No Heroes In War

The village of Oakhaven lived in quiet obscurity, and its people preferred it that way. They had not seen a visitor from the capital in living memory. So, when a royal carriage arrived one morning, the village buzzed with curiosity.

By midday, the town square had transformed. Bunting of royal crimson and gold fluttered from the eaves of the bakery and the smithy. They erected a wooden dais for a great pronouncement. Children darted between the gathering crowd, giddy at the spectacle.

The visitor wore a doublet of midnight blue silk and his fine leather boots mirrored the midday sun. He stepped onto the dais and gestured for silence in the way of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

"Good people of Oakhaven!" he proclaimed, "I am Cassian Vayle, messenger of the King’s War Council. I look upon you and I see the very heart of our kingdom. I see the calloused hands and honest faces of the common folk—people much like my own kin, who tilled the soil long before I ascended to the king's court."

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. The villagers, usually suspicious of city-folk, leaned in.

He spoke of the king's generosity—the new roads, the reduced tariffs, the justice delivered to corrupt lords in distant provinces. His words painted a portrait of a realm flourishing under benevolent rule, and for a moment, even the most cynical among them felt proud.

"But good citizens," Cassian said, his tone shifting like clouds before a storm, "I must speak to you of grave matters. A shadow grows in the East. Our kingdom is threatened. Foreign adversaries, jealous of our prosperity, conspire to take what we have built. The Dagoran Dynasty masses at our borders. The King calls upon his brave subjects to join the military. Do your duty! Bring us victory over the Dagorans!"

Concern rumbled through the villagers. Dagora was a distant, abstract place far to the east somewhere beyond the mountains. A place that never touched Oakhaven's daily concerns.

Young men who had never considered anything beyond the next harvest found themselves caught up in the messenger's fervor. They shouted for glory, for gold, and for the chance to see the world.

Cassian pointed a manicured finger at a lean youth in a linen shirt. "Some among you today will be the next heroes of the realm!" He shifted his finger to another man, a burly lumberjack. "Or you, sir, can learn how to win battles, gain fame and," he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial, suggestive stage-whisper, "win the affection of the ladies."

The crowd erupted into raucous hoots and hollers. Young men flushed with excitement and embarrassment. Old men chuckled knowingly. The prospect of romantic conquest stirred them more than abstract talk of national security.

"And to prove that you—" he pointed at a farmhand, "—or you, sir—" he gestured toward the miller's apprentice, "can accomplish all this, let me introduce one of your own! Winner of seventy battles! Slayer of five hundred enemies! A Hero of the Realm! Agmar the Slayer!"

The cheering stopped

The villagers looked at one another, confused. Agmar was the gentle old man who lived in the cottage beyond the creek. He had helped widow Martha mend her fence and slipped baskets of eggs onto the porches of the hungry.

"He must mean someone else," a woman insisted. "Our Agmar wouldn't swat a fly."

"I once watched Tobin Hask knock him flat outside the tavern," a boy blurted. "Kicked him twice before Marta dragged Tobin off. Agmar never even lifted a hand."

From behind the crowd came the rhythmic, heavy clang of plate mail boots on cobblestone.

The crowd parted like a curtain as Agmar the Slayer strode through them.

The gentle farmer who traded vegetables for mutton had vanished, replaced by someone capable of slaughter. Gleaming plate mail, dented and scratched, encased his broad frame. A battle axe, its blade notched but razor sharp, hung from his back. His battered shield bore the king's colors, faded from numerous campaigns.

He climbed the dais without a word, and even Cassian recoiled.

Agmar's gaze swept the crowd, glaring at anyone foolish enough to stare back. The murmurs died. The fidgeting stopped.

"All I have wanted was to live in peace on my farm until the end of my days," Agmar said, his voice heavy. "I had hoped to never reveal my service in the old king’s army. I knew the new king when he was a boy, and I stand here only out of a lingering sense of duty."

He looked at the many eager faces. "I am too old to serve. But many of you are not."

The crowd blinked.

"My advice is, don't go!"

Cassian shifted uncomfortably.

"Don't join," Agmar commanded. "Right now, in Dagora, young men just like you are being told that you are the menace to their west, marching on them! You have no quarrel with them. The first and last time you meet will be on a battlefield to kill each other."

He approached them. "If you are lucky, you will die instantly. If you are unlucky, you will survive long enough to die of your wounds days later. If you are truly cursed, you will survive the infection but return a man forever haunted."

He looked at the boys up front. "People will call you a hero to ease their own guilt for the sacrifices they encouraged you to make. Don't join."

Silence, except for a flag snapping overhead, settled on the square.

Then the crowd dispersed and everyone returned to their work.

Agmar turned to Cassian.

"If you'd ever participated in a single battle," he said, "you'd know there are no heroes in a war. Only the fortunate dead, and the unfortunate survivors."

No Heroes In War v1.0

© Copyright 2026 Michael L. Cope. All Rights Reserved.