Rage.
Glowing white like frost on a blade, its icy grip painful.
Pain.
The sting of metal against flesh. Each new blow compounded her desire for vengeance.
Vengeance.
The blood washed away the anger, but fed into her fear.
Fear.
She couldn’t bear to lose anyone again.
“Kaja!”
A stirring in her heart. Was that her name?
“Kaja!”
There it was again. Who—
But wait! There was someone at Jo’s side now. Why did she let herself get distracted? She tore through the grass and tackled the offending man. Ready to run him through with a stake of ice, she stared into his eyes with a snarl.
Those eyes—did she know them from somewhere?
She hesitated, her strike wavering in the smoke-filled air.
That’s right. . . Those eyes used to look at her so fondly, always with a smile.
But now there was only—
Fear.
*
*
Dimitri lunged, his rapier piercing through an orc’s throat. He ducked away from the return blow, balancing on the twisted, glowing metal of the inner wall. The orc, missing him with their heavy sword, plunged into the burning pitch below. “Come on then!” Dimitri called to the other three soldiers facing him. “Who’s next?” But after seeing the speed with which he dispatched their companion, none of them seemed keen on challenging him.
Shifting his weight on the precarious perch, Dimitri glanced down at a flurry of motion in the courtyard. A familiar hooded shape weaved through the attackers, explosions of icy blue magic and falling enemies in her wake. Even through the heat of the raging fires, Dimitri could feel the chill bursts of air against his sweaty skin.
Is that. . . Kaja?
As Dimitri watched helplessly from above, Kaja suddenly veered towards her next target—but it wasn’t an orc. She barreled straight into Leif and they both disappeared into a cloud of powder smoke. The sight was so unexpected that Dimitri couldn’t fully process what he had seen. One thing was clear though: things were falling apart and fast. It wouldn’t be long until Forgeheart was completely overrun. As if to reinforce Dimitri’s fears, he spotted Ironfang himself, shoving through the crowd on his way to where he’d last seen Kaja and Leif.
“Don’t move now,” Dimitri said to the trio of orcs. “I’ll be back.” He dropped into the swirling smoke, sliding gracefully down a section of bent and damaged wall. His boots had barely touched the blood-soaked soil before he was racing towards Ironfang.
It was time to cut the head off the snake.
*
*
Ironfang stalked aimlessly through a breach in the inner wall, wondering where that little white-haired mouse had gone. There was too much smoke, too much chaos, and he had lost his bearings. With a roar of frustration, he swung his greataxe and splintered a nearby barrel into tiny, knife-like shards that sent his orcs scattering.
“Come for a rematch, have you?” The voice flashed like white-hot metal through Ironfang’s ears. Rage boiled in his gut, his lips curled back from his carved tusks. There was only one thing—one person—who could turn his sight from his goal. . .
The Abyss-damned Imperial stood with his rapier pointed down and forward, and one hand behind his back. “Call some of your bootlicks,” the Imperial said with a smarmy grin. “I want witnesses when I humiliate you again.”
Ironfang bellowed a wordless curse and charged.
*
*
Leif’s breath left as he hit the ground. With Kaja pinned against his chest, he was struck by how light she was and how it didn’t seem to match her sheer strength. “It’s me, Kaja. . . it’s Leif,” he whispered, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. “I would never hurt you, and you would never hurt me. . . right?” Kaja hesitated, her arms shaking. Leif raised his hands cautiously but she thrashed away from him and disappeared back into the fog of battle. There had hardly been time to collect himself before Amale and Sakrattars were at his side.
“You found Kaja,” Sakrattars observed grimly, offering a helping hand.
“Jo,” Leif croaked, his world spinning. “She’s still alive.”
Kneeling to inspect her, Amale’s eyes darted rapidly between the jagged, open wound and the wide puddle of fresh blood. His ears lowered, doubt apparent on his face. Even still, he unhooked his healer’s kit and firmly pressed a large, clean pad against her side. Gripping one end of the gauze in his mouth, he unwound the roll in midair with his free paw.
“Look out!”
Amale’s ears shot up and his muscles tensed. A blood-spattered orc loomed over him, wielding a greatsword above his head. Suddenly there was an ear-splitting explosion and the orc was blasted back, his chest engulfed in fire and smoke. A familiar, grizzled face greeted the companions from over the smoking barrel of a rifle.
“Khez?” Sakrattars exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
The old gunner spat and shouldered her weapon. Slung across her other shoulder was a giant sack full of guns. Her calico coat was matted with blood and oily powder but she seemed relatively uninjured. “I’m saving my babies,” she snarled. “Didn’t you Imperials hear the order to fall back? Just saw another one running towards Ironfang. It’s like you’re trying to get yourselves killed—” she stopped, seeing Jo sprawled on the ground.
“She’s hurt,” Amale whined desperately. “Really hurt.”
“See, this is what I mean!” Khez growled, taking a knee next to Amale. Despite her rough, chiding tone, her eyes were soft with worry.
“The one running to Ironfang, was it Kaja?” Sakrattars asked. “The girl?”
“No, it was a man. I think. Blasted humans all look the same.”
Sakrattars and Leif exchanged a look. “Dimitri!” they said at once.
Shrugging the bag of guns from her shoulder, Khez braced one of Jo’s arms around her neck and lifted her onto her back. Amale stood at Khez’s hip, applying constant pressure on Jo’s wound. “Body ain’t what it used to be,” Khez said gruffly, groaning under the weight. “You!” she commanded Sakrattars. “Get my rifle, and be careful with her! Leave the others.” Khez glanced ruefully at the discarded guns. The rifle was nearly as long as Sakrattars was tall and extremely heavy, but Sakrattars held onto it obediently, afraid of what Khez would do if he didn’t.
“Right!” Leif said. “I’ll get Dimitri—and Kaja. You get Jo out of here.” Not waiting for an answer, he turned heel in the direction Khez had indicated. He had no plan and no expectations but he would be damned to the Abyss before he allowed it to be said that a Stjornugaardian retreated from battle before a Volgarian.
Between Kaja and Ironfang and the efforts of the dwindling ferix resistance, the orcish army had scattered through the courtyard, all semblance of command and order lost in the fray. Individual pockets still fought, pressing into the breaches, while others wandered around looking dazed and lost. In the near distance, Leif could see Ironfang towering above them all, his broad shoulders flexing as he swung his greataxe.
Leif willed his legs to carry him faster, but the heavy mail shirt, ferix shield, and Oxhiminn weighed him down. He could see Dimitri now, bloodied and bruised, but still fighting. With each blow Ironfang and Dimitri exchanged, Leif felt like the field between them was growing longer. An eternity passed between each footfall. “Just hang in there, you milksop,” Leif muttered between breaths, “and we’ll take that bastard down with us.”
Dimitri was on the ground. Leif’s thighs burned; his mail thumped against his chest. Two orcs slid in front of him, blocking his path. He swung Oxhiminn wildly, his fervor driving the interlopers back. He wasn’t going to make it in time. They were going to lose their chance to take Ironfang down, to make their deaths mean something. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Leif spotted a shape rush past him, as if swimming effortlessly through the dried grasses. He tried to suppress the shiver in his spine.
It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t. It was just the chill from the snowy air she left in her wake.
*
*
Ironfang watched the Imperial drag himself backwards, his skinny arm reaching out feebly for the hilt of his tiny sword. A cruel smile parted the warlord’s face. He brought a boot down on the Imperial’s ankle, delighting in the sharp cry of pain as the man fell limp into the mud. Ironfang readied his axe, wondering briefly if he should draw out the Imperial’s death a little bit longer. But as he raised his arm to deliver the killing blow, something crashed into his hip and a searing pain bloomed under his ribcage. He pivoted, one hand clutching at four bloody claw marks on his flank.
The white-haired girl was staring defiantly up at him, her hand coated in his blood. Ironfang could hardly believe his luck—she had come to him. He would be able to get his revenge and secure his future in one fell swoop.
The girl wasn’t human like Ironfang had expected. She was like nothing he had ever seen before, like some unnatural cross between a human and a steppeland drake, barely half his height and just a fraction of his weight. Ironfang could have laughed. This strange little creature was the one who Alistair coveted—and the one who caused his warriors to panic about dragons? But then he caught the sharp glint in the girl’s eyes and the lethal intent behind them. She expected him to be afraid, glowering as she was with the blood of his orcs splattered across her face and arms and clothes. This was a creature with nothing left to lose, and Ironfang knew those were the most dangerous of all.
She struck fast and hard, driving Ironfang away from where Dimitri lay motionless. He let her think she controlled the field, watching her frenzied movements with grim amusement as if he were merely playing a game with her. Perhaps he should keep this girl and add her to his menagerie, to unleash her in the arena upon his enemies. If the Irkallu feared her so much, let him use her against them and take what he desired by right of conquest. That was the way it should be. The way of tradition.
When his opening came, Ironfang was almost disappointed that his brief skirmish with the bizarre, yet fierce, creature had come to an end. He brought down his greataxe, intending to strike her with the flat of the blade and knock her senseless. So confident was he that it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t feeling the familiar resistance of flesh and bone. Trapped in the momentum of his attack, he could only watch as the girl slid deftly under his chest, hooking her tail and foot around his ankle and twirling herself around his body. Before he knew it, the girl had swung herself up onto his forearm. There was an explosion of hoarfrost and a startled Ironfang dropped his greataxe, the handle coated in slick, burning ice. At the same time, the girl launched herself off of his arm and landed on all fours, crouched in the mud and dust and blood.
Ironfang clenched a fist, his palm blistered raw with frostbite. The girl was in possession of formidable ability, but she was young, inexperienced, and most of all, terrified. Ironfang could smell the fear dripping off of her, commanding her every movement. It made her choose to disarm him when instead she should have delivered a killing blow.
And now she was making yet another mistake but, unlike the others, it was going to be her last.
*
*
Leif was getting angry. He had somehow managed to fell one of the two orcs blocking his way, but the second was a slippery bastard. He hurled Oxhiminn around, forcing the orc to go on the defensive. Seeing that Kaja disarmed Ironfang, Leif’s heart soared despite his predicament. Maybe they could turn this around, maybe they could win. He just needed to get in there—
Kaja lunged again and Ironfang swung his arm like a club, this time catching her in the stomach. She let out a strangled gasp as she was propelled backward, her limp form bouncing and rolling through the mud until it came to a quiet stop. The mental haze that clouded the battlefield lifted. It took Leif a few moments to realize that it was the effects of Kaja’s dragonfear dissipating, and he knew that she was either unconscious or worse. He yelled in a sudden jolt of rage, his fingers wrapping tighter around Oxhiminn as wild thoughts of driving the blade through Ironfang’s skull played in his mind. He settled on sinking it into his startled opponent’s thigh.
It was then that Ironfang seemed to notice Leif for the first time. “Another Imperial joins the fight, neh?” he sneered.
Leif planted his feet and took a deep breath. He was not a small man, but Ironfang was as tall as Jo and nearly twice her bulk. There was no way to win a contest of strength. He would need to rely on strategy and cleverness, neither of which he had a very good record with. But if there was even the slightest chance he could make sure that all this sacrifice and death wasn’t for nothing, he would gladly face his own destruction. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself otherwise.
“To the stars, we return!” Leif sang the final verse of a Stjornugaardian battle hymn. He was struck by how strange it sounded without the singing of fellow warriors and the drumming beat of weapons on shields, but if anything it only instilled him with more determination. Jo was down, Dimitri was down, Kaja was down. He was the only one left standing—a lone soldier determined to go out with blood and iron.
Though Ironfang did not understand the words of Leif’s chant, he knew a challenge when he heard one. “Very well,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll cut you down like I did the others.”
“Without a weapon?” Leif scoffed, hoping his false bravado masked his paralyzing fear. “Hah! Go on and find one. I’ll wait.” But Ironfang wasn’t taking the bait. He swung an armored fist, the punch landing a glancing blow off of Leif’s shield. Searing pain shot up Leif’s arm, his whole body unbalanced by the strike. In a brief moment of clarity, Leif realized how badly outmatched he really was. He had been in bar fights and skirmishes, but he had never faced a truly powerful enemy that was singularly focused on killing him. Ironfang could pick him up by the throat and pop his head off like it was a dandelion. It probably wouldn’t even be that hard for him.
Steeling his nerves, Leif countered the attack but Ironfang moved with surprising agility. Oxhiminn whistled through empty air, the unexpected momentum spinning Leif around as a powerful kick sent him into the mud. He lurched back to his feet just as quickly, but Ironfang was already on him. The next blow had Leif sprawling. Oxhiminn slipped from his grip and skittered out of reach.
Come on, Leif! he chastised himself as he rose again. This is nothing you’re not used to. He remembered the training sessions of his youth, remembered the feeling of snow soaking into his tunic as he fell over and over. He remembered his trainer, an old, scarred warrior named Wenceslaus, shaking his head. “Let me guess,” Wenceslaus would say. “You’ve been training all week, but somehow you’re still incompetent. That right?” Of course they both knew that Leif had lifted the ale mug far more often than his shield and sword. Even still, Leif would wipe the blood from his nose, pick up his sword, and put himself into a ready position.
Leif could still hear his old trainer’s voice clear as day: “Prince Leif, you are a lazy, shiftless drunk, but at least you can take your licks.” He smirked at the memory as he reeled from another one of Ironfang’s punches. Then his gaze shifted from Kaja to Dimitri, and he smiled. That’s it, he thought. I just have to take my licks. . . Wobbling on unsteady feet, Leif laughed. “I can do this all day!” he slurred, raising his voice above the din of battle. “Is that all you got?” Ironfang was becoming more and more enraged, but each fresh blow only increased Leif’s resolve. “That’s it!” he shouted. “Hit me!”
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Ironfang’s footwork got sloppier and his punches more reckless as his temper flared. They had an audience now, as several orc soldiers gathered around to watch their lord fight. They exchanged uncertain looks as Leif sidestepped and dodged. Feeling the infuriating sting of embarrassment, Ironfang brought another punch down. It was a clumsy strike, fueled by anger, and Leif easily avoided it. He backhanded Ironfang across the face with his shield, and followed up with a series of savage punches.
“What’s wrong?” Leif taunted. “Never fought a real warrior before? Refugees and children are more your level, eh?” His mailed fist landed once more against Ironfang’s jaw, chipping one of his carved tusks.
Ironfang roared and delivered an uppercut to Leif’s open gut, sending him flying. Even with the mail shirt and layer of stiffened leathers to protect him, Leif felt the impact deep in his body as his breath was knocked from his lungs. He crashed to the ground, the taste of iron filling his mouth as his teeth shredded the inside of his cheek.
Fighting for air and choking on his own blood, Leif flailed for purchase. Oxhiminn rested only a few feet away. He crawled toward it, then rose to his feet with his axe in hand. “Now that’s more like it,” he said, spitting out a gob of blood. “Fifty more of those and I might feel it.” He wheeled around and sunk Oxhiminn into Ironfang’s thigh, but the blade didn’t make it past the warlord’s thick armor.
Ironfang snarled and smacked the axe away like it was nothing more than a nuisance. Oxhiminn sailed back into the darkness, the glowing blue metal disappearing into the grass. Before Leif could recover, Ironfang hammered a fist against his shield, denting it right in the middle of the ram’s head sigil, then ripped it from Leif’s arm and tossed it away. Leif felt a flash of fear as the warlord clasped him around the throat and lifted him like a doll.
“I conquered the orc clans. I defeated thirteen chieftains in single combat. I faced the ferix legions and stared down the guns of Forgeheart.” Ironfang raised his voice, so that the watching orcs could also hear and remember their lord’s accomplishments. “And you,” he snarled at Leif. “You thought you’d be the one to kill me?”
Leif coughed, speckling Ironfang’s face with blood. “No. . .” he rasped. “He is.”
Before the words could sink in, Dimitri’s rapier erupted through Ironfang’s chest. The warlord sucked in a sharp breath and dropped Leif, as Dimitri yanked the blade back. Clutching the gushing wound between his ribs, Ironfang fell to his knees, his eyes wide as if he couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Dimitri stood defiantly behind him, blood streaming down his face. Carefully, he placed the tip of his sword where Ironfang’s neck met his shoulder. With a single, decisive move, he drove the blade down to the hilt. Ironfang stiffened like he’d been struck by lightning. He was dead before he hit the ground.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then the witnesses scattered, yelling wildly in orcish. Leif couldn’t understand them but he liked to imagine they were saying something along the lines of “heroic humans killed Ironfang! Let’s retreat!”. He sighed, laying in the mud where he had landed, and stared up at the smoky sky. Then Dimitri leaned into view, ruining the moment.
“Took you long enough, you bastard,” Leif said, a grin spreading across his bruised and swollen face. “Had a nice nap, did you?”
Dimitri smirked back. “Do all Stjornugaardians whine so much, or just you?” He offered Leif a hand, which Leif accepted with a chuckle and a cough.
Back on his feet, Leif felt the full force of the battle hit him. “Kaja. Check Kaja,” he stammered, wincing at the stiff pain in his gut. He sorely hoped that the remaining soldiers would be frightened by the body of their fallen leader and choose not to accost them—he didn’t think he had any fight left in him.
By the time Dimitri limped over to check on her, Kaja had already stirred. She lifted herself from the mud with a groan, holding her head in her hand. “You alright?” he asked, kneeling beside her. He uncorked his canteen and offered it. She took a few grateful sips, the condensation frosting over under her palm. “You were amazing,” he said with a smile. “Even I was afraid of you.” But the friendly joke didn’t land as he had hoped. Kaja abruptly stopped drinking and shoved the canteen back into his hands with a frown.
Dimitri opened his mouth to apologize but Amale suddenly burst out of the darkness, kukris drawn and blooded. Following close behind him was Sakrattars.
“They’re saying Ironfang is dead!” Sakrattars cried, his eyes tracing the scene to where the warlord’s body lay. He heaved at the sight of Dimitri’s sword sticking out of the corpse’s spine.
“He better be,” Leif grumbled. Amale cautiously approached the body and placed two fingers against the side of the neck. His paw came away soaked in dark blood, and Amale shook his head. Stepping on the body unceremoniously, Dimitri gave his rapier a few tugs until it slid out. Seeing the way the body twitched and jerked, Sakrattars felt the vomit rising again.
Then Sakrattars felt a gentle pull on his sleeve. Kaja was next to him, wiping her eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked. She nodded curtly, but didn’t meet his gaze. “Jo’s safe,” he continued. At that, Kaja stared up at him. “Khez got her to the Red Paws.” He left out the part where Jo still hadn’t awoken, nor did the medics think it likely she would survive.
“We have company,” Dimitri said quietly, halting all conversation.
Out of the billowing smoke, one orc emerged. Then two. Then ten. Dimitri adjusted his grip on his rapier, gesturing with his head for the companions to back away. As they did, the soldiers began to gather around Ironfang’s body. The utter disbelief was plain on their swollen, grime-smeared faces. “He’s dead. . .” one whispered. “It’s true. . .” The words were repeated through the crowd, some said with anger, some in fear, and some in what sounded like relief. The more prescient among them slipped away quietly, vanishing into the hazy shadows never to be seen again.
Leif, still dizzy from his beating, stumbled as he tried to sneak away after his companions. Dimitri caught him and wrapped his arm around a shoulder to hold him steady. “Maybe they’ll thank us for freeing them?” Leif said woozily. Dimitri frowned.
The quiet reverence didn’t last long before one voice rose in a commanding shout. “Ironfang named me his successor—Forgeheart is mine!”
“By what right?” another yelled back. “You’ve won no conquest and taken no lands.”
A third voice. “My clan is the largest. I should be the one to lead us!”
“I’d sooner join the fleabags than follow a snorting hog like you!”
Amale drew his bow and notched a tentative arrow. He and Sakrattars were the only ones among them who were in any sort of shape to fight, and even then they would not be able to fend off the growing crowd of enraged orcs.
“Burn Forgeheart! Make them pay for killing Lord Ironfang!”
One pointed at the companions and their blood ran cold as ice. “They killed him! I saw it with my own eyes!”
“Go!” Amale yelped as he let loose his arrow. It struck one of the orcs square in the chest, but only served to fan the flames of anger in the rest. The companions dashed through the courtyard on a straight path to the inner gate, the thunder of heavy boots and bitter curses close behind them. Along the way, they passed dozens of other soldiers—some looting, some running back towards the southern steppe, and some eagerly joining the frenzied mob.
When they reached the inner gate, Amale leapt onto a pile of rubble and began firing arrows into the horde. But he might as well have been shooting toy darts for all the good it did in dissuading them. Very quickly he hit the point where he reached back for another arrow and grasped nothing but air. Slipping his bow around his shoulders, he helped Dimitri and Leif get through the breached wall and followed them into Forgeheart proper.
The whole citadel was in flames. Orcs and ferix fought on every street, in every building, with the glow of orange firelight glinting off their clashing weapons. The air teemed with the sharp cracks of ferix rifles and screams of pain. In the distance, a swath of huge explosions blossomed against the night sky as an ill-fated magazine cooked off.
“There!” Amale pointed at a series of guttering fireballs soaring into the sky. Unlike the orange and red flames that engulfed the rest of the city, these were a bright, iridescent green. At the next corner, he darted off towards them. “Follow me!” he cried. The companions, chasing after him, skirted a large puddle of pitch coating the alley.
Sakrattars stopped in his tracks. “Keep going!” he urged the others. Focusing on steadying the tremble in his hands, he drew out a pinch of powder and signed an arcane sigil. He felt a swell of pride as a magical spark ignited the pitch into a wall of flame between him and their pursuers.
The orcs in front, who had already barreled into the puddle, frantically tried to swipe the spreading fire off their bodies but the ones in back just pushed over their burning comrades, singularly determined to find their warlord’s killers. “There they go!” one yelled, pointing at Amale’s tail disappearing around a side alley.
Light on his feet, Amale ducked and dodged around the rubble, leading the mob away from the path his companions had taken. The orcs were not nearly as agile and trying to cram the whole horde through a narrow passage was like squeezing a river through an ale tap. Amale pulled himself up onto a wooden crate, then hopped onto a catwalk. It rattled and shook as a few of the more sure-footed orcs hauled themselves up in pursuit, using their fellows as handholds and step-stools.
Without slowing his pace, Amale drew a kukri and slashed through one of the straining suspension ropes. Immediately the catwalk began to unravel, ropes snapping as the sections collapsed one by one. Orcs cried out in alarm as they tumbled down in a tangle of metal, bodies, and garbage. Amale stumbled when he tried to leap for safety, and landed hard on the filthy ground below. Whining and rubbing a fresh set of bruises, he dashed onto the nearby thoroughfare.
The rest of his companions emerged from a neighboring alley and more green flares soared into the sky just ahead of them. Panting and wheezing, exhausted from fighting for hours then sprinting nearly halfway across the fortress, they turned a final corner. The intersection was fortified with a wall of rubble, scrap metal, and overturned carts. A few dozen ferix hunkered down, their armor gleaming green as another salvo of flares went up, drawing more soldiers to the rally point. Vyrkad Gleamgear rose behind the makeshift ramparts.
Seeing him, Sakrattars began to shout, “Ironfang’s—”
“Get down!” Vyrkad roared. Everyone dropped to their bellies, Amale pulling a stunned Sakrattars down with them. The air exploded with bullets as the entrenched gunners fired off their charges. The pursuing orcs, who had just turned corner, were caught completely off guard, their bodies jerking and reeling as the rounds found their marks.
“Second rank, fire!”
The first line of soldiers knelt, reloading, while the line behind them rose and took aim. The volley added to the quickly growing pile of bodies, and the still-living orcs began to second-guess their resolve. Many wavered, some turned and ran.
Vyrkad pulled two axes from his belt. “Get the Imperials to safety,” he ordered a few of his troops. Then he raised his voice so everyone could hear. “The bastard’s dead! We just need to clean up his mess!” He was met with a resounding cheer as the rest drew their weapons. With a roar like a surging avalanche, ferix poured over the ramparts. The wave of steel and muscle smashed into the orcs like a battering ram. At the front of the line was Vyrkad, bellowing in fury as he slashed and lunged.
Startled by the crowd of stampeding paws, the companions lurched and wiggled and tried to regain their feet. Kaja jumped and skittered on all fours. Sakrattars curled into a tight ball, shielding his head and neck with his hands. Leif barely flinched as a ferix soldier accidentally kicked him in the face.
Then, strong, furred arms lifted each of them up. Hugging the wounded companions close, the ferix whisked them away. “You’ve done more than your part, Imperials,” one said with gruff admiration. “Let us handle the rest.”
*
*
Sakrattars sat motionless against a stack of crates in the parade ground, eyes boring into the slushy mud beneath his boots. The flaps of medical tents whipped and cracked in the cold autumn wind; a steady cacophony of grunts and moans arose from the grid of cots laid out in the field. Sakrattars hadn’t been injured, not really, and he knew that he should go back out and help the ferix fight the remaining orcs, but the besiegement, shelling, and death had taken a mighty toll on his mind. He could hardly hold his spellbook, let alone commit the arcane words to memory, and the last time he tried firing a bow was back in primary school in Arvisian Bay. He wasn’t strong enough to lift the ferix weapons, nor would his tiny dagger do him much good. He wasn’t a healer like Amale and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking enough to be of any help anyway.
So he sat. Sometimes he threw up. Sometimes there wasn’t anything left inside, so he’d drink water to have something to bring up. Sleep came suddenly and lasted only moments. One second he was staring at the cots where his companions lay and Amale worked, the next he would jerk awake at yet another crackling gunshot. It had been two long, painful days of sitting, waiting, and watching the dying. Days that felt like seconds. Days that felt like years.
There were times of good news. Without Ironfang to unite them, the orcs fractured back into petty squabbling, incapable of holding back the ferocious ferix counterattack. Several clans had already gathered their warriors and left. Others were satisfied with whatever they could steal and happily absconded with both their ill-gotten gains and their lives. The more fanatical charged recklessly into the jaws of ferix firing squads, believing Ironfang’s claim about Norsivex honoring their sacrifice.
Sakrattars didn’t care anymore. He just wanted for whoever had to die to die already so it could be over. Did that make him a bad person? Did it even matter? Sakrattars lifted his head as a pair of Red Paws passed him by, disturbing his dark thoughts.
“Hear that?” one asked the other.
The medic’s round ears perked and twitched. “Naw, what?”
“Exactly, the shooting’s stopped.”
Now that it was brought to his attention, Sakrattars also noticed that there was nothing to pierce the dull ringing in his ears. Moments later, a scout loped through the parade grounds.
“It’s done!” she yelled breathlessly. “It’s over!”
A raucous cheer followed in her wake as the news spread. Some ferix roared victoriously, others laughed and danced. Some were furious that they were being denied a chance to kill more orcs. Still others were repeating paranoid delusions, convinced that Ironfang’s corpse would rise and seek vengeance on Forgeheart.
Sakrattars couldn’t bring himself to feel anything at all.
*
*
Even though it had been days since shells last rained down upon Forgeheart, the ruined towers still smoldered. The scent of burning metal, explosive residue, and the pungent stench of death was heavy in the air. Piles of bodies burned night and day in the open steppe outside the walls, on dozens of pyres that melted the sparse snow and left blackened, oily soot on the dormant grass beneath. Ironfang had been anonymously burned along with his soldiers.
Dimitri and Vyrkad looked over the activity in the fortress—over the destroyed gates, the craters blasted through the stone and metal, and the crumbled ramparts and shattered cannons. Even worse than the toll on the city was the cost paid in lives. For every ferix walking through the settlement, there was one in the central courtyard covered in a tarp.
“The walls of Forgeheart crumbled, but the ferix people held strong,” Vyrkad said pensively. He gazed at Dimitri. “We won’t be able to stop them again.”
“They won’t be back,” Dimitri assured him. “And even if some can be rallied again, they will not be able to muster such a large force. A leader like Ironfang comes once in a lifetime and he’s dead, thanks be to Aegis.”
Vyrkad snorted, his nostrils flaring. “Thanks be to your guts and our gunpowder,” he corrected. “Regardless, we will not be able to stay here. Our provisions are gone and Forgeheart cannot be defended with just a few hundred wounded soldiers. Not that there’s much left to defend,” he sighed. “We’ll need to disband and return to the wilds of Snowskull.”
“There’s another option,” Dimitri said.
Vyrkad turned toward him, ears raised.
“You gave your lives to vanquish one of the Empire’s most dangerous foes. They may not know it yet, but the Imperials owe you a debt of gratitude. Offering you sanctuary until you get back on your feet—er, paws, is the least we can do.”
“Sanctuary,” Vyrkad said, looking down to the nearest ward where several cubs were busy weaving bandages. “Sanctuary would be nice.”
“Finish honoring your dead, then leave this place,” Dimitri said. “Take everything you need from the city and scuttle the rest. Then, when you are ready, I will take you and your people to Datharia.”
Vyrkad growled, his tail swishing. “They will attack us on sight.”
“If you went on your own, yes. But the legions would never defy the orders of the Ordo Draconis.” Dimitri flashed a charming smile—and caused his bruised face quite a bit of pain. “Grandmistress Anya will honor your people’s request for mercy, especially since you sacrificed so much.”
Vyrkad thought about that for a moment. “And our weapons? What of them?”
Dimitri frowned. Only a few cannons had survived the battle, but many ferix soldiers still had their guns and knowledge of how to build more. The horrific volleys and the carnage that ensued played back in Dimitri’s mind. When things were quiet, he thought he could still hear the explosions, and the screams.
“Vyrkad,” he said grimly. “I wish I had an answer for you.”
*
*
Kaja ghosted through the parade grounds, silent and emotionless. She passed by Amale refreshing bandages and doling out medicine. She passed by Tordom and his mother talking quietly with Barzom who, while awake and aware, had lost all ability to move his legs. Tordom gave Kaja a solemn wave and she nodded once in acknowledgement. There wasn’t a single cub, herself included, who was untouched by the consequences of the siege.
She passed Leif laying in a cot outside, his injuries numerous and painful but not life-threatening. Someone had found Oxhiminn in the rubble, and the axe now leaned against the side of his cot. He was playing some kind of strategy game with a group of cubs, laughing heartily each time they kicked his butt, then clutching his chest in pain.
Kaja ventured deeper into the medical ward. She saw Tullius laid out, Dimitri by his side. They were surrounded by a team of Red Paws. After getting separated from the group in battle, Tullius’ shield arm had been severed at the elbow. He was only alive because he managed to tie off the stump with a ribbon of some corpse’s clothing. As Kaja went by, Tullius was looking with uncertainty at the steel prosthetic that the smiths were busy installing in its place.
“What sort of captain outlives all his charges?” he moaned. The medicinal brew one of the medics fed him helped with the pain but made his head spin and his thoughts flow without filter. Leo had still not been seen since being injured in the fight, but Tullius knew, in a way only a longtime veteran could know, that the lad was with the gods now. “Maybe it’s better if Aegis keeps my arm! She knew the damned thing was less than worthless while attached to me.”
“Stop, my friend,” Dimitri said gently. “Aegis will need all the strong arms she can muster. And that includes yours.”
Finally, Kaja reached her destination: an empty rations box beside a deathly still form. Jo had several attendants to change her dressings and coax water down her throat, but she showed no signs of waking. The Red Paws had cleaned and stitched the wound, but they had no way of knowing how much blood she lost and the risk of infection was high. As they had told Kaja many times, they had done everything they possibly could and Jo’s fate was in her own hands now. Kaja reached out and touched Jo’s forearm. It was colder than she had ever felt it, even in the harsh winter storms of the Goldenwoods. Shuddering, she lowered her head and closed her eyes.
“You should be resting, too.” Kaja looked up to see Sakrattars coming her way. “You’re injured,” he said softly.
“I’m fine,” Kaja replied curtly. She tugged on her dress, well aware of the massive purple and green welt beneath the fabric. “It doesn’t hurt,” she lied.
Sakrattars sat with her in silence as the golden light of sunset settled across the courtyard. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured.
Kaja whipped her head towards him, a fierce look on her face. “Yes it is!” she shouted, standing. Before Sakrattars could say anything else, Kaja ran away, hot tears stinging her eyes. She wiped them uselessly and quickened her pace. She didn’t know where she was going but she couldn’t stay there and listen to Sakrattars tell her lies.
She didn’t stop until she reached the ruins of the outer wall, where the embers of smoldering funeral pyres still burned in the steppeland beyond. She sucked in a trembling breath, then let the tears flow freely, her shoulders quivering with each sob. “I’m sorry,” she said to no one. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .”
Then an unexpected movement beyond the wall caught her eye. She looked up and sniffled, focusing on the darkening steppeland around the pyres.
A large hound of roiling shadows stalked menacingly through the grass, its eyes glowing like the pyre remnants behind it. Kaja recognized it—she had seen it before outside Castrum Ustarius all those weeks ago. It felt like a different lifetime.
But now it wasn’t alone. There was a second hound by its side, its lips curled back in a menacing snarl.
Kaja’s heart rate quickened, her inner dragon growling at the threat. Her feet were suddenly carrying her through the grass towards the hounds. “What else do you want from me?” she cried angrily. “Why are you following me?” The hounds lowered their heads and backed away, their shadowy forms melting seamlessly into the darkness.
By the time Kaja reached the pyres, the hounds were gone.