Kundaran stood amidst the wreckage and surveyed the crater with the kind of dismay usually reserved for accountants finding a pesky variable.
“One old man did this?” he mused aloud, as if addressing the very heavens that had allowed such improbability to occur. “A greybeard, already wounded and of little threat. How many have we lost?”
“Twenty-two, Chief,” piped up a Trunian whose shielding had allowed him to survive the blast, with the air of someone who’d been counting the bodies like he was tallying a bad harvest.
“And how many slaves did we capture?” Kundaran asked, he already knew the answer and wished he didn't.
“None!” came the shout from a Temrit merc, whose unhappy face bore the marks of the explosion. “Not a child in sight, not a single scrap of easy plunder! Four women, all dead—killed by the explosion before we could even get our hands on them!”
Kundaran scratched his chin thoughtfully, as if pondering a disruptive balance sheet. “It would seem,” he said slowly, “that this is not a particularly productive area for slave hunting, after all.”
The Temrit’s face turned a darker shade of red, a perfect complement to the angry welts already there. “And who led us on this wild, senseless venture? It was you, Kundaran! You, with your smooth words about ripe pickings and women for the taking!”
Kundaran’s voice lowered to a dangerously soft purr, the kind of quiet you find just before a storm or just after a sword is drawn. “You were rather pleased with the last raid I planned for you,” he said. But the Temrit, as is often the case with his sort, the ones with loud voices and little sense, completely failed to notice the growing tension.
"One successful raid does not make up for this disaster!" The Temrit strode forward with all the puffed-up confidence of a man who had just forgotten who he was talking to, standing so close to Kundaran he could practically count the beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. "I question your suitability as a leader. I—"
Now, any reasonably intelligent person knows that if you're going to question a man's suitability as a leader, you should do it from a respectable distance—preferably one that doesn’t involve giving him easy access to your vital organs after your shield had failed. The Temrit had failed to observe this basic rule of survival. And so it was that Kundaran’s large, black hand shot out with the speed and efficiency of a snake. His fingers tangled themselves in the Temrit's unruly curls, and with the grace of a butcher filleting a fish, he twisted the man's head to face the others. A short, curved dagger appeared in his other hand, as if by magic (the sort of magic that often left people wishing they'd pursued a career in something quieter, like sheep herding), and the point slid beneath the Temrit's right ear, emerging rather dramatically under his left.
In the manner of someone making a decisive point—albeit with a knife rather than words—Kundaran severed the neck with a swift, brutal forward blow. The head remained attached by a few stubborn bits of spinal cord, but the rest of the body? Well, that took the opportunity to express its displeasure in a spectacular spray of blood and what may have been lunch, whipped into a ghastly froth by one last breath from the defunct lungs.
"Now," said Kundaran, letting the still-twitching body slump to the ground, "there are seven of us left. That’s enough to start something new." His eyes scanned the remaining men like a wolf sizing up a pack that had just been conveniently trimmed of its weaker members. "It was the weaklings who died. Good riddance. Men like us don’t need to carry their dead weight. It’s better this way."
There was a brief pause as the men blinked, their dejection vanished, replaced with the unmistakable glow of those who have just been told they are elite, important, and possibly invincible. Kundaran had learned this lesson well during his time in the military: men will endure almost anything, so long as you convince them they’re the cream of the crop.
"Right, let’s grab what we can and clear out," he said briskly, already turning toward their next opportunity. "This was a mistake, yes, but there’s plenty more to be had. We’re on the outskirts of the Trunian Empire. Let’s see what treasures we can shake loose in this Outer Rim." And with that, the group returned to their ship, slightly fewer in number, but apparently none the worse for it.
***
The sun was performing its usual evening routine—slinking off behind the horizon like a guilty dog, having done nothing particularly useful all day in the chill of Andron VII’s unpredictable winters—when Denor caught sight of the crater. At first, he squinted at it in the manner of a man hoping he might be wrong. But no, this was definitely a crater, and erupting from it was a black, oily smear against the sky that suggested whatever had happened didn’t care for architecture.
Behind him, the Gurruk—currently resembling an ambulatory pile of venison with legs—sniffed the air, and with the air of a sommelier diagnosing a particularly foul wine, offered his expert opinion.
"It wasn’t Gurruks or Temrit, and while I smell Trunians in the air, there’s more to it than that."
“Wait a minute,” Denor’s mind caught up a second later, and the pack he’d been carrying hit the ground with a thud. “This was where the farm used to be.”
The Gurruk sighed.
Denor stopped dead, as if he’d run smack into an invisible wall called horrified realization. His eyes widened, mouth slightly open in the universal expression of, ‘Oh no, this is bad, isn’t it?’ He took a few faltering steps into the ruin of what had once been Curan’s home, each footfall crushing any last, fragile hope that someone might still be alive.
He should have been more upset, he knew this, but this was the third time this had happened, and none of his family had been involved this time.
"They didn’t go down easy," the Gurruk noted, glancing over the attackers scattered like broken toys around the clearing. "Good haul for just a few warriors. The Gurruks and Temrit ought to take notes."
Denor, meanwhile, peered at a small metallic device in the ground that was broadcasting a holographic sign. "What’s this?" he asked the Gurruk. "Is it some sort of sign?"
Ghurmain waited for Denor to actually read the sign before answering any stupid questions.
This homestead was razed by Kundaran of Klithar. For competitive rates in the slave market and periodic slaughter, think Kundaran of Klithar. That name again is Kundaran of Klithar.
As he finished reading the sign and committing that name to his list of people to kill, his eyes fell on the red remnants of the explosion hanging in the air, flickering in the light of the dying fires at the epicenter of the creater. Denor stared at it for a long moment, his expression returning to its trademark confusion.
“Go on then, ask me the question,” Ghurmain prompted, poking the boy with his spear for emphasis.
Denor tilted his head. "What’s the big glowing red thing in the sky mean?"
The Gurruk’s voice was low, heavy. "It’s an old custom. A remnant of the Andronian death bomb, it means one thing: Avenge us. The elder ignited his core and destroyed himself and his family. Rather than let them fall into enemy hands."
“I should probably avenge them,” Denor pointed out, as it sounded like the heroic thing to do.
The Gurruk regarded him with a raised eyebrow, his tone as neutral as one could expect from someone who regularly witnessed life's grim realities. "And will you?"
Denor’s eyes remained locked on the sign. "Eventually. There’s the evil sorcerer Litarn to deal with, but I helped kill General Stantych Drenda and Kirhak the Tyrant.” Denor paused for thought. “Then there’s Val Madoon still out there somewhere, and I don’t think Rysi the Andronian mercenary is my sworn enemy any more, but now there’s Kundaran of Klithar."
“How many enemies does one boy need?” The Gurruk asked, wide-eyed.
"Even if it takes the rest of my life," Denor vowed, "I swear it by Tamet I will kill them all."
Now, you might think a Gurruk, having seen the worst life has to offer—storm, steel, and sorcery—would be hard-pressed to look impressed. But Ghurmain, veteran of a thousand skirmishes and possessor of a remarkable poker face, had to admit he'd never seen such a determination on a man’s face let alone a boy’s. The Heart of Tamet beat strong within this boy, there was something different about him, even when compared to his other undying friend.
"Well," Ghurmain said, scratching his chin in that universal gesture of 'I wouldn’t do that, but I’m not you, am I?' "You’d best be after the attackers, then. That sign will bring the remaining Andronians soon enough."
Denor, who was by now halfway between despair and murderous intent, fixed Ghurmain with a look. "You’re right. First I must return to Charan and Gella, and then deal with New Titania."
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The Gurruk shook his head in that way people do when they've absolutely no intention of getting involved in someone else’s mess. "Dead Andronians? Not my problem. Besides, the Trunians leave us alone for the most part."
"They won’t forever, Ghurmain," Denor insisted, as though persistence alone might change a creature’s mind. "Helping us is helping you and helping me us helping—" Denor’s eyes glazed over as confusion took root at the end of the sentence.
Ghurmain grinned in that unsettling way only a Gurruk could. "Fine." He prowled about the crater, his eyes darting from one insignificant scrap to another—bits of cloth, shattered weapons, footprints in the mud—things that had eluded Denor's own sharp gaze, which was everything save the crater itself. After a while, strolled back to our hero, pointing upward.
"They have left the planet."
“Well that’s not much use!” the boy wailed, his immediate plans for vengeance thwarted.
"Well, I’ll be off then," said Ghurmain, already looking around like he expected something unfortunate to happen. "It’s not wise to be standing around when the rest of the Andronians show up to wonder why there’s a giant crater next to a Gurruk. You could try talking to them, but it’ll cost you time, and let’s face it, they won’t be much use against New Titania."
Denor shook his head. "You’re right, I’ll have to gather up the mercenaries and my father and Charan and Gella and—"
"A clutch of Andronians against a Trunian city? Good luck with that plan.”
The boy clenched his fists. “I have to do something.”
The Gurruk smiled. “When the time is right I shall come and find you. We shall deal with the Andronians together."
Denor failed to see how one more body was going to make that much of a difference, even if it was a shaman.
“Farewell and good hunting,” Ghurmain prompted when they boy didn’t respond, vanishing into treeline.
Denor set his eyes on the horizon, toward New Titania, where the Trunian invaders were making themselves entirely too comfortable. It was time to end this once and for all—or at least before lunch.
A moment passed as he stood by the crater, his stomach rumbling.
“Hey, that Gurruk took my venison with him!”
***
“The Gray Plains beckon you all!” bellowed the red-skinned Temrit somewhere near New Titania. He was a man who could likely wrestle an Aurox into submission without the illegal use of a steel chair. His sword was currently slicing through the frosty air in a glittering arc that seemed less about hitting something and more about announcing, ‘Yes, I am that sharp, thank you very much.’
Unfortunately, the howling blizzard decided that this was all a bit much and promptly stole his tirade, hurling it across the tundra as though the elements themselves found the speech a touch too dramatic. Still, his two listeners understood him.
One of them, the Trunian emissary, was busy conducting his own personal battle against the wind, which had clearly taken issue with his velvet cloak. Said cloak, festooned with gilded snakes and silver curls, was the sort of garment that practically screamed, ‘I have never set foot in a frozen wasteland before, and frankly, I resent it.’ He sneered at the giant Temrit mercenary, who, in his opinion, had taken it upon himself to give the sort of advice one might expect from someone who believed rocks were for eating. The Trunian raised a hand, poised to dismiss the whole affair with an aristocratic flick of his fingers.
And that’s when the cold hit. Cold so sharp it had opinions. The wind pierced his brocade, slipped past his armor, and wrapped itself around his pampered bones like an insult. The sneer wobbled, the gesture faltered, and with a noise somewhere between a huff and a sulk, the emissary turned on his heels and flounced off into the blizzard—though ‘flouncing’ in full armor is, admittedly, more of a clank-stomp affair.
Meanwhile, the second warrior, wrapped in a cloak that resembled a walking carpet, watched the emissary's departure with relief. The man, whose voice had the timbre of a war horn cutting through battlefield chaos, nodded sagely. “Tomorrow, Artos. Tomorrow, you lead us.”
Artos, the giant Temrit in question, was the sort of man who could make even the tallest person feel they'd somehow shrunk in the wash. He nodded back, though the Trunian, sizing him up with the calculating eye of a man accustomed to battle, gave no indication that he found this particularly intimidating. Both men stood in a silence that was almost reverent—at least, until the blizzard took the opportunity to eat the last of the man’s dignity, his figure vanishing into the swirling snow.
At last, Artos broke the quiet, he just couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Trunians...” He spat the word at the man. Then, with a dramatic shake of his head—causing the bronze bull horns on his helmet to neatly decapitate a passing snow whirlwind—he pointed northward with his sword. “Tomorrow, demons. Screaming. They will come for your precious New Titania, and then—well, it won’t be pretty. Beasts will be kicking your skulls about, and your settlement? They’ll raze it to the ground and claim vengeance for all those your stupid General Stantych has slain.”
The Trunian, not usually prone to surprise, blinked at the speech’s unexpected length. This was a man used to short, efficient sentences like ‘Kill them’ and ‘Pass the ale.’ Clearly, Artos had been saving this one up.
“Right, then. Tell me about how such a scattered people could oppose us. While I’m here, I command the garrison, not that silk-clad peacock from the core worlds. I’d rather know what’s coming before it kills us all.”
Artos, standing with the wide-legged stance of a man entirely too used to posing for dramatic effect, looked ready to vanish into the snowstorm, leaving the Trunians to their fate. His fiery beard steamed in the cold as he spoke once more, his breath forming clouds that the wind.
“Our elders remember the last time the Andronians truly rose up,” Artos said, his voice taking on that rare, singsong quality that suggested he was either telling an important tale or had just gotten into the mead early. “Picture a beast—one of those unsettling ones you’d never trust around sharp objects—sprinting through the wasteland with a bloodied spear, and absolutely no regard for common sense like food or water. Picture it conjuring forces in the thousands that lurk in the cold depths. It’s said that dark forces protect these messengers, these harbingers of fate that stir the hordes. Nobody’s ever seen them get eaten by wolves, or dragged off by a bear, or even buried in an avalanche. They are of Andron, but they are not Andronians. By destroying their oppressors, you have picked a fight with something else entirely.”
The Trunian, his eyebrows now dusted with snow and arched somewhere near his hairline, had never heard Artos speak like this before. Normally, the northerner’s conversational style was like his fighting—short, to the point, and prone to leaving bodies once it was over. But this was something else entirely. The Temrit was practically channeling one of those overly dramatic bards who wandered the capital, weaving tales that inevitably ended with a bit too much artistic flair. If Artos had been anyone else, the Trunian might’ve suspected he’d been practicing in front of a mirror.
But then again, maybe that was a good reason to worry. Because if the stoic Temrit was getting poetic about a Andronian ritual, it meant something bad was brewing. The Trunian had already learned the hard way that Andronians weren’t the sort of people to be easily defeated. The first skirmishes with them had been more like getting bitten by an unusually angry Aurox—unexpected, painful, and leaving you wondering what you’d done to deserve it. But now, a whole horde of them? Organized? That was a different matter entirely. The Temrit also seemed to be hinting at something beyond the Andronians, which was equally as worrying.
He glanced at Artos, who was still going on about how every creature, from those lurking in mountain caves to the ones chasing deer in the far south, was gathering. And not just for a chat, either. No, they’d be performing some horrifying ritual. After that, they’d transform into something like a pack of rabid polar wolves, which, as metaphors go, was about as comforting as you’d expect.
The Andronians were famous for their love of squabbling over practically anything—who got the biggest share of mead, whose axe was sharper, and whether or not wearing helmets with horns made you look ridiculous. It was practically a proverb that getting them to agree on anything was like herding cats. Drunk, heavily armed cats. So when people down in New Titania thought about the northern threat, they mostly pictured a people who would argue by burning their own villages down first and then think about maybe fighting the Trunian Star Empire later.
According to the strategists back in the home planet, the Temrit were on the verge of getting their act together, maybe even forming their own empire if someone sensible took charge. All they needed was a leader with a proper grudge against Trunians to point them in the right direction. But as the Trunian listened to Artos’s tale of Andronian unity—something that should never be allowed, by all rights—he felt an uneasy shift in his gut. The kind that told you whatever was coming, it wasn’t going to be anything remotely pleasant.
Artos was that sort of person, a unifier. If he was warning of the Andronians and things that were not Andronian, based on the Temrit intel, it was probably worth listening to.
He had just wrapped up his spirited account of what he rather enthusiastically referred to as ‘a horde of bloodthirsty demons.’ It had the ring of someone who'd spent a little too much time around dramatic storytellers, or perhaps just he liked his storytelling with extra blood and doom.
"You’ve trespassed on their planet for decades, razed their remaining villages for no good reason, even made craters of their homesteads—"
“That was the Klitharan mercenary, not us,” the Trunian pointed out.
“Well it was bad form, really—and you built that ridiculous city of yours right on top of one of their old capital!" Artos thundered, his voice about as subtle as an avalanche. "We Temrit have been scrapping with the Andronians for centuries. We know them the way a hunter knows an angry wolverine—that is to say, we know not to poke them unless we absolutely have to. And I’m telling you, some form of unity has already started. By tomorrow, the united clans will be coming down on your forward troops like a loose boulder with sharp teeth, and your fortress will be surrounded. Besieged. Completely buried under angry Andronians, and other more foul things."
He was still getting used to the Temrit’s accent. It grated on him like a rusty gate swinging in the wind, or perhaps the sound of a crow trying its best to speak Trunian.
"You, Tannis Ararch," Artos growled, "you saved my life and my honor as a warrior. Because of you, I managed to convince my people to bring troops down here to help you out—strike the horde in the mountain passes, hem them in, and smash them against your fortress walls. But it's up to you, the general of the Tarmantium border, known well by the Temrit, to deal with these..." Artos spat something into the snowstorm that sounded both wheezing and clanging, like a gunsmith being attacked by his own tools. "You’ve got to offer peace to the Temrit clans for the warriors you’ve killed before, and swear you’ll pay credits and tribute to everyone who’s going to fall under the walls of your fortress."
Tannis, who was used to this kind of thing by now, gave a slow nod. Artos wasn’t done yet. He stepped forward, his giant form blotting out most of the snowstorm behind him, and barked, “And we have to set out today!”
"No, Artos," Tannis shouted back, pulling his cloak tighter as the wind howled around them, "tomorrow!"
The snowstorm, perhaps sensing that it was the third wheel in this argument, whipped up even harder, and both men had to shout to make themselves heard over its increasingly dramatic roaring.
"Or do you want to come back and find beasts slurping among the ruins?" Artos bellowed, with all the gravitas of someone who very much expected you to know what that meant.
Tannis squinted through the snow. "By the holiest of Martos, lord of all that is holy, what sort of beasts do you speak of?"
"Corpse eaters, Tannis," Artos replied, “the sort to feast on the dead of New Titania.”
And with that, the conversation seemed done as far as Artos was concerned. "I’ll be in camp with my people when this cursed blizzard dies down," he snapped, already turning to vanish into the swirling white. His voice, however, echoed back, riding the wind with all the subtlety of a drumbeat. “Have everything ready for the march!”
Tannis, left to the mercy of the indifferent ice tornadoes, muttered a few choice curses that only the wind would hear, pulled his cape tighter again—it wasn’t doing much good at this point—and trudged back toward the camp where his troops waited.