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Standing before the entrance, my body creaked and groaned. I had forgotten what the saddle does to you. And the sword on my hip felt like a dead weight, an anchor. It made my bones sag.
My saddle and my sword. We knew each other well and had ridden to many an encounter. As importantly, we had always returned. Together. Two long ago companions that had become strangers.
Muscles in open rebellion, my arm pushed against the door. I felt weary. The kind that youth ignores and age endures. I wanted to just stop. Just go home. But rage burned inside me. Fuel that put one foot before the other.
Back home peace had replaced my two companions. Along with unlocked doors and uncovered windows, I loved viewing the woods and not fearing what might lurk within. Loved walking about and not looking over my shoulder. Peace had become as ardent and passionate a lover as any I had known. In her arms, she made war, battle, and death memories I no longer recalled. Or lived with.
My mind wandered back. Had it been a week ago? I sat enjoying evening dinner and noted torches reflecting off my windows. No shouts, no cries. Except for the flames crackling and snapping, silence ruled. Opening the door, my eyes widened at the sight of the village's inhabitants standing before me. An elder pointed off to the distance, where the unfinished church blazed an inferno of light. "Four hooded riders came in. Everything we had was in that church. They took it all. Left us nothing. On the way out, they set it afire. They didn't need to do that."
I gazed out over the sea of faces. Whenever I had gone to the village for groceries, I noted the church had one more beam, one more nail, one more floor tile. Every day at noon the villagers stopped to gather at the unfinished structure. Despite having next to nothing, they never missed an opportunity to express thanks and gratitude for what they had. And each time, a woman holding a small, gray, money bag moved among them for the villagers to give what they could. My eyes came to rest on that woman. She stood silent, stoic. Yet underneath, emotions roiled and tears threatened to burst. I looked back to the church, watching the hopes and dreams of a good people turned to smoke, then vanishing wisps.
The crowd parted for a young girl leading a horse. Their best horse. Not the fastest, but strong, sturdy. It would not flinch nor frighten easily. In that moment, I understood with the clarity of sunrise. For our peace to return, I would wage war.
My arm pushed the door open. I do not know what the people sitting before me saw in the entrance. They rose, walking off to the sides. In an instant, long buried reflexes roared to life. Weariness fled my bones, nerves tingled to full alert. I stared at the small, gray money bag sitting atop a bar stool. A bar stool! The rage burning within blazed from my eyes. My hand closed around a warm hilt. Below it, cold steel hissed as it emerged.
