The air is cold as the men assemble on the green. Archers take position upon the lofty heights.
Silence is a brooding presence.
Ever still, always waiting for the stench of death to rise
above the battlements.
Horses stamp the morning frost, chomping on their iron bits
And billowing steams issue from their flaming nostrils.
Sweat lines the brows, a sigh slips from a lad,
Pleading to live ere the sun sets.
Swords are quick, arrows are fell and the dagger bites with
A deft stroke.
Looming figures appear in the shadows.
A whispered threat becomes a roaring howl.
The steel rings with the hissing arrows
Fills the ditch with rushing blood.
It comes upon them like a gale of terror.
One misplaced step is death to another.
The wind sighs of fair lands, cools the stone, but
Warns of the night with no dawn to come.