King Unwin squinted through the blinding sunlight, the sun beat down unconditionally on his castle. A long drought had plagued Unwin’s citizens miraculously for months, but Unwin smiled. His high priest had consulted the gods. Oh What great news! The gods had blessed this bloody war as righteous, and holy.
Many miles away, across the scorched desert, King Benedict sauntered from the church, and raised his hands to the sky in glee, recognizing the throngs of people gathered in wait for the oracle’s wise words. After quieting the whispers of the crowd with an open hand, Benedict declared to the people that the oracle had seen honor in their coming victory, and plenty in the coming harvest.
King Benedict’s army marched on. In twenty days, the army of over five thousand strong had dropped to just below four thousand as they struggled over the sun baked desert. Their once mighty kingdom had been battered by three long years of war. The number of casualties was nearly impossible for a farming country to sustain.
King Unwin smiled. His scouts had been following Benedict's collection of dying tin cans that he passed off as an army, for almost three weeks. Unwin knew that with Benedict’s army in its current state, he could make it look like mince meat. Unwin was ruthless, and devilishly cunning. Benedict was more straightforward, ruling flamboyantly, charming his peasants.
When the war started, Benedict’s army was small, and ill experienced, but they learned quickly, and Unwin’s initial fighting force was annihilated. Realizing his grave mistake, Unwin sent the bulk of his iron clad warriors to crush Benedict. Benedict kept only a well-trained ‘Royal Army’, which he used at will as his secret police. Though small, it was on the front, bolstering the inexperienced infantry, who trained daily for the coming fray.
By the time the full force of Unwin’s army crossed the desert, their initial attack was pushed back by the combined mass of half-trained farmers, and Royal soldiers alike. This resulted in a three month long standoff that taxed both nations to the bone, and crushed the morale of Benedict’s tired troops. The graveyards were overflowing, forcing shallow, roadside graves to be the home of battlefield heroes. The blood spilled during those months was irreplaceable, and left thousands of families mourning their fallen loved ones.
When the smoke had cleared from the deadly siege, Benedict mobilized what was left of his army after the bloody bout with Unwin’s well trained killing machine of an army. He knew that the only possibility of winning the war was to either lead a crushing counter offensive before Unwin had time to recover, or Benedict’s own citizens rose up against his dictator-like rule.
Every son, brother, husband, and uncle was handed a sword, shield, and armor. This attack would either win them the war, or destroy them as a country, and one by one, they trudged through the sun-scorched desert sand, getting closer and closer to the fate of themselves, and their country. Benedict’s army arrived on a cloudy day. It rained hadn’t rained for months, and it looked like today was going to be one of those days.
Unwin sat upon his wall, brooding about what to be done about the sand covered iron blades as they arose from the hillside. Suddenly, upon his forehead appeared a single raindrop, then another, then more and more spat onto the brick fortification until every soldier was drenched in the torrential down pour. Unwin watched as Benedict and his pathetic underlings dropped to their knees, turning their mouths skyward, and hastily opening water pouches to catch the first water they had seen in days.
King Unwin stepped slowly down from the twenty foot castle walls, running his hand along the smooth cut stone that was once his father’s. He stared out across the remainder of the army that was his. His once ten thousand had been reduced to two during the campaign. Though nearly half their opponent in numbers, they were far more well trained and experienced. True, his numbers had dwindled, but morale was high among his soldiers, they had won many a battle against an outnumbering enemy. This one seemed different, maybe it was because, if they lost this battle, their capital would be lost, and their country thrown into chaos, maybe it was because many of them had watched more than three fourths of their companions cut down right before their eyes. In any case, the men were antsy, and Unwin knew it. Two hours later, the army was dressed and waiting in the field. The rain poured down on them in sheets, soaking each and every soldier through their chainmail and plating. They stared down the equally waterlogged soldiers across the battlefield. The sand under their boots made for no puddles, as it drank up the rain water thirstily.
Dressed in gold encrusted armor, the aging king Unwin drew his heavy steel sword, and charged. His army quickly raised their weapons, and charged as well, rapidly overtaking their old King. Benedict’s men raised their battered shields, forming a rough phalanx. After months of practice, even the citizen-soldiers were relatively skilled in the forming of a shield wall. The ungodly, heart-wrenching sound of iron on iron mixed with the cries of effort filled the battlefield, as the army of serf attackers was pushed back, back, back… but then, as their sandals found purchase in the sand, they stopped. For a short moment, the battlefield grew silent, as Unwin’s pitiless men let up, just for a moment.
Then, suddenly, the wall of shields became a horrifying, deadly porcupine of swords and spears alike. This death-dealing, mobile fortification pressed forward, leaving death in its path but, almost as suddenly as it had gained the advantage, it was lost. Spearheads were cut from their shafts, swords knocked from hands, and shields dented in, and broken. A tide of Unwin’s men smashed Benedict’s line, and in the ensuing butchery, Benedict and his men were sent into a full tilt sprint from the carnage. Unwin’s army quickly routed them almost a quarter mile, over a large dune, marking the edge of Unwin’s territory. Up and over the dune, the would-be attackers ran for their lives, their survivors numbering barely over fifteen hundred. Unwin’s men continued, completely enthralled with the blood lust.
Then, just past the bottom of the dune, with shouts from the remaining commanders, the army turned. Unwin grinned, if this is where they would stand and fight, then this is where they would die. He was barely able to rein in his entranced army. He again sauntered to the front. He would lead his men, He would be the hero that the high priest had spoken of. He would win the war.
The grin of a child with a new toy covered Unwin’s face, ear to ear, as he turned to face the opposing army, searching out that fool Benedict’s face. A squire hastily handed Unwin a spear, which he pointed towards the army that had caused his men so much suffering. His mouth opened to sign their death warrants, but before the orders to charge left his lips, the sand behind his army exploded upwards. Unwin turned to see more than five hundred of Benedict's royal bodyguard, who had hidden themselves six inches below the sand bringing their sharpened steel down upon the backs of his bewildered soldiers. He turned back to see Benedict smirking demonically, as his main force charged Unwin’s frontline. The horrifying slaughter of both armies that followed stained the sand deep crimson. Above them, the storm raged on, then dwindled off, and the shimmering battle field was enchanted by the starlight.
The two sides fought heroically, fueled by both their willingness to die for their country, and the blood rage brought on by watching their brothers butchered beside them. The waves of battle continued, one side pushed forward, sensing victory, but then the other rallied, and took their turn on the edge of victory. Eventually, Benedict’s sand soldiers were decimated, but not after ending the lives of countless of Unwin’s well-trained elites. After hours of fighting, breaking, rallying, and pushing back, with the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon, the battle was coming to an end. Fewer than two dozen soldiers remained on both sides, who had carried themselves, and their wounded allies to their respective groups of survivors.
Unwin looked out at the thousands of dead, laying in heaping piles, strewn across the battlefield. There were almost no wounded among them, for amid the hours of slaughter, every lying body, incapacitated, or dead were, whether by accident or on purpose, struck many more times, by feet and weapons alike. They searched through the piles of their dead friends and enemies alike, for anything resembling a weapon. Most spears were broken in more than one place, much like the bones of the valiant men who had held them. Even the simple act of finding a suitable weapon among the stinking piles of corpses caused most to collapse in desperate exhaustion. Most didn't get back up. Hopeless, some men fought with tooth and nail clawing at one another, after a few minutes, even they fell, to wounds, or exhaustion.
Among the roughly half dozen on each side were the two kings, though their crowns and most distinctive marks on their armor were gone. The war had reduced the two rival kings to peasants. These two peasants stared hard at each other, locking eyes, raising their shattered remains of swords, which were not more than the length of a knife. Unwin, the smirk that had covered his face, was long since gone, but a hint of it returned as he finally saw an end of this horrific bloodshed that had left nearly all dead. He stepped forward, ready to end the man that had caused him and his country so much pain and suffering. His foot landed below him, but offered nothing else. It wobbled beneath him. He commanded his legs to step, bend, do anything, but they refused to move. He commanded his arms to reach out in front of his teetering body, or block his face, but they refused as well. His fingers lost feeling, and the remains of his sword dropped to the ground beneath him.
Across the field, Benedict watched as the mortally wounded enemy who had destroyed his country, and killed so many of his innocent people and soldiers, dropped his sword, then swayed for a moment, and collapsed to the ground. Benedict attempted to smile, but most of the flesh was gone from his cheek, and moving his face felt as though he was swallowing molten iron. Regardless, the war was over, and he, and his country had won. Yet… it felt as though he had suffered a horrible loss. Both armies had been decimated, the only difference was he had survived, while Unwin had died.
Maybe it was the serrated edge of the flying javelin that had pierced the crown of his head that made it hard to wrap around the idea that he had one. By no means did he have enough men to take command of Unwin’s castle. There were barely enough remaining to search through the heaps of dead that seemed to fill the desert. They found not more than a score, half of whom were quickly added to the seemingly endless list of those lost. The trudge home over miles of hot sand, whose surface had quickly forgotten the cool touch of water, was nearly impossible. Those who could walk carted the wounded, and those who could not be healed were buried without ceremony. The reentrance to the castle was bitter. The King spoke of victory and yet, to the countless women and children who waited outside the walls, who hoped against hope for an outline to appear on the the horizon. Who searched frantically thought the deformed faces of the wounded, searching for one they recognized, they didn’t feel as though they had won. They felt cheated. They felt alone.
Both armies, and their kings were convinced that they were the victims, and the other, the slaughterer of innocents.
History would not remember the battle that killed so many that day, the battle that painted the sand red for months, the battle that smeared winner and loser into slaughter, and death. There was no winner that day, only pain, suffering, and sorrow. The families of the brothers, uncles, and sons who had given their lives for the country they loved, not ever knowing it was futile, they would never forget.