“Abbot. Abbot!” D’Argen called for the artist as he walked through the muddied grounds through troops of mortals and gods alike. “Have you seen Abbot?” He stopped a mortal to ask.

The woman shook her head, but her eyes were glazed over, as if she did not see him at all. The latest wave of demons had been turned away before his arrival and now both mortals and gods alike were collecting the bodies of the dead from near the trenches and short wall.

D’Argen called the artist’s name a few more times before he noticed silver eyes focused on him. Vah’mor was standing at a table outside with two banners on either side of it. Around the table were a few other gods and multiple mortals.

“We have to gather our dead before anything else,” one of the mortals was saying.

“No. We have to move the defensive lines. As soon as possible,” Vah’mor replied and finally looked away from D’Argen.

D’Argen felt it like a physical release, and he turned to go deeper into the camp. He slid to a stop when two mortals rushed past him with a stretcher between them, a limp and bloodied figure on it. D’Argen did not feel any life from the figure even as the mortals rushed away and disappeared into the crowd of wounded and tired soldiers. For that was what they had all become.

He followed at a sedate pace, trying to keep out of the way. If Abbot was in the fields, helping collect bodies, it would take D’Argen too long to find him.

The sky darkened unnaturally fast and D’Argen stopped to look up. It took him a moment to recognize the figure floating in the air over the bloodied battlefield. Hiras had her head thrown back and her long hair and robes were being buffeted by the winds she was stirring up.

“You’re lookin’ fer the God of Light?” a voice had him looking away from the future God of Spring.

“Yes. Abbot. Have you seen him?”

The old man squinted at the sky as the first fat drops of rain started falling. They did not reach D’Argen, and the camp and it looked like a translucent shield separated the camp from the battlefield. When D’Argen looked back at the old man, he was nodding from where he was sitting on the ground. D’Argen noticed both of the men’s legs ended above the knees and were wrapped in already bloodied gauze. The man, however, did not seem to be in pain.

“He’s in the medical tent. But if you’re lookin’ fer his herbs, he gave them all away.”

Well, that explained why the man was not a whimpering mess of pain. D’Argen nodded his thanks and then followed the next stretcher to the medical tent. A strong wind pushed him forward before it died out. The wind at his feet kept his steps light so he did not sink in the mud.

The medical tent must have at one point been properly closed off, but now it was only four posts with a cloth covering as a roof. Surrounding it were hundreds of tables and tarps on the ground. There were so many rushing mortals and gods alike. Every surface was occupied by a body, living or dying, and there was not a moment of stillness anywhere at all.

D’Argen noticed a few more friendly faces, but the wails of pain and chanting of spells made it impossible for him to call for the artist. The loud rain at his back calmed him for a moment and he steeled his nerves, stepping further into the fray.

He wandered the open area for a long time, moving out of the way of mortals rushing with buckets of water, others running back and forth with herbs and clean bandages. There were some moving slower, carrying bodies that no longer had breath in them. Some of those bodies were covered, but some were dragged on the ground, leaving trails in the mud.

And then he saw him.

Abbot’s usually dark skin was pasty and pale, even though he was completely covered in sweat. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with two others, both of them as strained as him, brows furrowed as they chanted over a bloodied body. D’Argen rushed to them and then slid to a stop when he recognized who was on the table before them. A mortal crashed into him and covered him in bloodied water. They apologized but D’Argen could not look away.

Lightning struck, lighting up everything to the point of blinding for a moment. D’Argen had to blink a few more times through the following thunder to clear the flash and make sure he was seeing correctly.

No.

Simeal did not die during the demon wars.

She rose at that time, gaining her title as God of Healing. She came up with the basic healing spells that all gods could use, regardless of aspect, to staunch a wound or clean an infection. She had led them all into a prayer circle that pulled multiple mortals back from the brink of death.

Without her, they would not have survived at all.

Yet her limp hand hung off the edge of the table and her breathing slowed. Abbot and the other two started chanting louder. Lightning struck again and the rumble to follow visibly shook the ground. Simeal’s body quivered and then went still.

When Abbot collapsed on the ground, his legs visibly shaking, D’Argen rushed to the artist. He slid on his knees behind him and propped him up before he would lie down in the mud. One of the other two collapsed against the table instead and the third hunched over Simeal’s body and started crying.

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There was a flash of white in the corner of his eye and D’Argen turned to look at Thar, hoping to get some direction on what to do. Instead, the white turned out to be another flash of lightning as Hiras cleaned the field. The thunder that followed ran through his legs and lodged in his throat. D’Argen consumed the sound without meaning to. The taste of death stuck to the roof of his mouth.

It did not take long for Simeal’s body to be taken off the table and replaced with another. The other two gods had already left but D’Argen only clung to Abbot. The two were in the way. He stood and helped Abbot to his feet, then took most of his weight as he guided the artist away from the medical field.

They made it back closer to the frontlines. Hiras was slowly descending from the air, her hair and robes calm and the clouds clearing. The stench of death and foul demon blood was still heavy in the air. When she landed, Vah’mor was there to support her as she stumbled, having used too much of her mahee.

“Wait here,” D’Argen instructed the artist.

Abbot did not seem to register the words.

D’Argen left him sitting in the mud and quickly made his way to Vah’mor and Hiras. “What do we need?” he asked before he stopped moving.

Vah’mor looked at him, shook their head, then looked down at Hiras. They exchanged quiet words and then Hiras stood straight and walked away. Her steps were slow and measured, slipping in the mud. Vah’mor took D’Argen’s attention away and led him to the table they had been at previously. They shuffled a few papers and then picked one and handed it to him. “Send this to Acela. The last supplies she sent over are almost done. We need more. And faster.”

D’Argen took the sheet without looking at it and slipped it into his robes. “Anything else?”

“Do that first. If I am not here when you get back, look for Motira. She is in charge of collecting weapons from those that died.”

D’Argen nodded stiffly and chanced a glance behind him at Abbot. Hiras had sat down beside him in the mud, leaning against him and looking as exhausted as him. Some of the colour was returning to the artist’s skin and the sheen covering him looked more like rain than sweat. Hiras was completely drenched beside him.

“And if you get back while the demons are here, do not wait for orders,” Vah’mor added, drawing D’Argen’s eyes back to them. “Kill as many as you can.”

D’Argen nodded and ran off. He found a mortal that did not look too busy and pointed to Abbot and Hiras. “Find them a place to rest.” The mortal nodded. D’Argen rushed away to the edges of the camp. Once he was sure there was nobody around him that could get hurt, he opened his mahee and ran to Evadia as fast as he could.

Acela took the note then directed him to get to Adda-on’s workshop and take as much as he could. The swords and daggers were easier to carry than shields, but D’Argen did his best to balance out his pack. When he slid to a stop near the camp, the sound of fighting overwhelmed him. There was a tent, off to the side, that had racks of bloodied and broken swords, torn shields, and broken spears. D’Argen did not look for another place and deposited the new weapons there.

Then he drew his sword and rushed the front lines.

The demons were coming in hoards, outnumbering the gods and mortals together by at least twenty to one. Most of them were small, easy to dispatch with a precise hit, but they were too fast. The big ones, however, required multiple people to fight at once. And then there were the ones whose appearance was enough to make their opponents freeze.

When the red demon with a dozen arms and legs shaped like pincers curved up to almost double his height, D’Argen did not close off his mahee or step back in surprise. He slid right into the demon’s range and cut up with his sword, looking for the softer scales in its underbelly. As soon as he felt his blade sink a little deeper, he turned his hold and plunged it in as hard as he could then ripped it out to the side. The demon screeched as it died.

The next one, he remembered, had a poison sack at its throat that burned skin and cloth on contact. Including its own hide. D’Argen used his sword to bat away a demon closer to him, then snapped his bow open and drew an arrow with the same hand holding his sword. He aimed only out of habit and the arrow hit true, making the sack explode and causing the demon to writhe in pain as it died from its own acids.

On and on he went, attacking the stranger demons that he remembered had something special about them or that others avoided. The shack demon that rose from the onslaught, its pale blue skin and bone rib wings already covered in blood, took four of his arrows to its chest before it finally turned away from the group of mortals trying to kill it. It roared and charged at D’Argen. He slid out of the way at the last moment and turned, swiping out with his sword to cut at its back.

Instead, the demon’s head came loose from its shoulders, and it collapsed in a heap. A few cheers behind him tried to distract him, but D’Argen could not look away from the large sword soaked in the demon’s black blood. It was made of ice and god blood. It was almost as tall as him and half as wide. Thar wielded the blade like its size or weight meant nothing at all.

And that blade had cut the demon apart.

Nobody was looking at Thar. A few mortals rushed right through his visage, running away from the demon chasing them. The demon looked like some strange mix between a wolf and a lion, but its mouth was that of a snake when it opened. D’Argen switched weapons again quickly and launched an arrow right down its throat.

Thar moved deeper into the fighting.

D’Argen followed barely a step behind, using the metal bow to hit away errand limbs and claws and stabbing and slashing with his sword. When he had a moment to breathe, he would draw an arrow with the same hand holding the sword and send it off into a demon that looked like it would overwhelm those fighting it. Sometimes, the hits were fatal. More often than not, it forced the demons to change targets and rush at him instead.

And then there was Thar. Where D’Argen slashed and his sword did not reach, Thar’s was long enough or angled just right to cut off a limb or a head. Where D’Argen stabbed and his sword was hit away, Thar’s cut through the defense like it was air and found its mark. Where D’Argen tried to parry the metal claws of a demon, Thar’s sword broke them apart.

They moved as one, Thar’s white robes flying around D’Argen as if his own. None of the mortals made note, none of the gods looked at him different, but many of the demons that fell at his feet did not fall from his sword. It was only when he was firing his bow that Thar did not help. And when the demons looked at Thar’s sword—not D’Argen’s!—as it tore out of them, they almost looked surprised.

D’Argen was loathe to admit that he saw emotions on their features, but he did not let that slow his blade or Thar’s.

Eventually, the enemies lessened. Then they petered off completely. Then the fields were covered in bodies and limbs, mortals, demons, and gods alike. D’Argen looked up at the sky just as Hiras arrived again and it started raining. The black blood washed off him in thick rivulets. Thar, standing beside him, was absolutely pristine.