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The camp, now turned into a graveyard, was covered in bodies everywhere. The air was thick with the stench of death and blood. Only a few of us remained from the beginning of the day, moving among the corpses, looting what we could from the Bretonnian dead. The sounds of scavengers mixed with the groans of the wounded formed a macabre symphony that accompanied the stillness of victory.
I, however, stepped away from the chaos. My mind focused on the task ahead. I made my way to my knight's body, the one I had to give a final honor to. I began removing his armor carefully, cleaning the wounds with a damp cloth, trying to wipe away the blood that still clung to him. There was a deep wound in his neck—caused by the Grail Knight—where the sword had pierced through the armor. It had slashed through the neck and reached the heart. It had been fatal, but still, it was my duty to clean and prepare him.
Once I had finished, I found some linen cloths stored nearby and began to wrap the body, covering him from the elements. I set the armor aside.
When I was done, I stood and searched the ruined camp, hoping to find some sign of life, any officer still in command. The camp was a shadow of what it once had been, with the bodies of knights, captains, and sergeants scattered everywhere. Near the commander's tent, I found him crushed beneath a dead horse. My stomach clenched at the sight.
"Shit... who's still alive here?" I muttered, looking around for any figure of authority, but all I saw were more corpses, more fallen men.
I stepped into the commander's tent, but it was empty. No one was left inside. The chaos had been absolute, and the casualties seemingly total after the Bretonnian cavalry attack. It was as if everything had collapsed in a single blow.
In one corner of the tent, something caught my eye: a locked chest with a raven-shaped clasp—clearly a symbol of Morr. When I opened it, I found it full of iron coins, all marked with the raven.
I picked up the chest and dragged it out of the tent.
"Hey! Is there any captain, lieutenant, or sergeant still alive?!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, trying to catch the attention of those still wandering the battlefield, looking for something to stuff into their pockets.
A man with a bloodied bandage over one eye approached. He was the captain—a rough-looking man hardened by years of battle. His stare was sharp and calculating, the kind of look worn by someone used to making difficult decisions. He glanced at me with a mix of disdain and curiosity."What is it, young squire?" he asked, unaware of who I was or what my rank might be.
"Do you have experience with the Bretonnians? Is it likely they'll attack again?" I asked, dropping the chest onto the ground and crossing my arms, keeping my posture firm. I knew the situation was serious and needed clear answers.
The captain nodded firmly. "The Bretonnians don't attack again the same day they're beaten. Maybe the next day, maybe a few days later. But sooner or later, they will return," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
"Good. That means we've got some time," I replied, relieved. "We can protect the dead, perform a quick rite to Morr, and prepare to return. Order the others to gather our dead—we'll place the coins, cover them with soil, and perform the rite. With any luck, it will be enough until a proper ritual can be done." I pointed toward a group of fallen soldiers, hoping they'd receive the respect they deserved.
"Are those the commander's orders?" the captain asked, eyeing me with suspicion, trying to gauge if my authority was legitimate.
"Yes, of course," I replied without hesitation, pointing at the commander's crushed corpse. "Ask him if you have doubts… he's under that horse."
The captain stared at the scene in silence, then sighed. "We should retreat. We don't have time for this," he said finally, in a pragmatic tone.
"No time for this?" I replied coldly. "Do you know what could happen if we don't do this properly? Necromancers, that's what. Do you know what happens when you leave the dead unblessed? Do you know what this could cost us later?"
The captain straightened, his gaze hardening as he met mine. "And who gave you the right to give me orders, squire?" he asked, voice full of challenge.
"I'm a noble, son and heir of Baron von Reinsfield. That gives me every right to command men like you, peasant," I answered calmly but firmly. "If you have doubts, go ask the dead—or the commander. But right now, this is what needs to be done." I drew one of the pistols I had taken from the fallen and aimed it at him, steady. "You know what happens to those who disobey a noble, don't you?"
The captain stepped back, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. He didn't reply. His once-steely gaze now showed a hint of doubt, though he was too proud to show fear.
"Don't even think about doing something stupid," I continued, keeping the pistol aimed at him. "I'm the only one who can explain what happened here to the Margrave without losing his head. If you tell him the Bretonnians nearly wiped us out, he'll think you deserted. So you'd better be smart about this. You guard me like I'm a relic. Understood?"
The captain finally nodded, realizing he wasn't in a position to defy me. His expression changed.
"I understand, squire," he murmured, his voice low, and took a step back, careful not to make any move that could be seen as a challenge.
"Good," I replied, holstering the pistol. "Now make sure everyone else follows the same orders. We're not out of danger yet."
The captain began giving orders, and most of the men, though they obeyed, did so reluctantly. Some genuinely cared about the burial rite, but many just wanted to finish quickly, not understanding the true importance of what we were doing.
I stayed quiet as the bodies of the Margrave's soldiers and the men from Reikland were laid out in rows, their colors still visible in the camp's desolate remains. The corpses, some mutilated and others nearly unrecognizable from the battle, had to be treated with proper respect.
As the bodies began to be piled up, I walked to each of them, slowly closing their eyelids and placing the coins of Morr over them. Tradition taught me that only Morr could guide their souls to eternal rest, and it was my duty to fulfill that rite, even if most of the men seemed indifferent to it.
The ceremony was long, and although the men hurried to get it over with, I took my time. I gave each fallen soldier the respect they deserved. After an hour of work, we covered the dead with a light layer of earth. I made sure to bury a bit deeper those who had protected me during the battle—those who were the first to fall defending the walls. It was the only way I could thank them in that moment.
With everything I could do finally done, I stepped away from the pile of bodies and, with my head bowed, brought my hands together in a sign of respect. I recited the words I remembered from the prayers of the priest of Morr in my father's village—the ritual had to be fulfilled:
"By the hand of Morr, let these souls be freed. May their journey to the silent realm be swift and their peace eternal. Morr, guard these vessels from taint. Let no foul craft unbind their spirits or bodies. By Morr's sacred breath, let no unholy hand defile this ground or raise the fallen."
I finished the prayer and turned toward the men.
"Alright, help me recover the bodies of the nobles, and let's get out of here. Load the corpses onto the supply wagons. We don't need to take everything with us. Secure the most valuable belongings, because if we want to make it back alive, we need to travel light," I said firmly, making sure everyone understood the urgency.
The men, though visibly exhausted and eager to leave, eventually began to move, helping me load the knights, still in armor, onto the wagons. While they did that, I took care of removing the armor from the fallen knights, storing it carefully with a note of their name and physical description. I cleaned their bodies and wrapped them in linen, stacking them one over the other.
The soldiers, knowing we would depart soon, began looting quickly, searching the Bretonnians' pockets for anything of value.
As soon as I finished with the bodies of the knights and the commander, we gathered all the wagons, harnessed the horses, and began our return journey to Helmgart. We marched under forced pace, moving as fast as we could.
The Bretonnians were likely chasing us like rabid dogs. We had the body of a Grail Knight with us, and that alone would surely have them on our trail. Without a doubt, we didn't have the numbers to survive an open battle.
So we used every advantage we could. We avoided traveling near any areas where patrols might be. A single mistake could cost us our lives, and we couldn't afford to lose a single man more.
During those two terrible days, we marched without rest, pushing the horses to their limit. The wagons, filled with the bodies and armor of the fallen nobles, left little room for the soldiers to rest. Only two wagons were available for those who needed to lie down, and from time to time, I had to threaten any soldier who suggested leaving the nobles' bodies behind to move faster. The response was always the same: I could not allow those bodies to be dishonored, and each time someone proposed such madness, I made it clear that the consequences would be severe.
The Bretonnians didn't leave us alone. Throughout our march, young horsemen charged at us, trying to retrieve the Grail Knight's body, clearly knowing we had it. They offered us safe passage if we returned the corpse.
But my answer was always the same—I shot them in the chest and watched their companions, enraged, draw their swords and charge, only to fall quickly before our superior fire discipline. We were demoralized and exhausted, but our volleys were still deadly.
What worried me the most, however, was that we were nearly out of powder. If we ran out, we'd be at the mercy of the Bretonnian knights.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, we spotted Imperial banners in the distance. The garrison guarding the border approached and escorted us to the camp they had established. It was an immense relief—finally, we could rest a little and stop worrying about the constant Bretonnian attacks. We informed the commander of the garrison about everything that had happened, and although he doubted us at first, when I showed him the body of the Grail Knight, his expression changed immediately. Bretonnian presence increased noticeably, and soon more knights arrived, patrolling the area as the garrison struggled to maintain control of the border.
Eventually, we resumed our return to Helmgart with some sense of calm. The Bretonnians, now focused on the multiple Imperial garrisons, could no longer concentrate on us.
All I wanted at that moment was to reach Helmgart and get some sleep. The fatigue was consuming me, and the stress of guarding the foul-smelling corpses of the fallen nobles was affecting me more than I cared to admit. The constant watchfulness, the fear of being ambushed by the Bretonnians, and the burden of responsibility to carry those bodies with me were wearing me down. But the most disturbing thing of all was the strange body of the Grail Knight.
Though he had died in battle, his body showed no signs of decomposition like the others. No matter how many hours passed, there were no visible signs of decay—and that unsettled me deeply. Every time I looked at his linen-covered form, I felt as though I were staring at someone still alive, as if a part of him was still waiting to wake up.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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