They were gone. Bankiro knew that long before the mist finally faded. There was no doubt in his mind the magic had only been for concealment. That somehow, the Zosara had duped them and managed to escape. All without killing or harming a single man. Well, except for accident-prone Kiyon, who had backed into a comrade and nearly scared himself to death. With the power to manipulate water and ice, why not simply wipe them all out? He clearly could have done so effortlessly. Why hadn’t he?

Feeling unsettled, frustrated, and mildly impressed, the lieutenant spun on his heel, turning his back on the spot where their prey had stood just moments ago.

Such questions were not his concern. He had heard the hounds baying and knew they’d picked up the trail. Unless the Zosara had other tricks up his sleeve, the pair of them would be caught again soon. Satisfied with that and determined to rejoin the pursuit, he paused his stride long enough to begin shouting orders. He barely had a chance to part his lips when one of his men cut him off.

“Sir, approaching cavalry! It appears to be—”

Bankiro waved him to silence, having seen them a split second later. “That is the Warlord’s flag. Assume formation, men!”

In an instant, they obeyed, hurrying into two neat rows across from one another, leaving enough room for a horse to easily pass between them. Every one of them stood at attention but would be ready to drop to the ground in a subservient bow the second a superior approached. Only Bankiro would remain standing, and even then, he would bend at the waist to show respect.

It was a time-honored tradition to display fealty to one’s master by bowing in their presence, but in Tzulan’s army, it was law. Those who failed to show the proper respect were penalized severely. Bankiro had once seen a fellow soldier killed because he glanced up as the Warlord passed by. It was a mistake Bankiro ensured none of his men would ever make. He had drilled this procedure just as much as every combat formation and battle technique. There was no point in losing good fighters over such an insignificant slight. Outward defiance should always be punishable, but curiosity was no sin. At least in the lowly gaze of the lieutenant.

The approaching contingent, almost thirty men, came to a halt. As the two lead horsemen continued forward, leaving the soldiers at their backs, Bankiro’s troops called out the sacred mantra of Tzulan and deftly fell to their knees, faces so low they almost touched the muddy earth. Waiting until the pair of horses were halfway up the line, Bankiro followed, bending at the waist and lowering his head in submission. He did not speak or move; he held the position until Tzulan’s captain commanded him to rise.

“Lieutenant Bankiro, is it?” The captain was a brawny fellow, thick from neck to calves, like a meaty tree trunk with equally meaty branches as arms and legs. His face was scarred, his nose bearing the signs of having been broken on more than one occasion. When he spoke, his voice was raspy and gruff, the result of a Taiku spear tip that had nearly slit his throat. Any average man would have surely died, but Guo had defied death.

“Yes, Captain.” Bankiro made a point of not looking over at the Warlord but kept his gaze steadily fixed on Guo.

The behemoth glanced about, a frown forming on his face as he surveyed the area. “Where is she, lieutenant?”

Bankiro’s jaw tensed, but he kept his expression neutral. “We tracked her here, sir. But there was an unexpected complication, and she escaped.” The words were like bile on his tongue, but he refused to lie. He would tell the truth about their failure and suffer the consequences.

“You let her escape?” Guo exclaimed, his voice sounding more like a croak than the booming thunderclap it should have been. “What the hell kind of complication—”

“It was a Zosara, sir.” He knew better than to interrupt but did so anyway. He wasn’t about to just stand there and take a verbal beating, not when his neck and each of his soldier’s necks were on the line. “He protected the woman and—”

Guo let out a rough growl, and for once, his old injury aided in making him sound even more dangerous. “A Zosara? They’re just a fairytale! Something old women tell little children to frighten them. Be a man, lieutenant, own up to your failings and accept the punishment with honor!”

“Bankiro isn’t lying!” This came from the men who should have still been prone on the ground. Kiyon had come to his feet, trying to speak out in his commander’s defense, but Bankiro knew exactly where this path led.

“Be silent, you fool!” Bankiro tried to warn him, but the young, brash man had already sealed his fate.

Guo twisted in the saddle, peering back at the soldier with a rage so intense it was as though he thought Kiyon had just called him a motherless son of a boar! He opened his mouth to rebuke him, but Tzulan cut him off before a single word was formed.

“What was this Zosara’s name?” There was a lace of pain in those words, as though the Warlord was barely maintaining his composure. Still refusing to look directly at him, Bankiro noted from the corner of his eye that his head was covered by a thick, black cowl. Was this because of the wounds the woman had inflicted upon him?

“He called himself Lord Akihato, sir,” Bankiro answered, keeping a tight rein on the fear in his chest. He knew this night would only end in bloodshed.

“Akihato...” Tzulan breathed the name, pondering it, mulling it over in his mouth for a long, tense moment. If he recognized it, he gave no indication that he did. Instead, he slowly dismounted, moving stiffly as he dropped to the ground and then passed the reins to Guo. “Akihato the Zosara!” He let out a mirthless bark of laughter. “Akihato...”

Bankiro felt a strong sense of foreboding, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to act on the trepidation squirming in his stomach. He felt helpless as he watched Warlord Tzulan approach his men, knowing someone was going to pay dearly, and he knew that someone was going to be Kiyon.

“So,” Tzulan paused in the dead center of the bowing soldiers, “she ensnared herself a Zosara,” he mused to himself, that undercurrent of pain still audible with every word. For several long moments, he stood there, muttering and chuckling like a mad man before he finally turned to face Kiyon, who had suddenly realized his mistake.

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The young man glanced to Bankiro, terror making his dark eyes wide. He was silently pleading for help, for guidance from the leader he had come to love and respect. Emotion, duty, and honor warred inside the lieutenant as he tried to make sense of this moment and how it had gone so horribly wrong so quickly.

“Rise.” The command brought each of the soldiers to their feet almost as soon as it was spoken. They held their positions, standing at attention, though each one had to be trembling inside with fear.

“Disrespect. Failure. Insolence!” Tzulan rattled off the words, sounding more and more outraged with each slight he listed. “I have given you everything. I pay for your service; I supply the food in your belly, the clothes on your back, and a warm, secure place for you to sleep! And how do you repay me? By letting my would-be assassin escape!”

Bankiro steeled his resolve, just as he had when faced with the Zosara’s power. He would not back down here; he would not stand idly by while his men suffered. “My lord, please,” he interrupted, stepping from his position and approaching the Warlord. He stopped a few feet from him and dropped to one knee, leaning forward on his fist with his head bowed. “These are good soldiers, Lord Tzulan. The blame for this failure is not theirs to bear. It is mine. I am their commander, and I accept the full cost of this failure.”

The Warlord half turned, his face still obscured by the cowl covering his head. He seemed to be considering the lieutenant’s words, and then he abruptly moved again, motioning to the captain.

Immediately Guo responded, dismounting his own horse and signaling his soldiers to action as well. While one man came to take the horses, four others moved to join their commander as he swept down the row of Bankiro’s troop. He knew exactly what they were doing, and his heart sank. Every third man was ordered out of line and sent to kneel before Tzulan. Kiyon had been the first and was soon joined by three of his comrades.

“On your feet, lieutenant!” Guo croaked.

Two soldiers came to flank Bankiro as he rose and was then redirected so he was standing just a step behind Tzulan. This way, he had a clear view of the four frightened men kneeling in the mud.

Each one looked to him, and all he could do was try to appear strong and resolute. He was certain he failed the second his gaze met Kiyon’s. He was the youngest, and while his clumsy nature had been frustrating at times, Bankiro had admired his dedication and spirit. This was not the end he deserved... None of them deserved this!

“My lord, I beg you, have mercy!” Bankiro pleaded once again, but his words were met by a cruel laugh.

Guo retrieved Kiyon’s sword and then moved slowly to the other end of the line. The blade rose above the first man and a second later fell with far less force behind the blow than one would expect was necessary to sever a head from somebody’s shoulders.

Bankiro tried again, urging for mercy, but Tzulan did not budge, and so Guo moved down the line, felling one young soldier after another. Each one felt like a knife blade twisting in the lieutenant’s chest, each moment of death and gore engraving itself in his mind. The rolling heads, the gaping faces, and limp bodies. He had seen death and slaughter, but this was something far worse. This was needless, senseless, and he was helpless to stop it.

Finally, only Kiyon remained. Those intense eyes still staring, filled with tears and horror. They questioned him, begging him to do something! Bankiro wanted so badly to look away, to shut his eyes as the blade was raised one last time, but he remained steadfast. He gave the young man a slight nod of comfort, certain that in moments he would be joining him in the afterlife.

“Stop this, Tzulan!” he shouted, taking a step toward the Warlord with the intention of grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around. The two soldiers at his back quickly acted, restraining the lieutenant and dragging him back. “Enough, this is madness!” Bankiro fought against them, but they held him fast. He cried in outrage, but nobody was listening.

A second later, Kiyon’s head toppled into the mud, and Bankiro released a bellowing shout of frustration and fury. Still raging and fighting, a spew of angry insults flew in Guo’s direction. The behemoth dropped Kiyon’s sword next to his decapitated corpse and turned a chilling grin to the struggling Bankiro.

It was Tzulan who addressed him, however. He finally turned to fully face him, and for the first time, Bankiro got a look at what he was hiding beneath the cowl. There was an ugly, welted burn on his cheek, swirled into an elegant pattern that might have been pretty were it not seared into a man’s flesh. The eye on that side of his face had changed colors. The sclera was bloodshot, and the iris glowed a sickly yellow-green.

“Strip his rank,” he commanded. “This wretch is not fit for my army.” From his belt, he drew a dagger and motioned the men holding Bankiro’s arms.

They forced him down to his knees as Guo approached. He took up a position behind the lieutenant and clutched the bound topknot secured on his head. Accepting the knife from Tzulan, he pulled the hair taut and began sawing through it despite Bankiro’s desperate scream of protest.

The next few seconds were a hazy blur. Bankiro had imagined death was near, but this? Like all true warriors, he had pledged an oath to fight and serve his master, whoever that may be, with honor. As a sign of that commitment, it was forbidden for him to cut his hair, or he would forever be shamed. For seven years, Bankiro had upheld that vow, and now it had been forcibly severed.

His soul was in torment, his mind reeling. Death would have been a mercy, even a death of humiliation. When he saw Tzulan standing over him with the dagger, he thought for sure an end was coming, but there was only to be more pain.

Guo tangled Bankiro’s now short, dark hair in his sausage-like fingers and yanked his head back roughly. The former soldier let out a growl, but the fight had gone out of him, and it sounded more like a defeated grunt.

“This I inflict upon you myself,” Tzulan pressed the tip of the dagger into Bankiro’s cheek, the sharp blade slicing through the skin as the Warlord began to carve as though the man’s face were a hunk of wood.

Gritting his teeth, Bankiro refused to cry out. The pain ignited his fury again, and hot tears of anger stung his eyes. Four bloody lines - one for each of his men that had been slain - were cut into his cheek, just under his left eye.

When it was over, Guo and the other men released him so he slumped forward, almost face planting into the muck. Above him, Tzulan told him coldly, “Never forget your failure.”

Bankiro remained motionless, struggling with the weight of everything he had just endured. Around him, the Warlord and his soldiers rode away, his former men refusing to even look at him for fear of sharing his fate. He couldn’t blame them. Had things been different, he would have cautioned them to give the shamed wretch a wide berth. The thought caused a humorless laugh to escape him. For seven years, he had been a loyal soldier, and due to a single circumstance where it had been impossible for anyone to come out ahead, he had been cast out, marked as an outsider. A warrior without a master, without allegiance...

Uncertain how long he had been kneeling in the mud alone, Bankiro finally forced himself back to his feet. Despair weighed heavily on his heart, threatening to crush him under its girth. He bent over beside the lifeless bodies of his innocent comrades, wrapping his cold, stiff fingers around the hilt of Kiyon’s sword. There was one thing he clung to, one thing that kept him from taking his own life in an attempt to regain some measure of his stolen honor...

Fingers trembling around the hilt, fiery pain searing his cheek, Bankiro howled in the direction the monsters had gone. He screamed until he nearly passed out. He collapsed to his knees again, still clutching the tainted weapon, and panted for breath.

“I swear...” he whispered, his voice now hoarse. “I swear, that with this blade, I will have revenge!”