More Than Enough

In a snow-bound farmer’s field, two bands of men were going to kill each other. There were a lot of them, just how many nobody knew, but enough to make it hard to count with all the big white flakes blowing about. It was more than enough. They were going to kill each other, regardless of how many of them there were, and at the end of the killing one of them would get to be king. 

The fact that it wouldn’t be them personally who got to be king didn’t dampen their spirits as much as the snow did. Indeed, everyone seemed to agree that killing each other was the right and proper way to decide if someone else should receive the crown while they received six feet of frozen ground. 

The archers loosed their arrows, and in their excitement and the blizzard, never noticed their shafts falling short, and so enthusiastically feathered the ground. With a shout to drown out their fears, the two sides strode through drifts and slipped on ice, for the chance to hack and stab and poke and slash at one another until they staggered apart again, steaming and swearing and cursing and bleeding, for five minutes of blessed respite.

They kept at it until the wan grey sun began to sink, the dim field grew darker, and one of the ones who were supposed to become king got himself killed. 

The cry went up, “The king is dead!” In the blinding storm they couldn’t see who it was, so they just stopped, just put down their poleaxes, hammers and swords, and waited to find out if they’d won. Not much point in killing each other if their guy didn’t get to be king at the end of it. Who wants to die for nothing?

As they awaited judgement, the wind died and a cold and heavy silence fell.

The dead did not wait to hear the result. There were a lot of them, how many nobody knew. It was a lot, it was enough. It was more than enough.