The Rogue
Chapter One
They had just formed ranks. This was the battle
for Herstmonceux castle, The War of The Roses. Sean
had been hired in, one of about twenty Irish
mercenaries. Two days ago, he had defected from the
Lancastrian side to the Yorkists. The Lancastrians
might have had cannons, but the Yorkists paid better,
and had an advantage in troop numbers. Being a
Commander, he was given charge of two ranks of ten. He
adjusted his helmet and sword, and made sure the
chainmaille was on right. One final time, he ran over
the plan of attack in his mind.
"Alright men, march up in two blocks behind Lady
Joan, and watch for archers. Beware of cannon fire.
Good luck. If you die fighting, which many of you
will, you will have died an honourable death. May your
souls find peace. Now, Let's kill these dirty
Lancastrian bastards!" Sean had called over his
troops. The priest went and blessed them in Latin, and
bade them farewell. Sean drew his sword, and shouted
the order to advance. Lady Joan said her piece, and
made herself scarce. Arrows rained down around them,
some firey. Occasionally, he would hear the sound of
one of his men be struck down by an arrow, but he kept
marching, leaving the dead and wounded where they
fell. The enemy rank hard formed into a block, so Sean
ordered that his companies form a wedge, and then
charge the Lancastrian block. Sean was a skirmisher,
picking off stragglers. He went in, fll and hard,
hewing an enemy in half, diagonally across his body,
blood glutting upon him. The blood steamed upon the
st! eel of his blade, and he licked at the blood that
had landed on his face. Then, out of no-where an arrow
pierced his chainmaille, and went straight into his
shoulder. He could tell it was tainted with poison, he
could feel it enter his blood. He fought on
regardless, until he got too sloppy from the poison,
and misjudged an attack, and took the brunt of a
hammer blow on his helm. It knocked him for six, and
left him out cold, and bleeding.
He had fallen at the edge of the forest upon the
hill. A stranger noticed him, and recognizing his
livery as that of the king he served, he took this
Sean's injured body, and removed the arrow and applied
a poultice to the wound. It slowly stopped bleeding.
Sean weighed close to 250 lbs with his armour on, and
regardless, this stranger wanted to see him safe. Sean
drifted in and out of consciousness, reality tisted
and turned on it's head from the poison on the arrow.
He carried Sean's body in his arms to the medic tent,
and set him down inside, casting the priest one stony
glance before exiting the tent. The poison was in his
brain, causing him great nightmares. He recalled the
horror of the battle, twisted and made more
frightening by the poison. Then, his memories went
back to his childhood. He remembers his mother
abandoning him in a forest back home. He was about six
at the time. He followed his mother back to the clan's
camp. He stayed in the cover of the brush and
undergrowth, only to watch the cheiftan, his father
stab his mother through the heart with a simple silver
blade. He learned later in life that his mother had
been bitten by a werewolf while she was pregnant with
him. Eleven years later, he killed his father with the
silver blade. He kept that blade on him at all times
since his revenge. He kept his lycanthropy a secret,
having seen with his young eyes what it had cost his
mother. He had discovered his ability to change when
he was about thirteen, and he had lived rough for most
of his life, only joining a clan when he was twenty.
The terror of those nights when he slept in open
ground, prey for the wild beasts. He was taken in by a
pack of wolves, and he only discovered why when he
discovered that he could change.
He snapped awake, his hand instinctively going for
his silver dagger, and when he realised he was in a
tent, he looked around to see wounded soldiers around
him. His shoulder throbbed like fuck, he reckoned it
was infected. A weedy, shrivelled voice startled him,
it was the priest. The priest told him of the rogue
that had saved him. Told him he was one of the lucky
few of his company of Yorkists to survive the first
charge. He took some tea from the priest, it was
disgusting, but he drank it, rather than be rude. The
priest was distracted with another soldier, so Sean
took that opportunity to talk to his saviour. He got
about as far as the tent opening, which wasn't far,
maybe 15 feet, and managed to call out to the rogue
before collapsing in pain. Before he knew it, the
rogue was at his side easing the pain in his shoulder
with some kind of potion.
They were accosted by two guards, one armed with a
spear who was threatening the rogue. Sean saw the
feral shine in his saviours eyes, and knew he had to
talk to him. The guards, however, had a different
idea. One of them presumed him a spy, and went at him
with the spear, the stranger sidestepped, and snapped
the spear, cast Sean one last look, and made for the
darkness beyond the light of the fire. "No....come
back....." Sean said resignedly, and, looking at the
darkness, he thought he had seen the feral shine from
the rogue's eyes. The guards dragged him back to the
tent and put him to bed. He slept like the dead.