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Baker -> The Noble War (6/25/2008 14:49:32)
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The Noble War
Alexander Boone was dying. He lay on the hill in a pool of his own blood, bleeding to death from the deep saber slash across his chest. All around him, a battle continued to rage. Swords clashed as foot soldiers threw themselves at their enemies, men roared as they fell and sighed as life rushed out of them, and the blood of the wounded and dying poured into the dirt. In his last moment, Alexander was not filled with pride for his sacrifice for his nation; he did not feel indignant or angry at life's cruelty. He looked upon his past with the eyes of an observer, seeing but not judging.
He saw a teenage boy, taken from his home in the far reaches of the kingdom by soldiers under the command of King Cornelius. Ripped from his family and all he had ever known, the boy was pressed into the military and sent to fight and die for his king. Confined to cramped and dingy quarters, he and his fellow peasants were trained to fight against the enemies of the kingdom. They were told of the wrongdoings of the foreigners, about how even their blood was a poison to man and a scourge to all living things. After several months of this, the hundred or so men that survived the conditions of the camp - little water, even less food, and twelve inches of space allotted to each man - were given weapons and sent marching to the border. Some of the men carried swords, others primitive spears, and still others hammers and pitchforks, and training continued along the way. The hours of grueling travel exacted a heavy toll upon the soldiers, and at the start of every day several were left behind at the campsite, never to be seen again. Finally, the two score men that survived the ordeal arrived at the camp. They were rested for several days and then thrust into this terrible battle that raged around him now.
A nearby noise disturbed Alexander's thoughts, and he gazed around him through the mist of oncoming death. The battle seemed to be at a lull now: soldiers from both sides were frantically retreating to their respective sides of the battlefield. Behind them they left the wounded and dead, and soon men dressed in the garbs of medics came forward from both sides to tend to those who could be helped. One such man approached Alexander, and after a moment of surveying his wound grimly shook his head and moved on to another downed soldier: a member of Alexander's unit, one who he had come to like. This boy was less seriously hurt; an arrow had been lodged in his thigh, and the wound was very bloody. Cold began to wash over Alexander as he watched the doctor snap off the end of the projectile and yank the soldier to his feet. As he rose, the other boy noticed Alexander lying in the dust and acknowledged him with a nod and a kind look. The two then slowly proceeded off the battlefield, the medic supporting the severely limping warrior. Somehow, even as his breath became shallow, the knowledge that his comrade had been rescued to fight another day relaxed Alexander, and he mouthed the word "Goodbye" as he drifted into the peace of death.
Ruler of a large southern realm, King Cornelius had conscripted thousands of poorly trained peasant swordsmen and archers to fight alongside his powerful knights and noblemen. In return for this service, the king promised loot, women, and other spoils of war to the men once their northern neighbor ceded its southernmost province – known as the land of Merritt – to his kingdom. At first, the ruler had employed the use of posters and signs calling upon the strongest and bravest of men to fight for their honor and that of their nation against their common enemies. This led to more volunteers, but soon these men too were exhausted. Heralds of the king began to spin stories of the great wealth of that foreign duchy, explaining that the king would richly reward those that helped him in gaining these great treasures. Again, this tactic brought more men, but that still could not satisfy the king's thirst for manpower. He finally fell to impressing whole towns and counties into service, and even the wealthy and influential merchants were stripped of all but their first-born sons. Criminals were given the opportunity to enter the military in return for their freedom after the war, doctors were instructed to take any man that could walk out of a hospital and send him into the army, and constables were paid by the head for capturing and turning over any men not under government employ. No one dared challenge the king's authority, or ask what happened to all the men that were sent off to war and did not return.
In all this, Cornelius was continuing a struggle that had begun in his family generations before; his father and his grandfather alike had waged war to capture the Merritt province, although neither had been successful. Thousands of lives had been lost in the process, and in his time Cornelius had only increased the brutality. The exact cause of the struggle – why the possession and conquering of the land of Merritt had become so important an objective – had been lost to history as the war dragged on. Despite this, the need to regain the land had been pounded into his mind from birth, and Cornelius knew that the war was a matter of family pride. His passion to recapture his family’s land burned deep in his heart, and drove him to terrible actions.
Cornelius’ promises to his people had become more and more grandiose with time in order to gain their support in the terrible struggle. Every time more taxes and resources were exacted from the peasants, he amplified his promises of riches and the spoils of conquest. Farmers who fought were promised land in the new territories equal to their current holdings, blacksmiths were guaranteed all the quality metals they could ever need when the vast amount of produced weapons no longer had uses, traders were offered access to trade routes previously occupied by their competitors from across the border, and more.
Although their king had promised that all these things would happen as long as they remained loyal, after a time the commoners of the kingdom grew skeptical of almost everything having to do with the crown. Peasants across the nation held secret meetings, gathering in the dark of night at the loneliest taverns. In hushed tones, they discussed the happenings from around the kingdom, and searched for true reports of the war amidst the extravagant stories of great victories spread by the king and his agents. Young boys' banter took on a new tone when out of earshot of the royal guards, mocking the royal officials rather than other, more mundane targets. Throughout the kingdom, the townspeople soon came to realize that promises of wealth, and more importantly demands for taxes and soldiers, came from the high seat in the capital instead of within the towns themselves, and that it was plump nobles rather than true warriors that told of the war.
North, out of the kingdom and through the peaceful forests, over the gurgling brooks and the invisible line that separated the two states, and into another world of harshness. Villages and towns dotting the countryside, usually a peaceful area, thrown into great turmoil and chaos by another cruel lord. A royal official - garbed in finery - leads a contingent of soldiers into the town square of one such village, walking with the confidence of someone who is absolutely sure of his power. As he makes his way through the crowds of townspeople enjoying the cool night air, a hush breaks out and all merriment is extinguished. People crane their necks to follow the movement of the man and his escort, and faces become drawn as they catch sight of the official-looking paper in clutched in his fist. Only the bubbling of the town fountain and the clack of the official's boots on the uneven stones interrupt the silence. He strolls up to the town signpost and holds the paper up to the wood as a soldier comes forward with a small hammer and nails. The pair secures the announcement to the pole, turn on their heels, and stroll out of the silent square.
As they depart, a general murmur arises from the assembled citizens. Several rush forward and read the announcement aloud, horror in their voices:
"By order of the blessed Duke Schuyler, all able-bodied men between the ages of fourteen and sixty are to report to a royal authority in the next three days. All men will bring whatever weapons currently in their possession when reporting, as well as sufficient clothing to fulfill their needs for the next year of service in the armies of His Highness. Those that fail to do as ordered and are discovered will be arrested and brought before an agent of the duke, their punishment to be determined by him."
Anger and indignation breaks out in the crowd, men openly cursing the duke, this war, and their poor luck. However, what the people do not realize is that the scene is common throughout the nation. The ruler of this northern land, Duke Schuyler, made declarations and orders with little thought of the commoners so affected by their actions. Focused only upon defeating the foreign king and his people, the nobles grew content with their positions in the duchy and spent their time planning the war against the foreign king. Few of these officials took part in the actual battles and military actions, reducing their roles to observers and motivators. Little consideration was given to the suffering and death that the constant attacks, counterattacks, raids, and sieges brought down upon on the people. With help not forthwith coming from their lieges and officials, nearly anyone who received even the most treatable wounds died or were mutilated by any untrained medicine men who had been hired to serve the army.
Finally, with their prime troops and standing armies almost completely destroyed, King Cornelius and Duke Schuyler concluded that they themselves must go out to fight or be overwhelmed by the massive army that the enemy certainly had in wait. Agents sent out on each side confirmed mobilization of forces, and for their first time in their reigns the noblemen departed their protected castles and havens and headed for the field of battle. With them marched the last reserves and forces of the respective kingdoms: the palace and town guards, the constables, old stewards; anyone who could bear arms and fill space in the line was conscripted and joined the long and tedious march to the border.
For both sides, the march was an ordeal. The large armies passed through what used to be the homes of their friends and families, now war torn ghost towns home only to scavengers and cripples. Burnt out fields provided no food for the armies, and men perished constantly due to the lack of food. In their tents, the rulers lounged on their beautiful carpets and furs and planned attacks with their counts and knights, ignoring the suffering that continued just beyond the thick leather flaps of their decadent resting place. Amongst the death and destruction, the only thoughts that entered their minds were those of revenge on a man they had never met.
And so, after a prolonged and miserable march for both factions, the armies came together. While the officers and nobles wore their finest uniforms, covered in gleaming buttons and dangling tassels, the rest of the men appeared spent. Feet dragged as the men trudged forward, pikes and spears drooped and fell into the dust, and horses' tongues lolled from exhaustion. Many men were abnormally gaunt and scrawny, causing clothes that previously fit snugly to look goofy and oversized. Here and there an injured man could be seen, hurriedly limping in an effort to maintain the line. From the front of the columns came the uneven blaring of trumpets, and diplomats of the opposing states hurried forward. They briefly met, agreed upon the place where the armies would meet, and the remnants of the armies set out for the appointed field.
On either side of the barren stretch of land, an immense army waited for its counterpart to make the first move toward battle. As the leaders of each army considered their options and planned their strategy for the day, the sun blazed down upon the grim-faced men in their heavy armor; sweat poured off the burdened warriors as they stood tensely in battle formations, staring across the wasteland and nervously looking to their commanders for orders.
To the eastern end of this vast expanse of land, Duke Schuyler sat astride his powerful white war charger, absent-mindedly fingering the highly decorated sword that hung on the worn leather belt around his waist. Although garbed in some of the best chain and mail armor ever produced in his land, the ruler was no warrior, and he knew it. A heavyset man with high cheekbones and a prominent nose, the Duke did his best to make his soft blue eyes look intimidating and inspiring to his men. As he suspected, however, they had no love – or even respect – for him, and instead looked to their gods and generals for guidance. Suddenly, the thundering of hooves reached the monarch’s ears as a pristine captain of his personal guard rode up. He reported a series of movements on the opposite side of the field, and suggested that the duke gather his retinue for the customary gentlemen’s meeting before the commencement of battle.
King Cornelius and Duke Schuyler slowly approached each other in the center of the battlefield, as their advisors instructed them was proper. Both sides bore white flags of peace and parley, and each man brought with him several of his most trusted knights and advisors. The opposing parties came to a halt a few yards apart and the rulers dismounted their chargers and, encased in heavy armor, awkwardly lumbered to the small tent that had been staked in the center of the field: the only shade from the scorching golden disk in the sky.
There they stood, two red-faced, corpulent lawmakers lost among soldiers: the two men responsible for the worst butchery and death on the continent. Drops of sweat sluggishly crawled down the duke and the king’s flushed faces, and they stood there staring each other down. Eventually, the two realized that they would never get anywhere this way, even if they twisted their faces into the most menacing glares humanly possible. Shortly thereafter, Duke Schuyler recalled what his father, a fabled warrior, had told him about the commencement of battle between two men of honor and hesitatingly opened his mouth to speak:
“Surrender to my army now, and once I rule what used to be your lands I may let some of your men yet see their homes.”
“Hah, your pathetic duchy shall fall quickly indeed after your army is crushed by my obviously superior forces,” replied King Cornelius after a time, glancing back to see if his army was indeed still there. Satisfied by the sea of men at his back, Cornelius wheeled and smirked triumphantly at Schuyler.
“Even if your ragtag band of vagabonds and mercenaries were to somehow win this battle, there shall not be enough left to call an army, much less to conquer my mighty state,” retorted Schuyler.
The foes continued the banter back and forth, even bringing each other’s mothers into the argument, until both were steamy and breathless. The majority of the two armies were at this point stretched upon the ground, and a significant portion of the exhausted men appeared to be nodding off as they waited for orders. Once the pair of rulers caught their breath and returned to their glaring competition, one of the king’s top generals approached him and murmured in his ear. Cornelius, apparently inspired by his subordinate’s counsel, sparked the discussion once more:
“So, foe, let us discuss war terms and rules.”
Schuyler – taken aback by this new challenge that required some thought – stepped back and conferred with his advisors before replying:
“Fine. I fight by the code set forth by my great-great-great-grandfather, Charles, the great ruler of this land.”
“Agreed. It is by this code that I shall regain the lost land of Merritt, unfairly given to your ancestors by Charles – also my great-great-grandfather.”
“Sorry, what was that?” replied a perplexed Duke Schuyler.
“I fight for the land of Merritt. The territory that the first duke of your land was granted after the split of Charles’ great empire into the current kingdom and duchy that exist today,” Cornelius imperiously explained.
“There is no such land in my duchy,” answered Schuyler. Befuddled and pausing for a moment, he continued slowly, “ I do remember stories of the division of territory, but not one that includes a land called Merritt. Indeed, the only tale of the name Merritt that I have heard was a beautiful warhorse inherited by my family decades ago.”
Incensed and detecting a ruse, Cornelius shot back, “Please, do not feign ignorance. My great-grandfather rambled on and on about this wonderful land, bemoaning its loss even as he lay upon his deathbed. He was bitter that his grandfather had given the land of Merritt away and vowed to regain it for his descendents. I do the same in his stead.”
“Your great-grandfather? The daft fool who attacked without cause and began this war?” queried Schuyler.
“The one. He spoke incessantly of Merritt’s beauty, power, and speed,” stated the king. “How we must regain Merritt for our honor.”
“Speed? What did you think this meant in relation to a piece of land?” inquired Schuyler.
A bit uncertain now, Cornelius haltingly responded, “As you said, he was known to be a bit off in the head. My family simply thought he became fuddled partway through the story.”
“I am telling you, he was talking about the steed; you simply misinterpreted his words, probably thinking there was no reason to war over something less than land,” explained Schuyler. “What your predecessors were never told – most likely to keep them jealous and in the dark – is that the horse died shortly after Charles’ death, and he never sired any foals. You fight for nothing, because there are no horses in Merritt’s line and there is no such thing as the land of Merritt.”
The king, completely taken aback by this shocking turn of events – reinforced by the stolid expression and complete certainty of his rival – stepped back and considered what he had just been told. After a time, he again turned to Duke Schuyler and stated:
“I cannot take this as fact without further evidence of its truth.”
“Reasonable. Would you agree that my account would be validated if I can prove that there is no land of Merritt?” questioned Schuyler.
A pause, then Cornelius answered:
“Yes, I would. How do you intend to prove this fact?”
“We shall each send one of our generals to go together to the nearest town,” answered Schuyler. “Once there, they shall choose at random a resident of the area and bring him back here. You may then ask him what the name of this land is, and then if he has ever heard of Merritt. The validity of his statements will be ensured as both of our men have agreed upon him and neither will have been able to influence him.”
Cornelius considered this proposal and then replied, “Your proposal is acceptable to me. Let the pair depart immediately.”
And so they did. The fading sun was chased by the rising dust storms of the galloping horses, and the two armies settled down to rest. Sentries were set, the two rulers still not entirely trusting of each other, and the leaders settled down to rest after the heated discussion of the day.
In his tent, King Cornelius lay gazing at the lofty ceiling, restless and unable to sleep. So embedded in his brain was blind hatred of Schuyler and a burning desire to win what he had been told rightfully belonged to him that he could hardly detect the threads of doubt, but they began to make themselves known. He picked through Schuyler’s recounting, comparing it with what he had always thought to be the truth. Schuyler’s explanation seemed too real to be fabricated, and explained the problems in Cornelius’ version of the split too well for his comfort. This doubt, plus Cornelius’ existing fear of the heat of battle and leading an army himself, greatly shook the king, and he slept for only several fitful hours that night.
Daylight flooded the plain, bringing with it the clattering of a small group of horses. The two generals sent out to retrieve a townsperson had returned, leading another rider who struggled along behind them. The trio reached the tent that remained on the field and were met by the duke and the king, even at this hour resplendent in ornate armors and uniforms bearing the seals of their respective lands.
Cornelius, baggy-eyed and lackluster due to his lack of slumber the previous night, looked to his general for confirmation of the witness. With the general’s nod, Cornelius immediately turned to question the newcomer about the topic of disagreement. To be sure of his objectiveness, the king first inquired about the man’s profession. A slight, wrinkled fellow, the peasant declared himself to be the priest of the nearby village. He claimed that he took no side in the struggle between the duchy and the kingdom except one of sorrow for the death and destruction that had reigned supreme for so long. Satisfied by this answer, the king then asked how long the priest had resided in this area, learning that the man and his family had lived there as long as anyone could recall. Seeing this as the perfect time to ask the all-important question, Cornelius asked the man if his birthplace was called Merritt, receiving only a blank look and cocked head as an answer.
Satisfied by the honesty of the man’s answers, the king dismissed the priest and conferred with his generals. After a brief, hushed conversation, Cornelius again approached his perennial enemy and, secretly somewhat relieved, proclaimed:
“After your convincing tale and the testimony of the priest, my generals and I have come to the conclusion that we have no claim to continue this war. There is no reason for our realms to continue throwing away lives and resources on a meaningless and dishonorable war. I propose that we put an end to this struggle.”
“I agree,” responded Duke Schuyler. “May our states remain at peace for all time, and may we meet again on more favorable terms.”
“I very much hope so,” answered Cornelius, offering his hand in a sign of peace.
The rulers departed the tent and declared to their troops that the war was over. A war that took 100,000 lives to fight and less than 1,000 words to end. Truly a noble war.
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