Flames of Steel

“The war with Heilk has continued for far too long. Vesar has lost countless soldiers, and with both armies deploying more bonded riders, we require more volunteers.” —General Andrews, Northern Regional Command

Cold and sharp. The best words to describe a blade. I investigate the reflection of my sword, still seeing the mud matted in my hair. Blood drips from my brow and continues its trail down my face. The green of my eyes is barely visible in the afternoon fog. A passing soldier bounces off my shoulder as he topples to the ground. An arrow protrudes from his chest plate.

I look up and around me as chaos unfolds. Men rush past in a blur, all sound is muffled as my ears continue to ring. This cannot be all. This cannot be what my life, what Drake Quen was meant for. Simple beast food. Another body to meet the enemy’s blade and be buried in some mass grave.

“No,” I say in my muffled voice. “I will not fall in this hellscape of a place.”

I rise to my feet as feeling returns to my free hand. My shield lies discarded in the mud. Men rush past me into the fight.

“We have them on the run!” A distant shout calls out.

“For the Glory of Azel!” Another cries.

Thousands of bodies already litter the ground. How many more must fall before this is over? I look back at the hillside and see the golden armor of General Vale’s dire wolf with him sitting atop it. His expression is full of rage at the number of dead with no real ground gained. We have been here for weeks, rushing and retreating repeatedly just because some Heilk savage assassinated a Vesarian governor over a land dispute. Fucking politics.

I take a breath, then another. I could run. I could desert and be free of it all. I could be hunted as a traitor to the crown for the rest of my life. I could sail away to some island and find peace. All things I would rather do than— The thought dies as the ground rumbles and the trees shake.

“Dire Wolves!” men scream.

A stampede of soldiers surges backward in fear while others rush forward with spears. One man, barely ten yards ahead of me, lowers his helmet, stretches out his arms, and falls to his knees. One. Two. Three. I blink, and like the shadow of a passing cloud, his body lies mangled on the ground. If I don’t move, my fate will be the same. So I run back with the retreating men.

A shadow passes in front of us snatching three more and mangling them. They have us surrounded. We stop our retreat and stand, swords drawn and ready for any angle. Then stalking from a nearby tree are two glowing red eyes. It shifts from a stalk to a charge.

I rush the beast with my sword in hand, and by the gods, my blade bites into its side. A yelp erupts from the hound. I slash at its rider, a burly man wielding an axe as long as my arm. He blocks my strikes, and the force sends me crashing to the ground. As I fall, I drive my sword through the beast’s leg, stopping only when the steel strikes bone and I lose my grip.

The good thing about steel is that the dire wolf hide is weak against it. Griffons and dragons stand a better chance against steel, if a soldier can even get close enough to strike one.

Pain shoots through my body as I hit the ground hard. It begins in my core and spreads outward like fire. The beast and its rider tumble down nearby with enough force to make men stumble. Howls of pain fill the air as the creature cries out in rage. Even wounded, it rips nearby soldiers apart. Bodies fly as more men rush to surround it. The rider rises, defending his creature despite his injuries.

One. Two. Three.

If I don’t stand, I will be dead soon. I finally force myself to my feet, legs burning as adrenaline takes over.

“This is it,” I whisper to myself. “I am it.” I march toward the rider, shoving others aside until our eyes meet.

“You’ll die for that!” he roars, raising his axe toward me as he advances. Each step he slashes at men rushing him.

Azel, goddess of the land. Most pray to her for peace, prosperity, and good harvests. Soldiers know better. In war, there are no gods, only survival. Only Valorum, where heroes supposedly go when they fall. Or so people believe. No one has ever returned to say otherwise.

I manage to retrieve a sword from a dead soldier just in time for the rider's arrival. Sparks fly as swords and axes collide. The rider is one of the fiercest warriors I’ve ever fought but I swore to myself this would not be my day to die. He swings at my side. I jab toward his chest. A slash toward his leg. Only the last strike lands, and even then, it barely slows him.

“You have spirit, but why do you fight, soldier?” he shouts as we lock blades.. The steel reinforcement bolted to the handle of his axe catches my sword, stopping me from breaking through.

“For the emperor! For Vesar!” I yell back, though every strike sends pain through my arms. He kicks me hard in the chest, sending me sliding through the mud as I gasp for air.

“Bullshit!” he shouts, stomping toward me. “Why do you fight?” Why do I fight? I don’t care about the emperor or his crown.

“I fight…” I struggle to catch my breath. He is only feet away.

“I will fight for me!” I rise and ready my blade.

“If this is it, let it be for me.”

I spin the sword once in my hand and wipe the blood from my face with the other.

“Finally,” the rider says.

“Now we have an answer.”

With a roar, he rushes forward and swings downward hard enough to have split me in half. I block at the last moment, but it takes all my strength to keep the blade from crushing through me. I fall to one knee, both hands gripping my sword hilt and blade, as I struggle to hold him back. Then I see it. A hatchet lying half-buried in the mud. I meet his eyes again. Pressing all of my strength into my arms, the stunned look on his face tells he isn’t expecting this.

“Give Azel my… best.”

I slip away from the pressure of the axe, hearing it slam into the mud where I stood. I grab the hatchet and swing blindly upward. A wet gargle erupts from his throat. When I turn, I see the hatchet buried just beneath his ribs.

I yank the weapon free, ready for another strike, but stop when our eyes meet. In them, I see the look of a man not ready for death but forced to face it anyway. He slumps to his knees, and his axe falls from limp fingers. Silence seems to settle around us as the light slowly fades from his eyes.

I glance down at the blood-soaked hatchet and then back at him. Why does this feel different? I’ve killed before. Plenty of times. But this… this is the first bonded rider I’ve ever faced, let alone killed.

The silence shatters with a howl. No, a scream of pain.

The rider’s lifeless eyes stare past me toward his Dire wolf. The creature’s gray fur is soaked in blood, the armor covered in mud and torn leather straps. Those amber eyes say everything. This creature was more than a beast. It was part of him. And now… now it understands death is coming to it soon.

We’re told dragons outlive their riders, griffons can as well but dire wolves die with them.

The wolf limps toward the body, ignoring the soldiers still striking at it. Ignoring me. I can feel the chill of its breath as the beast's snout presses against his rider’s face. Slowly, it lowers itself beside him, resting its massive head against his body. No heartbeat is likely to be found. Then the creature goes still. Those amber eyes dull as they stay locked on him.

There is no cheer, just two less enemies. Men rush all around me again, resuming the charge.

The battle ended in victory for the emperor’s army. We pushed the Heilk forces back beyond the border.. But with losses like these… How can we say who truly won?

Any soldier who abandons his post is to be deemed a deserter and made an example of through public execution- Public notice by order of Emperor Wren

I tie the final strap of my pack and sling it over my shoulder. I have spent the better part of three years training and fighting for the empire. I have seen dozens of battles and ambushes but never like this. Never against an enemy such as this. The hatchet that I killed the rider with sits comfortably in my hand. Almost too comfortable. I tied a new leather strap across my belt to act as a sheath for it. A memory of what I have done.

A rustling comes from the entrance of the tent. Laek stumbles inside, an apple in one hand and a tankard in the other.

“Leaving already?” he asks. “Before the women and ale from the village arrive?”

With a sigh, I secure the hatchet to one hip and my sword to the other.

“I am”

“You can’t be serious. Drake half of the camp says you’re the one who brought down a rider.” He scoffs, though there’s genuine hurt beneath it.

Laek has been my brother and friend since the cart carried us both off to training camp years ago. We have fought and trained with our squad, suffering many losses together.

“Yes, Laek. I am. This is not my path, brother. This is not how my tale ends.” I turn toward him and force a smile as I extend my arm for one final brotherly shake. His eyes move from my hand to my face. Rage boils in them.

“You fucking coward!” he shouts. “You’re deserting? This isn't an honorable discharge—this is fucking desertion! You’ll be branded a traitor! You’ll be killed for this!” He smacks my hand away and grips the hilt of his sword.

“Laek, this is how it has to be. Let it end here. I don’t want to kill you… but if you force my hand—”

Our eyes lock. A mutual understanding passes between us. We both know how this would end, and neither of us truly wants to face it.

“You were my brother,” Laek says coldly. “Now you’re dead to me.” He spits on the top of my boot.

“Laek… I need this to stay between us.”

“Leave now,” he replies with a sigh, stepping aside, “and I won’t run you through.”

Without another word, I walk out. Neither of us look at the other. Leak will keep his word I trust.

Outside, the evening air is crisp with spring cold. Yellow and orange streak across the sky. Drunken songs echo through camp along with laughter and distant cries of pain.

I wonder how many of those cries will survive the night, let alone the week after. Not my concern anymore. My only concern is me.

I adjust the sack over my shoulder and climb the hill overlooking the valley. At the top, I glance back one final time. Thousands of tents glow with firelight. I spot Laek standing outside ours for only a moment before he ducks inside and extinguishes the lantern.

My gaze drifts farther through the camp until it lands on a lone tent larger than all the others, flanked by burning fire pits.

No doubt it is general Cass Vale who stands before it, tall and alone in his ornate armor. The gold glissons in the firelight.

The distance between us is too great to read his expression. Lucky for me, I’m just another nameless soldier in his eyes. That should make it harder to brand me a traitor… unless Laek reports me.

Then I see it. A flash of steel rises beside the general’s face. He has drawn his sword and raised it in salute.

That blade, according to every story I’ve heard, has never been raised except for the crown and other bonded warriors. So why now? Why for a deserter? He can’t know that I slayed the wolf and rider?

Instinctively, I reach for my sword… then stop. My hand shifts instead to the hatchet at my side. I raise it in return.

For a moment, I imagine our eyes locked across the valley. One a hero. The other a traitor. Separated only by an army and the battlefield between us.

One. Two. Three.

Then we both lower our weapons. I sheath the hatchet and continue my march into the mountains and into the night. I’m not sure where I’ll go but I know this is not my end.