“Headsman Linus, sir!” Clymere dropped to one knee. Her fellow soldiers, exhausted and sweat-streaked, knelt with her. Each lowered their weapons with blatant relief now that the patriarch had discovered them. “You’re alive!”

“Despite their best efforts!” Headsman Linus’ laugh was like a landslide. He assessed the burnt bodies and the flames roaring throughout the town as he strolled into the crossroads. “You’ve been busy, my dear Clymere.”

Headsman Linus tossed the heads of his terrible enemies aside as he hauled Clymere to her feet and wrapped her a quick one-armed hug. Philo scurried to gather the heads and strapped them to his belt.

Their patriarch seemed even more enormous than usual in these odd circumstances, but Kosta only felt relief. If the look on her soot-stained face was anything to go by, Clymere did as well. The garrison’s lives weren’t her responsibility anymore. Headsman Linus was eager and able to take that burden back.

“You’ve done well,” Headsman Linus rumbled as he let the hug go and smiled down at her. Clymere glowed with the praise, practically radiant. “You deserve commendation for your deeds today, and I will make sure you all receive the highest honors for your service!”

The remaining Dytifrouráns rose and cheered to that proclamation. It was as if the dreadful atmosphere which hung overhead like the black clouds above had been wiped clear in an instant. Headsman Linus bolstered their confidence, an indomitable figure ready to shepherd them to victory.

But even the Headsman was not unscathed. Kosta felt more at ease now, but that only allowed his mind to begin working. He stared at the burnt bodies, then those savaged by the Headsman’s awesome might, and became lost in them as Clymere worried over the Dytifrourán patriarch.

“Your arm, sir!” Clymere pulled back and looked at the wounded limb. It hung limp and mostly useless at the Headsman’s side, an angry red mark branched like a tree now seared into the flesh. “What happened?”

“The Nephonaut was a worthy foe,” was all Linus would say. His rumbling words seemed content with that. “It was a fair trade. My arm for his life. Now come! We are lost,” his voice turned ragged with grief,” and we must go. Let us rejoin our people. I will keep you safe.”

Clymere saluted. “Prepare to retreat! Eunike, secure the southern gate!” She barked. The warriors under her command leapt to attention and swiftly began packing their things, hustling around while those who had followed Headsman Linus mingled and whispered with their friends at the crossroads, both groups exchanging tales of what had transpired and eager to boast of their own valor.

While Clymere and the rest worked to ready themselves for an evacuation, Headsman Linus finally seemed to notice Kosta. His eyes widened slightly, though any surprise he felt was soon wiped away by Linus’ enormous smile and bloodsoaked beard. Just the sight of the viscera and red stains that had filled the empty space between the black curls left Kosta itching to fix it, although he doubted the Headsman would appreciate such a gesture.

“Kosta Kondos! Of all those who might have stayed, I didn’t expect to find you here. Thank you for your service!” Headsman Linus smiled down at him and slapped him on the back with one bearlike hand. It nearly sent Kosta sprawling to the stones, though he managed to keep his footing. Barely. “The broken bridge was your doing, then?”

“It was,” Kosta said. “Did you…?”

“Aye, we tried to retreat across it, only to find a nasty surprise,” Headsman Linus chuckled. “But it was a good plan. An inconvenience for us, but even greater for the Hesperians. You split their forces. The crossroads might have been encircled otherwise. For now, they’ve focused on securing the main road instead. Good work, son.”

Despite the flatness he’d adopted as a way to function, Headsman Linus’ praise elicited a rush of joy. Part of him worried that some other refugees might have attempted to cross the bridge and escape to the other side, only to be cut down by their pursuers, but relief overcame that fear.

His work hadn’t been in vain.

“Now, where will we make our escape?” Headsman Linus mused. He grimaced as the shriek of a griffin came from the distance, howling with grief. Thunder rolled. “We must hurry.”

“I opened a gap in the walls,” Kosta told the patriarch. “Some have already fled through it.”

Kosta examined Headsman Linus, who stood head and shoulders over the next tallest militiaman, and hesitated. “I might have to widen it for you, sir.”

Headsman Linus chuckled. “Don’t worry yourself with that,” he said without elaboration, only manifesting a lavender-hued spectral hammer instead. Its head was the size of Kosta’s torso, but the Headsman hefted it with ease. The mighty warhammer vanished moments later. “Perhaps I’ll have to look into seeking out masons for the guard. You’ve done well. Now, I’m afraid that I must take my leave!”

With that, the giant man circulated amongst the guard as they gathered their things, prepared their packs, and scavenged any last useful items from the broken shops and stalls of the crossroads. Headsman Linus offered praise and commendation to each as he heard of their service, recounted the names of those who died, and swore to offer them the highest honors.

“May the Dreambound usher them to a good, restful escape for their deeds today,” Headsman Linus sighed. He looked terribly old as they shared each and every name that had fallen in service today. The bodies had been neatly piled together, stripped of their service tag and weapons. “We cannot leave them for the Hesperians. Clymere?”

His sister gulped, tears leaking from her soot-stained face, but she nodded from Headsman Linus’ side. Many of the militia were fully prepared to leave now, but made a circle around their fallen brothers and sisters. Kosta did not join them. He wouldn’t intrude upon their mourning.

“You deserve better than this,” Clymere said. The militia silenced. “You deserved to live another day. You deserved a pyre attended by all of Dytifrourá! But this is all that we can offer you today, brothers and sisters. Alexa, Aegeus, Aneka, Quinn, Euphranor…” her list went on and on, each name just as painful to utter as the last. Kosta closed his eyes briefly as he attempted to remember their faces. He didn’t always succeed. “Your ashes will rest in the home you fought for. I hope that will let you rest easily.”

And with that, Clymere lowered her spear. The militia and Headsman Linus all stood silent as Clymere’s cleansing fire scorched the flesh away in a roaring rush, whatever magic that remained in their corpses unable to protect them from her might. Black smoke rose upward even as the awfully familiar scent of burnt human flesh filled Kosta’s nostrils, and when it was all said and done a pair of grim-faced miltia men gathered some of the ashes from each ruined set of armor into separate pouches for the families of the dead.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Headsman Linus watched the ashes of his soldiers with dark eyes. The militia organized quickly, and they were now ready to leave. Clymere still stood and stared at the bodies, lost, and Kosta quickly hurried over to steer her away.

“They were my friends,” she murmured. The black soot on her face had clear furrows carved through it by her fallen tears. “And now they’re gone.”

His own throat was tight. Kosta hadn’t been close to any of the fallen, but almost all were acquaintances thanks to Clymere. Even more than that, her own grief gnawed at him. He took Clymere’s hand and took her to the rest.

“They’ve earned their good dream,” Kosta said quietly. “I expect they pity us who are still awake.”

Clymere barked out a wet laugh. “Quinn would,” she said, voice raw. “Lazy bastard was always trying to sleep on the job…”

Kosta smiled as Clymere spoke on each of them, often with other soldiers chipping in with their own stories, until Headsman Linus finally broke his silence. Every soldier stood at attention. This time, so did Kosta.

“I am the warden of this polis. I have sworn my life to this land!” Headsman Linus proclaimed, voice tight. “I will not abandon it so easily. We can hold no longer today, but we will return in the days to come! Let us hope that the Hesperians savor their victory, for it will be short. When we return, we will come at the head of an army! We will reclaim our home. We will purge the barbarians! We will sack their cities and scour them from this world!”

Clymere and the rest pounded their spears in unison at the Headsman’s passionate words. He smiled, beard still dripping with blood.

“The roads steam with Hesperian blood, though it is not enough. It will not be enough until their nation burns beneath my feet. But we have extracted our toll of flesh and death today. They have paid for their victory. We will leave knowing that. But we must hurry! There are hunters who would see us slain.”

“Let them come!” Clymere’s spear pointed at the sky, the shining apeironic bronze head ablaze. A dozen Dytifrourán warriors shouted in agreement, weapons clanging against their shields. Magic bled from them like a great wave. “They will not find us easy prey.”

Headsman Linus chuckled, though his eyes tracked the alleys and roads warily. Perhaps he had sensed something that they did not. “Indeed. Now, let us go.”

The militia saluted as one to the burning remains of Dytifrourá, eyes lost in flickering flame, and Kosta committed the sight to memory as well. Grief overtook him, but he remembered that he must be a rock, and pushed it aside for another day.

Clymere’s flames had swallowed nearly the entire town. Shouts echoed from across the river, where organized groups of Hesperians had managed to extinguish the blaze in critical areas, but much of the town was already half-devoured by the conflagration. Rain pattered down more heavily now, but it did little to the blaze other than to set enormous clouds of steam rising and swirling above the remains of the town.

The agora had surely been ravaged by now. Old Eneas’ fantastic breads and cheeses were all swallowed, as was his special wine. Its market, always so vibrant and full of laughter and haggling and bustle, would be picked clean by the vultures. Any Dytifrouráns who remained would be slaughtered, likely made a spectacle of for their failed resistance.

His workshop would be discovered. Barbarian eyes would linger upon his work! Would they send his creations back home as trinkets for their families? Would they lack any appreciation for his art, laughing and smashing them against the floor? Just the thought made him sick and angry and ready to take his hammer and chisel to Hesperian skulls.

They would find Mama and Papa’s home. They would crash and break and ravage, looting any valuables (at least those that Mama wouldn’t have stuffed into the folds of her chiton), and ruin. Whatever memories laid embedded in the walls would be lost.

A realization struck him like one of the Merakian’s lightning bolts: Kosta would never see Dytifrourá again.

Even if they reclaimed it as Headsman Linus proclaimed, what was once present would be lost. The Ischyrópota would remain, flowing steadily through the valley as always, and perhaps the walls would still stand.

But the places Kosta loved were gone, burnt to the ground and forbidden to the Hesperians. They had denied the Hesperians the fruits of their victory, but they had denied themselves as well.

The Dytifrourá that had been was gone forever, lost in storm and flame. A hollowness filled Kosta’s chest as his heart panged at the thought. He had always planned on leaving, but not like this…

Headsman Linus led them away and Kosta barely realized it. He was hardly present as he stepped alongside Clymere through the southern gate of the crossroads. No Hesperian spears or magic greeted them, and the mute soldiers followed Headsman Linus like a row of obedient ducklings as they prepared themselves to squeeze through the thin gap that Kosta had carved in the wall.

They marched out of their old sanctum silently, the only sound the cracklings of flames in the distance and the crunch of their feet against the stone.

The column suddenly froze. Kosta looked up from the earth, dazed as he was, and followed their sudden gaze to the tops of the walls. His blood ran cold.

Twenty hard-eyed Hesperians glared down at them, weapons in hand. They were not green warriors, either. They had the same look as the veterans who had nearly broken the crossroads. Powerful. Organized. Well-equipped. In fact, if Kosta’s eyes didn’t lie, two of those veterans were the same, perhaps having regrouped with this one as they laid their ambush.

Those two stared at Headsman Linus hatefully, itching to come down and slay the nightmare who had torn through their ranks.

Ten Hesperians lay to the left and ten Hesperians stood to the right of a lone figure. They refused to look at her, clearly leery, but it was not a griffin-mounted Nephonaut as Kosta would have expected. But they did not flee from the slight woman, nor cluster close as they would have a fellow Hesperian.

No, just a glance at this one told Kosta that she was different.

She was an unexceptional woman in most regards, shorter than Kosta and Clymere by several inches. That practically made her a child in comparison to Headsman Linus. The woman was garbed in simple linen armor which shimmered with several layers of magical protection that would serve her far better than the heaviest of bronze plate.

Thin leather gloves from some unknown beast protected her hands, while her arms were encased in cheires armor. Overlapping segments of apeironic bronze overlapped to leave her limbs almost entirely protected, and no doubt allowed her to channel enormous power through her hands.

He didn’t miss the fact that she wore no helmet, either. Either this warrior possessed supreme confidence or she had hidden protection. Kosta betted a mix of both options. Locks of short black hair were plastered to her skin by the rain, and she looked almost like a wraith in the darkness of the storm.

But her eyes…Kosta didn’t think those were normal at all. Pale, flat, and dull like the eyes of Kosta’s first attempt at dolls, but hungry. Eager. Flecks of power, white and pure as freshly fallen snow, danced about her, trembling, as if barely restrained.

The woman said nothing for a moment, but she didn’t need to. Her simple presence said enough. The Hesperians shied away from her, and she did not wear their sigil upon her breast.

They would not pass without a fight.