“Sharp blades, good trades.” – Ethaf ak’Ladir, Proverbs & Poems
Year 304 of the Age of the Tetrarchy, somewhere south of the Belt.
Kethra jumped, narrowly escaping the swipe of the magul’s long mandibles that churned up a dust cloud where she had stood mere moments ago. The frustrated screech of the creature filled the air—making leaves tremble next to her feet—followed by a renewed frenzy of motion as it lunged at her again.
Every step, a heartbeat; every heartbeat, a moment stretched on the edge of her blade. As the magul moved closer, she felt that knot of tension tighten. This would be her chance. The scaled arachnid advanced with quick, calculated steps, head bobbing and weaving as it sought her out.
Pulling a thin blade from her belt, Kethra ran her fingers along the length of the metal. The amber afternoon sun glinted off its surface. She would have to act swiftly if she did not want to make a mistake and die. That would be an ironic end to her campaign. With a burst, she lunged forward, blade slicing through the air and connecting with the magul’s body. Or, rather, it would have. If, at this very moment, the enormous creature had not raised one of its eight legs to effortlessly throw Kethra to one side.
She crashed to the ground, blade skittering away into the underbrush. Cursing her misfortune, she scanned the forest floor in a vain attempt to spot her weapon. A rustle caught her attention. The magul was on the move again. In one fluid movement, Kethra’s muscles coiled like a spring. Then she charged. Her boot connected with the emerging magul’s mandibles. More surprised than hurt, the force of her attack sent it flying back. Immediately, its eight legs worked furiously as it tried to regain its footing and resume its ferocious attack.
It was relentless.
Dodging by pure instinct, Kethra evaded the magul’s sharp claws once again, but the beast had her cornered. If she could only get close. She felt her energy being drained with every passing second. Now, cornered and weaponless, she had to rely on her body alone. Well, time to stop playing.
Beset by a creature more than twice her weight, Kethra closed her eyes. Around her, sounds of the forest rushed in. The wind rustling through dry leaves. The frog-like calls of a toucan somewhere behind her. There. The magul came at her, thick legs thumping on the forest floor. Thump, thump, thump, eight legs drumming a deathly rhythm.
But this time she was prepared. She let it reach her. In the last possible second, eluding its venomous fangs, Kethra pirouetted and her hand sliced through the air, cutting through the leathery hide of the magul with ease. There was a sickening crack and a wet sensation, as the edge of her hand tore through the skull and the brain of the creature.
Its hissing abruptly ceased, legs still trying to move, the rest of its body catching up to the fate of its head. Pulling back her hand—now covered in green ichor and black scales—Kethra watched as the magul collapsed, its death throes sending tremors through the ground.
She had won.
She turned and walked away, her slender frame bathed in the dying sunlight. From the underbrush, part of her war-band emerged, clanging axes on steel-rimmed shields. The sounds filled the ancient forest. The tallest of them approached her, bowing deeply in respect. “Well-fought, Mystal,” Li’ar intoned.
Considering her out of eyes the color of moss, Kethra brushed the dust off her gear and addressed her people, voice ringing through the forest. “Let this be an omen. Everyone who stands before Kulvar, no matter how savage or tall, will fall. Everyone who stands before us will fall.” Cheers erupted, accompanied by more clanging of metal on metal. Her eyes met Li’ar’s. A silent understanding passed between them. They were far from finished with these wild lands. This was not even the beginning yet.
She paced back to the magul carcass and bent down to retrieve the long sharp fangs from her prey. Someone else might have struggled. Hacking and pulling for long minutes, to tear the deeply anchored fangs from the beast. Not Kethra. With a quick thought, she sliced off the long dagger-like protrusions in a smooth circular hand motion, terminated by grabbing the fangs like hilts. After a cursory attempt to wipe the gore off her new weapons, she stashed them in her belt and gestured her troops to march onward.
They set up camp in a nearby clearing, surrounded by a sparse forest of towering Etheroak trees, their gnarled branches sagging under the weight of history and past armies crossing this territory. Say what you want about it, but the archipelago knew war. From the floating cities in the north—continuously raiding each other—to the demon-worshipping south, sending captured sacrifices out into the chaotic sea beyond. As her warriors began their routine—pitching tents and stoking fires—Kethra noticed Li’ar and Gahm in a hushed conversation, glancing her way. What are they not telling me, she mused.
Trying to shake the thought, Kethra carefully whittled down her new fangs into shapes closer to weapons. As twilight descended, the flicker of their campfire lit up the area like a blanket of honey, glinting off the sharpened weapons all over the war-band.
Satisfied with her whittling and sitting by the soft glow of their campfire, Kethra wrapped the blunt ends of her new daggers in leather straps, fashioning a primitive handle. The slightly curved chitinous fang-blades were the length of her forearm now, serrated on one edge and culminating in a vicious-looking tip. A tip that Kethra found herself admiring against the star-strewn sky, just as Li’ar and Gahm approached her, offering respectful bows.
“Our scouts have returned,” Li’ar reported, the tone of Kethra’s second-in-command betraying her concern. This would not be good news. “The Remzen fortifications are formidable. More than we expected. They say we might only be able to overcome them with a well-coordinated assault.”
“No,” Kethra responded with a slight smile, shaking her head. “They won’t hide behind their walls. The Remzen are too arrogant for that. We’ll meet them in the field, crush them, and then seize their outpost.” She paused briefly, thinking. “Any word from Lo’var and Imsem? What does the front line say?”
Li’ar remained silent, gaze firmly on Kethra. “Yes, Mystal, there is,” Gahm’s baritone rumbled through the encampment. “The pincer groups are making good progress. They should reach the first Remzen towns in a few days.”
As usual, Kethra’s eyes searched Li’ar’s face, until the other woman nodded almost imperceptibly. Kethra nodded in turn, now openly to both, and dismissed them with a wave of her hand. Absent-mindedly, she returned to polishing her fang-blades. Kulvar’s war-leader held one up, admiring the way it caught the firelight, turning it into a gleaming streak of liquid flame. She tilted the blade, watching as the flickering inferno transformed into the faint glow of…
…dawn. Hundreds of furtive shadows flitting across the forest floor. Gentle rustling, the occasional glint of metal. On the horizon, a large hill emerged between the trees, its surface bristling with wooden spikes and tiered walls. The Remzen outpost stood like a scar on the land, rising between Serpentine and Rivulet—twin veins of life that sustained these ancestral Verenthia Woods.
Kethra led the way, her eyes constantly alert for any signs of hidden guards or torchlight. Despite Li’ar’s outward reassurances, she sensed the woman’s concern. A worry that they could not take the outpost without considerable losses. Or maybe not at all. The success of their whole campaign rested on them disabling the outpost. The council trusted them. Trusted her. They had received the most difficult mission of the entire battle-plan. But they were the best. And she would see it through.
Stolen story; please report.
Kethra remained convinced. The Remzen would not hide behind their walls. They had too much pride, too much to prove to Kulvar. Yet, as she navigated the twisted roots of the forest floor, intrusive thoughts began to worm their way into her mind. What, she dared to think, if Remzen bravado was just that: pure posturing? Could they really have kept a cool strategic head in this war?
She almost stumbled over a particularly warped root on the forest floor and forced herself to focus, taking in her surroundings. And heard—no felt—a whirring sound slice through the air next to her ear, just about where her head had been mere seconds ago. Kethra froze, her senses suddenly on high alert.
She had barely raised her eyes when a whole barrage of steel-tipped arrows whistled through the leafy canopy above, their trajectory clearly aimed at her war-band. These archers knew where they were. But her warriors were quick to react, hoisting their shields and taking cover behind sturdy trunks as the forest transformed into a battlefield in a heartbeat. “Move in formations!” Kethra’s voice rang out, echoing over the tumult. “Return fire at visible targets!”
The quiet of the forest was shattered as arrows rained down, punctuated by the clang of steel and the roar of battle cries. Kethra and her soldiers suddenly found themselves in the midst of an ambush as Remzen troops appeared from all directions, launching their assault with unnerving precision, right after that first salvo of arrows had hit them. She instinctively threw herself to the ground to not present a target, eyes flitting across the battlefield.
It was then that Kethra realized with a primal thrill that they had clashed with a full-fledged Remzen battalion. The outpost marched, she knew it! And it seemed the Remzen had brought their best—armored behemoths wielding war hammers, mounted warriors hefting colossal axes. Not cowardly at all, it seemed. A wicked smile unfurled across her lips.
Amongst a nearby stand of trees, she saw Li’ar gather part of the war-band, her voice a beacon of steadiness in the chaotic storm of battle that had gripped the Verenthia Woods so suddenly. “To me, Kulvar! Show them who owns this forest now!” Li’ar’s words echoed through the battlefield like a rallying call, galvanizing her warriors. Kethra watched how they charged forward with renewed vigor.
Her pulse hammered in sync with the thunderous stomps of hoofs, veins pulsing with the clash of weapons. Hit by hit, hack by hack, the viridian battlefield around her slowly turned crimson. It was a familiar sight by now.
A squadron of Remzen, their maroon uniforms almost glowing in the subdued light, advanced on her position. Kethra drew her fang-blades with a hiss and watched them eagerly. The soldiers wore leery grins as they saw her, seemingly cut off from the rest of her troops. Little did they know that her warriors would have loved, would have literally died, to protect her. If she would just let them.
But where was the fun in that?
In one fluid, lethal motion, she surged forward from the dusty ground. The first soldier fell, cleanly decapitated by her fang-blade. Riding the momentum of her assault, she swiveled to the left and rammed her second fang-blade into the guts of another soldier. Before his comrades could so much as process his fall, Kethra whirled around and effortlessly sliced through the mailed knee of a nearby man. She preferred maiming over killing—enemies screaming their lungs out in terror were more effective than corpses.
Just as the remaining Remzen collected their senses, a scarred woman grabbed her. With a brief thought, Kethra’s fanned shoulder-pads became razor-sharp, slicing the woman’s hand into shredded ribbons. Exploiting the soldier’s shriek at the sight of her ruined hand, the edge of Kethra’s boot crashed into the woman’s shin, easily tearing through flesh and bone, toppling her. Kethra’s fang-blades flickered out left and right, carving through the heaviest armor like a hot knife through butter. Around her, the mood had shifted from predatory to defensive, the stink of desperation beginning to spread.
Seeing their comrades fall, a handful of the soldiers stayed back, spears cautiously extended. Nice idea, but it would not help them. With a grin, Kethra caught one blade with her palm, leeching away its cutting edge but vastly increasing the sharpness of its hilt in turn. The soldier screamed and dropped his weapon from bloodied hands. She stepped into the opening and dispatched two more of his comrades with quick slices.
The last few soldiers, their courage evaporating, turned and fled. She let them—there were still more than enough targets around. She looked down, seeing the leery grin of that first soldier, forever frozen on his severed head. Kethra smiled.
To her right, Li’ar and her squad were holding their ground against a flood of maroon. Watching out for arrows, Kethra started to make her way to them, only to be intercepted by a charging rider. The mailed soldier lifted his battle-axe and prepared to strike her in passing. She dodged his swing with the grace of a seasoned dancer, leaving him open to her counter. Momentarily distracted by the momentum of his strike, he never saw the flung fang-blade that pierced his lungs from behind. Convulsing in shock, the man toppled from his mount and hit the morning dew-strewn forest floor with a thump. His disconcerted horse circled around him and finally started to wander off. Kethra swiftly caught up to the soldier, cutting tendons with her remaining blade, and retrieved her thrown weapon from his back.
Wiping her fang-blades on the coat of the fallen rider, she turned toward Li’ar. Only to watch in helpless horror as a Remzen sword pierced her second-in-command in that very instant. In a way that left no room for doubt, no room for survival. Too late. Too late, she picked up a stone, hurled it at the attacking soldier, watched it tear through shield and armor into his guts, and out the other side. Too late, she sprinted toward the scene, cutting down maroon Remzen soldiers with a flurry of lethally sharp strikes. Slicing, tearing, stabbing. Too late.
Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once as Kethra found herself standing amongst her warriors, surrounded by a sea of fallen, mutilated enemies. Screaming, moaning, still. And then there was Li’ar. Lying in a pool of her own blood, gasping for air. Kethra knelt next to her, the experienced warrior inside her whispering that there was no hope. A small voice in her head insisting otherwise. Demanding otherwise.
“I’m glad to have died for you, Mystal,” Li’ar rasped.
“Don’t die for me,” Kethra tightened her grip, whispering, “live for me.” A futile plea. How could you be a god and lack the power to save those you care about? Within her, fury raged with confusion. Confusion over what was happening. Confusion over what she was feeling. But Li’ar could only offer a weak smile before her consciousness faded. Kethra closed her eyes. A kaleidoscope of colors swirled before her inner eyes.
This was a battlefield. She could not afford this. People were dying around her—her people. She could not afford any emotional turmoil—she was a war-leader, a Mystal, a god.
For a moment—just one precious moment—Kethra collected her thoughts. Her feelings. Then she let Li’ar go, let her flee this wretched earth, which suddenly seemed leached of any color. She rose and waved over one of her warriors. “If Gahm is still alive, he’s second now. Spread the word. We collect everyone and push hard. I’ll take center.”
Her face had become a mask of steely determination as she commanded. She forced her eyes to stay on the hill of the output, not to look back at that giant Etheroak tree with Li’ar at its base. “Let’s break them.” Her voice was a cold thing then, with the cutting edge of wind and that particular brittleness you found in ill-tempered steel. Without looking back, Kethra turned and strode toward the opening in the trees, leaving behind many corpses but only one that mattered.
As she moved forward, she took stock of the battlefield. Her soldiers were holding their own, fighting off the enemy forces in small groups. But the whistle signals she had issued just now rallied them together into a coherent force, advancing. This would end now.
From above, many drops coalesced into the dark wave flooding forward. And there, at the front, stood a lone, slender figure, one blade in each hand, stony expression on her face. In front of her, a line of hastily assembled Remzen heavy infantry, shields raised. Then, chaos. Pure and blessedly simple. Blood, limbs, death, all blurred together. Screams of valor morphing into cries of rage, fear, and finally despair, as the enemy lines broke.
It happened slowly. First, individual soldiers with missing limbs or grave injuries. But then, occasionally, they were accompanied by unhurt soldiers throwing down their weapons and starting to flee toward the outpost. Remzen archers tried to provide cover for their retreating companions. Kethra did not care. She had all the cover she needed—an entire army of bodies that surrounded her, shield and slaughterhouse in one.
The Remzen retreat rapidly devolved into a rout, even the archers abandoning their posts. Kulvari soldiers advanced swiftly, intercepting the fleeing enemy, preventing the closure of the outpost gate.
It was over.
From there, everything went quickly. Kethra and her troops entered the outpost, took the walls with almost no further resistance, the defenders now in an almost dream-like daze of stunned disbelief. And then, because she could—because she thought she should—Kethra ordered the execution of most of the remaining Remzen soldiers in the compound.
Kulvar had won.
No. Kethra had won. Or had she?