Clad in well-worn plate and mail, Malt stood in the middle of the silent field. In one hand he held a targe and in the other, a blood caked broadsword.

He stared in awe at the landscape before him.

The ground consisted of well trodden mud, any semblance of grass had long since been trampled or burned. Various forms of debris were scattered haphazardly in every which way. Crudely made wooden fortifications, now reduced to piles of rubble; once proud ramparts now in ruin; weapons of all shapes and sizes; and of course, the corpses.

Sprawled unceremoniously in every direction were uncountable corpses, enveloped in various armors and still clutching their weapons. Some lay nearly submerged in large muddy puddles, some impaled on timber pikes, some sat against partially destroyed walls, their spilled innards laying on their laps.

The smell of rot was beginning to drift about the air. Flocks of crows were beginning to gather, drawn by the stench of carrion. Their caws were the only sounds to be heard, beside the occasional groan of pain from the many injured at death’s door. 

Malt looked at the scene, so far removed from the life that his friends were probably experiencing. 

He wondered what could’ve been if he instead had been chosen as a hero. 

A life of luxury instead of filth, filled with adventures instead of campaigns. Where he could’ve walked the streets of the capital laden with embellished armor instead of wandering the battlefield wearing muddy mail. He quickly pushed the thoughts from his mind, he couldn’t let his guard down. The enemy could order a cavalry charge at any moment and he would most definitely be skewered.

A pained groan sounded near his feet. Looking down, he could see a man-at-arms obviously on the brink of death. He was mumbling incomprehensibly, crawling towards what was presumably the enemy camp. Malt examined his red cuirass, which had a horizontal slash running down where his shoulder blade would’ve been.

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His right arm was nearly ripped off, blood gushing from the tear. Malt thought to himself while inspecting the damage.

Caught a cavalry lance to the shoulder huh? Poor bastard... 

He walked to the man, crouching so that they could make eye contact.

“Good day sir. Can you walk?” Malt asked, knowing full well that his chances of living were nonexistent. Even if he could get him to the head healer back at camp, the best she could do was close his wounds. The man had already lost too much strength. It wouldn’t have been possible even if the healer could mend him.

He was on the other side, making him an “enemy.” Malt’s features twisted in disgust. There are no enemies in this war. These are just  peasants commanded by their lords to fight for a cause they don’t give a shit about.

The man opened and closed his mouth, attempting to utter comprehensible words, but nothing came out.

Malt sighed, pointing the tip of his blade to the base of the soldier’s neck. Putting his other hand on the sword’s pommel, he shifted his weight onto the weapon.

The tip showed a little resistance before piercing his skin, slipping through his flesh and severing the throat underneath.

The man gurgled and choked as blood gushed from the puncture, forming a puddle in the mud.

He died shortly after.

Malt didn’t feel any strong emotional reaction from this act. There was no feeling of filthiness, no taste of vomit in his mouth like the first time he killed. These were just orders after all.

He flicked the newly spilled blood from his blade, wiping the rest off with a dirty rag before slipping it back into its sheath.

He finished his business and walked back to camp, treading over remains, friendly and enemy alike. Concepts like honor didn’t matter to him at the moment. The only thing he was thinking about was getting some gruel at the mess hall then collapsing into his tent.

He would most likely do the same thing tomorrow, and the day after that anyway.