Thus is War

The battle was not going well.
         The Captain’s cloak cracked, whip-like, in the force of high altitude winds. Seizing the cloak, black and bordered with red, the wind jerked and pulled upon him, hoping to move him forward a few precious steps, the steps that kept him from his doom. Though he showed no effort, his strong frame fought the wind and held him in place. Mist became dew on his dull helmet, the color of ebony.
         A few feet before him, the lush grass of the hill bent over and ended. The world plummeted straight down from there for a hundred yards, a bare-earth cliff that seemed to have sprung from nowhere. At its base stood the Captain’s troops, sheltered from all wind by the massive height. Ahead of them, a large hill obstructed their view of the enemy and the enemy’s view of them. From his vantage point the Captain could see both sides, and he did not like what was laid before him.
         He raised his fist, and below him his soldiers pulled back once the message was relayed. The archers and the two mages continued their attacks, while the enemy army switched to tactics that were the same. Already it had been a long day. The soldiers on both sides fell into ranks and emitted exhaustion. Arrows half-heartedly zipped through the air and over the hill that hid his men from their targets. Morale was dropping.
         Some said that all who knew the Captain compared him to a wolf. The likeness suited him, everything about the way he held himself giving off a wild, yet graceful pride. He was a tall, lean man with a ragged length of black hair and tanned skin. Over tight-fitting clothes he wore plain black armor, the gold chain that fastened his cloak lying across his breastplate. Around his neck was a black scarf, trimmed in red like the cloak, and it too was made a toy for the wind.
         He let his eyes move down his troops to a figure he knew well. Standing amongst the archers near the back, he knew her by the white ribbon tied in her dark hair. She was one of the mages. The arrows that flew from her longbow shone brightly through the cloudy day, producing a brief wave of fire upon contact, but she was also weary. He began his climb towards her, mindless of the steep grade.
         The arrow slipped from her fingers before she was ready, like a creature with a mind of its own. The bowstring snapped harshly against her wrist, its powerful draw rushing back into place. The Captain caught her as she tired and stumbled forward, tears already streaking the smudges of dirt on her pale cheeks as the magic upon the wayward missile exploded. Screams rose up from the impact point, where civilians had gathered to watch the clash. Foolish adventure seekers, they finally scattered, this being the second time one of the young woman’s arrows had landed among them.
         She sobbed, swore, and brought her fist to his armored chest. “I can’t,” she said, choking on a cross between frustration and draining strength.
         Her name passed through his lips in an embracing way. The bow began to slip from her fingers. Suddenly, an intake of air passed through the ranks back to them, a gasp followed by tense silence. The Captain looked upward, his hand protectively falling upon the girl’s waist. He did not notice, having done so without thought. She looked up, not reacting in any way to his touch.
         They watched in forced quiet as a white form fell from the wispy clouds overhead, pure bat-like wings trailing limp behind its lizard’s frame. At the last moment the dragon turned and twisted, landing on its feet with an outward rush of air from its widespread wings. Its long, serpentine neck swung around, and it watched the armored mage upon its back fall to the ground, limp and broken.
         The Captain’s gaze shifted yet again. An enemy lanceman, horse and rider clad in silver and blue, charged over the hill. Though the archers felled him quickly, he managed to take several of the Captain’s men upon his spear. This bloody, but suicidal attack was repeated by another mounted man, and then by a third. The lines began to waver as the carnage continued.
         He turned back to her. She, like the rest of his soldiers, was clad entirely in black; the red markings were his alone. Her armor was black leather and light, allowing her to move easily.
         “This is pointless,” he said, seeming to look past her. “Will you go?” The dragon had taken flight again, passing overhead, the dark shadow it cast momentarily plunging them into darkness. Wounds stained red its otherwise pure and glorious frame, drops of its black-crimson blood falling around them.
         “I will,” she said after an eternity, a year, an hour, a moment of silence, “try to end this.”
         He watched her mount the dragon more than twice as tall as he, ever maintaining a look of majesty. His scarf and cloak made an attempt at life in the wind off the dragon’s leap into flight, then fell dead once again. Everything and nothing on his face and in his eyes, he watched her soar. The mages were a lucky few, chosen to touch the skies by the Gods themselves. He longed.
         The dragon glided upon powerful currents, beating its wings only once in a long while. Above it all, she saw the lancemen continuing their charges one by one, and she saw those behind her only just bringing them down. It had to stop soon. She closed her eyes as she passed through gray and wet fog, shifting winds throwing strands of her hair across her face. She glimpsed a red-rimmed cloak before the dragon banked to correct their course, and she grasped at courage.
         The dragon circled, the lancemen directly below them now, knowing what she needed to do. She felt the wind flowing past her and nodded to herself. There was no turning back now.
         “Everbero!” Her shout was lost to the wind, but the spell was still kindled by the word. A bow of glowing fire formed in her hand, and her aim was flawless this time as she fired a burning arrow from its string. The dragon thrust his wings down, carrying them away from the explosion and towards the rest of the opposing troops. She took an uneasy breath when she saw them, a thousand men awaiting command, a number that could easily devastate the Captain’s smaller forces. They would move to strike soon.
         Driven by this thought, she held her breath and felt her heart jerking rapidly. She prayed for strength enough as they circled once, then swept her hands through the air and declared, “Glacialis!”
         The world swirled around her and a painful light assaulted her. Then the spell worked. Everything before her was engulfed in an unnatural blizzard. The snow howled, and the dragon bore her back to the now-mounted Captain, whose horse danced and whinnied with its rider’s anticipation.
         Leaving the dragon behind, she nodded. Her body obeyed her mind’s commands slowly. The Captain looked over his men, who still knew only torment and tired minds.
         “They do not know what you have done,” he said.
         She saw them as well and felt their hopelessness. “Get me a horse; I shall strengthen them.”
         He shouted for a mount to be brought for her, and one was, a tall black to match his own. He dismounted and stood beside her. He expected some healing magic from her and did not approve, seeing her weariness, but something about her look told him this was not her plan. There was a silent talk between them. When it passed, he removed his scarf and wrapped it around her waist, his hands brushing over her. She smiled a secret-keeper’s smile, but did not look at him. Bearing that hint of red, she could now command as he did.
         She mounted and kicked hard, the horse springing out beneath her, carrying her light frame with haste. The Captain followed. The soldiers saw her, the scarf billowing out behind her and began to lift. If she could know strength, then so could they. The sight of their Captain, his cloak snapping and his head held proudly breathed courage unto them. She rode before them, bent low over her steed’s neck, passing by each rank. Then she halted and looked over them without a word.
         The Captain took her side and turned his horse towards the enemy troops. He drew his sword, a silvery blade, its black hilt topped with a scarlet gem. He pointed it.
         And his men charged.
         As the troops rushed past, their lips met, and they knew nothing but the clash of armor and the empowered shouts of men.

And thus is war.
-fin
11-05-05