I write a little here and there, and this is the beginnings of what i hope to become a short story or novella. Let me now what you think.
and i know i suck, at least to REAL writers, keep in mind i am nineteen, and it its my spare time.
Fighting in the Mud
A Man’s and Horse’s Time Spent on a Hill
He hated the bloody mud and so did his horse. The sloshing, the clopping, the splash and the stench, the wet and the cold, the downward pull that held every up-step, the absolutely unavoidable mess, all of it he hated and nothing he could do would change it. It clumped to his boots, stuck in his hair, made slick his sword-grip, made his foot slip in the stirrup, and his hold loose on the reins. It filled his horse’s shoes, clumped its hair, unsteadied her trot, narrowed her focus, it made the saddle uncomfortable, generally irritating her to the point of loss of discipline and her oh so very important confidence. He and his horse hated the mud, their job more difficult because of it. Rain and mud don’t stop battles though, and as soldier and war-horse they would ignore them. The weather doesn’t stop battles. At least not this one, thought he with his horse, if only it had been winter. Wouldn’t fight in the snow, or would we girl?
The horse and its master, the man and his horse, stood at the crest of the hill named The Bloody Heap, looking toward the forest some two miles away. The hill stood high over the surrounding ground, what had been a wheat-field but now with the rain was only mud-flats; a dominating position. The hill, which God so fittingly placed, marked the border between the land of the horseman’s King and the lands of the other men’s king. The Bloody Heap, the name given by those like the man and his horse, had been soaked in the blood of thousands; it had been exchanged countless times, in countless wars between the horseman’s King and the other men’s king, for countless generations; though the Kings only knew it as the border. Those who had stood, fought, and died on it had had given it the name, they knew The Heap and the lands around called death, killing, and chaos, knew the very dirt brought out the evil in men. This hill had earned its name, and the man and his horse, the horse and its man, stood atop it; the hill calmly waiting to earn its name again.
The man and his horse, trotted across The Heap, looking over the two miles of mud, watching the forest. Together they scanned the forests edge, they looked at every tree, every shadow, and every place someone could possibly be. Their heads swivel like, eyes pointing left and right; watching with a fear-filled intent. They waited for any sign, anything that reflected the little light that penetrated the dark rain clouds over their rain-soaked heads; together they watched, and together they waited for the sight of the other king’s men, the other king’s army; waited for the men who call other lands home. Together the man and his horse, the horse and its man, waited for the inevitable hell while pacing atop The Heap; together they waited, together feeling alone and afraid. Alone and afraid the man and his horse saw men exiting the trees, formations of foot and horse, with banners flying. Under their king’s banners those men started filling the muddy field, began their march across the mud; his wait was over, the other king’s men had come and they were many.
Alone amid the approaching rumble of the others, the man and his horse stood on the crest of The Heap. The man said to his mare quietly, “I’m here with you my beautiful girl. Are you with me there?” He ran his gauntleted fingers through the horse’s mane, and in what he took as an affirming response, she whinnied bobbing her head and giving a good stamp with her front hooves. Through a troubled smile he said, “Good thing girl, we’ll need each other today. Gonneh be a tough one I do feel, and I’m counting on you girl. I need you to run strong and fast as you can girl, just like I trained you to. Run fast girl, run hard, stay with me, and we’ll be fine. We’ll run along the river again girl, we will.” The man slapped her neck, in the way he always did, and she gave a harder stamp with her front hooves. “Good girl, good girl. Going to be a tough one though girl. I’m praying for the both of us.” The man the scratched the horse’s neck while he adjusted his position in the saddle. “Good girl. Good Girl. Going be a tough girl, I can tell. Bet you can too girl. I do bet you can too my girl. Be strong girl, and don’t shy from no men Girl, be steady girl, be strong.” Leaning forward and bracing himself against her, the man strongly spoke, “Up Girl! Up!” She reared up on her back legs, front hooves striking out in front of her, while giving her loudest call; his sword came out then and with a guttural howl he screamed challenge at the men across the field. His voice would be carried here, he knew, and silhouetted atop the hill with the sun shining dimly through clouds at his back, those men would clearly see him. All of those men returned his challenge, all of what looked to be twelve-thousand strong, and the horseman was met with their rumbling howl. They had twelve thousand men, of them at least three thousand horse. God help us my Girl, God help us.
“God bless and protect your soul girl, this life and the next.” Those were the last words he spoke to his horse, as they always were and always would be, before the fighting began. God bless you my girl, and let god take me with you if this be your last day, but let him spare you if it be mine. Those were the last words he thought to himself, as he always had and would, before they did their soldier’s work.
Their time as a mere man and his horse, horse and her man, had to end; again the bliss had to end. Again he would be Lord Captain, again become more than other men. Oh how I do wish to be only man, but alas I can’t be that now.
He turned her around and kicking her to a trot back over The Heap’s crest, bringing him back to his men, the men of the King’s Middle Cavalry. Poor fools to follow me, fools to call me their captain, the horseman Lord thought as he saw the soaked figures stare up toward him, but disciplined and deadly fools they do be. They all are bloody fools but they be fools I can depend on. They’ll follow me, please God say they will. They must follow me. He came down the hill, the eyes of one-thousand-two-hundred-fifty-six men as well as those of their precious animals watched him; all eyed the horseman with respect and admiration, all calmly waited for his command. I’ll need have them do much today, only God say it’s not too much.
He trotted down toward the men’s standing formations; masses of man and horse flying the banner of the Middle Cavalry, a rearing red eyed white horse on a field of black. The three six man-and-horse deep by fifty-or-so wide boxes were moving walls of horse flesh, with skilled soldiers, steel armed and armored, mounted atop their saddled backs. Walking along in front of their lines, he tried his best to look in the eye of them all; he wanted to see the all, see if anything looked wrong. His men held themselves proudly, backs straight and chest out, all maintaining an air of deadliness. They held their mounts still, keeping control of what were likely the most vicious beasts to be born as horses. Even in the dull light of the God-forsaken rain clouded sky, their steel mail, helmets, and their various cruel instruments of death glinted; they flashed in a manner that reminded him of fireflies in a dark bush, steel flies and a bush of horsehair. They looked like the fiercest bunch of fools ever to walk God’s Earth. They looked ready to
