Call to Arms
Strike it again.
A singular thought that sparked his dogged determination.
The young lad swung the overhead blade down in a diagonal arc, slashing at the dummy across through its right shoulder. Runar’s left hand still clutched onto the wooden waster arming sword, as it landed a sluggish blow on the target.
Upon impact the practice sword ricocheted into the soil, dragging his weary body down like an anchor. Runar fell to his knees. Propped up only by the support of the blade now ploughed into the ground.
Lungs seared from torturous hours of training, his hoarse breath panting in the chilly noon air.
Sweat trickled down his temples and drenched his woollen tunic. The lad’s leaden muscles writhed in agony, demanding that he ceased activity for the day. Tender aches settled into his joints. The palm of his left hand was marred by the splintered pommel grip.
Runar fixated his gaze at the others: lads and lasses, patriarchs and matrons lined up in rows across the plains of the training ground. He observed their unwavering determination inspired by fear.
Tomorrow their demise drew near.
All able-bodied individuals had gathered here a fortnight ago. Villagers hailing from all over the province – shepherd folk, peasant farmers, carpenters, butchers, cobblers, cooks, woodcutters, merchants and minstrels, stone masons and blacksmiths – all from different walks of life answered the call to take up arms against tyranny.
At the break of dawn, the army of volunteers would march upon the fields of battle. They would hear the deafening sound of war drums rumble and roar in their ears for the first time. None would be prepared to face the herald of death.
Yet, they all persevered with combat practice: slashing, blocking, thrusting and parrying as instructed by the drill sergeants of the fortress garrison. Training as if their very lives could be determined with one fatal error during the fray. Blow by blow, dummies were thwacked throughout the course of the day.
Inspired by the sight, Runar mustered his strength.
Despite the arduous efforts exhausting his energy, he rallied his morale. Grasping the wooden hilt and blade with both hands, he rose wearily to his feet.
Covered in dirt and sweat, the young lad raised the sword to his side in a defensive stance. Inhaled courage. Exhaled ferocity. Cleaving the wooden blade at the dummy’s head.
Runar continued toiling away listlessly at practise, knowing that each swing of the sword could be the decisive moment – either victory or defeat – of his life.
Having never held an instrument of warfare in his hands, Runar considered the unfathomable road that led him here on this journey. How he, a scholar, turned to a warrior’s duty overnight. He felt a patriotic duty to uphold the kingdom’s peace. Surrounded by his compatriots, he now understands the heavy price at stake.
As their homeland was besieged and their livelihood was in peril, a nation roused itself to the call to arms to protect their freedom.
The fate of his kingdom lies at the edge of his blade. So Runar answered his call: Strike it again. And so he struck again and again, steeling himself for the strife that lay ahead.
Day 30 - This piece was posted as part of the 31 Days of Content Challenge that I undertook in March 2022.