A man sat alone upon a green hill, leaning on his blood spattered shield. He sat overlooking a field filled with the day’s grizzly work, a battle, and now it was just another graveyard. As he sat he wondered who had won this day, perhaps only the crows for whom his comrades had become a feast. Men had fought and died here today for their lords, and for what? All they had risked had been for a man that hardly knew them. At least he risked his skin for gold crowns, something he could hold onto after the fighting was over.

There was something about sitting amongst the dead that made him thoughtful. Perhaps it gave him time to reflect on his own mortality. Most things made a lot more sense in that light.

Land was what they had fought for today, and by the gods they had it. “Look at them littered all over it”, he muttered to himself. More land so some noblemen could have more prestige, and more servants, and more crops. Several of those men had been his friends. There was no rule that a sellsword couldn’t have friends. He pictured Lord Edderfield Clark at that moment, and how satisfying it would be to run the pudgy coward through with his blade. Now there was a cause worth fighting for. At least his friends would be able to rest easy then.

He’d nearly died himself in the fighting. After the initial cavalry charge Clark had send in a quarter of his foot in to keep Count Olsen’s men distracted, and as his precious knights had ridden away Clark ordered his archers to volley the field until Olsen’s men were all dead.

His horse had been cut from under him earlier and so he had had to survive as best he could, along with the rest of the poor foot soldiers. He’d been under his shield half the battle trying to keep the arrows off his back. As the battle disintegrated into more of a frightened mob of men trying each to save himself, Conall had hidden himself beneath his fallen horse. Between his horse’s body and his shield he had stayed safe till the battle was over.

Conall had fought in many battles over the years and looking down at dead and dying vowed this was his last. He’d earned enough money that he would never have to go looking for work like this again. His reputation as a swordsman was great enough that perhaps he could retire and become an instructor or a body guard, anything but this. It just wasn’t worth it anymore. Long ago when he had been young he had left home looking for his fortune, for purpose, and for glory. All he had found were petty kings and tyrants each looking to himself. All the old heroes had faded away an age ago and left in their stead quarreling boys. He would give them his sword no longer. None of them deserved it.