Chapter I, Wartimes

Blackwreath spends some time to think about the situation he and his men are in.

Rolan Blackwreath, an elven warrior of the Darkblade clan, leaned on one of the wooden beams holding up the large tent. He scanned the place for several minutes, watching the rhythm of the singers, dancers, and musicians that reveled within. The tent was nearly full, with at least sixty heads filling up the room. Several knights, still in their heavy armor, sat on stools while they stomped their feet and clapped their hands to the rhythm of the music, adding an almost hypnotic tone to the already alluring sound. Infantrymen and women, servants, and even a few clerical priests danced alongside each other, all while an overwhelming sense of joy filled the tent.

He walked through the thick of it, all the way to the other end of the tent where a makeshift bar was set up. He motioned to the barkeeper for a drink as he sat down on a nearby empty stool, leaning halfway on the bar as he did. Looking to his left, he recognized the knight sitting next to him.

Hadin Aurith was his name, a promising young elven knight recently drafted into the war effort from the Skyraven clan. Blackwreath had be in battle with him the night before, where they had achieved a major victory against their foes. He saw him single-handedly fend off three scalewarriors, vile dogman-like creatures, to defend a fallen comrade. It was because of Hadin that the lad was still alive tonight…

He looked back to the rest of the company in the tent, and suddenly realized how much of a young lot they all were. Of the elves, all were under the age of two hundred. In human age, that would make most of them roughly seventeen to nineteen winters old. The few humans there were mostly militia from the neighboring farmlands, although there were a few soldiers and knights from the eastern human kingdom as well. The oldest human he could make out was likely in his early thirties, though the rest were much younger.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see the barkeep hand him his stein of ale. He dropped a coin and nodded his thanks, then turned back at the young group of soldiers, still seemingly frolicking with joy in the blissful scene.

But he knew better.

They were all quivering in their boots. Frightened beyond what their young minds could handle. They needed a distraction, if only for their sanity’s sake. He knew this well, as he had gone through it himself when he was a youngling. He’d seen many of his fellow comrades lose their minds from the horrors of war, of battle, and bloodshed…

He was suddenly reminded of a infantrywoman he was rather fond of several hundred years ago, when he was still a recruit. She had witnessed her sister brutally slain in battle, and took her life the next morning, by impaling herself through the heart with a spear. Blackwreath was one of the unfortunate recruits who found her body propped up aside the wall of the barracks.

Quick in wanting to forget that particular memory, he took a large swig of his ale.

Now, though, he was the war-herald for the Darkblade clan’s warrior caste, which essentially made him the recruiter of the warrior caste, and the administrator responsible for the surrounding region in the Darkblade territory. However, his expertise in combat was required out in the field, far to the east, farther than even the eastern human kingdom.

So these soldiers in this tent were his responsibility. They looked up to him as the rallying spirit of the battlefield. It pained him deeply whenever one of them were injured, let alone killed.

But now, thinking of their next battle tomorrow… He knew success was less than likely. He knew that many would die in the morning. Many good men and women, all were sons and daughters, some were even young fathers and mothers… He knew that even he himself might very well die. But that was the risk he was willing to take… No, he had to take.

It was a necessity, because if their enemy was allowed to advance any further, they would likely be slaughtering innocent merchants, farmers, and peasants within the month. Not only of elven blood, but of human and dwarven blood as well.

He took another swig of ale.

He thought about standing and breaking up the festivities to give a speech to his soldiers. To tell them that they were of special breed, and that their service would be greatly rewarded once they defeated their enemy and were able to returned home. And tell them they were all valued, and would be remembered as heroes, with hymns written and monuments erected to their heroism, all of which was to be an inspiration to their grandchildren…

But he thought better of it, and it made more sense to let them have their fun of it all, for now at least. It would be the last joyful moment many of them would ever have… So let the young have their fun while it lasted.

He sat there for at least an hour, occasionally sipping ale, in between watching the many of the individual dancers and singers, some of which he personally knew, while others were merely acquaintances. Despite the heavy thoughts weighing on his mind, he was still able to smile at the happiness he saw in the faces of his soldiers… Of his family.

He impulsively wiped away the beginnings of tears from his weary eyes. Tears of pride.

Perhaps I’m wrong, he mused, Maybe we’ll all pull through, and achieve total victory, like last night.

But despite the wishful, ale-infused thought, he still knew better…

He took one final swig, his stein now dry, and continued to enjoy the rhythm and of the dance and song for the rest of the night.

And said a silent prayer for each and every one of them. He knew they would need it for the coming morning…

Reviews

[Unam]

Very professional writing, it is like reading a published book! It's flow is great, simplicity of the details allows full understanding yet detailed enough to describe it all. Great Job!