WE #7 TM - The Price

The cost was so high.

The smell of burning flesh wafted over him and he could hear the carrion crows calling already. They smell it too, he thought, and dropped to his knees.

His thick, dented armor had withstood countless attempts upon his life. His sword, Cathula,  had been strong, his bow sure and steady. All that had tried to slay him lay dead now, scattered with the countless other bodies across the battlefield. Not one had been able to find a weakness in his defense. Farmers and townspeople were no match for battle-hardened men.

“Borus!” One of his brothers called out. He looked up, the eye holes in his helmet barely big enough to allow him to see. When he did spy the figure atop the distant knoll, he raised his bow. Darrun raised his spear in response, his white teeth flashing within the dirt covering his face.

I am whole, I survived, we are victorious, their actions spoke across the distance, over a sea of burning, bleeding, moaning corpses. It was good to be alive where so many were dead, to have the honor of serving his commander and taking the river front town for their own. But he had been trained to fight against men, against other soldiers. Not against bakers and smiths and children.

Yes, we are victorious, my friend. Borus looked out over the strewn death surrounding him. A gurgling groan came from a body that lay five feet away. Borus leaned forward and with the tip of his long bow, pried the leather helmet off the head of a dying young  boy. His blonde hair was matted with blood, half his face was crushed, and where his mouth used to be, there was only a mush of teeth and bleeding flesh. Though unconscious, his body was still trying to breath in through the catastrophe that was his face.

Victorious…

He pulled his sword from its scabbard and hefted it above the neck of the fallen boy. In his mind he spoke a word of prayer before he let the blade fall, ending the torment.  He could not have been any older than twelve springs.

…But at what cost?