The Storyteller
Chapter 1
What we cherish
"My turn? Already? Fine, so be it. I will tell you the most harrowing tale you have ever heard. Perhaps the most human tale you will ever hear. Perhaps not. Perhaps this will be a tale which echoes within the souls of each of you men and women of true honour. I leave it to you...
'Many years ago, a village spokesman stood up strong and firm against a tyrant, the tyrant considered himself a king, a man amongst men. He, along with an army of well paid mercenaries numbering in their tens of thousands, swarmed village after village taking the little every village had, pillaging and killing where they could and leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. They had crossed borders from a territory I cannot name to the territory in question, which I too cannot name.
'They came as an endless wave which crashed mercilessly upon its first target. Blood split freely as though water from the rains of the most heavy of storms. As you can imagine news travelled quickly, as news does when devastation hits any single person's neighbour.
'The territory’s ruler was informed and his men were dispensed but every move the ruler made was a move too slow. For the tyrant used horsemen, and horsemen only to commit his raids. He went as far and taking spare horses to take away the resources, woman and slaves for his personal use and sale in outside lands.
'They were impossible to intercept, almost divine in their ability to follow the ruler's movements with his armies. With skill unheard of by any ruler he demoralised and weakened an army of one hundred and fifty thousand strong. Truly incredible.
'But unexpectedly a small village of little consequence won the war for the ruler. For this village, the village of little consequence was on a hill overlooking a large portion of the open plains and wheat fields that produced the finest of breads.
'Bakers and farmers watched as smoke billowed up to the skies, turning the heavens black. This baker and farmer led his comrades to hard labour, hundreds upon hundreds of men and women, the entire community, erected pikes and iron thorns across the lands before training in the simple yet humble art of archery.
'The largest man to the smallest child was equipped with a weapon, something completely unheard. No man bothers training women and children in the art of weapons for good reason. How would they stand when endless hoards fell upon them?
'This is a declaration to the leader's brilliance, for when the tyrant's men fell upon them like the rains of a monsoon, the village countered.
'Pikes and thorns were raised just as the attack came, the horses reared, the attack faltered but, not to be outdone, the horsemen pushed on while constantly being peppered with arrows, the counter attack was immense. The invasion slowed and threatened to falter completely but still the raiders pushed.
'Many men and women from the village were cut down by arrows shot in retaliation, a more filthy, bloody, fight ensued without swords ever being crossed.
'For, you see, the villages had no warriors, no soldiers and no aid from the ruler, only wood. Wood chopped into bows and arrows of the most inferior kind, but little criticism can be given to a wall of sharpened wood being hurled at you and if you survive, it would only be long enough to see another wall being sent. The raiders pushed only to collide with a wall of iron spikes the size of a human thumb tied to thick but flexible rope, made from iron, strengthened and bent into hoops.
'The horses entangled themselves and bucked, turning away from the wired barbs. And just like that the attack faltered, the day was won, but at great cost on both sides, the tyrant lost thousands while the village lost only six hundred, but those six hundred were fathers, grandfathers, uncles, sisters, mothers nieces, daughters, sons, friends of all ages. Their blood stained the walls so favoured by the members of the village. But there was little time to come to terms with their losses. There was a battle to be won.
