The Warrior

THE WARRIOR

Prologue
(Year 10 of King Lyorse)
The embers still falling from the keep burned holes in the back of his tunic and the blood that he was crawling in was still warm. He had to get to his father’s motionless body; the sword his father was gripping on to was the future of his clan. He had to hurry, the enemy was returning from the near by fishing village after a long night of pillaging, plundering, and rape. Most were still drunk, but even a drunken man was strong enough to stop him from his goal. He had to get the sword. He had to. He was a warrior.
Two men came up the hill singing in slurred voices to their pagan gods for the victory. The boy dropped himself to the ground; the blood splattered onto his face and began seeping into his clothes. Holding his breath the boy prayed that they would hurry. When two men passed the bloodied battle ground he began moving again between the bodies on his knees and elbows to his father.
He was almost there, inches away, his hand touched his father’s still body. He bent his tiny head over his father’ noble face, the dead grey eyes staring back at him, reminding him of his quest. He recalled his father’s words before the battle, “If anything happens to me, boy, take my sword and fight for the glory of the clan and me. You are a warrior.”
The boy’s fingers grasped around the hilt of the kingly sword. Rising from the ground he drew it from his father’s grip, not strong enough yet to raise it, he left its blade trail along behind him as he started running down the hill toward the men below. Crying out the ancient battle cry of his home, the boy slowly raised the sword over his head and charged into the enemy's camp.