Trucius felt like he was suffocating. And he wasn’t even the one exerting himself. That unfortunate honor would go to his horse. Snagged from a real rider. Trucius was pretending to be a horseman, playing at it just well enough to ensure he wouldn’t get bucked off. But in truth, the horse could sense he was scared. Yet it kept galloping away. For this was the first time it tasted freedom since birth.

  Three of Vaelar’s men were on the boy’s tail. They rode through the shapen meadows, rocking on the land’s hills like they were traversing over a massive green face with moles and pimples about.

  Trucius heard the men screaming, ordering him to do something. But the wind pierced his ears. His thumping heart pushed out every external sound, as he could feel it stuck in his neck and beating there. It was so loud, so powerful; He could practically choke on it. Adrenaline almost poured out of his ears. He sat, appalled. Frantic to make the elves stop. Mayhaps… he could talk to them? If he calmly explained it and used certain words.

  But the boy had completely ignored he killed someone. There would be no talking. If he stopped, it was only the dungeon until he shriveled up or a rope breaking his fragile neck.

  The chased and the chasers passed by duo of guard towers, with a hunting party beneath. The posts were empty, likely cleared out. But the party below—three crossbowmen, two with censers, and one with a lance—became petrified upon seeing these riders. Like they had looked upon a Lord of Impurity.

  Trucius hadn’t a clue what the party was doing. But he looked back at the soldiers. Seeing that they stopped their horses. They shuddered on their mounts for a few seconds, before turning them around and dispersing over the hills. Trucius smiled, a smile that might have been his last, but now? He could blast off as many as he wanted.

  A crossbowmen waved to Trucius. The boy waved back. He failed to realize it was not a friendly greeting.

  “Good day to you.” Trucius said, projecting volume as best he could.

  The crossbowmen waved again, this time with both hands. Extremely panicked. “You need to get out of here. There’s a vulsaat!” Trucius got the first part, but not really the second. However, he gave them a nod like he understood all of it.

  But the crossbowmen didn’t stop waving. Trucius instead, began to awkwardly ponyfoot away. At least, he wanted to, but it was more like the horse did what it wanted and he sat in the saddle like a passenger.

  Crossbowmen yelled again. “THERE’S A VULSAAT!”

  Exploding out from nowhere came a massive creature. Matched Trucius’ horse in stature. Glossy bronze-colored claws swiped up against the horse’s belly. Spilling out blood and guts onto the flowery field below. A hungry, drooling vulsaat.

  Trucius and his mount crashed against dried grass. The hooved animal giving one last neigh of pain before its throat was ripped out and eaten. Trucius crawled away. His legs wouldn’t help him. The fear and despair shook them to the point of uselessness. Trucius sobbed, a mess on the field.

  As the hunters charged towards the vulsaat, the creature observed little Trucius. Still chewing horse neck. Its blue eyes were narrow; Six of them plastered from the front of its face to the side of its skull. It was ovate shape of grey fur. Low to the ground, always stalking and preying. A bulbous pink nose twitched with every sniff. Trucius likened it to a monstrous mole. One that was about to consume him.

  The vulsaat raised another massive set of claws. Gleaming in the sun. But before they could tear Trucius’ head off, a crossbow bolt landed in between them. Black liquid spilled out. The vulsaat’s.

  It shrieked in a low tone. The hunters were here to help. And even better for Trucius, they weren’t elves. No, they must have been adventurers. Two felinians (cat-like humanoids). Two rodinkin (a mousewoman and a weaselman), a human and a lyzanite (a geckowoman).

  Trucius could have thought about how they got here, who they were hired by, and other meaningless drivel like that, but he didn’t. Because he was getting the fuck out of there!

  As the hunters and vulsaat engaged each other, Trucius took his weak body and pushed it to its limits. His soles got cut on pebbles and sticks hidden in the grass, but he didn’t care. If he cared enough to stop, he didn’t value his life. He dashed past vibrant blossoms. He dashed up the green behemoth. It was a barely larger than a molehill, but to his fatigued limbs, it was a mountain.

  Soon, the more he ran, the more the roars and shouting and clashing faded from his ears. Trucius came upon a rock, sticking from the ground, like a broken bone mangled. Popping out from the earth’s skin. He collapsed behind it. Wheezing his way back to normalcy. He could think now. Thinking…

  He touched around the center of his leg hose. And it was wet.

  “Oh, what the—” He pissed himself, not noticing until now. He made a face, closing his eyes to distract himself. After all that commotion, he still had Sunslash. That made him grin again.

  “Shinies.” he droned. “Not just shinies. Glintons.” The teenager mmm’d as he dreamed of swimming in coins, sleeping in the finest feathered, silked and velveted bed. Encompassed by buxom babes vying to get his shirt off.

  He told Arnzos he wanted Sunslash for his family. To rescue them from the hollows of poverty. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, he meant his mother specifically. Since his father already passed. But what really bounced around in his head…

  …was himself. He’d have the wealth. He’d have his dreams. And to make it happen, he had to offer Sunslash to someone elevated. Someone like an Archon. No, even better. The Quintus Prima. Trucius knew who he would gift it to.

  The Fifth Hero of the Prima. The Volcano.

  ?

  Arnzos rode back towards the bog. Vaelar pursuing. It was better than taking his chance in the greenage. More vegetation, more twists and turns. Arnzos was familiar with the habitat. Vaelar wouldn’t be. Still, he had to be cautious. A million different surprises might await him. Not even counting the sorry state of his health.

  While he was not specifically in Jama Bog, as that was over a day’s travel by horse, there was a transitioning area. Where Gjoffir Greenage met the beginnings of the bog. It was lighter. More verdant. But still, it had many dangers. Rougher than the peaceful hills and softer than the black soup of misery. The chase would take them there. Northwest bound.

  Arnzos ached. His muscles, his bones, his fiber. His existence in that moment could be described by a single word. Ache.

  Yet, he persevered. Grappled the reins of this sprinting stallion and led it through mildly swampy waters. He weaved through the disgusting, Vaelar and four others in tow. His scales did their best to protect him from hanging vines, malicious branches, and other flourishing flora. Little marks laid themselves on his mount. It neighed in pain, but kept going. Arnzos was thankful it did.

  The elves behind him were no more fortunate. All the hells of travelling in a swamp attacked them. Insects included. The nature was brunt in its assault. Though, it wasn’t spiteful. This was nature as it had existed with no boundaries. By forgetting any boundary, the green and brown and shameless muck struck them absentmindedly. If one was to visit their turf, they would be subject to their rules. Vaelar and his guards definitely were.

  The Victus watched one of his fellows ram his horse into a tall stump. The force so great, it nearly impaled the poor animal. The fellow flew and landed. A crunch, many times over. That had to be a few bones shattered. Now, Vaelar and three men remained.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Vaelar whistled to his underlings. “Sternus, loop to the left. Chripar, to the right! Vestan. You stay with me.”

  They knew their orders. Carried them out. Stuck on Arnzos. Even twisting and knitting between angry nature, they saw their target. One of them, Sternus, had the courage to aim for him.

  Strapped around his chest was his bow. It itched for combat. He threw it off and clutched it deep in his palms. One arrow from the quiver. Lined up. Ready to shoot at his foe. Arnzos saw Chripar, far to the right, and galloped for him. Chripar was astonished. Sternus was losing confidence.

  But let go anyway. It whistled past the muddy almighty, but still missed Arnzos. The archer cussed to himself. Before—

  Wham. A thick, stray branch knocked him across the cheek. He didn’t know if his jaw was shattered or not, but it felt like somebody ripped it off. His horse cried. Sternus grunted. And splat. Into the mud, disgraced. Sternus whined and all of his fellows heard. Serious injury with a hint of humiliation too.

  Vaelar scoffed. A kind of scoff that wasn’t bitter, but rather like an ego taking punches to its face. ‘Why is this happening; I am better than this’ type of scoff.

  Chripar inched his way to Arnzos. He equipped a curved blade. Hoping to lay some deep slashes. The two enemies’ mounts rode side by side. Chripar rushed him. Sword first. Stray swings. Arnzos backed off. If only the dracokin had a weapon to fight back with.

  A bolt swished past Arnzos. Clipping a vine in two. He turned around and saw… Vestan, holding a crossbow. Vaelar barked at the lad. If Vestan’s eardrums were alive, they’d grit their teeth. Arnzos nearly forgot Chripar, as the eager swordsman took a swipe. It cut through horse flesh.

  The innocent creature shrieked. “I am not your enemy.” Arnzos said. His words were raspy, until he coughed the leftover gunk out. Returned to normal. “I’m officially dead. My contract is null. Please, just—”

  A gangly creation of nature entrapped Arnzos in its clutches. From his horse, he was confined in a collection of thorned reddish green vines, as his horse left him. Tiny cuts. Tiny bleeding spots. Prepped for slaughter, like a prisoner awaiting execution. Chripar was eager to deliver the death blow. He looped around. Until his steed stepped on a bulging plant, expelling a volley of needles. They pierced the horse’s chest. It stood up in pain. Chripar was unsuspecting. He slithered out of his stirrups. And onto…

  A sharpened pike. It was not a man-made pike. Rather, a remnant from a destroyed tree. Perhaps a fire levelled it or a person found a reason to chop it down. Whatever the case, it was now Chripar’s death. He landed on it, exploding into entrails and hanging insides. Chripar’s rib was now a gored aperture. The life so tightly knit within spewed out like a geyser.

  He could only babble. Then, he could spit. Finally, he went stiff.

  Arnzos’ weight slid him down from the vines’ grasp. Painful, but liberating. They loosened enough to drop him to the mud. He plopped below, soaked in the gunk.

  Without adrenaline pumping, he’d be paralyzed in the muck. But he had just enough to stay in this—to see it through. Sickness and fatigue of battle after battle ate away at Arnzos’ soul. He’d drop and nap for a thousand years if he could.

  He thought about the bath. Oh, how sweet and relaxing that bath will be. Especially after this steep in all the filth and dismay.

  Vaelar and Vestan arrived. The lad had his crossbow armed and aimed. Arnzos packed a ball of sludge in his palm. Tightly crammed, as bugs and fungi danced around in it. Arnzos and Vestan clashed eyes.

  “Why are you waiting, you idiot!?” Vaelar squealed.

  Both parties launched their arms. The mudball hit. A mish-mash of ooze and wriggling mini beasties landed on the pores of Vestan. They colonized his nostrils, his eyelids. Made their new homes in his facial skin. He gagged, wiping the muck off.

  Arnzos took a bolt to the shoulder. Brought down to a knee. He had endured so much, the stinging nearly felt regular to him now. Still, it burned and violated his scales. He wondered if this is what it felt like for his father. He died from a bolt too. Albeit, many of them. And to the chest—not to the shoulder. Even if the injury wasn’t one to one, he took some comfort in the similarity. Was, maybe, his dad watching him now? Only the ones above knew. And he didn’t dwell on it for long.

  Arnzos’ thrown ball of horrid mess made Vestan guide his horse wildly. Like a headless chicken. His mount noticed his lack of control, so the beast took control itself. Trotting off. It wasn’t long after that a heavy branch smashed into the neck of Vestan. The last of Vaelar’s loyal. Closing his pipes and crushing chances.

  He fell, sputtering. The lad should have stayed at the corpse pile. Who knows what Vestan would have accomplished if he stayed?

  And then, two remained. Vaelar and Arnzos. The Victus and the mercenary. The hare and the fox. Or the fox and the hare. History would decide who was who.

  Arnzos slowly backed up, grabbing Chripar’s sword. He swooshed it through air. Vaelar met his threat. Unsheathing a saber of his own. His finest, his precious. Its name? Roxbane. Quite ambitious for only a Victus.

  “There’s no chance we can talk this out?” Arnzos asked.

  “I wouldn’t squander an opportunity to climb the ladder.”

  Arnzos rolled his neck. “My head would help you ascend?”

  “Oh goodness me.” Vaelar chuckled. “Surely you can’t be this stupid.”

  “I’m the stupid one? You actually believe if you bring your superiors my head, that will help you? How? I’m not associated with the dwarves in any way.”

  “Spare me your dull words, dracokin. Ontullia’s sellswords are refined. Of pure taste. You’re bottom of the barrel trash. Perfect for Ul-Baqsha.”

  “I almost joined your side.” Arnzos said. Vaelar froze, stunned at his statement. “Yeah. With Antarchon Gaiud. Problem is, it didn’t pay that well. Ul-Baqsha is more generous to their ‘bottom of the barrel trash.’”

  “You believe to sway me that easily?”

  “You can believe whatever you want. I see it in your eyes. You want a reason to kill. And I’m a perfect fatality.”

  Arnzos tried, very very hard, to always kill with a reason. To feed hungry mouths. To defend himself from evil. To protect others from that same plague. So, he stood. Waiting to see Vaelar’s next move. He hoped it was a smart choice. There were no witnesses here. No pressure to report the truth. Vaelar’s loyal would likely meet their end here, from harsh conditions and infection. For the love of those above, Arnzos thought, use your senses and abandon this futile cause!

  Vaelar seemed like he would. He paused, longer than he had done over anything in a while. Arnzos could see him tipping over. Splashing in the pool of escape.

  He was so close. But, Vaelar snapped back to his country. To his cultural mission. A mission that was warped to fit his selfishness and savagery. And he lunged at Arnzos!

  Their blades met in a spark of violent fury. Exchanged slashes. Knocking each other back from the impact. Vaelar wouldn’t let up. A slice here. A prick there. Arnzos, still in his enfeebled state, defended from the onslaught.

  Two warring fighters. One in defense. One in attack. And the attacker, little by little, seized territory in their fight. Arnzos’ adrenaline drained. Undermining the tad bit of stamina that remained in his body. Vaelar kept hacking away. Clang. Clink. Clonk.

  Arnzos sensed a chill riding up his neck. He assumed at first it was the cold embrace of a death soon-to-be, but this… felt different. No, this was a familiar chill. When he was swallowed by the darkness of fog and the unknown, this chill reigned supreme. Back in Aj-Malik’s camp.

  That voice, in the black cloud of doom, reared around again. It tickled Arnzos’ ear. “It isn’t right. The suffering you’ve faced. I won’t watch another minute of it.”

  In Arnzos’ daze, Vaelar disarmed the dracokin. He sent his sword flying. Back to being engulfed in the brown slush. The Victus puffed out his chest. Pompous as ever. He would bend his spine backwards to kiss his own bum if he could.

  “Hmm, I wonder? Where will I stab you first?” Vaelar bragged. “Your neck? Your heart? How about your—”

  An incorporeal, ethereal being manifested. The green-tinted phantom of light—seen by Arnzos in Jama Bog—revealed herself again. A ghostly molten elf, adorned with the finest royal jewels. Empress of a forgotten age. She focused an energy, shining bright, collected its power in her two hands. In the shape of a helix, pure white light devoured the color around it.

  Arnzos could only see in blacks and whites. And the empress unleashed her helix. It shattered as she closed her fingers. Exploding. Burning off the very sense of sight from his eyeballs.

  Phyletta N’Tula blinded Vaelar. Permanently.

  The Victus clawed at his eyes. Rubbing them, as if anything would help his new grave condition. “I can’t see! Why, why?! What did you— I can’t—” Vaelar wailed like a scared pig.

  He moved. Sluggishly and sadly. The type of way one would move as if their entire life shattered before their eyes. Ironic, considering what just befell Vaelar. He dug through the mud, looking for Roxbane. Arnzos kicked it up from a dirtied puddle. Fully laying eyes on it, this blade impressed. Much more so than he thought a normal blade should.

  “Bastard!” Vaelar said. “Give me the— Please. I need my blade. Mercy, for a beaten soul. If you would.”

  He ignored him and turned toward the phantom. Phyletta hovered slightly above the ground. A foot or so. She curtsied and pushed aside her long, braided hair. All Arnzos could get out was…

  “What the fuck just happened?”