Bloodlust was in the air. Runaic chants drowned out the peaceful, nightly ambience of the swamp. They pounded their weapons against the dirt, eyes ahead. Dreaming of the mayhem and chaos they were about to unleash. Aj-Malik led them, while singing a tune from their homeland. The only ones who remained quiet were Arnzos, Zafi, and Da’haz. It became evident they fully expected their magicians to win them the day, as they made more noise than a dying whale. This siege was the new meal. And the boys were hungry.

  Passing dead bark and the black dirt of old, the Ultin’s troop reached the outskirts of Jama Bog. The land seemed revitalized, like a curse was lifted from its ether. Fields of poppies, orange-red in their hue, greeted the soldiers as they looked upon their target from afar. Light, beaten paths sectored off flowers and grass, ultimately leading to their prize. The crumbling bastion barely held by trembling stone. Fort Blavim. Upon actually seeing it, the Ultin laughed, his confidence spilling into hubris.

  “Look upon these shameful long-ears. Even their castles quake like they do!”

  He knew that was not true, for all elven forts. But it did its part in rallying their fervor. Feeding the machine oiled by guts and gore. With guttural roars and pumping arms, there was not a second longer to talk.

  The Ultin whistled two times, as the pyromancer brigade fell into formation before the troop. In the distance, elves patrolling the upper walls pointed and talked amongst themselves. But they didn’t draw their bows. Everyone on the walls retreated further into the keep. Leaving the ramparts bare. Arnzos took note of that, but wasn’t sure what it meant. The Ultin and his Wardens had no care at all, as Zafi clacked her forearms together. Like flint cracking steel. She hit her right fist against her left elbow. Conjuring a flame that grew and grew. Her acolytes followed their master. Mimicking her every move.

  “Feed the spark.” she mouthed. “Feed it with great wood and metal.”

  A storm of hell and burning fury catapulted out from the mancers. Orbs made entirely of melting rock rained from above Fort Blavim. From their perspective, the Ul-Baqshans couldn’t see the blazing destruction, but they heard the explosive booms of impact on the keep.

  Zafi’s flaming magic fired off towards the gate. Like a meteorite ascending from the stars. It whooshed with speed. Her other sisters blasted the gate as well, as it was not long before it began to crumble underneath scorching torture. Withering planks crashed against gravel floor. The fort’s gates spat up dusty gray smoke as they could hold no longer. Giving in. Leaving the elves’ main entrance open. The mancers fell back in line while the Ultin took charge, galloping around the dwarven front line on his valiant brown steed.

  “I see through their tactics.” Aj-Malik said to the army. “They plan on bombarding us with arrows when we enter the keep. Iron core formation! Twenty five shells! Every pyromancer must be shielded.”

  The soldiers created their iron cores. Twelve dwarves squished themselves against each other, raising their shields to cover their unit. With twelve dwarves fortified on every side, their iron cores were like walking hunks of metal. Protected at all angles. Like a turtle’s shell coated in lead. In every one of the cores, a pyromancer huddled within. Confining their magic within tight palms. The Ultin roared as the iron core units marched towards the open gate. Ready for the downpour.

  While the dwarves had their shields and their camaraderie, the mercenaries had no such benefit. A few of them had bucklers and metal kites, but nowhere near the shieldpower for an iron core. They were vulnerable to the downpour. Yet, their commanding Wardens did not care. They were meat for the factory. And this offensive was just as much theirs as anyone else’s. It was wise to keep close to the dwarven turtles, even if they did not provide the mercs direct protection.

  Arnzos joined the core that Da’haz was in. Around the middle of the pack. The twelfth or thirteenth turtle, by his estimation. Arnzos was aware that Da’haz might let him die to steal away Sunslash, but he had the other soldiers to hold him accountable. Only one of Da’haz’s goons joined him in the core. The rest were fresh faces. And true, heroic dwarves valued the defense of the group. Arnzos guessed there might be some security in that, at least.

  Up ahead, as the marching continued, Arnzos saw the first turtle pace past the destroyed gate. Through the gravel dust spit. Into the unknown. He waited to hear the whizzing of arrows. Arrows firing off, one hundred a minute. Perhaps the clinking of shields and pounding boots were too loud, but Arnzos heard nothing else. They approached, closer and closer, yet still no hiss of death. The iron cores kept on, disappearing behind the doors’ gray smoke. One by one.

  Eventually, it came to Arnzos and Da’haz. The warriors coughed as they trod through, shields still ready. What was on the other side was practically unknown.

  Arnzos was never one for praying, but he tried in that moment, to reach to a higher power. If he could take a blessing, just for a second, it might be okay. There was some comfort he scrounged up…

  As they stepped forward. Step. Step. Step.

  Emerging from the smoke, they reunited with other iron cores. Confusion spread, as they were unsure of what to do. They kept position, holding for the Ultin. Since not a single elf could be seen. Not in the derelict courtyard, or up on the ramparts, or even on the roofs of the mossy barracks. It was as if it was abandoned. An echo of what it was before the war. Arnzos saw the inner castle further in, along with the decaying trio of towers, creating a triangle shape between them. He sighed in relief, as he spotted other mercenaries do the same.

  But a whole fortress couldn’t be empty like this. It wasn’t feasible. The Ul-Baqshans spotted scouts on the battlements barely thirty minutes ago. Unless Dreyadus’ elves suddenly gained the talent of dwarven tunneling, it just wasn’t possible for them to escape.

  “Where is everyone?” Da’haz whispered to his unit.

  “You think we’d know?” Arnzos replied.

  Da’haz glared at him through a thin crack in the iron core. “Maybe you would. All that snoopin’ around at night. I should kill you right now for whatever schemes you’ve planned.”

  “If this is what I think this is, the Ontullians will do your work for you.”

  In waiting, Arnzos observed Fort Blavim’s structure. It eroded, as loose pebbles were chipped off by gravity. He spent a good chunk tracing his eyes along the main castle. Trying to dig out any semblance of life within. But the open windows were empty. Besides his allies continuing their march, it was quiet enough to hear the chirping crickets and the calling of lesser raptors. Until the Ultin arrived in the final iron core. Surprised to see no resistance. Still, his war machine could not falter.

  “Cores! To the main castle!” he ordered.

  Then, a horn was blown. Unfamiliar. Reverberating throughout.

  Arnzos heard a light creaking of wood. Like old, fragile doors crying for help. He turned to the direction it came from. The southeast spire. And then another creaking. That one, from the southwest. Two figures carefully navigated the outwork. Converging at the middle of the battlements. They had long ears and dead expressions.

  The left figure—tall and gaunt—had bony masses protruding from her skin. Like prisoners desperately trying to break through her flesh. On her face was a dark blue wooden mask, with pure white eyes gazing past the two narrow holes for sight. By her sides were two serrated swords. Eager to jump from their scabbards into Ul-Baqshan hearts. Moreover, Arnzos felt a pressure on his scales just from looking at her.

  And next to her stood a half-elf in a frilly white dress—like one might wear to go dancing. She was dead in expression the way one would hide their soullessness. A fake smile and warm cheeks. Plus, she was not entirely elven, as Arnzos spotted human features on her sprinkled around. She seemed antithetical to a soldier. Compared to the other elf, who was blank in disposition and armed beyond belief. Both of them creeped Arnzos out, but that was the least of his worries.

  These were members of the Quintus Prima. The Legus’ greatest wartime champions. The second that the Ultin saw them, he knew they were there… for him.

  The lanky elf? The Blue Whirlwind. The shorter? The Glacial Maiden.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Retreat!” Aj-Malik yelled. “RETREAT!!”

  And chaos fell upon them. With sliding of their palms and the clashing of fingers to fist, the Maiden and the Whirlwind conjured a maelstrom of magic. Powerful gusts, sharp enough to cut skin, threw the iron cores off balance. Disorienting the Ultin’s troop. It blew away their weapons and shields. The Ul-Baqshans clung to anything nailed down, just to not get swept away in the upheaval. Then, shards of thick ice began to manifest in the wind. The shards crystallized and shifted to aim at various targets, ready to be launched like bolts from a ballista. The Maiden twirled on one foot, launching them.

  Homing in on their targets, the shards burrowed into the open spots in the dwarves’ armor. Their necks. Under their arms. Their eyes and faces. Like saw-toothed worms digging through meat, the icicles pushed through the muscles and veins and blood. Ravaging their bodies and causing indescribable pain. They poked out and popped eyes. Ruptured hearts and lungs. Burrowed into gums and tongues. Making the dwarves choke on their own blood. They screamed—or tried to—as their organs were cut up like butcher’s meat.

  Dozens of dwarven soldiers slumped over, mutilated. Zafi’s pyromancers hopped out from their protection to face the Quintus Prima. They too clacked hands and knuckles, releasing the inner flames from their lively essence. Calling upon amalgamations of hell, seated in their palms. They blasted off. But the wind was too strong. The Blue Whirlwind captured their fire in her deathly currents, redirecting them. Instead, exploding on their allies. Igniting their skin and their beards. The pyromancers shook, feeling hopeless.

  While the Glacial Maiden prepared another army of icicles.

  Arnzos had one thought. A single goal. Leave. Escape with his life. There was no battle here, only a slaughter. The gusts took away his breath. But he could still make out. The gates. Not far. He had to just run. Expel everything he had to keep living. These elves wouldn’t chase down a merc. There would be no point. He ran. His legs felt like stones; He dragged them across the gravel. Lungs shriveling with each breath.

  More shards fired away. Knocking down dwarves like swatted flies. Gallons of blood painted the cracks next to each rocky pebble. Four of crystals homed in on Arnzos. He pushed through the storm, as they flew ever closer.

  The gate was close. It was possible to pass. Even with no breath to spare and the visibility of an old bat, he kept going. He had to…

  Shnink! A cold dagger embedded itself in his leg. Tearing through his scales. It snapped out of the other side, drenched in red. Soon shattered on the floor. And three others were about to shred him apart.

  “Fuuuucck!”

  A hot spew of energy shot from his back. A wave that exploded the icicles on impact. Adding a mix of cold and wet air into the soup of turbulent destruction. He turned back in awe. Sunslash defended him. It was true. The bond was real. But Arnzos didn’t care to stay and beam at his sword. Of the few waning convictions still in his head, the loudest one was ‘run.’

  Then, Arnzos heard a second horn. More crystals mowed down Ul-Baqshans, lumping bits of brain matter and skull fragments across the walls. They died, and with them, the storm did as well. As the Whirlwind consciously stopped fluctuating the air around them. She calmed it down. But the Maiden would not let up. She resumed her icebound hail.

  Arnzos could breathe again. He savored every full puff of oxygen, finding simple pleasure in the art of filling his chest. Like downing a full jug of water after days of dehydration. Though with his lungs brimful, he couldn’t ignore the sting and gushing wound in his leg.

  Besides him, the Ultin’s forces were in a daze. Wheezing, mourning, and terrified. As impenetrable as they seemed, even four of Aj-Malik’s Saf’yar died at his feet. But the onslaught was just beginning. For elven forces, armed with bows and thick shortswords, flooded out of the three spires. Along with Commander Dreyadus. He rushed from the inner castle door. His intricate, barbed polearm extended at the vermin he always knew as foes.

  “Capture the Ultin! Kill everyone else!” he thundered.

  Arrows joined the storm of icy blades soaring. Swordsmen of each side engaged with each other, slashing their noses and puncturing throats with steel. Arnzos saw the Ultin petrified, collapsing while the Saf’yar despairingly defended him. Their unwavering determination draining. Little by little.

  For the Ul-Baqshans, this was no valorous battle. This was an effort to survive. The collective dreams of defeating their enemies were as dead as their fellow statesmen, face down in the red. They lost their pride, their edge. The joy of drinking at camp and revelling in a victory—gone. Many dwarves cried like children, and were either killed soon after or lost themselves in mental malfunction. Tears like waterfalls. Eyes redder than raspberries. Complete despair.

  Arnzos faced two elven soldiers, as they emerged to duel. A younger elf with a big nose and an elder, assessing Arnzos with his cloudy eyes. In this moment, he lost his enthusiasm for battle. But if they remained in his way, and they did not leave… then they would join the corpse pile.

  Elder lunged at Arnzos, spear cocked forth like it was his own arm. Well—they made their choice.

  With a swift swipe of Sunslash, Elder’s weapon shattered into fiery pieces. Arnzos took his turn to lunge. He impaled the elf on his blade. His leaking blood sizzled from Sunslash’s infernal energy. Elder’s children had just lost their father. Their children lost their grandfather. His wife would sleep in a cold bed, never to know a husband’s warmth again.

  Dreyadus cut down dwarves like weeds, lopping heads off of stocky bodies. Those dead dwarves’ dreams, like starting a potion shop or getting a dog for his children or finally proposing to his lover, would never see the light.

  Zafi watched her initiates, her brothers and sisters, take bolts to the head or land on elven blades. They spewed out their fiendish breath, taking Ontullians with them, but Zafi lost her resolve to stay. In the pure insanity of it all, she made her retreat. She never looked back. Where she would go? Her own two feet would make that decision. Wherever it was, it was already more worthwhile than Fort Blavim.

  Da’haz battered Ontullian skulls with his warpick. Crushing cartilage and bone into a mushy stew of cadavers. Those elven soldiers, many of whom were tricked or threatened to enlist, had their hopes snuffed out like candle lights blown by a puff. No hopes of having a baby or teaching their sons woodworking or relaxing by the shore with a cup of wine. No—only darkness.

  And Aj-Malik? Well, the Ultin’s courage was gone. He keeled, surrounded by the metal guardians who wanted to flee just as much as Zafi. Some had seen her retreat but couldn’t go with her. For the Saf’yar were mighty. They were respected. Bastions of the military and worshipped as heroes. That maintained their resilience.

  Arnzos fought Big Nose. He annihilated Nose’s shortsword with blazing fury. Arnzos waited. He didn’t want to kill the kid. He looked barely older than eighteen. So he gave pause and hoped that he would tuck tail. And he did. Thank the ones above that he did.

  But as he ran away, Da’haz crushed his chest with a meaty blow. Collapsing his sternum into his heart. Big Nose died instantly. He would never see his mother again, nor his two younger brothers. He was with his father now. Arnzos gasped, but he couldn’t forget. His life took precedence over all. He had no loyalties anymore. He shambled through the chaos.

  “Whirlwind! Maiden!” Da’haz called out. “I sent you the rider. I gave you the Ultin. Hurry up and save me!”

  The Warden… he did this? He led all those dwarves here, to die like animals? Then Arnzos remembered. That night with the horseman. Da’haz slapping him away. He left the camp so late, Arnzos hadn’t thought of what he could be doing. But it was for this. Da’haz betrayed his people. To warn the Ontullians. Of course they would deploy the Quintus Prima to capture a prince.

  Da’haz accused Arnzos so many times. To deflect blame. Demonized, just to get any sort of flak off his back. That piece of filth. Arnzos bounced between staying to slaughter Da’haz himself or taking his opportunity to go. There was so much rage bubbling up in him. Until he heard the Whirlwind from the battlements…

  “We saved the rider already.” she said. “We won’t have another maggot crawling around.”

  Around Da’haz’s knees, a tornado began to bind his legs together. It engulfed his thighs. Then to his stomach. Then, it was at his collarbone. He got wrapped up in wind, like the prey of a spider. Swaddled in webs. He tried to break free, but the wind’s pressure crushed his arms. Leaving him to cry in pain.

  The Whirlwind manipulated the tornado and fired Da’haz into the sky. He was hundreds of feet up, overlooking the fort, but still stuck in a vice grip of gusts. Though Arnzos was glad he was suffering, he winced at the way it was being done. Then the Whirlwind had enough of torturing him. She angled the tornado at a spire. Sending Da’haz its way at an appalling speed.

  Upon impact, Da’haz’s skull liquidated against the jagged rock. His head eviscerated like a crushed orange. Obliterating his spine, snapping every vertebra like keys from a piano, dropped from a building. The Whirlwind dematerialized her tornado and Da’haz’s remains splattered across the ramparts. Arnzos felt his chest tighten. He passed the gate, out on the gravel trail. Almost away.

  The Maiden jumped down to greet him. She created a ramp of carved snow. As she glided across it, she stuck out her arms to feel the serene breeze caressing her. Appearing next to Arnzos, she playfully waved.

  “Hi there.”

  Arnzos swung at her. A miss. She fired off dozens of little icy darts. Pulsating through his arm. Leaving microcuts everywhere. He dropped Sunslash. Not only his arm felt cold. A freezing sensation began to mutate his senses. It felt like frostbite eating his insides.

  “Did the dwarves pay you enough to die?” she said.

  He was shivering. The fear jumbled his gut. He could taste glassy sleet in the back of his throat. But the worst part of it all? He would never see Guthro and Renzi grow into adults. Watch them find their passions, whatever they might be. He tried to sob, but his body already accepted its fate.

  “Don’t like talking? That’s okay. I used to be shy when I was a little girl. Anyway, I don’t like tormenting my victims. So I’ll set you free.”

  The Maiden touched Arnzos’ neck. In a split second, a crystal ravaged his veins and tore apart the flesh beneath his skull. A bloody icicle stuck out from his throat. He lost motion in his arms. His legs felt like noodles. A blurry, dark nothing overcame his eyes. Arnzos let out a final gurgle, before…

  Thump.