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The air in the room, where there should have been only the smell of wood smoke, was heavy with the sweet, sticky smell of blood. The sounds of the battlefield roared in her ears, the screaming of a wounded horse, the frenzied cries of fighting men who fought gladly, as if it were the only thing worth doing, the shouts of lesser men who fought because they had to, who fought to protect their farms and their small holdings.She had known men like that once, long ago. There had been no battle for more than a generation after Ashington, for as long as it took to grow new soldiers. Then it had all begun again. She knew better than to interfere this time. She wondered where the battle had been fought, and why.
