Child of War (Tales of Autcrem)

Chapter one, the Crimson Fields

The crimsons clouds rolled over a crimson sky as a crimson field slowly bled into the earth. A great battle had been waged, and it seemed the entire world turned crimson from its endless bloodshed. Body's scattered among the fields and hills. A stream lay polluted with corpses as blood drained from them. Crimson was what the world became; crimson is what it would stay. For almost a hundred years had the world turned into a crimson land of blood. For nearly a hundred years had the earth drank it all. For nearly a hundred years, did the earth ever yearn to be rid of the coppery taste of blood. Yet it was still spilled on its polluted dirt, and so it drank. Nature was tired of living off death. The animals were tired of eating corpses.

The crimson battle had ended many hours ago. Vultures, crows, and ravens ate their fill, but they were tired of eating the corpses of man, elves, orcs, and dwarves. Among the ocean of corpses sat a child. A child who was no older than fourteen. A child of war.

He sat on top of a mound of corpses. In his bloodied hands, he held a magnificent bastard sword. Its steel shined like the sun, stung like the frost, cut like the wind. It was a long sword that reached far past his head because he was a short child. He kept it tucked in his arm like a baby would hold it's blanket. He had claimed many lives with it.

His armor was as white and pure as snow. It was splattered with crimson blood that stood out like a black sheep. His hair matched it if not brighter. Like the purest of snow but wavy like a flow of wind. His eyes were a deep red like the crimson blood that splattered him. His face had grown a little harder from all the fighting, looking less like a child's every day.

He watched the dead battlefield as he sat on his mound of corpses. In this field of black death, of crimson blood, he shined like a bright white star. Splattered with crimson yet still so pure. The blood would wash right off without a stain. It always did. Just like the death washed off him. He stopped feeling things long ago. Now they pelted him like pebbles that bounced off of his still armor.

The corpses were that of pointy-eared elves, green-skinned orcs, and scaly snake-like humans called Sac'lo. Those corpses were being burned. The smell of burning flesh pierced through the air and burned his nostrils. A smell he had long grown accustomed to.

This child who sat on his mound of corpses. This child that lived in a sea of crimson. A world of death. He walked in a land of corpses. His life was to spill crimson, to pile corpses, to create death. This child grew accustomed to the smell of burning flesh. To kill people and do it well. This child was a sad reminder of what the world had become. A world where children learn to kill.

"Hensei," A voice called to him through the crimson field. The child turned his head to see an old friend he had held on too for a longer time. Baz was his name. He had tan skin and was a bit taller than Hensei. He had black leather armor for he preferred lighter armor then Hensei. His huge wide-brimmed black hat shaded his eyes from the crimson sun. Though he always wore it, it still seemed newly made. At his side was a saber long and sharp.

"Breaks over. Sarg wants you back on burning duty."

"Fine, fine," Hensei said, rising and sheathing his sword. His sheath had to reach far past his hip for the length of his sword was too long to hold it normally. They unbuckled their swords as they began dragging corpses and tossed them in the flames. Neither feeling much as they tossed corpse after corpse into the flames. Why should they feel anything for these things? They weren't human.

"You hear Micky died?" Baz said casually as they worked.

"Micky?" He thought, trying to remember.

"Dark hair. Stared a lot," Baz said as another corpse was thrown into the flames.

"Oh yeah, I talked to him a few times. Seemed like a nice kid." They went to an elf's corpse and began stripping his slim armor off. They wanted those melted down. Its pointy ears had been cut off, and its huge gut wound was festering with flies. The smell was horrible, but they had grown used to it.