Once more. I stared out at the massed ranks of the enemy before me. My mouth was dry as it always was before battle.
The late afternoon sun slanted down, glinting from the mass of spear tips pointing skyward. Their sheer number, impossible to count.
I loved this moment and I hated it. The moment before battle was joined. When men cried to whatever Gods they believed in that they would see the end of this day.
Or pissed themselves in terror at the butchery to come.
I had many thoughts, many plans and none of them involved pissing myself.
Not today at least.
A cold sweat broke out on my brow and I regretted the flagons of ale I had thrown down my neck the night before.
Regrets are for the weak and I cast them from me like Christmas socks in February.
An eerie yet familiar calm descended on me as I resigned myself to what lay ahead.
The slaughter to come.
I will survive this.
I thought.
My hands tightened on my weapon, trembling slightly as the cold steel of it burned my palms.
I will survive this.
I had thought this enemy beaten. This Godless foe from seasons past. I could no longer count the times I had trudged wearily from the field, stained with the blood of the fallen.
And here we were again.
How many times would we fight this battle? How many times would we march forth against each other? How many times would I fill my tankard with ale to wash away the dark deeds of the days like this one?
One day I will lose.
One day there will be no ale afterwards.
Daddy-Bear, are you going to bloody mow the grass or just stand there staring at it all day?!
The Good Lady yodelled from the back door.
I made a face.
Yes, one day I will lose.
But not today.