Page 13 of The Last Knight (The Cursed Kingdom #5)
There was no question or judgment in the scribe’s demeanor as he began to eat again and in that moment, Gunther was envious of Phillippe. Unlike him, the man was not wracked by guilt over the circumstances that brought him there.
Dutch Republic 1784 during the Anglo-Dutch War
Gunther drove his sword deep into the man’s gut, the blade sliding between ribs and sinew with sickening resistance.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze, the enemy’s face twisted in pain and disbelief, his blood soaking Gunther’s hand where it gripped the hilt.
This wasn’t just another kill. This man had taken one of Gunther’s closest friends not moments before.
A guttural scream ripped from the dying man’s throat as he thrashed, trying to pull himself free, clawing at Gunther’s arms with failing strength.
But Gunther didn’t let go. He shoved the blade in farther, twisting viciously until the man’s eyes widened and then dulled.
A shudder passed through the body before it slumped forward, lifeless.
There was no time for satisfaction.
A shadow loomed, hooves thundered, the sharp whoosh of descending steel a sound a seasoned warrior heard.
Gunther yanked his sword free and pivoted just in time to parry a brutal claymore strike from a mounted warrior.
Sparks erupted from the clash, the sheer force jolting through his arms and nearly sending him to his knees.
All around him, chaos reigned. Screams of dying men mingled with the metallic rings of blades striking blades.
Horses reared and shrieked, their panicked cries tearing through the battlefield like a chant.
The stench was overwhelming, the unmistakable smell of coppery blood thick in the air, mixed with the rank stench of sweat, bile, and death.
The ground had turned into a mixture of mud and gore, slick beneath his boots, unforgiving and treacherous.
Bodies littered the field, some groaning, others grotesquely still. And those who were slow to rise risked being crushed beneath thundering hooves, their cries snuffed out in a sickening crunch of bone and armor.
Gunther’s heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. Blood ran into his eyes, hot and sticky, from a blow he hadn’t even seen coming. His vision swam. The edge of the world blurred. Every movement took more effort, every breath felt heavier. Whoever had struck him had done damage.
He could feel it in the marrow of his bones; he and his men were outnumbered. Severely. The line would not hold much longer.
And if it broke…there would be no one left to bury them.
The British were going to win; Gunther had no illusions otherwise. The Dutch Republic was undergoing civil unrest; the country divided between those loyal to Prince William of Orange and those opposing. Factions against the ruler, called Patriots, were rapidly gaining popularity.
The Republic’s army was fighting on two fronts. Against the British over the Dutch helping the American colonies, and in the revolution between the loyalists and the Patriots.
To further weaken the army, the Dutch Republic fought against the powerful British forces on both land and sea.
A hard blow came from somewhere overhead, and he was sent rolling several feet over bodies and dirt, landing with a hard thud on the blood-soaked ground.
His head swam and vision blurred, he fought to get up to all fours only to fail when something heavy fell over his back, pinning him to the ground.
It was a horse who’d fallen sideways. By the lack of movement, the steed was dead and soon he would be too, his ability to breathe almost impossible.
Gunther’s vision cleared and he saw that his men continued to fight valiantly, one a young man called Durst, who’d recently married, stumbled backward from a hard strike, let out a yell and surged back into the fold.
Despite his predicament, pride filled him watching his countrymen fight a losing battle with honor.
Darkness began to envelop the field and the sight before him faded behind a mist, all sound and movement ceased, the battlefield frozen. Was this how death came? Gunther wondered.
A figure emerged from the thick fog, human-like with long black robes. Gunther prayed that it didn’t mean he would spend eternity in hell. Other than in war, he’d strived to spend his entire life doing what was right. Yet perhaps it hadn’t been enough.
As the figure neared, Gunther realized the horse was gone, all pain gone, his body seeming to relax. It had to be the coming of death.
“If you wish to save your men, give yourself freely to me.” It was a man in the robes, a sort of demonic apparition, by the way something like lightning bolts burst from his fingertips. “I can make this all go away, rescue your men, give you safe harbor. All you have to do is pledge fealty to me.”
The visitor’s glowing eyes dug into his. There was an air of impatience as he snapped his fingers to get Gunther’s attention. “You are dying. It is a simple decision. Save your men, serve me or you and your men perish today.”
He didn’t care what happened to him; however, he didn’t want the men he’d led to die. Those who had power sent them to fight a losing battle they barely understood while sitting back drinking wine and feasting on fatted pigs.
“I will serve you,” he replied in a hoarse voice. “Save them.”
The battlefield came into view again. Suddenly the enemy retreated, turning their horses and selves away.
What happened next, Gunther didn’t understand. Every Dutch soldier stood still as statues, the wizard walking among them, looking into their faces as if trying to identify them. He touched one on the shoulder and the man fell dead.
“No.” Gunther could barely speak, his lungs burning with the need to breathe.
“Ah yes, I forgot,” the wizard’s voice sounded in his head as the horse once again disappeared.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Gunther struggled to all fours. “Do not kill them.”
“I am called Meliot,” the wizard said in a calm voice. “That man was dying.” He continued his walk, touching a man here and there until several collapsed to the ground.
“Now, your new life begins.” The wizard’s smile sent shivers down Gunther’s spine. “Your men will not live long, many of them will perish in the next war. You are only prolonging the inevitable.”
“No.” Gunther got to his feet, swaying as if drunk. “You said you’d save them.”
The wizard chuckled. “I did. And you will obey me.”
“Not unless you keep them safe.”
The wizard looked at the young warrior Gunther had been watching earlier, touched his shoulder and Durst fell to the ground. He was dead.
Gunther bent, took a sword and rushed toward the wizard. “I give myself to you,” he cried out. “Do not hurt them.”
Now the wizard bent and touched Durst. The young fighter sat up looking about with confusion.
Meliot then waved both hands, sending Gunther into a tunnel of spiraling lights. It was as if he fell down into a void. There was no sound except for his gasps and attempts to keep from vomiting as he floated past swirls of lights that streaked past.
Finally, he landed on hard ground, the wind knocked from him. When he stumbled to his feet, he lost the contents of his stomach.
After a moment two things struck him. First he was fully healed, except for his unsteady belly, and secondly, wherever this was, he was no longer in his homeland.
The sky was a strange shade of purple with swirls of lights and there were three moons of various sizes overhead. One so large it was as if he could reach up and touch it.
Tall black trees with twisted trunks and spindly branches formed a forest of sorts. There was no grass on the ground, instead it was covered in a thick grey moss.
At the sounds of grunts, he turned around and stumbled backward. Huge, muscular beings who looked almost human, except for an elongated nose and mouth like that of a wolf or dog, stood in a line studying him intently.
Not only was he no longer in his homeland, but it seemed he was no longer in the same world.
“Is there anything else you require of me today?” Phillippe’s question brought Gunther out of reminiscing. Obviously the man understood he was not going to share how he’d ended up in the Dark Realm.
“No, you may go.”
Gunther pushed the food away, his appetite gone as a strange sensation overtook. Someone was calling for him.