Battlefield, Second War
"Father! FATHER!!" he cried out, searching through the broken, bleeding corpses for the colors of his house surrounding the crest of Lordaeron. Many of the dead were human, far more than of the green-skinned orcs or tall, tusked trolls. The Horde raiding party had caught them all by surprise, outnumbering them and overpowering the tired soldiers who had been marching and fighting for days. He scanned them all, hoping for the flash of blue and maroon that would signal he'd found his father. Blue for loyalty, maroon for patience in battle, he repeated in his mind, a rhythm that kept his mind from the grim scene before him.
Dozens of pairs of empty eyes stared up into the sky, unfocused, as he continued on, yelling for his knight-master, his father. Other survivors, far too few in number, called out names of those who may still live, some with success, others ending with a cry of grief when they recognized a face covered in blood, or severed from a body. The field was red, but Loem couldn't find his father anywhere.
He stumbled over something, and twisted his body in air to fall without injuring himself. He turned back to see what had caused him to lose his footing and cried out, realizing that he had fallen over Gredden. The youth's face was surprisingly calm and serene in death, though it was covered in a splash of blood. Loem choked back tears, furious at the Horde who had taken so much and lost so little in return.
He crawled over to his fallen friend and closed Gredden's eyes, wiping away the sticky blood as best he could. He tried to ignore the wounds that had claimed the young squire's life. If he looked, he may lose his stomach. At least you died quick, friend. That much, at least, I can see. He grabbed a nearby sword, lost by some soldier or another, and drove it into the ground near Greddon's head. A simple marker, but he would be able to find this place later. He still had his father to find. Doing his best to fight back tears, he returned to his search.
For another hour he scanned the dead and dying, hoping that every time the corpse's face wasn't his father's it meant he was still alive, still breathing, but his hope was short-lived. Finally, near the edge of the battle, he came upon a pile of dead orcs. There, at the center, was a Lordaeron crest and the ribbons of blue and maroon of the Kingswarden house. Laric Kingswarden, knight of Lordaeron, died from wounds sustained while fighting off five orcs and a troll spear thrower. For the first time in a long time, Loem cried.
I'm alone. I'm alone in the middle of a battlefield, my father dead before me, my only real friend dead, too. What will my brother think? How can I tell him?. Loem was surprised at how hot his tears seemed, how much his chest hurt, how desperately he wanted to sob and yell. I don't even have my mare. I'm alone.
A groan startled him from his thoughts and he remembered he was still in potential danger. If the moan had come from a troll, known to regenerate quickly given a chance, or even an orc, he could be joining his father and friend in death. Luckily for him, it was a human.
The knight seemed young, and Loem immediately recognized the Gilnean crest on his armor, surrounded by ribbons of white and red, a house he had no hope of recognizing but at least symbolizing noble lineage. He moved carefully around the dead orcs, making sure to give them a wide berth, even though they were truly dead, making his way over to the injured knight. His eyes were blue, and blonde hair could be seen under his helmet, though it appeared to be matting with blood rather quickly. Loem scanned the field, hoping to find another soldier nearby to help, but the knight reached out with another groan, catching his tunic.
"P-please... help me..." the man whispered, fear and pain easily heard in his voice.
"I'm here, my lord. Please, be still. You aren't alone." Loem tried to comfort the soldier while tearing his tunic for bandages. The knight was pinned under a large orc warrior, the brute's spiked armor no doubt digging into the Gilnean's body. "Hold on, I'll try to free you."
Loem moved around, grabbing onto the body with distaste and pulled as hard as he could, slowly rolling the huge, bloody body off the young knight. The orc was insanely heavy, far heavier than any man, though he wouldn't have stood much taller than his father. Loem thought it was the armor, but noticed quickly that most of the orc's armor was made of leather and chainmail, not plate. The weight was purely from huge muscles, and he felt a pang of pride for his father, knowing how strong a beast this orc and every other must have been. My father could hold off a whole lot of you, alone. Serves you right, you damn bastards.
Freed, the knight already seemed to breathe a little easier and he reached out again. Loem rushed back to his side, using his quickly made bandages to stem the bleeding from the young man's side and arm where it appeared an axe had hit him. If not for his heavy armor, his arm would've been off. The bandages made from his tunic seemed gaudy against the steely armor at first, but the blue and maroon quickly darkened with blood and Loem knew this man would need a true healer's touch or he'd not make it.
"Thank you," the knight said, his blue eyes focusing slowly on Loem's face. "Who are you? What's your name?" Loem finished tying off the bandages and making sure he had done all he could before answering.
"Squire Loem, my lord. I am-" he caught himself. "I was Lord Laric's squire. He was my father." He could feel himself wanting to cry again, but shook his head. Now's not the time, dammit.
"Oh, gods, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I saw him fall, I tried to get to him, tried to help, but there were too many. Gods, I'm sorry," the blonde knight sputtered. Loem tried to quiet him.
"It's okay, my lord. You did what you could, and for that I thank you. Please. Just lie still."
It was then that another soldier came near and Loem called him over. Several nearby farmers and villagers had come to help clean up and dig graves, and they managed to move the knight to nearby healing tents where a few high-elven priests were tending to the wounded. Loem got help from them to move his father's body as well and marked his grave. He was able to mark Gredden's as well, though he felt completely exhausted by the end.
"Go, boy. Go to the healing tents and get yourself looked at." The villagers made him go, made him sit and rest. At first he protested, but was grateful, in the end. The elf priest made him nervous, though his ministrations were wonderful and did much to ease his discomfort. Loem was still hurting, but he knew it was from sadness, not any lasting injury. The knight he had found was still here and he made his way over.
He thought the knight slept, so was surprised when he opened his eyes and spoke. "Ah, so you're the one that found me out there pinned under that ugly bastard of a greenskin." Loem simply nodded. "Thank you. I was afraid that I wouldn't be found 'till I bled to death. Thanks to the priest, though, I think I'll pull through." Without his helmet and cleaned up a bit, Loem could see he was younger than his father, probably not much more than 20 or so. Pain and blood loss had made the man paler than he should be, but Loem doubted the man had worked many days outside in the sun, aside from the time during the war. The cut in his head had been healed by the priest, so his blonde hair was no longer covered in blood and his blue eyes were clearer and more focused. "So, Loem, was it? I truly am sorry for your loss. I didn't know your father, but I saw him fighting off a group of the orcs and doing well, 'till that troll joined the mix. You should be proud of him. He went down fighting."
Loem didn't know what to say to that. He just nodded again, afraid that if he opened his mouth to speak, he'd cry. The knight seemed to sense his discomfort. "I have the worst manners, though I hope you'll forgive me, under the circumstances. I'm Uldor. Uldor of Gilneas."
Loem finally decided that it would be terribly bad manners not to speak up now that the young lord had introduced himself. He swallowed his tears and said, "I'm Squire Loem Kingswarden of Northfields in Lordaeron, sir. I recognized the Gilnean crest on your armor, but not your colors. You weren't with my father's group."
"Well isn't that quite the mouthful," he smirked, then nodded. "Smart lad. You've a keen eye. We were coming together to join up with your group when we were all ambushed. Were you with the soldiers?"
Loem shook his head. "No. My f-father..." he paused for a moment, but managed to continue, "he had a small injury, so I had ridden off the main path in the hopes of finding a healing herb or two to treat him when the Horde attacked. The sounds of battle spooked my mare and she bolted, falling into a small stream and broke her leg. I had to..." he paused again, wiping away a tear that had escaped. "Well. I had to put her out of her misery. Still, I should be grateful. The gods must have guided her, since she bolted away from the battle and probably saved my life. Greddon wasn't so lucky."
"Greddon?" Uldor asked. Loem nodded and continued. "Another squire, my lord, from our group. We were friends." Uldor simply nodded understanding, and Loem looked away as a few more tears managed to fall, try as he might to hold them back.
"Friends is something we've both lost today. Friends and horses. My own charger, Beast, was taken out from under me by an orc's axe." He sighed and settled into his makeshift bed. "You should rest, young Loem. No boy your age should have to see what you've seen today, do what you've done, squire or no. Have the priest give you something for dreamless sleep," he suggested, waving the priest over.
It's the best advice anyone's given me, ever. I wish I could fall asleep and wake up and find out this was all a terrible nightmare. But I know it's not. I'm so tired I can't even cry anymore, and the smell of blood is everywhere. Dreams might seem real when you dream them, but they never smell.
His mind quieted as the priest laid his cool hands on his forehead, though, and he drifted off into comforting darkness. Uldor looked to the priest and thanked him, watching the young squire sleep.
"You saved my life, Loem Kingswarden of Lordaeron. Hopefully one day, I can return the favor."
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