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Gunter slumped by the
stream, mindlessly washing away the blood covering his armor and shield. His sword lay on the grass beside him, a
silent reminder of his part in carnage.
Is this really all there is? Gunter had
asked that question many times these past raids. The roar of the assault still echoing around
him, Gunter stretched tired muscles down upon the lush green.
Rape? Gunter found the screams of frightened women
and children appalling. What is rewarding about destroying a woman’s
hopes and dreams? With her children
cowering in a corner and watching their mother die?
Pillage? At first the thrill of wealth exulted
satisfaction within him. Now, when that
wealth is covered with the blood of its dying owners, pillage was
repugnant. Gunter reached inside his
tunic, retrieving a torn parchment.
An elderly monk had
thrust this page into Gunter’s hands just days ago. With his last gasping breath, the monk
whispered, “Take this…”
But, why? Why did
he give this to me?
The Apostolic Barbarian will continue in tomorrow’s post.
