A Resolution of Steel

The ground was red, both from the flickering reflections of the glowing flames, as well as from the dark blood that seemed to cover the ground. On his knees, Nathen gazed upon his house, the only home he had ever known, now aflame and burning furiously. He could feel the heat on his face from the blaze, but he remained where he knelt as tears began to blur his vision.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to run straight through the failing wooden doorway to find his father, but he knew that no one he would find in that house would be alive. He knew this from the three dead bodies of royal soldiers that lay between him and the flames. He knew it for certain from the trail of blood leading through the door, and from his father's sword that lay a few steps away... resting in its owner's own severed hand.

Nathen was barely sixteen, but he knew that his father was no friend to the King. He knew that he was involved with others, others that also felt strongly about the King's questionable rise to power not so many years ago. Most of all, Nathen knew that his father was a fighting man, and the bloodied corpses in front of him all seemed to have been felled by certain attacks with a sword that had once been taught to Nathen, during the training his father had given him ever since he could hold one.

The sword that Nathen now held was small and light, the one he took on short hunting and hiking trips. Once he returned and could see the smoke, he drew it and was all too ready to use the blade. But he was too late. He still gripped its hilt, his knuckles white.

Eventually, Nathen's breathing returned to him, and his adrenaline lowered. He stood up, and let the sword slip from his hand onto the grass. The fire was dying down now, as the once beautiful log and stone abode became reduced to cinders. The sun was also beginning to lower, and in the dim evening light, Nathen let his eyes fall upon the dead men at his feet. He gazed blearily upon the bear crest emblazed on the soldier's armor and felt a hatred in his soul. It was the King’s men, that was for certain. No other flag inspired such feelings of resentment and distaste in the hearts of Nathen’s people. Ever since they came to this land, the freedom to live in peace was destroyed by an oppressive iron first. And since then, there have been those who still hold hope, people like Nathen’s father, that have fought so that better times might return.

The mantle now fell to Nathen, and he knew it. With these thoughts in his mind, he moved on to his father's sword. Almost half his own height from hilt to tip, Nathen had never picked up the blade before. He reached down now and grasped it, allowing his hand to brush that of his father's one last time. He held the weapon upside down in front of him, rested his head upon the pommel, and closed his eyes.

At this moment, Nathen remembered one of his father's advising words to him...

“Never let anger guide your actions, use your mind to decide these things.”

And so, he tried to dispel all thoughts of seeking retribution. But with every mental effort, they returned with renewed fervor. Soon, Nathen began to realize how calm he was. He realized that he was using his mind, and his mind decided on a simple reality.

Those who did this shall pay.

Suddenly, as if destiny itself had been listening in and hoping to speed up the process, another soldier donning bear-crested armor broke through the tree line of the clearing. Nathen swung his head as he heard the man. It was dark now, but the glow from the embers of the house allowed Nathen to see him, and for the soldier to see a survivor that needed to be dealt with. The soldier rushed at him, spear drawn, but Nathen stood resolutely. He raised his father’s sword and prepared to fight. The steel of the blade was still marked with blood. Nathen meant to add to it.

Clang!

He swung his father’s sword, knocking away the spear thrust from the soldier. He tried to swing another and land it on his enemy’s neck, but the soldier used the momentum of his spear and carried through, bringing the bottom end of the shaft down hard onto Nathen’s side. His ribs aching, Nathen managed to block another thrust from his attacker and stumbled back a few steps to give himself room.

The soldier did not let up, however, and came at Nathen again. Behind his helmet, he seemed to only see an angered young boy who could just hold a sword. The soldier did not see the days of the rigorous training he had endured with his father for days just like this, nor did he see the deep fury in this boy’s heart.

With the attacking next thrust, Nathen grasped the shaft of the spear and pulled the soldier toward himself. Surprised, the attacker tried to raise his other hand to strike. He landed one punch before Nathen plunged the sword through his throat. He removed the blade right away, and let the gurgling man fall to the ground and die at his feet.

Yet, the fury did not lessen. The dull need for revenge still consumed Nathen’s insides. He raised the sword once more and brought it down into the already deceased man’s chest.

Nothing.

This was not enough. Not nearly enough blood had been shed to quell the fire in him now. He would not stop. Not until justice had been served. And then, perhaps, he would choose to live a life of his own, but not until the day came. Not until the King’s head was at his feet.

The End