The room had grown blessedly warm from the fourteen men crowded into its tight confines. They all stared at the corpse of the last man Harren had pulled from the tunnel, his skin a ghastly pallor, blue veins rising against the skin. A few more moments in the tunnel and every man here would have shared the same fate. Harren clenched his eyes shut. He should have stopped that damn Rillman. He suspected something was wrong but didn’t act until it was too late. Everyone floating adrift in that tunnel was dead for his failing.

His fists tightened over his knees as an impotent rage wracked him. The sounds of battle could be heard in the distance through the walls of the shack and he could only assume the Sons had engaged the Venarans in force. They were trapped in the midst of a warzone without a weapon or scrap of armor between them. Goddess save them.

The worst part was that he knew it was his responsibility to get them out of here. He didn’t know why there weren’t Sons waiting for them. Maybe they thought the trap impossible to escape. It would have been if not for the freakishly large bear-man that had been thrust upon him.

His eyes drifted toward Grim. He’d spent most of his life looking down on the man. And why? Because his father lost a war? Because he had a brand across his neck? It all seemed so petty and pointless when looking at the corpse by their feet.

“I’m sorry,” Harren whispered. He expected the words to hurt, but they felt a release.

Grim’s head turned, and he glanced to Harren out of the corner of his eyes. “You did what you could,” he said.

Harren inhaled and released a shaky breath before steeling himself and rising to his feet. His limbs still felt slow from the cold, but he could move. At his motion the remaining men looked to him. “Is there any man here who can’t walk?”

Gavin spoke, “You want to go outside? Are you mad?”

Harren met his gaze. “Then what would you propose we do?”

Gavin’s mouth worked a moment, and it was damn satisfying to see the fucker at a loss for words for once.

Harren addressed the room. “Our people are out there now. We either try to find them or wait here and hope the Sons don’t check up on their own hideout until we feel ready.”

Around him the men staggered to their feet, looking beyond weary but able to move. For that, he thanked the Divines. He didn’t want to leave anyone else behind, even a commoner.

Gavin staggered over to him. “They left the promised coin,” he muttered, nodding toward an open room. A half-dozen small chests were neatly stacked in an adjoining room.

Harren frowned at the chests. Was their plan really ruined just because that old man recognized him? “Trying to bring it with us would be suicide,” he whispered back looking at the bedraggled survivors. Few of them even still had their weapons.

Gavin sighed in acquiescence.

Harren’s hand drifted unconsciously for his sword and found nothing. He scowled. “On me, then,” he called to the men walking to the main door of the shack. It was locked from the inside. Harren undid the latch and took a deep breath, bracing himself before pushing the door open.

He walked into hell.

Corpses of Rillmen and Venaran Soldiers lined the street, arrows sticking from the bodies like pincushions. On the not-so-distant horizon, a thick wall of smoke was rising over the Outwalls. He was surprised to see normal civilians racing down the streets. It seemed the threat of fire was enough to overcome the fear of battle. Perhaps they were running to staunch the flames?

Harren staggered to the fallen soldiers, scooping up the sword and shield of a Venaran footman as his men joined in looting the corpses. Screams came from all directions, but the clash of battle sounded clear as a siren’s call over panicked screams of massed humanity.

Harren staggered forward, fingers tight around the bronze blade. The others followed in his wake. Men and women rushed past them, whether running from the fighting or toward the fire, it was hard to tell. Harren cared little. All that mattered was getting to the gate of the inner city. He looked over his shoulder to the billowing cloud of smoke. His eyes widened. It had nearly doubled in size since he’d last looked and had grown far closer. He realized now why people were running. They weren’t fighting the fire; they were trying to escape before it was too late.

His companions were coming to similar conclusions, their eyes widening. “Run,” Harren cried.

He should have saved his breath. Half of them were already in motion, sprinting down the dirt road toward the sounds of fighting in the distance. The only way out for them was through. They pushed their way through a growing crowd of refugees, carrying what paltry possessions they had. Another day, the civilians would have fled into the city, but that was no longer an option.

Harren’s legs burned as they raced down the streets. He’d felt as if he’d spent the entire day sparring without pause. He didn’t think he’d ever been as tired as he was right now. Part of him just wanted to give up and lie down, but seeing Grim and Edgar trudging on kept him in motion. He wouldn’t let his last act be being outdone by a Rillman.

They turned a corner to behold a sea of carnage. The small road was filled with corpses. It looked as though a particularly nasty ambush had been sprung here. Horses and men alike writhed in pain amongst the dead, their screams mixing into a sound straight from hell. In the distance men still fought, any cohesion of formations having long since fallen to pieces.

Harren didn’t stop, leveling his shield and charging forward. His exhaustion must have been fading into madness. He’d spent the entire day afraid, and the feeling had simply slipped into numbness. As he drew closer, he saw a dozen or more Sons facing down five Venaran Soldier backed up against the wall of a building. It was all the men could do to fend off the blows raining down upon them.

As Harren drew near, he raised his sword. “The Red Sun,” he roared with the last of his breath.

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A Rillman turned to face him as Harren brought his blade down across the man’s throat, splitting the meat of his neck, blade grinding against bone. Harren ripped the blade free, bringing the point across the man’s throat. Blood flew in an arc, spraying across his countrymen as he fell to the ground.

Harren’s companions set upon them, blades flashing in the firelight.

Firelight?

Harren peeked behind him to see a blazing inferno spreading across the buildings behind him, no more than a hundred paces distant.

The Sons still standing must’ve have taken in the sight as well as they dropped their arms and fled. Harren let them go, having no desire to tempt death yet again today. He turned to face the guardsmen they’d saved. Most were wounded, their hands clutching injuries that seeped crimson blood.

It was then that he noticed the quality of their armor. His eyes snapped to the dying horses. “Where’s the General?” he asked.

One of the men raised a shaky hand, pointing toward the encroaching fire. “He fell that way,” the man said before turning and running toward the gate. Harren could see the King’s Road. The fire wouldn’t be able to spread across such a wide boulevard and he’d be safe there. Hundreds of his countrymen evidently had come to the same conclusion as their forces seemed to be massing along the road.

Harren’s companions joined the fleeing guardsmen like sensible individuals. A horn bellowed in the distance in a cadence signaling a retreat.

Harren hesitated, looking back to the fire and the dying men lying in the alley, screaming as they watched an unfathomably painful death approach. The decision was already made. This was his chance. Harren ran toward the blaze, discarding his sword and shield. He scanned the corpses and injured men, ignoring their pleas. A moment later, less than twenty paces from the fire, he found what he was looking for. The white horse was dead, a spear having been rammed through its throat, severing the spine beyond.

Harren stepped atop the corpse, looking for its rider. He didn’t have to look long. Peltar was right beneath him, leaning against the far side of the horse’s body, watching the approaching inferno with the eyes of a man not happy with, but resigned to his fate.

Harren fell to the man’s side and drew his belt knife. Peltar’s eyes widened as he saw him. “Harren?” he gasped, mouth rimmed with blood.

Harren ignored the question, cutting the straps of Peltar’s armor and grunting as he flung the heavy armament to the side. He couldn’t believe he’d just run right past the man moments before. The horn bellowed again in the distance, as if screaming at him to hurry.

He pushed down his regret, grabbing the man and grunting as he hauled him atop his shoulders. Peltar cried out in pain and Harren felt a warm liquid seeping into his already wet clothing. Harren cried out himself as he set off at a shambling jog. The fire was hot on his heels, consuming the buildings to either side of the road and boiling away what was left of the snowmelt.

His back was warming, and at first the feeling was pleasant as it began to dry his sopping wet clothes. As he staggered across the corpse strewn field, the pleasant warmth turned into a stinging pain. Peltar’s fists bunched into the cloth of his shirt as the pain made the man shake. The fire had overtaken them now, burning a line to either side of them. Smoke billowed into the street, making Harren’s eyes burn. Tears came unbidden as he marched onward. The heat was unbearable. He could feel the exposed skin along his hands starting to blister. His lungs burned worse than they had after the tunnel and his vision blurred as the air hazed with heat.

His jog has slowed to a shuddering walk, his body reaching its limits. He muttered a prayer under his breath as he took a final step, feeling his legs collapse. He fell out of the smoke into blessedly fresh air, Peltar falling unceremoniously from his shoulders. Hands reached under his arms, dragging him over the cobblestones and away from the heat of the blaze.

As the air cooled, pain made itself known all across his face and hands. Tears continued to leak from his eyes, stinging his cheeks. Grim stood over him, a grim expression on his face. Harren coughed a bitter chuckle at the thought as the man scooped him up in his arms like a child. The world rocked and spun, turning from visions of fire to the sight of hundreds of Venaran soldiers retreating through the city gates. With every rocking motion his vision narrowed until all was black.

***

Billy gasped for breath, sucking air through his iron visor. The pounding of blades reverberated against his shield, locked as it was against the Venaran opposite him. The press of bodies and stink of blood was overpowering, and he’d lost track of how long they’d fought and how many men had fallen before him. Bruises lined his arms and flanks where swords or spears managed to find an opening in their shield wall. He didn’t think his chain had been pierced and the pain had yet to fully register, but he knew it would make itself known the moment the fighting ended.

Billy growled as he heaved his shield forward, creating a small space between himself and his enemy. He lowered his shield, striking out with his axe and catching the rim of his opponent’s shield.

Billy ducked as a blade came for his skull, catching the sword along the rim of his shield. He pulled hard with his axe, lowering his opponent’s guard. A moment later, a spear thrust forward over Billy’s shoulder taking the Venaran in the throat.

As he fell to the ground coughing blood, another man simply stepped over his twitching body, the press forcing the man to lock his shield to Billy’s as they struggled to overcome the other’s guard.

Billy had lost track of how many he’d felled. They seemed endless, and the faces of the men on his flanks had changed several times. He didn’t know how much longer they could hold.

He heaved his shield forward, but his opponent was ready, trading the blow with one of equal force that knocked Billy off balance. The man behind him put a steadying hand on his shoulder, but the damage was done. The Venaran took advantage of the opening and thrust his sword into the ribcage of the man to Billy’s left, tearing it out in a spray of blood.

Billy rushed forward to fill the gap, but was too late. The boy to his left spat blood and was soon cut down by the man in front of him, weakened by the wound.

Billy desperately covered the gap in the line until the next man could come forward, but he was bone-weary and slow. Far too slow. The Venaran before him rammed him with his shield as their line bulged forward into the gap.

The ground rushed up to meet Billy and it was only after his face skidded across the cobblestones that he noticed the helmet had been knocked from his head. His cheek was raw and bloody, and he found himself staring into the dead eyes of the man he’d let down. A boy barely a year or two into manhood.

Billy clenched his eyes shut against the pain and rolled to his back, shield raised. He caught the thrust of a sword and knocked it aside as he crawled backwards, hands finding purchase amongst the dead.

It was then that he saw their line was shattered. There was nobody left to fill the gaps. A twisted feeling of pride and loss filled his heart at seeing his men had fought to the last. The Venaran line was steadily advancing, methodically cutting down those still fighting. Behind them was- smoke?

“Retreat,” a voice roared over the din of battle- Marc’s voice.

Billy struggled to his feet, finding himself in agreement with Marc’s assessment. A spear came flying toward him and Billy caught it on his shield, doing his best not to trip over the corpses as he staggered away from the enemy. His job here was done.

As he fled, a horn bellowed from the city gates in a cadence he remembered well. He slowed his flight, looking back to the enemy. They’d halted their advance and were retreating in an orderly fashion.

Billy’s mouth widened as he saw the cause of the retreat. Father down the road, a blazing inferno raged across the Outwalls. It’d happened before and was always an unmitigated disaster. The fire wouldn’t cross the breadth of the King’s Road, but it would consume everything in the south-east quadrant beyond the wall. Tens of thousands of people would be left without shelter. It was no longer winter, but the cold at night could still kill.

“Reaper’s saggy tits,” he whispered, watching the fire draw closer as the Venaran ranks shied from the heat, marching toward the safety of the inner city beyond the wall. As he watched the fire destroy the livelihoods of tens of thousands he knew, that while the battle was over, the fight for survival had just begun.