Chapter 1

After the battle, Ben went to grab at his canteen but found it missing. Beset by sudden and terrible thirst, he stepped over the mound of corpses that were once his friends and crossed the muddy road into camp.

A dog sat languidly in the way, licking at its chops with a self-satisfied air. Red on its muzzle and a few half-devoured bones around him, but Ben was happy that the camp dog had survived the fight. It tried to snip at him as he walked past so Ben barked at it, and kept barking as the dog ran off, tail between its legs.

It turned out barking was no good for one's throat, even less after a night of screaming at death on a muddy field without a drop of water.

Why was the camp so quiet, wondered Ben, and wanted to follow that thread into something resembling an investigation, but the fog was particularly bad after a fight and he feared when reality and sanity would crash back down on him.

The young officer hummed to himself and walked into the Command tent, electing to ignore any consequences. He began breaking open the ornate chests by smashing the butt of his knife into the locks until they cried.

One particular fancy-looking box made of Trellanian wood from the other side of the globe popped open and revealed bundles of cream-colored paper tied up with twine.

Ben picked up such a wad and bit the twine in half. The notes, unraveled floated to the floor. Military checks to be used for the procurement of heavy armor by the Legion Distributions Officer.

Well, Ben thought, who even needs armor in war. You would only ever need it if you decided to get hit, har har. The young officer then felt the gash across his stomach and groaned. If he could feel any amount of anger at that moment, Ben might have been so inclined to go look for some retribution. Hell, what did it matter, they had won anyway.

Although, Ben did carefully pick up the rest of the papers and shoved them into his chest pocket, repeating the name of the officer responsible a few times as to not forget. He then kicked the chest over.

A few wrapped up dresses, with love notes attached, going to a few different ladies, some jewelry, cologne, pressed flowers. What, did the man rob the Queen's court ladies and hide the loot in his quarters? This was in the Command tent, not hidden under the bed. Ben thought of the Queen's visit to the front lines, with the press people hovering around like so many floating wasps. Perhaps Pernod, which was the name of the officer responsible felt no need to hide.

As in any army, there is going to be stealing involved, but this was ridiculous, thought Ben as he grabbed at the jewelry and shoved it in his pockets.

Finally, digging through some spare uniforms, he found a bottle of brown liquor. Aged 20 years.

"Well, that's just like a sign.", said Ben. "That's how old I would be if I were 12 years younger. A sign for sure."

The booze tasted sweet and was more of a cream than a drink, mixed with the thing that the East boys drank instead of tea.

Ben licked his lips and sighed, immediately remembering the dog from earlier and feeling bad for barking at what was obviously a kindred spirit. Although the dog was eating on some poor fool's corpse.

What now? This was the big one, the deciding battle of the war. Yay, they won, victory, ring the bells, kiss your loved ones, parades, charades, whatever.

Ben felt empty as the fog in his head began to recede. He quickly decided that he needed something to do. Finding the Requisition Officer and kicking him in the teeth for stealing supplies they needed became priority number one as the emptiness turned into anger and self-hate. All that needed something outside to be channeled towards, a great fight, but only small fights remained.

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Oh well, you do what you can, thought Ben and wiped his bloody hands on the front of his jacket, leaving red lines on the blue coloring.

Before going to find Pernod, Ben picked up the dresses, read the love notes attached, laughed, and tossed the notes in the nearest burning pile. The dresses he dropped in the mail. Just because Pernod was a shit, didn't mean somebody had to miss out on their presents.

The soldier sitting behind the clerk's office looked up from his reading, befuddled, and squinting. A black bruise spread from his hairline down to his right ear. Ben wondered why he wasn't out in the field listening to the Field Marshall's victory speech.

"Sir?" He took a long glance at the packages and then back at Ben, not quite understanding.

"Need these sent," he said, and rummaging through his pocket, placed down a few bent and misshapen coins, dried dirt and blood scraping off the back of his hands.

A fog had gone down over the hills, covering the trenches and myriad of corpses left over. Ben sat on a pine storage box and shoved tobacco into a pearwood pipe that a Dorian colonel had lost suddenly, along with his epaulets and engraved dueling sword.

Lighting the little pipe, Ben began to cough and spit at the acrid taste of tobacco smoke.

"Bleah. I hate smoking," he said, turning over the pipe and stepping on the embers.

He thought about his war chest, and all the goodies in there, calculating how much they would sell for. Perhaps not the gold and silver enchanted chest piece. Maybe he could hang that up over the fireplace, look at it on winter nights while he and the lady got busy on a mountain bear rug.

The fantasy broke away like smoke. He would first have to find a bear and trick it out of its fur, plus convince his wife to give him any sort of affection. He wondered if he would ever feel good enough and if he would be able to ever not feel unhappy and miserable.

Oh well, thoughts for a sunnier day. The fog was affecting his mood, so he decided to go for a stroll.

Stepping out of the camp gates, he followed the road and then veered off into the mists, looking for the soft orange glows of still burning battlefield fires.

Soldiers were cutting up dead men and stealing their buttons, or cracking open locks, taking boots. Two held a dead man against a rock, one holding steady the head as the other was fixing the blade of a bayonet at the base of the dead man's golden teeth.

"Morning, major," one of the saluted him cheerily, loosening his grip and causing the dead man to slide into the mud to his waist.

"Oh, grand job, Tim." the other complained. "Now, we never even went through his pockets."

Ben felt disgusted and much like crying. That in itself made him want to scratch out his eyes. He could not bear the aftermath. There were always reasons when the blood was up and you were doing your bit for the empire, and you were defending poor villagers. When it was all done, the self-loathing and revulsion kept him from doing much. On bad days, Ben had to use all his energy to get himself to stand upright.

He had the sudden urge to crawl along with the bloodied mud until he was covered in it and suffocate against the earth. Shaking his head, he lightly slapped his cheeks and began whistling a song to himself.

Sharp cracks of sorcery bounced on the hills, accompanied by the death knell of animals. Soon, Ben came upon a squad, one kneeling and whispering soft words to a horse, with the others sharing a bottle of something gold-colored.

"How do, Benjamin?", the larger man said, neatly trimmed bear dripping with a bit of the liquid he was drinking previously.

"Not so bad.", Ben replied. "What you got there?"

"Ah, some royal wine or something or other. Pauline got it when we broke through the royal tents. Isn't that right, Pauline?" the man waved his head vaguely.

One of the shadowy figures behind him responded. "Yes, sir. The king's mistress was drinking from it when I found her."

"You kill her?" Ben asked.

Pauline shrugged her shoulders and frowned. "She offered it to me if I let her get a head start."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did she get a head start?"

Pauline guffawed, "Of course, not. She was the enemy. Oh, gods, don't tell me you're getting all mopey again, Major. You're never fun when you're like this."

Ben took a deep breath and tried to smile. "I'm doing just fine.'

The bearded man stepped aside and looked down at the horse. "Hate, hate, hate this part of the job." He patted the horse and scratched the beast between its ears. Then he stood, whispered some words and a miniature bolt of lightning struck from the tip of his finger to a white spot between the horse's eyes.

The life vanished from the creature in the time it took the little pop that accompanied the magic to echo.

"Say, Benji," the magician said. "A messenger was looking for you. The plump red-headed one."

"The one that gave you a black eye?"

"No, I believe that was her sister," the man replied smiling broadly. "She was ahead somewhere, by that trench with the spikes in it. Think a Bloodmage fell in and got himself a needle massage. Either way, they were asking for you."

Ben nodded, walking away. He turned to wave goodbye, but he couldn't see the others in the fog, but he could hear their bickering and after a while, a series of small bright flashes and pops.

Going up the hillside, half-crouching and gaining support on the planks battered into the group, Ben made his way up, trying to gain the upper hand on the fog as well as a better vantage point. Later, when Ben arrived at the top of the hill, he could not see anything because of the fog.

"Well, that was quite the stupid idea, wasn't it?" he said to the air. The air, unbothered, kept on being grey, heavy, and covering everything.

One wrong step and Ben slipped and began sliding down the hill, mud sticking and covering him. He stopped by the grace of a large rock, that kindly let him smack against it.

Finally, after squirming in the mud some more, Ben climbed on the rock, and in the distance, he could see the trench, pikes peppering the bottom of it.

Not too far, a ribbon of blood covered one edge, leading into the trench where a mix of animal and human bodies still moved, accompanied by groans of pain loud enough to be heard from the hill. Between the pain and strange animal noises, Ben heard somebody calling out for help. Stretching out and looking down with disgust at his now, mud-covered trousers, he began the long trek down the hill, slipping every few feet as he descended.