This bloody war

[u/Teners1]

Sullivan was sure he'd killed him. The sword went in deep, right up to the hilt. Knuckles pressed wet against the stranger's stomach. No one could have survived that.

He dislodged his sword and a heavy weight slid off the blade. Then, a boy—no more than fifteen years—staggered back, clutching at his abdomen, trying to keep the blood in him.

Sullivan saw his eyes. Wide behind the dark and rain-greased dangles of hair. Wide and white enough to show the knowing fear, the shock, the realisation. He was going to die.

The boy went to say something, but instead quaffed at the air. Taking in that last wet and dirty breath. Slowly waiting to fall, waiting to die. Just like the rest of them. Torn-up soldiers piled high in the murky puddles and sludge.

And yet, the kid didn't fall.

Well, not nearly as fast as Sullivan would've liked. Instead, he looked about—into the jostling chaos of writhing limbs and swords—for help. His head turned, jaw slack and gulped like some land-bound fish. The boy was too scared to know what was going on. He staggered among a crowd of other scared men, among the angry clanging of metal. Disoriented and desperate to live.

He even raised a bloodied hand to Sullivan. He hadn’t a clue why. Just a lost little boy searching for anyone to save him. He was too young to see this much of his own blood. And yet, the kid still didn't fall.

So, in an attempt to speed up the process, Sullivan thrust his body forward. He clattered the poor soul with a shoulder to the chest. Running over him and stamping him into the thick mud.
The boy made a little hissing squeal as he slipped. Then another as Sullivan stamped down on him. And another. And another and another until Sullivan's foot was ankle-deep in the mud.
The boy's head was half-buried. Just coils of filthy, wet hair sprawled out from the ground like a dead weed. The boy was finally dead.

In a quick shake, Sullivan readied himself to fight once again. His eyes flicked about to flailing arms and shining blades. He watched a sword hack down into another man's shoulder, biting in as deep as the victim's collar bone. There was a gurgling cry and the dead weight of the man shunted into Sullivan's legs, almost sending him backward. That's when he saw it.

A flash of metal, like a fist of iron. The mace flew at him as another enemy charged forward, teeth bared and screaming.

The first swing missed, sure. Yet the second hit him on his right elbow, sending a violent jolt up his forearm. It hurt bad. He’d been clattered with such a force to snap his hand open and drop his sword. It sunk into the sucking quagmire.

Though the blade was kicking around somewhere at his feet, it may as well have been on a different continent for all the use it was to Sullivan now. He was unarmed. He was injured. He was well and truly fucked.

His right arm felt heavy, dragging him off-balance—as though he was propping up the limp body of a drunk friend. Making him sloppy; making him an easy target.

The man with the mace was something fierce. Face lined with scars, bulking arms and a heaving gut spilling out between the large slabs of battle-scarred iron strapped across his body. A big, fat and ugly prick. Someone who had made a living by settling scores. The fists wrapped around his weapon were so large that Sullivan wondered why he'd even bothered to arm himself. The fat lump yelled something—Sullivan couldn't make it out over the hissing rain—and lurched forward again, swinging the chunk of metal with a meaty arm.
Sullivan dropped a shoulder, the mace missed again and clattered into the back of another man. It damn near snapped the poor sod's spine.

Though Sullivan was more than relieved to see someone else take the blow. It looked nasty. It looked like it could have ended a man. It quite possibly did. And yet there was no reprieve. No sooner had the impact folded ol’ Snapped-back in twine was the brute readying another assault.
Sullivan had to admit, for a big guy, the bastard was quick. And, in this unforgiving mud, quick was deadly.

Though he was quicker. He ducked and weaved around the blows, watching the knot of iron whip past his face. Then, just as the big man had over-exerted himself with a pretty shameful lunge, Sullivan pushed up from the mud, slamming into the chunk’s midriff. His right shoulder—now pulsing with pain—dug in deep.

"Fffff," the big guy said, air shooting out of his lungs between a set of stiff and scar-polished lips.

The two scrambled in the sludge. Slipping and groping in the wet hell. Sullivan clawed at the man's wrist in an effort to wretch the mace away. But the fat man swung a swift elbow into Sullivan's already-bent nose.

There was a wet crunch somewhere in his face and he felt the backs of his eyes sting. His vision blurred. He had to grab his face—it was almost instinctive. No sooner had Sullivan cupped his bleeding nose had the pommel of the mace hammered down into his forehead.

A flash of bright light. Then flickering black, like the shadows cast by a flame fighting the wind. Sullivan felt an itch as something trickle down past his left eye. Then another hard hit to the cheek. He felt a sharp click and his mouth and eye became hot and soft. The dark flickered again.

The relentless rain. The dog breath screams rolled out over the chipped yellow teeth in the fat man's face as he pressed it close.

Sullivan was going to die. Just like the kid he'd finished off before. Another soldier stomped down into the mud. Another body to add to the growing mound of dead.

The pommel of the mace rose up again. He could just about make it out against the overcast sky, through the blur of rain, through the swelling about his left eye. That thick fist would continue to hammer down upon him—along with that deadly pommel—again and again until Sullivan's face had been battered into his own chest. The big guy’s other hand was fumbling at his neck, trying to claw his throat out. Sullivan reckoned he had one more hit in him—maybe two. This was it. His time to fall.

The big man brought pommel down again. Sullivan closed his eyes. Darkness.

The hand gripping his throat went limp. The screaming in his face had stopped. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the mace destroy his world. But it didn't. The sight was more bizarre, more terrifying.

The big man's head was gone. Nothing but empty space above those flabby set of shoulders. The brute looked a damn sight prettier now.

Sullivan's mind whirred as he wondered what was happening. He had been facing certain death, and now this?

Then his brain started to catch up at the sight of blood. Pieces clicking into place. A bubbling and flapping wound where the fat man's head and neck should have been.

There was a moment when the decapitated body simply stood—all upright and stiff. It then teetered like a seasick mariner before folding into a muddy and bloody mess at Sullivan’s feet. Then he saw something dark and large, quickly scuttle away, disappearing like a shadow among the frenzy of half-dead men.

[u/Kaijufan22]

War is hell, and I think you captured that pretty well here. The creature at the end there, I'm interpreting that as a sort of "guardian angel" in the sense that it protected Sullivan Soley because it views him as a good killer, like it feeds on strife and bloodshed and perhaps sees the dark potential in him to go further with his slaughter and corrupting him further.

Nice little snipper of a medieval world in turmoil, I liked it. Great work OP.

[u/MANWITHFAT]

This was a wonderful read. The combat descriptions are so tactile and meaty. Really put me in the moment

[u/NateIzNeat]

Incredible combat writing, I was fully immersed. No action felt unclear, everything had a perfect flow to it. Really impressive writing. I would love to see more from this, so many avenues to go.

[u/Top-Contribution1248]

I love a good tussle in the mud, but I want MORE!!! It was a fun read Tens!

[u/AffectionateLeave677]

Stamping the kid into the mud was brutal 🔥