Unnamed Novel: Chpt. 1 Pt. 1
The Old Man
“We’ll not survive another skirmish, and Arrod cannot be closer than three days march with reinforcements”. Sorren’s tone was bleak, a perfect match for his grey eyes that seemed nearly matte, as though they’d never learned to hope.
“If we could just leverage our archers, we’d have the bastards beat!” Whisps of frustration curled off Henry’s words as his enormous, clenched fist shook punctuating the outburst which had become a sort of motto for him in the past week.
“They know that, Henry. That’s why they’ve forced us to meet them here. Make even the best bowman shoot uphill through trees and he’ll miss his mark. Killian, we must cede the hill. The people have already fled, tell the soldiers to retreat and we can re-take Sparrow Hill when the army arrives!” Sorren implored the gnarled old captain in command of him and his two fellows.
“Give up Sparrow Hill?” Henry bellowed, causing several actual sparrows to take flight. “Sparrow Hill has not fallen to any invader in five-hundred years!” Henry’s mane of silver hair, a product of a sickly birth and an oddity given his young age, shook violently as he indicated his disapproval. “And what if His Majesty could hear you now?”
“His Majesty is a tactician.”
“His Majesty is a warrior of honor!”
“His Majesty is three-hundred leagues away.” Killian’s voice was quiet, bearing no hint of his age. His hair had all gone grey several years past, all save his thick goatee, which retained its raven hue. “It is left to me, my sons. I have heard your—counsel—but now I must decide for us all”. Sorren and Henry stared at their leader. This man had trained the three of them since they were young boys. Truthfully, he had been like a father to them. When, after some minutes of silence during which Killian sat puffing upon his pipe, it became apparent that he would not be making that decision right that moment, Henry and Sorren left in silent satisfaction, both certain theirs would be the course of action Killian saw the wisdom of.
Fifty soldiers. One hundred militia. One hundred and fifty lives, each one tangled up in countless others. These are the tools which Killian had at his disposal. One hundred and fifty of his countrymen, and two of his friends. Each one would follow him without question into the very lake of fire. Henry and Sorren, and Arrod if he had not been chosen to go for reinforcements, would do so because they knew Killian, because they trusted him. The others would because they had heard legends of His Majesty’s Talon. The Talon, the King’s chosen warrior, a title many believed made its bearer immune to many a petty thing such as pain, death, and doubt. But His Majesty knew the truth. “Why me, Sire” Killian recalled his answer upon being chosen. An answer much to the chagrin of the nobles and high officers at the ceremony.
“Because, Killian, you are but a mortal man. I will suffer no man who knows not fear, pain, and doubt to command all the many sons of my kingdom, lest he cast aside their lives needlessly.” Killian was surprised to find that His Majesty, too, seemed a mortal man. Though, perhaps some greater kind of man, a man as man was meant to be while the rest of them were discarded early drafts. “…lest he cast aside their lives needlessly.” The words echoed in Killian’s mind. Was this needless? No army had ever taken Sparrow Hill but, in truth, no army of any appreciable size had ever tried. Certainly, none like this new force having sprung up from seemingly nowhere to batter the border of their homeland. Was that legacy worth men’s lives? Was any?
The indecision seemed to spring up about Killian in shoots more numerous than the many trees of the forest, so he stood and, taking a long and soothing pull from his pipe, took his leave of the circle of logs out of which they had fashioned this meager council chamber. “When your doubts seem to be closing in on you,” Killian’s father had always said, “go take the sheep for a walk. Anxiety is a weedy little thing and can’t keep up for long”. Though Killian lacked livestock, he felt more a shepherd now than ever in his youth; though, these sheep were more precious than silver and gold. Those he shepherded now were sons, husbands, brothers, friends. They each had dreams, futures, aspirations he may never conceive of. It was his enormous responsibility to ensure they were around to fulfill them. How obvious it seemed to Killian now why his father would be boiling with wrath if he came home from town after dark, or how insistent the old man would be when giving advice. To carry the life and future of another, to love them with so great a part of yourself as the old man did him, and as he now did for Henry, Sorren, and Arrod—it is an immeasurable burden. So too was each and every one of his soldiers loved by someone.
“So too was each man you have slain in battle, and each that you will” The thought lurked somewhere just beyond Killian’s conscious mind, its unnoted presence souring his stomach. Just then, he spied a house with its door hanging half open. All the other houses had been barred or even nailed shut against the invaders, their occupants hoping against hope to find the homes intact after the fighting. Surely none of the women or children had been left behind during the evacuation. Equal parts curious and concerned, Killian approached the door and peered inside. There sat a man of medium build with neatly trimmed blonde hair contemplatively turning a sewn cloth doll over and over in his hands. He bore the green and gold of the Sparrow Hill garrison.
“It’s me niece’s.” His thick and persistent accent betrayed him, he had been raised here. “She must ‘ave left it when they were sent away before the first battle. You ought to ‘ave seen ‘er face, milord, when first I came marching in with the garrison, all shiny and fresh like a new penny. You’d’ve thought ‘er old uncle’d been crowned King. ‘er father, me brother, too for that matter. All after calling me Sir and bowin’ ‘is ‘head when ‘e would pass me by in the streets. Foolishness all of it a’course. Still, took ‘em all a good long while to treat me like ol’ Bernard again. Even still, a-times when raiders or some other unsavory sort would try coming o’er our ‘ill and the garrison’d send ‘em back into their wilderness we’d all come a-marching on ‘ome all tired and what, and the ‘ole town’d be waitin’ at the edge o’ the ‘ouses cheerin’ and whoopin’ and hollerin’ and what. And e’rry time me big brother’d be standin’ out front ‘em all startin’ some daft song or cheer’n us about like we’d slain a bleedin’ dragon or what.” He stood, setting the doll on the mantle above the fireplace. When he turned towards the door Killian could finally see his tear-stained face. “Now me brothers sittin’ out yonder with the rest of the men, only difference is ‘is armor don’t fit ‘im, and ‘e’s never carried nothin’ like spear or pike ‘is ‘ole life. And ‘e’s scared. ‘E won’t admit nothin’ near it, but I can tell.” The soldier made for the door, stopping just as he was about to pass Killian, “I’m not lettin’ these—these—invaders” the man nearly spat the word “keep me ol’ brother from seein’ his girls again.” Suddenly, he whipped back around, strode to the fireplace, snatched the doll from the mantle, and stormed passed Killian into the evening shaking the doll over his head and shouting over his shoulder, “And I won’t let ‘em rank bastards keep my Lillian from getting’ ‘er li’le Sally back!”
Killian stood and watched as Bernard strode away from the house towards where the garrison men were keeping camp. The last rays of the westering sun shone all around him, lighting his hair with a glow as of golden fire. That man cared nothing for the legacy of Sparrow Hill, nor for great glory in battle, or praise upon return. He cared for his people, and they loved him. He cared for his homeland, and here even the sun paid tribute to his simple virtue.
“Nor will I, Good Master Bernard,” Killian breathed, “Nor will I.”