Cet squints. “What do you mean?”

“Outmen capture living people only. If it had the opportunity to drag two back, it would have.”

Everyone’s quiet a moment as they continue down the path. Cet clears his throat.

“So that’s it, then. He’s gone?” the boy asks.

“Going back to camp anyway,” Vulrick says, “we’ll know then.”

Minutes later, they reach camp and find Bayl desperately attempting resuscitation on Carl as Dresmond explains to him how utterly useless it is to try. The two spot the group and back up.

“Sir!” Bayl says. “I’m pretty sure Carl’s-”

“Dead, I know,” Rayull says, coming up to Carl’s body and looking it over.

Carl’s usually pale Whihelmishian skin has gained a whiteness on par with that of a ghost. He’s bent over on his side in the fetal position, pathetic and motionless.

Rayull takes off his gauntlet, revealing his white-scaled hand, and he presses his claws against Carl’s neck to check for a pulse himself.

Everyone pauses with anticipation, though Dresmond just rolls his eyes from under his hood.

“Yeah, he’s gone,” Rayull says.

There’s a silence among the squad. Some faces are shocked, others sad, and through his helmet, Vulrick’s hasn’t changed with even a flicker: this is nothing new to him.

“Is this going to happen to all of us?” Bayl asks.

“No,” Rayull says.

“We’re lucky. This would have been all of us if we screwed up the fight with Crimson,” Vulrick says with a cool tone. Rayull nudges Vulrick, and he clears his throat. “Pardon, sir.”

They have a moment of silence as most stare at their comrade for the past few days, while Dresmond and Vulrick scan around for a good place to put a body with at least some recognition of tradition.

“So… What are we gonna do with the bastard?” Cet asks, his face and words cold, but the tone behind his words racked with pain.

Rayull smirks.

“We have enough time to honor the spirits,” he says with a nod. “It’s not like we’re on the clock right now.”

Rayull makes the decision and the group arranges a burial proper for a Whihelmishian: a pyre ceremony.

It is a commonly held belief among the Whihelmish that the spirit is bound to a body even after death, and only after absolute oblivion can they be released. It has become the traditional practice, then, to completely burn a Whihelmishian, crush down anything remaining, and scatter it all to ensure every element of the body is appropriately departed.

It's especially lucky, as they are far north enough to be able to scatter him to the winds that may eventually carry some part of him to Spirakander’s great frozen lake, where all the greatest heroes of the country are interned.

The group composes the pyre out from the spare wood and the embering fire-pit. After looting him of practical items, they plunge Carl’s sword into his chest and lay him upon the pyre; all according to tradition.

Carl is lit up, and after the initial displeasure of his hair and skin burning away, he ignites into a solemn blaze.

Awnway, typically religious as Spirakandrins tend to be, kneels and offers a prayer to the ancestors, to Rayda, and to The Unnamed All. Dresmond, half Spirakandrin himself, gives enough respect to bow his head while Awnway speaks out his peace.

Bayl and Mullant stare on in some form of intellectual questioning as they wonder what lies beyond this life, and just what Carl might be experiencing now, if anything.

Cet crosses his arms and takes in the dismal scent of burning flesh.

Vulrick shows only the slightest recognition by lifting his visor a centimeter from its base.

Rayull stares on quietly, offering a quick prayer to his draconic ancestors, and keeping comments to himself about how utterly delicious Carl’s cooking body smells to him.

…

It would be right to remember Carl’s history at a time like this.

Carl was not a bad man, no more than any common man is bad. If he was threatened, he’d kill, if he was hungry, he’d steal, and if insulted, he would hold a grudge.

He was born in the southernmost province of Whihelmish, Batlan, a land that is the melting pot for the pleasure-seeking, relaxed life of the Whihelmishian, and the militant, physically robust life of the Ragnivanian.

As his mother ran away at a young age, it was up to his father, Ba’n Yarland, to be the only line between young Carl and the local orphanage.

Ba’n was a bartender and innkeeper by trade, meaning Carl’s time was spent either helping his father serving drinks, cooking food, or hearing various stories from travelers around.

Talking to so many people provided Carl with an enriched, though bleak perspective of the world. While he encountered people from all the four kingdoms of The West, and a few chance visitors from The East, the sort of people that would wind up in this town were people in the foresting business- those who would follow the sin in their pockets from site to site and had little in the form of promising futures.

Forestry isn’t like it is in less-magical realms, where the value of trees is high due to the amount of time it takes to grow. Enchanters can infuse soil about planted woods to cause the trees to grow at multitudes of the speed at which regular ground would produce.

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

With trees growing from saplings to fifty-rings in just a week, the demand for cutting trees slowed due to the ease of which they could be collected. That said, lumberjacks often had little work, and what was available did not pay particularly well.

Surrounded by people like these, Carl was bombarded with negativity, and in the years leading up to the war, this negativity was aimed primarily at the East and its people. Carl was taught that easterners were a strange people who did not appreciate the finer things in life, and were so obsessed with the advancement of their technology, that they would roll over towns, families and nations in their pursuit for metals and chemicals. It was the eastern Ulterians that created machines that could down a tree at a speed of an altered, heavily enchanted human with an axe: but they refused to share their knowledge with The West for fear of it being used against them.

Ironically, it was the Kanvanian travelers who gave the bitterest accounts- etching firmly into Carl’s mind that the machines, the guns, every drop of eastern knowledge is only fake magic- a dishonorable pretender of the holy western way.

When drafted, Carl left behind an aging father of around sixty eight, no spouse or children, and few friends. He will be missed only by his father.

In the midst of his growth, his hobbies centered around cooking, athletics, and a very mild stint of painting, though only the second of the three proved to be any use in the war.

To Carl, his life was a dream- something that was to be enjoyed in every moment. He learned early to stifle his tears and replace it with a smile, as he saw his father do the same. While he was grinning constantly, joking without tact, and acting the part of a foolish man, his life was not easy.

Now finally, Carl knows release. Whatever happens to him, it would be preferable to think his situation is better now. Perhaps he can finally find some time to invest in his painting, or perhaps he will rest easy in the fact that he will no longer have to care about anything ever again; who really knows.

Carl died from bowel dissemination due to a significant wound that pierced his stomach. It was excruciatingly painful, but he was fortunate enough to be unconscious for the majority of the process.

Rest in peace, Carl Yarland, The West honors you. May the Unnamed All be your companion in the spirit, as your brothers in arms were your companion in the material.

Glory to the Crown.

…

Two hours pass, and it’s done.

Dresmond and Cet have long departed to gather more wood for the next night, and the stench of a passed spirit weighs on the men’s nostrils long into the night. While there’s light discussion on various, petty things, Rayull calls up the general with his stone, and speaks briefly. It’s to the side, so no one hears the precise words, but once he returned he stops talking for the night.

Time passes and the sun returns. Everyone, even the one-armed Mullant, takes to their feet. Dresmond takes a breath with the morning air, and asks what’s on everyone’s mind.

“Alright, what next, sir?”

Rayull clears his throat as he takes up his equipment. He starts with a cold tone, the undercurrent of his voice accompanied with a thin line of irritation. “I spoke with the General. We’re to push forward. He’s advancing in his plan to push the line forward and cause as much damage to the other side as possible… We’ve been ordered to meet up at the new forward camp. As you know, we’ve advanced to the border of the closest eastern city of Yarseld. We’ll meet up with all of yellow company and the W.K.D.R. joint force, and we’re going to break through….” Rayull takes a short breath to punctuate his obvious displeasure. “-and we’re to kill anyone that doesn’t surrender outright.”

There are baited breathes, flinches, and pointed glances among the group.

“This includes civilians. The General’s decided to take to shock tactics in the war. He feels if we kill as many people as necessary, the psychological effect will be strong enough among the Ulterians that they might consider a surrender.”

“So they want us to be murderers, sir?” Mullant asks curtly.

There’s no verbal answer from the others, but a couple of somewhat embarrassed, somewhat depressed looks.

Cet sighs. “Did you expect otherwise?” He says with an edgy snip.

Rayull makes no motion, but answers right out. “We’re soldiers. If you were uncomfortable with being a dog of The Republic, you should have joined The Knights- but it seems like even that fails to hold weight now.”

Dresmond, also a Knight of The Old Kingdom of Reinen, nods alongside Rayull. “I thought we’d be honoring our code, at least somewhat, but I guess that’s not alright in the face of a war like this. Our General wants to break the enemy’s legs, their heart, hands, and leave them begging us for help… The easterners are going to be treated like shit, and if we say no, we get thrown in Artaifi.”

Awnway releases a cool hum. “I didn’t hear this- news to me. We’d really get dungeoned if we don’t follow orders?”

Rayull nods. “He said so. Apparently he’s been holding back a couple of slay teams, not for high priority targets, but for sending them after squads that break orders. We’ll be chased down by knights if we don’t meet up at the new forward camp.”

“This is a complete mess,” Awnway mutters. “How do you fuck up that badly?” he adds with a stern look.

Bayl takes a deep breath, his face pressed into his palms. “S-so is there nothing we can do?! We’re going to… just kill people?!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Vulrick speaks up. “No. Humans are scum. People in power have fucked the weak since the dawn of time, now it’s our turn to be the swords of the powerful. Unless we all want to die by the hands of our very own knights or spend the rest of our lives in that shithole Artaifi, we’ll go, kill their women, kill their children, and after this war’s done, maybe kill ourselves too. About fucking time, I sa-”

Awnway flinches. “Vulrick, you ca-”

“Don’t you fucking say that’s not what’ll happen. It was fine and dandy while the new General was getting the trust of the higher ups, but now that the chains are off he’s going to bite as hard as he can, and his teeth will be around people like me. My people…. I’ll do it, too. I don’t care about them any more than I care about the West. Fuck everyone.”

Rayull squints an eye while he releases a long, hissing scoff. “That’s fine, because I’m not asking if you’re happy about this or not. We have our orders, gentlemen- we’re going to the forward camp… unless, of course, you do have some objections. We can deal with them now.”

No one speaks up, though a few, especially Bayl, struggles not to.

“Good. We’ll set off immediately after we’ve finished with Carl, Rayull says with a bleak tone.”

Vulrick takes a gust-like breath, and his stature straightens back to his common, capable posture. “Alright.”

Bayl, Awnway, and Mullant nod with mixed looks about them, and Cet shrugs with a snide, almost pretentious irritation. “Whatever. We have our orders.”

At that, the group scatters Carl’s remains to the wind, and after a moment’s silence with a few final prayers, they take up Overlord Crimson’s head as proof of their triumph and turn to go back downhill.

Bayl steps just behind Rayull. “So that’s what you were talking about with the General, the new orders?”

Rayull nods. “Yeah.”

“…What would we have done if we hadn’t gotten the orders?”

Cet rolls his eyes as he listens in.

Rayull snuffs out a temperamental puff of smoke. “Ran around and killed people on the front lines I’m sure. Not such a big difference to me, really- the boys we’re fighting were drafted in just like you were. Either way, we’re killing people who don’t want to be killed. What’s important is the mission. Perhaps… perhaps by killing the innocent, we’ll save more lives in the long run by getting an early surrender. Maybe all of this will be worth it after all.” Rayull says this all with a cold, pessimistic tone.

Bayl stares toward the ground, nodding in understanding, and glances up only a second as if to say something, but he utters nothing. Rayull did catch that a glint in the boy’s eye was gone- he’s become a man at such a young age, it seems.

Rayull decides to overstep his boundaries as a commander, and he gives Bayl a small, light push on the shoulder. Bayl returns it as a small shove, producing a slight “pssh” as his fist meets the full plate of the dragon-knight.

The group steps out from the mountains and they look forward. Bending over the horizon and blazing with magic fire is the new forward camp, and looming over it, the eastern city of Yarseld, glistening in the morning light and high enough to compete with the clouds. It has tents; tents as far as the eye can see. With only a moment’s contemplation before they move down into the valley, Rayull wonders to himself: Just how much of this city will be remaining once the republic passes through it?