At the Scene of the Battle

Straining with nervous tension, two armies faced each other at the opposite ends of a low valley. Breaths of cool morning air played with the banners and flags, which flew bravely, snapping this way and that with vigor. The wind touched the hard faces of the men with a gentle caress, but could not divert these grim statues. The sickening panic of fear threatened to rise within each, but no betrayal of such was expressed. Stone faces such as these, were hardened by pride.
The line to the east had a decided advantage, for the sun rose behind then, dazzling the eyes of their enemies. The standards that this army held aloft bore the image of a black griffin on a field of red. The riders in the company of the griffin were mounted upon great chargers, which pawed eagerly at the earth. The archers waited with an arrow fitted to the string. The lines were straight and ready to rush forward upon the issuing of one sound. The birds sang. A horse whinnied impatiently. Even the sound of a small honey bee reached their ears, which were straining for the signal. They waited… waited. It came. Suddenly, the tension broke as they flooded down to the fierce blaring of a trumpet. A war cry arose in every throat, as they rode either to victory or the grave.
Galloping recklessly before the company of the griffin was a young rider. His armor reflected the glory of the sun, and his horse looked like a storm cloud about to burst forth in wrath, a dark and brooding grey. If any of his comrades had seen his face as he rode ahead, they would have been shocked by his fierce demeanor, covered by an injured pride, blood thirsty for revenge. His face was overshadowed by hate. Sweat beaded up on his brow, which was furrowed with ghastly determination. Any fear that he must have felt before that final plunge was left far behind, as he thundered down the slope. Taking over the empty place of fear, surged an unrelenting fire if spirit. It pushed away dear hope as well as dark despair; nothing stood between him and his goal: the death of traitors.
As the waves of men broke upon each other, the battle began. Mingled with the sounds of men shouting out, horses screamed shrilly into the clear air, and steel clashed against steel. Glistening in the sun, the young man’s sword did its work with terrifying finesse. He charged so ruthlessly into the fray that he broke out again on the opposite side. As he checked his steed and turned back to the fight, an arrow sang. The charger screamed with chilling agony, as the fatal dart lodged deep into its side. Stumbling and flailing about, the prideful animal fell upon the turf. The rider leapt free from its back and found his footing upon solid ground, while the world swam about him. He paused. Stampeding through the valley of swords had not left him entirely unscathed. A burning cut on his cheek dribbled down, and hot blood was seeping into his sleeve from a stroke just below the shoulder. With burning coals glowing deep in his dark eyes, he brought his hand slowly to wipe his cheek. He looked at it a moment. Turning his eyes to the fight, he smeared the red liquid fire in the other side of his face, and fingered what was left on his hand. A deep bellowing voice caused his hand to lower, and his eyes to search for a friendly face. A comrade, who had also been dethroned from his steed, staggered to him with a crushed, barely serviceable foot, which undoubtedly was brought about by the fall of his heavy animal. The bite of pain that coursed up his leg spurred on a heavy, yet eager attitude. The young man wiped his bloodied hand and they met. The man rumbled with the morbid chuckle of an old soldier ready to meet his death, and stood tall.
“For our beautiful land we fight; for the King!”
“For the King, for our land, and for our dear ones – be they still living – we fight!”
With the greatest cry that their hoarse voices could muster, the two men, tightly grasping their swords, returned to the battle with a vengeance.