Of all the things about the warrior Clayton that held young Rhebok in such awe, the shine on his battle gear was the most impressive. Everything gleamed with an unearthly quality, from the top of Clayton's head to the tip of his toes--the flat leather pieces covering his arms and legs, the leather ties, the chain mail, the helmet, the various shields and additional metallic armor. And the boots... oh, the boots. They were always invariably polished, blacker than black and reflecting the world as does an obsidian looking glass. Sometimes the sheen was so bright, it glared in Rhebok's eyes like a second sun, warming him through to the marrow of his bones.

Today, they were going into battle, and as Clayton's page, Rhebok would finally get to see firsthand the wages of war. Nature seemed to have accomodated the warriors and held back the rains that threatened in the stormy, roiling sky of clouds. The land was just as dry and dusty as it had been for many moons, the air just as thick with the grit that often found its way inside Rhebok's mouth, throat, and lungs. That's why it was so amazing that Clayton could shine so brightly; a film of dust seemed to hang onto everything else.

Still, the rains threatened, and the air crackled with electricity; so the warriors prepared for a bloody war before Nature could change her mind.

"Don't dally!" Clayton warned him, and Rhebok picked up his pace, arms cradled protectively about the weaponry for which he was responsible.

On foot, Rhebok followed Clayton's mount to the front of the line and found himself a spot on which he could stand and fight or watch and run to his master's aid. When all the men had advanced and settled into place, the war cry broke out...

...and so did the storm.

The squall came before the clap of thunder and the onslaught of villagers, and through a heavy sheet of rain, Rhebok watched the shining armor of Clayton's back, dodging and blocking slanting blows from clumsy farm hands. When Clayton moved forward, so did he, intent on following every footstep of his heroic master and protecting him in any way he could.

The warrior Clayton, however, clearly had no need for the unsolicited aid. With great swings of his blade, he literally mowed down the enemy, and gleaming, he remained unmarred by cuts or dents or spattering blood. The hero, who wasn't even breathing hard, grew in estimation in Rhebok's eyes.

The battle waged on and on, until Rhebok lost track of all time, the rain pouring heavily upon the thirsty ground. The grit that had been in Rhebok's mouth soon became blood and rain and mud. It tasted of metal and smelled of sky, and it was the least of his worries as his young body wore down; he could tell that he was in pain and weary, but the sight of Clayton still swinging his sword kept him going.

It was a while before Rhebok noticed that the villagers were not exactly fighting back as he had imagined. Indeed, most were fleeing with fear and screams and crying babies. The men were built for labor in the fields, not war, and their attempts to defend the village were pitiful at best. And the women, they ran and hid, or they fought to defend their families, but many were trampled by the horses or taken forcefully behind the cottages, their screams muffled by their captors' rough hands.

Surely, the warrior Clayton could see that it was getting out of control?

"Master?!" he called through the rain, his mind slowly awakening from the slumber and haze of a rainy battle he didn't quite understand. "Master! Order a halt!"

Clayton afforded only a brief glance back at Rhebok over his shoulder. The warrior's body seemed to shake as he continued to swing his sword in a chopping motion, an arc that crashed down on the skull of a farmer again and again, spraying blood in an even radius from the center.

"Master?!" This time, the note in Rhebok's voice held a bewildered desperation, and when Clayton glanced back again, there was a hint of a smile on the warrior's face, an almost hidden gleam in his eye.

Could he be laughing? Was he enjoying the slaughter?

The world seemed to turn over on Rhebok, and the sounds of war became crystal clear--the wailing screams, the pleas, the painful throes of death and injury. With an increasing uneasiness, Rhebok watched as another woman was captured. When he moved to go after the captor, a large hand gripped him on the shoulder and stopped him.

It was Clayton.

"Let Lloyd have his fun," the warrior said. "It's time to gather the gear and move forward to the granaries."

For a world-stopping moment, Rhebok couldn't believe that Clayton was speaking to him and saying such things. He looked down to cover the sudden anger in him, to hide the mutinous expression he knew must have been on his face, and he noticed that Clayton wasn't as impeccably clean and shiny as he had thought. The sky-watered earth had yielded a thick and slippery mahogany black mud that clung like clay to the warrior's heavy boots, and mud spatters decorated his leather-covered thighs and slowly dulling chain mail.

Rhebok couldn't decide if the sight depressed or appeased him, but when he saw the traces of blood on Clayton's shield and along the blade of the the sword, all the way up to the hilt, he knew. Rhebok had to be his own master now; Clayton had failed him.

"No," was all Rhebok told the one who was once his hero, and shaking his head, Rhebok dropped the rest of the battle gear at the warrior's muddy feet, letting the earth stain those, too. How could he have wanted to be just like him? What did shiny armor mean if your heart was a big black stain?

Ignoring the look of surprise on Clayton's face, a look that clearly accused him of betrayal, Rhebok left to save the woman from a grisly fate.