A Lesson in War
A Sword of Otrim Story
by Lyndon Perry
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Lyndon Perry
Smashwords
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I
In vain we peer beyond what can be
seen.
– Idessian Proverb
“Slay the infidel, Otrim, and have done with it.”
Otrim looked up at his commander, then across the valley floor and blinked blood from his eye. Like afterbirth on a peasant woman’s floor broken bodies splattered the battlefield. A slight breeze carried the dank odor of dirt and death.
“‘Love thine enemies and do good to those who persecute you,’ so the Master taught us, Ardus.”
“Aye, but the Master faced not these heathen hordes. And behold, you’ve felled already a dozen such persecutors. It’s late in the evening to determine the day, don’t you think? Come, Lieutenant, why this sudden bout of remorse?”
“Not remorse, Commander. Mercy. Defense, by the word’s meaning, is defensible. Offense is an offense to God.”
“You confuse wordplay with swordplay, Otrim. Your ethical quibble would allow the enemy to rejoin the battle.” Ardus glowered at his lieutenant who knelt by a wide-eyed and wheezing Korreti warrior. “And such debate tires me.” Snatching the sword from his underling, the commander beheaded the infidel with a quick and fluid downward stroke. “Ah, see? His blood, too, is on your sword.”
Otrim sprang to his feet and wrenched back his weapon; his shoulder – leveraged against his commander’s chest – sent Ardus sprawling to the blood-stained ground. Just as quick Ardus was up, his own sword drawn and ready for combat. With a shout both men leapt at each other and their instruments rang, clashing to the hilt where they came to a quivering stop, v-shaped under their chins. Their hot breath crossed the plane of their raised swords and they tasted each other’s battle lust. Equally matched in muscle and grit, the two men paused, some hidden part of their brain calling out for reason amidst the rising passion.
Some of the surrounding soldiers, still looting the dead but always alert to battlefield scuffles, quickly left their post mêlée activities and formed a loose circle around their leaders. They remained hushed and watchful, for most of the men suspected this day was foreordained. Ardus, the commander of the Idessian army, and Otrim, the lieutenant of one of its four regiments, had nearly come to blows on numerous occasions. It was only a matter of time before the stress and trauma of war erupted at the highest levels – it happened within the rank and file often enough, especially as long weeks of engagement stretched to months.
Swords and eyes locked in position as if by some enchantment, the two warriors’ chests heaved in rhythm even as they became aware of the silent penumbra of men awaiting the outcome of their fated encounter.
Slightly taller and longer in features than his thicker-bodied lord, Otrim looked deep into black and hateful eyes. Ardus, broad faced, bronzed with sun, and marred with war, returned a wrathful gaze. Both had dark shoulder length hair, although Otrim’s mane, when clean, had a healthy sheen and wave to it while Ardus’ remained straight and oily. Having already removed their ties at victory’s trumpet, each shook his head slightly to keep his hair from falling in front of his face. This unconscious act broke the spell and they, it seemed by mutual agreement, lowered their swords. The waiting soldiers breathed again.
Ardus broadened his mouth into a sneering grin. He addressed his men while remaining fixed on Otrim. “Good to see some mettle, right men? I don’t need a sheila for a number one – except the one in my bed!” The commander barked at his own joke, and most of the warriors guffawed, glad for the break of tension. But more than a few merely returned a hollow laugh.
The commander broke his stare and nodded at Otrim’s scarlet streaked sword. “Clean your weapons, lads, the enemy’s blood is starting to stink.” Ardus leaned into his foe and lowered his voice to a whispering hiss. “The next time we cross swords, my friend, it will be your blood I’ll wipe clean.”
Otrim glared back. It will take more than the crossing of swords for that to occur, Ardus. Much more.
~*~
Night settled around the five thousand or more men. Camped by regiment, they bedded down and would soon dream again of that day when they would fight their final battle. Their conversation, as on most nights, centered mostly on quitting this prolonged and cursed campaign and returning at last to their women and homes. Otrim, too, commenced his evening routine and pondered the possibilities of a quick end to this war against the infidels. Paeter, his blond-haired sublieutenant – a Nederlander at that – busied himself as well, making small jokes while inflating the day’s victories. Otrim, used to his friend’s lighthearted banter, smiled but did not comment.