If there was an estimated percent to give to Arnzos’ mortality—his chance of dying in that moment—it would be near ninety. If he existed in ten separate universes and had been injured like he was currently, nine of him would die. Either from bleeding out, or the shock of pain, or from his heart ceasing. Nine alternate Loftclaws would leave the mortal shell. Bidding farewell to family and future happiness and material possession. It was almost certain he would perish.

  Yet this Arnzos Loftclaw, the real one—not a hypothetical—began his recovery. He did so when his trusted weapon, Sunslash, cauterized his wounds. Pouring its energy and heat into Arnzos’ body. It ate the frostbite that was eating him. It mended microcuts and snowflaked tissue by burning the flesh. Sunslash cleansed its owner. From infection, from bleeding, though not from pain.

  The only reason Arnzos wasn’t screaming was because he lost consciousness. The brain had shut off pain receptors for a time. If they were on or off, Sunslash did not care, for it continued Arnzos’ repair.

  The dracokin’s arm, while burnt with specks of char, was left better than it was found. Arnzos’ lacerated, cut-up neck stood free of microbial invaders. The dagger sized crystal once lodged deep within melted. Mixing with other liquids of life. Now as all leaks were cleared from spilling their blood and important organelles, Arnzos would have a chance to function again.

  Though, he was still unconscious. And seemed dead to any onlooker. But Sunslash stopped the bleeding. It stopped the devastation of his physical form. The reins were handed back to his organs.

  He could see his sister again. He could visit Guthro and Renzi. Take that bath he had promised himself. Drink cold mead at his favorite tavern, while rambling about inane crap. Have a delicious cooked cut of vulsaat steak, with potatoes and carrots and steamed broccoli. Or skip little rocks across a pond, just to do it, just to use his hands and enjoy the motion of life.

  Sunslash gave him all of that. And it needed no thanks. No words. It rescued him and expected nothing in return. It couldn’t expect anything. It was emotionless. But that didn’t stop it from expelling everything it had. Sunslash acted in instinct—an ethereal kind.

  Arnzos was saved. For now, he was powerless. After all the flame had left Sunslash’s invisible veins, it was powerless too. Only a chunk of whetted rock in the shape of a blade. The idea of one.

  Together, he and Sunslash laid powerless. Still, Arnzos would soon be happy to be alive.

  ?

  Following the battle of Fort Blavim, Ontullian scribes etched the casualties into history on their scroll paper. In other instances of war, they would lie to keep the idea of an unshakable Ontullia intact. If they had a crushing defeat, it was instead a laborious stalemate. If it was a stalemate, then it was the highest of victories. The case of Fort Blavim was a high victory. A real, genuine triumph. So the scribes had no reason to lie.

  They reported fairly, for once, and counted the bodies of each side.

  Out of the approximately five hundred fifty dwarves that sieged Fort Blavim, four hundred sixty two had been carved up. They died from arrows or from blades or from insatiable ice or sawing discus winds. Six Wardens, one of which was Da’haz, were knocked off the playing board just as violently as they were placed. Well, more violently than.

  The eighty or so miscellaneous fighters, explicitly paid to join Ul-Baqsha, had suffered major losses too. Fifty nine of them were no longer on Ystryx, brutalized in many of the same ways that the dwarves were. Stronger, more confident mercs with special relics and doodads believed they could turn the tide. Use their magical treasures to counter the Quintus Prima. The smarter ones fled and never looked back.

  And with only one hundred three casualties for the Legus, out of a total of two hundred sixty five troops, it could be considered a beautiful day. Dreyadus snapped shackles onto the sweating Ultin, as a few of his men gave Aj-Malik kicks to the shin or jabs in the belly. They could hurt him—just not kill him. Dreyadus ended the punch party by slamming his fist into Aj-Malik’s teeth. The elves threw his wheezing husk onto Dreyadus’ main wagon. Laughing and shaking hands.

  The Ultin felt nauseous and weak and hard of hearing. Even when sitting, his thighs would not stop quivering. He hoped he would not face execution. But what awaited him was up to the Emperor. The Legus’ lower station cheered for a time. Then, they knew it was back to business. The elves packed up their equipment. As Dreyadus directed them.

  While Fort Blavim was useful in this instance, it would not defend well against tougher struggles. Blavim was practically ruins. Even more so with the gate annihilated. It was more deserving of a group of bandits or rebels. Not the refined countrymen of Ontullia. So they prepared.

  Prepared for the trek to the city of Nenthage. The Whirlwind and the Maiden had other plans; Being the Emperor’s best meant you could seldom rest.

  Dreyadus bowed before the two women. “I thank you a thousand times for answering our call. I know that if we did not have the information from the mole, we would have been left behind, but that does not diminish my gratitude for you both.”

  “Your thanks matters not.” the Whirlwind said, apathetic. “It is our duty. We answer when beckoned.”

  “Like I said, whether or not—”

  The Whirlwind cut him off with a tsk-tsk. “We have our other task to deal with now. Goodbye.”

  She trudged away, stiff. As if trying to walk by using the least amount of joints and muscles in her body. Her Quintus compatriot, Maiden, scratched her chin as Whirlwind left.

  “Other task?” Dreyadus questioned.

  “Yup! The Emperor wants us to assassinate the Razsin. But…” Maiden put a finger up to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone.” she whispered. “That’s a very important secret! I can trust you with it, right?”

  Dreyadus wasn’t sure if he should have felt flattered or threatened. “You can, madam. I have no interest in politicking. Only serving my nation.”

  She nodded at him with a smile. “Good lad! And turning in one of the Ultins will let you serve Ontullia with even more pride!”

  ‘Good lad?’ Dreyadus was older than the Maiden. But, from her perspective, perhaps all the nonmagical soldiers were little more than baby brothers. After all, in a match of one hundred combatants against her, it was still in her court to win. Other members of the Prima could challenge her, but when it came to the standard army? They needed gods on their side.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “I’m sure it will. I already like the sound of my new name. Antarchon Dreyadus.”

  “Forget the ‘Ant.’ You’ll be Archon Dreyadus. I’ve seen a fair share of Archons and over half of them don’t have the courage you do.”

  Was… was she flirting with him? He’d rather not play along. His heart belonged to Margaux. “Is this friendly banter or something else?” he asked.

  “Oh. That’s cute. Sorry darling, but I have my eyes set elsewhere. Though, if you’re searching, I’m sure I know a few women who would love to be an Archon’s wife.”

  He played along. Showing hints of excitement. Yet, he had no interest in her proposal. It was an odd place to be in, for Dreyadus. Seemingly a bachelor, but really a claimed prospect. However, as long as the Ontullian culture remained so close-minded, he had to keep pretending. He was a good actor—if he wasn’t, he’d be caught by now—but he didn’t enjoy acting. In his ideal world, he could open up to anyone on the street about his love for Margaux. Proud love for a human woman.

  That ideal world might never arrive. The only hope he had was to win the war for it. Convince the royalty of his prowess. With power came demands he could make. Changes to doctrine. And imprisoning Aj-Malik, who pissed and slobbered all over himself, might create his dreams. The key to Margaux and him in public, showing their passion, was a destroyed Ul-Baqsha.

  “Good luck in your travels, Dreyadus.” Maiden said. “Also, if you’d like to impress Whirlwind, you should get her a bunny. They melt her frozen heart.”

  Perhaps he would. He logged that in his mental notebook as he set out for the voyage. The Prima left. Dreyadus’ company left.

  Still, in the corpse that was Blavim, hundreds of bodies sat. Forgotten by the victors. A mix of all kinds of mortals. Dreyadus’ responsibilities long exceeded cleaning up cadavers. That was for the common folk. A ‘Victus’, the lowest tier captain, would lead the effort. One was soon to arrive.

  But before that, hours after the failed siege, mushrooms began to grow. How they penetrated the rocks and smoothed pathways of Blavim? A shroomer wouldn’t have the faintest clue. They enveloped any corpse they could. Tendrils spread across the littered wasteland. The dead’s flesh was drained of life, as if a pouch of liquid was being squeezed of its contents. The mushrooms guzzled down their nutrients; The brown tips turning red in color.

  Their feast was outstanding, and it continued into the sunrise.

  ?

  A local Victus, an elf by the name of Vaelar, brought his peasant cattle to Fort Blavim. They were not cattle in the way of animals owned by peasants. They were cattle in the way of being peasants who served the Legus. The peasants walked on their calloused feet, legs shuddering from exhaustion. Meanwhile Vaelar and his bannermen had their mounts do the walking for them. Sat cushy upon soft saddles. Bags along the sides of their horses had food and drink in them.

  Many a peasant thought of sneaking their hands inside. Grabbing a quick bread or jerky. But if they were caught, agony would await them. Unknown agony. The most terrifying kind.

  Vaelar’s crew arrived, and saw a sea of decomposing stiffs. The odor stabbed its way into the nostrils of the peasants, as they gagged and covered their noses. So powerful a smell, you could taste the death on your tongue. While Vaelar and his men, again, were comfortable. Leather masks blocked out the ill scent. In their smug superiority, they cackled under the masks; The reactions of the simple farmers were amusing to them.

  No work would be done if they only stood retching, however. With watered eyes and sad groans, the peasants started to cut out the tendrils that had captured the bodies. Every slash exploded into spores. They hated it, every second, but they couldn’t ignore why they were doing it.

  Vaelar circled around his workers, carefully galloping between them. “Some of you are new. I recognize faces well. So let me tell you what I expect of you.”

  The cutting, slashing, grafting action continued. And so did Vaelar. “I have three expectations for you shithuffs. Number one. Do not talk to me. I have soldiers below me for a reason. They will tell me of any gripes you may have. If you even stutter near me, I will beat you blind.”

  The elven horsemen brought out carts. Plenty of room available for the dead. Drowning in stink, the workers piled up their corpses. A currency they would turn in for…

  “Number two.” Vaelar said. “To earn a crate of food, you will not daydream, or fool around, or stop to pick flowers. You will work, report to my inferior, and take your crate with you as you leave. Your family will be fed for weeks.”

  Picked clean, was the upper level. Bodies thrown from the ramparts. Remains scraped off the rocky paths, as best the peasants could. In collective experience, seeing so many mangled expirees, they were glad they only cleaned the battlefield and not waged war on it. Though the smell stayed with them like skull flu, and the sights melted their brain like hot butter, there was that tiny glimmer of hope that kindled in their souls. ‘It could have been me laying there.’ ‘Thank those above it was not.’

  Vaelar made a full rotation around his crew. He watched them nearly finish the gathering of rotting meat and bones. “Finally, number three. Every valuable you find here is mine. I will search you for anything hidden before you leave, and if I find even a single coin concealed from me… I will take your hands.”

  Everyone understood the consequences, but also many of the corpse carriers hadn’t thought to lift trinkets and relics from the deceased. It seemed disrespectful to them. Sure, these dwarves were marked as enemies by the crown, but it was likely they were in a similar circumstance to the peasants.

  Perhaps the leadership, the Wardens (the workers wouldn’t know that title), came from affluent families. But the bulk of their might, the ones who charged and were slaughtered first, were probably like them. Forced or pressured or swept away in the storm of nationalism. Given a lie packaged as a dream. Expecting a war they would win in a month and not a war where they would die within one. Ul-Baqsha, Ontullia—Well, every nation thrived on that grand lie.

  No one sane would fight and die for the squabbles of puppeteers. Relaxing in their palaces of gold, feasting every night. No. The enemy is always the outsider. As the crown protests.

  Speaking of one such outsider, a middle-aged peasant—with a crink in her back—noticed a corpse unlike the rest. A blue dracokin, untethered by the loads of fungi that feasted on his slaughtered brethren. It was also unusual that he died outside of the gates, on the road into Fort Blavim. The middle-ager assumed that he took an arrow before the true fight even began. Yet there was no piercing in his neck. Just a burn mark. But in all honesty, she didn’t care that much; She wanted her crate of sustenance.

  A few of her others helped to unload the dracokin of his heavier equipment. The ternamail armor (of which material the woman didn’t know). His simpler gear too: bracers, greaves, gloves and padding. Even a jingling pouch hoisted by his waist. Soon enough, all he had on him was a shirt and leggings.

  Actually, there was one more item the peasant woman wasn’t sure about. A coal black stone shaped like a blade. She touched it to test its sharpness. It didn’t cut her. It only felt like carved rock. She pondered for a bit. ‘Is this valuable to Victus Vaelar?’ ‘Would I be punished if I didn’t give him this?’ She quite liked having hands, after all.

  She thought and thought some more. Ultimately, deciding to let the dracokin keep his weird rock.

  A group of the workers tossed the dracokin onto the wagon. With the rest. The horrid. The bleeding. The messy.

  Vaelar collected hundreds of bodies. Hills of decay, soon to be cast into inferno. “Follow me!” he shouted. “We burn them at the corpse pile!”

  In all this suffering… the families torn apart, husbands and fathers gutted, one mortal held on for dear life.

  Arnzos took a weak breath. His eyes fluttered, as his face pointed at the sun. He wanted to think. He tried so hard to form anything that his brain would latch onto. And yet nothing arrived. So he rested, for now.

  Arnzos Loftclaw: The only survivor in all of Vaelar’s wagons.