Fetid smells from the dead and dying assaulted Rylett’s nostrils. Men, women, and beasts, with limbs ripped from bodies and torn apart, lay scattered around the matted grasses. “Eesh, that’s foul!” Rylett bemoaned, cursing into his gloved hand as he stifled a gag.
“Quit moaning!” Wott grunted back. The older soldier had matted brown hair and brown eyes, though they glinted as they darted back and forth so much they gave the illusion of being nearly jet black as he always avoided eye contact.
“I’m just saying, this place used to be a beaut, now look around!” he gestured at his surroundings, dismayed.
Wott just waved a free hand back as he speared a gurgling man through the chest to end his groaning and suffering. Wott then pilfered a pocket watch that dangled from his pants, copper barely glimmering in places not caked with mud, the suns hidden by dark gray clouds. Beneath the pools of blood, the green tufts of grass looked mottled with the gore of the battle. The Iron Mountains at their back, with golden tree leaves rustling in the wind, still shone at an awe-inspiring angle.
“What are we even looking for ‘round here, Wott? What’s the point of finding captives if the war is s’posed to be ending soon?”
A haughty retort came as Wott snorted. “What gave you that idea? This war’s been going on since before you were born, lad. You think it’s ending tomorrow? Sounds like wishful thinking to me.”
“Nah I heard it from one of the captain’s guards, Ryke. He had a general in his tent when Ryke was on guard duty. Captain was jumping with joy after their meeting, shouting about the war being over in days.”
Wott shook his head in further disbelief, “I’ll believe it when I see it. ‘til then, keep searching for survivors we can round up. Kill the rest…and see if-” he quickly shut his mouth, his eyes nervously darting between bodies as he hurriedly looked for a writhing body to stab.
Rylett looked up from his crouched position, spinning in time to bump straight into a man walking amongst the bodies. Even as he stood, the fellow loomed over him by half a head as he walked by, though he didn’t appear much larger or physically imposing than Rylett at first glance. He had silver, wispy hair that fluttered with each breeze, unkempt and matted with some blood. The man’s presence was undeniable, unnervingly so, but it was also difficult to place. The man, however, hardly noticed him. He bowled him over in his rush, then picked Rylett up. “Sorry,” he muttered softly, as though lost in thought. He had a capital accent, wispy in nature. Antipathy built up in Rylett; the capital was full of the priests, their cronies, and the richest of the rich. Those whose families had become rich generations ago and never let go. The man was well-dressed, his coat a dark indigo, covering a worn robed shirt that clearly was once white but had seen too much mud and blood to ever go back to that color completely. Though his feelings were not malicious toward the man, there was always a supreme distrust of the wealthy and powerful. Clearly, he was of some noteworthy importance, as he kept walking directly up to Ilant Hazar, dismissing the guards flanking him with a wave of a bandaged hand.
“Gotta be some high priest’s son or other, playing at general,” Wott snorted under his breath. It was impossible, as he was nearly a hundred yards away, but the man glanced back at Wott with a scowl that seemed as if he’d heard the remark. He turned back to continue gesticulating and conversing with Ilant.
“What do you think they’re discussing,” Rylett asked, his curiosity piqued.
“Told you already, didn’t I?” Wott spat. “This war’s ending, they’re probably divvying up the spoils. That’s why we gotta find ours here on the battlefield, ‘mongst the dead.”
As the war had raged on into a third decade, the name of Dunyasik’s most famous sellsword had stretched out even into the battles on the outskirts out here. Ilant Hazar came from famous stock; for generations, his family had been hired by the rich and powerful in times of conflict or in efforts to end conflicts, and those who fomented conflict, quietly. As the patriarch of a wealthy family, he held lands, riches, and countless properties across Dunyasik. The Hazar clan’s family line could be traced to before Amune, and thus they were technically not citizens of Dunyasik. That suited their clan just fine; the Brothers of Amune weren’t the only ones willing to pay to keep their hands from getting dirty. Despite the kind of wealth that could keep one from ever lifting a finger, even at this distance, one could tell that Ilant Hazar was a hardened man. Fifty years of age, he had spent nearly his entire adult life killing in the name of Dunyasik in the Iron Wars, and his weathered features and hulking, muscular frame showed it.
“Any news on the Northern front?” Ilant questioned flatly.
“Hakani has secured a surrender from two battalions from Ginlesik after two days battle in the Azure Plains. Rumors have spread that their King is on the verge of surrender. Morale seems low over there,” the man responded quietly.
“He may only be my third cousin, but Light Within that man seems to be the Darkness itself on the battlefield,” and Ilant quickly shot a grin at the man. “Wouldn’t want to have to face him in battle myself.”
“Never knew you to be one for religion, nor for fear.”
“I don’t fear a single man in combat… but ?atalay Hakani is barely even a man these days. The Lion of the Northern Sun is as deadly as any man this world has seen, save a few select. And he could inspire a roach in battle with his prowess,” Ilant stated matter-of-factly. He sat himself on a stump. This patch of land in Redwood Glen had been cleared by Ginlesik loggers two years prior in an effort to power their furnaces, pumping out steel swords at breakneck pace as they entrenched themselves in the war until the bitter end. Some redwood still surrounded them further into the hills, and the glen itself stretched out for a few acres of untamed grasses. “Any news of Sekzint, any news of my son’s accomplishments?”
“He has…negotiated an extension of the treaty with Ilerle’s Merchant Lords. They have agreed to extend their embargo on trade of fire lances, spears, and armor with Ginlesik for another year. Though, that doesn’t seem to be necessary, with the war on the verge of ending, does it?”
“Don’t presume that the embargo is meant to weaken only Ginlesik. The Iron Wars have been a thorn in the Seven’s side for a generation, but their kings mean nothing in the face of what Ilerle could come to be,” Ilant spat back.
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The man nodded at the scolding look, continuing, “there’s also word of a vagabond that has braved the Northern Channel. Landed in North Dallin a few days ago and has claimed vengeance upon the Seven, killed seven local priests and cleared out an entire company training there. Scouts have reported she’s not from Ginlesik, either,” he straightened himself, stretching his lower back.
“Gotten quite casual with reports, haven’t you?” Ilant retorted, noticing the lax nature setting in on the man’s face.
The man looked over Ilant’s shoulder, eying the bodies around him. Clouds had set in over them, and amongst the bodies, the graying landscape clearly ached upon his eyes and weighed upon his heart. The man’s expression turned from an appearance of apathy to one of sadness. “Do you think what we’ve done in this war has been for the good, or have we merely sated the thirst for blood that men have?”
Silence followed for a moment. “Bleached linens cast dark shadows all the same,” Ilant said back cooly, standing from the stump and placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, his callused fingers easily grasping the thinner man. Seeing no response on the man’s face, Ilant continued. “Do you hope to find mercy in my heart? There’s no meaning to this war, or any war, no matter who wins or loses. Let mercy find no safe harbor in your heart, if you truly wish to live through war.”
Ilant walked away, offering no further answer.
Seeing the thinner man, equal to Ilant in height, standing in the distance with his shoulders sagging visibly as the broader man strode away, Rylett couldn’t explain it, but he felt empty.
“Git moving, will ya?” Wott chirped.
Rylett simply grunted in response, his lower back stiffening as he unceremoniously rifled through belongings of dead men. Rylett never grew up wishing to go to war, but the Iron Wars started when he was just a babe, and the idea of peace seemed far-fetched, even as it became clear that Dunyasik had pressed its advantage in sellsword numbers and heroes, forcing the Ginlesi to give ground and retreat to their twinkling gemstone-lined halls and shadowy mountainside forests. He had aged what felt to be twenty years in just a half a decade of service; though the pay was adequate, and he had not had to be in too many direct combat engagements, the lingering panic whenever the horns sounded slowly had begun to crush him. His wife, Yssa, was pregnant with their third child due at the start of springtime in a few short months. Perhaps she’ll give birth in Tahna, the same month as my own birthday. Fall had been especially bountiful this year, as Yssa’s letters detailed hawkline reaped in numbers he thought never possible when they first bought their plot of land, four years ago, not long after he had joined up for the sellsword company. He remembered that fall had also been a pleasant season that year; the sweltering central summers had yielded to rainfall that slaked the thirst of the land so desperately craving it, the soil seemed to grasp as the air humidified as the first showers fell, like a beggar reaching up in the streets desperately to proffered water. The Dunyasi elites held the water reserves the entirety of the summer as the South Frenen river’s banks receded and even Bridge was forced to drill new wells miles from their desiccated riverbed.
“Let’s hope we pull something worth all this wretched work,” Rylett groaned.
“You think you’d get to keep anything worth anything?”
“The hells do you mean?”
“Even if you find anything worth some sort of scratch, you ain’t gonna see two stamps for it,” Wott chided. “First off, anything you get that ain’t worth showing cap’n that’s worth half a copper stamp better come to me first, since I let you in on this racket. Second, don’t think for two seconds any of these mud brains brought anything worth hiding into battle, otherwi-” Wott caught himself, choking on his own saliva as he fell down to his backside, a puddle of soiled water splashing up his leathers.
Rylett turned from his own corpse and cocked his head slightly in curiosity. “You alright there?” he chuckled. The man had grown pale as though someone had drained him of blood in a matter of moments. Wott had dark hair, but such fear crawled over his face he might nearly have had his hair turn white in an instant, Rylett thought. He came over and eyed the body as Wott sat motionless, the man too stunned to speak. Rylett nearly fell to his knees to join him.
The body they both stood stupefied over had been mutilated, to be sure, but that wasn’t so odd after a battle such as the one from Redwood Glen. The body was sliced to ribbons, with dozens of cuts ranging from the nape to the ankles on the body, which was covered by what remained of a silken tabard over battle leathers and a golden silk sleeve undershirt, sullied by mud and blood, spit and sputum. The yellow tabard was shredded far beyond repair, but it was clear what was on the robe, even in such a damaged state: an olive branch crossed with a torch, both sewn into the yellow robe with blue fabric surrounded by a white threaded circle that lay in the lower abdomen of the body’s coverings. It was the tabard of Jojune, Ginlesi hero and heir to the throne, the Golden Immortal. He was Ginlesi’s greatest warrior, the adopted son of the king of Ginlesik; it was said that he had never been beaten in single combat. He was a god amongst his men and seeing him in the flesh was an omen of death.
“T-t-that can’t be him, h-h-he must be one of his attendants,” Wott fumbled out.
Rylett, more composed than his senior, rolled the body unceremoniously on its side. Even on the body’s back, deep slice wounds riddled the simple leather armor and the silks underneath, cut so cleanly through that they seemed like they might have been sewn that way. As the body slumped into the mud, it became clearer. The Golden Immortal’s blade lay half buried in the mud underneath the corpse. Jojune’s sword was a simple, elegant thing; its golden hilt was not ornately carved, though a blood red ruby sat, carved into a perfect sphere, in the pommel. The blade itself was straight and balanced, not rapier-thin and not gratuitously large, and it was clearly made just for him, as it looked the perfect length for a man of his size. Jojune was built like the ideal Ginlesi hero; golden hair, though matted with blood now, could clearly be seen as neatly cropped at mid neck length. His jaw was chiseled and his face looked as though it was carved from the granite deposits directly in the Ginlesi royal court’s personal mountain range. His eyes, half closed in a way that made him look…lonely, were a golden yellow. Though his personal silks and tabard were ornately sewn and showed some measure of personal wealth and station, his armor seemed to be an everyman’s type. He did have three rings on each hand. They gleamed with pure gold even through the mud. He had been hailed as the next in line after Kuncer in Ginlesik’s royal court, but word had disseminated that Jojune was a true man of the people and a worthy prince.
“Hmm, I would’ve thought he’d be taller,” Rylett said, half-jokingly. He rolled the body back over onto its back, covering the sword.
“W-what do you think happened to him?” Wott said.
Rylett shrugged; he hadn’t even been in an area where he had seen Jojune on the battlefield, and to be honest with himself, he would have run if he had seen that gold hilt gleaming amongst the dying, even in the chaotic fray of the fighting that day. “Lord Ilant himself was here at the battle, you saw him. Maybe he did this.” He shrugged again for emphasis.
Wott began to regain himself as he stood up from the muck, struggling in the ground as it slipped and stuck. “He didn’t look like he’d done much fighting today. Plus…I heard he’s focused more on his family’s politics these days. Doesn’t have time to do grunt work no more.”
Rylett gestured at the body with some showmanship, “does killing the Golden Immortal’s really sound like grunt work to you?”
“But the Lion’s not here, rumor says he’s up North, last I heard.”
Rylett shrugged again. “What you want to do with the body?” The two made conspiratory glances around and then nodded to each other. “Something tells me these are worth than two copper stamps,” and laughed heartily as he reached out to rip rings from the stiff fingers.
