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Date Posted: 20:24:49 02/13/02 Wed
Author: Tuatha De Danaan
Subject: A story Part 1

With an exhausted grunt of effort Killandra raised her sword and with a deep intake of breath, brought it down through the full force of weight and momentum into the skull of the enemy. Another battle. The man crumpled, instantly dead. Killandra wrenched her blade from shattered bone and tissue with a sucking squelch, a sickening sound, one she would never grow used to.

Oh, the harpers told of the glories of battle, the victory, the brave daring and skill - but they never told of the stench that assaulted your nostrils, bringing chocking vomit to your throat. Nor of the screams that scalded your ears, nor the blood that clung foul and sticky and slippery to hands and fingers, or spattered face and clothing.

She turned anxious, aware that a cavalryman was vulnerable on the ground. Her stallion was somewhere to the left, a hindleg injured. The horses. No harper, no matter how skilled, could ever describe the sound of a horse screaming its death agony. There was no glory in battle, only the relief that you were still alive when it was all over. Her sword poised ready to strike but she found to her surprise that there was no one before her. Eyebrows raised, she watched the final scenes of fighting with dispassionate indifference of an uninvolved spectator.

For how long she stood, she couldn't guess but the battle was over. Her emerald green eyes surveyed the carnage before her, glancing at the dismembered corpses strewn across the battlefield. Limbs from friends and foe lie together, a distorted mural of humanity. The wails of the wounded and dying, whisper on the breeze. The women of the villages walk amongst them. Filching coppers or anything of value as they look for loved ones. Fathers, brothers, husbands, lovers and sons, their thin faces had hardened from previous losses. Occasionally one would take pity on the dying, ending their life quickly with a deft slice to the throat.

Aye this war has been one of the bloodiest, the soil rich with the iron of blood, thick upon the air one could almost taste it. She looks to the sky, watching the circling crows. She knows they will soon feast, the laws of the land wait for no man be he king or commoner. The circle of life is eternal.

Turning her back from the grief below her, she looks to the men of her company. Watching as the young vomit uncontrollably, their shaking bodies racked with grief, sorrow and with a great sadness she knows those that have stayed have just lost their innocence. The God of War, sought his minions in the first battle of their youth. What he saw in their heart shadowed them for the rest of their lives, some haunted by the bloodletting others slept like babes. What they soon become is hardened shells, empty and devoid of humanity. Swords for hire, frowned upon by the knights of the land as they deem them unhonorable. Those who fight for coin were slighted in most of the kingdoms.

Some perchance are offered homes in castles, the Lord who hired them finding them valuable in service. They were the lucky ones. She remembers one of the first bands she rode with and Old Tomas. His knowledge of warfare was legendary and many of the Ducal sought his service, but his taste for freedom, wine and women were just as legendary.

When Tomas was in his fiftieth year, she remembers sitting with him in a run down barn eating two day old tack and hearing the words she knew would come one day. "Lass, I am but an old man, my sight is going and though ye be covering for me, sooner or later I will fail. Tis time for me to sit by a warm hearth, for my bones ache with every day on these blasted creatures. "Winter and I have become mortal enemies, old age takes my body, and whilst my mind still works I will be of service to someone. So Lass I will be leaving ye at the next stop, though ye are like a daughter to me, I hope ye understand."

She had understood, but it hadn't made it any easier to watch him go and her eyes looked upon him as a man, an old man whose back was bent with the weariness of a lifetime of war but whose mind was sharp. Sharp enough to continue, even though his hand was stayed.

What would be her fate? Her thoughts have been chaotic, never before did she question her role in life. Nor what she did for a living. Why now? Why after all this time would her mind and heart collide and roll with turmoil that disturbed her sleep and her waking moments. A tiny furrow creases her sweat-encrusted brow as she ponders the timing of her conflict. "The Medallion" That was it! Her heart hammers in her chest at the memory, a cold chill slides down her back causing her to shudder involuntary. Her hooded eyes search around the camp to see if anyone noticed, there were still those that sought omens at every tweak of a finger or shake of the body. Just her luck to be suddenly found "cursed" when her thoughts were elsewhere.

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