The smells of horses
and of leather and sweat,
the sparks of steel on steel,
the metallic tang of blood.

The whoosh of arrows,
the twang of strings,
the sound of banners,
whipping in the breeze.

Hooves pound and nays ring out,
the squeals of injured animals,
the shouts of men near death,
the silence between skirmishes.

Proving grounds of bravery,
and confirmations of the witless,
these fields can make a man,
or reduce a man to a shadow.

Gauntlets worn on blistered hands,
raised high with a blade in hand,
muscles clench as the broadsword
glimmers in the setting sun.

The victorious king
views the carnage
from the top of the hill,
and looks upon his new lands.