by Doug Kelly
In the heat of this battle, Aton lost concern for himself. He was not an individual man, but a real warrior serving under a warlord’s banner. He felt like he was actually a part of something. A single desire welded him into the common personality that dominated his group. He felt his bravery might be overshadowing the need for self-preservation and thought that if his position was about to be conquered, only then he would run, but only so that he could continue fighting and not because he was afraid of anything. At least that is what he told himself.
He had a consciousness of the presence of his comrades around him. In the line of men, he had finally felt the camaraderie of battle. It was a mysterious fraternity born from the danger of death. He was not exactly sure of the true reason for the battle. Was it simply for conquest and plunder?
He began to feel the effects of combat, a blistering sweat, a burning sensation in his eyes, and the roar of battle cries filling his ears. A red rage followed the effects of his battle stress. He developed a feeling of vexation, like a rabbit chased by a dog. He was mad that he could only shoot one arrow at a time. He wanted to rush forward with a sword and kill them all before they killed him.
There was a blare of heated rage mingled with a certain expression of focus on all faces. Many of the men were making guttural moans; those restrained snarls, expletives, and prayers made a wildly barbaric melody that expanded like an undercurrent of sound, a strange mantra with the resounding harmonies of the war march. A man beside Aton was jabbering to himself, apparently trying to calm his own nerves with a soliloquy of self-encouragement. Another was swearing in a loud voice, apparently upset that his clan leader had left them in that position, all alone, to defend the hill.
Someone maniacally screamed, “They’ve abandoned us!”
Aton was in a battle trance and only heard it like someone half asleep. The men, bending and surging in their haste and rage, were in every possible position, but there were no heroic poses. The swordsmen knew their position in battle, the front lines. The men from Aton’s group began making their way down the hill. As they approached, they banged their swords against their shields in unison to show their solidarity to the enemy and express their resolve to fight. They looked like marionettes under the direction of an invisible puppeteer who was walking them into a meat grinder.
Bloody men dropped around them, like red apples from a tree during autumn. The enemy had killed one of Aton's nearby commanders in an early part of the action. His body lay on the ground in a contorted position. An arrow hit the shoulder of someone nearby. He cried for mercy and ran away. When an arrow hit another, the man grunted as if a club had hit him in the stomach. Farther down the line of men, a soldier’s legs disappeared instantly when a catapult stone tore them from his body. His cries of pain were short lived and muted by the soft ground as he lay face down in the dirt, and died.
As a resounding cheer came from his fellow archers, Aton came partially out of his battle sleep and realized that the enemy was moving back. He saw that Grinald’s men had repulsed the charge. They had disseminated the adversary into scattered groups. The evil enemy waves had receded. He was grimy and dripping with sweat like a slave in the fields. He grasped his gourd of water and took a long swallow. It was warm from the heat of battle. He turned to look behind himself, to the right and to the left. He experienced the joy of a man who at last had found a reason to stop and appreciate the sight of his accomplishment. However, scattered on the ground, there were a few grisly forms lying motionless. The dead had nothing to celebrate. They lay twisted in grotesque contortions of death. Combat had bent their arms and necks, turning them in unbelievable ways.
From a position in the rear of the grove, Grinald’s forces were still pelting the enemy with catapult stones. A small procession of wounded men plodded drearily toward the rear, like the flow of hemorrhaging blood from the body of battle. From his elevated position, through a clearing in the trees, Aton saw horsemen go dashing along the line of the horizon toward the town of Kern. From the distant hill came the receding sound of cheering and clashes. As he listened to the commotion from the hillside, he heard far away battle cries, the clash of steel swords, and men still screaming from the pain of death. It occurred to him that the fighting surrounded them. The forces of war had spread death and battle all around. There was enough misery for everyone. As he gazed upon the battlefield, Aton felt a flash of amazement at the pure-blue sky and the sun gleaming on the trees and fields. It was relieving to see that the serene world continued tranquilly in the midst of so much carnage.
Aton woke fully from the battle trance and came back to a place from where he could judge himself. All day long, he had been scrutinizing himself in a confused way, as if he were a stranger. Then he picked up his quiver from the ground. He swung his satchel over his back and inspected his body just to make sure he did not have any unseen wounds. He mopped the sweat from his face. He had attained a personal victory that day. He had finished the utmost test of a man, bravery in the face of death. He had not run away in fear. He had defeated the difficulties of war. He was ecstatic. Survival was the most pleasant feeling of his life. Standing as if apart from himself, he had viewed that last image of battle and believed what he saw in his mind’s eye. He had seen himself as a magnificent man, a true warrior. He smiled in profound satisfaction with his performance under stress. His father and cousin would be proud of him.
There was some forearm clasping and congratulations with other men, whose features were vaguely familiar from the march to battle. Aton now felt the bond of unity gluing them together with the shared blood of combat. While he was helping a man bind a bleeding wound, he heard the ranks cry in amazement. He heard someone distantly yell, “They are charging again!” Aton quickly turned wide eyes to the valley. He saw throngs of men begin to swell in masses out of the distant woods. He saw a new enemy’s flag tilted forward at the front of the stampede. A distant clan had come to the aid of the town to which Grinald had planned to lay siege, which was just past the clearing in front of them, the city of Kern. The tide of the battle might turn and that greatly concerned Aton. Catapult stones, which had stopped troubling them for a time, came whirling again, and exploded in the grass or among the leaves of the trees. After impact, the dust looked like gray phantoms floating in the air, or mysterious spirits leaving a battlefield graveyard.
The men groaned. The gleam faded from their eyes. Their soiled expressions now conveyed a deep sadness. They moved their stiffened bodies slowly, and watched with a brooding disposition the wild approach of another enemy. Aton stared, as he hoped that another dreadful thing was not about to happen. He waited to shoot because he expected the enemy to turn and run. Kern’s counter attack had to be a mistake. This could not really be happening. The arrows began to fly again and Aton frantically went to pull spent arrows from the ground to replenish his quiver. His eyes appeared as if they belonged to a startled horse. His legs quivered with nervous weakness and the muscles of his arms felt numb and bloodless. His hands seemed large and awkward, as if he were wearing invisible mittens that did not allow his fingers to do anything fast enough. He felt fear rising in his body again.
He began to exaggerate the endurance, the ability, and the courage of those who were coming. As he suffered from exhaustion on the hilltop, he was astonished beyond belief at the enemy’s tenacity. Evil demons must possess them. He slowly lifted his bow, and after catching a glimpse of the low ground, he sent arrows flying at the adversary. He saw the field covered with men who were all running like tracked rabbits and yelling. To him, it was an onslaught of mighty demons.
An archer near him, who had been sending lethal arrows at the enemy, suddenly stopped and ran. He had no more arrows. All the swordsmen and men with spears had gone to the stream valley to protect the high ground. There was really no buffer between him and the enemy, except a narrowing distance. The enemy was approaching.
When the man closest to him retreated, Aton blanched like someone who was walking t
o the gallows. In that moment of weakness, he had an epiphany of survival. He ran like a rabbit, too. Others began to scamper away. He turned his head, and saw others fleeing desperately, eyes wide, nostrils flared like a racehorse near the finish line. For a moment in the confusion, he felt like a lost orphan child. His sense of direction vanished. He felt death threaten him from all sides. Immediately, he sped toward the rear. His quiver, gourd, and satchel bounced wildly against his body. His face contorted from the horror of all that he had imagined could happen to a man in battle. He ran like a blind man. Two or three times he fell down. Once he tripped on a tree root and went face first to the ground. Turning his back to the fight had magnified his fears. An arrow between the shoulder blades was far more horrible than death confronting him face to face. As he ran, he blended with others who had retreated. He vaguely noticed men in his peripheral view and he heard crashing footsteps behind him. He thought that everyone was fleeing, pursued by red-eyed demons. In his flight from battle, the sound of his comrade’s following footsteps gave him a meager sense of relief. He knew that a pursuing death would make a first choice of the men who were nearest to the chasing demons of war. The first scraps for the pursuing monsters would be those who were behind him. Therefore, he became a sprinter in a race for his life. As he ran across a field, the thick weeds slowed his progress. An arrow whistled by his ear, so he went low to the ground, but realized that remaining in one spot would make him easier to hit, so he stopped groveling on the field, sprang up, and went sprinting through some bushes.
To his astonishment, he saw a rush of warriors going to reinforce the weak battle line. He marveled at the sight of a group of men willing to march into the mouth of war. Later he came upon another commander eager for the spoils of war and a battle victory that was slipping through his fingers. There he walked slowly by and listened to men discussing strategies with the war-hardened man on horseback, and others galloped back and forth, constantly updating the status of the skirmish. Sometimes other horsemen surrounded the mounted man, and at other times, he was alone. Aton’s growing contempt for all of it created in him a desire to thump the commander and his advisors with a heavy club, or at least approach and tell him in plain words that he thought they were all incompetent.
A man on a brown horse brought a message to the head commander. After delivering the message, he made his stallion bound into a gallop in his haste to leave. There was a cloud of dust. A moment later, Aton saw the head commander bounce enthusiastically in his saddle, then yell, “The line held. We did it!” His excitement made his horse kneel, but it promptly rose as if to stand at attention.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Aton cringed. He had been wrong. They were victorious, not vanquished. He could hear cheering from behind him. He looked in the direction of the fight and could hear the noise of Grinald’s soldiers advancing, hooves pounding the ground as the dreaded Black Fang’s mounted men repelled the enemy. Aton turned away, shocked and fuming with anger at himself. He felt that his courage had betrayed him. A real warrior would not have run.
Then Aton tried to rationalize his actions. He told himself that he had fled because obliteration had loomed his way. It was his duty to preserve every piece of Grinald’s war machine. Although a small part of the apparatus, he was still a piece of it; therefore, what he had done was necessary. He had saved himself for the upcoming siege at the walls of Kern. Later, the commanders or clan leaders on the battlefield could fit all the little pieces of the mechanism, like him, together again. If none of the little pieces were sensible enough to save themselves from the flood of death at a time like this, then how could they effectively serve in Grinald’s war machine? In his own mind, it was plain that he had proceeded according to sensible rules of engagement. His actions were wise. He had used a keen strategy, commendable, actually. He convinced himself that his valor had not faltered, his bravery was beyond reproach, and his father and Briand would be very proud of his conduct.
Thoughts of the men who had surrounded Aton came to his mind. The advancing swordsmen, the spearmen that followed, and the archers, who had supported all of them from a distance as Grinald’s men on the frontline bravely stood their ground, had withstood the enemy’s advance and won. He grew bitter over it. It seemed that the blind ignorance and stupidity of those little pieces of Grinald’s war machine had betrayed him. Their lack of sense dismayed him. Intelligent deliberation should have convinced them that holding their position on the hill was impossible. He was a clever and enlightened man whose vision could pierce the dark fog of war. He had retreated because of his superior insights and understanding. He began to feel angry with those men with whom he had shared the ridge, and an irritation arose from their betrayal of him, because they had not fled. Using that logic, he could prove that they had been fools, and he fully convinced himself that his father and cousin would have done just the same as he had done.
He wondered what his comrades would say when he went back to camp. His mind heard cries of ridicule. Their inferior power of reason would not enable them to understand his sharper point of view. He began to feel pity for himself. He shuffled along with his eyes cast low to the ground, his brain in a furor of anguish and misery. He went from the field into the dense woods, as if determined to insulate himself from the continuing clatter of warfare. He did not want to hear another battle cry. Bushes and vines cluttered the ground, and the trees grew close together. He made a noisy advance through the thicket; vines pulled against his feet and legs, and the green tendrils snapped noisily when stretched too far. Dry twigs broke under his feet and low branches either snapped as he pushed his way through or whipped back like a woman offended by a rude man. He could not appease the forest; it kept pushing him back, as if it wanted no part of man’s savagery. He feared that his commotion in the timbers would bring men to look for him, to punish him for fleeing. Therefore, he went farther, seeking a dark place to soothe his humiliation. The greenery was like a healing ointment on a burn from the heat of war.
After a short time in the woods, the sound of human misery grew faint. Most of the mortally wounded had already died, and those who were severely injured had bled so much that they could barely moan as their bodies weakly quivered on the blood-soaked ground. The sun cast filtered light through the trees and the air was still. The insects and birds continued the perpetual choir of nature’s song. A woodpecker’s red head peeked around the side of a tree, and then the bird continued its search for food under the rough bark of a majestic oak. A goldfinch flew by his head, almost within arm’s reach. There, nature had shut its door to man’s celebration of destruction.
A raccoon waddled through the clearing between two bushes. Back home he would have taken the furry creature in one easy shot with his bow. In his mind, he waved his hand like a judge commuting a death sentence. He was not in the mood to kill anything right now. All he wanted was the peace and tranquility of the forest to surround him and heal his war-torn mind. He continued, and soon found himself in what was almost a swamp. He had to walk carefully to keep from sinking into the quagmire. He saw a black cat from the nearby bog pounce on a muskrat and eviscerate it with unrelenting claws.
Past the bayou, Aton went into the deep thickets again. He walked into a never-ending storm of whipping tree branches that promised to hide him farther away from the horrors of war. He had noticed a few broken branches, and his hunter’s instinct gave him caution. It told him that he had not followed a deer trail. He wondered if the snapped branches could be from the enemy, secretly lurking around searching for information about Grinald’s armed forces. The thought of possibly walking on an enemy trail was unsettling, but he finally arrived at a clearing in the trees and relaxed. The sun filled the open area with pleasant yellow light. He pushed the final branches aside and entered. A soft blanket of leaf litter covered the ground. After two short paces forward, he abruptly stopped.
Facing him was a dead man seated with his back against a tree. The body was not parallel with the trunk,
almost poised as if the corpse was indecisive as to whether it should simply collapse all the way to the ground or just remain reclined at an uncomfortable angle. The eyes were still open, as was the jaw, as if the man had emitted a final moan before he died. Aton took a few steps closer and recognized him as the young stranger who had encouraged him, with lips trembling from fear, to desert during the initial skirmish with enemy warriors from the city of Kern, who had scouted ahead of their advancing force, the prelude to the battle from which he had fled. That terrified man had told Aton that he did not want to die, and then retreated alone to the rear of Grinald’s armed men when Aton had not followed him. The man ironically had found death, or death had found him, as he deserted the battle.
Then Aton noticed an arrow protruding from the man’s back as the reason why he had not fallen over, because the dead body’s weight pressed the long arrow shaft against the bark, preventing the corpse from slumping over. Aton pulled out the arrow shaft, and the body fell to the ground. The corpse made a sound like a groan when it went forward. The grotesque sound had just been air expelled from the lungs as the body had fallen, but it startled Aton so much that he jumped like a frightened kitten. He gave a yelp, as if the corpse had attacked him. Then he remained motionless for a few moments. After his terrified consciousness thawed, he retreated slowly from the body. It was almost as if he was afraid of it. As he left the clearing, the branches pushed against him again. The image of the dead man would not leave his mind, so he tried to run as fast and as far as he could to distance himself from it. After a short time, he paused, breathless and panting, listening to the sounds of impending twilight. He heard a crow squawk and fly away.