Chapter 40

The killer sits next to you

Cities State Alliance

There was a bloody smell of shit in the air. Droppings and carcasses of slaughtered animals mingled with the deep, muddy soil of those poorly felled paths.

Kostocles brought a hand to his nose, to avoid smelling that stench, which could have masked even the pungent odor of the Kalos Valar Far celebration. And when the comparison was with a fertility festival, it was not hard to understand how unflattering it was.

Trying to find a way not to give that smell a second thought, he felt a sharp pain penetrate his right front hoof. The one he had injured in battle just not too long ago.

"Fuck," Kostocles muttered through clenched teeth. A prayer that none of his team had heard him was invoked. How many times had he been told to wear metal hoof reinforcements? Far better to endure a modicum of pain than to cage what little free space of his body remained. As if walking in that fucking Union wasn't punishment enough. With those stupid narrow towns, and the even more stifling streets. The barbarians might well find it pleasant to walk glued to each other, their breath caressing their necks and their genitals grazing their asses, but he found it absolutely inconceivable.

And even outside the city, the story remained the same. Mountains and hills, tracks cut down and roads only rarely spacious enough for someone his size. And the forests. Those damn forests. It seemed every town had one nearby, teeming with monsters, stench and who knows what else.

"Is something bothering you Kostocles? You've had a frown on your face for a while now." Creterus had moved closer, and the space was already over. Two glorious soldiers of the Salavin tribe reduced to acting as night watchmen in a country forgotten by the Great Heaven, where noble riding was prevented by totally inadequate geographical conditions.

"I'm just tired, that's all." Lied Kostocles. He wanted to shout at him that just staying in that place for a few more minutes angered him as few things had rarely done his life. He yearned to return to the Great Plains, to teach his children the noble art of archery and respect for nature, to wear the colorful, silky garments woven by his wife, not those gray, dull suits of armor that now seemed to have affected his mood with their lack of creativity. "I miss my land. I miss my family. I miss the life I used to live and love."

"Our watch is almost over. You'll see that when you have dinner in front of you, you'll feel better." Creterus had that optimism typical of youth, which Kostocles had long since forgotten. The slop that awaited them could hardly have lifted his spirits, but he preferred not to disappoint one of his few remaining friends with an unpleasant grunt. "Besides," Creterus continued, with that smile as golden as hay, "we're coming back home. The war is finally over. The day after tomorrow we will rejoin the main army and then we can finally put this bad experience behind us."

There was truth in what he said. Even for someone who was not used to seeing the half-full jug like Kostocles, it was impossible to deny that their ordeals were coming to an end.

"I only wish Satrap Tiribazus would have exempted us from our duties for once." Nevertheless, finding something to complain about came as natural to him as breathing. "No one would dare approach the camp, even the most ferocious beasts keep away from large groups like ours."

The messy remains of some now unrecognizable creature were already on the verge of being absorbed into the earth. Clouds of flies and other insects swarmed around the now stripped bones to gather what little flesh still remained. Kostocles didn't even need to stoop to take a closer look to know that they had been lying there for days in the weather.

"Be careful, Kostocles." A slimy, muffled voice drew his attention from behind. "All this self-confidence and the Dark Knight could just as easily blow your head off." Aesion gave him sneering glances. So young, and so painfully unbearable. Only a few winters older than his eldest son, and far more talented than the old centaur. That would have been more than enough reason to hate him. But the fact that he was also an asshole with a capital A made any guilt Kostocles might have felt disappear.

"I'm not afraid of some biped with a baby sword." In fact, the very idea of meeting the Dark Knight scared the shit out of him. But he could hardly let Aesion have even the slightest suspicion. "I remind you that the last time he was spotted, General Arsames managed to fend him off. The same General Arsames who is now at our camp. Together with his honor guard this time."

The problem was that it would take at least a couple of minutes from their position to get to that camp. And for someone who had managed to fight one of the Immortals, getting rid of their little group would have been all too easy.

"Don't worry. If it scares you, I'll take care of getting us all to safety," a smug expression was painted on Aesion's face, the spear pointed at him. There was a reason Kostocles preferred the bow, it left more free space between him and his opponents.

"I'm lucky, then." 'To have you acting as bait for me,' the older centaur avoided adding. Kostocles would have gladly let the young men jump into the fray, while he kept his distance. And fled, preferably.

"Let's not waste any more time," their team leader, Idomas, had observed that little exchange, not giving it much thought. But now something was disturbing him. The one good eye he had kept squinting and opening, in a lascivious motion. "Didn't you notice anything?" He lowered the tone of his voice, as if he realized he was being watched.

Kostocles and the other two quieted down. The evening wind caressed the foliage, the rustling of the leaves sang a subdued melody. The rustling of the trees was a great silence, with a few rare snaps. High in the sky, the stars were parsimonious in bestowing their light, the moon the only one generous enough to grant a modicum of grace by lighting their path.

Creterus opened his mouth, evidently about to say something, but nothing came from him. Instead, he turned in the direction of Idomas, who had lowered himself to check the ground for some trace.

The elderly foreman had a worried expression on his face, his long gray beard swaying to the rhythm of the small noises that broke the calm of nature. "Someone has been here," he passed a couple of stones he had picked up between his fingers, inspecting them with the care with which a skilled craftsman observed the final fruit of his labors. "Three... Maybe four? But I don't see anyone." He stood up, pointing his gaze towards the darkest part of the forest, his eye shining with a white light. "Animals, sure. But what else?"

"Something bothering you, boss?" Kostocles was beginning to find that stillness unnerving. A drop of sweat traced a path from his forehead to die on his chin. He glanced quickly at his two companions, who seemed to share the same feelings as him. "If there is anything we can do, tell us. Do you want us to go back to the camp to give notice of any intruders?"

"I don't want to alarm the others unnecessarily, yet I don't think we are alone in this place." The quiver on Kostocles' back grew heavier. Just when he would have thought he could put it to rest for a long time, here came the opportunity to use it again without even giving him time to prepare. "However, returning to the camp would be the wisest choice." Fortunately, it did not take long to convince Idomas to leave that place.

By now Kostocles had the strange feeling of being watched. He was the ranger, but he sensed eyes that kept watching his every move, his every slightest emotion.

"Well, if you really want to, we may as well retire. Although I would have no problem showing possible intruders what the price would be for daring to disturb the proud army of the King of Kings," Aesion huffed, trying to look bigger than he was. On another occasion Kostocles would have laughed at such a phony attitude, but part of him, perhaps not quite gone, understood how important it could be to first convince oneself of being brave, before all others.

"Don't worry," Creterus consoled him with a friendly and serene laugh. "You'll get another chance to show your skills. I am sure General Arsames will soon choose you as the new cadet of his honor guard. It would be impossible not to notice your talent." These words uttered by others would have sounded like mocking, spoken by Creterus were deeply sincere. It was impossible to hate the man.

"Come on then..." Idomas could not complete the sentence. A muffled sound, similar to a low moan but so painfully pleading, made its way into their ears. Kostocles implored all the gods, kings and saints he knew to persuade the foreman to desist from checking what it was all about.

"What was that?"

"Nothing to be afraid of."

"Let's go and see, but quietly." Said Idomas, the short sword already gripped. Even if Kostocles had been a religious devotee before, he would have changed his mind now anyway. "Creterus, you go back. Kostocles, Aesion, our goal is not to be discovered. If there is anything down there, we will avoid engaging in battle. Are we clear?"

A soldier could do nothing but follow orders. Kostocles found himself wondering why he had ended up in that place populated by barbarians, far from his family. And for what? Just because his tribe lived on the border did not mean they were experts in mapping Union territory.

But these were the orders of the King of Kings. And the orders of the King of Kings were absolute.

They approached, careful not to make any noise, using all the skills at their disposal to conceal their presence.

Kostocles forced himself to stifle all fears. The shadows that danced in the darkness were only a game of the mind, the green changing hue from one moment to the next, expanding in that total absence of light. What lurked at the sides of his vision were illusions, fauns and sprites playing with his senses, drawing amusement from his delusions.

"Damn, what is this?" What unfolded before them was a pitiful spectacle. A deer was emitting stifled cries, its lower body reduced to a shapeless pulp, its antlers joined to a face crushed and half destroyed. Part of the brain was exposed to the cold. The very fact that the animal was still alive was a miracle, or a cruel mockery.

Kostocles had killed many animals in the course of his life. He had made them the prey of his hunting trips, but had always respected their role in the food chain. What he took with effort and commitment was not something merely to be destroyed, but to be celebrated and thanked for the gifts it offered. Killing was done because there was a reason, because rules were established. A life was taken because it allowed another to continue its course. But this? There was nothing to justify what he was seeing except a macabre sense of humor.

Idomas drew a knife and approached the carcass. "Good, good," whispering gentle words, he carved a clean cut into the deer's neck, putting it out of its misery. He whispered a prayer and tried, not with great results, to restore some semblance of decency to the corpse. "We must go back at once. Whatever did this slaughter, it is still near. Kostocles...," he paused. "Where is Aesion?"

Kostocles turned sharply, only darkness stretching for meters. An icy wind blew across his back, tickling an unspeakable tremor that stopped at the back of his neck. "I thought he was following us. I don't... I don't understand." Aesion was right behind him, until seconds before. He was certain of it, yes. Or was it just something he'd told himself to persuade himself not to look back?

"Fuck." He had never seen his foreman lose his temper. But the rarity of the occasion was certainly not something to celebrate. "Do you think he's still alive?"

"No." Maybe he was, and right now he was desperately begging for their help, struggling to free himself from a mysterious force that had imprisoned him. With tears in his eyes he was begging whoever the assailant was to let him live. Such a vivid image. "We cannot run the risk of ending up like him." Kostocles knew that if the roles were reversed, Aesion would have done the same. It didn't make it any easier.

"Let's go." Idomas snapped. Being a leader also meant being able to make the most difficult decisions. Kostocles did not judge him for that coldness. He didn't judge him for not stopping to check better. The satrap's orders dictated that, in case of danger, the priority was to return to base camp as soon as possible.

And the satrap's orders were absolute.

"Wait, what's that?" A gurgle. Kostocles heard it booming in his head, with the same intensity as an infernal charge. Noises of broken branches and uprooted plants rose with a roaring screech to the starry sky, heralding the arrival of something terrible. Something that would make fear itself a second skin to be flaunted and displayed. Darkness was a cloak that covered part of his body, leaving only a row of immaculate teeth and two empty eyeballs from which glowing magma leaked.

"Go!" Shouted Idomas. Placing himself between him and the creature, the silver of his spearhead the only discernible light in that murky madness. A roar, composed of the wails of countless victims and as many sins demanding justice, rang out like the cursed gong of an hellish service marking the beginning of the celebration.

Kostocles grasped his bow and threw it to the ground. He did the same with the quiver. He stripped off his armor until his body was naked. And then he began to run.

He did not care to be called a coward. He did not care if his comrades would be butchered. He did not care if they would conquer the base camp. If they assassinated the satrap. The only important thing was to survive. To reunite with his wife, to see his children again, to hearten his old parents.

He kept on running, letting every voice accusing him of his weaknesses go unheeded, not thinking about Aesion's impaled body staring back at him from those empty eye sockets, past the detached remains of Creterus scattered on the ground, refusing to imagine what Idomas was going through.

Only surviving. That was all that mattered. He did not do it out of mere selfishness. He did it to give others a chance. To warn them. Yes. He was not a coward. The greatest altruism required the greatest sacrifice.

'I'm almost there.'

The campfires were growing sharper. The crackle of sparks cleaved the darkness. Heedless of the stones and splinters hitting his hooves, heedless of the pain and exhaustion, Kostocles ran as he had never done before.

But the more he ran, the further away his goal became. The centaur took one step, and he moved two steps further away. He took two, and it receded by four. Something cold had grabbed one of his back legs and was pushing it further and further towards him. An icy crunch of bones emitted a squeak that pierced the eardrums.

'No...'

He no longer even had the strength to despair. He watched his body being dragged deeper and deeper, as if he had been a third-party spectator uninvolved in the affair. From afar. So far away.

Kostocles closed his eyes. Nothingness was all he could see. And the nothingness was absolute.

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A pinch of salt, a handful of pepper, carrots, celery and... onions? Where were the onions?

"Oi, boy. Where are the onions?" Bairam was sure he had placed them back on the table with the other ingredients, but now he could no longer find them. How was he going to prepare soup for the soldiers without onions? They were the ones that imparted most of the flavor.

"We had to use them to make omelets, don't you remember?" The assistant was right. You realize you've become old when even the most basic things escape you.

"Don't we have any more? Satrap Tiribazus is crazy about them. It would be a shame to disappoint him and the other soldiers." For a cook, there was nothing more gratifying than knowing that even a great lord appreciated his art. He liked Tiribazus, unlike other lords Bairam had worked for in the past he understood the needs that came with their condition and was happy to adapt to the resources they had.

"We can ask one of the priests to make some. They are in the satrap's tent. It shouldn't take long."

Bairam scratched his head, his fingers scratching at the headset he wore. Of his long and shining gray hair there was much to be proud of, but that was no reason enough to let it end up as food for the soldiers.

"If we have no alternative… Don't let them use too low a level of magic, or the end result will be poor." Or rather, they might as well have thrown it in the trash. Once, when he was still young and inexperienced, he had foolishly believed that by adding spices and cooking them properly, even the products of lower tier magic would be edible. The end result was even worse than leaving them in their natural state. "Remember, we are professionals! The fact that we are miles away from our kitchens does not mean that we should not do our best! The very future of the Great Plains depends on our work!"

This was not an exaggeration, or at least he did not think it was. Bairam was aware that no history book would mention his name or that of his team members, nor would legends be told about the time he had fed entire platoons with only a ladle and a few vegetables. And with what results! Many soldiers would have preferred to continue the war, rather than return home to eat the sloppy meals their wives prepared.

"It will be done, Chief Bairam!" The young colt gave a military salute, the corps of cooks of His Highness the King of Kings was one of the most prestigious divisions in the entire army, and walked out of the tent with a disruptive charge that would not have been disfigured by that displayed by the proud cavalry corps during the conquest of the Western Plains.

"I trust you, boy!" Although the ears could not hear him, Bairam was sure the heart could. And that was the important thing.

The problem was that not many understood how important his work was, underestimating how a full and happy stomach could also bring wonders to the battlefield. But satrap Tiribazus knew this, and had praised Bairam countless times, even awarding him a small silver medal that he now proudly displayed on his uniform. That was why he liked the satrap. For this, and for the generous pay he bestowed. The problem was that not many understood how important it was to reward the artist for the right work!

"Shila, could you help me while we wait?" He turned to another of the assistants, intent on slicing a cabbage so green to be dazzling. Only the freshest food for the troops! "In addition to the soup and omelets, I was thinking of making some bread with our black flour, but the fire needs to be revived, if you know what I mean." Sometimes Bairam wondered if he wasn't being too demanding and making them work too hard, but the look of gratitude with which they answered him was enough to drive away those absurd thoughts

The young girl, awake like all of them since dawn, did not utter a single moan as she made her way to the small bakery they had set up.

She pulled out a small container containing gaseous liquid, inside of which tier zero magic had been applied to create small fiery sparks, which in reaction with the gas contained within created a small flame. The principle used was the same as that used to light the lamps in many homes on the Great Plains, developed by the imperial research corps. The King of Kings' engineers, however, had not yet managed to complete the design to give it a satisfactory use.

"There you go." Shila folded the instrument into one of the pockets of the chef's jacket she wore, satisfied. "These firelighters are very useful, even if they drain right away. Is the intensity enough now, head chef?"

Bairam cast a glance, feeling the heat teasing his face. "I'd say it's perfect." Perhaps he would have preferred the temperature a few half degrees higher, but that would not have been fair to demand. Besides, they were already at each other's throats. "Gentlemen, we must hurry. In an hour at most we should be ready to go on stage." The remaining assistants nodded, suggesting that there was no need for further orders. Everyone resumed their tasks, with even more diligence if possible.

After a good dozen minutes, everything seemed to be ready to be brought to the table. Only one thing was missing.

"Where is the boy I sent to request the onions?" It was true that the tents used as kitchens were located in the easternmost part of the camp, but that delay was unnatural. Even if one proceeded at a snail's pace, stopping to contemplate the stars and satisfy the verve of an aspiring poet, taking the utmost care not to lose sight of even the smallest stone on the road, the journey could not have taken more than five or six minutes. "I can't let the soup stay on the fire for more than another couple of minutes." Bairam appreciated food piping hot, but to everything there was a limit.

"Perhaps the priests were busy with other tasks and could not accommodate the request," Shila speculated. The other assistants seemed to share her opinion. "In that case, he might have headed for the supply stores, to check if any were left over."

"Could be. But even then it would be taking far too long." Bairam appreciated the initiative, yet he was quite sure that all the supplies had been carefully sorted and distributed according to daily needs. "Perhaps it would be better to go and check. Shila, come with me. The rest of you, finish with the preparations." After giving final instructions, the head chef and his assistant exited the tent. A whistling wind was the only thing that did not let the absolute silence welcome them.

They did not even have time to take two steps, that something strange became evident.

"Where are the guards? I was pretty sure there were a couple of them. Yet, it seems to me that there is no one around." For Bairam, that lack of security was unnerving. Not so much because he was attached to his life nor did he fear that someone might attack them in that remote place, but the mere idea of some wild beast raiding the kitchens and throwing away hours of hard-earned work was all too hard to bear.

"They must have gone loitering somewhere. Master Bairam, don't take it so hard. We haven't had a moment's respite since we arrived in the Union. It's not that big a deal."

"I suppose you're right." Normally, the head-chef would have reported to the satrap or General Arsames about the matter, but his assistant's words were enough to dissuade him. "Let's say I'll turn a blind eye just this once. But as soon as we see them for the distribution of the ration we will try to resolve this negligence. If anything should happen, we too may incur the fury of the satrap for not pointing out the situation."

Bairam led the way, although they did not have to travel very far. The supply depot was a large tent where the wagons with the supplies had been stored as neatly as possible, positioned not too far from where they currently stood.

"Okay, this is unacceptable." Again no sign of a guard. "I can accept a lack of concern for us cooks. But how could our soldiers have left our supplies to the elements of nature? If some natural phenomenon should occur that requires the wagons to be moved? Or if some magical beast, attracted by the smell were to come and make a run for it?" By now the irritation had gone through the roof. Not to warn Satrap Tiribazus would have been impossible. "I'm not in the habit of snitching, but there's no excuse this time."

"It is strange. I could have sworn that after lunch, when I came to return the leftovers to their place, there were a large number of soldiers in the vicinity." Shila scratched her chin, thoughtful. "That not a single one of them was left... Perhaps something happened that required their presence?"

"What could possibly have happened?" Mumbled Bairam skeptically. "Ever since we arrived in the Union, we haven't had even the slightest setback. No, this is sheer superficiality, I tell you, my dear girl." He was not a soldier, but after years in the army, even a layman like him realized that most of the most egregious mistakes could have been avoided by using only a modicum of common sense. But finding unpredictable reasons in defeat was far easier to accept.

"Perhaps you are right, Master Bairam." The young woman still did not seem entirely convinced. Doubtful, she kept looking around for something undefined. "There aren't even any lights on inside the warehouse."

"My girl, you're starting to get paranoid. Let's go inside before you start doubting my existence as well. I must remind you that we have no time to waste." And to reiterate the point, he crossed the threshold of the warehouse.

It didn't take him long to find the wagons. But of the assistant, no trace.

"That he has already returned to the main tent?" Bairam had the feeling they had only wasted time. Also, as he feared, not even the shadow of an onion. The wagons, at least, seemed to be in perfect condition.

"Head cook," Shila called to him, a note of concern in her voice. "Didn't you also touch something strange?"

Indeed, Bairam's hooves had come into contact with a viscous liquid ever since they had entered. But the poor lighting and little room to lower themselves had made it impossible to check more carefully.

'Could it be that...'

A terrible doubt assailed him.

"Shila," he called with as much breath as he could muster. "Check that the bottles of oil given to us by the city of Veneria are still in good condition! If they had fallen on the ground it would be a disaster!" They were by far the most valuable gift they had received during their visits to the Union. If that very special condiment had been wasted in such a stupid way, Bairam would never have forgiven himself.

"They are all in place, Master Bairam." Fortunately, the worst had been avoided.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the cook and his assistant were able to return to the kitchens.

"But what was that strange liquid?" Shila asked, her face still worried.

"Must have been the needs of some little animal sneaking in there," Bairam replied disgustedly. "Let's remember to clean our hooves before we go in. Introducing germs in our sacred workplace would be a grave sin."

"Will the other assistant really have returned to the main tent?"

"If not, I hope for his sake he has a good reason for being gone." Only a big headache had he gotten from that business. Right at the end of the day. "Maybe he'll have gone to hang out with the guards. This is all my fault, I was too lascivious with you assistants. I will have to review your training. But I'll provide as soon as you can say…"

"Master Bairam," Shila had ducked right near the entrance, her fingers touching a reddish liquid that wet the ground. Had someone dropped one of his prized bottles of red wine? At the mere thought Bairam felt faint. "This is blood."

"Blood?" He asked.

"No doubt about it."

And, in a single instant, everything began to make sense. The various pieces of the mosaic joined together to form a complete figure.

"Run!"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A voice from inside the tent stopped them. It made the blood run cold in their veins, and brought down any will to resist that they had.

Bairam saw Shila on the verge of collapse. What had previously been a young woman full of vitality was now about to break like the most withered of streams. Before he could even try to support her, he felt something sharp and pointed tickle his back. A mechanical sound, similar to the noise of wagon wheels produced when they got caught in some crack in the ground, made its way through the silence.

The two centaurs, too frightened to even think of turning around, accepted that unorthodox invitation to enter. When they saw the now lifeless bodies of the other attendants, lying with a coldness unsuitable for living beings at the sides of the room, they dared not even show a trace of an otherwise justifiable reaction.

"Are there any other cooks besides you?" Welcoming them was what looked in every way like a Union soldier. Ordinary in appearance, wearing a simple blue robe covered by a bronze breastplate, he looked at them and the various dishes waiting to be served from the eyes of a silver helmet, from which two unusual differently coloured eyes shone. The most unusual thing was certainly that huge scythe he wielded which, as far as Bairam could remember, did not resemble any standard weapon used by the soldiers of the City-States Alliance.

"Yes, there is no one else." Shila replied. The chieftain would have preferred not to show such surrender, but that metallic, screeching sound kept reminding them that they were rats in a trap. Over the long course of his career, Bairam had observed many times the desperate struggling of the fish just pulled out of the water, regarding that last flicker of life before the imminent end as deeply fascinating. Being part of an ecosystem meant accepting that indifferent cruelty, but now that he happened to find himself in the shoes of the prey about to be devoured, the head chef could not help but feel resentment and anger at such ruthless injustice.

"I will believe you." The mysterious assailant raised part of his helmet, showing thin, fleshy lips. Combined with that delicate voice, it made it very likely that it was a woman, and not a very mature one either. "Not that it makes much difference in the end." The young girl picked up a ladle resting on one of the nearby tables and, with a quick movement, filled it with soup and then brought it to the mouth as fast.

Beiram was aware that this was madness, but part of him was anxiously awaiting a judgment on his work. It was a spontaneous reaction, trained after years in the profession, which at that point was impossible to control.

"It is good," she said, savoring the meal slowly. The cook's heart skipped a beat in pride. Shaima, however, did not seem to share his opinion, her gaze turned to the ground as if attracted by a mysterious magnetic force that prevented it from rising. "I hope you didn't mind me serving myself. I had to eat in a hurry and my stomach was languishing by now. But it would have been unwise to let you near it."

"Be my guest. There's not much room left for etiquette at this point." Taking away the surreality of the situation, it could even have been a pleasant conversation.

The Union soldier delighted in another bite. Continuing at that pace, although Bairam used to prepare plenty, there would be nothing left for the others. "However, to be honest, I think something is missing. I don't want to give you silly inexperienced advice, but maybe a spice to make the flavor stronger?"

"Onions." Bairam replied in a low voice. "We wanted to add onions."

"Onions," she repeated that word as if it was the first time she had ever heard it. "Yes, that might work." Her grip on the strange scythe loosened, but that did not give the impression that she had conceded some opening for a counterattack. And even if she had, what could a cook advanced in years and a girl paralyzed by fear have done?

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I had sent one of my boys to get some... But he never came back." At least the mystery of his end had been unraveled. Though he would have preferred the assumptions made before to be true. Reality is often disappointing indeed.

"Oh," an exclamation of genuine surprise that clashed even more with what was the current predicament. Had it been a dish, the ingredients would have been tossed in bulk, making the taste at best bizarre, at worst inedible. "My fault. Try to understand me. I watch your tent for hours, preparing for action. And then, I see one of you rush out. What could I think but that I had been discovered? And then what choice remained but to hurry and perform a frankly botched job?" A sighing lament. Was she talking about some stupid hitch at work or a murder committed in cold blood? "I wouldn't be surprised if there was some trace left."

Was she justifying herself to them? An extraordinarily polite murderer, that had to be said. A fair exchange for eating their dinner? By now Bairam was no longer surprised by anything.

What would happen next? Would they have had a cup of tea together? There wasn't much of it left.

"Are you going to kill us now?" On Shaima's look was all the terror that was to be expected.

"That's the plan," the soldier didn't even try to lie. Whether she had done it out of some strange sign of respect, or because she simply did not think it necessary was impossible to determine. "Now that my plans have changed, however, I could use some information. And about my employers, let's call them that, new cooks might suit their needs. I mean…," she approached, and only then did Bairam realize how slim and small her figure was. But more than cheering him up, it caused a shiver of irritation in all the hairs on his body. "I have to taste the completed version of your soup at this point."

Ancient texts said that the smiles of the Daevas were so bright that they embarrassed the sun itself, and so terrifying that the moon recoiled at the sight of them. Bairam didn't know if those stories were true or the classic exaggerations inflated with mysticism of religious traditions, but that now that he saw that graceful yet dangerous humanoid sporting a lip curvature as dazzling as the brightest of stars and as devilish as the deepest of abysses, he understood that, after all, there is always a grain of truth in all kind of stories.

"Tell me," she continued, casting quick glances around, extrapolating as much information as possible from what they had prepared. "How many of you are there in total, in this camp? I won't even try to calculate what number all this food is enough for, but I'll venture that a hundred wouldn't be that much of an exaggeration."

"If you think that..."

"A hundred and fifty, more or less. That number includes both General Arsames' chosen troops and the regular soldiers, plus the other auxiliaries assigned like us to the needs of the main unit."

'Ah, Shila. Do you really not trust our comrades?'

But when youth was still an unripe seed, it was difficult to let it go before it ripened.

"Arsames, I've heard that name before." The young woman scratched her chin pensively. "It shouldn't be too difficult." In anyone else's mouth, what had just been said would have sounded like unwarranted bluster, but in that assassin there was not the slightest trace of boastfulness.

The worst thing was that, in all probability, she was right.

"So the girl made her choice. What about you, old man?"

Bairam was not a soldier. That was what he repeated to himself over and over again. He had never taken part in a battlefield, merely staying in the rear. He proudly flaunted the medal he had received, running his unit with the same discipline as a sergeant, but he had never had any illusions. He knew that the courage to fight with one's life on the line was not a quality that belonged to him. That was why his answer surprised even him.

"I could never sell out my comrades..."

A sharp pain shot through his chest. His heart had been pierced. He began to slump as his vision blurred. As he lost consciousness, he captured the fading image of Shila and felt no resentment towards her. That was an emotion fit only for the living.

'Death tastes too bitter even for my taste.'

As a last meal, it had been disappointing by far.

----------------------------------------

If they had asked General Arsames Eghbali Najafi where he would have wanted to be at that moment, his answer would undoubtedly have been "Any place other than the tent of Satrap Tiribazus." Yet, here he was, sharing a less than pleasant chat with an overgrown sheep. Had the satrap started bleating, surprise would have been far different from the reaction Arsames would have expected to feel.

"How is the research on the Dark Knight going?" If there was one thing that irritated the general, it was the idle questions, to which both interlocutors knew the answer.

"There has been no change. We know where that woman is hiding. In the court of that old crone the people of Ris call Queen." Arsames drank a cup of tea, but even that could not soothe his nerves. "Let us raze the city to the ground, impale all the inhabitants on a pike, and by the law of large numbers we will have a good chance of finding her too."

The satrap looked at him with those small, cunning eyes of his, as he was wont to do when he was unsure whether what Arsames had proposed corresponded to the absolute truth or was a poorly executed joke. "That would be... improper. I remind you, General Najafi, that the orders of our beloved sovereign were clear. Spare as many Union lives as possible. I understand that this is difficult for a man of action like you to swallow," he did not understand it at all. Nor was he trying to. "But if we were to put to the sword every place where one of our targets might be, we might as well cease peace talks and destroy the whole thing."

Finally, a sensible proposal.

Arsames sighed. He was better than that. He was striving to be better than that.

"That woman was the only one who survived my sword. An unforgivable affront, demanding justice. Nevertheless," calm, control and discipline. Anger was a tool to be tamed. "I exist only to serve the King of Kings. His will is my will. And his will is now represented by the satraps. It follows that your every command will be heeded by me, Lord Tiribazus."

The bariaur smiled complacently. "Why don't you stay and dine with me this evening? Tomorrow we will rejoin the main army, and there will not be many more opportunities left to do so in the future. I will return to the Great Plains, while you will still be guarding the border, should things not go as planned." A servant began to prepare a modest table for the upcoming dinner. The satrap licked his lips in satisfaction. "Head Chef Barium has assured me that tonight's soup will be exceptional. His masterpiece, he called it. I am very curious to taste it."

Arsames showed off all his good manners, not many actually, and agreed. "I love soup," he hated it with all his might. "I can't wait to find out what delicacies have been prepared." He hadn't had a decent meal in days. The worst thing about life as a soldier was certainly not being able to get his own food. Without the frenzy of the hunt, much of the flavor was lost. "If I may venture a question," why wouldn't he? "Have we received any more news about Prince Alexander?"

At that name, Satrap Tiribazus' proverbial calm began to creak. The hated enemy had that effect. All the more reason to bring him up.

"He's hiding, that worm! But I am sure it will be the Union rulers themselves who will serve him to us on a silver platter, perhaps chained and begging for our mercy. Or perhaps he himself will present himself, in exchange for the salvation of his beloved city."

Arsames could not choose which was the most unlikely alternative. What was certain was that until the Prince was eliminated, not even the Immortals could sleep easy dreams. The only consolation was that it would also cause the satraps a few eyebrows.

"Speaking of which, General Najafi," Tiribazus moved closer to him, so close that Arsames could smell his breath smelling of rotten cheese. "We are drawing up a list of the subjects... most dangerous to our design. The Dark Knight, Prince Alexander, the Queen of Ris, the Mayor of Bebard, plus other famous names. Previous winners of their silly sports competition, eminent personalities, possible political opponents... In short, there is no lack of variety."

"And you want me to take care of it?"

"Not personally," they had returned to an acceptable distance, the satrap having already taken his seat by the table. "This is a job that requires a certain amount of discretion. And I do not believe that is one of the many qualities you can boast of, General Najafi. No, I need you to select a list of men you deem suitable. I will take care of the rest."

Someone who could clean up their messes, in short. Arsames sighed, more out of weariness than anything else. "It will be done. Give me a couple of days." Perhaps he was the fool of the two. His way of seeing things was old-fashioned. In the empire they were building, they needed sharp brains and skilled calculators, not brutes who only knew how to wield a sword. "Is there any other way I can serve you?"

"Put you at the table with me. Shouldn't be long now." The satrap licked his lips once again with relish, as if he already had food at hand. Arsames positioned himself at the opposite end, leaving the space free for Tiribazus' entourage. A couple of priests quickly erected wooden scaffolding, which made their stay more comfortable, while some others already had rosaries ready to bless the meals that were soon to arrive.

It would not be long now.

It was a matter of moments.

"We are really lucky to be able to enjoy such comfort." Satrap Tiribazus smoothed his palm over the dressing gown he was wearing with ostentatious vanity. For a camp tent, albeit of a high official, there was certainly no lack of luxury. "But when the Great Heaven themselves lead us, to expect anything else would be entirely unwarranted. I propose to make a toast to our God who made himself mortal only to lead us to greatness!"

Everyone raised their goblets full of wine. Only Arsames remained still, not sharing their enthusiasm. "He is a vessel," he marveled at the low tone he had used. Questioning glances fixed themselves on him. "The King of Kings is not the Great Heaven." He repeated, this time raising his voice. "He is a vessel, as he calls himself." What that meant, Arsames had no idea. "If what is proclaimed here were to reach his ear, he would not be pleased." To use a... how to put it? A euphemism.

"Of course... Of course... Ours was only the heat of the moment." Tiribazus reassured him, his retinue following his example. "We are all faithful devotees. An honest mistake. Don't you think, General Najafi?"

Arsames scratched his cheeks, not knowing what to say. How many other private gatherings like that glorified the supposed divinity of their Emperor?

"I completely agree with you, Satrap Tiribazus." Hell he was. But, at least for the moment, they had kept up appearances. It was advantageous to be stupid, as no one ever took you seriously.

But even if that part of the discourse was over Arsames was not a skilled conservationist and the longer they waited to eat, the more embarrassment grew.

"How much longer?" Snorted the satrap. "Bairam is always as punctual as an azis hourglass. Perhaps something has happened?" One of the servants leaned closer and whispered something in Tiribazus' ear. His face began to assume an expression of disbelief.

Arsames did not have time to imagine what they were saying when a second servant approached him, evidently to report what they had just informed their lord.

"What?" Arsames muttered. Thinking he had heard wrong, the general made himself repeat it a second time, still getting the same answer. "Damn." He hurried outside the tent, quickly donning the helmet he had left at the entrance and brandishing his trusty Willbreaker, companion of a thousand battles. He did not care one bit about the satrap's reaction.

"General Arsames," Ehsan, one of his seconds, hurried to receive him, followed by a dozen men of his chosen guard. "You should not have..."

"Take me to them." There was no time to waste. With a dry, peremptory gesture, Arsames ordered his men to shut up. "And send an escort to protect the satrap." He almost forgot about it. Almost.

The rest of his unit, along with most of the army, had gathered at the eastern end of the camp, a few steps away from the tents used for cooking. A strange silence, unusual for that large number of people all gathered in one spot, hovered uncomfortably insistent. Arsames made his way through the throng, to better observe what had caused this.

"Bastards." Keeping calm. Always. He repeated it once. A second. A third. A fourth. "Bloody bastards." He squeezed Willbreaker with as much force as he could muster, so furious that he felt the hilt begin to penetrate the flesh of his hand.

"Who did this?" He blurted furiously, still facing the macabre spectacle unfolding with ostentatious horror before his eyes. The lifeless heads of his comrades seemed to look at him quizzically, resting on the horsy body remains of a poor unfortunate man who had seen himself cut in half, asking 'if you're so strong, how come you couldn't save us?'

"We don't know, sir." Not even veterans like his honor guards were able to contain the whirlwinds of emotions that were running through them. "But whoever did it will pay for it."

Bairam's lifeless eyes sneered at him, or perhaps it was just his impression. "Why didn't the reconnaissance teams notice anything? And the sentries?"

"All the teams we had sent out on patrol never came back." All of them? 'How?' That was the question rumbling in his head. A massive attack? Had the Union decided to mount a resistance just when the war was over?

Arsames rubbed his eyes, feeling momentarily drained of energy. He refocused his attention on those now disheveled remnants, begging them that they might provide him with answers, getting only nothing, as was to be expected. "The remaining scouts and rangers?" He took a deep breath, regaining control, searching for something that might help calm his nerves. Willbreaker was, at the moment, the only thing that could soothe his anger.

"They're searching the whole camp, sir. There are several tracks left by the mysterious assailants. They should still be around."

"Stay compact. Whoever it is, it's dangerous." He pushed back deep inside him that feeling that made his blood boil. "Do not be hasty. Your lives are at stake."

"What do we do with the corpses?"

His heart cried. "Leave them as they are." Arsames begged that they might forgive him. "We do not have time to bury the bodies, especially when they are in these conditions. We will return later to finish the obsequies." If promises with the dead were meaningless, at least he could console himself knowing that his word was still worth something. "And, for all that is sacred, increase the protection to the tent of the satrap. No, it should be better to evacuate him."

"It shall be done, general."

Now all that remained was to ferret out the intruders.

"Report, General Najafi." Perhaps it would require less than he had expected.

"What's going on?"

"The western gate. There's... there's something."

Were they making fun of him? Had they not even tried to take him by surprise? Part of him, the more overwhelming one, felt deeply offended, but the more rational one, small as it was, was thankful that the enemy did not shine with intelligence.

"Let's go."

Or was this a trap, and he was falling for it with both feet? Being promoted to general involved a capacity for rationalization and a readiness to make decisions that Arsames now realized were beyond his control. When he was on the battlefield and the din of the throng crept like an overpowering thunderclap into his ears, then the warrior felt his instincts calling him back and the future unfolded clearly in its facets. But in that unnatural tranquility, left alone with his thoughts, the centaur could discern nothing but doubts unsuitable for a valiant Immortal like himself.

The last orders were given, the adrenalin was rising and the air was getting so light you could glide over it.

Arsames gave a kick to reason, not the first and with much luck not the last either, and rallied with his retinue towards his appointment with destiny. He was not the type to be late, after all.

"What are those?" The murmurs of the soldiers, whispered in the moonlight, so low as to be barely heard, so high as to cover the beats of valiant hearts, had objects that were shadows made of bones and iron. In what the mind could not comprehend, the deepest fears took shape. In what reason rejected, death appeared comforting in its certainty.

"They are attacking!" After a life spent fighting, the most seasoned veteran allowed himself to bask in only one comforting thought: having arrived at that point either one had too little to lose and was therefore foolish to cling to such an ephemeral commodity as life, or there remained to protect something so precious from which the courage of a lion could emerge.

"Get into formation! Infantry in first position, archers and spellcasters behind! Leave room to maneuver!" In war, there was a never ending moment, whose actual duration did not correspond with that which was perceived, which took one's breath away, which locked up all the deepest emotions in a moment of quietness, leaving free space for the Daevas to shatter the harmony of the Great Heavens.

It was the proverbial moment before the storm, the one in which the waters receded, heralding the great wave that was on the horizon and whose impact with the coast was now inevitable. Arsames, and like him his companions, had experienced that split second so many times that it would have been bizarre at that point not to get used to it.

Not only when he had unsheathed his sword, tasted the blood of the enemy, trampled on the corpses of his comrades. It was a feeling that stayed deep inside you, that left no room even in moments of rest, that sweetened the taste of meals, and made moments of love more delightful.

It was a drug. A drug so hated, that it triggered contempt for you and others. But heck, if it wasn't irresistible.

When the spear of one of the monsters pierced the first victim, when the blood splashed like torrential rain on Arsames, lust pervaded him, a frisson of pleasure went through his whole body and a state of euphoria took possession of him, at the same time leaving him with a lucidity he could rarely display.

"Do not fear the darkness! Strength and courage!" The general was not conscious whether his words were heard or not, covered by the screams of pain and impetus that now spread like an infernal halo, but his was a mechanical gesture, adapted and refined until it was now perfect.

Swish

Willbreaker's adamantium clashed with the shield of one of the assailants, resulting in a tinny swish. Arsames spun his torso, and unleashed a second slash, which shattered on those bones resplendent as the finest of ivory. "Tsk," Arsames continued his assault, gritting his teeth to resist the temptation to flee, the blows smashing into the shield, penetrating the defenses until they reached that skeletal body, always with little effectiveness. It was a constant bumping and clattering, in which the advantage of his superior physical strength crashed against that resilient wall of bone.

That which was lifeless looked at him with that emotionless face of his, which reminded Arsames of the most diabolical of sneers, and unleashed a headbutt on the centaur, the impact of their helmets producing a tiny vibration that resonated in the warrior's head. Face to face, Arsames could almost reflect his image in the pools of darkness that acted as the creature's eyes. He had seen and observed a wide range of emotions throughout his military career, ranging from hatred, contempt, anger and fear. Instead, this time, he saw nothing but an unpleasant eagerness for destruction that only reminded him of how inhuman his opponent was.

"I got you, asshole." Willbreaker glowed with flames, a red energy spreading from the hilt to the tip of the sword with particular heat. A maelstrom of fire swept over the skeletal body, locking onto the right end of the chest, while the enemy's exposed skull did not even emit a regurgitation of pain. Instead, the spear he wielded thundered through the air, thrusting into Arsames' front right leg. Imitating his adversary, the centaur did not even emit a cry of soreness as he felt the metallic coldness of the spear work its way through his muscles.

At that point, a contest of endurance ensued. A competition that Arsames was sure to win. Every fiber of his being began to thrust, the pressure of the movement building under every nerve, sliding under every subcutaneous part of him. The grip on Willbreaker grew stronger, burns beginning to appear on the skin beneath his gloves, until he felt a crack, and what was one became two.

The lower part of the soldier fell to the ground, making a noise inadequate for that size, while the upper part continued to crawl as if it hadn't even noticed the cut, trying to regain its grip on the spear that came off the strike. Arsames leapt into the air, crushing the skull with his hooves, reducing the being to dust in the wind, putting an end to that blasphemous existence. A sharp ringing sound was the testimony that that confrontation was over.

But victory is not always synonymous with ending. The battle continued to rage, the number of casualties increased inexorably, the incessant roar mumbled like a drum roll, hope tried to crackle like water between the rocks, seeping into gaps where morale began to crack. Arsames had proved that the enemy was not unconquerable, that for every soldier who fell there was a small fraction of victory that was waiting to be grasped.

"They are undead. Blunt weapons. Fire magic and divine! Do not approach unless strictly necessary!" He returned to the charge, continuing to leverage the mobility of his soldiers. Troops trained in lightning-fast warfare, a perpetual hit-and-run, now had to adapt to a new kind of warfare. One in which everything they had believed so far had proved fallacious.

Adaptation. That was the key to success. Combined with a good line of command that was flexible and ready for change. Understand what worked and focus on that. War in the long run was a gamble in which both contenders had little chance of winning. A game rigged from the start always in favor of your enemy.

Dozens of his team members pounced on one of those skeletons, trying to pin him down. The bodies that lost their last glimmer of life, remained still even after death, to fulfill the task they had deemed essential. Devotion. Each of them had a reason to trade their lives for a single, ephemeral moment. Beneath the Great Heaven, in which everything made sense and put in his rightful place of the cosmos, clouds of light formed, ripping through the placid evening, striking the source of the disaster with dazzling lightning. Streams of magical energy crashed down like a divine judgment, the sentence passed, the evil dispersed.

But those infernal beings, who came out of the great Arhiman gate, where all that is imperfect thrives, where horror and putridity rejoice in dispersing sacred harmony, did not stop the carnage until they had seen the annihilation of their fellow abominations. Indeed, they gained new vigor with each blow they suffered, increasing the intensity of their lunges and the ferocity of their attacks. The formations broke and reformed in an ungainly rhythm that struggled to find its own tempo.

"[Rip and Tear]!"

Arsames threw himself at two of them again, grabbing in his reckless rush a shield from one of his comrades who could no longer make use of it. There was a thud as his shield-reinforced shoulder collided with the first of the undead throwing him into the air. The second was already upon him, grazing the centaur's back with his weapon, copious blood spilling like a flooding river from the wound. But this only invigorated Arsames, the more the pain increased the more frenzy and excitement followed. Willbreaker flared up again, as divine energy swept over his body, courtesy of the priests of the rear, and as dawn broke through the night, his sword cut through what was not flesh, but which to his hand appeared so, leaving behind a reddish streak with orange flashes.

"Ahhhrgh." There was a stifled cry as Arsames realized that the first skeleton had risen up and, with a lightning gesture, had thrust his spear into the lower point of his side. The feeling of bewilderment, however, lasted only long enough for him to savor that pain on a par with the most delicious of meals. Gritting his teeth, more than that skinless skull did, in an unspoken contest that already had a winner, the centaur brought his shield down on the enemy.

Then followed a metallic sound, a cling that gave the men of Arsames' troop the go-ahead to throw themselves wildly at the skeletal lancer. With a coordination that could only be the fruit of continuous battles, of continuous confidence displayed in times of need, the Immortal's unit threw itself into the assault, the many became one, an unexpected order in breathless succession of blows. Dead, some. A sacrifice they had accepted.

When they were finished, only one undead remained, standing before them without emotion. The defeat of his comrades accepted as the most natural thing in this world.

The skeletal head bent to the side, at such an extended angle that it caressed the armored chest, creaking like well-oiled gears of an obsolete machine, whose clatter was chaotic deception of inefficient function. That arm, only apparently so fragile, made an unnatural movement, before throwing the spear in Arsames' direction with such intensity that even his fingers and part of his hand still clung to the weapon, whose speed was such that the roar that preceded it sounded like the wailing screams of the creature's last desperate attack.

The bullet was approaching.

"Raise your shields! Protect the general!"

Immortal. Some might have thought it an arrogant title, a challenge issued to the enemy. This was because they did not understand the promise that lay beneath that title. A life offered could not be claimed by anyone other than the one who received it.

It was a debt that would not be repaid that day, and perhaps never would be.

When Arsames saw his men pass away, he did not weep for them or feel any regret. Instead, with all the breath in his body, he exclaimed with the pride of a master who sees his pupil surpass him after grueling training, "Well done!" Thus, in their final moments, those soldiers could know that what they had accomplished had not been in vain. That would have been enough.

"Now it is time for me to return the favor."

After covering the distance that separated him from the now no longer so frightening skeleton, Arsames mowed down the still free arm with Willbreaker and then pinned him in a grip. And he began to squeeze. Squeezing him so hard that Arsames could feel his muscles twitching, and his bones shattering. But that was not enough to stop an Immortal. The undead tried to bite him, his crooked teeth the only remaining resource, but the centaur deflected that last resistance with a mighty headbutt. The spells that continued to bombard the now disarmed spearman did the rest.

Arsames left him a few minutes after the last movements had been made, when the certainty that life -if such it could be called whatever drove that pile of bones to move- had left him.

They had won.

----------------------------------------

Tiribazus could not understand what was happening. For someone who was used to having everything under control, an unexpected hindrance to his plans was inconceivable.

"I demand an explanation. One that makes sense this time." Arsames' honor guard was escorting him out of the camp, into the forest. They had picked him up in a hurry, leaving in bulk not only all his precious belongings but also most of the documents he was working on.

"We have already explained this to you, my lord." That soldier, Eshan, not a savage like his commander, but certainly not a refined and inspiring mind, headed the line, about to flee at any moment. "Some undead attacked the camp. General Arsames is pushing them back, and in the process we have been tasked with getting you and your retinue to safety."

"Undead. Ridiculous. There's been no sign of them the entire journey, and now you would have me believe that there are so many that you've forced an evacuation?" He almost spat, except to remember in whose presence he was. Showing himself as a brute in front of those who were really such did not fit in with his self-image. "The route to be followed was mapped out days in advance, prepared with numerous pieces of information gathered from every corner of the Union. How was such a miscalculation possible, that we ran into such a large horde?"

No matter how hard he tried to reason with it, Tiribazus could not get his head around it. Undead. The last time they had been sighted in the region, apart from a few minor isolated cases, was more than a decade ago. No. No logical sense.

"This is not a horde." Explained the soldier, continuing to grip his weapon with only apparent firmness, obvious trembling. "There are five of them."

"I think I misunderstood." But the look of doubt on the accompanying servants made Tiribazus realize that it was not just him who had misheard.

Eshan did not sustain his gaze. For a valiant captain in the King of Kings' army, he certainly did not stand out for his lack of fearlessness. "Skeleton soldiers, it seems. That's all we know."

One of the priests accompanying them began to tremble. "Daeva," he muttered in terror. "Punishment for our sins. For our blasphemy."

Tiribazus raised his hand, about to slap him for that nonsense, but desisted at the last. "Let us not panic." Even if he felt like it at all. The bariaur shook off some soil with his left hind paw, avoiding thinking how many germs were hiding inside. "I am sure a messenger will arrive in a few minutes to tell us that the situation is under control. Skeleton soldiers… They could not be that much of a hindrance."

It was just too much precaution that they had taken. A nuisance, but nothing tragic.

"Just another minute." Said Eshan scanning the vicinity, covered by an uncomfortable cloak of darkness. "If no one arrives in a single minute, prepare to run with all your might."

Never did sixty seconds pass so slowly. The satrap looked at his retinue, a few bewildered servants and trembling priests, barely holding back his disgust. At best, they could give him a few moments in his time of need. Scratching his head, he noticed that some hair had stuck to his fingers. He sighed, for that was all he could do.

"Someone's coming." Eshan ducked into the bushes, motioning for Tiribazus and the others to start running. Luckily for them, the stranger was one of the underlings bearing good news.

"The camp is clear. We have won."

The longed-for relief spread among those present.

"How is the situation?" Eshan asked, as he started to turn back.

"It... It could be worse." Not the best of omens, for sure. But while it was true that being an ambassador did not bring sorrow, it certainly could not alter reality.

And indeed, what their eyes saw as they returned to the camp only confirmed Tiribazus' fears. So many corpses that not stepping on one of them, or one of the parts scattered to the four winds, would have been like asking a mouse not to bite into cheese.

Healers, and anyone else who could stand, attended the wounded and checked the pulse of anyone who might still be alive. In many cases, there was not even the need for a thorough inspection.

"General Najafi, what happened?" The valiant centaur had a few bandages, but otherwise seemed to still be going strong. Of course, there were also three clerics who kept continuously casting healing magics on him.

"We must leave as soon as possible." Lack of deference that on another occasion would have been irritating, but Tiribazus assumed that at that moment the absence of etiquette was the least of their problems. "I have already given the orders. We are leaving at this very moment." A tone that heard no reason.

"What about the corpses? We should cleanse the area."

"We'll leave them here." Severed. Further debate was not allowed.

"I see no remains of our mysterious assailants. What have you done with them?" The point of Arsames' sword came dangerously close to his neck, and for a moment Tiribazus had the feeling that it was about to pierce him on the spot.

"That's the point." There was something in the Immortal's timbre of voice. Something that a man in his position could not have afforded to feel. "They have dissolved. Not even dust is left."

The priests accompanying the satrap whitened. Eshan followed their example. Tiribazus could only externalize what everyone was thinking. "Summoning?"

The silence that followed was answer enough.

"Their summoners might still be around. This could be our chance to eliminate them before they can regain their strength." One false move, and they could have found themselves back where they started. Success was the friend of those who could recognise the opportunity. "Gather your soldiers again and..."

"What soldiers?" Arsames roared, blood having begun to flow profusely again from one of the wounds. "Can't you see that there must not be more than a dozen available men left? And do you want us to start looking for someone without the slightest clue?"

When had he become the more precipitous of the two? 'Or maybe I was always the foolish one.' Tiribazus admitted defeat with a shrug.

"Then let's go. We can't afford to stay here much longer, can we?" He raised his arm, noticing that part of the silk on his sleeve had torn. Oddly enough, the only reaction this elicited in him was amusement. "Once we get back home, a nice prize is for all of you."

His job had many downsides. Very many indeed. But rarely, it could also be rewarding in small ways. He could not bring back those who had given their lives for him -no, not for him- but at least he could not be completely useless in disastrous situations like these. Was that enough? Tiribazus liked to think so.

"Leaving already? Yet we had only just begun."

With what proclamation of arrogance could anyone have uttered those words at that very moment? With what irreverence did he reserve no respect even for the dead? When the bariaur turned away, summoned by that voice that did not even attempt to conceal its derision, he found the last person he had expected before him.

The insolent elf they had met only a day before in Bebard.

"Five Spartiati weren't enough. My compliments. Of course, if they had been enough on their own it would have been disappointing by far. But when one's expectations are dashed, a certain excitement for what is to come is always welcome." She was wearing ordinary Union soldier armor, and had a giant scythe that she twirled listlessly as if it were not an imposing weapon, but a disposable pocket knife. "Really a great sight. And I'm not pulling your leg, seriously. If there was time I would love a second demonstration. But I have noticed that you are in a great hurry and I thought it more appropriate to cut it short."

A circus tent must have been placed over the camp, and that was the final part that was turning the tragedy into a cheap farce. Arsames was slowly covering the distance between them, wounds ignored, as his soldiers took up positions surrounding the elf by every possible escape route.

On another occasion, Tiribazus would surely have praised that readiness for action and the unwavering spirit that not even in the face of the most difficult adversity would step aside. And it was his intention to do so, indeed. But his attention was completely captured by the elf who left room for her opponents, not for lack of shrewdness or foolish naivety. It was simply that, just as the satrap could not establish a reason why she should remain motionless, she could not find one why she should move.

Was she the summoner? But then why attack them in the open? Even if she wanted to take advantage of their momentary weakness, a summoner would not be able to eliminate them all by themselves. Not with Arsames still at large.

The elf raised her right arm, to bring it to her mouth. Then she yawned, "It's really getting late. I need a good night's sleep," she said, as she wrinkled her eyes. It was a... childish gesture. There was no intention to provoke an angry reaction or deconcentrate her foes. "You guys go ahead. I don't want you to give too much weight to my complaints." Diabolical. There was no other way to describe it.

Tiribazus was still perfectly capable of making any movement, yet he had the inkling that he could understand the instincts the tiny insects felt when they became trapped in the spider's web. That continuous wriggling that only made the threads tighter, tighter and tighter, as if their resistance was the crucible and delight of their predator.

"Follow me. Don't be caught off guard." Arsames, and for this praise would never be enough, had kept his cool and, after making sure his back was covered and that young girl had been encircled by his troops, headed towards her, ready to launch the first assault. That sword of which he was so proud, a gift from their king if Tiribazus remembered correctly, produced a light that made it impossible to sustain his gaze, but the satrap was steadfast in remaining fixed to observe the scene.

The archers had gripped their bows, their arrows flashing with energy, while the lancers had positioned themselves behind the elf, ready to skewer her at the slightest sign of uncertainty. The few still able to use magic had harnessed power that even they were not aware they still retained, and provided support with everything their repertoire had made possible.

It was, in every way, a formation that, if not perfect, still showed the trust that each individual soldier had in the other. Something that was certainly not built in a day, but had been forged after countless battles.

Arsames raised his sword, a moment that would be followed by others impossible to predict. A great fuss arose. Tiribazus and his men had to take cover to avoid being hit by the storm of dust and dirt that rose with overwhelming force to the sky. The night turned ochre, with scarlet outlines.

Afterwards, there was something difficult to explain. Tiribazus was not a warrior, in fact far from it. Apart from a smattering of general theory of warfare, his knowledge of the art of war was lacking, and the direct experience that shaped the insight needed to make an expert judgment was almost entirely absent. But, like any being who breathed and could claim to be part of this world, he was aware of the processes of action and reaction that governed the fundamental laws underpinning existence. If not through a fully developed consciousness, it was possible to get there at least through a refined intuition.

Instead that mechanism that should have been logical had, in a totally inexplicable manner, failed. Arsames had approached the elf, his gallop would have put even the fastest sleipnir to shame, and then crossed her in the same manner as the specters mock organic matter, continuing on his way.

The satrap was therefore unable to reconcile what reason dictated was impossible with what reality showed him with precise coldness. That feeling of disorientation lasted just long enough for the Immortal to move a few centimeters further away and then split into two mirror-like parts, each of which slumped to the ground with a resounding thud. It was as if someone had crudely attached the two detached pieces of some knight's toy or other amenity in vogue among children, then slid it over the steep ground and hoped with all his might that the rough work would be enough to keep it intact. Hope, needless to say, forlorn.

"Ew." The elf, not without holding back verses of disgust, grabbed and then tried to push away some of the pieces of the late Arsames' organs that had been stuck in a few pieces of her breastplate. Not always with the best of results. "I need to take a bath as soon as possible."

Her vacant stare then turned towards Tiribazus. The bariaur felt no fury at what had happened, nor did he condemn in his heart the rest of the soldiers who had given up their weapons and, frozen, waited resignedly for what was to come. All their efforts had resulted in absolutely nothing.

"Daeva." Murmured one of the priests flanking him. "The harmony of the cycle has been broken." Continued another. Disconcerted, they sang ungainly dirges addressed to indifferent listeners.

'Perhaps it was never there in the first place.' But it was a thought that did not sit well with an unphilosophical mind like his.

"What are you whispering in a low voice? Can I be part of your conversation?" Genuine curiosity came from the girl. So sincere as to be revolting. That lack of malice was probably what had brought those men of faith to an unforeseen conclusion. A demon, in its cruelty, was easy to understand. When, however, characteristics easily attributable to them were lacking, what was unknown could only be defined by familiar thoughts. Naming what was indefinable was common practice, not only among the peoples of the Great Plains.

"What do you want from us?" So if what they had before them was illogical, they could only use the weapon of reason to try to counter it. Attaching a fifth wheel to a wagon with the expectation that it would move differently would only have been foolish, if not counterproductive. "I wouldn't have expected to meet again so soon. But evidently I was wrong."

The elf pulled off a few pieces of muscle embedded in the tip of the scythe. "You are their leader, are you not?" A suffocating pressure emanated on par with the most devastating of typhoons.

Only once more had Tiribazus' senses warned him wildly of danger. The satrap swallowed, then lowered his head in assent, aware that there was an unbridgeable abyss between the two of them. And he certainly lacked the courage to peer into it.

"Good. Take your pick, let's see... Hum..." She began to count the people present, as if it had been a trivial game. "Four people. Four people will survive and return with me as prisoners. You have one minute, or I will choose for you. You and one of your retinue would be preferable, but don't feel obliged."

What madness made him grateful for that ultimatum?

"And if I should refuse?"

"You will have no time to repent." A gentle smile.

Had called him a coward, his peers. Had they called him a traitor, those who would die. It did not matter.

"I already have in mind who shall be saved."

Fear was, after all, a form of intelligence.