All Quiet On The Western Front: A Short Story

Blood splattered to the ground, flung from the end of a longsword blade thrust in and out of the red man’s heart. Stumbling back, he fell to the earth beneath him, writhing in discomfort and pain. Such a descent left behind a resounding thud, though muffled by the pings and clashes of shield and sword and the screams of pain, agony, and terror. More red men arrived in droves, marching onward, firing a barrage of scorching arrows at the town, striking thatch roofs, the fields, and the trees. The quick strikes of boots on the ground echoed like drums through the still air. The sun shone on the blades of the red men’s axes and swords, blindingly bright, as it slipped below the horizon. Night was nearing.
“Colbren!” a deep voice cried from the
Wooden beams fell in the streets, kicking up dust, blinding the pathway even more. Brick houses crumbled as their foundations burned away. And in the midst of everything else the battle continued raging, commoners, artisans, and soldiers alike, falling to the onslaught of the red men as they made their advancement through the night. Past the crackling of the fires, Colbren could still hear the sharp pangs of steel against steel, echoing through the night, imprinting the sharp noise in his ears. He could hear the wretched sounds of choking men gasping for breath, coughing up blood as they were gutted by the demonic metal of the invading savages. And Colbren knew that among all this, his father was lost somewhere in the melee.
He stopped. Around him laid the bodies of comrades and friends, puddles of blood surrounding their corpses, their flesh blackened and charred. On the ground next to many their heads laid severed, visages of terror forever printed upon them. Some had been ripped apart, their organs beside them, either dry and shriveled or still oozing blood. More still remained deep in the blaze, given no opportunity of escape. However so, the more unlucky of these men remained alive, groaning in agony with the last of their shallow
Though he scanned the area around him for his father, he saw only the brutish red men engaged in combat with his friends and neighbors, devastating the town in their fiery rampage. He rushed in the direction of his home again, panting and heaving, unable to catch his breath before he would be attacked once more. His arms grew heavy under the weight of his sword and his mail began to burn his chest even through his shirt. But with as much speed as he could muster, he ran toward his father's fields, ablaze with a pallete of red and yellow, smoke rolling out of it like fog on the