Three herds of young Aurox, drawn by some irresistible aroma, were making a grand appearance—grand if you liked your grand appearances to involve enormous beasts surging through the fog like brown furry waves, necks raised, horns ready to make unsettling introductions. The air vibrated with their frantic mooing, the kind of noise that makes architectural structures wish they could grow wings. The squad’s shelter didn’t so much collapse as give up, folding in on itself like wet paper in a hurricane. A very hairy hurricane. A hairycane, if you will. Walls crumpled, tents were whipped about in fury, and the military encampment generally had a bad time of it.

Kosas was the first casualty of the madness, which surprised no one. He’d always been a bit accident-prone, even in situations that didn’t involve Aurox stampedes, so adding that to the mix meant that his chances of survival drastically went down. Surbit, his trusty but not particularly bright companion, had almost dragged him to safety, but then had one of his trademark changes of heart.

Good old Surbit and his mood swings, who could forget that time when… what do you mean we haven’t covered him prior to this?

With a wild scream, he let go of Kosas and brandished his sword, which looked about as effective against a stampeding herd as a toothpick against a tidal wave. A very hairy tidal wave. You could call it a hairywave, but that wouldn’t make much sense.

Through the chaos of the hairywave, Kosas turned to see the strangest of sights, a reindeer—ridden, of course, by none other than our intrepid hero, looking as if he was clinging on for ‘deer’ life. He was waving a bag rather enthusiastically and laughing. In that instant, Kosas screamed, the scream of a man who suddenly realizes he’s about to become part of a very unpleasant hoof-to-ground interaction.

And then, as often happens when one is trampled by a thousand pounds of angry ungulate, things went rather downhill for poor Kosas.

Denor, meanwhile, was having a great time of it. The reindeer had clearly decided that personal survival was top of the agenda and was doing its best to escape the hairy disaster stampeding behind. Over snowdrifts it flew, making a last-ditch attempt at aerial stardom by leaping through a collapsing tent. Unfortunately for Denor, it turns out that a panicked deer doesn't exactly handle like a fine-tuned skimmer (which, admittedly, Denor probably would have crashed anyway). One moment they were dodging dogs, the next, a Temrit warrior appeared with the brilliant idea to introduce the deer to his spear. Said introduction was brief and terminal, as the imbued energy ravaged the beast’s flank.

The deer reared, kicking the Temrit so hard that his helmet became a permanent and unwelcome part of his face. He sailed backwards, his remains bowling over a group of retreating bolt throwers. The deer tried to gallop onward, but with a spear wound in its side, Denor would have been quicker getting off and walking. He wasn’t given a choice, and found himself launched off the doomed animal mid-laugh. He disappeared into the tents just as bolts found the deer, bringing it crashing down in a final, tragic tangle of antlers and confusion.

The Aurox, still intoxicated by the gland of their former queen, tore through the camp. The Trunians and Temrit’s wary coalition was too busy being stomped, stabbed, or otherwise occupied to notice the boy giggling on the floor.

And then, from the north-east, a second herd approached, their leader toppling into the snow with a man clinging on for dear life. It went down in spectacular fashion, and the Andronian found himself pinned beneath its rather inconveniently large body.

“Damn deer!” Ledo roared from underneath the carcass, and extricated himself before the pack of Aurox were upon him.

The lead Aurox, a hulking brute as dark and weathered as an ancient oak tree, delicately prodded the mysterious bag with its hoof, as if to ask, "Is this lunch, or something worse?" A wounded deer, feebly trying to rise, found itself airborne thanks to a beast with absolutely no interest in forest diplomacy. For a brief, magical moment, the forces held their breath. Then a roar—an earth-shaking, sky-rattling roar—ripped through the air.

The lack of any Aurox queen to breed with didn’t sit well with the bulls, who had a dim view on trickery at the best of times.

The herd swept forward through the unfortunate Andronian and his poor deer like so much inconvenient debris. But rather than finish the job by flattening the Temrit, the Aurox collectively decided on a sudden change of direction. They slid sideways, skirting the tightly-packed warriors like a dance troupe whose choreography had gone awry. The Temrit, seeing this brown tide retreating, took it as a sign—possibly from Thormos, possibly from sheer dumb luck—that their sheer ‘bravery’ had scared off the herd.

For a few blissful moments, three hundred warriors watched the herd retreat, shields still up, eyes wide, knuckles white. Then, as one, they exhaled, shuddered, and lowered their weapons and energies. Their commander, feeling quite pleased with himself, was about to make some pompous remark when a chorus of wild stomping, blood-curdling screams, and the unmistakable sound of weaponry clashing behind him suggested that things were not, in fact, going as well as they had hoped.

Back at the burning tents, chaos was in full swing. Hoarse barking, Aurox skewered on spears, and general pandemonium signaled that Artos’ camp was experiencing more than a spot of bother.

Gella and Charan’s herd, not wanting to miss out on the fun, thundered into the camp moments later, trampling over the panicked mercenaries like an unwelcome second wave of disaster. In the heart of this pandemonium, the two Aurox herds collided—horns lowered, nostrils flaring, each determined to prove it was the more bullish of the lot. Denor’s scattered bag, now lost among the wreckage, might as well have been the starter’s flag in a race of horns, hooves, and utter chaos.

Aurox bulls reared and bellowed, their horns crashing together with the force of collapsing mountains. Blood flew, foam sprayed, and tents were reduced to shredded memories.

There were no sacred arts, special powers, or shouts of specific moves. It was all beastly savagery, and the only winning move was to get out of the way. Despite this clear and altogether sensible plan, the Trunian and Temrit coalition further enraged the beasts by firing at them.

Bolts found their marks, but the mighty beasts, driven by instinct and pride, ignored the meddling humans entirely. This was about rivals—fur, blood, and horn—and no amount of interference from an outsider would stop it. The passing bolts were just inconvenient scenery.

Nobody accused a rampaging Aurox of being an intelligent being. Generally if one were to accuse a rampage of anything they’d soon find themselves flattened instead of involved in a spirited debate.

Eventually, the Temrit, experienced mercs with nerves of iron (or at least, a reputation to uphold) pulled the rest of the Trunians together. Forming a steel ring around the camp’s center, they began to pick off the Aurox with military efficiency. Bolts flew, axes spun, and spears jabbed until the proud roars of the Aurox turned to pitiful groans. The ground, once white with snow, was now red with blood. Since this ground belonged to Andron VII, it was quite used to suddenly turning crimson.

They pushed forward in deliberate, calculated steps, driving the remaining Aurox out of the camp. The battle wasn’t won yet—but the Temrit, at least, had stopped being trampled.

The initial chaos ebbed as the Aurox, having come to the rather sensible conclusion that there was absolutely no prize worth this much trouble, began to calm down. The most excitable and headstrong bulls were now either trampled, speared, or in a particularly bad mood, while the younger, less enthusiastic ones suddenly noticed something they’d missed in all the excitement: two-legged beings. Beings with sharp things, pointy things, and bitey things in the form of crackling energy. The overpowering scent of blood, thick in the air like some nightmarish perfume, began to drown out whatever madness had driven them here in the first place. Survival instincts kicked in, and soon the wounded and fearful were bolting through the gaps between the bolts.

Before long, the herds had merged in a singular stampede of retreat, crashing out of the battlefield and off into the hills. Some warriors charged after the retreating Aurox, clearly under the impression they hadn’t had enough excitement for one day, while others set about the unfortunate task of finishing off the wounded—both Aurox and comrades alike—while trying to wrangle some order from the chaos that was rapidly turning into a full-blown disaster. Black smoke curled from the corners of the camp in an attempt to join in with the general chaos, blending ominously with the shouted orders, the howls of dogs, and the crackle of burning tents. Somewhere amidst this cacophony, it dawned on the Temrit that there was yet another problem lurking in their camp.

Surbit was the first to notice this new calamity. Dragging an unconscious bolt thrower who looked like he'd had an unfortunate run-in with something large and hoofed, he muttered something that was probably not a prayer and dropped the poor fellow by one of the fires.

Circling the bodies of fallen warriors, he spotted a headless corpse. This wasn’t an ordinary, run-of-the-mill decapitation; no, this had the finesse of someone who knew exactly where to swing a blade. A helmet with horns lay in a pool of blood, next to a head that had seen better days. Its eye sockets, pale and empty, seemed to be glaring at Surbit in a way that suggested, “You’re next if you don’t figure this out.”

Just then, a nearby tent started to smolder, its flaps billowing as if it were taking deep, fiery breaths. A sled tipped over, flames licking greedily at its wood. Behind him, a sudden thud and hoarse breathing alerted Surbit to more trouble. A large dog, lean and scarred, appeared like a nightmare on four legs, snarling briefly before vanishing behind the tent. There came a dull thud, followed by a yelp that suggested the dog had met something it hadn’t been expecting. As the tent collapsed into a pile of fiery canvas, Surbit squinted through the smoke. And that’s when he saw him.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

He was a figure out of nightmares—wild eyes, glowing energies, his body smeared with blue as if he'd taken a dip in war paint and decided not to bother rinsing off. His eyes glinted with the madness of someone who found the whole thing terribly funny. With a sweep of his arm and a crackle of energy, he struck terror into the hearts of the watching Trunian soldiers, who—being pragmatic folk—immediately recognized Death when they saw him. Surbit fell to his knees, clutching his chest in dramatic fashion. His hands gripped his axe like it might offer some comfort in his final moments, but his fading vision caught only the glare of a bolt as it sank into his body past his meagre shielding.

The figure, hand trembling slightly in the heat, let his arm drop. In two strides, Ledo was upon Surbit, kicking him onto his back with all the grace of someone kicking a broken door, yanking an axe from his chest, and, with a flourish that suggested he had done this sort of thing far too often, brought it down again. Surbit’s head rolled away, coming to rest next to his fallen comrades.

At that moment, the Temrit centurion appeared, taking one look at the scene and uttering the name of the one being who might explain all of this: “Martos!”

Ledo, now drenched in blood, soot, and war paint, charged at him like a storm given human form. The centurion, no stranger to fear but well-practiced at suppressing it, raised his shield and readied his sword with a roar of his own. This was a warrior seasoned by countless fights—and now, face-to-face with the wild-eyed, axe-wielding Andronian man, he knew it was time to see just how seasoned he truly was.

The centurion had been in enough scrapes to know the difference between a fighter and someone completely off their rocker, and it didn’t take him long to decide which category Ledo fell into. He saw his wide swing, and instinct took over. He lunged low and to the left, dropping to one knee and slicing at his legs. After all, he was just a man, even if he was a Andronian, and he had bested worse odds before. The air shimmered with energy, making everything wobble like jelly, but his confidence held steady.

In any sensible fight, this would have been the moment he’d halt his axe, dodge the strike, maybe even try something clever. But that was the thing: Ledo had long since discarded anything resembling “sensible.” His eyes, cold and empty as the snow beneath them, were already fixed on some poor fool rushing to join the fray, and the axe in his hands? Well, it seemed to have other ideas.

Without hesitation, the weapon arced through the air, straight towards the centurion’s head. He wasn’t fighting to survive—no, he was fighting like someone who had already made peace with Death and was just here to show everyone else the way. The axe didn’t care about survival either, or even about strategy. Even the shield bubble of the centurion was something it appeared entirely indifferent towards. It crashed through the helmet, splitting skull and ending the centurion’s part in the story rather abruptly.

Of course, the body, not getting the memo right away, tried its best to finish the job. His piercer left its sheath, the arm twitching from muscle memory as if it still had some business to attend to, and delivered a strike through the shielding to land a glancing blow against Ledo’s knee. He stumbled, but was back on his feet in an instant, growling like a cornered animal.

“Damn piercer,” the Andronian grumbled, chastising himself for not knowing better. Of course a centurion would have a piercer on him.

Any other axe would’ve been sent flying at this point, but Ledo’s grip was iron, or perhaps more accurately, madness. The weapon still clutched absurdly tight, hanging limp as he staggered toward his next victim. The young mercenary, fumbling with his flickering bolt in his palm, caught sight of this one-man apocalypse and his soul, quite understandably, decided that now was a good time to leave the building.

“This is Death!” his mind screamed, and his hands—keen to follow the same logic—released the bolt, which shot harmlessly wide. Ledo’s good hand rose and signalled to his own throat in a universal gesture of ‘yeah, you’re dead very soon’, and the soldier didn’t wait to see what came next. His legs took off before his brain could catch up, leaving the crazed Andronian standing, barely, amidst the growing wreckage. He collapsed moments later, a broken, blood-stained figure finally succumbing to exhaustion.

That was how Charan found him, removing all potential suspense as to whether Ledo survived this latest brush with death. The two warriors escaped on the back of one of the few remaining reindeers, a remaindeer if you will, and retreated back to the hideout.

When a handful of warriors finally found the courage to approach, dragging a pale, reluctant bolt thrower with them, all they found were ashes, shattered helmets, and bodies in various uncomfortable positions. The expressions of the dead suggested they’d seen things best left unmentioned.

***

Meanwhile, on the far side of camp, all was chaos. Rampaging Aurox, flames licking at everything in sight, and Denor—because where there was chaos, there was Denor. Sword in one hand, bloody knife in the other, the young Andronian darted through the camp like a particularly murderous shadow. Tents collapsed in his wake, sleighs went up in flames, and the Temrit, bless them, had no idea what hit them. Those unlucky enough to cross paths with him found themselves distinctly horizontal, often with an unpleasantly final thud.

Rumors of the attack spread slowly, as rumors often do when everyone is too busy trying not to die. Denor, though, was no longer in stealth mode. Openly stalking through the wreckage, his wild eyes and obvious wounds had a certain...deterrent effect. The Temrit, not being complete fools, realized he was trouble and hunted him down with all the enthusiasm of people trying to catch a particularly rabid wolf. He fled deeper into the camp, until at last, he was cornered by the bolt throwers.

Denor, wounded and barely able to stand, turned to face his pursuers one last time. Behind him, a forest of devastation and impaled beasts; in front, a wall of shields and bristling weaponry.

Denor smiled and hurled the bloodied knife at the oncoming warriors. It struck a shield with all the force of a weary sigh, falling uselessly into the snow. And with that, the fight, like so many things that day, was over.

“Denor!” Gella’s voice tore through the smoke and chaos with the sort of strength that would make mountains think twice before standing in her way. “Go! Get to the mountains! Tamet smiles upon us today. Run!”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Denor replied, facing off against whatever remained of the Trunian and Temrit forces.

Gella, remembering that she was distinctly mortal, took off with the rest before the bolts could find their mark.

A Temrit commander reached the head of the group, and strode toward Denor, who showed no signs of resisting them since tossing the knife their way.

He smiled at the group in an unnerving manner, who had decided to wait patiently for support from the higher ups before dealing with such a strange occurrence.

The commander was a great slab of a being, his eyes—dark, ancient pits that seemed to resent the very concept of blinking—bore down on Denor with all the warmth of a glacier deciding it really didn’t like you.

"You," the Temrit rumbled, and the word sounded like a landslide having a bad day, "are the one who brought the Aurox upon us?"

Denor scratched his chin thoughtfully, which suggested that the whole Aurox situation might’ve slipped his mind. "I might have, yes," he said, in a tone that one might use when admitting to accidentally misplacing a portable heater. "Or maybe it was... the wind!"

The commander’s face tightened, the kind of tightening that usually preceded something very bad happening. "You," he growled again, each word weighed down with the heavy threat of consequences, "are aware of the repercussions?"

Denor brightened, as though he'd been waiting for that very question. "Oh, definitely," he grinned, like a man who’d just discovered that he'd won first prize in a contest he didn’t enter. "I've heard they’re absolutely dreadful. Can I go now before they happen?"

The Temrit, whose patience had already been run through a wringer and was now hanging on the line like a pair of old underpants, seemed momentarily at a loss. Here stood an enemy, but one entirely devoid of the appropriate sense of doom. "Why," the commander demanded, his voice now climbing toward exasperation, "do you not fear us?"

Denor cocked his head, as though this was a novel idea. "I’m sure whatever you plan to do is terrible," he mused, "but I’ll live. Plus every second you waste talking to me means my friends get to escape."

The commander did not appear to be impressed by this. "Guards! Form a pursuit force!” He turned back to the boy then. “You will pay for this insolence," he snapped, the words dripping with malice, then turned and signalled his men to advance.

"Sure, sure," Denor replied, giving a casual wave that suggested the conversation had drifted into the realm of 'not his problem.' "I’ll keep paying the price and you’ll keep losing soldiers and then eventually there will be no soldiers left. It’s the perfect plan!”

The commander stopped mid-stride, his complexion now edging toward a rather attractive shade of apoplectic purple. “What do you mean by this?”

Denor shrugged. “You can kill me all you want, I’ll just keep coming back. Tamet wills it, or something.”

He turned back slowly, eyes blazing with the kind of fury that could set a small city on fire. "You," he hissed, voice as low and dangerous as a snake who could inexplicably speak for the purposes of a poor analogy, "are the single most aggravating creature I have ever met."

Denor beamed. “Just wait until you see my next trick!”

The commander, who had fought wars, defeated beasts, and stared down foes whose names caused entire solar systems to quiver, was now coming to the profound realization that none of that had prepared him for Denor. "You," he said, pronouncing each word as if it were a small dagger, "will regret this."

Denor casually twirled a strand of hair around his finger, the picture of nonchalance. "In the here and now? Sure, it’ll hurt a little even with the special herbs. Give it a day. I’ll probably forget all about it.”

The commander's fury was now reaching the limits of what his own body could safely contain as his mind rifled through the playbook for the next villainous line. "You will suffer," he bellowed, his voice cracking in places from sheer rage.

Denor gave a mock gasp, his eyes wide with exaggerated terror. "Not the suffering! Anything but that!" He clutched his chest in an overdone pantomime of dread. "Oh nooo, whatever will I do?"

The Temrit blinked slowly, the weariness of the entire universe now settling on his broad shoulders. He had fought titanic battles. He had conquered planets. And now he was stuck trying to have a serious conversation with... this.

"You," he finally whispered, his voice hoarse from shouting, "are a disgrace to your species."

Denor frowned thoughtfully. "You’re probably right, most people from my species tended to think the same way. But then you kept trying to kill them all, so someone had to stop you."

The commander’s rage faltered. The boy had gone from nonchalant to deadly serious in a single sentence. There was something not quite right about this whole exchange.

"Stop us?" The Temrit repeated, as if Denor had just suggested playing tag during a genocide. "You plan to stop us?"

Denor nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yeah! You’re the bad guy, I’m the hero. Classic stuff. I’ll use my power and rid the planet of you prople. I’m only going to get stronger as time goes by."

The commander stared for a long, hard moment, a man realizing that all of his life’s battles had not prepared him for this sort of idiocy. Without a word, and for his own sanity, he turned and marched away, leaving Denor standing there with a grin so wide it threatened to swallow his face.

"Hey, come back!" Denor called after him cheerfully. "I think I’m really getting the hang of this hero business!"

The Trunian forces advanced on Denor, who had also really got the hang of graduating from hero to corpse in record time.

***

When night finally settled, thick and pitch-black, Denor moved like a ghost, slipping between the fires and bodies. He paused just long enough to retrieve his training sword from the snow before disappearing into the wasteland, as if swallowed by the darkness itself.

He’d be back, and they’d all be very confused.