Thorne watched the flame crawl into the night sky. The wispy grey smoke seemed to fly high toward the many moons. Today was a rare night; all of the moons shone in the sky. It was a strange world, such a strange world.
Thorne’s eyes were blank as he watched. The pyre wasn’t built of wood; no wood was far too valuable. It was built from the corpses of the fallen. ‘Not all the corpses.’ Thorne thought she looked toward Lyra's hunched figure. She sat against a building, her head held in her hands. Next to her was Zal, who was resting a light hand on her shoulder. Procka stood beside the two of them like a stoic guardian. Thorne couldn’t read the emotions of the Grandorian at all. For all he knew, she was reveling in Moravian unseemly death.
No one was prepared for the news that she had brought. Thorne sighed as he watched the remnants of his team. ‘We only had five people, ' he thought while taking a bite of a ripe yellow fruit. ‘If we lose any more, we will hardly qualify as a squad anymore.’
Thorne’s brain went silent after that thought. He didn’t want to think of that possibility, for deep in the back of his mind, he knew that more of them would be lost. This wasn’t even the difficult part of this journey; they hadn’t even met the other invaders and had already lost an important member.
The only emotion Thorne felt from the loss was annoyance. Moravian had always been the most spontaneous of them, but he had hoped that the Draugr would have at least a little bit of foresight. Instead, his reckless decisions caused the team to be in a very precarious situation. They had lost a valuable team member while also warring with an overwhelming army. ‘And that’s not even mentioning the blasted grade two.’ Thorne thought, picking at his dirt-filled nails.
‘And from what Lyra said, we cannot handle the army. This is difficult,’ Thorne thought. Looking for inspiration, Thorne looked back toward his past experiences on earth; he had always run away when faced with overwhelming problems—well, he had either run or submitted.
‘No,’ Thorne grunted, shaking his head. ‘I finally have some semblance of damn freedom. I can't act like I used to.’
He looked at his teammates before looking back into his past once again. This time, he looked to the recent past—he analyzed his tenure as a teacher and, more importantly, the customs of Kroll City.
He had learned that disputes were typically solved through war, but there was something else used.
Groaning, Thorne looked away from the stinking pyre and trotted over to the three-person group of Lyra, Zal, and Procka.
Silently, he motioned for Zal and Procka to follow him for a second—Lyra wasn’t ready just yet. The two of them left Lyra reluctantly, who seemed to not even notice their departure.
“I have an idea,” Thorne said as the three huddled up. “We need to duel the top commanders.”
Zal, with sunken eyes, looked at him. His previous bravado and happy-go-lucky feel were gone. His face was dark; the sleepless nights of battle had clearly taken their toll. “How.” He muttered, “Do you want us to just go up to the; Oh, duel me, you swine. I know you have the larger army and have more cultivators, but please indulge me and purposely risk your command structure to duel me.”
“Yes,” Thone nodded, “Exactly that.”
Zal deadpanned, his eyes demanding further detail.
“The thing is,” Thorne started, “Our command structure is more vulnerable than theirs. If we even lose one more of us, its over. If they have any tactical know-how, then they will accept a duel. It's worth it for them.”
Zal sighed, shaking his head, “And how will we manage to challenge them in the first place?”
Procka, who had been silent up to his point, rumbled forward, “Meeting.”
“Exactly,” Thorne nodded. "We have prisoners. We send one or two back to the camp with the message to arrange a meeting with the intent to organize a duel.”
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“What if they try to trap us?” Zal asked, still wary of this plan.
“They will if they can; we just have to make sure that they can’t.”
Zal paced for a moment, not responding to Thorne’s words. Finally, after a full minute, he took a deep breath and looked toward Thorne with pursed lips; “I don’t know. I feel that if we do this by sending a prisoner to them as a messenger we might also be perceived as weak, and desperate.”
“We are weak and desperate,” Thorne responded flatly. “But I do understand your point. I know something we can do about it.”
Zal nodded, and a small smile broke through his somber expression. “This could be it Thorne, should we start with three duels? Me you and Procka.”
Thorne nodded, “Yes that would be- “
“Four duels.” A voice cut in. It was Lyra. She had made her way over to the group in silence and had apparently listened in.
Thorne looked over at her with raised rows ready to dissuade her, but Zal beat him to it. “Lyra, are you sure? It won't be easy.”
Lyra glared at Zal, “Do not try to underestimate my skill. We are all members of this group, and we will all contribute to its success. I will not sit in the corner like a weeping child.”
Thorne scratched his neck while looking over at Zal and Procka. Zal shrugged, and Procka nodded. “Sure Lyra, four duels it is.”
Looking at all of them, Thorne pointed in the direction of the makeshift prison in the camp; “I’ll go send the messengers now.” He said, “You guys should train, I'm going to guess that the duels will happen in less than a week if they do happen at all.”
The three nodded and went off to the nearest unoccupied training area. Thorne sighed as he watched them. ‘They are broken.’ He watched as they walked; they did not speak to each other, but there was a certain…confidence, no not confidence, conviction, they walked with conviction. ‘Not broken.’ Thron thought, revising his previous idea, ‘Just cracked.’
As Thorne made his way through the camp, he noticed how ragged it truly was. Before, the soldiers had been beaten and scratched, but they had something to show for it. It was intangible, but before they had had hope. Now they were silent and mournful. Many sat near the pyre and simply watched as the bodies turned to ash.
‘These duels need audiences.’ Thorne realized, ‘If we win, the morale could rise. We need that.’
After a few minutes of quick walking, Thorne reached a small sandstone building. It was similar to all the others, but this one had two white-robed soldiers posted outside the doors. Thorne nodded to them as he walked up to the doors. “I need to go in. I need to use one of the prisoners.”
The soldiers—knowing Thorne’s high rank—nodded and opened the doors without a word. Inside the building, Thorn was assaulted by a rancid scent. There were no bars like earthen prisons, but instead a dozen small rooms behind locked doors. Thorne picked one at random and walked in.
Inside the room there was no light, no windows, no bed, no toilet—it was filthy. The only resident sat on the floor with his eyes closed. Upon the door opening, the man’s eyes shot open—the incoming light causing him to blink rapidly.
“Stand up,” Thorne ordered. The man complied. He was thin—likely due to starvation in the prison—and was a normal soldier; All the cultivators were either killed or converted.
“I am about to offer you your freedom as long as you do one thing for me,” Thoren said, deadpan.
The man who had been leaning on the wall stood up straight. “What do I have to do?” He corked, his voice clearly needing water. Thorne discreetly reached into his pocket and summoned some water that he had from his spatial storage. Acting like it was in his pocket all along, he pulled it out and offered it to the lanky man.
He grabbed it and slurped up the water furiously. “I need you to deliver a message. Can you do that?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll do it.” The man said, bobbing his head up and down.
“Good, I want you to tell the city lord that we offer four duels between his top officers. The duels will take place within the week, but he can decide on the location. I will give you food and water for the journey. Can you go now?”
The man nodded, biting his scabbed lips. “Yes, yes, I go now.” He said, preparing to leave the cell.
“Wait,” Thorne ordered, causing the man to freeze. I need to do something first.
Looking at him with a bemused expression, the man stood still as Thorne seemingly reached into his long pants.
His expression shifted violently to terror as he saw what Thorne retrieved; “Unfortunately I cannot let you go without punishment for your crimes. Hold out your hand.”
The man looked at him, then look at Thorne’s sword, then looked at his hand. Trembling he held out his left hand. As Thoren stepped up to it, the ma closed his eyes, tears falling out.
One quick slash cut through the appendage, and with a thump the hand fell down to the floor. To Thorne’s shock, the man made no noise apart from a light whimper. “Good.” Thorne grunted as he retrieved bandages from his spatial storage.
As he worked to bandage the man's stump, he saw the hateful gaze he was getting. ‘It is necessary,' he told himself, gritting his teeth. The enemy would do much worse than just a hand.’
Finally, after minutes of bandaging and waiting for the man to be ready, Thorne stepped out of the prison, the former prisoner—turned—messenger—following after him.
Nodding to the guards, Thorne and his captive left. They went to the edge of the camp without being bothered or slowed down. Thorne gave the man some food and water and told him to go.
As he watched the now one-handed man run away, Thorne sighed, ‘It is necessary.’