General Martel’s POV
This long night is finally over and the battle won. The assassin appears suddenly at my side, sending a shiver of fear up my spine. With the heads of the Kahns separated from their shoulders, the long campaign is finally over. Relief like wind blows over me, carrying with it the expectation of peace or at least an acceptable facsimile, dampened slightly only by the thought of returning home to my wife and probably another bastard child birthed in my absence.
I look at the faces of my soldiers, and upon the destruction that we have, like a vengeful god, wrought upon men like ourselves. What does it say about the creator that we can commit such acts, yet live on without being wrung dry by guilt? How can we continue to eat, drink, laugh and love after this? These unanswered and perhaps unanswerable question have like weeds sprouted in my mind for a few years past. I cannot seek counsel from anyone, not even my closest friends, these are not the kind of thoughts a general is allowed to have or the kind a Parnian is allowed if he does not want to be accused of heresy.
“General your attention is needed” my attendant Iguan says to me from behind, throwing me a crisp salute.
“What seems to be the problem?”
He is quiet for a few seconds, his shifty rat like eyes showing more than a hint of fear. Disgusted by his uncharacteristic inability to marshal words, I motion for him to lead me to the source of the discordance.
We walk about thirty minutes to, what just a few hours ago, judging by the arrangement of the stalls must have been a market place. My mood worsens with every step I take, as I become even more unwilling to look at the destruction that my words had caused.
A few of my men surround a pool of blood and a pile of mangled bodies. Within that pile a baby of about one summer sits innocuously. From the child’s silence, I had initially thought him dead, but as I draw closer his black eyes turn to stare at me unblinkingly. My heart seizes for a moment, clutched by tiny hands of fear, within his eyes seem to lie an eternity of pain, suffering and death.
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“He is possessed by a demon sir” one of the men says and the others murmur their concurrence.
Our orders are to send every soul in Ifel to the torturous hell of Ehan the death god, but it seems none of my susceptible and superstitious soldiers can summon the courage to end the life of this child for fear of being cursed. I also can’t seem to bring myself to stain my hands with this child’s blood, not because I am afraid of being cursed, but because I am at this moment tired of killing. I know it’s not something I can avoid, for as long as man draws breath upon this earth there will be war.
I look towards Behar for help, those from his clan are bred for killing, and this should be no problem for him. He seems to understand my thoughts and turns towards the child. The child finally takes his eyes off me and looks towards Behar. Their eyes meet and it seems like the rest of us suddenly disappear into the scenery.
After what seems to me like a fraught eternity, Behar walks towards the child. He hits the child’s neck with his fist and the child falls to the ground. Like air being let out from a bag, I hear sighs of relief all around me. As I turn to leave, I see Behar pick up the child’s lifeless corpse.
“I will use the body” he says before disappearing into the night.
Weary and afraid to think of what foul deeds his kind would use a child’s corpse for, I make my way back to my tent to prepare for our triumphant return.