Shards of a Broken Life

Smoke…Screams…

Shard shot upright in his cot, his head jerking in all directions, his eyes scanning the dark. Through the flap of his tent he could make out the dance of shadows in fire light. Women and children screamed, many halting abruptly, cut short. Looking down, his hands seemed so small, far too small for a warrior. They were the hands of a fifteen year old boy, a young healer of his father’s tribe. Dressing quickly and arming himself with a knife and bow, Shard exited the relative safety of his tent. The scene he witnessed was enough to nearly cause him to vomit. Men, women, and children lay dead or dying, dragon beasts cutting them down as they laughed in high pitched voices, hissing threats and damnation on his people. Few men had the time to prepare for battle, and fewer still remained alive to fight back. Draconians thronged the center of the tent village, surrounding a lone man, circling about like vultures for the meal. Using positioning, the leader of the tribe, Shard’s father, forced the enemy to assault him in small numbers, while the others were forced to wait their turn to strike out at the warrior chief. Shard and his father locked eyes for just a moment. The great chief yelled a single order to his son, “Take the survivors….Run!” His world blurred in the fire, screams, and smoke that seemed to consume him and his will to go on, all he could do was run with those few who remained. The last Shard heard of his father was a mighty yell let out by the warrior as he sacrificed himself, a final gift to his remaining people that they might escape.

Smoke…Screaming…

Shard sat up quickly from his sleep, smoke surrounding him. Though this was merely the gentle smoke wafting up from his small camp fire, the screaming, he quickly realized, was his own. Shaking and sweating he looked down at his hands, these hands were larger, harder, no longer the hands of a child of fifteen summers, but the hands of a warrior, his own hands.