Behldar sat in the pub on the night before the battle, having a bowl of hot stew and a tankard of ale.

A couple of soldiers, a pike man, a knight, and two other archers sat at a nearby table; their talk often loud and mixed with outbursts of laughter as now and then, one of the men grabbed one of the serving wenches and fondled her.

Behldar watched in silence as a soldier grabbed a young woman he knew, Leania, and fondled her breasts then pinched and patted her on the rump. The skin around his eyes tightened and his brow furrowed. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He gritted his teeth and his fingers tightened on the tankard of ale, their knuckles whitening. With a snarl, he half rose from his seat when he caught the pleading look from Leania, he sat back down and held his peace.

A short time later, she came and sat at his table for a few minutes.

“Behldar, I know you were angry with those men for being rude to me. I saw you rise and start over to say something to them and I’m glad you understood my look. You must not do anything when they act this way. I expect a certain amount of fondling. If things get too rough or if the men behave too badly, the proprietor will take care of it. I do not want you to get in trouble over me.” It was part of her job and she needed the work.

She was supporting an aged mother and father. Leania had been born to her parents late in life, an only child. She had no man to care for her and no brothers to ease her load. There weren’t many kinds of work a young woman could get. Work as a serving wench paid well, and gratuities came with the job.

“I know, Leania. I would like to put my fist in that soldier’s face but I won’t. I will not put your job in jeopardy. To my way of thinking, a man should stop and think of how they would feel if it were their sister or daughter being done that way and treat you serving girls the same.”

Leania reached out and covered his hand with her own. “Thank you for being so nice to me. You leave on the morrow for the battlefield, do you not? May the gods protect and keep you safe. I pray that you will return. I will miss you so. Now, I must get back to work.” She rose and returned to her duties. As he sat and watched, it occurred to him that he was alone with no one to care for him, no one to miss him. Maybe when the war was over and he returned, if he returned, he would call on Leania. She would make a fine companion to go through life with. At the present time, he didn’t want any one waiting, it wouldn’t be right, he wanted no one to have to wait and wonder, or to be left grieving if he should fail to come through the battle.

Belhdar felt a strange quivery feeling in the pit of his stomach, not from lack of confidence in his abilities. He worked rigorously from the time he was a young boy training to attain his rank of master archer. His weapon of choice being the siege-bow, constructed of fine hickory with a sunken handle, a draw length of thirty-two inches and a draw weight up to one hundred pounds. Beeswax made the wood gleam. He carried the arrows, crafted of wood with feather fletching, in a quiver made of fine leather.

Practice had often consisted of hunting expeditions, and though he had killed wild game many a time, never had he killed a man. He wasn’t sure how he would feel to have to kill another human being, but if his king felt there was a need for war, then so be it. Belhdar would kill if it were necessary, no matter how he felt. He had never been in battle, never fought in a war before and the thought of it made him giddy.

He finished his tankard of ale, stood and walked to the door. Then as he glanced around one last time, he noticed a dark figure with a hunchback, standing in the deep shadows of a corner. Belhdar knew not if it was a man or a woman, but a shiver ran up and down his spine as he stared at the figure for a few moments. But, feeling no personal threat from the person, he turned away and walked out into the night.

Under a sky heavily overcast with rolling dark clouds that gave a dreary feeling to everything, the king’s vast army gathered. King Ginse and his son, Prince Mair, led the procession of horse soldiers, foot soldiers, pike men, crossbow men, and archers.

Behldar checked his weaponry, put on his padded jack. The autumn weather was still too warm for it but the soft cotton that lined the battle-coat was extra thick to help deflect arrows and sword thrusts. He put his quiver of arrows across his back and joined his fellow archers.

People lined the streets or hung out the windows of buildings and houses, some to cheer, some to watch in silence.

Here and there, females in battle garb with weapons in hand, marched beside the men, for not all of the soldiers and warriors in this war were male. The fathers, mothers, wives, lovers, and children all watched, some, their eyes bright with unshed tears, others with tears streaming down their cheeks. Pride shone in the eyes of some, to know their loved ones served the king, would do battle and earn honor. Fear and anguish etched deep lines in the faces of still others.

Would their loved ones be returning? How many would fall on the battlefield, how many would give their lives to protect their loved ones so they could retain their freedom?

As Behldar stood watching and thinking, one of the young serving wenches ran toward a soldier and tugged at his arm. The soldier looked at her and then both began to run.

A loud bellow came from somewhere and a command of, “Cut them down!” A sword flashed as its owner plunged it into the fleeing soldier’s back. The young woman stood, staring in shock. Another command rang out for an archer.

With heavy heart, Behldar drew back on the bowstring and sent the arrow flying. He watched, eyes stinging from unshed tears as the young serving wench collapsed into the arms of her dying lover. They had paid a terrible price for wanting to escape the horrors of war.

Behldar knew that no matter what the reason for war, there would always be a heavy price to pay.

The vast army marched long and hard for hours, tired, sweaty, hungry, and thirsty, they came to a grassy expanse of hills lined with towering trees, oaks, cedar, and pine, facing the south. Here they made camp for the night and settled to wait for the Maritkans. King Ginse, Prince Mair, and their guard, all rode to the crest of a hill overlooking the battlefield.

The morning brought a heavy mist; rain would come before the day was over. They lit no fires for their morning meal of sharp cheese and goat’s milk. It seemed that the meal had just been finished when someone said that there was movement within the trees.

Behldar picked up his siege bow and, palms clammy with sweat, plucked an arrow from the quiver on his shoulder. He placed the arrow in the bow and stood ready. His knees wobbled and his stomach felt queasy, he prayed to his gods that he wouldn’t heave his morning’s meager breakfast all over the place. He also prayed to his gods that he, and his fellow fighters would live through this war to see another day.

From the sounds he heard around him, Behldar knew others were taking up their weapons as well. As he scanned the area, looking for signs of the enemy, he glanced at the crest of the hill. Prince Mair was waving his arms about, and then he turned and rode off with a small contingent of men towards a distant hill.

Behldar let his glance slide back down over the wooded area and then around his immediate area. The sound of a sword striking against chain mail brought his attention to a blonde haired young man standing a few feet from him. He seemed no more than a boy, at least five summers younger than Behldar. What was one so young and so fair doing in the middle of a battle? The young man wore chain mail and carried a sword and

Behldar wondered if the lad knew how to use it. Fear drained the boy’s face of color, his eyes seemed too large, and sweat poured from his brow. The lad wasn’t alone in his fear, Behldar felt a hot flush fill his body and a weakness threatened to overtake him.

Then other movement caught his eye and time for speculation was over, it was a Djuhah, one of the fearsome black clad warriors of the Maritkans. Other warriors and less trained soldiers followed behind. The battle was on.

Behldar watched in horror as a black clad warrior in swirling robes advanced and cut down a man right before his eyes. Then, Behldar saw a blindfolded black clad figure advance on the young blonde lad. He aimed at the blindfold and sent an arrow on its path, it struck true, and the warrior fell. “There lad, your attacker has fallen. See? They can be killed. Let defend our kingdom against these brutes!” He called out to the young man as he watched the Djuhah fall to the ground.

“Thank you, archer. That was fine shooting. My life is in your debt,” The lad called back. Now their attention turned once more to the battle, there was no time left for talk.

Soon Behldar was lost in the battle and arrow after arrow flew to its mark. His shoulders and arms ached from abuse of pulling the bowstring repeatedly for so long. The muscles in his legs felt strained and cramped from the wide-legged stance he took to balance as he shot the arrows at the enemy. Sweat streamed down his face and burned his eyes. He merely shook his head from side to side to send sprays of moisture flying off his skin. Relief from this horror and torture seemed far off.

A rain began falling, and now the battlefield was slick with mud and blood as well. The screams of men as they fell in battle, the clang of metal striking metal as swords clashed, rang in his ears. The dying screeches of wounded war animals, the stench of blood and death all around, made Behldar ill but still he fought, there was no time to think on the rightness or wrongness of it. He acted on instinct alone now. Just kill or be killed.

During a moment’s respite, when no one stepped forth to challenge him, Behldar took a deep breath and looked around. The king sat in the midst of battle, mounted, swinging his sword and surrounded by enemy. How had he left himself so open? He must have realized what he had done, for he turned toward the distant hill and gave a signal.

Behldar’s eyes followed in that direction; there on the hill was Prince Mair and his men. The prince unsheathed his sword and rode his mount down to circle the main body of the army. Prince Mair exchanged swordplay with some of the foot soldiers and then found a path to his father. The prince turned and yelled something to a soldier. The soldier looked from the prince to the king, and back to the prince. Then he turned and headed for the king. The soldier, with others herded the king back into the safety of his own army.

As Behldar watched, knowing that he was unable to offer aid, a Djuhah in swirling black robes, raised his sword and pierced the body of the prince.

The prince glanced down where the sword pierced his chest, his mouth opened as if in protest and he slumped to the ground.

Behldar tore his eyes from the sight as an agonized scream rent the air. A war beast had just gutted a soldier with its wicked serrated tusks. Now it turned its attention to a young dark haired lad. Once again, Behldar nocked an arrow and sent it flying.

"Die you filthy beast, die!” He spat the words out as he drew back on the bowstring. The arrow flew straight and fast, the force so powerful that it passed through the eye of the beast and into its brain. The beast reared, roared in pain, shook its massive head, and then slumped to the ground dead.

Its rider pitched backward off the beast and rolled, then sprang to his feet, sword raised, heading for Behldar. Before the beast’s rider was even half the distance, an arrow found his heart. The battle raged for hours and then, as if on some unseen command, the opposing army melted back into the trees.

King Ginse ordered his men to retrieve the body of his son, and his army gathered the wounded. Darkness descended upon the camp but again this night, they lit no fires. After a cold supper of hard, black bread and jerky washed down with water, everyone rolled into their bedrolls to sleep.

Morning dawned with a sky filled with sunshine, yet it brought no gladness. A stretcher made of blankets fastened to two poles, attached to a horse was brought forward carry the body of the prince. Then with the wounded, either mounted or being carried or supported by others, they turned toward the north and home.

They would return later for those who lives were lost in the battle. Their steps heavy, their hearts more so, as they stepped over the dead bodies of their own and their enemies' men, and plodded across the field.

The price of this war had been great.

©2001Bluecho

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