The soldier left my tent. He would regale his mates about how he stood and spoke to the great General Arlin. Should he live till tomorrow’s dusk and return home, he will make this moment part of a barroom tale, a holiday yarn for grandchildren – the cornerstone of his warrior legend.

I began “The Pacing”.

Rodney slept in a corner behind the dressing stand which bore my field armor. My helmet, gleaming in candlelight, mocked me from atop the stand. An empty helmet, a fitting metaphor.

For as long as there have been men, their have been warriors. For as long as there have been warriors, there has been war. I had come to know this fact.

The warrior brings war.

While it is true that men cannot live in peace for long, that has nothing to do with war.

War is its own world, a suspension of all life and time. All those who fight die in some way.

I understood how a field became a battle-field, because I bring war.

These Barbarians do not want war, they want food. What I will give them is death.