"...It's not cheating if the woman you're having sex with looks like your girlfriend," Sig insists.
"Oh, look," Anya replies, pointing at Sig. "It's the ghost of relationship future, warning us all what could happen if—"
Sig laughs. "Yes, very good."
Indigo and Squad enter the tent, Squad reeling as he smells something foul. "What a weird combination of odours: it smells like a skunk died and someone's thrown it in a pot of vegetables."
Sig stops stirring his pot and looks up with a smile. "You have a fine nose, sir – broth?"
"...I'll pass."
Sig tries to tempt him. "You don't know what you're missing."
"I'm grateful about that." Squad turns to Anya. "What were you two talking about, Sig's usual depravity?"
Sig lifts up a hand in protest. "You two need to be careful about saying this stuff. People will start to associate me with—"
"Sexism?" Anya suggests.
"Racism?" Squad adds.
"Bestiality?" Indigo completes the trio.
"Ah, yes, the planned names of my first three children," Sig jokes, turning to Indigo. "So, how is the big war hero? Tired of revolutionising the way magic is used in warfare?"
"I think you mean Power," Squad corrects, with a smartarse grin.
"What's the difference?" Sig asks.
"Power is what military people call magic when they want to use it as artillery or for quick-strike missions," Indigo informs him. "Magic in general is a much gentler and more varied thing than Power."
Sig nods. "Interesting...and you'll notice I used the word interesting incorrectly. Anyway, enough about this war, I've got a date with Sergeant Akiri tonight."
Anya laughs. "Sergeant Akiri? I wouldn't worry about it. All you have to do to impress her is change your underwear once every three months."
"It's more than that, Anya."
"Once every four months."
Sig guffaws, shaking his head. "Harsh. But I won't take your insults too personally – after all, I'm someone who's accustomed to compromise..."
*
Sig stands in a field beside a dandy with a ridiculously long and thin moustache. The dandy wears an outrageous pink outfit and has a duelling sword at his side, slapping Sig in the face with a glove.
"You have offended my honour, sir! I demand satisfaction!"
Sig sighs and rolls up his sleeves. "Fine – but just a handjob."
*
"...What does that have to do with anything?" Anya asks.
"Remember the fable of the boy who cried wolf?" Sig enquires.
"Everybody knows that—"
"There was a shepherd boy who was tasked with guarding the village flock from wolves," Sig presses on, unperturbed. "On the first night he decided to prank the village by crying, "Wolf!" and when the villagers ran to help, he laughed at them. The second night, he cried "Wolf!" again, but had played the same trick, and when the villagers rushed to help, the boy laughed at them. On the third night, a wolf did appear and the boy was terrified, so he cried "Wolf!" and what do you think happened?" Sig pauses dramatically to let the moral sink in. "That's right, the villagers showed up, killed the wolf and they all lived happily ever after. People are idiots."
Squad laughs, though Anya is sceptical. "How is that a moral tale?"
"Ten years later the boy died of syphilis," Sig explains, as though the answer is obvious.
A smile creeps across Anya's face, though she shakes her head. "Fine: what's the moral of the story?"
"...Wolves?" Sig hesitantly suggests.
"Just saying 'wolves' isn't a moral!"
"...Big wolves?"
Indigo, who's holding a paper, reads the headline. "Trouble for surrounded Samarian Army in Tyria," he says, referencing their current situation, as Night Elf forces press in on them from the north and south. "Oh," he exclaims excitedly. "And they're releasing a new commemorative stamp celebrating the resistance of Tyria. That's exciting news for stamp collectors."
"Everything is exciting news for a stamp collector," Squad quips.
Sig and Squad fist bump. "Take that, stamp collectors!" Sig agrees.
Anya looks down and contemplates their fate, her tone cauterising the subject. "If we're trapped, that'll be the end of a free Tyria. The rest of the Samarian forces won't be able to reach here in time."
*
Black, starless cloth covers the windows of the row house, colours blinking on its surface from the flashing magic of the sign outside. Lu writes something and reads it aloud, her voice rising and falling like the shadows of an open fire. Mazer watches, caught up in a rapture of listening at the strange words, so alien to his nature and culture.
"A man looks at his son and thinks,
'I don't have the strength to carry
The weight of a tombstone.'
But, like a sword stabbed into a desert
The thought has no import
To the raging voice of life
That demands the last resort."
Lu pauses as if measuring the passing of time, then speaks again:
"The boy watches with sad, delicate patience
As the man runs and takes what isn't his
The street becomes a single fury fused
They grab and tug at him with the ecstasy and anger of the sea
Then beat him until he's bruised
Bludgeoned most of all by the look of gets from his son
Who runs to his side and looks up
At the man he has become
As if reading from the book of his own future
With a piercing, heart-wrenching dread."
"Is that something you've made up?" Mazer questions, though he suspects the answer.
A slow shake of Lu's head. "They're...emotions I've experienced, since inheriting the Mandate of Heaven from the Emperor." Her voice is soft, disintegrating – tears forming in her eyes, though refusing to fall. "I think they're people who have died fighting the Scrovengi invaders since I've been away. Somehow their souls, their memories, can still reach me." She relapses into silence.
Mazer's head feels strangely light, borne by thoughts like flights of birds, and he thinks about how his people invaded the Jade Empire, conquered Lu's home and killed many people. He's allowed himself to escape from war for too long. Wrestling with speechless stillness, he looks up and sees Lu's distress; without thought, he crosses over and comforts her, hugging the girl like a daughter.
A jolt of awareness causes him to turn. "Not now," he growls, drawing his sword and crossing to the door with fury in his eyes. "Stay down," he tells Lu, kicking the door off its hinges and knocking aside two waiting assassins.
Striding purposefully towards a group of fighters, Mazer picks up speed as they raise their crossbows and spins through the air, dodging projectiles with balletic grace, one bolt passing inches from his face. He spins like a steel-edged spinning top, cutting through the first rank in a hail of blood, his eyes burning like black coals.
Slapping aside an axe which has been thrown on a chain, Mazer elbows a creeping opponent in the face and throws him at the Ghoul who hurled the axe, knocking him back. Spinning, he disembowels two fighters rushing in from the side, the heavy fall of their guts echoing through the high sweet emptiness of the Undercity's ceiling.
As the Ghoul rises, Mazer advances on his last fighter and, seeing the enraged Scrovengi, the man shrivels into his armour like a scalded tortoise. Without stopping, Mazer lifts a fist high above the man's head and brings it down like a stapler, stamping it through the man's head and crushing all the way through his body until his fist meets the ground; blood seems to float in the air, splashing gently on Mazer's armour as the speed of the punch overtakes its fall.
"I see we're dispensing with the pleasantries," the Ghoul quips, looking at his dead team.
Mazer charges at the Ghoul and his opponent casually lifts his hand, firing half a dozen shuriken from the sleeve of his trench coat; Mazer's reflexes, honed across a great chain of hours, spring into action as he leaps sideways, a couple of the shuriken touching his armour or tapping off it, and lands on the other side with no major hits; he's on the Ghoul before his opponent can do anything.
Pinned to the ground, there's nothing the Ghoul can do as Mazer punches his metallic head into the ground, jolting it with ferocious force. The Scrovengi's hate is fresh and clear, originating more from his inability to stop a war than the immediate situation, a cold ferocity of despair in his eyes as he hits the Ghoul again and again and again.
Eventually, the head is so dented that it's barely recognisable as humanoid, dead eyes staring out like beads of dark glass as Mazer stands up, looking around as if challenging the empty street before he heads back to the house.
*
The brutal red finger of a spell flies over Colonel Talbot's head but he doesn't flinch, strength pouring into his voice as he issues orders to one of his officers.
"Lieutenant, make sure none of our people fall too far behind."
With a nod, the officer heads off to follow the instruction. Issuing the order felt normal but a few months ago, before volunteering for the Territorial Defence Legion which hastily formed after the Night Elves' invasion of Tyria, Talbot was a teacher of children during their elementary years.
For some reason, he was successively promoted when the officers above him were killed, always at the insistence of his fellow soldiers, until reaching colonel and now, after several more deaths in this battle, he's now in command of the Territorial Defence Legion during their retreat. Scraping his attention away from the Night Elf armies closing in on either side, Talbot listens as the whistling of falling explosives punctuate the distance like the note of a bird in a forest. A moment later there's an epic boom and, ahead, dozens of Samarian soldiers are catapulted into the air.
Covering his eyes from the glare of the blast, Talbot orders one of his officers. "We're going to stop and help these people."
"But, sir, there's no time—"
"There is if we act quickly and with compassion. I won't leave anyone behind, if I can help it."
The smell of the magecraft is terrible, smoke spiralling off of burnt flesh, one man lying with his stomach torn open, the lips of his wound open and screaming. He marvels at the way magic can touch people's lives with warmth and then, in the next moment, wipe them out with an uncaring majesty. Time is like a cold blade against their throat and the gap between the enemy lines is closing; anyone left behind will be killed or captured.
Picking up a wounded soldier, Talbot places her on a depleted supply wagon, looking to the enemy lines where he thinks he spots two figures, a huge black human and a ginger Dwarf – it looks like Sig Hammerhead and Squad Fearless, hopefully after having done some damage to the Night Elf advance. Sure enough, it's them and Talbot hears the Dwarf's sprinted assurance to his companion.
"Don't worry. I made sure the explosion won't go off straight away, so we have time to—"
A massive explosion punctures a huge hole in the pursuing force, its shockwave catching the two companions and sending them flying through the air, Sig landing at Talbot's feet with his head buried in the mud like an ostrich. The Dwarf plucks his head out of the mud and dramatically leaps to his feet in celebration. "Boom!" He punches the air. "Yeah!" He does a 360 spin. "Dig it!" He starts playing an invisible bass guitar. "Uh huh!" He points straight at Talbot.
"...That was a very dignified quadruple celebration," Squad deadpans, checking his singed arm. "Although you were supposed to slow the enemy advance and get us back safely."
"Back being the keyword," Sig says, with an innocent smile.
"...And safely being the other keyword," Squad adds, checking his arm isn't falling off.
"I know what the problem is here," The Dwarf declares, nodding sagely. "It's a difference of definitions: I interpreted "safely" as meaning alive, whereas you interpreted "safely" as meaning—"
"Safely?"
"Yeah."
"Gentlemen," Talbot says, interrupting their banter. "You're needed at the front."
Like two scolded schoolboys, the spectre and his pet deviant charge towards the front as Tal Riose, commander of the army, rides back and approaches Talbot. She salutes him.
"Colonel. We need your legion to form the rear-guard of the army's retreat. If you can delay the enemy, even for a little while, then we can save a quarter of a million of our best people." Indicating the moving mass behind her, she continues. "There exists here everything we need to one day crush our enemies, if this army can be moved to The Line."
Talbot knows The Line is an eight-hundred-mile-long series of defensive fortifications, ending in inaccessible mountains to the north and a vast jungle to the south. It is the only major barrier between the Night Elves and the rest of Tyria. His face wakes, serene, slow, warm.
"We'll hold." He knows the task of holding the enemy is an almost insurmountable one, but they can make a stand on this hill and give their best—give their all.
Tal Riose understands what she's asking, but there's no time for ceremony. She salutes and rides back to the front, while Talbot scrambles together his amateur fighters, now hardened and formed into a brotherhood by months of war and struggle.
He looks at his officers and is swept back through months that seem like years, to a time before blood washed the innocence from his eyes, and the unwavering, resonant voice of his presence told the children he taught: "You're wanted here. You have a role." It's this confidence he has to imbue in his people, but this time there might not be a future behind the words.
They crowd around, all his people, eyes bright with faith.
"We've been asked to form a rear-guard for the rest of the army," he begins and sees the subtle shade of despair in their faces, reality circulating slowly in their veins. "I know," he stresses.
"I know it's hard, sometimes almost impossible, for normal people to fight against the iron ring of enemies surrounding us. We belong to numerous classes, professions and locations, no pair of us can claim to have lived matching lives, but circumstances have closed the plunging distance between us and turned us into a band, a group, a cause. When I look at you, I don't see lawyers or surgeons or street cleaners, but the faces of people who have surprised me and surprised themselves many times over. We have proved to be richer in spirit, resilience and strength than we ever could have expected: that was our first victory."
A charitable flash illuminates his memory and Talbot looks to the sky as if those who have fallen on the way are buried in the blue. There's a joy enthroned in his face, but sadness too, emotion glinting from his eyes.
"Many who started the journey with us haven't lived to see this day; more won't live to see the end of it. This country is the grave, and monument, of those who fight and die for freedom, so that children read about tyrants in history books, rather than breathing out their last in cold fear, wondering why no help arrived. We fight to liberate, not to conquer. That is our strength. That is our mark. That is what brings us together. Not gold or power or the desire to crush, but the simple fact of wanting to be free. That is what makes us dangerous to those who cannot imagine a world of choice. Lastly, think of your families: I'm my mother's only son, but does that crush my instinct to fight for freedom? No! I cherish—cherish the knowledge that, if I die here but we win, every laugh and joyful smile of this land's children will be my legacy, every child will be my mother's child, and I'll live again greater than ever, purified by a mother's love and the love for my country."
Talbot's sword sings from its scabbard and he holds it aloft.
"For Tyria!"
Triumph soars through the soldiers' faces and they shout as one. It's an energy Talbot has never seen before and part of him hopes the enemy attack soon, to meet this new fire.
The legion comprises ten brigades of six-hundred soldiers and Talbot explains the plan to his officers, positioning eight of the brigades in active combat positions and holding two in reserve. The enemy pours down on their formation and the defensive line flings itself forward like a cliff against the sea, carves through the first line of attackers and then holds position.
Magic's wild inhuman music whistles about Talbot's ears as he cuts down an enemy, indicating where he wants the mages of his lead brigade to position themselves. A sound like a single crash of thunder and the sky collapses in, enemy Power shooting down in a single unstoppable beam and tearing through Talbot's mages. There's a subtle whisper of movement between them, as they realise the defence is impossible, and then the magical roof they've set up falls in—no, the defending mages have dropped it, allowing themselves to be destroyed, gorged with incinerating light which, at the last second, deflects outward not on the rest of the defenders but the attacking force, tearing through their mass in a red wall of death.
Its colour blinks on the shields and swords of the soldiers, then is gone, attackers and defenders momentarily stunned by the strength of the blast; Talbot is first to recover, cutting down an enemy and rushing forward.
"Hold the line!"
A harsh and blinding faith, brought about by Talbot's speech and their hopeless situation, causes another cry to rise from the defenders, who cut down a stunned line of attackers, pushing the offensive back momentarily; but weight of numbers keeps pressing forward. Over 600,000 attackers are trying to cut off the retreat, whereas Talbot's legion is 6,000 strong and falling every second.
Signalling to one of the reserve brigades, Talbot watches with bated breath as they perform a manoeuvre that he's tried to drill into them over several months; a form of elastic retreat in which the defensive formation becomes a sort of wheel, which withdraws but can occasionally roll the other way and attack the enemy, with the idea that the offensive can be halted or even temporarily forced back.
The wheel revolves, introducing two fresh brigades into the fray and allowing two others to rest. It works well and Talbot throws himself back into the battle; his brigade will be the last to receive rest, if they can make it that far. Talbot is surprised by how well he's fought and, though he has minor wounds and has been cut many times, every gash is an enemy's grave. Wiping blood and sweat from his forehead, he turns and sees a mighty landscape of magic up ahead, where the Samarian forces are attempting to break through the gap in the enemy lines.
Magic beams, like fingers slit the sky, falling upon the Night Elves on either side and keeping open the gap. It looks like the brilliant, innovative magic of Indigo Fitzwallis, the human mage who has developed into one of the leading magical theoreticians of his age, a creative genius. The Samarian force is escaping: Talbot and his people have bought them enough time. The day has been won, even as the battle is lost, and as he watches his countrymen make their slow escape, a smile ordains his features and he sighs heavily, ravished with bliss.
He turns back to the fight, ducks an arrow and slams his sword into an enemy's guts, sliding it free in a spray of blood. Lifting his sword to issue a rallying cry, an arrow pierces his eye, throwing his head back with concussive force. He falls backwards and it seems soldiers from both sides are doing nothing but watch across a surface of silence.
The smoke from distant magic passes across his body like a mass of whimpering ghosts, as Talbot rises, takes a knee and, incredibly, stands. In that moment he is the embodiment of his people, their strength, resilience and desire to be free. His fingers wrap themselves around the arrow, a little quiver at their edges as he pulls it free, plucking out the eye with it. Staggering slightly, he recovers, holds the arrow like a skewer to his mouth and rips the eyeball free with his teeth, crunching and swallowing it with a weight of years on his face. They won't have even this part of me. The eye served him well but he moves on, lifting his sword above his head.
He lets go a howl that towers in one spot like an obelisk and points his blade at the enemy, enjoining his fighters to join him and, in one inspired and jubilant mob, they do, pouring down on the enemy and forcing them back, albeit momentarily. Screams trample the silence and an enemy general is isolated, Talbot cutting him down, sensing his chance and choosing life.
"The gap is still open!" he yells. "Tal Riose will hold it for as long as she can...I know she will."
The Territorial Defence Legion breaks out of the gap just before the Night Elves complete their encirclement and, though they've lost almost half their number, Talbot sees with his one eye how the soldiers are looking at him differently. Like he's a living legend, when he isn't – he's just one of them.
When his legs weaken, two soldiers wordlessly duck under his arms and support him as he walks. He knows other soldiers, looking back from the main army and seeing the rear-guard igniting against the attack, and knowing that something extraordinary must be happening back there, will be looking for the full story. He hopes his people don't exaggerate his role in their success, because only the dead have the power to consecrate a battlefield; the living have only the right, and duty, to resist and honour the sacrifices made.
***
Thank you for reading. All feedback and votes are appreciated. Leave a comment and I'll check out your stories.