Dragonworld: The Drive For Power

Part 8: Never A Good Day To Die

The battle 

It's never a good day to die.

Yet, all wars bring death.

As his eyes looked over the battlefield, thoughts of the incoming fight filled his mind. On both sides, he saw scores of men lining up in formation. Many of those standing in that muddy field would soon be dead. 

A warrior's mind is never at rest before battle. His thoughts are haunted by the blood and steel to come, the clash of bodies, the stench of death. No one is safe when the killing begins. Yet neither does anyone want to be the one to fall.

Emotions stir. The heart starts pounding. Thoughts creep in. The primal faculties go into overdrive, sharpening every sense. 

Tallan Runik was no novice to war. He had stained his sword, and muddied his boots, countless times in the past. That still didn't erase the gutting pain in the stomach he felt before every new confrontation.

"Look at those bastards," he spat, drops of sweat rolling down his cheeks. "They'll be rotting in the mud by nightfall."

He rocked slightly, shifting his weight between his feet, knowing the inevitable was near. His mind was already racing ahead, preparing his body for the coming storm.

Instinct was starting to kick in.

Despite his bold words, something inside him stirred. His fingers tightened and loosened around the hilt of the sword, betraying the tension pulsing through him. His heartbeat echoed the distant war drums, each beat a reminder of the approaching clash.

The whispers of his fellow soldiers buzzed around him, punctuated by shouts of encouragement or final curses. Some muttered desperate prayers, hoping for favor from the gods.

The air hung heavy with the collective anticipation that gripped the entire line. The rustle of chainmail and the creaking leather resonated through the ranks. Tallan glanced down at his armor, touching it, stroking it, seeking comfort in its familiar features. Each touch was meant as a reassurance, a way to ease his mind.

Precious moments kept passing by. Slowly. The anticipation was getting to him. His heartbeat quickened, the steady pace now a frenetic tempo echoing the impending clash. He seemed like a kettle about to burst.

Tallan knew his group was to go first. As infantry armed with swords and shields, they were to probe the enemy defenses. It was a suicide mission. He just hadn't realized it yet. 

"They seem motivated," the man next to him whispered, as a collective shout rose from the other side.

Tallan looked at him, but said nothing. He needed to focus. He had been here before. This was nothing new.

The infantryman took a deep breath, the smells of wet grass, sweat, and mud filling his nostrils. The bitter stench of fear lingered beneath it all.

Counting to ten, he held it in. Then he released through the mouth. The slow inhale and exhale served as a way to focus his mind. 

As the distant war cries intensified, Tallan's body filled with energy. Rather than frighten him, the other side's shouts centered his attention. 

"Focus," he kept telling himself. His eyes zeroed in on the enemy line. 

That helped, at least for a little while. 

The commander started shouting instructions.

"Men! Get ready!"

The soldiers in the first lines gripped their swords, ready to draw them at command. The moment was near.

"On my command."