Brothers in the Silence.

The enemy is approaching. The men are fighting amongst themselves. Their last hope and refuge is a church on the silent plains. Will they come together, or fall apart.

A flake of ash drifts between the trees, rustling over the dying brambles and setting itself down in the hair of a soldier who is slogging through ankle deep mud. The men file into a graveyard just beyond the edge of the woods. Every tombstone leans one way or the other with a dusting of white ash bestrewn over the top.

A column of soldiers limps and staggers towards a church perched atop the crest of a hill. The sun sinks behind the building whose walls all appear to lean in different directions. The twisted spire is hunched over like an old man, its long shadow across the ground pointing grievously at the men.

John is near the front, his blue gambeson torn, with blood and dirt stippled across it. A steel breast plate is hung loosely across his chest which sways as he walks, clacking against a shoulder guard hanging from a torn strap, which swings back and forth with each stride. Clack. Clack. Clunk. Clack. The sound of the men carries through the clearing, swords tapping on armour, boots slurping through the mud, men coughing up ash, and the enervated groans of an exhausted army carry across the clearing and mix with the shrill caws from ravens overhead.

Thud, Thud, Thud, and the clashing of thick iron plates rattles from Gabriel at the front of the line. He stomps towards the church, leaning on his sword each step. The sunlight glitters across his shoulder plates, garnished with silver vines, gold plated roses and an ornate woodpecker standing guard on each side. Blood splashes to the floor with each step forward, globs of crimson dashed across the ash like paint slashed across a canvas. Gabriel leans to one side, then rights himself, before leaning to the other as the column of men trudge closer to the church.

Suddenly the man beside John starts coughing then collapses face down into the mud. The entire line comes to halt. The clattering stops, the sloshing mud falls silent. Even the wind and the ravens take pause. Gabriel stops as he senses something amiss. Absolute silence blankets the clearing. John scratches his ear just to make sure he hasn’t gone deaf. He stares at the man in the mud and looks back at the line. The soldiers are all staring at their fallen comrade, when a sudden ruckus erupts from the back of the line and a young boy, less than half johns age, comes bounding through the graveyard.

“Harry.”

The boy falls into the mud and clamours to his brother.

One by one the men turn their gaze to Gabriel while he swings around to observe the commotion. He looks first to the boy, then points his gaze at the treeline behind them.

“We must shelter in the church… John”.

Gabriel turns around and lumbers onwards. John points at a man further back in the file.

“You, help” John slogs towards the fallen soldier. He looks back down the file to see that nobody has moved.

“Now” he barks, finally prompting a chubby man from some way back to rush forward and grab the soldier’s arm. They heave him from sludge and carry him towards the church.

Inside the church, the fading sun creeps lower through the stained-glass windows. John props the man up against a pew and looks towards Gabriel. The hulking mass of armour is climbing the steps towards the Altar. John hears the young boy wailing behind him.

“Harry!” the boy gargles while furrowing his brow. His cheeks clench and he buries his face into his brothers shoulder. The chubby man presses two fingers to the soldier’s neck. He prods around under the jaw, then shakes his head at John.

The men begin to lay on the pews, slump along the aisle, and dump their gear onto the stone floor with sharp clangs that rattle through the church. Suddenly the ground shakes, and am almighty crash erupts from the altar. Everyone looks towards Gabriel who has collapsed onto the steps. John rushes to his side and tries rolling him onto his back. He only manages to rock him slightly. Two other men rush to help and they, together, heave him onto his back. Gabriel raises his hand and points at one of the soldiers.

“The tower” he coughs “lookout.” His voice is coarse, and he gasps softly after finishing. The soldier, without hesitation, bolts towards the tower.

“Where’s Walter?” John shouts “the doctor. Where’s the doctor?”

“John” Gabriel whispers, then he’s interrupted by a voice from the back of the room.

“I’m here, give me a hand” A slender old man limps forward with a soldier helping him to stay upright, then he kneels beside Gabriel. The man begins to pry at the armour, pulling apart the seams where blood is sputtering out and dribbling down the steps. Then, Gabriel sweeps the man away and looks at John, clasping his heavy hand around his arm.

His voice is thin and wispy. His stern eyes meet Johns, Gabriel’s stiff brow showing not a flicker of pain, of anger, or sadness as Gabriel clasps his golden sword, pulls it from his sheath and lays it across his breast plate. “Stretch forth your hand my son” his voice rumbles. Gabriel lays the hilt in John’s palm. “Unto thee I give my sword.” John tries to pull the sword, but only manages to move it an inch. “Unto thee, I give my honour.”

“No, you’ll be fine.” John shakes his head; his eyes meet Gabriel’s with Vigor. “Walt” he gestures for the doctor to return to tending the wounds, but Gabriel lifts his heavy arm and holds him away.

“John” he whispers. “My fight is done. Guide my men home. Your strength is theirs”. Suddenly, a man cries from the tower “Grunts, grunts in the clearing.” The men suddenly perk up, grabbing their gear, clamouring between the pews. a man climbs up to the window and pears through the stained glass.

“Crikey. There are dozens of em” The man’s voice breaking as he says it.

“Walter” John says with a newfound sternness “Tend the bleeding” Walter rushes in as John leaps to his feet. He points at a young soldier with a crooked helmet, starring at Gabriel with his mouth agape and shouts at him “Help the doctor.” The man shrugs, prompting John to shout even louder “now.” Finally, the man rushes to Gabriel.

“Oh lord, John” the voice echoes from the tower, “John you need to see this.” John pushes between the men and hurries up the ladder.

He squashes through a small hatch and into a room with two thin windows on either side. The watchman wipes his breath from the window repeatedly as he stares at hordes of Grunts pouring from the treeline and into the clearing. John squashes beside him and looks at the ranks of enemy soldiers arranging themselves beyond the graveyard.

“What do we do sir.”

“Go downstairs, hurry.” The soldier squashes through the hatch with John just behind, who stops for a moment when movement through the other window catches his eye. He sees a rank of grunt soldiers forming along the other side, but something else draws his eye. He wipes the window and looks at the treeline. In the depths of the forest, the last gasp of sunset shimmer through the trees and obscured by its shadows, hordes of grunts, hundreds, scurrying about in the treeline. He rushes to the other side and watches across the clearing. He presses his face to the window and pears down the side of the church. He sees it there as well. Shadows shifting in the forest. They’re surrounded, grunts scurrying behind every tree, shuffling in formation across every plain. He hurries down the ladder.

The nave is silent. John looks around at the men. The crowd parts for him to see Walt wiping sweat from his brow, and Gabriel, lying still on the steps of the altar.

“There was nothing I could do” Walt whimpers. John kneels by Gabriel’s side.

“Crikey, have you seen them.” Cries the man looking through the window.

“How many are there,” another asks.

“Hundreds,”

“We should run,” a voice says from behind a pew.

“Yeh, out the back, they’ll be a back entrance,” suggest the chubby man.

“Can’t we hold here?” Another soldier quips.

“We can if we’re stupid” someone bellows from the back.

The room descends into bickering. John looks across Gabriel, his armour glinting in the sullen light as the moon rises through the chancel windows. He clasps the golden hilt of Gabriel’s sword, levering it upright and trying to lift the blade, but his arms give out less than two inches off the ground, and the tip of the sword clacks back into the stone.

“You’re a bloody coward,” someone shouts at man who was already heading for the door.

“You’re bloody thick, is what you are”, the man swings at the other and the rest rush to hold them apart, while others quietly start moving to towards the exit.

“I’m going west, screw this” Some of the others follow him when John stands up and drags the blade across the floor to the precipice of the altar steps. He surveys the chaos. Men squabbling between the pews, others shivering in the corner.

“Men”, he says.

“You want us all to die here you bloody pagan”, a red-faced man shouts while pointing at another.

“My gods are the old you filthy neo.” The man breaks free from the people holding him back and tackles the other to the floor. Half a dozen men are caught in the ruckus and tumble into a heap. John clenches the sword.

“That is enough,” he bellows.

A sudden silence falls over the men. “There is nowhere to go, there is nowhere to run. God forbid, we kill each other, less our enemy has to work for their glory” he looks at them, looking each man in the eyes, one by one as his gaze shuffles across the crowd. “My men… We are men of Alderny, men of Holdmere, men of the old faith and the new. But above all that, we are men of the army, and we will fight like brothers” He scrapes the sword across the floor and raises it over his head, a flurry of sparks scatter across the stone” His arm trembles under the weight, and before long he has to rest on the stone again.

“What are we gonna do against a horde?” the man by the window shouts. John descends the steps.

“If we fight” the crowd parts as he walks between them. “I cannot promise you victory. But fight we must.” The men form a circle around him. “You’ve seen what they do to men of war. Imagine what they’ll do to the women and children of home” he lifts the the sword and points it towards the entrance. “Each minute they spend at this door, our children live. Each one who falls by our sword, will spare one less horror for those we love. Men of the army. My brothers. I know that what I ask is great and weary, but I ask not for myself, or God.” Silence falls over the room. John looks around at his men, all staring intently, bloodied, beaten, cold and muddy. Then Walter, standing at altar unsheathes a dagger and raises it to over his head.

“For home” he shouts. John looks around him.

“For home” another the man shouts and raises his. John raises his and bellows across the nave.

“For home brothers”, prompting the others to raise their swords a chant to erupt across the church.

“For home… For home!”

A distant war interrupts them.

“The pews” he shouts, pile them near the altar and Barricade door.” Everyone scrambles. The men begin dragging the benches in front of the altar. “Stack them, chest height, barricade us in,” John barks as the men hurry around grabbing everything they can and tossing it onto the pile. He notices one boy who isn’t moving. The boy, sat on the cold floor beside his brother with tears drying on his cheeks and his head resting on his brother’s shoulder. John kneels beside him and rests a hand on his arm.

“I can’t sir. I can’t fight” the boy hangs his head.

“My son” John pulls his chin upwards. “Where do you call home?”

“River Cross,” he mumbles.

“Do you have family there?” The boy nods.

“My mum, we left her behind. My mums on her own” the boy chokes on his words and a fresh stream of tears runs down his face. John places a firm hand on his shoulder.

“My boy. You will tell your mum that he died on the steps of the alter, a hero, locking iron with our foe, fearless and brave,” he looks the boy in the eyes with a stern gaze. “And you will tell her that. She’ll hear it from her son.” The boy’s face hardens as he grasps John’s hand. “Right then, up we get.” The boy grabs his sword and hurries behind the barricade. “Everyone, to the altar.”

The men scramble to the steps, clamouring over a pile of pews, candelabras, chairs, bookshelves, and tables. They stand behind the barricade, swords in hand, poised towards the door. In the darkness, and the cold bite of the air, silence blankets the church. Not a whisper, not peep. In the hushed calm of the deep dark night, the men of the army stand ready to fight.

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