I dream I am at the head of an army. Its principal champion. The commander has placed me in the vanguard. I will be the first to meet our enemy. Behind and to my side are the levy. Not soldiers, but fishermen, farmers, tailors, cooks, tanners. Confident during the march. Less so now there is another army before them. They’re as scared as any man would be. And I am left to inspire them to violence.
Beneath my armour runes are painted to my flesh. The longsword’s edge shimmers in the dull light. If I live longer than a few moments, then I’ll mostly be using it as a club, grabbing the blade with mailed gloves and swinging the pommel downward at whatever is in front of me. Not enough room in the scrum for arching cuts or graceful thrusts. Just bludgeoning.
More than likely I will be riddled by bolts as we tramp over the mud. Or I’ll impale myself on a braced spear. Or I’ll have my head split in two by an axe I’ll never see. But the levy need something shiny to follow. They won’t go by themselves. The issue is that I don’t want to die. I don’t bear our enemy any ill will, I have no quarrel with them. But someone has to carry these poor souls across this field and if not me, then some other poor creature will get the task.
So I drop my visor and roll my shoulders.
Paddy Dobson
16th March 2021