This story came into existence 4 years ago, originally written in my native language German. As I am still quite proud of it and consider it one of the definitely best tales I have ever created, I thought it couldn't hurt to share it with a broader audience of AoC and Hyboria fans. If you read this now, that goal has been achieved.
I will look into translating the whole story over the next few days until christmas, as The Midwinter War clearly is a fitting release for the wintertime. I hope you will enjoy it. Leave a comment if you wish, I appreciate all kinds of praise and (constructive) criticism!
THE MIDWINTER WAR
A tale of loss and hope
Prologue: A mirthless triumph
The memories are still relentlessly fresh. A ruined field that we are standing on, only few survivors, putting a lot of effort in simply being able to stand, and hardly able to hold back the tears of wrath and the overwhelming feeling of loss. Once this had been a wheat field that we layed out in the sweat of our brows to ensure the supply of the city we called our home.
But now, after the disastrous events of the last few days, it is merely a battlefield, adorned with the battered dead bodies of many friends, and even more ravaged corpses of our enemies. The snow, just recently fallen to cover the ground in a gentle white, is now crimson-colored from a battle void of all human feeling and any kind of mercy. A falcon flies high above us, sluggish in its flight, its wings wounded like our bodies and souls. The proud and beautiful bird lets out a cry that breaks the dead silence.
Slowly, the leader of the bereaved, a vigorous warrior, strides along the scene of the recent skirmish, limping and smeared in blood. His name is Atavus. He has lost everything that had been near and dear to him within the last days. His wife, struck down by a poisoned arrow. His son, trampled to death by the enemies' horses. Countless friends with whom he had shared joy and pain over so many years.
Clearly, he recognizes the lifeless body of the man lying in the dirt in front of him. The commander of the enemy forces. A massive axe still lingers where it split his skull, his eyes are wide open, the whole face distorted in a grimace of fright. Atavus looks down on him and closes his eyes. Again, he hears the falcon's cry, the splendid bird of prey that had belonged to his son. And in the end, the warrior loses the last thing that he held on to: The last vestiges of self-control.
Fueled by rage, he jerks his battle axe from the corpse of the enemy and brings it down crashing on the body, time and time again. Blood splatters, bones crack, and Atavus' shout of rage carries over and above the field, making his few remaining abiders wince. Ultimately, he stomps onto the severed and disfigured head of the corpse with his heavy boots, over and over again, until it can no longer be recognized as human.
A hand gently settles on the warrior's shoulder. Snaplike and still furious, he turns around, yet his anger recedes as he perceives one of his own. Atavus, that hulking figure of a man, looks up to the sky and catches sight of the falcon. Memories and exhaustion let him fall down on his knees.
The war is over. But the loss they had to suffer can never be atoned for, and the scars that it left behind will keep burning forever.
(... to be continued.)