Of A Step O'er The Brink :.: OATH Ch. 1

The horse whinnied softly as its rider urged him to halt. The dank and wretched smells were inescapable, bubbling the instinct to flee. Even movement had not brought peace of mind, as finding proper footing, without taking something underfoot, was a continual task. The ground was littered with items that did no good when stepped on. The timid beast did not want to be here, let alone stop here. Neither much did the rider, for that matter. There were things that needed to be done, though.

With a soft word and reassuring pat of the nervous horse's shoulder, the rider took one extra moment to survey, and then slid from the saddle. Despite the heat of the drought plaguing this land, the bottoms of the rider's boots squelched in mud.

Taking a moment to stretch from a long day in the saddle, the figure contemplated shedding its hood, going so far as to bring hands to his head. He was not wearing a full cloak, simply a worn blanket wrapped across shoulders and around his head. Nonetheless, it was stifling. Hesitation caught him, and the hands clenched to fists and dropped back to his sides.

The man was out of place here, and he was well aware of it. He did not wear the scales of metal, as had so many others who had passed by this way. The regulars of the army would know him for an outsider all too quickly. Spies and traitors were numerous, even if he had been wearing proper uniform, a lone man was cause for suspicion.

Indeed, it was difficult to tell if it was a man. The relative outline of the loose confederation of mismatched hide and cloth garb betrayed him to be human, at the very least. The figure's bearing and movements hinted at one who was accustom to being constantly on the move, not much unlike any of the men from the army's ranks.

Overcome with sudden resolution, the figure stepped away from his horse, taking each step in a brisk march. His head was downcast, keeping sight on the ground immediately around. Occasionally he would glance from side to side, as he passed by items of interest.

The only other motion was to lower a heavy glove and take hold of a stray arrow, freeing one after another from the ground, adding them to the quiver beneath his shoulder. Retrieving several more than the quiver could hold, the spare arrows took what ever hold could be found in his attire. Unlike a more self-sufficient weapon, a bow would need all the help it could get.

He stopped abruptly as he found what he was originally out here looking for. A coat of gorging birds had made a mess of it. All the dead on the entirety of the field, and they had to congregate on this particular one.

He shouted and swung his arms, driving them off.

The crows rose in a cacophonous cloud, making their protest heard. A few of the more stubborn ones simply hopped back a few steps, refusing to yield their prize. They ruffled their feathers, arched dark wings, making a display of their courage. Their opponent ignored them, however, as the young man bent down amidst the carnage.

Poignantly avoiding the dead man's sightless stare of accusation, the young man searched the fouled clothing. A stout leather jerkin had been of little protection, as several clean slices crisscrossed the armor. An empty sword scabbard was at the belt, and an uncalled dagger remained at the opposite hip. The inspection of a blood-sodden under-jacket revealed an inner pocket. Pulled from this was a folded paper, wrinkled but intact. Weakly elated at finding it in relative good shape, considering what its bearer had been through, the man tucked it into his belt without bothering to read it. He took nothing else.

Rising to leave, he tugged free the dead soldier's cloak, threw it over the body. In the same deliberate pace, he made the journey back to the fidgeting horse. In his absence, the returning crows pecked and prodded, as crimson puddles soaked through the shroud.

Below the comforting weight of the rider on his back, the horse plodded gingerly along, carrying the two of them deeper into the field. It curved its path to allow a wide berth from the many motionless forms, which scattered the ground with increasing frequency. Steps fell into nervous prance as the muddy spots pulled at hooves, mud that reeked with a pungent odor.

The horse continued along, shuffling reluctantly through a bed of cinders as they crossed upon the remains of a demolished trebuchet. A fire had taken it, reduced it to dust and ash.The great engine of destruction was a caricature of what had been its own potential.

Below the ash was a crumbled timber, which snapped in two under the horse's weight. It did nothing but frighten the poor beast witless. Rearing onto hind legs, its front legs flailed before it. What should have been a mighty display of a powerful animal, was comically morphed by this peculiarly talented horse, into something more comparable to a kitchen maid raising her skirts from the floor at the sight of a mouse.

"Woah, easy," the rider cautioned, voice light and reassuring. The horse continued to thrash its hooves. The rider clenched his teeth, and would have slapped his forehead, were he not holding tight to the reigns and fighting for balance in the saddle. "Skit! Down, Skit! Down!" The horse dropped to all fours. "Good boy." The rider sighed, stroked the beast's neck. The horse snorted.

After that little exchange, the rider let the horse stand put. The poor thing was no steed bred for war. Even on the outer edges of the fighting as they were, the animal was deeply more aware of the horrors than a human would ever be. The horse did not need to see more. Its companion wished to be at liberty to turn them both away.

If all went better than it was currently going, they would not need to seek the main battlegrounds. The two opposing armies that faced each other this day were the bulk of either force. Their clash promised a decisive change in the war's obscured outcome. The frontlines must be some distance away, for there was no sounds carried on the wind. Yet the wreckage was thick, and could only get worse. How many soldiers were there, that so many could be left behind?

Distracted by these thoughts, the rider made the mistake of looking up.

The battle was over. Had been for some time, if this man was any judge of such.

But this observer was no poet, could not come close to finding the words that could spark the same feeling in someone who had never seen such for themselves. He did not even know the name of the emotion he was feeling; something attune to a fine mixture fear, wonder, disgust, and a horrid truth.

From atop the hill, one could see the gaping scar had formed in the sea of plains grass. The dead far outnumbered the living, their blood drowned the mutilated flora even as it fed the parched dirt. Yet all across the field, the victorious force was gathered in small bands, the devastated survivors of this brutal struggle. They were as elated as they were weary, the victory giving them strength to hunt down the remaining filth that opposed them. To these bands, the horrors they had just survived were forced out of mind by a joy-brought denial.

Many did not share their escape. They fell to their knees beside comrades and enemies alike that took their last breath on that field. Happiness would not be felt by them for quite some time. Only the thought of their own selves returning home kept them sane.

The high bleat of a trumpet broke through the morbid thoughts and snapped the rider's attention to the foot of the hill.

Several others below heard the call, began to congregate toward it. The rider eased a strung bow into hand, and guided the horse toward the same destination. Every descending step carrying him closer to the field seemed an earthly manifestation of the sinking dread that was slowly making itself known.

At the bottom of that hill stood the commanding officer of the victorious, almost unrecognizable in his dent-ridden armor, drenched in the same muck and blood that covered the once verdant plain. He had long ago lost his valiant warhorse, and as he trudged through the mud, he saw the rider approaching from the ridge.

The armored man took quick note of the arrows shafts protruding from the folds of the rider's ragged clothing. "Wounded? You're sitting a horse well enough, the healers will need to see to other before you." The figure stated wearily.

"Not needed, sir." The rider came to a halt before him.

The commander squinted quizzically, trying to recall where he had seen the young man's face before. In lieu of an introduction, the rider offered over the folded sheet of paper.

Accepting it, he kept the other in the corner of his eye as he skimmed the missive. The commander scowled. Using a thumb, he smeared a looping signet across the paper, in the red ink of war. He held the paper a moment longer. "Running off to join the enemy, are you?" He didn't even glance up. "Let it be known that this day belongs to the ruling king, and many more will follow it. Before long, there will be no place for your kind to make a mockery of the work of a true sword of the Crown."

"Aye, that may enough be true," the horse beneath him shuffled, in response to the aura of ire the rider did not outwardly show.

The commander's face softened only long enough to allow one question. "Is this truly the life you want, boy?"

The rider didn't even blink. "I wasn't aware I had a choice in the matter, sir."

The wall of authority came back, once again as defensive as the armor the man wore. "So, you're one of those. Holds a grudge to the world, because he wasn't dealt the winning hand. Face it, we're born to die, boy, and nothing in this life matters." The commander's gauntlet that held the note relaxed its hold, as if considering releasing the paper to the winds that fluttered and tugged at it. The rider gave no reaction.

"You're no better than the crows," the commander commented, as he thrust the paper back to its owner.

The rider bowed his head, spoke a word of thanks, and turned his horse away.

The commander turn his back on him, gave his attention to the groups converging to his location in response to the horn. The pallid soldiers looked to him as they approached, and the jaded veteran allowed himself a hidden sigh of desolate exhaustion. As they gathered around, the general set aside his own weariness and frustration to guide his remaining troops, while the broiling wind stirred around them.

The man with the horse weighed his options for the quickest route away from this place. While in his thoughts, the horse took it up to follow the same path they had come from. When the rider focused back on his surroundings, he noticed they were passing the same flock of crows, taking their fill from another's failure. The rider could not help but sneer darkly. If he and they were so comparable, why wasn't he as happy as they were?