A deep, resounding roar rose up over the hills of Dalriada, making the soldier's hearts thrum with anticipation. The Drums of War

. This was the moment every man in that regiment had been waiting for for the past six months, and it was finally time.

Mason Baker passed his sword over the whetstone a final time, pausing to inhale a deep intake of breath. Anrouth's soldiers had thrown up plumes of heady scent into the air; crushed grass, dirt, moss. Tomorrow's battle would decide the fate of every man, every woman, every child, but Mason was confident Dalriada would emerge victorious. In fact, he'd never been so sure of anything in his life.

The atmosphere around him was palpable with his comrade's excitement. It was the eve of the battle to end all wars, the battle that would either bring peace to the world, or chaos.

Mason rose to his feet, replacing the sharpened sword back in its sheath. The weight of his blade dragging down on his waist was an immeasurable comfort. He made his way back to the castle wall, smiling and nodding at fellow soldiers as he passed by. If only they knew. Mason wondered how they'd react if they ever found out that he wasn't a Dalriadan at all. In all reality, he was an Anrouthian, born and bred.

He'd sacrificed the love of his family to join the Dalriadan army, but at the time it seemed a small price for doing what was right. For joining the side of good, instead of evil. But as the years progressed and the war raged on, Mason could feel something gnawing away at his heart, at his very soul. He missed them.

He scaled the steps of the castle wall without much strain, and settled into his familiar alcove by the armoury. It was secluded here, safe. Through a crack in the granite, he could see the moors around the castle clearly. It was the perfect vantage place, and the perfect spot to get some peace and quiet. No-one would look for him here, wedged between the wall and the armoury as he was.
He sighed contentedly; he was just in time.

Sunset. It was his favourite time of day. He loved to watch the colours in the sky transition from blue to purple, from purple to red. And it was at this time that everything seemed to grow calmer, quieter. For the briefest of moments, it was as though he was in a waking dream. He leaned his head against the cool, granite wall, and watched the sun sink beneath the horizon, plunging Dalriada in darkness. A few tendrils of orange light still burned above the hilltops, and the first, early stars dotted the sky like pinpricks of light.

The night descended upon Dalriada with its full intensity, chasing away the last remnants of twilight. The moors around the castle were leaden with inky darkness, undisturbed and silent. Mason let himself close his eyes, giving into the fatigue that pushed down on his bones.

But something brought him back to the land of the consciousness. A change on the moors below, a light. Through his sleep-blurred vision, Mason could make out the flickering glow of a torch.
An Anrouthian.
A rush of adrenalin surged through his body, snapping him into wakefulness. He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, chest heaving. He didn't have time to alert the others; the figure was almost upon the castle. Besides, as far as he could tell it was just one man, he could be dealt with swiftly.

Mason charged into the armoury, scanning the shelves urgently. He finally came across a lone bow and arrow, someone's long-forgotten weapon. He plucked three arrows from the shelf and made his way back out into the cool breeze of night.

The man with the torch was mere feet away from the castle now, too close for comfort. Mason drew an arrow back in the string, keeping it taut between his fingertips. He held his breath as he let the projectile loose, in the direction of the unwelcome intruder.

The arrow missed. Mason cursed himself for being slack with his archery lessons; he'd always favoured his sword and close-combat to the distant bow and arrow. He pulled another arrow back into the string, furrowing his eyebrows in concentration. But his fingers slipped, and the arrow fell, clattering down the castle wall and landing at the figure's feet.

The intruder's head snapped up, suddenly alerted to Mason's presence. Through the dull gloom of the torch, Mason could just make out a shocked and terrified expression on the man's face. Without hesitation, Mason drew his last remaining arrow into the bow's string, and aimed directly at the figure's chest.

He let the arrow fly, making a shrill whistling noise as it ripped through the air. With a dull thud it impacted with the man, and he fell to the ground, crying out in pain.

Without a thought, Mason raced down the castle steps and out into the desolate moor. The torch was still lying prone next to the intruder’s body, the flame almost extinguished. The man writhed, then groaned. He was still alive, but he didn't appear to have much time left. Mason could make out the arrow, still protruding from the intruder's stomach. Mason dropped to his knees beside the man, and raised the spluttering torch up to illuminate his face.

Mason felt his blood run cold. This intruder wasn't just any Anrouthian; it was his brother. His little brother Axel, who was just two years his junior. Memories of their childhood flooded back to him, memories of playing with wooden swords, and fighting imaginary dragons. Memories of cleaning up Axel's scrapes, and reassuring him that they would heal.

Axel reached a shaking hand into his bloodied coat, his mouth gaping open and closed, desperate for air. He retrieved a crimson-slicked letter, by now creased and torn. He pressed it into Mason's hand, his eyes alight with desperation.

All of a sudden, there was no war. There was no good or bad, wrong or right, Dalriadan or Anrouthian. There were just brothers, and it did not matter which side they were on. Mason looked down into his brother’s face, into his blank, staring eyes that were so much like his own. His throat felt very tight and his eyes began to sting. He was his killer, yet he could not explain why his brother was dead. He could not remember why he was fighting; all he knew now was that his brother was gone forever. Mason lay motionless besides his brother, so still that he might as well have been dead, too.

Mason couldn't mistake the handwriting etched on the letter's front; his mother's. He didn't even need to read the letter to know what it contained within.
Axel had been coming to Dalriada to seek Mason out before the battle, to re-build the familial ties which had been shattered so many years ago. And in return, Mason had killed him.

Mason wondered how many brothers he had killed, how many fathers. How many husbands, and how many sons. With a jolt Mason realised the senselessness of war, the futility of it all. But for him, it was too late. His brother was dead, his precious, baby brother.

Mason could never fight for Dalriada now, not after the discovery he'd made. But he wouldn't be welcome in Anrouth, either. The only solution he could see was to join his brother in death. Maybe, somehow, they'd find each-other again. Only then would Mason be able to make amends.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 28.06.2011

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