Page 24 of The Last Knight

“I will remain for now. When the time is right, I will leave.” Phillippe’s reluctance was understandable. Gunther himself wasn’t sure what he’d do if Aubrey was ever able to help him escape permanently. After centuries away, living in a completely different world, the idea of a normal life seemed a fantasy.

“How was it you ended up here?” Gunther asked the scribe.

For the first time since meeting him, Phillippe’s face hardened. “Defending my family. I gave myself as a slave to Meliot in exchange for him sparing their lives.”

“And yet you never seemed to be resentful of him.”

“I was in the beginning. After many years, I came to accept that he stuck to his part of the bargain. He treated me fairly.”

Gunther shook his head. “Nothing about Meliot was ever fair.”

The man studied him for a long moment. “I do not expect you would share your story.”

Measuring his words, Gunther gave a noncommittal shrug. “Like you, I made a reckless bargain with the devil.”

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.”