There is much to be learned in battle. Cowards see only blood and pain, blinded by their own fear. Wisemen see something primitive and evil, thinking themselves somehow above it. Too knowledgeable or too old. Maybe just too scared that it will find them now that they cannot defend themselves. I prefer to see the brilliance that it draws from people. Men do great things when lives are at stake. They are finally forced to confront the meaning of their own lives. To choose whether or not to take it into their own hands. Meaning found over decades of meditation can be found in just a few seconds of battle. Souls discovered. Just as many lives gained as lost.
I have not yet admitted it to myself until now, but my zeal for the defense of this town comes from a deeply personal pain. As I lead the posse of thirteen brave townsmen from Kitford’s charred gate, I realize how much the town reminds me of the ember that was once my home. Now the burial ground of my family and friends.
I fought against the glorified rapists and thieves that ravaged it then, and I now help these people do the same. I don’t think I could have lived with myself had I not stood and fought. The men around me don’t realize it yet, but I am saving their souls. Their pride. Their self respect. Those who return to their homes will realize how lucky they are to have homes at all. How lucky they are to have their own lives. How they are free and safe, and that luck had no part in it. They will have rid the danger from their world with their own two hands, and they will respect themselves for it.
I pat Cog’s rough, oily mane and let his thick hair trail through my fingers. Life is so much more beautiful for all the death in the world. The death which I am strong enough to deal and to thwart. It feels good to be a hero. To be doing the right thing. The midnight air is brisk against my exposed hands, but I don’t feel as though I’ll ever experience the cold again. Too much life running through my veins.
We left not half an hour after my rallying speech to make sure that we catch the kidnappers before their trail becomes too weak. Or is swept away by a phantom gale so frequent in this part of The North. There are farmers, carvers, a stone mason, and a butcher sitting among the militiamen. None here are fine warriors, but it doesn’t concern me. As far as I am concerned, most of them are good, moral men, and that is all the gods require. I have no doubt that while some of them will lose their lives in the glorious combat that is sure to ensue, victory will be bestowed upon us and salvation granted to the kidnapped.
Long ago, sitting cross-legged beneath the titanic trunk of a fallen Godsbough with the original bearer of Cog’s name and my truest companion, I came to a conclusion about evil. Every evil is derived from a form of thievery, I told my friend. To rob is to steal one’s possessions, to hurt is to steal one’s joy, to enslave is to steal one’s freedom, and to kill is to steal one’s life. Once one has committed an evil his life, freedom, joy and property is forfeit. To take from an evil man is not evil at all but justice. The Centrum would be a better place if more men realized that dealing justice is just as gratifying as dealing evil, and that they could just as easily kill for good. A shame that strong men go to waste.
A near full moon smiles down upon our party as we approach the Kyveli highlands, and I can’t help but smile back as my first recruit guides his mare up the line to fall in directly behind me. I did not see him fight, but I do mark the blood he wears proudly on his coat and sword. It is no secret that he is shaken, but he wears that too without shame. I’m sure he does his best to hide this fear, but I respect his ability to resist it most of all. I wait for a minute for him to ride abreast, but he does not have the courage, it seems. I don’t think less of him for it. The young often need to be pushed towards greatness.
I tug lightly on Cog’s reigns, falling back a few paces to ride eye to eye with the boy. He watches me keenly as we fall into step, not registering until the last moment that I intend to talk to him. His jaw shakes, not sure whether to speak or what to say. I alleviate the pressure.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“What’s your name, soldier?” I settle into a casual, good-natured tone.
“Malthen, sir.” He replies, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. He trails off as he speaks the second word, not sure how to address me.
“Friend is alright,” I smile and nudge his horse with my right boot. He tenses as his horse yaws to the right. Doesn’t look like he’s ever ridden before. Too poor most likely. Even in the poor state of my home, I got my first horse at thirteen.
“Not from ‘round here, are ye?” He begins to formulate an answer. “Much too good a fighter!” I laugh heartily, only partially in jest, and a few in the column behind join in. I resist the urge to prod him again.
“No, mistre I’m from down south.” My eyes plead clarification. “The People’s Empire. Eychershire.”
“Ah, so you know of robbery then. Kidnapping!” I chortle amusedly to myself, surprised when only the oldest of the men join. The ways of the People’s Empire are devious. Bureaucratic and deceitful to the point of blatant thievery. The People’s Government takes as it wants, providing the farmers from which they steal with only a small portion of what they produce, only when and where they want. It’s a miracle any man chooses to live there. Weak minded all. Any man with a spine would stand up for what was his. I spit phlegm and residual blood into the russet dirt over which our fourteen horses tread. Not wanting to sour the mood on this perfect night, I change the subject.
“What’s it mean?” The boy peers sidewise, still unused to being addressed by someone such as myself. “Malthen.” His eyes brighten. Few men still find joy in their own names at nineteen or twenty years.
“It means golden...friend. Like Eychershire’s spires. Like,” he pauses to gaze towards the east, where the sun will rise in a few hours time. “Like the anaera groves in the sunrise. Took it myself when I left my...” his eyes flash a darker tone in the moonlight, remembering some unpleasant memory. “Childhood home.”
“I think it’s beautiful.” Gillan interjects as I am about to say something about glory and gold. He rides up from the stern where he has been keeping the captain company, leveling out three abreast on the narrowing road. I don’t see much in the man. Not much to like. Lively in an almost effeminate way, just past his prime, but willing to stand in my way as I try to save these people. I think he’s just afraid to meet the raiders again. Didn’t see him much during the street skirmish, just that he sent some arrows at the gate before the real fight started. Not much of a man, I expect.
“I think it’s regal.” I speak more forcefully than the ranger, shifting the boy’s attention back to myself. “Let me tell ya, Malthen. The first sunrise you see after your first battle.” I lean closer to him, lowering my voice without losing intensity. “Yer first kill!” I draw back. “Is the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see!”
The boy looks away. Towards Gillan and then into the wayside shadows. Why can’t he look me in the eye? Did he not make a kill as I had expected? Is it shame that he can show Gillan and not me? I jab Cog lightly in the chest with my outside heel, prompting an old trick we’ve practiced since his name was Solar. He shakes his mane and prances as though he has stepped on a sharp cobble or seen a snake. The adjacent horses whinny and turn, looking for the threat. I see then, as Malthen’s mare turns into the light that it was a tear that he was hiding. Why should he cry? The day I killed my first man, I slept with a lighter heart than ever I had before. I expected too much of the kid, I guess. But I am still confident that I can fix whatever weakness plagues him. Perhaps the coming battle will wipe it out for me.
I catch Gillan’s eye as he reigns in his prancing horse. He holds my gaze far past the point of comfort, but I do not look away. I have held steady against far larger foes. I do not want to hurt this man, but I will not let him get in my way either. Nor will I let him keep me from saving the soul of the boy who sits between us, holding tight to his restive mare.
Gillan shifts his gaze to the moon, relaxing his face as Selune’s light washes over him. It irritates me that he does not look defeated. He broke the challenging gaze. He looked away. He lost! But for some reason he looks proud as he enjoys the beauty of something he cannot possibly understand. He does not deserve to bathe in Selune’s divine radiance. Perhaps I will teach him a lesson in the battle to come. He wears no armor after all, and his aging bones would splinter easily with a single strike. Selune’s virtue and glory will be upheld.