and throats burning as we hurl our battle cry across the field and through the storm and the black and red host.

We see him spur his horse, urging it forward in a gallop, and we feel our own feet begin to pound the ground, sending our bodies flying through the air, and we feel our battle line surge forward. We will not wait for them; we will not stand and let the onslaught come to us. No! We have started this, we marched out of our home and left the Empire and we will begin this battle!

A fierce light cracks through the black clouds above, scattering them in a circle of dissolving wisps. It forces its way down over us and we feel its awesome heat stretch out across our ranks. Our feet move faster and we come closer to the enemy, almost face to face. We see our Emperor out ahead, the banner still held high as he crashes through their ranks with a magnificent explosion of steel and flesh.

to Challenge 382...