A man sits on a rock looking over a dead battlefield. The battle was yesterday and since then everyone injured has died or are so close as to make little difference. The battlefield is silent save for the screeching of crows. There are no plants anymore, no grass or trees, only dirt and bodies, and weapons. The man has weapons too. He has a sword and a shield and a long spear. On his shield is a painting of a brown boar’s head. That is his symbol, a symbol he chose for himself when he joined Wyrous’ army, hoping to make a name for himself. All of the other soldiers in his company have died in the battle. He can see some of their bodies now, hidden under the screeching crows.
A crow lands on the rock next to him and looks up at him with its beady eyes. He looks down at it and watches it hop around. It is probably wondering if he is still alive, or if he is just another corpse ready to be feasted on. He shoos the crow away and it squawks as it leaves him. He goes back to watching the battlefield.
There are voices. Soft voices, kept low, off in the distance. The man on the rock looks for them and sees shapes moving through the battlefield. They are men, other soldiers, each carrying shields and spears just like him. They all carry the same ones though, they all wear the same uniform. Shields of red with the golden flower in the middle. Armour and spears all crafted in the same armouries by the same blacksmiths. They are Caragar men, he wonders if they will take kindly to finding a soldier of Wyrous.
He watches them as they search the battlefield, turning over bodies and inspecting faces. They don’t look up very much, just down at the carnage and death spilled all over the ground. There are three of them. An old man with long grey hair and hard eyes who looks like he has seen many battles. A young man with hair as golden as the flower on his shield and a skinny body and arms, he looks worried and sick as they investigate corpses. The last man is a tall man with black hair and strong arms, he looks down at the corpses with contempt and loathing.
It is the tall man who spots the man on the rock first. He points him out to his friends and they whisper together. The man watches them. They finish their whispering and approach, picking their way carefully through the dead. The tall man comes first, followed by the old man, with the young man trailing behind trying desperately to stay as far from any corpses as he can.
They reach the man on the rock.
“Morning,” the tall man says. Seated on the rock the man is almost at the same height as him. He nods.
“You one of Wyrous’ men?” the tall man asks.
“I was,” the man replies.
“Seems you lost,” the tall man says.
The man on the rock looks around at all the death and destruction around him. Somewhere a crow screeches.
“Everyone loses in war,” he says. “Save those who enjoy death and violence.”
The tall man nods.
“Wise words,” the old man said, looking up at him. “Are you a knight? What’s your name?”
The man looked down at his shield. With its symbol on it it did look rather like a proper knight’s shield. “There aren’t many knights in Wyrous’ lands. At least none as young as me.”
The old man nodded. “Shame that.”
“My name is Craegan, Craegan of Mullindore.”
“Never heard of it,” the old man said.
“You wouldn’t have,” Craegan replied. “It’s a small village on a hill. There are no knights there.”
“I suppose not, I suppose not,” the old man muttered. “We were working for a knight, Akaron of Carahall. Seems he’s run off now though. We’re trying to find his body, give him a proper burial.
The man nodded. He’d heard of Akaron.
“I’m Gara by the way,” the old man continued. “This here’s Asaril, Akaron’s brother, and Solin, our charm for good luck,” he said pointing to the tall man and the young man respectively.
Asaril nodded at his introduction. “I’m sure you have family and friends back at your Mullindore but you are still an enemy soldier. I think the only reasonable thing to do is to take you prisoner or kill you.”
Craegan shrugged. “Mullindore was raised when Wyrous invaded. There is nothing left there now save empty houses burnt out long ago.” The soldiers went quiet at that, so he continued. “They came in the middle of a feast three years ago. It was the midwinter festival and they were serving all the winter mushrooms and berries and vegetables. And right in the middle of it was a huge boar that old Rulder had managed to hunt down in the forest just the day before. Then the soldiers came and started killing and burning. They came to the table and I grabbed the boar’s head and hit one of them with it, it killed him. Then they overpowered me but their leader wouldn’t let them kill me, after seeing how strong I was they instead decided to make me fight for them. So I did. I fought in all their wars and battles and bled and killed for them. But then they lost and ran away, and I stayed behind.”
The men all listened to his story and said nothing. When he finished they still said nothing until eventually Solin broke the silence. “Did you really kill a man with a boar’s head?”
Craegan nodded sadly. “It was very heavy, heavy enough to kill a man.”
Solin seemed to lean backward a bit, away from Craegan.
Asaril spoke next. “So you have no love for Wyrous?”
“Few of his men have much love for Wyrous. They only follow him because he gives them victory after victory. I think less of them will follow him now.”
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“Come with us,” Gara said. “Help us look for Akaron and then you can come back to Caragar, see something other than violence and bloodshed for a while.”
Craegan smiled. “That would be nice,” he said.
Asaril looked wary. “Give me your weapons,” he said. “Best to take no chances.”
“Of course,” Craegan said, handing over his spear. He drew his sword and handed that over as well. They all looked around, there were weapons everywhere.
Asaril noticed this as well. “Stay close to me, if you do anything I don’t like I’ll kill you.”
Craegan nodded. “May I keep my shield, I had it painted especially.”
“You can keep the shield.”
Craegan hopped down off the rock and followed Asaril as he turned away. Gara fell in behind them and began talking and talking. There was a lot he wanted to say about Caragar. Craegan listened. He liked listening.
They searched all day through the mud and the crows. The cold winter morning slowly grew warmer and warmer until the flies began to gather. They swatted them aside and continued their search. Walking across the ruined plain looking at all the corpses. It had been a huge battle. The last stand of Wyrous against the combined might of three kingdoms. Gara claimed that Caragar had fielded forty thousand soldiers although Craegan had seen the armies before the battle and didn’t think there had been forty thousand in the whole battle. Akaron had fought on the south side of the battle near the river and while the river was slow and shallow Solin feared he might have been washed away. Asaril claimed he was wearing too much armour for that. They splashed in and out of the bloody river, cold blood and colder water soaking their clothes. All the while they found no sign of Akaron, maybe he had deserted after all.
The sun set and they made camp, setting up small tents and lighting a fire. There wasn’t much wood but Gara found enough bows and arrows lying around to get one going. They sat around the fire and Solin made stew as the night closed in around them.
“Sorry there’s no boar,” Solin said and smiled. “Only turnips I’m afraid.”
Gara chuckled but Craegan didn’t. He just stared into the fire. “I lied about the boar,” he said. “I didn’t kill anyone with a boar’s head.”
Asaril looked at him with suspicion, the other two looked surprised.
“I told you that so you wouldn’t think I was a loyal soldier of Wyrous’ and kill me. Mullindore wasn’t actually burned.”
“So how did you become a soldier?” Gara asked, looking at him curiously.
“I was chosen because I was strong, like I told you. Just not for being strong enough to kill a man with a boar’s head. The army came around to Mullindore and picked out the strongest of us to join and so I went. I had no particular hatred for Wyrous until he made me fight and kill.”
“Do you hate him now?” Asaril asked.
“So why the boar’s head?” asked Solin at the same time.
Craegan nodded to Asaril. “I watched all the other soldiers die. Where you found me was where my group was slaughtered. I could name almost every man on the ground there. Wyrous took me from my home and put me here, in this wasteland,” he gestured across the battlefield. “I hate Wyrous.”
Asaril nodded, seemingly satisfied.
Solin wasn’t. “And the boar’s head?”
Craegan shrugged. “It was just the shield I was given. Probably belonged to some dead soldier who liked boar’s heads.”
Solin seemed a bit disappointed. “Maybe he killed someone with one.” He went back to cooking his stew.
“Well boar’s head or not you’re one of us now,” Gara said happily. “You don’t spend hours looking at corpses in the mud with any old strangers. Besides, we’re all soldiers. We all been through hell and we all come out the other side. I say we should have a drink some day to celebrate. I’ll have to take you all down to the Red Mountain Inn.”
Craegan knew a lot about the Red Mountain Inn. It featured heavily in many of Gara’s stories.
Solin finished the stew and doled it out into bowls. It was no boar meat but it was something and better than the feeble rations they’d been scraping by on all day. Asaril took first watch and the others crawled into their tent. Gara and Solin had to share a tent and Asaril had one all by himself which left Craegan to sleep under the stars. They didn’t bother tying him up, he didn’t really think they cared if he ran away.
He lay there, watching the sky.
“It’s a good shield,” Asaril said, sitting on a rock looking off at the battlefield. “Strong, heavy. And well painted for a commoner.”
Craegan shrugged and sat up. “Some other men couldn’t lift it with one arm. Suppose that’s why they gave it to me.”
“You do look fairly strong. What was it you did before they made you join the army.”
“I was a farmer,” he lied. The lies were coming easier now. “We farmed sheep and you needed to be strong to shear them.”
Asaril nodded, he was a knight, he knew nothing about farming. “So you came from this town, Mullindore?”
“Yes,” Craegan replied. “A small town on a hill, that part was true.” It wasn’t.
“Nice place this town?”
“I suppose,” he said and stood up to stretch, Asaril was still looking away. “I wasn’t there much, mostly out on the farm.”
“Your family still there are they?”
“I think so. I haven’t been back since I left, always more battles to fight.” He stretched back down and picked up a heavy rock. Lifting it back up and feeling his muscles strain, they were still sore from the battle yesterday.
Asaril sounded thoughtful. “How long was it since you left? Three years?”
“Something like that,” Craegan replied, holding the rock in one hand.
“Because our intelligence claims that Wyrous didn’t start recruiting till six months ago.” He started to turn around. “So unless our intelligence is-”
Craegan dashed across the ground, bringing the stone with him right into the side of Asaril’s turning face. There was a crack, there was blood and the stone fell to the ground somewhere. Asaril collapsed with a thump. Craegan looked down at him and then rolled him over to extract his sword.
Asaril wheezed as he maneuvered the scabbard out from under him. “Why...?” he whispered through his broken jaw.
Craegan drew the sword and looked down at him curiously.
“Why...,” he wheezed again. “You’ve... already... lost...”
Craegan smiled and this smile wasn’t a lie. “No I haven’t,” he said shaking his head.
“But...”
“But only those who enjoy death and violence win in war? Yes, I suppose they do.”
He left the knight to die on the ground and went to the tent of Gara and Solin. By now they’d be asleep, they’d had a long, tiring day. He opened the tent and there they were, lying in their bedrolls beside each other. He stabbed Gara in the leg and his scream woke Solin who tried to scrabble to freedom. The tent fell down and Craegan stepped out of it. Solin rolled frantically trying to escape. Blood soaked through from the inside as Craegan watched.
“I lied about the boar’s head Solin,” he said. “I did choose it, you know why?”
“What have you done? What is happening?” Solin cried desperately, still hopelessly entangled in the tent with the screaming Gara.
“Because in my culture the boar’s head is the symbol for death.” He ran his sword through the mess of the tent and the struggling stopped. The screaming didn’t though.
He walked away, picking up his shield and his pack. He found a sword and spear from corpses and wandered off into the distance. The three soldiers of Caragar dying painfully behind him.