The Hungarian Plain spread out in front of the rider and his horse; he had just left the cold Carpathian Mountains and now the going would be easier. He was older, battle scarred, but his bow was still supple and his quiver full of arrows. He had learned the importance of keeping his sword sharp and his shield on his back, ever ready; because of this he had survived many campaigns under his king, Attila.
His weather-beaten face showed the scars of a number of near death encounters, where inches and half seconds separated the living from the dead. His horse was also older and had shared the excitement and boredom of many campaigns into Roman territory. They had a bond, forged in bravery, fear, and crisis.
That was all behind them now. Atilla was dead and his 3 sons squabbled to control the empire. An empire to which they didn’t contribute, but expected to be given to them, as if it was a divine right. It wasn’t only their haughtiness that disturbed the warriors, but also that these sons had never really been in battle; hadn’t really given death its due, hadn’t pulled victory from the jaws of certain death through the sheer force of determination and grit. No Attila’s sons just didn’t understand perseverance and valour. No self-respecting warrior would follow them into death’s jaws like they would Attila.
He hadn’t been this way for over 5 years, but he still knew the exact spot where the Gepids, those turncoat Germans had attacked them. Their king, Ardaric, was Atilla’s right hand man, but he wouldn’t follow Ellac, Atilla’s oldest son. He wouldn’t debase himself to swear fealty to a man any less that Atilla.
The horse and rider walked the plain for a few hours, there was no hurry now, this was Hun territory. It was just before dusk when he found the spot. There was the tell-tale signs of a large camp; all the soil packed solid by horses, and there still were the breast works and moats that had fortified the camp; tactics learned from the Romans.
The smell of death, though old, was still strong here; and this agitated horse as it remember that fateful, horrible day where many of its companions fell and never got up. These memories tried to take over the horse; tried to make it back up and run away from this terrible place… but the rider held tight and forced his will, forced the horse on … onto the old battle ground, where bones and skulls littered the area.
The rider knew the spot; could never forget it.
He was there with his oldest son, his brave wonderful son, when they were attacked by their own comrades, there in their midst. The squadron had just left the fort on a patrol and then those traitorous Gepids gave no warning, they just began killing everyone in their midst. His eyes and mind both haze over as he remembers the attack.
He and his horse fought back with frenzied ferocity, his son at his side, they cut down many… and with sheer determination they fought their way through the enemy horde and almost broke free. He can still remember the terrible moment. His horse was at full gallop and he turned to fire an arrow at the pursuers and he saw his friend Hans fire an arrow that struck his son just above his shield. He got his retribution with an astonishing shot, right into his murderous eye; but it was all his injured son could do to hold on, his horse kept up with the escaping cohort, but his son never made it home.
After a few more minutes he found the corpse of the man who had killed his son. The broken shaft of his arrow was still in the skull’s eye socket… As he looked down on the skull, a ferocious smile spread across his face and he spit, cursing … “You may have taken my son, but for you, my vengeance lasts forever.”
Author’s Note: This sculpture of the Hun on Horseback is found just beside the National Gallery in Berlin.