Andesia

i: Waiting on a War

    It was all he had ever wanted.

  To finally be in a field such as this, with the sounds of an impending battle surrounding him, was once merely a wet dream for him. He was a pawn in this war, yes, but a well-paid one at that. He looked around, seeing an army—his army—well over a thousand swords strong, with his allies' armor glittering and twinkling around him and instruments harmonizing with one another in the distance. With how intimidating they all looked, he was grateful he was being paid to be a part of them. His sponsor had also, thankfully, provided him with a new set of armor, replacing his tattered, well-worn leathers of what is now his past with some fancy, well-adorned leather-steel hybrid that hardly restricted movement while offering more protection than a standard set of what most would call light armor. He placed his right hand on his steel saber, a weapon he has owned and cared for for half his life, and prepared to pull it from its sheathe. The bellowing brass horns and war drums from afar comforted him as he braced for the gore and bloodbath this battle was soon to produce.

  He braced himself for the charge. The sun had moved quite a distance as the soldiers and mercenaries congregated and the uppers strategized our attack. He wondered how much everyone else was being paid to be here, all those out here fighting for their cause and unified goal instead of for a pouchful of gold. The charge would be soon, he thought. Was it unfiltered thinking or hope that had brought about that thought? Regardless, the thought was in his mind, and the only thing that would replace it would be blood being spilt by his incredible swordsmanship. He was tired of waiting, and his bloodlust slowly overtook his spirit.

  "So, Cliffe, how many marks you plannin' to put on the hilt today?" It was an ally, a name he did not know but a face and a suit of armor he recognized with enough fondness to not thrust his blade into it.

  "Enough," Cliffe nodded, feeling the tally of his kills with his saber all over the bottom of the weapon. Seven hundred twenty-one kills with this weapon alone. Seven hundred and twenty-one lives taken, lives whose blood had been spilt on and by this blade, sheathed in his ornamental sheathe, made from some ceremonial leather as a gift to himself for his twenty-third birthday, two years and some months before. Seven hundred and twenty-one deaths, all paid for by someone with too much damned money to spend, or a vendetta against someone. Seven hundred and twenty-one people in the wrong place at the wrong time, or perhaps the wrong country when someone like his various sponsors desired his blade through their arteries.

 Through all this, he was still a free man, having had most everyone turn a blind eye to his actions and those who didn't either feared or admired him. For he was Cliffe Caswell, one of Ruvia's greatest warriors, dangerous for his renegades and known for being one of the most lethal sword-for-hires in the Ruvian peninsula. Not a single person who knew him knew his exact kill-count, nor was anyone willing to count. There were simply too many bodies left rotting, buried or not, all dead to the same source: him and his rapier. To Cliffe, it was no longer a job; it was a lifestyle at this point. He could not and would not turn back, even if given the chance. Not only was there too much money to earn with it—money was everything in this hellhole of a country, which reminded him that he needed to return to Cerdon to his sponsor for payment once the battle was over—but it was fun.

  Cliffe began bracing himself for the battle and decided to look out to the field to ease some of the tension and save his energy for the coming conflict. Ahead of him, down the slight hill his side's encampment was positioned at, was, as one could expect, a mostly clear field sized what Cliffe eyeballed as several hectares. The ground was covered in lush green grass with minimal bushes, as someone was paid to come out here and annihilate the local flora. There were some marks and visible absences where trees and other plants once were, but those would not—hopefully not, Cliffe thought—impede the battle, at least in any way against his side.