He had never understood how the geas binding his family to his master would ever allow such ideas to live within his thoughts. His father had grown old in Haral's family's service before transferring the curse to Malcolm but never once in all the long years of purgatory had Oswin ever mentioned his feelings for his forced servitude. There had been nothing to talk about with his son. A discussion implied there was a decision to be made, an option to choose. Malcolm's family had not been given a choice in this matter for almost three hundred years.

Sleep settled upon the young soldier like a feather drifting down from the soaring wings of an eagle. Gently it caressed his eyelids until they closed with a certain finality for the night. His thoughts no longer were held to the direction his mind led and soon they too floated along, searching for a place to land.

Malcolm's dreams were never exactly the same but the key elements invariably remained constant. On this night, the mists in his mind's eye parted and out strode his distant grandfather, Gilroy. In his time he had been Lord Arailt's personal guard and, whispered embarrassingly among Malcolm's family, his best friend. That close relationship ended the day Arailt brought home Lady Cinnia to be his bride.

She walked out of the dark recesses of the dream and surveyed the area with a bearing that demanded attention. Creamy white skin was framed by a cascading river of hair that flashed a fiery red in the first rays of dawn and deepened to an enticing burgundy in a candle's flickering light at night. Her face was pretty beyond fair but it was her eyes that grasped an onlooker's gaze and held him bewitched. They alternately glowed with joy, anger, passion - whatever the whims of her moods desired. One look into these open pits of emotion and Gilroy fell hopelessly in love.

Time rushed by Malcolm in this black sea of nothingness as he watched Lady Cinnia and Gilroy fight against the rising flood of desire between them. They stood steadfastly through nearly five years of toils and two sons for Arailt before the dam finally burst. In the release of passion of that first fateful embrace, the Lord walked in upon the guilty would-be lovers. Curses exploded through the air, though Malcolm did not hear a sound. Steel flashed, blood and sweat flew and time slowed until finally Gilroy ran his blade through Lord Arailt.

Malcolm felt himself being dragged along a path that felt so familiar yet still left him pondering where it would lead. It stopped in front of a tribunal of lords, gathered to pass judgment upon the killer of one of their own. The wounds showing red and painful on the exposed skin of Gilroy were proof enough that the battle had been mutual but Lady Cinnia's own testimony told the sordid truth behind the reason for the duel. The lords could not order Gilroy to his death for the true transgression but they refused to let him walk away unpunished. Instead, they devised a unique torture.

The tribunal ordered a geas placed upon the young man that bound him to Lord Arailt's family until the debt of death was repaid. When the time came, the eldest son of Gilroy's descendants would become the personal guard to the dead lord's ruling offspring. Only when a member of his family was killed while defending his master would the obligation be fulfilled and the curse lifted.

A wordless shout of rage rang out at the pronouncement of sentence and Lord Haral ran from the dark shadows toward Gilroy. Even as Malcolm leaped forward to defend his ancestor from his master, a sword and shield appeared in his hands.

Block. Swing. Thrust.

Every move in Malcolm's mind came instinctively from the years of relentless training he had been subjected to as a boy. Hatred pulsed freely through his veins giving as much nourishment and energy as the blood itself. Hatred, born as a spark from his lost childhood. Hatred, kindled to a flame by his lack of control over his own life. Hatred, roaring to a bonfire at the thought of his own son becoming a subject to the geas.

Slash. Block. Batter.

Lord Haral stumbled from the ferocious blow that caught him in the chest. Malcolm never hesitated as his sword swept in a loop over his head and dived downward with the speed of a falcon in a death-filled descent. The keen edge was a mere hair's breadth from biting into Haral's neck.......

Malcolm sat up slowly as the sentry shook his shoulder again. His eyes flashed dangerously in the darkness of the tent as the remnants of the dream held on tightly to his mind.

"Sir, our scouts report that Lord Derva's troops are just over the next rise and moving this way. They must have marched all night to be this close to us."

"More like the last two nights," Malcolm thought as he threw back his blanket and began pulling on his boots. Only the pink glow promising a new day broke the gloom outside the tent.

"Derva's a hot-tempered fool. Double the scouts. We don't want him to find us just yet. Have the troops break camp in silence and form ranks. If I so much as hear the cooks drop a pan, I will kill them myself." Malcolm walked toward the door as he strapped his sword belt around his waist. "I will go to wake Lord Haral."

He ran his hands through his hair as he traversed the handful of strides to his master's tent. Ten of his own shelters would have fit inside this monstrosity's walls and still left room to maneuver. The two sentries posted at the flap did not move as he walked into the pitch black recess of the tent.

"Lord Haral," Malcolm called softly. "Lord Haral, Derva's troops are approaching our position."

The rustling of silk sheets was followed quickly by the soft groan of a female voice. The sound of bare feet padding on grass approached the underling.

"How far away, Servant?" Lord Haral growled as he opened the hooding on a lit lamp and allowed a little light to chase away the shadows. His master never addressed Malcolm by his name. He was merely another object, a possession to do with as he pleased.

"About two hours march, my Lord. I have ordered the troops to assemble." Malcolm did not even notice the routine insult as he watched Lady Faraigh pull the covers over her head in the dimly lit shelter. One custom that had remained in favor with Arailt's descendants since Gilroy was the constant presence of their wives. This had pleased some of the lords while irritating others.

"Go choose a squad to stay with Lady Faraigh during the battle. I will be out as soon as I am dressed."

* * * * *

Malcolm breathed out quickly through his nose and watched as two vapor trails erupted into the crisp morning air like smoke from a dragon's snout. It was good weather for a battle - not so cold that your hand grew numb on your sword's hilt but still cool enough to not make you pass out in the heat of armor.

"Servant!" Lord Haral rumbled from deep within his chest. "Can't you get these motherless-sons-of-curs to even form up in straight lines? I could drive the Lady's carriage through some of those gaps!"

Malcolm silently accepted the insults while he wondered what his master would say with a massive bleeding gash in his throat. The only thing that made the berating bearable was that no one was immune from scorn. If the god of battle himself had trained these troops, Haral would still have found some fault.

The lord wore a coverlet over his chain mail tunic that partially covered his greaves. An embroidered red hawk with gold thread accents was emblazoned across the front and back of the tabard and matching plumes rose about half a stride above his helmet. Once again, there was no way the man would be unnoticed in battle.

Malcolm shook his head in puzzlement as he walked down the line of soldiers for a brief inspection. His master was as addicted to conflict as a sot to mead. Arguments over his food, clothes, horses - anything as long as he had someone or something to rage against. That was why a battle was imminent today. Lord Haral was always able to goad the impetuous young lords at court into a fight. He was not above fabricating an insult if it gave him an excuse to wage war.

"It is these good men in front of me who will pay the price of their lord's pride," Malcolm thought as his eyes narrowed in anger, "and I am the right hand to the man who is too low to be considered a beast."

He looked down at his hands as they curled slowly into white-knuckled fists. They were the hands of a thief. He stole good men from their families and lives as surely as a pickpocket lifted a purse from an unsuspecting victim. Malcolm knew he could have done something constructive with these hands if only he had been spared from the life he had been born into.

"Servant! It's time to get the men into position if you are through wringing your hands in fear like some damnable new recruit!" Lord Haral waited until Malcolm was closer before he continued.

"We will split the troops into three parts. Two groups will form an open wedge on this side of Stunted Tree Pass. They will hide in the trees on the hillside and angle down to meet at a point in the valley. That is where you and I will be. The third group will wait until Lord Derva's entire army is through the opening then they will move in behind."

"Do you want the third group to be smaller, my Lord?" Malcolm asked. "A good array of soldiers can hold off an army five times its size from that position."

"But I don't want them to just defend," Lord Haral replied, his eyes growing wide until the whites showed completely around the pupil. The wind picked that instant to rise and the breeze made the plumes and the long brown hair showing beneath his helmet to dance around. It made the lord appear to already be rushing headlong into battle though his feet remained firmly planted on the grass.

"I want them to drive Derva's men forward like cattle to the butcher. By the time they reach our wedge, I want them running and looking backward over their shoulders in terror."

Malcolm brought up an image in his mind of the layout of the ground where Lord Haral proposed to spring his trap. The plan would most likely work but it would cause a great deal of bloodshed, on both sides, before the day was over. His master could probably force a withdrawal from Lord Derva by raining down several volleys of arrows and bolts as they ran through the valley. Malcolm knew better than to even suggest it.

"Servant, I have seen horse dung in the stables that looked better than you. Still can't sleep, heh?" Haral let loose with a mirthless chortle. "If your wife is so bad in bed she can't send you off to sleep, maybe you should try another. Just be ready to fight today."

"My Lord need not worry," Malcolm responded with a weak smile. "I will be beside him in battle every step of the way as always."

* * * * *

Malcolm shifted the weight of the shield on his arm and continued to stare up the valley road. Yelling and the clash of steel had been audible for a little while but now the pounding of feet could be felt in the reverberating ground. It would not be long before his impatient, pacing master would have the battle he yearned for so desperately.

A roar rose up from the southern hill and was followed quickly by a twin from the north. Malcolm saw Lord Haral's soldiers leaving the safety of the surrounding forest and careen down into the valley. As each wave of reinforcements appeared and attacked, the pounding of fleeing feet came closer to their position.

Around a slight bend in the road, the first of Lord Derva's army came running into view. They never even had a chance to raise their weapons in defense as their supposed path of escape was abruptly cut off. Lord Haral and the other surrounding soldiers hewed through this handful of fighters like a sharp axe through a fingerling. Malcolm did not raise his sword in the first attack; he knew there would be more blood than he cared to think about soon enough.

Lord Derva staggered around the corner, the left side of his body covered with blood. His helmet was missing from his head and the short cropped blonde hair was spattered with crimson. A squire nearly buckled beneath the weight of his injured lord but together they continued to struggle unwittingly toward their destruction.

Lord Haral cried out with an animalistic roar and leaped toward his counterpart with Malcolm following close in his shadow. Derva raised his head in alarm at the noise and terror drained what remained of his blood from his pale face.

"Dear sir! I beg..."

That was all the farther his plea for mercy and surrender was spoken before Haral's blade struck home. It sheared completely through the lord's neck and continued on before coming to rest, embedded in the squire's shoulder.

Lord Haral ignored the shrill screams of the youth as he withdrew his blade and stomped further into the battle. Malcolm reversed his sword in his hand and struck the boy across the back of his head. He knew if the slumping lad did not die from blood loss while he slept, he would be tended and kept alive as a new servant for his master.

Malcolm looked up and then moved forward quickly to protect Lord Haral's back in the fighting. He moved across the grass and dirt, slippery from the blood of a host of victims, and slashed down everyone who opposed him with an emotionless automation. It was the only way his mind would allow him to ignore the writhing forms of men as they sang a lament of pain-filled sadness into the fall air.

Soldiers who had not seen the inside of a temple since their Manhood Day, called out to their gods for mercy. Sobs for mothers, wives, and lovers wracked the air with grief that threatened to make it unbreathable for the living. No help came for these frightened and dying men but still they called as if the act itself was a blessing on their souls.

Through this scene of carnage, Malcolm and Lord Haral moved in tandem. Not so much as a nick marred either man's skin as the sheer ferocity of Haral's attacks scattered his opponents before his path. Malcolm easily defeated the few brave men who thought to avenge their dead lord by killing the madman from behind.

He had just finished off one would-be hero when a movement from a few paces away caught his eye. A Dervan trooper, covered with too much blood for at least some of it to not be his own, was lying on the ground and fixing a bolt to an already drawn crossbow. Even with his chain mail armor, Lord Haral would not be safe from the shot at that close range.

A whirlwind of thoughts raced through Malcolm's head as his eyes focused in on the steel point of the projectile. He imagined himself leaping in front of Lord Haral and being dealt a death blow. He saw his son growing tall and strong with pride in his eyes because an old family curse no longer chained him to a life of servitude.

Those ideas were quickly blown away by another scenario in his mind. Malcolm dreamed of watching as the bolt was released and plunged deeply into the back of his master. The sadistic lord fell to his knees in pain before collapsing forward in death. Lord Haral's son was barely old enough to walk so even if he were twice the monster his father was, it would be years of peace before the killing started again.

Now the true fight on this battlefield raged only in Malcolm's mind. His love for his son, his family, fought like a cornered beast against the horrors caused by Lord Haral. How could he doom his son to the life of a living hell that he had always been trapped himself? How could he justify the deaths and shattered dreams of thousands of other people for the freedom of his son's life?

As it had been for three centuries, Malcolm's family had no control over its own destiny. He felt his knees buckle and then snap straight. He flew through the air even as the twang of the cord on the crossbow echoed under the sounds of battle. The geas had finally proven to be a blessing by taking control and saving Malcolm's soul from an eternity of self-doubt and torture.

Malcolm landed with a thud and an expulsion of air from his lungs. The tip of the bolt had shattered a rib and become lodged in his heart. Even as the organ struggled to continue pumping life through his veins, Malcolm caught a glimpse of a red-haired woman in the tree line. Standing beside Lady Cinnia was Grandfather Gilroy. Both of them seemed to be welcoming him home.

* * * * *

The End

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