The Song of War

         He knew it was time. The horizon flared a faint glow and the crescent moon had moved half across the sky. Nevin stood rubbing his tired eyes at the bedroom window. The deer would be moving soon. It had been too long since he had harvested meat. The summer's fruits were losing their taste and the fish was too light.
         Nevin took quiet, light steps to the edge of the bed, careful not to wake his wife, still fast asleep. She was a heap of quilt and a mess of waving, honeyed hair. The blankets slowly rose and fell, like a gentle tide. She took each breath through her pouty lips, pursing in her dreams. Nevin took the hair covering her face and placed it behind her ear. Was she dreaming of his kiss? He warmed to the thought. He gently pressed his lips against her chilled forehead. She pushed out a waking breath, eyes still closed. In a sleepy little voice Ella told him: “I love you, Nevin.”
         She was beautiful. Not the beauty you only see, he thought. It was the kind he could feel deep in his chest. “I love you too. Sleep tight.” He kissed her again but this time on her cheek, still icy to his lips.
         He left her side to dress himself. He thought on his old hunting spot and decided he still knew how to get there. It sat beneath a willow in thick brush. If he remembered correctly, it was not far from the deer trails nor the road and provided ample cover. He buckled the quiver across his back. He was all set. Just on his way out of the room, he plucked an apple from his pack before slinging it over his shoulder.
         They had a larger home. The house had a wooden frame held in place by low walls of cobbled stone. Wattle and daub made up the rest. He was young when he built it, just after the war. He saw many flaws but Ella loved it.
         The smell of last nights pottage invited him through the hallway and into the den. It felt especially empty and quiet. The hearth is where Ella and their son would be huddled through the winters. Round and round the table is where little Westly would run and play. The window is where Ella would be watching for Nevin. It didn't seem like the same house. 
         The hearth held a drowning, amber glow and lit the room poorly, its waning evident again in the morning's cold. He made his way across the room and knelt to the hearth. The warmth licked at his nose and seeped through his beard but the fire was still as asleep as the rest of his home. He stoked the embers, crunching at his apple as he went. The flames began to lick up, protesting against the new split of wood.
         “Daddy?” Nevin spun around. His son stood in the hallway, yawning under his matted hair. He looked more like his mother every day.
         Nevin grinned. “Come here, boy.” Westly took little steps across the room, squinting at the fire all the way. Nevin, still crouched by the hearth, pulled him in for a tight hug. “And what is this one doing up so early?”
         “I'm coming with you remember?” Westly rocked back on his heels and pointed to his new boots. Nevin remembered telling him they were hunting boots and that’s what big boys wore. “They're just like yours.”
         Nevin's eyes tightened through a proud smile. “That they are, my boy.” It would not be long before Westly would pull a bow his own. He was smart like his mother, and just as headstrong as a younger Nevin. His blue eyes held all the truth that he was his mother's like but he took his father's smile. Two days past, Westly had brought home the biggest bullfrog Nevin had ever seen. He had told his dad that being a frog-catcher was a good job because people loved the big ones and they really aren't that hard to catch. It was the little guys you had to look out for. The boy had mud clear up to his chin and had just about sent his mother to the seas. Two days past and Nevin still laughed about it. “Gods, you grow so fast.” Nevin pulled Westly in and kissed him on the top of his head. “I'll tell you what, I've got an important job for you, a big boy job.” Westly's eyes widened, unblinking. “I'm gonna need someone strong and tough to watch the house and protect your mother. I need you to be the man of the house, Westly. Can you do that for me?”
         The fire was crackling now and gleamed off of Westly's lowered brow. “I can be the man of the house.” He reassured his father.
         Nevin pulled him for another squeeze. “I knew I could count on you. Now, go lay down with your mother and watch for any bad guys.” Nevin stood up and watched as his boy skirted off down the hallway and into their bedroom.
         As Nevin finished his apple, he reached back and counted six arrows in his quiver. It was plenty. The trick was to use only one. He made for the door, where his bow hung just above. He slipped it under his left arm and stepped outside.
         His home sat in a large meadow, three quarters surrounded by trees. It opened North into a valley and a league more, a lake. The land West rose and trees crawled high until a half-days walk brought you to feet of the mountains. When it was light, you could see them towering over his home. But he headed east into the trees. Once he got to the road, he would follow it north until he came to the willow. Hopefully, the deer would meet him there.
         The morning was still quite dark, though not at all quiet. The melody of bird-song echoed in the trees, the wind danced through the summer leaves, and Nevin could even make out the humming of frogs from Westly's pond, just North. He also made more noise than he would have liked, stumbling more than once through the brush. What a racket you can make alone in the forest, he thought. The darkness made it difficult. His breathing picked up and even in the cold morning air, he felt hot and beads of sweat collected in his beard.
         It had been too long since his last hunt yet it seemed it always reminded him of his dreadful age. It never stops, he thought. Grey was beginning to pepper its way into his beard. Though his dark brown hair hadn't lightened, he knew it was next. At the rate, he could expect it tomorrow. His father was dubbed the 'silver fox' for his hair years before he passed. Nevin warmed to the memory. A proud old man, the coot.
         He had wasted the time he had with his father. It was a different world then, he reasoned. No, not different, Nevin was just no longer a part of it. He was once young and headstrong. As he grew and heard more stories of gallant men who fought for their lords, he eventually gave up his quill. He was decent with a sword and a thinker among stumps. It was not long before Nevin was given a small command by Lord Prescott, a man his father had trusted. Though, that day had a way of changing its air in retrospect.
         Lord Prescott, fat and rich, was merely bolstering his ranks. Nevin made the mistake of taking the appointment to his own honor. The Lord was near desperate for men who wanted to die. He rationed out command to the most able. Among them was Nevin and Nevin's older brother, Westly. Playing war was how they spent their time away from their father. At the time it looked in reason, for honor and glory but it quickly rotted into the foolish naivete of adolescence. Nevin's brother did not live through it.
         That was the last time he had seen his father alive, the burial of his 24 year old brother. Westly was a good man and smarter than I, Nevin thought, but he still died. He died because men cut each other open for their lord, for his gold, and their songs of war. Lord Prescott was not there. Not even after the death of his sworn knight. Bastard.
         That was not the worst of it. Nevin's father wept when he saw his son, pale and gullet-carved. All he would say was: “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” He took ill and died months later, believing his son had died for some flaw in his parenthood, that his sons had chosen a life of violence because of him. That was the true song of war.
         Nevin finally came to the road and followed it North, searching along its eastern side for the willow. He was relieved to take easier steps along the beaten, dirt path. It was also getting brighter, the sun just peaking through the trees. The path was closed to the sky, engulfed in summer's green canopy.
         It wasn't long before he spotted the willow through the treeline. It was slightly different than he remembered but it was the one, a willow among oak and maple. He had always wondered how it had gotten there. The merchants from far West had talked about them in their stories. They were not native so close to the Eastern Seas yet he had one not a league from his home. He burrowed into the thick brush, all under the willow's reach, and knocked an arrow.
         He watched and waited. It seemed, in his calm, the woods erupted. Squirrels rustled in the branches, skittered up trees, and clicked their tongues at each other. He also spotted a fox, nose lowered and searching for a meal. It did not stay long, apparently sure the mice were elsewhere.
         He planned to be back by noon, with meat or no, but the sun was far from its pinnacle. That thought rested as well as any. Nevin liked the woods. It was slow, even through the skittering and the searching. It had a calming air, a settled sense. You're not typically surprised in the woods, Nevin thought. Its the rest of the world that holds the surprises, like the road. That was when he heard the horses.
         They trotted and patted against the path, their riders clinking along the way. They came from the North, just like everyone else. Any deer nearby are probably scared skittish, he thought. They got louder and louder as they approached. Sure enough, Nevin heard another racket and spun his head to catch just a glimpse of a whitetail prancing off. Blast.
         He surrendered a sigh and placed the arrow back in his quiver. It would be hours before deer would be back. They would sooner bed before coming this way again. Nevin pulled himself through the bushes and brushed himself off before heading to meet the riders.
          There were five of them as he could tell through the trees. One looked familiar. Linder, he thought, or Captain Comac now. Linder had served Nevin's brother in the war. He was a bright green, young chap at the time. After the siege of Rockhelm, Nevin remembered finding him frail and naked in the steward's cellar. He couldn't have been 16. They took him any how, suited him in mail he could have swam in and gave him a sword near his own size. He looked much older now, and much bigger. His chest bludgeoned into the air over a shapely waste. His dark hair was neatly parted on one side. His face was shaved clean, save around his mouth, where he wore a nicely kept mustache and goatee. It hardly looked like the Linder he once knew.
         They heard Nevin before they saw him and came to a stop, their expressions ranging from curious to scared stiff. Linder held his nose high, with mellow eyes, over the approach. Nevin made his way through the trees and finally presented himself before the riders. They were all clad in armor and armed to the teeth. Two of them wore their helmets. Besides Linder, the other two, without the helms, looked rough. One of them was missing an eye and wore a red, flaring beard down to his belly. He was fat and bald and his courser stepped from side to side, struggling to support the trunk of a man. The other had a gaunt face and a long nose Nevin wouldn't have wished on anyone. He was missing several of his teeth and ran his tongue through the gaps.
         Linder squinted and kicked his destrier forward. “My balls,” he whispered then leaned back and burst into laughter. The other men were silent and seemed uneasy, watching Linder for clues on what to do next. “Look at you, old man. Blast, It has been too long.”
         Nevin didn't like it. Linder was still sworn to Lord Prescott, a man with business too far North. What was he doing here? “Too long indeed.” Nevin agreed plainly. “What brings you so far South?”
         Linder dismounted, still amused. “Believe it or not, you do.” He laughed again and extended his hand. That's what Nevin was afraid of. Nevertheless, he shook Linder's hand. “How's Ella, and you've a boy I hear? Westly, right?”
         Nevin was uncomfortable. He knew why Linder had come. “That's right. He'll be six this winter.” He dodged the question about Ella.
         Linder had a layer of paper thin interest over a more blank expression. “Ella never really held me in the best of regards.” She hated him, actually. When they were younger, Linder had planted a drunken kiss on an unwilling girl. That was the first time Nevin met Ella. It was also the first time he had beaten one of his own men.
         “No she hasn't.” Nevin was honest.
         Linder was slowly beginning to realize Nevin's opinion of him. “Right, well what are you doing in the middle of these blasted woods? And no horse in sight!” It was an awkward shift in mood. Nevin could see Linder was uncomfortable with the conversation in front of his men.
         “Some of us don't eat from the hands of a lord, Linder.” Nevin gave little effort to hide his discontent. He spoke to him like he spoke to the same Linder years ago.
         Linder's expression melted into an unsettled discomfort. He crossed his arms and shifted, perhaps a little annoyed. “Your words are harsh, Arth.” That was a name he had not heard for some time. It was the name of Nevin's house, the house of his father. “Listen, Lord Prescott passed a week ago. His son assumed the estate as well as all his knights. You know why I am here.” He got to the point.
         Nevin's lips tightened. He knew this day would come. “I cannot go. I have a family now.”
         “Gods, Arth, you swore an oath.” The name reminded him too much of his past. “Your brother died for his.”
         Nevin could feel his heart pick up and the color flush to his face. “My brother died for a fool and you're lucky you haven't done the same.” How dare he bring up Westly? “You're a pawn, Linder.”
         Linder clenched his teeth. “Pawn or no, you've a oath to honor. You've been pardoned too many years.” He raised his voice. “You had to know this day would come!” Silence waded into the conversation. Nevin had no response. Linder waited and in a calmer voice: “This lord is lenient, Arth. You may give your son.”
         That was it. Nevin balled his fist and hurled it at Linder. The strike landed on his cheekbone and sent him to the ground. As Nevin stood over Linder, strung out in the dirt, the other men drew their swords and surrounded him. He gave them not a glance, his thin eyes fixed on the captain. “I'll kill you, Comac. Save you're next trip so far South.”
         The gaunt looking man dismounted and rushed to help his captain. Linder only glared at Nevin as he was helped, impatiently shooing the man away. “You're a fool, Arth.” He spat at Nevin's feet. With that he mounted and the five rode North, the direction they came. In truth, Nevin was ready for a fight. No, not a fight. A beating, he thought. It was not like an armored group of men to run from one.
         He was a fool. That would not be the last time he would see them. There would be more men, and they would take either him or little Westly. He could only imagine what Ella would say. And Westly, gods, how could he leave his boy? He would not miss his son's life as he missed his fathers. He would not play war ever again. He could not imagine what he would do if they tried to take Westly. He would sooner die.
         Just before he lost sight of the riders, Nevin caught Linder motioning his hand toward the West, toward the cottage. The fat one and one of the helmed men disbanded and took a deer trail. No, Nevin thought. In a flurry, he darted into the trees and headed for home. Running, dunking, and jumping he pressed through the brush. He didn't know the clearing the two riders had. He had to make haste.
         Faster and faster, Nevin pushed himself. His chest heaving; his old body failing. He wasn't far. He clenched his fist around his bow as he bounded through the forest. He would kill them, both of them. What a fool, he thought of himself. He knew they would come. He pledged his life to a greedy man and asked for it back. He should have gone with the men.
         He wondered what his father would have said, or even his brother. Would they have honored the oath to the end? He could not imagine they would. His father saw the life for what it was. His disappointment was clear. How could a life of merciless war and violence also be one of honor? Lords and knights, blast them both, he thought. It was the rich and the foolish. Nevin wanted to end it all..
         He was getting close. Far off still, through the trees, he could see smoke begin to rise. “Ella!” He tried to yell but struggled through his breath. “Ella!” Again he failed. He wheezed each new breath, none of them deep enough.
         When he broke through into the meadow, then men were already there. The fat one sat plump on his courser, Westly tied to the horse's flanks. He was sobbing, crying “Mommy! No, mommy.” Only the other horse was visible, the helmed man and Ella out of sight. They must have been inside. Westly saw his father. “Bad guys!” He screamed over and over.
         Nevin, still sprinting, readied an arrow. After the fat one spotted him, he called to the other, and turned his horse North. Nevin made his way across the meadow, nearly close enough to take a shot. The helmed man came out of the house and held Ella by her waving, honeyed hair.
         Ella screamed for Nevin and flailed at the man. She landed two strong hits and knocked him off balance. “Leave her you fool!” The fat one yelled. The helmed man pulled a dagger sheathed along his thigh. Ella ran for Nevin but was caught to soon. He held her still and slid the dagger under her chin.
         Nevin caught the red, the deep contrast on her fair skin. Blood ran down her chest and seeped through her dress. “No!” He cried. This time his voice was heard. Westly erupted as well, nothing audible, just the cries of a horrified child. Ella fell and bled out on the porch of their home. Nevin pulled back and released an arrow into the helmed mans chest. As it met its mark, blood spit from the man's leather shell and he gave out a wretched cry. The impact sent him to the ground and the fat one riding off into the valley. Nevin eventually made it to the other horse.
         Just before mounting he looked back to Ella. She looked so stale, cold already. Her cheeks were wet from the tears, her lips pouty. “I'm sorry, Ella.” He had to leave it there. He snapped the reins and raced for Westly.
         The fat one was slow and Nevin caught up to them quickly. He approached on the man's right side and drew another arrow. He pulled and released once more and missed his mark. The arrow hissed just by the man and plunged into the horse's shoulder. The horse doubled over itself tossing both the rider and Westly.
         Nevin braced as Westly hit the ground. The fat one had rolled over the horse between Nevin and his boy. Westly wasn't moving. Nevin readied yet another arrow as the man began to rise. Before he was fully up, Nevin shot. The arrow cracked into the man's bald skull and he fell limp to the ground.
         Nevin dismounted and ran to Westly. He wasn't breathing. His mouth hung open, baby-white teeth stained crimson. Blood leaked from his nose and ears. He clutched his boy and sounded a desperate cry and then quietly: “My boy.” Warm tears rolled down his cheek. He listened through his own sobs and hoped for a breath.
         They would pay. Everyone of them: Linder, his men, the wretched lord. 'Bad guys' he remembered telling Westly. He gave out another desperate cry then lowered his ear to the boys mouth. He listened, listened to that silent song of war.