2

The craws had stopped their noises.
Scrot realised they had been a constant since the battle had ended. After the clang and the crash, the screams and the roars all that was left was noise of the craws.
He thought of a childhood song that he'd learned as a pup. A song about the three craws stealing your eyes if you didn't go to sleep.
Scrot stood up and, slowly, as silently as he could manage, took a step towards the edge of the wood. He put out a hand to steady himself on a tree and hissed as his mail shirt rustled.
He scanned the gloom for signs that someone or something had heard his movements. He held his breath.
Nothing.
He gathered all his bravery and, with all the care his could manage took another step forward. Again he paused to listen. Still nothing. Another step and he would be clear of the stinging plants and about to step into the field. He closed his eyes and inwardly scolded himself. He was acting like a pup. He took another step. And then another. And then another and then he was walking across the field.
He kept himself low and walked with his blade held warily in front of him as if it's very presence would stop anything from happening to him.
He moved his head from side to side, hoping to be able to see his doom approaching if it chose to. His helmet scraped at his skin but he took comfort form the little protection it offered.
He kept moving. He knew there was little chance of him being spotted, the remains of the smoke still haunted the field and the moon was only in one of it's measures but it was of little comfort to him.
A hand grabbed at his ankle.
He squawked in fright just before his jaw smacked into the ground. His blade flew from his hand. His scabbard thwacked and his mail jangled as he rolled arse over tit.
He struggled to all fours and scrabbled in circles for his blade, the only thing that made him feel safe.
He couldn't find it. The panic screamed in his ears. He muttered and whimpered and wondered why he hadn't been struck down. He felt like he was going to shit in his trews.
His hand brushed metal.
He grabbed the blade.
But it wasn't his blade.
It wasn't a blade.
His suddenly curious fingers mapped the surface of the metal. Scrot realised it was a helm. One with a metal crest.
A memory burst, unwelcome, into his head.
The three survivors who had followed him towards the woods. He had laid panting and panicked in the stinging leaves and watched as they tried to gain the safety of the treeline. A shout and a noise like rocks falling down a muddy hill and the men had appeared. They were high off the ground, sitting on top of snuffling beasts whose legs pounded at the dirt and rent huge divots out of the stubbly field.
The three scraps squealed in terror and ran in a frenzy away from the men on their beasts but they were not fast enough. The long spears that the men carried ended the lives of their hysterical victims amongst a tumult of cries and squeals. The men jeered as their beasts stamped on the bodies and they wandered away in triumph.
The bodies had lain in the scrub of the field until Scrot had disturbed them.
His stumbling fingers felt the cold metal end and cold skin start and he fought hard to hold back a cry of anguish mixed with powerlessness.
He sat with the body for a moment more and finally shook his head free of his stupidity.
He needed to move.
He struggled to his feet and put one foot in front of the other and took a step.
Scrot cursed himself for his forgetfulness and started his search for his blade again. After only a couple of moments he found it, cutting his finger on the barbed blade and cursing as softy as he could manage.
He again struggled upright and headed in the direction he thought was the right one.