Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own, and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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Stephan had observed the battle from a position of relative safety, deep behind the archer's lines. From here he had had a commanding view of the entire spectacle playing out its gruesome course below him. The old man's dark eyes had watched without comment, his voluminous, heavy blue robe fluttering wildly in the strong wind, barely keeping out the cold. Surrounded by many of his curious citizens, though his wife Anna was not amongst them. Bennett's thin lad Nathan huddled a few feet in front of him, knees drawn up under his chin, shivering, ever pulling his over sized and threadbare navy shirt tighter around his narrow, bony shoulders. His bright haunted, green eyes never leaving the spectacle of the battle below.
Stephan was awed at the cunning and brazen attack, hardly daring to believe his eyes when Bennett's warriors erupted from their cover making their charge. The majority of the mercenaries wearing little more than a weapons belt, trousers and boots, bearing their assortment of sharp edged weapons, looking more like a pack of savages than an organized fighting force. Yet they challenged and harried the remaining knights, oblivious to their own peril, fighting viciously, employing every low and dishonorable means at their disposal to aid in their victory.
The battle had raged for the best part of two hours, the elderly man caught in its bloody thrall, no longer noticing the biting wind. In the closing stages it was apparent to him that he had won the day, however Stephan failed to feel any sense of elation. This bloody encounter only serving to remind him of the stupidity of war and its waste. Wishing instead that the sacrificed, noble beasts could pull his plow to till the soil, and the fallen soldiers could live in a world without conflict, knowing the warmth and love of a family and a home. Tears brimming in the kindly man's eyes he turned away, wishing to see no more. The burden of lives senselessly lost weighing heavily on his bowed shoulders.
*****
Bennett made his way back toward his triumphant force. Weary and sore, his back red raw and weeping, his left arm beginning to seriously ache. Still pressing the wound to his throat to stem the steady flow of blood. Though he was careful not to let the others know of his pain or near exhaustion.
Already his rabble of dirty, unkempt men were gainfully engaged in looting the corpses, showing little respect or mercy for the injured left behind by their fleeing companions. His orders had been clear, take no prisoners and show no mercy. Either side would have done the same. He spied the heavily tattooed Gareth, casually resting the head of his large axe on his brawny shoulder, gore still dripping from its notched blade. The middle aged, scarred warrior absently running his stubby, filthy fingers through his close cropped dark brown hair, taking in the sights.
Aran was nearby also, constantly pushing his golden mane of unbound hair from his face. Diligently working on stripping a corpse, his once white shirt soaked in crimson, hanging in shreds off his broad back. His razor sharp dagger making short work of relieving the man's lifeless fingers of his many stubborn gold and ruby rings.
