Sir Jerel Ban
"ENAN UO ILSIR!"
With the battle-cry, Jerel sank down into the Stillness; he was a river-stone in his mind, sinking, sinking, down and down away from the surface of his thoughts. He was shielded. Calm. Doubts flickered like minnows, silver and far-away. Unmoved by the current of his emotions, he sat at the bottom, amongst silt and quiet, weighed down by duty.
So began the slaughter: in perfect apathy.
Removed from the battle in part, the rhythm, the beat of feet upon the earth, sword upon shield, flesh upon steel. The cries: the discordant melodies of pain, war cries for glory, for justice, all wove into the song above that beat, that drumming. The knights were a symphony, harmonious, with voices rising above: Tyaethe sang a solo of destruction, a dervish of notes and rent limbs. The bandits were a counterpoint, contrasting chords that exaggerated those of the Rose. This was what battle was, when viewed through an uncaring lens; not a dance (Jerel agreed with Sir Gerard there) but a song (here they might not agree). A song of death, played with weapons and wills. Jerel knew the tune well; he plucked along.
His arrows flew into the flanks or where a target was clear. Anywhere else was too risky, too much chance for the wandering tune to shift an ally into his sights instead of a foe.
Ter harried crossbowmen from their perches or distant positions, and whilst they batted at that flutter of iridescent feathers and jet talons, Jerel would pick them off, injure or kill them, or a mage would send a bolt of suffering at the unfortunate.
The twinge of pain deepened as Jerel went on, dimly aware of his suffering; his aim was less steady, his bow took more time to rise and be taut, and he had to abandon too many shots in frustration. Even then, he was missing more than he struck true.
It was the crack of fire and moaning timber that snapped Jerel from the trance.
His shoulder flared, the wound torn fresh and staining its linen bandage bright red. The smell was a wall. Shit and piss, the sour sweat that poured from the dying and death-dealing, the blood that bloomed in arterial roses, churned into slurry beneath pressing feet. The groans, not music now, but agonised. Sobs, cries, desperate pleas aimed at the heavens cut short, the voices of those who had a choice, and chose wrong. Suddenly, it was obvious that this was just like the ambush. They fell like wheat before farmers’s sickles, easy and fast, the seeds of their misdeeds finally reaped. Jerel pitied them and gave prayers in both his old and adorned religion.
Smoke. Billowing pillars, quickly swamping the other smells as the blaze towered. Sir Gerard and Renar were moving away, following Paladin Tyaethe, Jerel realised, which likely meant one thing, a threat worthy of attention: the Bandit King.
He moved about the edges of the fight, a slower route, but his arm was injured and his arrows ran low; he would be no help penning the bandits in. He saw Elodie move through the camp, and Gerard hand a spear to a tent. The prisoners!
Loose bandits, fleeing or frenzied, were there too. Jerel tried to lift his bow, to shoot them, but his arm complained and the strength drained. He cried out, but was too far. Sir Renar dealt with them.
Jerel came to the tent when the flank leaders had already passed through the flames. There was an urge to rush after them, but it was foolish, born of ambition and curiosity; he wished to see the Bandit King, and help slay him. He was responsible for all the blood, for the corruption of men that might have been good, had their hardships not caused them to doubt and stray. Perhaps if his arm stayed for long enough, he could line up a shot; he still had some charges of his bow left and...
No. He would help the prisoners; their lives were paramount.
The girl screamed and almost skewered him when he rounded the tent. Half-expecting this reaction, he rolled backwards, narrowly avoiding the tip.
“Easy,” He said, weapons dropped, palms open,
“I’m an Iron Rose Knight, I’ll keep you safe.”And that he did; he slew two bandits who ran from the clotted mass of bodies, swords meeting in brief combat. But they were not soldiers, not even fighters. Just men. And they died, one silent, the other screaming, just men.
Gillian dispatched three bandits easily a ways off in the camp and escorted the prisoners to safety. Jerel contemplated following suit, but thunder shook his eardrums and sent tremors through his feet. It came from behind the dying wall of fire. He could see the forms now, all focussing on one that towered tall, even whilst slouched. Not much longer then. This was finally drawing to a close.
It came with Fanilly announcing the death of the bandit’s leader, their ‘King’. Long live the king. Jerel grimaced.
He slumped next to the tent, a hand clamped to his shoulder as red seeped through his fingers. The shuddering impacts and ignored pain must have mashed it into a worse shape than when he first got it. It didn’t feel deep, but wounds were deceptive.
The field of hollow eyes, of frowns and ragged, clouding breath. They had won. They could have done better, but that was for later. They had put an end to a murderous spree, and saved those they could. That was enough for now.
Ti