Post by Stefanis Redwrath on Jul 2, 2008 8:11:56 GMT -5
The morning came like any other, upon a broken line of corpses in an unnamed battlefield.
The ravens picked among the corpses until scattered by soldiers, dragging the dead back, dumping them into trenches dug in the rich black earth. The mages stood back, watching, and a few scouts returned with news of another wave advancing.
Soldiers moved double-time, piling bodies behind the defensive line as fast as they could. It would leave them tired for the first skirmish, Stefanis knew, and the thought made him edgy. The captain was amongst the bodies now being stripped of valuable weapons and armor-which meant he, a lowly soldier but with the most experience, was in command.
"Archers up front." he announced.
The line balked at him, but did as they were told. He had them outfitted with scraps of armor-anything to increase survivability-and left them there before the confused infantry to meet with the mages.
He gave the word, and watched the bodies of his comrades-his brothers-go up in smoke.
The last pair of scouts returned. The column of the scourge was changing route, going to another haggard garrison, mercifully glossing them over. Would he like to give chase?
Stefanis waved the farstrider off, broke up his infantry line and ordered a full retrival of the wounded and fallen. The trenches were full of ashes, wounded coughed and cursed as they hit the powdered bones of their brothers and comrades.
"Burn them." Stefanis ordered, voice thick.
The mages turned and did as ordered.
The business of war is cruel. It tempers you until your heart shrinks and hardens, no more than a soft pebble within an iron rock. It takes honourable young men and makes them watch as they burn their brothers and comrades and lovers and friends. It sucks the life from you, absorbs you, until you can't even till the earth without thinking of rich black soil stained with ashes. Until you can think of no other home but battle.
Stefanis cried rarely, and then only in his sleep.
The ravens picked among the corpses until scattered by soldiers, dragging the dead back, dumping them into trenches dug in the rich black earth. The mages stood back, watching, and a few scouts returned with news of another wave advancing.
Soldiers moved double-time, piling bodies behind the defensive line as fast as they could. It would leave them tired for the first skirmish, Stefanis knew, and the thought made him edgy. The captain was amongst the bodies now being stripped of valuable weapons and armor-which meant he, a lowly soldier but with the most experience, was in command.
"Archers up front." he announced.
The line balked at him, but did as they were told. He had them outfitted with scraps of armor-anything to increase survivability-and left them there before the confused infantry to meet with the mages.
He gave the word, and watched the bodies of his comrades-his brothers-go up in smoke.
The last pair of scouts returned. The column of the scourge was changing route, going to another haggard garrison, mercifully glossing them over. Would he like to give chase?
Stefanis waved the farstrider off, broke up his infantry line and ordered a full retrival of the wounded and fallen. The trenches were full of ashes, wounded coughed and cursed as they hit the powdered bones of their brothers and comrades.
"Burn them." Stefanis ordered, voice thick.
The mages turned and did as ordered.
The business of war is cruel. It tempers you until your heart shrinks and hardens, no more than a soft pebble within an iron rock. It takes honourable young men and makes them watch as they burn their brothers and comrades and lovers and friends. It sucks the life from you, absorbs you, until you can't even till the earth without thinking of rich black soil stained with ashes. Until you can think of no other home but battle.
Stefanis cried rarely, and then only in his sleep.