The Ghost in the Ranks: The Warlord’s second life

THE MUD OF THE FORGOTTEN

The dead do not breathe, yet the mud was filling his lungs anyway.

Collins coughed, a violent, rattling sound that tore through his chest. His fingers were too short. His wrists were thin, brittle sticks wrapped in gray, bruised skin. This was not his body. These were not the hands that had swung the greatsword of the western valleys.

"Get up, you worthless piece of filth," a voice roared above him.

A heavy leather boot slammed into his ribs. Collins curled inward, gasping for air that tasted like sulfur.

"Look at him," a young soldier whispered nearby, trembling. "Collins has finally lost his mind. He is just going to lie there and let them slaughter us."

"Shut your mouth, boy," an older soldier snapped. "If the Warlord’s vanguard breaks through that ridge, we are all dead anyway. Did you see what they did to the southern outpost? They didn't leave a single man standing."

The words hit him like a physical blow. The Warlord.

"What did you just say?" Collins croaked, his voice cracking. It was a pathetic, high-pitched sound.

The young soldier stared at him. "The Warlord's army. They are at the tree line. They are coming to kill us all, Collins."

"No," Collins muttered, pushing himself up into the mud. "The Warlord is dead. He was executed."

"Three weeks ago," the older soldier said, checking his crossbow. "The generals cut Harrison’s head off in the capital. Everyone knows it. But his army didn't stop. Winfred took the command. They are monsters now."

Harrison. That was his name. He had stood on the scaffolding, waiting for a savior who never came. Winfred had held the blade. Winfred, his second-in-command, the boy he had raised from the gutters.

A sudden, deafening blast shattered the sky. It was the bronze horn of the imperial vanguard—a sound Harrison himself had invented to strike terror into his enemies.

"They are here!" the young soldier screamed, dropping his spear. "I am not dying for this trench!"

The boy turned to run.

"Stand up," a massive shadow bellowed.

Commander Watson stepped into the torchlight, swinging the heavy wooden butt of his spear directly into the running soldier's jaw. The boy dropped instantly into the mire.

"Anyone else want to run?" Watson shouted, his eyes sweeping over the terrified conscripts. "Pick up your weapons. Stand up and die like men."

The soldiers shrank back. Watson raised his spear again, pointing it at a shivering recruit. "You. Move to the parapet. Now."

"He can't move," Collins said.

The voice didn't sound like a grunt's. The tone was level, freezing, and entirely devoid of panic.

Watson paused, turning his massive head. "What did you say to me, grunt?"

Collins didn't drop his gaze. He walked forward, stopping exactly two inches from the tip of Watson's spear.

"I said he can't move," Collins repeated. "If you put him on the parapet right now, his hands are shaking so badly he will drop his weapon. He will block the line of sight for the archers behind him. You are wasting a body."

Watson stared at him, stunned. "You think you are a tactician now, Collins? I should open your throat right here for insubordination."

"You could try," Collins whispered.

The subtext in his eyes was something Watson had never seen in a conscript. It was the look of a man who had commanded thousands of executioners. Watson’s grip on his spear tightened, but he hesitated.

"Who the hell are you?" Watson growled.

"I am the man keeping your unit from being slaughtered in the next five minutes," Collins said, turning to look over the top of the trench. "Look at the tree line. They sent three vanguard scouts. They are checking the depth of our trench. If they return to the main line, the heavy infantry will follow within twenty minutes. We need to kill them before they report back."

"We don't have the numbers to go over the top," Watson snapped. "Their archers will pick us apart."

"We don't leave the trench," Collins said, reaching for the rusted dagger at his belt. "We let them come to us. But we fight them like animals."

The older soldier looked up. "They are wearing imperial iron, Collins. Our small blades won't scratch them."

"Every suit of imperial iron has a three-inch gap under the left armpit to allow for a sword swing," Collins said. "And the throat guard is held by a single leather strap on the right side. Cut the strap, and the helmet comes off. They are not invincible."

Watson watched the boy, his heart hammering. "How do you know that? Only the inner circle of the Warlord knew the flaws in the vanguard armor."

Collins gave him a fleeting, bitter smile. "I read a book once, Commander."

A sudden splash of water cut them off.

Three massive figures emerged from the darkness, their polished iron armor gleaming under the moonlight. The leading scout looked down into the trench, his weapon raised.

The conscripts screamed, scattering into the dark corners. Only Watson and Collins remained.

"Hold the middle," Collins told Watson. "Do not let them turn the corner."

Collins surged forward. It was agonizing. Harrison knew exactly where his feet should go, but Collins's body was sluggish, a fraction of a second too slow. The first scout lunged, his short-sword whistling through the air, missing Collins’s cheek by a mere inch.

Collins didn't step back. He stepped inside the guard, jamming his rusted dagger upward into the secret weakness. The blade sank into the scout's left armpit up to the hilt.

The soldier stiffened, a muffled gasp escaping his helmet as he collapsed into the mud.

"One," Collins muttered, his weak lungs screaming for air.

The other two scouts roared in fury. Watson managed to parry the second scout's blade with his spear, locking them in a desperate struggle.

The third scout advanced on Collins. "You are a dead man, grunt."

"You are using the fifth form of the imperial vanguard," Collins said, wiping blood from his hands. "Your weight is entirely on your right heel. Your balance is completely gone."

The scout hesitated for a single, fatal second.

That was all Collins needed. He dropped to his knees, letting the scout's wild swing pass over his head. He reached out, caught the leather strap on the right side of the helmet, and yanked. The strap snapped. The heavy helmet rolled into the mud, exposing a terrified face.

Before the soldier could scream, Collins drove the dagger directly into his throat.

The man fell sideways, choking on his own blood. Collins stood over him, his body shaking violently from exhaustion.

Watson managed to throw his opponent to the ground, driving his broken spear point through the last scout's visor. The trench went completely silent, save for the sound of the rain.

Watson looked from the three dead elite soldiers up to Collins, his face pale. "This is impossible. You just executed two vanguard veterans like they were children. Who taught you how to fight like that?"

Collins forced his eyes to widen, letting a frantic tremor take over his voice as he grabbed Watson's wrist. "I don't know, Commander! I was dying! My hands just moved on their own... I just wanted to live!"

Watson searched the boy's face. All he saw was a terrified, shivering kid crying in the rain. But the doubt remained, heavy and poisonous. He pulled his knife away with a bitter curse. "If you are a spy, Collins I will personally tear your head off."

"I'm just a conscript," Collins muttered, his eyes dropping back into a cold, hidden stare the moment Watson turned around.

A high-pitched, whistling scream suddenly tore through the night sky. Collins’s eyes widened as he looked up. A massive, glowing shadow was hurtling toward them from across the ridge. It was a siege catapult.

"Get down!" Watson roared, lunging to push Collins out of the way.

The impact was deafening. The earth shattered, exploding directly into the center of the trench line. Collins was thrown backward by the shockwave, his head slamming into a support beam before the world went dark.

When Collins finally opened his eyes, the air was thick with black smoke. He tried to move, but his lower half was pinned beneath a heavy beam.

Directly in front of him, Commander Watson lay motionless, his lower body completely buried under a massive pile of shattered stone, blood leaking from his mouth.

A heavy boot stepped into the clearing of smoke. Then another.

Collins looked up through the haze, his vision blurring. Three more vanguard soldiers were stepping over the lip of the ruined trench, their long swords drawn, their iron visors locked onto the only survivor left in the dirt.