Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  So Urstadt fought on, but she gave ground, and the line gave ground with her. Their position slowly shifted from bowed outward, to flat, to bowing slightly inward, as the more hardened troops on the infantry flanks held their ground as instructed.

  Urstadt rammed the butt of her weapon into the face of an oncoming Khalic soldier, then spun to slice the arm off another, blood spurting onto her armor.

  * * *

  Winter’s frost ran out more quickly than she’d anticipated, and soon she was left cold, without her power. In the heat of the battle she had lost track of Kyfer, otherwise she would have attempted to assassinate him as well, perhaps ending this whole conflict.

  Having just taken frost, she’d warded off the inevitable crash. It would come soon, but for the next few hours, maybe the next day, she would feel normal. Or as close to normal as was possible for her. She had one hope, however: if she could find the psimancer corpses after the battle, she could take any faltira they’d been carrying with them. She had no idea whether they were actuals or variants, but Kali and Nash, both actuals, had carried faltira with them so they could test any potential psimancers they encountered in the field as quickly as possible. She hoped that was the case with at least a few of the psimancers she’d killed.

  The Khalic infantry pushed them back faster than Winter would have liked, but her soldiers managed the tactical retreat well. Winter kept a close eye on Gord and Eranda, and had ordered Urstadt to do the same. She’d be damned if she’d let either of them die here today.

  The more experienced Rangers on the flanks held their own. They had been pushed back slightly, but fared much better than the middle of her formation. And the tiellan riders were routing the Khalic cavalry, as she’d hoped. No one could stand against her mounted Rangers.

  Without faltira, Winter had only one option. She drew her sword and ran to Eranda’s side, swinging her blade into the neck of an oncoming legionary, pressing her foot against the man’s chest to lever it back out again. She turned and attacked the nearest soldier bearing down on Eranda. He danced around her first attack, but Urstadt’s glaive took him in the side.

  In a surge, the Khalic troops pressed forward. The sheer weight of the number of soldiers propelled them into Winter’s infantry. A Khalic soldier stumbled into Winter, but the woman took too long to bring her sword up; Winter kneed her in the gut, then brought the pommel of her sword down hard on the woman’s head.

  But the Khalic push had broken her line, effectively splitting her force. Some tiellan soldiers were already fleeing. Winter saw Eranda backing away from the break in the line, fear in her eyes.

  Canta’s bloody bones. This was not part of her plan.

  Winter grabbed Eranda’s shoulder. “Stay with me!” she shouted. “This isn’t over yet.” She raised her sword and shouted, “Rangers! Rally to me!”

  She glanced at Urstadt, and together the two of them attacked the Khalic soldiers that had broken through. Winter hacked and stabbed, parried and danced around attacks, and was about to stab a Khalic soldier Urstadt had thrown to the ground when something slammed into the side of her head. Winter felt the force of it before the pain, throwing her off balance, but the moment her knees hit the ground pain ruptured in her skull, focused in a tight node between her ear and temple. Winter blinked rapidly as darkness leaked from the edges of her vision.

  Her eyes refocused just in time to see a Khalic soldier, armor glinting, thrust his sword into her chest. Two things happened at once to save her: Winter twisted clumsily, knowing it wouldn’t be enough, but simultaneously a bloody glaive cleaved into the base of the man’s neck from behind. Urstadt’s blow disrupted the soldier’s attack just enough to deflect it into Winter’s shoulder instead of her heart.

  Goddess, it had been stupid of her and Urstadt to charge into the breach alone.

  Searing pain flashed down Winter’s arm, but she didn’t have time to check the wound. Another pair of Khalic soldiers attacked, and Winter ducked under the swing of a battleaxe just in time, rolling to her feet. She kicked one of them straight onto a Ranger’s blade, and sliced the heel tendon of the other. He fell to the ground screaming.

  Winter stumbled back, reorienting herself and catching her breath. Her Rangers had finally rallied to her, Eranda and Gord and a dozen others fighting at her side. Together they reformed the line against the Khalic infantry, meeting their opponents sword to sword. Urstadt took the lead, apparently unscathed, her glaive a blur around her.

  Winter let out a sob of relief. She looked down at the wound on her shoulder. It didn’t look bad. Blood was leaking onto her black leather armor, but it came slowly. Gord and Eranda still lived. There was hope for this battle yet.

  Selldor approached her, covered in gore from head to toe, bloody sword in one hand. “Commander,” he gasped, nodding at her shoulder, “let me escort you back. You need a healer.”

  Winter looked back at the battle, her head pounding. “No,” she said, her voice hoarse. Now that they’d reformed the line, she needed to make her move before it broke again. “It is time.” She signaled to her standard-bearer. The lad waved a red flag frantically.

  “Turn!” she shouted, with as much energy as she could gather.

  “Commander, your wounds need tending,” Selldor said, stepping closer to her.

  Winter raised her sword, and Selldor immediately stepped back. She hadn’t meant it to be intimidating, but she didn’t mind. These wounds wouldn’t kill her. Not yet, anyway.

  She whispered one word to Selldor, and the moment she said it, he nodded, and about-faced to charge back into battle.

  “Turn.”

  All around her, Rangers echoed the signal word, their shouts rising in the air.

  Turn.

  Winter climbed atop a small pile of corpses, human and tiellan both, to get a better view of the battlefield. Her heavy infantry on the flanks had received the signal, and now turned inward. The Khalic force had pushed Winter’s center so far back that they were now hemmed into a pocket of Winter’s soldiers, all but surrounded on three sides. Winter’s cavalry on the far left, led by Nardo, had routed the opposing Khalic horse and currently pursued them off to the south. Her riders on the right, led by Rorie, had all but scattered the Khalic cavalry on her side as well. Rorie had already regrouped her riders, leading them behind the massive block of Khalic infantry. For a moment, Winter worried Nardo was too distracted to bring his riders around as well, but when he turned to see the battlefield, he rallied his cavalry with a shout.

  Nardo’s riders joined Rorie’s, and together they hedged in the rear of the Khalic infantry, closing the circle of tiellan fighters.

  Winter had successfully surrounded the massive block of Khalic infantry.

  “We have them!” she screamed, jumping down and sprinting towards the front line. She, along with her Rangers, fought their way inwards, crushing the Khalic force together.

  Urstadt had once cautioned her to never attempt to surround an enemy that outnumbered her. But seeing the terrain, the way the Khalic army had formed against them, she knew she had to try. Without frost, it was the only way she could think of that might defeat such a force.

  And, Goddess rising, it had worked.

  Her elation quickly faded at the realization of the work that lay before her. The Khalic army still outnumbered them by a great deal, and surrender was nowhere in sight. The Khalic soldiers were packed so tightly together she wondered whether they could even lift their arms. She could not imagine how terrifying it must be for them, to watch their fellows dying around them, and to be completely helpless to do anything about it—and to know that they were likely next.

  The battle had turned into butchery. The tiellans took numerous breaks, regaining their strength, while the Khalic force obstinately refused to surrender. Then her forces would simply attack again, continuing the work of murdering Khalic humans, one by one.

  Finally, after hours of this, the Khalic force seemed to recognize its fate, and the soldiers who re
mained in the middle of the tiellan ring laid down their weapons, kneeling.

  Blood soaked the grass and collected in small pools everywhere on the field; soldiers slipped on red mud all around her.

  Everything was red.

  Winter suddenly doubled over and vomited into the red grass. Her shoulder burned with pain, and the side of her head throbbed. She wondered how long she had been running on adrenaline alone. The sudden rush of pain, combined with the sight of the red beneath her and her own sick, only made her want to vomit more.

  Goddess, she had to get away, she had to get clean.

  When she had emptied her stomach, she turned and began walking quickly away from the battlefield, from the massive red stain on the landscape. Before she got far, Selldor found her.

  “Commander,” he said, saluting.

  Winter let out a ragged breath. She returned his salute with all the energy she could muster. “What is it, Selldor?”

  “First, I’ve brought healers for you.” Two older tiellan men rushed up to her, inspecting her shoulder.

  Winter nodded, and almost collapsed with gratitude. The healers immediately grabbed her arms, supporting her and leading her to a large rock on which she could sit. Goddess rising, she hadn’t realized how exhausted she was.

  Her gratitude immediately turned to anger as one of the healers poured a liquid on her shoulder wound that burned like a Goddess-damned furnace.

  “What in Oblivion—”

  “Sorry ’bout that, Commander,” one of the healers said. Neither met her eyes; they were both focused on her shoulder.

  Winter’s eyes bored holes in the man, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I am ready to report, Commander.” One of Selldor’s duties consisted of gathering as much information as possible after each battle, and relaying it to Winter. She almost did not want to know what he had to say.

  Winter growled in pain as one of the healers scraped a small metal tool against—no, she realized as she looked down, inside—her wound. Winter brought her other arm around and punched the man in the side of the head.

  The healer stumbled backwards, but when he regained his balance came right back to Winter, the small tool held ready. “Sorry again, Commander,” he said, finally looking her in the eyes. “This ain’t going to heal properly without pain first. The pain’s good. Means the wound’s gettin’ clean.”

  Winter clenched her jaw, then nodded curtly.

  “Go ahead,” Winter said, both to Selldor and the healer, the words heavy on her tongue.

  “We took heavy losses,” Selldor said, his face grim. “Thirteen hundred casualties from our infantry. Almost half of them dead.”

  Winter sucked in a sharp breath, both from the Goddess-damned healers and from the numbers Selldor reported. “Nearly a third,” she whispered. They had begun the battle with just over four thousand infantry. “Our riders?”

  “Fifteen hundred casualties, almost one thousand dead.”

  By far the heaviest losses the tiellans had experienced on a battlefield—and not just because it was the largest army Winter had ever fielded; previously, her casualties had been closer to six or seven percent. Today it had been over thirty.

  Winter growled at the scraping pain in her shoulder, and was about to punch the idiot healer again when he removed the tool, hands raised.

  “All finished, Commander. All that’s left now is to dress the wound. The worst is over.”

  Winter eyed the healer warily, then turned back to Selldor.

  “The Khalic Legion?” Winter asked.

  Selldor swallowed hard. “We… we are still counting the dead, Commander. Most of the Khalic cavalry fled after they were routed, so we have no accurate estimate of their horse. But their infantry… we estimate they lost at least twelve thousand soldiers.”

  Winter’s eyes widened. “Twelve thousand casualties?”

  “Twelve thousand dead, Commander.”

  The last few hours of the battle had been a slaughter, nothing but butchery. But twelve thousand dead. Maybe more. At her command.

  Murderer.

  Slowly, Selldor sat down beside her.

  “Is Kyfer among them?” Winter asked. “Or the psimancers?”

  “We have not found them yet,” Selldor said.

  Winter stared at the ground, blinking. Twelve thousand dead. The shock of it was almost enough to make her forget about her pounding head, or the pain in her shoulder, or even about the fact that, if they didn’t find the psimancer bodies, she would have no more faltira.

  “We have taken the prisoners, Commander. What are your wishes for them?”

  Kill them all, a part of Winter wanted to say.

  Their victory was decisive; she could make it even more so, and horrify their enemies in the process.

  But as Urstadt had emphasized time and time again, that was not how warfare was conducted. One day Winter would lose a battle, Urstadt insisted, and her own troops, or she herself, would be taken prisoner. How would she want her own Rangers treated?

  And another part of Winter could not bear the thought of more death that day. The Canaian Fields were stained red. So many had died, and many by her own hand. How could she contribute to another?

  The dark part of her flared. What did death matter to her? When did Winter start caring about anything on this Sfaera? Everything she had ever loved had been taken from her. If she took that from others, what did it matter?

  “Commander? Are you all right?”

  Winter’s eyes met Selldor’s, the whites of them surprisingly bright against his red-stained face.

  There was another way, Winter realized. The only order is chaos.

  Winter closed her eyes, and Chaos waited for her, smooth and the purest white.

  “Send word to whoever is in charge of their remaining forces,” Winter said. “Kyfer, if he escaped. Inform them that we have prisoners, and are willing to exchange them for ransom.”

  “Of course, Commander.”

  “Is that all, Selldor?”

  “That is all, Commander.”

  “Thank you,” Winter said. Then, she stood. “Now, please… give me a moment alone.”

  She did not wait to hear his response, but instead walked away from him, from the massive bloody stain on the landscape, and from everything.

  37

  Foothills of the Eastmaw Mountains

  OVER TWO-THIRDS OF THE Khalic force, killed or taken prisoner. Kyfer could not believe the number, despite the evidence.

  And it was the fault of the tiellans.

  Kyfer stood at the top of a small hill at the base of the Eastmaw Mountains. He could not believe that only months before, he had experienced a victory in these same mountains, and had looked on the tiellans as nothing but a nuisance, a way to expand his power, if anything. He had not known them then for what they were.

  Daemons.

  Kyfer clenched his fists, looking up at the sky, and let out a shriek, a scream he had pent up inside of himself since barely escaping the Canaian Fields—the killing fields, as his troops now called them. Since he had lost that first battle on the Setso.

  The sound echoed against the stars, and finally faded into the night. The rest of his cavalry camped just on the other hill; they would have undoubtedly heard him, but Kyfer no longer cared. His reputation was ruined. All he had worked for, all he had ever wanted, had now been taken from him by the tiellans.

  “I sense your anger, my son.”

  Kyfer turned quickly, looking for the source of the voice. He had been alone on this hilltop, he had made sure of it. And as he looked around, he saw nothing but an empty hilltop still; except for the stars in the sky, he was alone. Kyfer chuckled to himself. He was likely going mad. Perhaps this whole ordeal would rob him of his sanity.

  “Sanity was never my domain,” the voice said. It was a man’s voice, strong and confident, echoing against the night sky. “Wrath, however, is.”

  “Who are you?” Kyfer asked, looking around himself. St
ill, he saw nothing, no one. Just the stars, and…

  And one star, a bright red star Kyfer had never seen before. The star glimmered scarlet, and then it grew. It elongated into a bright red shaft, and that shaft expanded into a man—a man bigger than any Kyfer had ever seen, standing a head taller than he, and ripped with muscle and sinew.

  “I am Mefiston,” the man said. The redness had all but faded from him now, although Kyfer could swear he could see the hints of iridescent red tendrils of smoke rising from the man’s eyes, his skin.

  “I… I do not know you,” Kyfer said.

  “No, you don’t. Would you like to?”

  Kyfer stared at the man, unsure of what to say, what to think.

  “You are angry,” the man repeated. “I can help you channel that anger, if you accept my power. I can help you exact the revenge you seek.”

  Revenge.

  “You will help me kill the tiellans?” Kyfer asked. “You will help me kill the tiellan witch?”

  “I will help you do whatever you wish,” Mefiston said with a smile. “All you have to do is let me in.”

  Kyfer hesitated. He did not know who this man was, what this man was. He did not know the nature of this deal the man claimed to offer. It would be foolish to accept.

  Or, rather, it would be foolish for the old Kyfer to accept such a thing; the Kyfer who still had a reputation, who still had something to lose.

  This Kyfer was willing to do anything.

  “Very well—”

  Before Kyfer could finish his thought, he began to scream.

  * * *

  Razzo grabbed his sword, looking to the neighboring hilltop where the screams came from.

  “Captain,” one of his lieutenants said, looking to him, “I can take a few men to investigate…”

  “Do it.” Razzo had seen Kyfer wander off in that direction as night fell. His general could be having a breakdown, or the tiellans could be up to something. Razzo took a deep breath. He prayed to the Goddess Kyfer was just losing his mind. After the horror of the Canaian Fields, he did not want to see another tiellan ever again. He shook his head, remembering the way he’d spoken before the battle. He’d been a Goddess-damned fool. “Take a hundred light horsemen with you. If it’s the tiellans, gather as much information as you can before returning to me so we can form up.”