War's Woes

Her body faltered as she ran through the woods.

It was once a good forest to her. A pretty forest. The air flowed through it in cold wisps, carrying the sweet music of songbirds and the friendly rustle of leaves. Faun trotted happily after their mothers as they sought fresh grass and the gurgling waters of streams, erupting from the hillsides and carving their way down to the valleys and plains.

But for Eriana, the forest had turned sour. The chorus of the birds was flat and sad, the leaves an irritable, unnerving crunch beneath her feet. The deer, of the few that remained, fled from her hurried gait. The refreshing breeze on a warm day was gone, replaced by the biting gusts of wind in the thralls of winter.

But it wasn’t winter. Summer was new upon them, and the sun’s rays worked tirelessly to penetrate the canopy above. Why, then, am I so cold? Eriana rubbed at the goose prickles on her arms, already knowing the answer to that question. She was cold because she was afraid. Exhausted, angry and afraid.

For the King had come to her homeland, and he had brought his army with him.

Eriana hadn’t seen it, no, but rumors are always woven from fibers of truth. She hadn’t wanted to believe them, but then Erran was called. Her brother was called to fight. And like an evil, gnarled tree, the rumors bore ill fruit.

Eriana’s foot caught in a root. She stumbled and fell, cursing. A rip sounded as her knee made acquaintance with an exposed boulder. She had no time to examine the damage to her body or breeches. I have to go. I have to find him. Eriana rose and balanced against the callous bark of a towering oak before pushing herself off into a haggard run.

The battlefield was far below, in the valley between two unruly hills. Between gaps in the trees she could see the light-green stretch of grass. Tiny figures moved like ants across it, and a low rumble marked their frenzy. The fight was in full motion before her.

Eriana descended the hill at a painfully slow pace, taking care not to fall again. She had to clamber over rocks and around the exposed root wall of a fallen pine. A cliff as tall as a horse, hoof to head, blocked her path further along, causing her to detour a hundred paces. Her heart raced at the thought of scaling down it, and she quickly discarded the idea.

Aye, her darling brother had taken up the sword at the first call. He hadn’t needed to go far. The war was brought to their town’s doorstep, only a few miles away. Men, she thought, always in such a hurry to run off and fight for causes hardly known to them. His urgency was such that he didn’t give a day to wish her farewell. She’d returned home from the market, black hair blowing in the wind, to find him gone. “You may have left me,” she said aloud, with a tinge of resentment, “but I can’t leave you. Not to this fate.” Her voice came unsettling in the uncaring forest. She felt unwanted by the land around her, so she pushed on.

The cliff and thickest trees well behind her, Eriana descended the rest of the hill with relative ease. The slopes were shallow, and the jutting rocks and roots fewer. The edge of the valley was near.

She felt a trickle against her leg. Sweat, she immediately thought, but a quick look down proved her hopes vain. The right leg of her breeches was torn and soaked red against her kneecap. She cursed again. I have no time for this. Erran needs me!

He was her only family. Their father had died to war. Their mother to the cold of a harsh winter. Erran cried terribly that night. She comforted her little brother as best she could, but she was only elder by a year. Her eyes were as red as his.

That was a distant memory ago. Erran had grown up hardened by their losses. They took whatever jobs they could in their town. He spent time at the sawmill, the butchery, tannery and smithy. She worked at the old temple, helping treat the sick. Whatever coin they could scrape together kept them alive and in their small house at the edge of town. Those were grim days until Erran brought home a girl. She had eighteen years, lowborn like them, but pretty. He was nineteen and happy, at least for a time…

Eriana pushed through a tangle of branches and the plain of the valley opened up before her. The armies fought further away. She could hear the drone of shouting and clanging of steel, broken occasionally by the blast of a horn, but a gentle rise blocked them from view. They had trod the soil beneath her, though. To even a blind man it would’ve been clear.

The grass was trampled by a thousand feet, men and horses both. Patches of softer earth had turned to muddy pits. Arrows sprouted from the ground like weeds, as did weapons, swords, spears, axes and broken polearms and shields of a dozen shapes. Despite all the damage, the field was marked yellow and white by dandelions and daisies, clovers and celandines. They survived the trampling and sought the healing power of the bright sun, beautifully relieving in their common complacency. but not even the flowers could lift her spirits, and her heart sank at the sight of the fallen soldiers. A trail of them crossed the field.

Had she not been accustomed to the stench of death from her time in the temple, Eriana would’ve retched. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, but the smells of the sick and dying were all to similar to those of a battlefield. She held her nerve as she walked up the field.

The first living soul she came across was a man in drab clothing. He wore a gambeson and a steel half helm but little else in the way of protection, and he’d paid for that unfortunate shortfall. An arrow protruded from his shoulder, and that looked the least of his problems.

“What brings you out here, miss?” the man said through a groan.

She could tell he was from her homeland. His accent was her own. She was nervous nonetheless, and her voice was brittle. “Looking for my brother. He wares a red tunic. Has black hair to his shoulders.”

The man gave a shaky laugh. “Lot of people like that. Could still be with the army. They’ve—oooh, that hurts—moved…off with their captains and lords.”

“He's a new recruit. He would’ve served at the front, no?”

“Oh,” was all he could say, deadpan. “He’ll be here then.”

Eriana left the man there and moved on. Her eyes scanned the fallen. They landed on red clothes and brown hair, black hair and white garb. A red tunic on a man too big to be her brother. Another her brother’s size but hair down to the small of his back.

For a horrifying moment, she thought she saw Erran. He had the same hair and clothes and looked the same height. But when she turned him over, the features were all wrong. A man her brother’s age, but not him.

“Looking for something?” a deep voice croaked.

A figure in full raiment laid nearby. He was armored in a breastplate, vanbraces and greaves, all muddied but fine steel. Chainmail underneath and linen under that, all covered by a surcoat. He wore leather boots and gloves of a quality Eriana only ever dreamed of owning. A helm sat beside him.

“My brother,” she said, rushing to his side. “He wears a—”

“Doesn’t much matter what he wears or don’t. We’re all doomed or soon to be. Too many of them. Ugly fight, miss. Just ugly.”

Eriana looked him up and down. His face was dirty but unharmed, as were his limbs. The damage was to his stomach, just below the protection of his chestplate. Then she realized the design on his surcoat: a crow with extended wings, black on stripes of white and red. “You’re a knight.”

“Took a lot of figuring to arrive to that, huh?” he laughed and coughed and laughed some more. “Aye, I’m a knight. For all the good it did me. Fine armor, fine horse. It meant naught.”

“How bad is it?” Eriana gently lifted his surcoat to get a look. It wasn’t good.

He slapped her hand away. “Go find your brother, miss. Leave me be, I have matters that need tending.”

Eriana stood and backed away. The man closed his eyes and made no attempt to move. When she looked back from her march further up the field, he was in the same position. The tending that his matters needed didn’t require movement, it would seem.

Despite it all, her hopes were rising. She hadn’t found her brother, which meant he could still be with the army. Still alive. Or maybe he’d never taken part in the battle. He could be protecting the army’s camp. He could be—

“Eriana?”

“Erran?” she turned towards the voice, excited for the briefest of moments, but found only disappointment there.

“I haven’t seen him. Haven’t seen much,” said Merkl. He was the innkeep’s son in her town, a husky youth with a strong jaw and sleepy eyes.

“Merkl, what’s happened to you?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Just woke up. Someone must’ve hit me head.”

Eriana examined him. There was a dent in his helm, but it had saved him. “Were you with my brother. Before?”

“We stuck together until the battle joined. Then things got out of control. Next thing I know I’m waking up here. The armies?”

“They moved on up the valley a ways.”

“Good,” Merkl said and sighed. “Forget all that.” He got up, discarding the axe still in his grip.

“Will you help me,” Eriana asked, “find Erran?”

Merkl shrugged. “Got nothing better to do.” He felt his head and winced. “This is just great.”

They searched the field together as the sun westered fast overhead. The sounds of the battle grew more distant with every minute. One side was driving the other back. Eriana knew for a surety which was losing.

She saw more men from her homeland than not. The faces, the clothing, four of every five. The knight had told the truth: her countrymen were doomed. But that wasn’t her concern. Hers was her brother. Let the lords do what they will, just leave her family out of it.

“How’d you find us, Eriana?”

“A courier,” she said. “He came with news and a good deal more. Had the town in a frenzy before he rode off. Once I knew the direction, it was a matter of following sights and sounds. Wars aren’t exactly quiet affairs.”

“You should’ve seen it,” Merkl said, a horrid wonder in his voice. “Their numbers. The size of their horses. The adornments on their armor and the hues of their banners. We’re a ragged band of nothings compared to them.”

“You shouldn’t glorify it, this waste of life.”

Merkl studied his feet and said nothing.

The drum of battle in the distance was suddenly overcome by another beating, this one growing louder, closer. Horses, Eriana realized, but she had no time to react. A band of riders appeared from a dip in the plains, headed straight for them.

“Not good.” Merkl’s voice took on a different tone, higher pitched and frantic.

The riders reined up beside them, brandishing lances and looking on with wild eyes. Ten of them in all.

“Terrible place for a midday walk,” one in the front said.

Eriana backed up but said as sternly as she could, “We’re looking for my brother, leave us to it.”

“That kind of thing takes place after the battle,” the man said. “Get gone from this place, before some ill befalls you both.”

“Ill has already befallen us,” Eriana spat. “Let us try and mend what we can.” It took all her courage to speak back to this man, tall upon his stallion. She didn’t let her voice waiver.

Her strength saved her, and the man only laughed. “Fair enough, miss. Point us towards the battle.”

She did. The riders pressed their horses into gallops and rode off towards the sounds of carnage.

“Phew,” said Merkle.

Eriana managed a weak smile. “Let’s keep looking.”

They came across two more living men, one a foreigner, the other from a town a dozen miles west of hers. The foreigner spoke in an accent thick as molasses, asking for aid. But there was nothing Eriana could do for him, even had she wanted to. His wound looked grave. It would take him.

The other had an arrow in the fat of his leg. With Merkl’s help, they broke and removed it. The man howled in pain but thanked them gratefully afterwards. Eriana and Merkl waisted no more time and moved on, doubt of ever finding Erran slowly spreading in her mind like a mold on bread.

Then, just as easy as he wasn’t, he was. They crested a small rise, rounded a patch of tall weeds and blackberry bushes and found him. He stood amongst the fallen, using a spear as a walking stick. Eriana couldn’t believe her eyes. She didn’t.

“Erran?”

But it was him. His hair, his tunic. When he turned, his face. Her brother’s face. His eyes lit up on hers. “Sister. But that’s not right.”

Eriana sprinted over to him, disregarding the throb in her knee. She hugged him fiercely. Looking him up and down with the scrutinous gaze of a mother. His tunic was cut at an angle across his chest, the fabric stained a darker red. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” he said swatting her away lazily.

But it wasn’t nothing, and when he tried to walk, he almost fell. Merkel moved to help her support him. A gust of wind rustled his blond hair into his eyes. “He doesn’t look great.”

“Take me home, sister,” Erran said weakly.

“I will.” Tears welled in Eriana’s eyes. All thoughts of anger and bitterness towards him washed away with those tears. She wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Merkel did the same on the other side.

The battle raged on, but the three of them, wounded in some way or another, wanted nothing to do with it. They made for the opposite direction, ambling towards home as the day marched on. Scavenger crows filled the skies overhead and added their caws to the rumbling sounds of war and the whispering of the wind across the valley floor.

It was, in truth, a lovely summer day.