The Reawakening

Dord awoke on the grave, dirty, face caked with dried mud made of tears and grief, with a new-found stillness. His mind had gone from incoherent grief to poised readiness. It shied away from the memory of coming home from a days-long circle of winter traps to find his small community slaughtered, ravished, burnt. Since first moving here after the Tsaren War, Dord had been a man of peace. He always turned the other cheek. He wanted to make a life that made sense without hatred and war. Even when bullied on his trips into town for supplies, he just slipped away, or he ignored them, or when he couldn't he just stood with his head down. No one here, but the wife he had just buried, had any idea who he had been, Dord Death-bringer, scourge of Tsar, leader of armies. That was about to change.

Dord had started digging the grave by first digging up his weapons, helm, and shield, buried in oiled cloth these long years. The years had barely touched the steel, the wood of the shield and scabbard seemed harder than ever, but the leather had decayed beyond use. No matter. Dord knew long past how to make belts and harness. He had plenty of leather from the round of traps, and some of it was even field tanned. It would do.
Days later, with freshly tanned skins intended to get them through spring and summer into fall harvest, Dord headed toward town. Usually his sons would have come with him to bring the furs, a time for joy and laughter, a time for love. This time, he brought only the best, the finest. There was no one to help shoulder the load. He had two purposes, first, the tracks of the marauders headed this way, but second if he was going to track the men who'd stolen his life, he needed good horses. Keeping the pace he thought he'd need would require strong fast horses, if he could find them here. Four would do. Three remounts would let him keep a good pace day after day without foundering any.

. . .

When Dord walked into town, at first few payed much attention. Old man Dord had been coming in with his furs for years. Those who bothered to look closer saw the hilt of a two-handed sword raising behind his head rising almost as high as the pile of furs strapped to his back, the helm hanging from his waist, and the blank shield, with fresh-made leather straps strapped to the back of the furs. A small crowd gathered to watch him as he walked to the furrier. Many had a vague liking for the man and his boys, but no one really knew him. No one had seen him with more than a belt knife in all the years he'd been coming into town. Often, someone would have to run to get the bailiff if Jimmer and his crowd were around. Something about Dord's refusal to respond to his bullying infuriated Jimmer, and many had worried that some day, if the bailiff couldn't be found quickly enough, Jimmer would do him real harm.

. . .

A few hours later, Dord was checking loads on his new horses. Dord had always been fond of horses, he liked their smell on his hands and their responsiveness. With the life he'd lived these past years it hadn't made sense to keep horses, though his boys had been pestering him to get some. He barely felt a twinge of impatience to be off and away. His past life had taught him that time spent making sure of his gear and the way it was loaded on his horses could make the difference between life and death. It never sped things up to hurry through tasks your life and your ability to continue on your way depended on.

. . .

In the first years after the war, he'd come to an isolated mountain monastery where he'd gradually learned to turn from years of violence and death and killing. He'd spent years sitting, meditating, being still, before he had finally felt ready to come back into a world of children and women and civilized folk. Now it was strange, the years of being a husband and a father and a farmer and trapper seemed to have left no impression on him, like a coat he'd slipped off to find the man of war intact within. The only difference between now and the Dord from the war was the stillness, the peace found in the years after the war. He supposed that if anything, that would just make him a better fighter.

. . .

Out of the corner of his eye, he'd noticed Jimmer and his group heading his way, but continued on his task. He'd never much noticed Jimmer as more than an opportunity to take a few moments to center and breathe, to find the still pond within, while waiting for the bailiff to run him off. He understood that Jimmer's anger was fanned by his lack of care or notice, but had never cared. Jimmer and men of his ilk were useless. In no part of his life had he ever thought much of them, but in the last years, he hadn't cared what Jimmer thought or did any more than he cared for the thoughts of the bugs he ignored.

“Hey! Old man! What are you doing with that sword? You're going to hurt yourself. Now, give it to me.” Dord finished checking the load and moved to make a last check of the cinch of his saddle before riding off. Jimmer, infuriated at Dord's lack of attention said, “What? Are you stupid? I said, give me that sword!”, and reached behind Dord's head for the hilt of the sword. Already two boys were running to find the bailiff. Suddenly, somehow, Jimmer found himself on his knees with his hand bent backward and struggled to get up, but couldn't get past the pain. “Just walk away and live.” Dord released his hand and with a fairly gentle shove with his boot to Jimmer's chest pushed him to his backside. Dord turned to mount, but Jimmer yelled, “Get him!”, and the five men rushed Dord.

. . .

Dord wiped his sword clean and checked it for nicks. He thought he might have caught the edge of a bone a little wrong when taking a head, but it was fine. He noted the error in perception, and made a mental readjustment. He looked down at Jimmer who was trying to keep his insides in and thought about finishing him off. Gutted was a long hard way to die. But he didn't feel anything about it and the sword was already cleaned, and decided it wasn't worth the effort. He turned, mounted, and mind still centered, rode away to find the men who'd taken his life.