Baros had dreamed of a dark night where the moon was covered in a black film that covered the sky. And in the darkness of night women and children screamed in terror and torturous pain. Others could be heard crying the sorrowful tears of loss as the feeling of Death was in the land.
And among the screams were the sounds of an army of swords being sharpened against rusting, screeching whet gears that turned their large, grinding stones. Baros knew he saw the battlefield of a great army because as far as the eye could see was the sight of the whet stone sparks covering the dark earth like locust.
Blood was in the air, and in view of the sparks, bodies lined the ground beneath the soiled boots of the soldiers. The soldiers had cut men that held their women and women that held their children. They were all dead at the hands of the great army that prepared themselves again.
And behind Baros he heard another sound of a sword being sharpened but it was not on a whet. It was a slow, grinding noise, one of a person careful of his craft, a craft of tuning a weapon to kill. He turned and at the top of a small hill, beneath a Persimmon tree, he could see, in the dark, red glow of the coming sun, the form of a young man, strong in body, with braided locks, seated and holding a royal military sword. Baros knew the sword and it attracted him to the young man. It had been shown to him in a fit of pride and cherished in his house upon a mantle.
But the young man was not a military person but something different. He wore goat skin clothing and no shoes. And he drew Baros attention even at this distance for his eyes were so distinguishable. Baros approached the young man and climbed the hill. He knelt down next to the young man as he cradled the sword in one arm and carefully raked a hammer stone across its edges with the other. But he never looked up to acknowledge that Baros was so closely studying him. His eyes remained set and fixed to what he was doing.
“Sir,” Baros began to ask, “you have my son’s sword.” The young man did not answer but continued to sharpen the gallant weapon. “My son’s name is Iban. He is the leader of the king’s Elite Guard. They protect the king. This sword is not intended for battle though it is built stronger than other blades, folded by master smiths. It is to show for its value and strength. It is to honor the man that received it to show his strength. It is given to honor a man.”
Baros would have thought the young man did not hear him. He continued to grind away at the sword never looking toward the gently spoken, older man. But when the young man looked up toward the valley where the army still ground at the whets a tear had streamed out of his eye and a look of hurt was on his rugged face. Baros could not tell if he had gotten through to him or if he mourned for the people that lay dead in the valley. The young man then stopped grinding at the sword. He gently sat the hammer stone down next to him. This alarmed Baros and he stood up and backed away to see what he would do next.
The young man then stood up, still looking into the valley. He turned toward the still hidden sun and knelt and began to pray. Baros then saw his back that was covered in healed stripes showing where he had been severely beaten by a whip. And, as broad as his back was, he was covered with stripes.
He then seemed to gain strength from the prayer and jumped up to his feet, turned to face the army and wiped the tears from his eyes that fell in a steady stream. And as he began to walk toward the army Baros thought he saw the young man’s eyes quickly look toward him and then back into the valley. It happened quickly but he knew he had reached him.
The screeching gears of the whets ceased but the cries of the women and children continued and were just as sorrowful as they had been. Baros looked on as the young man descended headfirst with his heart upon his sleeve. The soldiers all stood up and faced the hill looking at the young man holding Iban’s sword so sure.
Baros could feel his heartthrob and stomach churn as if it were he, himself, that walked down into the valley to face the odds. His approach was clearly a challenge for he was not like them. His strength and courage amazed Baros. He was overwhelmed by his resolve.
And suddenly the sun flew into the sky turning it bright orange and filled the valley with morning shadows. The young man then raised his sword into the sky and screamed out a painful, emotional battle cry for it was with his heart that he charged the soldiers. It was obvious he cared nothing for Death but that others would see it with him. He was fearless and it showed for they could frighten and torment him no longer.
And the army then returned the boy’s battle cry with a barbarous cheer of their own. They began to move toward him like hungry rats descending on a small pan of grain, all wanting it and fighting to reach it.
And as they all approached their initial strikes, the sun was again dark, hiding behind the misty film that had before hid the moon. Everything was again darkness but the screams of the women and children could be clearly heard as swords clashed and warriors screamed out in the agony of bone shattering battlefield trauma.
Very exciting! A piece of work that shows most apparently the writing of a very passionate and thus a talented individual.
I want and will read more of what you have to offer.
Reviewed by Dian Stanley
7/3/2002
The bold, courageous unknown warrior with his gallant sword descends on his prey without fear. This is good. Mr. Tatum,is it part of your next novel? Can't wait.
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