The Battle Cry

         Tavis heard the cry of the enemy's horns and felt the familiar adrenaline rise until he could taste it. He almost smiled at the comfort that the familiar strength brought to him. Many years in training had readied him for the moment when he would step out and defend his lands. He ran with his brothers in war—shouting with pride as they descended upon the enemy. He had no fear: he had been taught how to deflect blows and deftly deal them to the enemy. Seconds later the wall that had been his friends smashed into the enemy lines and then mixed like the syrup and shredded potatoes he had had that morning in his breakfast.

         He was a few rows back but quickly confronted his first foe. The adrenaline and practiced sword movements flowed through him as he fought with skill. His mentors had always lauded him as one of their most superior pupils. As he deflected a stab, his mind felt an opening and his reactions knew where to go. Almost automatically his sword found the break in his enemy's armor and hit flesh.

         His sword did not stop this time as it had so many times in the past. His sword slid completely through his foe’s meager under-armor and Tavis could feel it severing vital organs giving life to the man before him. The man's face paled and his eyes grew wide and hazy with realization. Then, the eyes focused on Tavis and a rage entered them that Tavis had never seen before—a rage that sent fear plumetting into the depths of his soul. Blood poured down his sword and was spreading its warmth over his hands. He felt sick.

         Although he didn't realize it, Tavis’ instincts were still reacting to the aggressions of his foe. His hands had pulled the sword out of the human-sheath and blocked some blows.

         The man before him was weakening and his fighting became clumsy. He was dying. Tavis realized that he was actually killing a man. He felt warmth on his cheek and didn't know whether it was a splattering of the man's blood or tears stinging his face.

         The man suddenly became a person to him, he had dark hair and his blue eyes were glazing over though he fought for consciousness. Tavis heard a quiet whisper escape the man's mouth: "Violet." His thoughts ran back to his darling wife and their new daughter. Momentarily he forgot why they were fighting each other; he forgot the things that were so terrible that it would bring each man to this point.

         In a matter of seconds the encounter was over and he had skillfully destroyed his single foe. He looked up at what lay before him: blood, death and an ever-charging enemy. The word enemy didn't seem to mean very much anymore and he felt tears streaming down his face now although inwardly he felt nothing. He stood, almost dumbfounded as the events incited apathy to immobilize him.

         His ears perked; beyond the body he was trapped inside he heard the horns again. This time it was the horns of his comrades. The horns of the men he had been training with for years. They had courage and they knew what they were fighting. Adrenaline came anew, but this time it came with assurance of his commradery and purpose. He knew why he was fighting and he knew that if those men in front of him made it past this battalion, his precious wife and daughter would not see another day. Raising his sword he called out a new cry of battle--not one of pride or assurance, but one of freedom and purpose.