First Blood

Before Sir Andrew was knighted by a queen with questionable motives and a taste for Elvenari wine, he was called Sergeant Andrew.

And before Sergeant Andrew was promoted on the battlefield after ransoming a king’s foppish son who enjoyed dressing up like a knight, he was called Private Andrew, just another farmer’s son looking for a way to move up in the world.

Private Andrew slapped a fly that landed on his arm as he faced the line of Gargs that stretched for a hundred yards. They were about an arrow shot away, so sunburn was the only imminent danger. Andrew was on the left side of the Duke’s line, right next to a bloated Garg corpse covered in green flies.

“Steady, boys,” Sergeant Hoyle barked as he walked along the line.

“Arrow!” several voices called.

Hoyle turned to face the Garg line and lifted his middle finger. As one, the entire squad joined him.

The arrow landed well short of Hoyle, and he bellowed with laughter. As one, the entire squad joined him.

This had been going on for an hour. Neither side moving, both sides taunting, the swollen corpse stinking.

The gods be damned! The longer Andrew stood there, the more angry he got. Sweating, waiting, smelling the dead Garg covered in green flies.

But his fear was rising too. It wouldn’t take much to join the other stinking, swollen corpses scattered all over the field. A lucky arrow can kill the most skilled warrior. A slip on a horse turd can leave an opening for a spear.

And for all the fighting and maneuvering today he had yet to land a blow on the enemy. During the last engagement at sunrise, he was too deep in the column to thrust his sword. During yesterday’s engagement, his squad was in reserve, about a half mile back.

A lone horseman rode down the line toward them. He stopped at Hoyle and leaned down to confer, then he turned and rode away.

“Bloody nuts, that’s the Duke hisself,” a nearby soldier mumbled. Andrew had only seen him once before, at a distance, dressed in blue silk finery. But now the Duke wore unadorned leather armor spattered with mud and blood.

An arrow came his way and landed short. He stopped, and looked at the arrow as if it was a particularly offensive piece of offal; his line of soldiers grew silent.

The next action sealed Andrew’s love for the Duke for all time.

The Duke kicked his feet out of his stirrups and nimbly scampered to stood on top of his saddle. A murmur rose from both lines. After some fumbling, the Duke urinated in a magnificent arc toward the Gargs, showering the arrow in a fine display of marksmanship.

His soldiers erupted in cheers, slapping weapons on shields, their boredom and fear gone. When the Duke was done, he raised his middle finger to the Gargs. As one, a thousand roaring soldiers joined him.

And that was the spark.

Horns blew, Ranger whistles pierced the flanks, Garg drums pounded in some secret code.

Hoyle looked at Andrew, the only unblooded soldier in his squad. “Stay with me, m’boy. We’re gonna gut some Gargs!”

Andrew tried to stay with Hoyle, but the big sergeant slammed into a line of smaller enemy and, spinning like a millstone, ground into a knot of Gargs, leaving a tramped, bloody trail that closed behind him.

And then it happened. A Garg appeared in front of Andrew. Its eyes were wide, and its mouth twisted into a snarl. It raised its shortsword and…

Time slowed…

Andrew thrust his spear into the Garg’s belly and twisted. Just like he had done a thousand times to a straw-filled effigy. He jerked the spear out and slammed the metal boss of his small shield into the creature’s head.

His eyes followed the target downward, and he thought it remarkable how slow it fell. How odd that it never blinked as it fell. Was it surprised? Had it ever fought a human before? Had it ever killed before?

The Garg slowly landed on its back, clutching its belly.

...and time resumed the usual flow.

Andrew fought his way forward, eventually linking up with soldiers from another squad. By midday, the Gargs were broken and retreating to their highland caves. By sunset Andrew had rejoined Hoyle and the squad. They had lost half their number in missing and dead.

Hoyle helped bandage Andrew’s arm. He didn’t even know he was wounded until Hoyle pointed it out.

Hoyle pulled out a length of red silk and tied it around Andrew’s forehead, his badge of fidelity for all to see. “You’ve shed your first blood for your Duke, m’boy.”

It would not be his last.

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