The Bard

The Bard. original fiction. The Bard sat on the hilltop next to the battle. He alone was authorized and protected by both sides to report to the people historically about the battle. All others had their biases. He had had to prove his neutrality for 10 to 15 years now successfully. The battle began late because it was raining. First there was the yelling and taunting and counting of coup. Next came the arrows raining down on each side accompanied by the screams of those taken unawares with shields not quite in the right position to catch or deflect the arrows and for those whose shields that were not quite tough enough to withstand the penetrating arrows. There were no doctors only a few nurses and medicine people from the local tribes to tend wounds. Unless a sword was heated in a fire to cauterize most wounds the soldiers would die soon from an infection of one kind or another. So any deep wound on any part of the body could prove ultimately fatal.

When the screams from the first volleys of arrows began The Bard had to fight off nausea. However, he knew no matter how this made him feel he had to stay conscious to chronicle these events for posterity. It was his duty. It was expected of him by all present. All those dying deserved his utmost skills to chronicle their deaths for all time. After the bowmen came the swordsmen and spearmen with their gaff's and claymore
swords. The blood spurting and arms and legs and heads flying in all directions made the Bard gag but still he took it all in knowing his responsibilities to posteriety for there was none but him that could do justice to this battle in poetry, ballad and song. This was how history had been kept already for hundreds and thousands of years by Bards like himself. For pen, and ink and writing had not made their way here much as of yet.