[ WP ] Make me sympathise with someone who 's murdered their own brother

# # # # # # [ ] ( # dropcap ) 
 
 The battle had dissolved into one seemingly endless melee, the ranks of both knight and commoner shoved together in a struggle of life and death, of fluttering banners and clashing steel, of dying men and beasts. Dinosaurs towered above the men and of horses, their scaly or feathered hides like bulwarks, their flanks peppered with arrows and crossbow bolts. Morions and halberds reared above, the three ton beasts trained to smash their way through the press of men whilst nosehorns such as the dangerous *Triceratops* carried wicker howdahs with archers, great lengths of padded armor and mail covering their massive sides. There was no planning, no strategy to the bloodshed. Each and every man fought for himself and for the man next to him, many fighting or dying by complete strangers; the organized companies and retinues had long dissolved in the chaos and instead groups of soldiers clustered around the banners of the nobles and of the captains, islands of refuge in a sea of madness and death. 
 
 Above one of those great schiltrons flew a rampant *Deinonychus* in gold on a black field. And underneath the tightest cluster of banners stood a man wearing the same colors, an iron crown on the brow of his battered helm. He wore both bevor and visor, reducing his view of the chaotic scene to but a narrow slit. In his hands were a tired blade and shield, its leather covered face decorated with his heraldry. His brigandine was covered with scrapes and scratches, the snapped of length of crossbow hanging its hole in the leather surface. The small metal plates had done their duty in stopping the missile, turning a lethal shot into a merely heavy bruise. He was a mercenary captain, a proven leader of both man and beast, and a warrior without equal. Montador Samuel Hitch, the Black Captain. 
 
 An enemy knight wearing red and white charged towards him, shouting the name of his house and of his allegiance. In his hands was a poleaxe, the five foot long weapon held high overhead. 
 
 `` Aveluy!'' He shouted, slamming a lightly armored longbowman aside, lurching on the bloodsoaked mud. 
 
 `` Iron, Cold Iron!'' Came the reply, the iron-crowned sellsword surging ahead with his chosen men-at-arms. A score of armored warriors formed a wedge, the bodies of enemy spearmen crashing against their shields like waves on a cliff. Swords stabbed at underarms and at joints in the enemy's armor whilst maces smashed plate and bone. 
 
 `` Iron is master of men all!'' 
 
 The red and white knight swung his polearm at Mor Samuel Hitch's head, but the veteran mercenary caught the armor piercing spike with a swipe of his shield. The deadly spike punched through the thick leather and wood, a half inch sticking out the back. Hitch swore and swung his shield to the side still with the poleaxe embedded in it, opening up his foe guard. In one blinding strike Hitch shoved the his blade at his foe's underarm, the narrow point puncturing the layer of mail and padding and slicing into his artery. The man groaned and fell, blood gushing from the wound as he dropped his weapon to clamp his hand over it. Hitch slammed his armored foot onto the man's chest and dented the thick plate as he used the dying man as a vantage point over the heads of the nearby soldiers. 
 
 `` Hitch!'' Came the cry, somehow rising above the din of metal on metal and screaming men and beast. `` Hitch! You son of a whore! Fight! Fight me!'' 
 
 Samuel Hitch turned his head, the narrow view slit forcing him to turn his whole torso and spied a small clump of men advancing through the melee, shoving their way forward with shield and sword. An older squire bore a small banner depicting silver dolphin a blue field and instantly Hitch's eyes narrowed. It was a emblem he knew well, having grown underneath it for the better part of his youth. The shouting man wore the golden spurs of a knight, his visor open to reveal a handsome face nearly the same as Hitch's, only younger and more cruel, and without the scars that the the latter earned on a score of battlefields. 
 
 Mor Edwin Hitch, second born son of Baron Robert of Gosport snarled venom at his older sibling, leveling his blade at his bastard brother. 
 
 `` Usurper!'' The younger brother shouted, bashing aside a enemy sergeant with his shield. 
 
 `` Fay take you, Edwin!'' Samuel Hitch said, raising his visor as his half-brother neared. He had learned that his legitimate brother had been in the enemy host but he expected him to be in rearguard on the left flank of the battle. It certainly was n't by chance that his brother found him. 
 
 `` You searched for me?'' He asked. 
 
 His brother Edwin got within ten paces and nodded, the battle nearest around them halting as both sides paused to watch. 
 
 `` My father's been reaching news of your triumphs, been making noise of legitimatizing you. I ca n't have that.'' 
 
 Hitch shook his head within his helm, silently cursing his younger brother. 
 
 `` Creators, Ed. I do n't want the barony. Tell *our* father that,'' he glanced about at the expectant crowd of soldiers and frowned. `` Alright, no one told you to stop fighting!'' 
 
 `` I'm gon na kill you, Sam. Has to be done. `` 
 
 `` Go fuck yourself, Ed. You were always a stupid piece of shit.'' With that he lowered his visor and raised his shield and sword, waiting for his younger half-brother to make the first move. When they'd write stories of this day, they sha n't say he struck first, only that he struck last.'' 
 

