Teeth and bone fragments flew through the air as my bronze short sword took down another one of Quetzander’s vile undead minions. The skeleton floundered for a moment as the magical link that bound it dissipated. My oval shield protected me against the wild axe of a zombie. Before I could return my blade to counter, the rotten foe was struck down by the massive wooden maul of a dragon.

Amidst the carnage of battle, the dragon gave me a friendly smile as he hefted his hammer over a shoulder, ready to swing again. It was fortunate that Supreme Leader Llethryn let those large Beasts fight with us; their intelligence left much to be desired, but their superior strength was undeniable. As our unit slowly became encircled by the hordes of risen dead, I was glad to have him by my side. And Kertzikos, too.

Commander of the now broken centre, the giant elk-man, with his gold-banded magical staff of larch wood, kept the unit alive as he cast terrible spells. Fire and lightning combined into destructive blasts that tore through the onslaught. That is why his antlers were marked with gold rings of distinction. Just like me, he had faced such an army before. We were all fortunate to have him close by. I had heard our left flank had collapsed, which had led to our imminent encirclement.

The battle had raged for many hours, at least. It was a pitched battle, one that saw our force outnumbered nearly two-to-one; four thousand against ten thousand. The sandy soil of the battlefield had slowly turned into a sickly quagmire as red and black blood saturated the ground. The slick surface threatened to fell me with every defended stride, my life devoted to our glorious Great Druid master at constant risk. I could not be any other way, irrespective of my desires.

Slash after frantic slash, I fought to stay alive as long as possible, the undead numerous yet easily felled. If I died that day, I was not guaranteed to remain that way—the dead belonged to Quetzander. He would not claim my corpse! I would not allow myself to end up like those I had slain in droves, fated to walk again, and one day turn my blade against my fellow warriors. The thought strengthened my arm and bolstered my resolve. I would not die just yet!

Kertzikos gripped his staff as he squared off against one of his own. A death-worshipping stag, painted with white skeletal warpaint, engaged him with murderous intent. The two titans fired spell after spell, each one desperately deflected and dodged; the surrounding area turned into a violent arena. Their dual caused heavy collateral, stray bolts and blasts catching unlucky bystanders. Dust and smoke enveloped them, erupting with flashes of magic, like angered storm clouds that thrashed and thundered. As their clash intensified, the smog grew thicker. Then, a sudden silence. I had no idea if he had gained the upper-hand, or even survived. Just in case, I held my shield up.

A pair of glowing eyes blinked through the thick mist. At first, I believed them to simply be that of a skeleton who had meandered through the dual. But, when the orbs rose to double my height, I knew they were the hate-filled eyes of an enraged stag. A swipe dispelled the smoke screen to reveal that it was not Kertzikos, as I had hoped, but his rival. My stag commander was nowhere to be seen. Was he still alive? I was not certain. If he was, I would surely avenge him.

My sword, coated in undead bile, lifted to challenge the enemy. He may have had magic where I had none, but I knew my martial prowess surpassed his own. Though he towered over me with an imposing stance, he was hardly stronger for it. He hit my shield with a bolt of fiery magic, shattering the wood and burning my forearm. I fell back. Vulnerable. My main defence, lost. The death-dealer laughed as I stumbled into the boggy ground, only my small sword to offend him.

Stags were all proud people, no matter which Great Druid they served. This one was no different. He postured as if already victorious. It was enough time for me to assess the situation, devise a plan of action. The distance between us gave me something to worry about. It was several strides long. I had to dash, close the gap, before he could let off one of those terrible spells, lest I am obliterated, too. Magic was not something I had the luxury of wielding. I settled my sandalled feet into a solid position. The moment he pulled up his staff, I bolted forth.

Searing heat passed by me as I dashed, a painful reminder that, as a human, magic was not something to be messed with—we had a severe weakness to it. But my roll through that fetid mud had saved me, and brought me within striking range of my target. It would take only a brief moment for him to cast another one of those beams. The momentum turned into a slide, the serrated edge of my sword ran against the stag’s ankle. He cried out as the tendon snapped and sent him crashing to one knee. In vain, he struck at me with his staff, a follow through with my blade bit into his hand. The fingers separated at the knuckles, the staff dropped with a bloody trail.

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The stag worshipped death like a god—his faith would be realised! Even down on one knee, I had to leap to slash at his neck; to put enough force for the battle-scarred bronze to bite in, hard. Crimson poured from the hewn arteries, my leather armour stained with his blood, as it was the black blood of his master’s minions. As the giant splashed down, lifeless, I claimed the runic pendant tied to his antlers as a trophy, a mark of my own.

The battle died down soon after. The tide had been turned into our favour, as auxiliaries arrived to reinforce us under the wonderful sound of a horn. I heard the laboured breaths of commander Kertzikos. He was laid injured and fatigued from his fight. As a show of my loyalty to his race, I offered my hand. However, he slapped it away. He would not be insulted by the help of an inferior; he stood himself up, albeit with pained difficulty.

At least I tried. A slave I may have been, a friend I could become. He wanted nothing to do with me. It was embarrassing enough for me to see him in such a vulnerable state, let alone have saved his very life. The deathly glare he shot at me made me promise never to speak of it to anyone. It was strange to see one of my betters struggle like that, to seem so frightened and weak. But I knew how cruel he could be, so I silently made that promise.

The fog of war eventually settled, the battle now twilight. Heavy casualties had been felt on both sides, the dead laid everywhere at our feet and hooves. From what I could tell, we had been victorious—the few survivors with free-will intact retreated with their lives. To live to fight another day. As did we. I was happy to see that dragon again, his hammer split and sodden with blood and guts. He gave me that same smile again, and told me his name was ‘Grom’.

I gifted him mine: ‘Armand’. He seemed like a kind enough dragon, so I accepted his request for friendship. Most of my friends were dead now, anyway—I could have done with some new ones. We both regrouped with the rest of the army, and made ready to return home. To Eox.

* * * * *

Supreme Leader Llethryn cackled as he watched his victory unfold. “Your army lays dead, defeated,” he announced, fist emphatically clenched.

“…For now,” Quetzander wheezed, black drool oozing from his lip. The dry husk of a tongue barely moved as he croaked a lethargic laughter. “My dead…shall rise…again. As will…yours—to serve me.” Ragged flesh stretched across his bony cheeks as he smiled, as more chuckles echoed within his ribcage.

The Supreme Leader scowled at the ancient stag. He had gained a victory that day, but so did his opponent; the outcome had been an equal one. Quite pyrrhic by Llethryn’s assessment. “I will consider your defeat ample substitute for an apology.”

The necromancer humbly clacked his remaining teeth. “Of course,” he replied, a slight bow of the skull. “Of…course.”

“Good. Never question my power or position again! Else, we will settle the matter the old-fashioned way.” Llethryn stamped his staff, eyes flashed with a powerful emerald shine. Incredible energy could be felt charge up within the staff, which contained a trio of captured fallen stars.

Quetzander flinched and lowered his head further. “No, no. This will…suffice,” he conceded. Even with the power to repel death, it would be foolish to evoke the wrath of the Supreme Leader—everyone knew what happened the last time Llethryn duelled another Great Druid. While he may raise again upon death, it would be a waste of a soul, of which many hung crystallised around his neck. “My apology…is given. Fully…” A bony hand unfurled in a praised gesture.

“Of course it is! Now, I expect your research to be presented to me by the next full moon—before the council convenes again. Do not disappoint me!” With the matter now put to rest, Llethryn saw no reason to linger. He departed from the bluff that overlooked the battlefield, and levitated himself towards a chariot drawn by a half-dozen dragon slaves. His legs dangled limp, atrophied from centuries of disuse, as he floated along to seat himself. The chariot carried him away, back to the capital of his vast dominion—the city of Eox.

Quetzander, meanwhile, trembled as he stood up from the rock he sat, kept stable by his petrified staff adorned with the bones and skulls from each sentient race. He took the time to descend to the battlefield with his grim entourage and claim the spoils of war. There were two armies worth of fresh recruits just awaiting him, enough to replenish his forces; and, in time, regain some of his lost reputation. From then on, he would choose his words, and actions, carefully.