I am weary...

“I am weary, Craysis…”

The war horses were magnificent, stoic and awe inspiring for their calm in the sea of tension swirling below.  Astride, the generals surveyed the ordered gathering of leashed hellions, alight in morning sun off polished metal and waxed leather, the majesty of the crimson plumage of the Guardian Legion out of place here. Behind the two warriors a wall of Guardians waited motionless upon equally massive steeds, the heralds fluttering above in the autumn breeze.

Pretorius was the elder, a veteran of wars too numerous to count, remembered by the place and the dead. Time has no meaning in these days, measured by battle won, battle lost, and the endless tally of those who had died. These legends had weathered Pretorius to the weary man he had found himself to be on this cold foggy morning.

Craysis had been with Pretorius for over a hundred battles, ceaselessly at his side. He was known with great respect as Pretorius the Younger as in manner and thought the two had become indistinguishable. He turned to his friend saying nothing, thinking only that this weariness had found itself deep in his bones as well.

The warriors were ageless. Both men stood over 18 hands tall in their bare feet, muscle and sinew, strong enough it is said, that they have been known to carry their injured horses from the field. Resplendent in his battle dress, Pretorius looked away from the mounting terror, closed his eyes and faced into the sun.

“Things never change, Craysis, when the same thoughtless sword is used to solve every problem.”

Pretorius opened his eyes and let the sun burn the darkness in his soul. After a moment, he looked back unblinking to the field.

“To the south we have these religious, who swarm in upon us because their imagined god demands it. To the barren east, the weak raid us for food as they are hungry. The west bleeds from the barbarian whose greed drives them to murder and rape our people, steal our resources for no other reason than they want to. It rains in the northwest with the tears of the driven, whose mad king has feuded them into deep poverty and despair, driven by swords behind them into spears before them for no other reason than senseless pride.  There is peace only in the northeast borne of decades of respect, sharing of knowledge and fair trade. And even there tensions rise as these forces press upon our two empires.”

Craysis nodded, insight dripping with the blood on his own hands, replying, “The answer is always the sword. There is no reckoning when the anger and hate cloud judgment, making even the most learned base spittle and venom…”

The ensuing quiet was interrupted by an approaching messenger, dusty and sweaty from a brisk ride up the hill.

“My Lord,” he breathlessly addressed Pretorius, “The Legion is ready!” He turned his excited horse just short of the two men, whose horses moved not a hair before the smaller steed and its snorting aggressiveness born of the tempest around it.

Pretorius nodded, turned to Craysis with the wretchedness that filled both men, and replied so softly that the messenger behind them knew the words only because they had been said too many times before.

“Kill them… kill them all.”