“In all the stories about battles, everyone talks of heroism, skill, and courage but no one ever tells you about the smell. Shit and piss, and that metallic taste of blood that lingers on the back of your tongue.” Field Marshal Vladimir Zyce rolled his head side to side to pop his neck while handing his squire his helm. He took off his cloak as well but kept the red hand broach his uncle had given him long ago, tucking it into his coin purse.
“Aye, sir. Not to mention the flies. No one ever talks about the flies.”
“Right you are, lad. Right you are.” Vlad limped along with his sword still in hand, though the battle was over, and the vast majority of the damage done. “Why don’t you run along and help with mop up duty. Remember, white sash means they can be saved and red…”
“Red means to end it quickly. I know, sir. I promise I won’t make the same mistake as last time.”
“It is okay, Robert. Compassion is a virtue to cherish. Remember that, even though the battlefield will attempt to rid you of it with extreme haste.” The boy started to weave his way around the strewn bodies, assisting other troops as they carried bodies to the field medic tent or respectfully putting an end to the moans of troops who were already dead and did not quite realize it.
The dreary weather matched the mood of the battlefield, but the cool, damp breeze felt good on the skin, even if it did bring with it more wafts of the horrid smells. As Vlad returned his focus from the buzzards circling in the sky to the battlefield around him, he made mental notes about tactics that had worked and some that had failed, being sure to capture mental images of the landscape, areas with heavier losses, and how the counterattack measures his opponents had implemented changed his original plans.
His heart ached for the men and women scattered about, clad in the famous golden armor of the Zlatos Mercenary Company, but he also felt for those who perished on the field opposing his troops. These men and women were darker in skin tone than the bronze skinned people of the Aurum Empire where the majority of the Zlatos Mercs originated from, and even darker than the pale skinned people hailing from Vlad’s homeland in the Azhuran Empire, but they stood out more so for the white paint they used on their skin in lieu of armor. These Northosi were no different than those Vlad battled all over Northos for the past several years but that made the deaths no easier to bear.
From his vantage point, which was close to the center of the battle now, he could see his troops performing mop up duty, a few of his ten battlefield healers scattered about caring for troops on both sides, and one of his two mages walking about collecting blood in crystal phylacteries that could still contain some Source, used for their magic. He continued to limp in the direction of the other mage, Maven, by reaching out and sensing their Ilpithui connection, their personal blood bond that required repetitive blood magic and runic tattoos on them both or else it would fade.