Dead bodies were sprawled out over the plain, the aftermath of a battle between the two major empires in the area. The gray and green colors of the Entari soldiers mixed haphazardly and almost beautifully with the blue tones of the Jarudanian corps, and the common brown of peasant's clothing under battered mail. Wind whipped Jerris's long platinum hair as he stood up. The leather armor he wore over his thin body kept most of the cold out, but his slightly elongated half-elven ears were chilled. He brought a hand up to block the glare of the sun against his golden eyes as he observed the scene. From the hill he stood on, it looked like a great abstract painting, a thought that was shattered only by the crimson and steel littering the field. He could not tell from here which side had won and had come too late to see the battle itself.
That was not really what was important, however. Something had called him here. Somewhere out on the spreading plain, someone was still here. Someone who was important.
A person with a story that had to be told.
Jerris waited until the wind shifted, and picked his way slowly down the hill.

***

He came upon the one who must have called him a half an hour or so later, on the Jarudanian side of the plain. After reaching this point, it was obvious who had won. The shattered body of the Jarudanian general, his body tied to a stake and horribly mutilated, as was the Entari custom, told him as much.
The general was not particularly important anyhow. There was a short, leanly muscled young Entari dressed in a coat of mail over home- woven clothes sitting near the body, his sword sheathed and his shield hacked near to pieces by a hundred turned blade strokes. His medium length brown hair was ragged, and his blue eyes were shadowed, even in the bright sunlight. He was staring blankly at the body of another Entari, a sergeant by his attire. Jerris stopped a bit behind him, out of reach of the boy's blade, and cleared his throat.
The boy leapt to his feet and his blade cleared it's sheathe with an audible hiss. He looked Jerris over quickly, as if assessing a threat. "Who are you, what is your business?" he spat out in a baritone voice that nonetheless still retained a bit of youthfulness in it.
"Hold your blade, I'm no foe of yours," Jerris replied, his airy tenor voice out of place considering the surroundings. "I'm merely passing through." "Passing through a battlefield? Are you insane? Who knows what ghosts you might carry away with you," the peasant said, looking at him like he was an idiot. "Aye, I will carry ghosts with me. That is the price of my calling, though," Jerris responded.
"And what calling is that, if I may ask?"
"Why, I am a deathsinger," Jerris smiled lightly as he said it. "The ghosts I carry are those I choose."
The boy just stared at him for a moment, then laughed a bit and sheathed his sword. "You are insane. Deathsingers are just a myth."
"What wise man told you this?" Jerris inquired, his smile widening.
"My father."
"And how did he know?"
The boy glared harshly at Jerris, "He traveled the world. He knew more than I, more than you, could ever imagine."
"What ever happened to him?"
The boy's glare intensified and he indicated a corpse, "Why my fair deathsinger, he lies dead at my feet now." His voice wavered and cracked as he continued. "Dead fighting this Asin-begotten war. Dead for this Lan forsaken country. Dead for nothing! Nothing! A pair of kings wanted this piece of land, so we all had to die!"
Jerris's smile faded. "But one still stands. You still stand," he said quietly. He strode over to the indicated body and looked for a moment. Then he turned back to the boy. "And as long as you stand, something can come out of this."
"What? What good can come out of. out of this?" He yelled, tears welling up in his eyes as he waved an arm to indicate the battlefield.
"Good? I did not say good would come out of it. Something though, something could come of it." Jerris sat down on the rock where the young man had been. "The tale will tell the truth. All that hear it will know what happened. Someday, maybe, something like this can be avoided. It won't help you, but is it not worth it?"
"No. It's not," the boy said quietly. "Nothing's worth it."
"Aye. Perhaps not. But since the thing has already happened. why not let something be learned from it."
The boy nodded. "As you say, but I'll not stay here. Too many ghosts."
Jerris stood back up. "I know a town north of here, out of the hands of both sides. Let's go to the inn there. You can clean up before you tell your tale."
The boy nodded again, and let himself be led to the north.

***

The town Jerris took him to was little more than a hamlet, less than two hundred souls. It boasted a tavern and a small inn, as well as excellent home brewed ale. Jerris led the boy quickly to the tavern, a common room just off of the inn, with several large tables in the center of the room and a few smaller round tables along the edges. They took a seat in a darkened corner, far away from doors or windows. The owner approached them, and after speaking with them for a moment, motioned the barmaid over with a mismatched pair of tankards filled with ale, and left to tend to other customers.
After a moment of silence, Jerris looked around the room, and then to the boy. "I believe you had something to say?"
The boy glared at him again, then looked down into his tankard. "Aye, I do." He looked up, and then started speaking in a steady voice, recounting his story. "It was earlier this summer when the pressmen came into my town. They recruited most of the men of age, including myself and my father. See, the war with the Jarudanians had heated up again, and they needed troops, or so I heard later. They told us then that it was but a small border dispute. We believed them. Why shouldn't we have?" He sighed again, and continued on.

***

"Onward ya damned yokels! We have a war ta fight!" the heavily mailed sergeant yelled. The column of militia had been walking for much of a day, and they were much the worse for the wear. Though strong men all, they were not used to the weight of arms and armor. The appalling heat did not help matters, nor did the dust kicked up by those in front of them.
Despite it all, Egan was glad to be on his way to battle. There were few ways for a peasant to improve his lot, but merit in combat was one of them. If he or his father were to prove their valor, then perhaps they could become men at arms, or at least soldiers in the service of their lord.
For that though, Egan had to survive the march. At this rate, he was not so certain he would. The sun was beating down into his eyes, and the unfamiliar weight draped over his body and strapped to his hip were making him tireder than a day in the fields. He looked over to his father, who was looking rather haggard. He did not worry, though. His father was a strong man. He would make it. Egan looked around him again, and saw in the distance a forest. At least the shade would help, he thought.

***

The shade did help, but not much. The sweltering heat was unbearable under the sun, but by the time they reached the forest, all the assembled people wanted to do was stop and rest. Their unforgiving taskmasters, the sergeants at arms and captain assigned to leading their little troop were in a hurry. They would be there on time for the battle, and no peasant slime was going to slow them down.
And so they marched deeper and deeper into the woods. When Egan felt as if he could go no further, a break was called. They had stopped in a small clearing in the woods, with a stream flowing through it. Many of the men rushed over to drink, but a few sat down and merely waited, sweating from the exertion.
Egan looked up and saw that the sun had dropped low in the sky, and evenings pleasant shades were giving way to night's dark embrace. He did not much want to stay in the woods overnight, but it was preferable to walking again.
After a moment, the order was given to stop here for the night. A few guards were detailed, and the group settled in for their sleep. Egan made his way to a spot by his father, who had hurried to the stream. "Do you think we'll win glory, father?" Egan asked quietly?
His father looked him over, and shook his head. "We'll win death, boy, and enough of it to go 'round." He shed his armor and stretched out on the ground as best as he could. "War isn't for glory. It's for killing, and not a bit more or less. Now go to sleep. You'll need your energy tomorrow."
Egan took off his own armor, and lay down. He stared up into the sky, watching the stars appear. His father was wrong. War was for glory. He knew it. He fell asleep quietly, and slept without stirring until the next morning.
Along with the rest of the militia, he donned his armor, and all thoughts of glory were put out of his head as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other instead.

***

After another day of marching, the militia met up with the main body of the army. Over two thousand trained and armed Entari soldiers, as well as another three or four thousand men from the peasant levies. The soldiers were set up on a hill overlooking the valley that would be their battleground on the morrow, though they did not know it yet. The orderly encampment of the soldiers sharply contrasted with that of the militias. Where theirs was tent row after tent row, the peasants had a hastily thrown together mishmash of tents and lean-tos with no discernible order to them.
Egan found himself sharing a tent with a heavily muscled young man from a village he had never heard of. He tried speaking to the other youth, but he did not reply. So, he quickly set up his bedding, and hurried to a cook fire, where he laid hands on a hunk of roast pig. He found a clear place to sit, near where the professional soldiers were eating, and listened to their conversation.
"Do ya think the Jarudanians stand a chance?" an young soldier with a light voice asked.
"'Course not, Aerin. They're not ready for a war, and we got ourselves the advantage a surprise," replied a heavily scarred sergeant. "Not 'at they'd have a chance anyhow! The Entari'll have this land, and we'll crush any buggers who tell us otherwise!" A general cry of assent went up from the assembled men.
And was silenced just as quickly as a man stepped toward them. He was wearing the gray and green of an Entari soldier, but was far older than even the sergeant. He carried himself with a proud bearing, and his graying black hair flowed down his neck. He looked down on the soldiers, a smile spreading over his stern face, distorting a scar that ran down past around the right side of his nose, just missing an eye. "I see the men are in high spirits," he said, in a booming basso voice.
"Milord, we are! We are!" the sergeant quickly bowed, and the rest of the soldiers followed suit.
"That is good. We stand on the cusp of something great, you know," the tall man stepped forward, and took up an unclaimed flagon of ale, quaffing it quickly and then bringing it down hard on the table. "Tomorrow, we move out, and the Jarudanians won't know what hit them!" The men cried their assent, louder than they had for the sergeant.
The lord silenced them with a raised hand. "And with the Jarudanians laid low, who will stand against us?"
"No one!" the men shouted, joined by a group of soldiers and militia who had come to see the what the commotion was.
"Exactly! The Entari will take the place they deserve! The places we deserve!" The men, Egan amongst them, cheered loudly at this pronouncement. "We will drive them before us! We will hunt them down like the heathen dogs they are, and we will take the land that is rightly ours! Shori grants us this!"
The cries of the assembled men were deafening. Even after the lord had finished speaking, and the assembled crowd had dispersed, Egan could still hear it ringing in his ears. Just as he could feel the pride glowing on his face. Glory. He had been right. War was about glory.

He returned to his tent as night fell. The stolid youth he was bunked with was still there, now on his back and apparently asleep. Egan sat on his bedding for a moment, then swung his feet onto it and stared up at the tent. "Are you afraid?" asked a quiet voice from the other side of the tent. Egan looked over at the boy across from him. "Are you afraid?" the youth repeated. Egan thought for an instant. "No. Are you?" he replied. "Yes. War frightens me. Death frightens me," he laughed nervously. "I guess I shouldn't be scared. We'll win. I can feel it in my bones. But still." "Don't worry. Tomorrow, you'll see. We'll win the battle, and then the war. No one can deny us." The youth smiled at him, his shockingly white teeth contrasting his thick black hair and tanned complexion. "I wish I had your confidence." "Don't worry. You will." There was no reply, and Egan slowly slipped off into sleep.

***

The next morning was bright, and that same light that showed him the beauty of the valley they were near also showed him how frightening the glint of sun off of thousands of mailed forms could be.
On the other side of the valley stood a Jarudanian force. From here, the blue of the cloth covering the mail only enhanced the deadly beauty of the scene. Thousands of soldiers were marching across the plain, even as the Entari force prepared to meet them.
Egan, having been awakened for the last watch, was amongst the first ready for battle. He shifted uneasily in his armor, unsure of how to ready himself for the coming fight. He fidgeted as a sergeant at arms bullied him and some other peasants into a makeshift formation, looking them over and snorting disdainfully.
Egan looked around, hoping to catch sight of his father, but could not find him in the mass of faces. He would have to wait until after the battle to see him, he thought, too bad, I would've liked to have gone into battle side to side with him.
And then the call to march forward came, and all thoughts rushed out of his head.

***

The battle was a riot of clashing steel and conflicting colors. Egan was in the first rush of peasants to be thrown forward, meat for the grinder of the battle. He found that he was surprisingly quick with the short blade he had been given, though, and fought his way forward. He barely turned repeated strokes with his shield as the battle raged, and he repeatedly battled with other men in the rough ragged clothing of peasants.
And he killed them, or at least was not killed by them. One, two, too many to count as the fighting raged. Occasionally, he would fight side by side or against one of the more trained soldiers, but even then managed to hold his own. Everyone was tired, and even soldiers made mistakes in the hectic melee.
As the day wore on, more and more forces were committed by each side, until even the generals and lords were fighting side by side with the lowly remainders of the levies and common soldiery.
Finally, as the sun climbed high into the sky, Egan saw what he was looking for. The general of the Jarudanian force, his chance to earn the glory he craved. Finishing off the half dead peasant he was fighting with, he charged forward, battering past the other troops in his dash.
With a cry, he flung himself past the general's bodyguards, and thrust his blade at the glinting plate mail. He felt it connect, and with a shudder, it slid into the shoulder joint of the armor, tearing into flesh.

***

"And then?" Jerris asked.
"And then. I fought on. It was a haze, though. I remember hearing my father yell. I remember how the battle got heavier around me. Then. there was no more, everyone was gone and I stood by my father's body," Egan's eyes filled with tears, and he quietly started crying. "He was right, you know. It wasn't worth it."
"It never is," Jerris replied.
"But you hear the tales, about glory. Knights and kings, rushing into battle to gloriously win the day and bring home the spoils of war to their adoring kingdoms. It's supposed to be that way! Not that Asin spawned mire of death and blood!" He cried out, and then quieted down to little more than a whisper. "It's not supposed to be that way."
"But it is. It always is." Jerris looked up and behind him, where a figure in a silver robe stood. "War is always like that. It's death and blood, but there is glory. You, child, you found both. But now. now you need rest."
"Rest. Heh, how can I ever rest now. not till I'm dead."
The robed person spoke, a low and soothing voice, but wholly genderless. "And sleep you shall. You have had your time with the boy, Jerris. Now his lord calls to him."
"He always does. Thank you for this time, though. His tale, small as it seems, is much more in the end." Jerris stood up. "I thank you Egan. I shall leave you now."
Egan looked up at him. "But. I have no where to go. No family to go to. nothing."
Jerris smiled sadly, "Child, you shall always have a place now. Your place is in the story, let that be your comfort, cold as it may be. It is all that I can offer."
Egan looked down again, and the robed figure stepped forward, the colors in it's robe shifting and darkening as it did so. The soothing voice came again. "And now the time has come. War was your last sight. Peace shall be your reward."
Jerris started to leave as the boy looked up at the robed man. He stopped in the door, and turned around, taking one last look as the robed man sat across from Egan. Then Jerris turned and walked away.

***

Egan felt a pain in his side suddenly, even as he bore the Jarudanian general down with him. A cry of rage went up around him, and a cry of victory came from further away.
Even as he felt the blades rip into him and felt the lifeblood spilling out of his body, Egan knew this was wrong. He had not found glory.
He had found pain. He had found pain, and death. And that was all this was. Pain and death.
His sight slowly faded, and the last thing he saw was the face of his father as he too fell, reaching out for him, a wordless cry of agony on his lips.

***

Jerris walked away from the village. He had gotten what had drawn him here. The call had been satisfied, and he could already feel a tug coming to him from further away. Drawing his cloak around him to shield him from the wind, Jerris made his way to the south.
A Deathsinger's work was never done.