An Insurrection Read Free

knew that not even his death would break the spirits of his men until there was none left standing. His speech was only a prelude to their march of revenge for the king’s selfishness. While his men were filled with reason to fight until life escaped them, Thurstan’s men were there for the greed and conceit of one man. The resolve of his men would not fail.
    For a hundred strides Desh marched toward the king without a single impediment until Ludan and Carmine rode out, swinging their swords. Dodging their blades, he rolled backwards and kicked himself back onto his feet, turning to face them. Desh pulled a sword out of a man’s guts and twirled it in the air with his own.
    Ludan and Carmine charged again, leaning in to attack and finish Desh. As they reached striking distance, both Carmine and Ludan lunged forward on their horses, hoping for their blades to feast on Desh’s flesh.
    Waiting just before the blades landed, Desh fell straight back and cut the legs of the horses. The animals screeched and flung their riders to the ground as they fell. Carmine impaled himself on his blade, his body sliding down the length of it, his hands trying to close the deadly wound at his stomach. Ludan was lucky, falling sideways and landing on his shoulder and turning to find Desh standing over him.
    Ludan’s luck was short lived. Stepping on his sword arm, Desh drove his sword through Ludan’s throat. The crowd roared as the black man choked on blood. A slain hero was always something to marvel at and even more so on this bloody morning. The death of the king’s greatest champions was another crushing blow to his already dwindling army.
    In that moment, a thousand more of Thurstan’s men dropped their swords and tucked tail in retreat, scurrying over the hills, never to be seen again.  Dead men strewn across a battlefield was enough to make a coward retreat.
    Jumping down from his horse, the king sprinted toward Desh, his sword raised high. He swung recklessly, Desh sidestepping and tripping the king.
    Thurstan’s face thudded against the hard earth. Desh thrust a foot into the back of his neck, sending his face crashing into the ground again. Dust blew up as the king breathed in and out, choking on the dirt. He had never been a fighting man. Thurstan had been called mighty because his army was fearsome in his youth. They’d marched undefeated for more than two decades. Brave men they were that rode into battle, as their king watched safely upon a hill, flanked by his elite guard. Only heat had forced him to break a sweat. Wooden splinters were all that forced him to shed blood.
    More men fled in every direction seeing their king fallen, as Desh’s men marched faster toward the city gate. Morn grabbed the king by the back of the neck and hefted him from the ground with a giant paw of a hand. The grip nearly crushed the king’s neck and he clawed at Morn’s hand in futility trying to free himself. Ahead of everyone, Morn walked Thurstan to the castle wall. Desh followed, as he watched the king squirm.
            ‘Treat him as he treated Khan.’ A voice bellowed in the distance. His outburst earned an eruption of approval from his battle-hardened comrades.
    ‘He’s no where near the man Khan was!’ A raspy voice boomed.
    ‘Aye!’ A thousand men roared in unison.
    Morn raised Thurstan up and pushed him against the wall, his neck teen feet from the ground.
    Desh looked at him as Morn held the king firmly in place. He tried to put up a fight, but the Shademaker punched him near senseless and Thurstan halted any further attempts to free himself. There was nothing he could do against the Shademaker. Looking in those grey dead eyes, Thurstan knew the man was Death made flesh.
    ‘Good man, may I have your pitchfork.’ Desh called out to an old fellow standing off in the distance, just a few feet away from the commotion of the king’s predicament.
    ‘Of course mighty friend.’ The old man said as he approached