The War of Hands

His father had given it him and his grandfather had given it him and it was said that the ancestor spirits had given it to him. It was a fine sword. Good heft. Straight swing. Impeccably sharp.
It was his time now. His time to swing the sword and to cleave bone. To cause pain in his enemy's and awe in his followers. He would become the head man as his father had done before him. Not the chief but his silent right hand. Always one step away but always ready with his sword. This sword. Someday. As his father had done in his day.
This was his first war day. He stepped out of his tent and he could smell the steel in the air. The camp had not woken and the hints of day had just begun on the horizon. He could smell the cold and the fog that hung over the pine trees that the sun would chase away soon. Soon. Soon it would be time to move. The anticipation tore his stomach apart like a nest of snakes. But it was good, his elders had told him. "Every boy is nervous on his first war day." He breathed deeply.

"Care for a game?"
"Oh of course, of course. You know me."
"I've got a great one today."
"You say that everyday."
"Because its always true. I have a great game every day."
The shake of a box of pieces. Two old hands place them with faint wooden clicks onto a board.
"What's this one called?"
"I haven't decided on the name quite yet."
"That's a lot of potential there."

He exhaled. He pushed the tip of his sword into the foot trod earth and ran his fingers through his hair. He had let it grow for too long.
Realizing his mistake, he quickly yanked the sword out of the ground and brushed the sharp tip with his fingers. His father had told him never to do that. It would ruin the blade. He looked into the blade and thought of his father. His father had died long ago on his seventeenth war day. When his son was still very young. Almost too young to remember. He missed his father. Although he would never say such a thing to his elders. They would call him a child.

"Is this all we have to do to set up?"
"Yes I believe so. I'm not so familiar with the rules quite yet."
"Alright then. I'll go first."
"But I'm blue. I should go first."
"Ha. No one ever plays by that rule."
A hand takes a piece lifting wood from wood and setting it down on a new region of the board with a soft confident clack.


  They stood in the forest. Atop their horses. Bundled in furs. They looked over the sleeping camp below them. Faint wisps of fog still clung to the top branches of the trees. A large gnarled hand clapped her on the back. "Don't worry. Everyone is nervous on their first day of battle."
She nodded moving a hand quickly over her armor, her bow, her shield and the sword at her hip. Last she patted her horse. Its breath drifted up and mingled with the fog that still girded the tree tops. She gripped her bridle. And those around her did the same. The waiting seemed like years. The tension coiled in her hands and her legs ready to jump forward like a striking viper. She heard the horn. Her mount charged down the hillside.

"Fair move. My turn?"
A hand gesture. Palm up. As if to say "Go right ahead"

The riders were upon them before he could think. A horn had sounded and theirs had sounded back. In response. In defiance. The men around him had awoken. Angry shouts. The elders were angry. Angry in defiance of what had happened. Of the men, and the horses, and the arrows that had come too quickly.
He dove out of the way of a charging horse slashing at its legs with his sword. He had no armor. Left in his tent. Only his bare skin now spattered with mud. His attacker wheeled about for another pass. He roared and charged.

"And what a turn!"
"I thought it was a fair riposte to your first "strike" as it were."
"Indeed it was. Indeed it was."
Hands cup a few pieces and shift them as one over the board.

She was the first in the wedge. It was quite the honor to have a green youth ride in the wedge. She had been nervous when she had been chosen for the vanguard and more when she had been chosen for the wedge. It required a superior horsemen and a cool head. Galloping through the enemy camp she felt a superior horsemen. And she knew for the first time the thrill of battle. They cut through hurriedly assembled ranks of invaders. Some wearing only piecemeal armor. Some still naked from sleep clutching only weapons. She cut them down. She saw a boy wearing nothing but a pair of hide breeches, clutching a beautiful sword.

"Again quite a fair move."
"I thought so." A smile tinging the words.
"Let me think for a moment."
A brief pause and then finally a confident tack.

Her horse's hoof plunged into a sink hole and it toppled sideways throwing rider from saddle. She rolled picking her self up off the ground. Her furs stained with mud and blood. Cries of pain. The smell of burning tent and flesh. The gallop of her wedge regrouping and riding on. Good. Good that they will continue without me.

He watched a horse fall. Watched a rider pick itself up off the ground. He had killed a rider moments before. Killed his horse and then pierced his heart as he lay trapped beneath. And now he would do the same to this one.

She saw the boy with the beautiful sword. She drew her own and they faced one another.
He charged roaring again though his voice was hoarse from smoke. But he felt the battle lust that the elders had told him he would feel.
She blocked. Blocked again. His savage untaught strikes slipping off her blade like water but forcing her back from the strength of them. She edged beneath his guard and caught him in the gut.
He felt the blade pierce the skin of his stomach but the battle lust was upon him and it was only a warm feeling seeping down his stomach. His arm was still outstretched past her shoulder and he stabbed toward himself into her back. Feeling the resistance as the blade parted vertebrae.
She stopped. Her blade still deep in his innards. He stopped. He felt the pain for the first time.
They looked into each others eyes. She grabbed his arm with her gloved hand as her legs gave out. He grabbed her shoulder to try and steady himself. They both pitched sideways still staring into each others faces.

"Hrm."
The pace picked up. Pieces rose and fell and rose and fell. Were tossed back into the box. The hands played smartly across the board like acrobatic spiders.

The battle raged on and she was still.

The battle raged on and he lay still beside her.

"Good game."
"Very good game. I like this one. What are you going to call it?"
"I'm still not sure."
"That's alright. You'll think of something."