Daniel Klein

A saunter across the plains of north Histeria is taken part in by a single exhausted warrior. His strength, which was once comparable to a lion, appeared diminished. His muscles were the product of a life thoroughly exercised. When he was fresh, he was capable of taking on the world. The time when no man dared to question his capability had passed with the end of his final battle.

Only a few hours ago, twenty men stood behind him in the thrall of combat. In a way, they were all still there, watching over his survival. The spirits remained intact despite their broken bodies lying miles away. From the crow’s eye, the battle possessed no clear winner. Both sides departed the engagement in the direction they had come. Banners of red and blue did not mix to form purple, but, rather, to spill blood. The initial charge did break the line of the Reigardians, but was not enough to push them back thoroughly. An all-out melee ensued. Soldiers swung wildly in the hope that somehow they would touch their foes. All training and discipline were forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Eventually, the Reigard King’s speech rang throughout the field. The chaos was rectified, and order was briefly reestablished. This period allowed for the line to be reformed. The tactical advantage made disengagement a necessity for the Hartlanders. The initial assault had failed to break the morale of their enemies and a melee to the death was too risky an option for either side. The only option for the Hartlanders to strike a decisive win was to find their foes somewhere else and to try the strategy of brute force again. While the nobles and the other levies had the privilege of retreat, the Reigardian vanguard had no such option. The unit’s men were almost entirely depleted. The only way our sauntering warrior had survived was through being knocked unconscious and being taken for dead.

The metal armor worn by the warrior was once completely bronze in color. Its virgin purity was now stained a deep red. In contrast, there was little color present in an otherwise lifeless soul. Not even the blood of others could give life to the soldier’s partially revealed face. The eyes visible through the slit looked utterly lifeless. He had learned the expression well from the enemies he fought today. This would be apparent if the warrior was willing to remove his helmet. The movement was carried on only by his horse. Should the horse stop, there was little hope of the warrior spurring him on again.

Some would say the battle was a success for the Reigardians, but a man who doesn’t know where he rides to has compromised all value in victory. Eventually, the warrior landed himself in a village. There were only a few buildings along the road. All seemed so cold except for the tavern. The smoke billowing from the chimney of the two-storied wooden building was a welcome sight indeed. So exciting was the prospect of warmth that the warrior found the motivation to take off his helmet finally.

More joyous of a sight than the fire were the laughs of the bar patrons. The server was a pretty woman whom the warrior made a great point to smile at upon receiving his beverage. The warrior parked himself in the corner of the tavern, hoping that the spirits of his fallen comrades could see the warmth through the window he now gazed out of.

The resident poet in the tavern, however, was in a mood to spoil the smile he gave to the tavern owner’s daughter. To ruin budding feelings of romance, the poet was to impose great wisdom on the warrior. Without asking, the wordsmith sat himself across from the soldier. The poet, noting the blood that still drenched his armor, claimed our warrior was truly dead. The warrior provided no hesitation in answering, “You liar, I know still that I am alive, if only for the fact that I exist to counter your petulance. You have made a mistake in sitting here. You do not know honor, and you shall die for your insult upon my friends.” The poet perished with a swift slash to the throat, still bewildered about which friends the man had mentioned. In truth, the warrior had longed for death, envying his comrades’ jealousy of him having this beer at this moment. The warrior lived happily ever after, refusing to touch liquor again—quite ironic given his marriage to the daughter of the tavern owner.