It was three o’clock in the morning when the cry awoke him from his slumber, and he sat up in bed like a door thrown open. It was dusty in the tent, particles of debris shining like tiny lanterns against the moonlight. Through the dank stench of sweaty armor and dirty animals, the smallest wave of cool night air wafted through the flap. All of these details he wished he had time to savor, but he knew the time had come, and he rolled out of bed onto the dirt floor. Around him he could hear the camp come alive, men cursing, pigs squealing, and the sound of snorting horses being saddled.

Mail, helm, greaves; His sword strapped to his side, a deadly thorn. His shield engraven with words of love from his dear wife, who was so many millennia away. Last night there had been celebration. Toasts of impending victory and the fall of the Empire. Now it was morning, and there was nothing but the smothering knowledge that many of them would never come back.

He stood on the crest of the hill, needing a few brief minutes of acceptance. He loved this hill. Here he had flown his first kite, sown his first seeds, fought his first battle, and loved for the first time. What he would give to see her one more time he knew not, but she was dust along with the dreams that brought him hence. The first brilliant streaks of sun were painted now across the sky. He could not die in a more beautiful place. Or a more meaningful one.

He was summoned to the commander’s tent to receive his instruction. Vafer grinned one-sidedly at him. Only Vafer could possibly be worried about their rivalry today. Was he even human not to fear the dawn of battle, or did he too feel that knot of terror in his breast? Stepping forward he was granted his orders. Captaining a battalion of two hundred men, he was to penetrate the city’s main core, and force surrender. He knew he could try. But what for? His wife? His never-to-be-born baby? Certainly not. His country? What country?

The red insignia of the Randien was raised over the army. He looked back over his men and smiled. So many comrades. Memories of the their hard-won victories. Vafer alone smiled his half grin and stood out among the masses of knotted brows and sunken cheeks. More than one stooped upon bended knee with hands clasped in reverence. The man crossed his chest with his hand. Lord, he begged, Please. Give me strength and some luck. For who was he to say he had no one to fight for? He had his men. He would fight for his men.

Far across the field, silhouetted in white against dark cliffs colored by the breaking dawn, he could see his city. His old city. What twist of fate had brought him to fight against his homeland he did not wish to know. Then, piercing his heart, he heard the familiar horn blow. The sound he had heard on the morn of his first battle as a boy of but fifteen. It issued from the city’s highest tower, and billowed like thunder across the land from its epicenter. There was a shift among the many thousands of soldiers. Suddenly, the whole of the sun burst from behind the mountains and blinded them with its light shining through the misty horizon.

“TO ME!” he shouted. The thunder of feet and tight-reined horses was indeed terrible. He wished he could stop, allow his primordial instinct of flight to lead him to safety, but he endured. He headed his soldiers on his prancing grey charger. Arrows fell like rain among the company, and twice, he heard shouts of pain and surprise. All too soon, the battering ram was brought forward, and swung with a bone-shattering crash against the great ironwood gates.

Murder holes were uncovered and screams of the dying were completely encompassing. The falling molten rock and metal were flashes of light in the dimness of the morning. The door fell, and like a unleashed tide the Randien streamed from the entrance, almost twenty feet across. Fighting lent a clarity to his thoughts he had only while in battle. He felled the three men who attacked him. The first, a downwards thrust with the pommel of his sword that dented the man’s helmet like foil. The second and third with powerful slashes across their chainmail. Again and again he was attacked and again and again he killed those who opposed him. Every time he swung his blade, he feared he was killing a childhood friend or acquaintance.

When he had but a second to breathe, he saw that his army had spread outwards from the gate and was now hopelessly intermingled with the city’s opposing forces. Vafer now grinned in exultation and sent terrible knives flying, and always, always burying into their targets with deadly accuracy. Any rocks thrown from the Randien’s catapults would just as likely land on the Randien as the men of the Empire. He realized with trepidation that the only way to save his soldiers from the waves of the enemy was to find a courtyard that was easily defendable. He scanned the area with desperation until he saw a feasible space. Once again he bellowed, “TO ME!” Then numbly, he hacked his way to the courtyard.

Approximately forty men made it, and together they spread out in the mouth of the entrance. The man sent men to throw furniture down on the cobblestone. Under assault the whole time, a barricade slowly rose in the street. Now attackers must climb the ten foot mountain. Now on foot, the man slaughtered all that came close enough, taking an arrow in the shoulder and a dent in his beautiful shield from a crossbow bolt. Blood streaked from a cut above his eyebrow, which he found annoying since it obscured his vision. Many of his company were dead. His friends, his enemies. Now only he and twenty others withstood the might of the Empire. His strength was fading. The original adrenaline of fighting was wearing off. He knew everything was over when arrows flashed down upon them from the roof. Death screams of men and horses alike rang across the square. He turned and saw one of his closest friends, a man named Arlidi, stagger and fall as he was shot full of bolts and arrows. Bitterly, the man realized he looked like a porcupine.

He felt a shadow pass over him. For a second, his vision blinked white and black and then a pure, undiluted red. Colors swept like bats around him. A smell, like an open grave surrounded him like a sheet. A faceless woman approached him, and he couldn’t tell the difference between life and this strange changing world. He saw his whole life. His beautiful wife and himself tying the knot. She in white and he grinning like the sun shone just on them. The grinding shock when he saw his little babe lying still, her tiny face contorted. The dark night when he, lying alone in his bed, had opened the door to see a drenched messenger calling him to the war. He felt himself cry out, but he felt voiceless in the huge swirling vortex. The woman held out her white, misty hand and mesmerized him in her pulsing eyes. She whispered, and her voice sounded like leaves floating in the wind. Come.... He extended his hand, and a gray light enveloped him in completion.




The woman traveled with a brown shawl over her hair. Yes, she had been gone far too long, but she came now to see her husband and her strong little girl. Why had she left? At the time it had been absolutely necessary. Now though, she felt her heart beating in anticipation of the joy on her family’s faces.

With care she approached the manor. She doubted anyone would recognize her with her brilliant red hair covered by the shawl. Raising her head, she thought her home looked quite empty from the outside. The gingham curtains she and her maid had sewed were gone, and the door padlocked. So much had changed.

The knocker was embossed with a silver eagle’s head. She took a step back and looked upward at the windows. Somewhere, she thought she could smell something cooking. With joy in her heart, she knocked loudly. Far inside the house, she heard a pot clang against a counter.

The door opened slightly, and instead of her husband, she saw the butler Horlad’s beaky nose. “Be off beggar,” said he. Smoothly, she threw back her shawl. Her hair glistened like fire. “Where is my husband and daughter?” she demanded, “I have been gone far too long and I wish to embrace Cresael and see how my daughter has grown.”

“I am afraid that will not be possible.”

“Why ever not?”

“The master has never come back, and I have heard of bad news.”

“Good God! What has happened?” Her voice reached a high note of horror.
The small-lipped butler said then, “Well ma’am, I have heard that he will not be returning. It seems he shall never know that you are alive. It is said that Cresael, the finest swordsman in the land, died of a knife in the back.”