Family of War
© Alva J. Roberts

Arthol spat blood, the crimson fluid running down his chin to mix with the sweat that rolled down his cheeks and caked his curly black hair to his forehead. He was leaning against his sword, the blade was still buried in the chest of his fallen enemy. In the distance he could see men fighting, but for the moment the battle had moved away from him. His numerous wounds ached and throbbed, he wanted to rest, but it was not done. The crown welded to his helmet felt like it weighed more than a mountain.

The piled up corpses of both friend and foe formed small hills in the field around him. Arthol found himself trying to pretend that the hills were just part of the surrounding landscape; that they were not the shattered remains of more than fifty thousand men. The blood that stained the pale dry soil seemed to mock his attempts, as did the sound of crows and ravens circling overhead as they prepared for a rare feast.

The soldiers, those that still lived, were already calling it the Battle of Crow’s Canyon. With the thick rock walls surrounding them and the endless field of black that blotted out the sun overhead, the name was fitting.

“Arthol!” An angry voice shouted.

Arthol turned to stare at the speaker, his face a mask of disbelief. It was not possible, he could not have survived the horrendous battle, but Arthol’s eyes told him different as he watched his brother stumble across the field of dead warriors.

His identical twin kept his thick black hair cropped short, and there was a scar running down his left cheek, from a hunting accident when they were boys. Besides those small differences, it was like looking at his own reflection. But Arthol had never seen such hatred staring back at him from a mirror.

“Daemon, you live,” Arthol said in a quiet voice, there was little else to say as he tried to pull his sword free of its gruesome sheath.

“For a little while yet. Long enough to kill you!”

“Can’t you see what your mad ambitions have wrought. Before this is over half the men in the kingdom will lie dead at our feet. For what? So that you can have the crown?” Arthol asked, the soldiers had noticed the confrontation between the brothers, and were coming closer.

“I should be king! I am the eldest, father should never have named you his heir!”

“Is that why you killed him? Butchered him while he slept?” Arthol screamed ripping his sword free of the corpse. Daemon’s men were gathering behind him, Arthol glanced over his shoulder to see his own troops gathering.

This would be the end. The end of years of bloody war. The end of Daemon’s greed.

“I did not kill him! You did, you wanted his throne. You wanted the power!”

Arthol felt sick. Daemon’s lies knew no limits. His twin would not speak the truth, not where others could hear. “Let your lies end with your breath!” Arthol shouted running forward, his soldiers following just a few steps behind him.

Arthol’s sword met Daemon’s in a shower of sparks. The lines of warriors crashed together, the noise of steel on steel creating a man made thunder that echoed off the canyon walls. The screams of the men reverberated through the air, sounding like a thousand times their number. It was what Arthol imagined hell to sound like.

Despite their similar appearance, the twins looked nothing alike on the field of battle. Arthol’s blade danced through the air, always moving, always attacking, seeking an opening. Daemon’s movements were steady and methodic; he parried every thrust, his defense perfect, his were attacks few and far between but each one was flawlessly executed.

The two brothers circled each other, their swords a blur of shimmering steel. The brothers deadly danced weaved its way around the other combatants. Arthol hoped some of his men lived but he could not spare a glance to see how they faired. Daemon had earned his Blade Masters medallion just as Arthol had and it was taking everything he had to keep his brothers blade on the defensive.

While they fought, Arthol struggled within himself. Even after years of bloody civil war he did not want to see his brother dead. Images flashed through his mind as they fought. He could see them playing by the river as boys, daring each other to climb the huge oaks. He saw them sneaking a jug of wine into the stables when they were ten and the god awful sickness a few hours later.

When Baron Jarek’s men attacked Daemon, and it was Arthol who came to his rescue, killing twelve men in a blood crazed fury. When one of the huge boars of the West Wood charged Arthol it was Daemon who speared it through the heart, seconds before it tusks tore through Arthol’s flesh. The boys had never been far from each other’s side all through their youth, they were always there to protect and support each other.

The image of their father’s pale dead face sprang into Arthol’s mind. The old man’s corpse had worn a look of utter and complete surprise. He had not expected one of his children to be his murderer. Arthol could not let the man who butchered his father, and shattered half the kingdom, live, even if it was Daemon.

Arthol snarled and forced himself to move faster, his blade swept under Daemon’s guard to stab deep into his brothers chest. It was a death wound, Daemon would die within moments. Arthol stepped back, a lump already forming in his throat, tears blinding his sight.

Something slammed into his stomach, and horrendous pain tore through his body. He looked down to see his brother’s sword thrust into his stomach. Arthol stumbled backward, even as his brother fell to the ground, nothing more than a lifeless hunk of meat.

Arthol dropped his blade clutching at his entrails trying to hold the slick organs into his body. He fell to his knees staring across the field of carnage. Not a single man still stood. The air was full of cries of pain, and pleadings for help. Arthol’s vision grew dark and he fell to the ground, no longer able to keep his eyes open.

***

“Arthol?” a tentative voice called.

“Here…I am here,” Arthol replied in a weak trembling voice, as he opened his eyes.

A figure in pale blue robes picked its way through the charnel yard that the canyon had become. The figure crossed the battle field carefully, making sure not to drag the hem of its robe through the blood and gore that covered the ground. As the figure picked its way closer, it shoed away the crows from the bodies. After a few moments Arthol realized the figure was a woman.

“Oh, great goddess, Lorana, have you come to take me to my brother and father?” Arthol called out.

“Arthol? What are you talking about? How badly are you hurt? Is Daemon alive?”

“Sister? What are you…How?”

“News was brought to the abbey earlier today. I had to see if either of my brothers still lived,” Arthol’s sister, Marie said as she hurried to his side.

“Oh, sweet, pious, sister. I killed him… I killed our brother. And I fear he has killed me as well,” Arthol replied, it was growing harder to speak. His hands still clutched at his wounded stomach where his life’s blood pumped from his body in rivers.

“Daemons dead? You’re sure?” Maries said kneeling by Arthol, resting his head in her lap.

“Yes…the gods forgive me..yes. He is…dead.” A coughing wracked Arthol’s body.

“Good. Just as I planned.”

“Planned?”

Marie’s laughter filled the air. “You don’t really think Daemon killed father do you? That’s my brothers, both strong as oxs and about as smart.” Marie began to rock Arthol like a child, whistling a merry tune.

“What? Why?” Arthol asked in shock.

“I couldn’t very well inherit the throne with the three of you alive, now could I? The hardest part was killing father, I hadn’t realized it would be so hard to kill a man with a dagger. It was much easier letting you two kill each other.

As for why, you would have to be even stupider than I thought if you can’t figure that out. I want to be queen. I want to be out of that damn convent you three stuck me in.” Marie yanked the crowned helmet from Arthol’s head and placed it on her own. “Hhhmmm. This will never do. I don’t know why father ever had the thing wielded to a helmet in the first place.”

“Sister…” Arthol reached for his dagger, it was her. It had all been her.

A sword stabbed through his hand, pinning it to his thigh. “Father should have never taught me how to use a blade, if he didn’t want me to use it,” Marie said with a laugh.

Arthol struggled forward, trying to sit up, trying to grab his sword with his uninjured hand. But his sister’s blade ripped free of his hand, Arthol felt a burning white hot pain as the blade sliced through his throat.

Blood gurgled from his throat. He reached up to stop the flow of scarlet fluid but only managed to fall over. He watched his blood form a wide red pool beneath him, as his sister walked away, whistling her merry tune.