The beast was charging.

The clamor of black tents being splintered, thrown, or crushed against the soil closed in quickly. Hissing filled his ears. It rose and rose and rose like a chorus, but the chorus was abruptly cut short by a cry like the scraping of metal against metal.

A terrible, inhuman cry. A familiar cry.

Charles covered his ears in pain as he limped, and since he was focused solely on shuffling straight ahead as quickly as possible, he did not see the crimson drake barrel into the side of the colossal boa like a cannonball colliding with the port of a ship. There was a crash that nearly took the young chef to the ground again as the two great beasts tumbled through half a dozen tents. His hearing was bombarded with the blare of clawing and snapping, roaring and hissing, all taking place just outside his field of view. It took every ounce of mental fortitude not to peek at the insanity that must have been playing out right behind him.

Do not look back. You mustn't look back. One limping step at a time. He must think only of moving forward. Had Charles later been asked how many cycles he repeated those thoughts to himself, he would have no answer. He also had no clear notion of just how close he was to being squashed like a bug underneath the creatures’ battle. One moment the metal screams of the crimson drake seemed distant, but the next he felt the wind from its whip-like tail crashing down right next to him. He let out a girlish shriek and redoubled his efforts. Another step. Another step. Between these tents. Don’t trip over that root. Good. He continued like this for only the gods knew how long.

Eventually, the sounds of their fighting grew fainter. He thought he had cleared a decent gap, but he dared not find out. His bad leg stabbed him. It did not want to move another inch without a rest.

There was one more metallic scream, and this one was starkly different. It was a scream of pain.

Charles had heard this version before, too, when the hooded runner had scored a gash by pretending to trip and fall. He could resist temptation no longer; he looked just in time to see the drake fleeing to the sky on an injured wing. For an infant, it had more than held its own. Putting up such an effort against an opponent of far greater size was no trivial thing, but now that effort was exhausted. The boa rose with a snap of its jaws, trying to drag its opponent back to earth. It hissed in rage when the attack fell just short. Half a dozen fresh clawmarks and a brutal gash from the drake’s tail marred its silver scales. It was badly wounded. Bloodied and battle-scarred. But it was not finished. Not just yet. Charles ducked behind a nearby tent before it could spot him again.

He tried to calm the storm of his heartbeat. Deep breaths, he told himself. Deep breaths. The words brought back old, vague memories. Mother, he realized, used to say them in loving tones when he was very small. In and out. Just like that. You’re alright. It’s alright. It can’t see you. He peeked above the canvas. He had cleared a decent gap. No matter which direction the boa decided to go, he was far enough away that there was little risk of being discovered. He could simply hide here until it decided to stop slithering about the sea of tents and moved on. And why wouldn’t it move on? Animals grew bored far easier than men. Once it realized there was nothing worthwhile to eat here, it would leave, and all would be well.

Optimistic words, but the boa didn’t seem like it was getting bored. It had reared up high again, towering above the treeline. A forked tongue flicked free of its mouth. Once. Again, with a longer pause this time. Then several shorter flicks. Its head turned this way and that, taking in the morning air. Pointing toward the south, then southeast. As if gradually narrowing in on something with finer and finer precision.

Is that thing…

Purple irises centered on Charles’ hiding place. The young chef gave his hands and collar a quick sniff. He felt the storm come rushing right back. The bratwursts I cooked earlier. It’s tracking me by scent!

By scent…

By scent…

It was following the smell of the sausages. If just the leftover smell clinging to Charles’ clothes could do that much, then just maybe…

It was far. Almost too small to make out. But across the sea of dull black, a hint of green shined like the purest emerald. The young chef knew what to do, but he would never make it with this leg. Not as quickly as he needed to.

He stumbled out into one of the larger arteries running through the heart of camp. A wider pathway where four mounted Spears could ride abreast. Like the rest of the sea, it was eerily empty. Every Shattered had fled into hiding, and every Spear was occupied in battle. However, one soul was still using the pathway, and they almost flattened the eleve straight into an early grave as they passed by. They were four-legged, swathed in flowing red, and screaming in terror. Charles jolted at what looked like a wraith or demon charging straight for him. As it drew a bit closer, he realized the more mundane truth. One of the Spears’ black warhorses had apparently broken away from its restraints, accidently run over a tent in its panic, and was now galloping blindly with the canvas wrapped around its head. Not just any tent either. From the elaborate sunrise stitched into the siding, it could only be Thorne’s personal quarters. The rest of the cardinal’s tent had come too, of course. It followed closely behind the path of the terrified horse, splaying out like a fancy red carpet for about twenty feet or so.

Charles stared at the woven sunrise. He had an idea. A reckless, foolish, idiotic idea. One that might well get him killed before the collosal boa could even take a crack at it. He hesitated. The indecisiveness was kicking in. Why did he have to be such a dastard about taking gambles? A big risk like this would likely paralyze him with hours of internal debate and weighing of choices. Should I real-

A roar-like hiss exploded behind him.

Right then.

His timing would require perfection. There was no room for error. He braced himself. As the flowing curtain of canvas rushed by, Charles flung himself forward. Not to land on the horse. He would never have managed that without breaking his neck. Instead he aimed for the long trail of red flowing behind it. The landing was rough, but he felt the woven material rub against his hands. He took a firm grim and held on tight. He cracked an eye open, half-expecting the gates of the next world to be greeting him. Rows of black tents rushed by. I’m moving, he thought. And he was, in perhaps one of the dumbest, most unorthodox ways ever attempted. The Spears' horse was half-dragging, half-ferrying him through the sea as a sled carries its rider over snow. He had done it! And not a second too quickly. No sooner had he aimed his fall than the colossal boa plunged its open maw into the spot he had just been standing. It pulled back, sending another enraged hiss his way as it made to slither after him. Charles paled and clutched the canvas tighter, but the snake shrunk and shrunk until he could just make out its form in the distance. He let go of an exasperated sigh for what might have been the twentieth time today.

It was fortunate the Spears had found such an unusually flat plateau to make camp. If he was being dragged across the kind of harsh ground that made up most of the Highlands, he’d probably have been thrashed into a puree several times over by now. But his gamble had paid off. He was making excellent progress. A tent greater than nearly all the others was coming up fast. At this rate, it would be a matter of seconds—half a minute at most—before he reached his destination. Bizarre as it was, he found the tent-ferry almost relaxing. Once you got used to the feeling, of course. Yes, it was very lucky indeed that the grassy ground around the cairns was so smooth and perfect. No beds of broken rock. No unsightly crags. No-

A mound appeared in the path ahead. A round, smooth, perfect mound, but a mound nonetheless. The blinded warhorse was lucky enough to miss it, diverting smoothly to the right; the trailing path of the canvas would whip Charles straight over it at full speed.

Oh. He was reminded once more of a sled just before he left solid ground behind and flew. In retrospect, it really wasn’t all that high. Barely enough to peek above the tent line. But even an instant with your boots above your head throws all sense of space and balance out the window. Three feet in the air can feel closer to ten. And when you realize you’re about to crash to an unforgiving earth, it might as well be twenty. The impact drove the breath from Charles’ lungs. He flopped over in airless agony, wondering if he’d just finished off what was left of his ability to walk. But he had arrived at where he needed to be. The tent beside him stood tall above the others, with sea-green coloring and the scent of herbs and spices wafting through the door. He dragged his battered body inside the Galley and emerged with a still-steaming platter of sausages.

The colossal boa loomed before him, foul drizzlings of saliva falling off its fangs.

“You want these?” he said weakly. The boa offered no reply.

Charles tossed the platter. Chucked it with as far as his scrawny arms could manage. They landed with a clamor directly in the beast’s path. “Take them. Take them and please just piss off.” His leg seized harder than ever. He collapsed. That throw had spent his last.

The boa knelt and flicked its forked tongue at the platter, nudging the sausages with the round of its nose. Two short flicks, then a third one after a pause.

When it rose a moment later, the offering remained untouched. The boa had decided it had no interest in dead meat. Not when meat still breathing lay so tantalizingly close. It drew toward him. Charles went cold. This had been his last idea. His one hope. And it had been dashed. He had no more cards left to play now.

“Stay back...”

His mind screamed at him to get away. To run. To walk. To do anything.

It's going to eat me alive.

Leaning on the corner of the Green Galley, he managed to stand upright on his good leg, but the other one seized and buckled beneath him with every attempt to take a first step, even when he cursed it with every fiber of his being. It had never hurt this much before. He had pushed his injury too far.

“What the hell are you doing!?” The shout came from the row of tents to Charles’ left. Chef Magnus was calling out to him, wide-eyed. What was that look on his face now? If Charles didn’t know better, he would swear it looked a bit like concern. “Move, you idiot!” I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just can’t anymore. Time slowed. Every detail was vividly clear to him: the blood oozing from the serpent’s wounds; the horrid stench of its breath; a cluster of parasites writhing in the socket of one of its eyes, overtaken with infection. The fangs rushed toward him. I’m sorry...

Charles clutched his head with his hands and waited for the end. There was a crash, and then there was only darkness. No pain. No afterlife. No anything.

When he peered through shaking fingers, shadow covered him. An enormous shadow. He cracked his eyes fully open and saw a giant in steel armor, red-cloaked and armed with an eight foot terror of a spear, standing firmly between him and the open jaws of the colossal boa. Cardinal Thorne grit his teeth through the half-moon mask. In an unbelievable feat of agility and prowess, he had stepped in front of Charles, plunged his spear into the ground and tilted it at an angle, wedging it between the boa’s fangs and stopping the momentum of its lunge. Now he stood as a human wall, unmoving in the face of nature’s wrath.

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It was a pure contest of strength. Serpent and Spear clashed with their all, sheer force against sheer force. Either the Spear would drive the serpent back, or he would falter and fall to its bite.

Though shocked to still be alive, Charles could not help but notice the latter outcome coming closer and closer to fruition. Thorne’s body, huge as it might be, was starting to crumble under the strain. It was like watching a great dam sprout a deep crack, and the first trickles of water begin to leak through. He roared in exertion, nearly dropping to one knee. Still he refused to relent or surrender. He made no attempt to abandon Charles and save himself. For a man against a beast, it was shockingly close to even. That the struggle had lasted this long was an impressive feat in itself. However, the gap between them was just wide enough to make the eventual winner obvious. Thorne’s knee sank further. A foot from the ground. Six inches. Three. Nearly kissing the grassy soil now. In a few moments he would shatter completely, and death would swallow them both. All of that effort, faith, and resolution would amount to naught.

What were you thinking? Charles thought. It made no sense. No sense at all. You’d risk yourself to save a camp cook, someone you branded a heathen, after everything you’ve done to me? After everything you’ve done to Dreya? Thorne shouted again, but his voice could barely be heard about the beast’s hiss. Did you really believe you could win? Just look at what you’re up against. Anyone could have predicted the outcome. Believing in your own valor and virtue doesn’t mean anything. That was how it was in the real world. If Charles had learned anything from his captivity, he had learned that much. Bold acts were for the pages of childrens’ stories. The real world hated boldness and bravery. It didn’t reward those things; it made a game of punishing anyone who dared think they could accomplish what was beyond them. It will be no different for you. In that much we are equals, if nothing else.

Thorne’s muscles bulged. His back grew slightly broader. His arms and neck, a bit thicker. Blood flowed like a roaring tide into the trunks of his legs; they tinged pink, then started to gradually darken to a simmering shade of red. Slowly but surely, his knee rose from the ground, the leaks in the dam sealing to a close. Three inches. Six. A foot. Then back to full height.

Charles stared, his mouth agape.

Thorne pushed. The boa lost half a foot of territory. Another push, and with it, a firm step forward. Yellow fluid gushed from one of the graver injuries near the back of the tail. To the young chef’s utter revulsion, what looked like an organ began to spill between the scales. With one more shout and the greatest push thus far, Thorne sent the boa flying back.

The weight of its head crashed into its own coils, briefly dazing it, but after a moment it seemed to recover its senses and hissed in defiance. It was still not done yet. Another lunge was coming. The commander of the Spears of Mercy exhaled calmly. He shifted his stance, lowering his body and leveling the shaft of his spear straight ahead. He gave a sudden jolt forward. It was a feint meant to make it seem he was about to go on the offensive. The boa instinctively flew at him, and that was when Thorne showed his true hand. He sidestepped, allowing the lunge to glance off the long of his weapon at an angle. Then, before his foe could get its bearings, he smoothly spun the shaft around, planted his heel firmly at the neck and, with a cry of sheer fury, ran his blade clean through the flat of its skull.

Charles hardly noticed the blood spattering his face and clothes. He was a bit distracted by what was happening in front of him. By all accounts, Thorne’s strike should have brought down the final curtain. In the old tales, warriors and brave adventurers always killed snakes by destroying their head. A swift sword-chop or smash with a hammer, and that was that.

Nature, however, is full of bizarre surprises. Though its head was staked into the ground, the boa’s body kept right on thrashing and smashing, reducing everything it struck to splinters. It quite adamantly refused to get off the stage, even as the other actors dragged and pulled at it. Ultimately, it would prove just as spiteful in dying as it had in living.

“Not the Galley! Not the Galley! Not my kitchen, you great flaccid prick!” The unimara ran towards Thorne and Charles in a panic. He reached out, as if he was going to somehow stop the boa’s tail by grabbing it with his bare hand. But it wasn’t meant to be. With its last, the tail of the collosal boa fell...directly on the Green Galley. The tent’s frame fell like a spiderweb swung through with a stick, and Magnus shouted the word “No!” as if he had just watched a lifelong companion fall to their doom. Ignoring all potential dangers, he flew to the wreckage of his kitchen and began sifting through the debris. It was obvious he was looking for something specific, though what, Charles had no notion. After a moment he disappeared through what was left of the door.

For the first time all morning, the camp fell quiet. Only the sounds of fast-flowing streams and creaks of leaning trees could be heard. In groups of twos and threes, surviving Spears gradually emerged from the sea. That they were present at all could only mean both colossal boas had been defeated. Some reds had to lean on their brothers to remain upright. Others were being carried by their arms and legs. Those who could stand on their own strength did so with cracks in their armor and scars on their resolve, but they had won the day.

The battle was over.

“Rejoice!” Thorne brought the dawn carved in his spear toward the heavens, and the shafts of every other spear thundered down as one. His men, too, cried “rejoice!”. This formality seemed to exhaust all Thorne had left. With the enemy dead before him, he finally fell to one knee. Several raiders rushed to his side, but he waved them away.

“Report!” he shouted between labored gasps for breath. The same lieutenant who had come to him the day Charles was captured appeared at once.

“Twelve dead, Your Eminence,” the Spear said plainly. “Another fourteen wounded. And also….”

Thorne glared. “Also…”

“Our groom, Your Eminence. He was crushed by a falling stone.”

Thorne spat from the uncovered half of his mouth. He raised his hand uneasily and gestured to the burial mounds. “Gather the rest of our forces. There will be no raid tonight. Tear open every one of these cairns and kill any serpents you find before we have another battle on our hands. Our fires have been rousing them from sleep.” Charles found himself gaping again. He connected the dots that quickly?

More Spears were trickling in now, and with them, handfuls of Shattered, conscripts, and prisoners. Luet made a beeline for Charles, but paused at the festering and parasite-ridden head of the dead boa. His face twisted in disgust. “Heavens above, that thing is hideous up close. I think I’ve helped birth two-headed dairy calves that were less revolting,” he said.

“Be silent!” Thorne raged. Evidently, he was in no mood for commentary, though it was telling he had made a threat rather than simply act. Thorne wasn’t the type for threats. If he wanted a man quiet, he would make that man well and quiet. Yet he stayed right where he was, fighting for air on one knee even as Luet gave a yelp and promptly retreated. He is fallible, Charles thought. He’s at his limit, or very near it. If he hadn’t killed the boa as quickly as he did, that duel might have turned out quite differently.

Something troubled Charles gravely. When Thorne stopped the colossal boa’s lunge, just how much brunt force had he taken head-on? The warrior who led the Spears of Mercy was unquestionably strong. Perhaps one of the strongest men alive.

But no man should have been able to withstand such an attack, let alone turn the tide right when he was almost beaten. For a little while, the young chef simply stared at the red giant. That last surge of power. Had he merely imagined it? I swear it looked like his body changed for just a moment. No. He had imagined nothing. No matter how his mind tried to rationalize it, there was something remarkable and uncanny about this man called Cardinal Thorne.

“Charles.”

Something terrifying...

“Charles, look at me.”

What are you?

“Charles!”

Charles blinked. Brown locks and a round, pale face hovered less than a foot from his own. “Are you able to speak?” Luet asked. The pastretta snapped his fingers several times when he received no answer. “Can you even hear me? Gods, your head is covered in blood.” Charles brushed his hand through his hair, then stared stupidly at the ruby red that came away drenching it.

“Oh,” he said faintly. “It...it’s alright. It’s not mine.” Luet gawked at him.

“And what the fuck happened to our sausages then!? They’re all over the ground!”

Magnus had emerged from the canvas of the crushed Galley. He was empty-handed. Whatever item he had been hoping survived unscathed in the piles of rubble, he had clearly not found it, and now he looked more incensed than ever.

“Um...that was me, Chef,” Charles admitted, raising a weak hand. Luet turned even whiter, if that was possible. He pressed a finger to his lips, but the eleve kept right on talking. His head was foggy. His voice seemed far away, as if someone else was doing the speaking for him. All of him seemed far away. “I...sort of tried to distract the boa by throwing them. Sorry about that.”

Magnus’ rage was palpable. He looked as though the red mane flowing from his head was about to burst into flames at any moment. “Then you led that thing over here!? On purpose!? So you could try that stupid idea?” Magnus said through gritted teeth. He brushed past Luet and hoisted the teen by his collar. They spoke at eye-level, master to apprentice. “Really? How did it go then?” Even in his state of vacancy, Charles got the impression that an honest reply probably wasn’t in his best interest. He remained silent. “You threw our best meat in the dirt, destroyed our canned food cache, and got my Galley smashed because you thought a bribe was going to save your skin? And then what!? Let’s say it did decide it wanted sausages. Was your plan to get away in the six seconds it would have taken to finish them?”

“I...I had to improvise,” Charles said honestly. “I was going to die. I thought it was the only way to stay alive.”

“Congratulations. You’re alive. Now you can die with the rest of us over the next two to four weeks.”

The young chef flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, Chef,” he said. He looked to Luet in apology as well. “About the Galley and everything else. There was no one around to help. I...I had to make my own call. Whatever the outcome. I’ll accept any punishment you give me.”

At that, Charles thought Magnus may have softened a bit. Just a little. The tiredness came back to the red haired chef’s eyes. He cursed and lowered the apprentice back to the ground.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Magnus said. “You’ll be cooking like your life depends on it. Because it does.” There was a little less venom in his tone. “What’s done is done. A little washing, and I’m sure the sausages can still be saved. If you truly want to mend your mistakes, try learning something from this. It’s a giant goddamn snake, Boulier. Next time, skip the diplomacy. Just...just use that energy to keep running.” He gave the broken Galley one more agonized glance. “Can’t believe the crap I deal with. What a fucking travesty.”

“How badly were our stores hit?” Thorne interjected. The cardinal was back on his feet, though Charles noted two Spears flanked him closely. Almost as if they wanted to be sure they could catch him if he stumbled.

“Very fucking badly, and there’s no softer way to put it,” Magnus said. “Even if I can save one in three of the jars I had canned, that won’t be even close to enough. Our stores were already running low. We have no food, Your Eminence. That’s a cold fact but a fact nonetheless, and if it doesn’t change, we’re all going to starve out here.”

Thorne stomped on the boa’s neck. “Then we must be innovative. I see a great deal of food right here.” He tore his spear free from the snake’s skull and pointed it toward his chefs. “Who among you has the most experience in cooking a creature such as this?”

Charles felt another stomach-lurch. “Cook...this thing?”

Magnus looked nonplussed. He pointed at himself.

“...With all due respect, Your Eminence, I’m a sea chef,” he said. “Not a land chef. I didn’t know these eyesores existed until ten minutes ago. Unless that carcass you’re standing on is actually a giant eel, you’re talking to the wrong man.” He jabbed a thumb at Luet. “And we’re not trying to bake a wedding cake with it, so that rules out this one.”

All eyes centered on Charles. It was Magnus who asked the gold-drizzled question.

“I don’t suppose you’ve cooked snake before, Boulier?” he said. More survivors had begun to file into the clearing beside the broken remains of the Green Galley. A trickle at first, and then a flood. Battered Spears. Scarred Shattered. More and more came. Prisoners from Dreya and conscripts from the empire. Among them stood the imperial doctor, disheveled and painted with blood. The Dreyan twins, their eyes full of suspicion. All the faces shared one thing in common. They were exhausted. Exhausted, hungry, and looking to him for their next meal. Finally, a single friendly face peered from the crowd. Cade Calwell nodded at Charles. A small, grave nod, but one that looked to be sending quiet support his way. It seemed to say “I believe in you, Charles Boulier.”

Well then. Charles hid his trembling hands and nodded back as seriously as he could.

I suppose that makes one of us...