Lord Earendale planted the tip of his hand-and-a-half blade on the earth and glanced left, up toward the midmorning sun. It was a cloudless day, spotted only by the specks of black gore crows circling ever closer. His eyes followed the vast blue expanse downward to its disappearance behind distant snowcapped peaks, below which was gathered the bulk of his forces, arrayed in meticulously organized columns, their blue-steel armor a glittering sea of crushed ice advancing across the plateau.
Returning his eyes forward, he beheld the hulking mass of his latest foe, black pikes and axe heads held high. At their head, astride a pale white horse bred for war, rode a spectral figure, robed in grey, a thin longsword in his right hand, face indiscernible across the distance.
The sight of the figure sent a thrill through Earendale. He had faced down many such enemies in his years of campaigning, but the buzzing anticipation of battle felt new every time.
A war horn, followed by a low rhythmic chant, sounded forth from across the plateau as the enemy columns started haltingly forward.
“So we begin again,” Earendale muttered to himself. He thought of his wife and son back home; and the thought gave him strength.
The copper stench of blood and the screams of dying men and horses filled Earendale’s nose and ears as he pulled his blade free from the gut of another red-clad soldier and surveyed his surroundings. All about him was chaos, the orderly lines of pre-battle dissipating into a bloody mass of desperate fighting. Not for the first time, he considered that he was getting too old to keep fighting like this year after year. But every time he entertained the thought, he dismissed it. Nothing made him feel more alive, more purposeful, than disposing of those who would threaten his home.
Then the line parted, and the grey-clad figure, slender and gaunt, strode forth, bone-white blade twirling at his side. Earendale stepped forward, sword raised in a bracing stance. Here again was a chance to show his valor.
“Anything from you, Dale?”
Dale snapped awake and looked around at his colleagues from Smith & Smith. Square glasses, square-toed shoes, and square-shaped brown suits all around. Another tax season was coming to a close, the 16th in Dale’s career. He was a decent accounting manager; it was never what he’d aspired to, but it was a safe and stable career path. He had a faint feeling that his life was meant for more, though what that could be he had no clue. It was simply an unscratched itch somewhere in the deep recesses of his soul, which he pushed away day after day. On occasion he’d thought about taking a risk – he’d even considered buying a light blue blazer to wear to the office at one point – but he always thought the better of it. After all, he only had another 25 years until retirement. No point in risking the pension.
“Nothing from me,” said Dale, reaching up to brush back his ever-thinning hair.
He stared down at the cuff of his pleated khakis, trying to recall the dream he’d been having – he had the vague sense it was something mildly interesting – but it was like trying to grab mist. Then it was gone.
“Ah, well,” he thought to himself. Shrugging, he turned back to his spreadsheets.