Unnamed Novel: Chpt. 1 Pt. 2
Sorren and Henry had developed, in their twenty years of constant companionship, the odd habit of starting their sentences at the exact same time.
“I hope Arrod gets here soon”. Henry observed
“I hope Arrod’s alright” Sorren mumbled simultaneously
The two shared a look, “One in the same, I should suppose”. Sorren chuckled. Much of the conversation had gone like this. One of them brings up a topic for conversation that quickly dies as both young men desperately trying not to think, or argue, about what Killian could be deciding right now.
“We should run militia men through drills again.” Henry suggested, “The garrison too, we’re a long way from The Civitas Fortis and it shows in their training.”
“Peace, Henry.” Sorren replied, “We have drilled them enough. They are tired and need all the rest they can get. Not all of us have the sinews of an ox and bones forged from steel.” Sorren laughed, a rare enough occasion. “Even you were not always so, Master Behemoth”
Henry shook his head, “No indeed, and I did not gain them by resting overmuch!”
Sorren raised his hand palm outward and bowed his head slightly, “Peace! Again, I say Peace!” He delighted in rousing his younger brother to vexation. “But let those of us who are mortal men rest when it is the hour. They have learned all they will from us, it is up to them now.”
“Then let the mortals rest.” chuckled Henry, “But you and I are members of the Order, so come and look at the hill with me. It may be we will see something new.”
The two then departed their secluded piece of forest and went south through the woods towards Sparrow Hill. The village was not far, only five minutes on foot to the clearing at its base. The hill rose some six-hundred feet into the air, a great giant looking out over the forest that spanned for leagues in all directions. It was bald but for the springy green grass that grew to a man’s knee all upon its slopes. In happier days children would run up its sides around this time of day to say one final farewell to the sun, which had since disappeared from the village below. Sparrows, too, would gather on its crest and sing their songs when the first pale rays of dawn lighted on the hill’s top. Henry had learned from one of the militia that when a young man first came to call on a woman, her father would often make him do so quite literally, instructing him to stand on the hill in sight of all the village and call the girl’s name. The poor men must do so until, should she so choose, the young woman calls for them to come down. One young man recounted how he had stood atop this hill calling for nearly an hour until his voice was quite ready to give out. Just then, the mother of his beloved came huffing and puffing up the hill. After she had regained her breath, she explained to the young man that her daughter, so overcome with joy to see her girlhood love calling on her from the hill, had wept until she fainted. The people of the village became so engrossed in tending to her, they had forgotten the poor boy on the hill! The two of them were married upon that same hill the next spring, as is the custom.
Now Sparrow Hill was a mass grave, littered with the remains of the slain, both invader and defender. Their blood stained the once-verdant grass, and the purulent corpses lay where once blushing brides had stood. Three battles had been fought upon that hill in the last week, and three-fourths of the militia had been lost. None from the garrison, yet. Though that seemed harder for the garrison men to bear. “There’s nothing for it,” Sorren said, shaking his head, “we need more infantry.”
“We need our archers atop the hill.” Henry retorted, again.
“These invaders have men enough to spare, even if we could take our bowmen up the hill unmarked, they would simply surround the hill. Then we would be besieged with nowhere to hide. And I needn’t remind you they have bows of their own.” Sorren made to poke Henry’s left shoulder, where an arrow had just missed him. Henry swatted his hand away.
“So, then we yield the hill? Wait for Arrod to arrive with the army? If we do, then we should hardly hope to have enough men to re-take the hill. Have we not held it long against a force three times our own?”
“Long indeed, and with bitter loss” Sorren gestured to the hill, “Better we yield them the hill and keep our lives to retake it, then die in its defense and lose it still.”
It had always seemed to Henry that were in most men’s hearts was hope, or the capacity for hope, Sorren had received a double helping of grim practicality. He had never been much moved by long odds, or the idea of dying a noble death for an honorable cause. Cold reason was ever Sorren’s companion. Indeed, often times, his counsel was, from a strictly logical standpoint, the soundest. But he never seemed to account for fighting spirit, or so it seemed to Henry. Men were made to overcome long odds, to stand in the face of hardship and certain death, then carry on undaunted. How could Sorren, who along with their adoptive father had nursed Henry to health when he was born frail and sick, not see that hope was worth having if for no other purpose than hope itself?
The silence stretched long. “I wish Arrod were here.” The two said in unison. They shared a brief and weak smile.
“As do I, and not only for the strength of arms that accompanies him.” The two had no need to turn. They were well familiar with both Killian’s voice, and his propensity to move without even the slightest sound. “It is a grim sight, my sons, but the by next spring, the grasses will be green again, and the men that fell there will rest forever in memories of their youth.
“Have you come to a decision, Lord Father?” Sorren asked.
“It seems to me that our choices are to retreat or lie among the slain.” Answered Killian.
“So, we abandon the hill?” Henry’s countenance fell, greatly disliking the thought of the hill taken, and the village sacked. Killian placed a tender hand on the young man’s shoulder, meeting his gaze.
“No indeed. We will lie among the slain.”