A Warriors Tale Chapter One - Hearts Dusk In the deep of the still cool night I lay me down to sleep, and resting my head upon my pillow I close my eyes and into a deep slumber I fall. My consciousness plunges through the veil and on the other side my eyes snap open and I awake... Gently the brilliantly green grass and golden fields of grain sway in the cool noontide breeze. My heart feeling warm and light in my chest, I gaze longingly upon the many-colored flowers and growing things gracing the hills and valleys of this, my long beloved home. I cast my eyes toward my right and see, sitting atop the wide-brimmed peak of the tallest hill a collection of huts and hovels. All made of the grasses of the fields and what little wood our environment makes available to us. And joyfully my eyes see the little hovel which is my own. In the distance, from this vantage I can see my sweet young wife and our three little children tilling the garden. The littlest babe waddling along, chasing after the fresh-hatched chicks and the smile of mirthful giggles can be seen on his angelic face even from so great a distance, for my eyes are sharp and far-seeing. Briefly my eyes gaze on my woman, her flowing darkly flaxen hair pouring over her sharp and lovely exposed shoulders. Her gardening gown conforms wonderfully to her fertile figure. She is the mother of my two sons and my daughter, truly a fit treasure for any man. For a long I while I stand gazing upon her beauty and am reminded of the day we were wed together. As is the custom of our people, it was the wise-woman who paired us together, me and my lovely Ezriana. Already, even back then when I was a boy of only twelve years and hardly fit to wield a sword, I was recognized as a fierce and strong warrior. The people praised my intelligence and ingenuity in battle-play. Traits the tribe would want to promote for future generations. Ezriana, the daughter of a long line of fruitful and beautiful ladies, likewise possessed of exceptional intelligence and vigor. The wise-woman decreed that our mating would produce superior children and make the tribe strong. The ceremony itself had been on a sunny spring morning, the air thick with the scent of honeysuckle and lilac. Under the scintillating golden sun we were bound together in sacred matrimony before the whole of the village. The wise-woman spoke the ritual words over us, blessing my manhood and Ezrianas womanhood. Blessing our union and invoking for us life-long joy and happiness in each others arms, and the wonder of raising many children. At the conclusion she commanded and we obeyed, thusly we shared our first kiss. And it was in that moment, when our lips first met in the sweetest and most beautiful experience I had ever yet had, that I knew I would grow to love this girl, who would always be my woman. And so it was, as the years wore on, our love for each other blossomed and grew. And she bore our three children, for the future of the tribe. The sensation of something heavily weighing upon my belt draws my attention back to the here and now. Looking down to my side I see my sword, two and a half feet of gleaming steel, among the finest blades in the known world. It was a trophy blood-bought on the fields of battle, taken from a worthy foe by my own hand. The duel had been long and ruthless, to this day I still carry the scars of that fight, though it was many and more years ago. There is no other sword like it among all my people, whose swords are of bronze rather than fine moonsteel. Gradually, to my left and away from the village I feel a growing rumble of thunder on this clear and cloudless day. Puzzled I look toward the far horizon and my eyes discern afar off the thudding hooves of many horses, and upon their backs, men. Armored men baring swords and spears. Turning back toward the village and bursting into a fierce run I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “Kiziir! The Kiziir are coming!” The men and the women look up and toward me at my call. Hearing my words the men snatch up their swords and the women, grabbing up daggers and spears, hurry the children into the huts. My heart thuds loudly against my chest as my legs pump fiercely toward the village. Strength in numbers. The lone warrior dies, the one with comrades-in-arms lives to return home to his wife. A smile creeps across my face as my wife emerges from our little hovel, my shield and armor in her hands. I plow to a stop in front of her and swiftly she aids me in putting my armor on. My boiled-leather vest with thin bronze scales sewn to it, and my thick gauntlets of similar make. Finally my steel half-helm and my fathers bronze shield. Fully geared for blood and war I face my wife, “I go now, my wife, to fight our enemy.” And, her eyes and thin lips grim, she responds coolly, “Return, my husband, dripping with their blood.” Briefly we share a departing kiss, and then I turn away, racing toward our line of defense. I form up in a three-line formation with the other men and older boys of the village, there are barely two hundred of us altogether, and I counted at least twice as many Kiziiri. Each man stands an arms length from the man to either side of him and behind him. As the hated Kiziir horsemen charge toward us, their horses kicking up billowing clouds of dark dust, we let loose the ancient battle chant of our tribe, “Mah-hroudkri! Mah-hroudkri!” The Dead cannot die! Like a fiercely thundering storm we shout and rage our battle cry as the enemy pours over us, their spears clashing upon sword and shield. As the first line of Kiziiri horsemen fall upon us I pick out the one I shall kill first, a small scrawny youth inexpertly wielding his spear. An unworthy foe, though foolishly he charges my way thinking himself more than he is. Damnable pride in the Kiziiri youth! In disgust I spit upon the ground before me and, with a deft feint to the right I circle around the fool and thrust the point of my sword into his side, feel it plunge deeply between his ribs, even while his horse remains at full gallop. In the same motion of thrusting the sword into him, I pull it back out, thickly dripping with fresh blood, and with a grim smile hear the gurgling sounds of death from the stupid boys mouth. He will not live to weaken his tribe! To my back I sense the approaching onslaught of another foe, swirling around I swing my sword around in a wide arc, cutting the horses leg out from under it. The blade cuts through sinew and bone, severing the beasts limb at the joint. With a frightened and pained cry the creature tumbles forward, twirling end over end before coming to a violently sudden stop. The man riding the beast had managed to just barely slip off, rolling to one side with a white-knuckled grip on his spear. Quickly I leap upon him and shouting “Mah-hroudkri!” I fall on him, holding my sword in both hands with the sharp point aimed downward. The moonsteel sinks deeply into the mans chest, cutting through sternum and heart with ease. Blood spouts from the wound and from my enemys mouth and I pull the blade out and swing it back around, parting his head from his body. In the brief calm between foes I hear the clang of blade on shield, the cries of the dead and the wailing of the dying. I see my comrades fall never to rise again. Too many of them fall, too many of the hated Kiziir are storming our little village. There are too few of us to defend our homes, our wives, and our children. Almost a deep agony seizes my heart, yet before it becomes despair I turn it into something else, it becomes rage. It becomes hate. My eyes bulge with righteous fury and the thick cords of my muscles bulge and grow tense. “Mah-hroudkri! Mah-hroudkri!” I shout over and over, the blood-curdling cry striking fear in the hearts of these thrice-accursed Kiziiri cowards! My sword sings in the wind its song of death and dismay, and blood flies and pours onto the ground. I find myself surrounded by many armored Kiziiri. None of these are inexperienced youths. The set of their feet, the way they hold their spears and swords. These are men hardened on the fields of many battles, with many kills to their credit. Some even wear the trophies of their victories. I will not know victory this day. But the dead cannot die and so I charge into the midst of them, death on my lips and blood in my heart. One man falls under my blade. Then a second. A third. Mad blood-lust has seized me, gladly will the god of war receive me into his Hall! But then, at a fateful moment, my foot slips in a pool of my enemys blood and I fall to the ground. Kiziiri fiends pile on top of me. They bind my hands and wrists with thick hempen cords. Ignoring my enraged protests they toss me into the back of a wagon. And they make me watch as they go from hut to hut, from hovel to hovel, and drag the women out screaming and fighting. They make me watch as they drag the crying children out. And as they keep my eyes fixed on the field before me, they make me watch as they cut down every last woman and child. And when all is said and done, I know that I am the last of my people. Their greatest warrior, entrusted and dedicated to their protection even if at the cost of my own life, and here I lay bound. Helpless as they die. And then they come to my wife and my children, and as I watch the spears pierce their innocent flesh I feel within me a great tearing, my heart wrenches and breaks. The dead cannot die. https://fictionpress/s/3201543/1/A-Warrior-s-Tale
Posted on: Thu, 05 Jun 2014 21:19:06 +0000
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