“Gitma!” Christoph’s booming voice commanded the creature’s attention.

“Yes, my Lord!” The bouncing monster pushed forward on her horse so she could hear her master’s demands.

“We’re heading east. Invaders have come to these lands.” The red veins had taken over most of the dragonkin’s eyes as he glanced over his shoulder at her. “I need you to sniff out these barbarians.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Gitma screeched as she spoke—that unknown whine driving a shiver up Christoph’s spine.

“Shall I request assistance from The Spire?” Calzion knew he’d spoken out of turn, but it was for his master’s wellbeing. “We will crush any of your enemies with our forces.”

“No.” This was not yelled or growled. It was stern. It was as a stone that stands as a pillar within the center of a raging river. Though it is battered and attacked, it splits the waters as an unmoving obelisk.

“What do you ask of us, my Lord?” Calzion bowed atop his horse as they continued at a hurried pace.

What once would have been a beautiful afternoon ride through the paths for Christoph had turned to a passage of war. The trees flew by without even the slightest glance from the boy that yearned for nature. He’d grown up climbing them, admiring them, and thanking them for their bountiful gifts. All due to the lessons of a wise father. Now, they both stand silent as the mad wizard begins his campaign.

“We are all that is required. Between the three of us, they’ll be no problem.” His yellow eyes were still being overtaken, gradually, by the crimson veins. The dragonkin’s fury drank in the memories of the boy killed in battle. “I will handle the majority myself.”

“M—” Calzion considered how his words might be taken—the darkened aura still hung tightly to Gohdin’s body. He rode slightly to the right and back of his master, and Gitma rode further behind following their king. The guards were confident in their master’s rule, but an unknown enemy of unknown numbers would be a difficult task.

Without gathering information, a battle turns into a field filled with fog and shades. The enemy’s numbers, their equipment, formations, noted individuals, known strategies, class types, and all manner of aspects can change the form of the fight. A single mistake can be devastating, but numerous mistakes could lead to obliteration. History often forgets the losers in battle. Learning of your opponent can often retain your name in the books of years long gone.

Christoph cared little for the art of tactics at this point in his journey. As the trees passed at their hurried gallop, the new ruler of Surton Spire sought only the annihilation of his enemy. He was the King of the Undead, and he would spread that fearful name.

“We need to keep moving.” The King would speak during rests. He was pushing the living horses to points of exhaustion, yet his mind could only fathom the end of these beaten trails and rolling hills. They’d travelled several hours beyond the village of Rothmire before they took their first break; which consisted of Gitma chasing down another deer for their group and Calzion tending to the horses.

All the while, an unblinking and stilled dragonkin meditated on the memories of human combat. The earned arrogance of the body knew what they were capable of, and he bathed in the anticipation.

“Apologies, my Lord, but the horses require rest.” That wasn’t what Christoph wanted to hear. His tongue clicked with a sharp exhale; though, breathing was no longer necessary. The king moved over to shade offered by some trees that grew right out in these paths they were taking.

As they waited for the horses to regain their strength, Christoph stared east. From his shadowed seat, he could see out through the trails that had been somewhat beaten down through this area. He’d never been much for tracking, but he could see how this road was disturbed quite recently. The dirt of the path had grooved with longer blades of grass bent to the side. There were more bare patches of ground every so often that had numerous prints laid atop one another.

Christoph eyed these details trying to imagine just how many had moved through the area. There were deep imprints from horses and the slit lines of wheels. Wagons had gone through this route, at least two of them from what Christoph’s ignorant eyes could tell him. One kept more to the left while the other remained closer to the tree line on the right. This wasn’t an extremely open trail, and a few trees had to be avoided in the middle of the path. It was rarely used between the village of Rothmire and the town of Carmoss. The two populations were on friendly terms and would trade occasionally. Carmoss had more of the seamstresses and crafting skillsets whereas Rothmire kept to the more physical tasks of farming and husbandry.

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Still, the trail was packed down by more bodies than any trading party that would have been sent. Most of the grasses along the path were patted down and rolled over—each blade bent to point the direction of movement. A faint scent clung to the foliage, and Christoph could smell what was left behind by his prey.

He was on the right path. He’d never had to use his nose for such things before, but now he was thankful he had such senses. For the scent, and not the actual air, he inhaled deeply so the scaled flesh of his snout rose. There were plenty of scents mingled together. Considering the mess of prints in the mud, there must have been quite a few of them left.

I thought he killed all of us. He glanced down at his own claws. I’ll finish what he started.

Christoph closed his eyes. He felt he needed to sleep. This inability to express his deepest emotions truthfully was weighing him down. He begged his mind to let the world drift away for a dream or two, but the undead mind couldn’t allow it. So, he sat beneath one tree in the pathway and looked out through the waving grass and towering lumber.

Does it all seem bland? Light poured into the path between the openings of leaves as they danced in the soft breeze. I shouldn’t be here. He kept watching as the shadows over the brush and grass moved back and forth, overtaking one another and then disappearing. I should never have left my family.

He punished his already weary mind for the failures he’d never have prevented. Had he not left or been trained, his family would be but more complete beneath the dirt of the cemetery. There was nothing that could be done to change the past, but the future was filled with possibilities.

Christoph played out the future as one may recall a more scathing remark which could have been used in previous conversation. He planned for situations he had no information to confirm. All that mattered was that the horde would be brought to justice with a sweetened taste of vengeance.

He’d been in battle once. He sought it out for some fabled glory, as had his brother, and found only the carnage filled nightmare. It had plagued him to recall that day in the sea of grass, but the future held none of that fear.

In fact, it was almost as if his stilled heart fluttered at the concept.

What should have been thoughts which brought anxiety and woe, he huffed with delight in anticipation of the fight. I shouldn’t be like this. But thinking such thoughts changes nothing. It is not the eye or hand which betrays morality. He was on a path of blood—one he’d taken to with his own feet.

“We may continue if you wish, Lord Gohdin.” Calzion had kept his distance, but he bowed deeply as he spoke to the resting dragonkin.

“Good.” The mind had slowed and sprung back into full control. They had been settled for about an hour or so, yet time had passed by in moments for Christoph. It was as if he’d fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow but woke up a second later to the next morning—the expected revitalization never bestowed.

The group remounted their horses and took off down those trails that split the woods. This would not be the safest route to travel, but the barbarians had the possibility of numbers, warriors, and the ignorance of the region. Many wouldn’t utilize this route unless they had a line of caravans with protection—which usually only the members of Carmoss could afford. Rothmire traders often took the roads south and curved up around the woods to avoid the likelihood of traps or monsters.

Christoph simply followed where the scent led. Gitma gave him periodic updates on the trail; he wasn’t as sure in his new nose when she was so much more proficient in the task. It was a single trail, so unless the barbarians moved off into the woods with their wagons, carts, and horses, he was confident they’d be gaining on them.

“Keep your eyes open. Gitma!” Christoph shouted back as he directed his horse around one of the trees on the path. “Tell me when we’re getting closer. We will take a look from a distance before we end them.” It was a cold-hearted decree from the undead dragonkin atop his galloping steed. The horse huffed furiously as the beast’s hooves flung dirt and grass to keep the pace its master demanded.

“Yes, my Lord!” The insect-like screech rang out through the woods, but Christoph paid it no mind. He acknowledged her agreement with a nod and continued on the path forward. Through the gentle hills and paths that had been long since carved out for an unsafe trade route, the three followed the scent of those meant to die.