#bannerworld

He should have told them. He should have told them. He should have told them.

The damn metal mage was here. Banner had never been in a battle to last this long, rage this ferociously; they thought they'd had the upper hand at first, but then another company of mages had arrived, and now -

And now his people were dying. The Eolans were surrounded on three sides, and Banner knew - he knew - the damn metal mage was here, tying up nearly an entire company on his own with his magic. Because Banner had let him go. Because he’d been too weak to do his job.

He ran along just behind the blurred front lines, where his company of soldiers did their best to hold off the Cords; occasionally Banner lunged through a break to run his sword into an enemy, or dispatch a Cordellan soldier that had managed to break through. For a moments - a few terrifying moments - he was alone, keeping a knot of soldiers from overwhelming his company completely, until Taryn's squad - somewhat fresh from being on reserve - rallied behind him, and plugged the leak, so that Banner could stumble onwards.

He caused this problem. He had to fix it.

Banner tore at the straps of his armor as he ran. He dropped his brigandine and his helmet; someone yelled his name behind him - Marles - but Banner barely heard, his eyes on the knot of soldiers running to their death, archers with metal arrowheads, soldiers with swords and knives and metal-studded leather -

It was First Company. Reme’s company.

He tripped over a fallen soldier and hit the blood-soaked ground, swearing. The dead woman had been holding a spear, but the metal spearhead had been snapped off. Banner tore it from her death-stiffened grip, snapping the haft over his knee. The wood splintered with difficulty, but when it broke, it broke sharp - sharp enough to kill.

The closer he came, the fiercer the wind fought against him and others, throwing up dirt and smoke - until it died completely, suddenly. Banner didn’t think about the fact, just kept running, dodging around a Cordellan and letting another of his soldiers dispatch the enemy.

“Reme!” He was just a hair too slow; she surged forward with another of her men, angling for the metal mage with death in her eyes. Banner recognized the mage and Boar all too easily, even through the haze and panic of pitched battle.

He’d nearly caught up, when Reme stumbled and fell ahead of him, screaming as her own knife twisted into her stomach, slipping far too easily through her armor - how many times had he begged her to get some brigandine, at the very least, instead of just leather, how many times had he asked her to stay back, stay in formation, stop running ahead -

He didn’t think. He didn’t care about the meal they’d shared. He’d messed up. He’d let them live, and the bastards were here, killing his people again - killing Reme -

He felt a pressure on his belt buckle, on the metal plates of his gloves, but it was too little, too late, and Banner shouted as he swung one half of the broken spear shaft into the metal mage’s face.

The mage dropped instantly.

“You son of a bitch!” Boar lunged over the fallen mage, and Banner barely had time to bring up his other stick, the sharp end of it punching into Boar as the larger man crashed into Banner, bearing them both to the ground. Boar hardly seemed to notice the length of wood stabbed into his side. Banner forgot about it, too, as instinct and skill took over. It didn’t matter how much bigger Boar was, Banner was still the better grappler.

He had Boar on his back in an instant, and yanked the knife that had been buried in Boar’s shoulder. Banner slammed the pommel of it against Boar’s temple, and he fell back, limp, against the dirt.

Banner didn’t wait long enough to see if it had killed him or even knocked Boar unconscious. He scrambled off the larger man, running back towards Reme. Someone crouched over her, in the colors of Cordellan livery - Banner tightened his grip on his knife, before his mind caught up to his vision, and he recognized the cut and symbol of a Cordellan healer.

The woman had her hand pressed against Reme’s stomach. Blue light gleamed, sunlight glinting off the gold ring the Cordellan healer wore. She looked up with a start as Banner fell to his knees, and jerked her hand away, eyes wide.

Someone whistled, and both Banner and the healer looked over; Marles, soaked with blood, came towards them. “You’ve got two of your own,” he called to the medic. She nodded and got to her feet. Banner ignored the both of them, hovering over Reme, brushing a hand over her face. “Reme? Reme, are - are you all right?”

Her stomach was still bare, the knife wound not anywhere near as bad as Banner had thought it would be - she’d screamed so loudly, and so much blood soaked her shirt, but it hardly looked that deep -

Marles grabbed the healer before she could go any further, dragging her closer by the front of her shirt. "You healed her."

"She asked," the healer snapped back, but her eyes widened in fear.

"She better have," Marles hissed, his face barely an inch from the healer's. "Or I'll have your head."

He shoved her away, watching her stumble towards the fallen mages, before turning to join Banner and Reme. Banner flinched as he felt something hit his back, and then his chest armor dropped to the dirt next to him. Marles shoved his abandoned helmet over Banner’s sweat-soaked copper hair.

“You fucking idiot,” Marles seethed. “We’re in a fucking battle, get your gods-damned armor on!”

Banner ignored him. “She’s hurt -”

“I see that,” Marles snarled. He shoved Banner aside. “Are you a medic, now, Tadsson? Get your fucking armor back on!”

Banner didn’t move for a moment. His vision blurred, and he didn’t realize for a moment that it was from tears, the salt stinging cuts on his face. “Marles -”

The medic turned away from Reme and grabbed the front of Banner’s shirt, shaking him. “Your soldiers are dying, Lieutenant!” he snapped. He gave Banner a rough shove, seething with fury. “Go do your damn job!”

Banner startled, and like an ocean wave, the sounds of battle all around him crashed back into his head. Screaming, whistled and shouted signals, weapons clashing together. He gave Reme one last look, his heart pounding, but then grabbed his brigandine and scrambled to his feet. He had no idea where he’d left his sword; it seemed that Marles hadn’t grabbed that for him, too, but the medic pressed one into his hands anyway. Banner recognized Reme’s sword from the way it felt in his hand: the lighter weight, the smoothed leather grip. 

He stumbled towards a knot of soldiers in the black and red of Seventh Battalion, wearing the dog patch of Second Company - his company, his soldiers, he had to lead them, had to keep the Cordellans from overwhelming them. Banner struggled into his brigandine armor again as he moved, unable to take the time to tighten the straps properly. It would have to do for now. He had to fight.

He had to keep them safe.

---

The Cordellans retreated, but not for hours. They didn’t follow the Cords; the Eolans were barely left standing, and for all that they’d routed the enemy, Banner didn’t feel much like a victor.

He didn’t think anyone else did, either, not after they took stock of their casualties as the sun fell behind the horizon. He gathered his company, sick to his stomach when he saw how many were able to muster, and how many weren’t.

It didn’t mean they’d all died, he told himself, over and over. A lot of them were likely just wounded. But he couldn’t help but keep a mental tally, and despite the exhaustion dragging at his bones, he forced himself to the hospital tents.

They were overflowing.

“We can’t look at you,” a young woman in a medic’s overcoat snapped at him. Banner didn’t realize, until that moment, that he needed to be looked at; he glanced down and realized that his body throbbed in a dozen places, that blood caked his arm and stiffened the side of his shirt, between the laces of his armor. That was when the pain punched through the fog clouding his mind.

He pushed it away. He was still standing. He needed to find his soldiers. He could hurt later.

He needed to find Reme. Banner closed his eyes. His soldiers, first. He owed them that much, even though his heart ached and his stomach twisted. She wasn’t dead - she had still been alive when he left her with Marles, and Marles was the best medic in the entire damn army. She would be all right.

She had to be.

Tovi was laid up with an ugly gash along the side of her head. She didn’t respond when Banner found her, talked to her, touched her. But she was breathing and alive, and left in a corner once she’d been bandaged up, so the medics could deal with the overflow of wounded soldiers. Banner left her after a few moments, after he’d at least gotten a squeeze of her hand proving that she wasn’t completely dead in the mind. She’d be all right; he’d seen this before, and usually they recovered.

He didn’t think about the people who didn’t recover.

Banner wandered through two of the hospital tents before he finally found Reme in the third. She had been cleaned up, bandaged, and tucked away along one side, out of the medics’ way as they worked. He only got a glance of her, before one of the medic’s assistants barked at him to fetch more water; Banner found himself stumbling along, doing small, menial errands, before he got a chance to duck away.

He sat down next to Reme. Her face was clammy, and she didn’t open her eyes when he nudged her. Banner didn’t want to wake her, but he slipped his fingers through hers, well aware that he had his lieutenant’s duties to perform - and well aware that he couldn’t bring himself to care about them. Not right now, not when Reme lay there, still and silent and breathing shallowly. He traced his thumb over the spots of white on her fingers and hand, and leaned back against a crate of medical supplies. The dull throbbing of his arm and side matched up with the faint pulse he felt in Reme’s wrist, and that, eventually, lulled him to sleep.

“Banner.” Someone squeezed his hand; Reme had to repeat his name several times before Banner opened his eyes, gummy from sweat and tears and exhaustion.

He jolted upright when he realized that Reme’s eyes were open, too, and she was smiling wearily up at him. “Reme,” he said, hoarsely, and had to resist the urge to pick her up, crush her to him.

She’d been stabbed, after all, and this time he would be careful. “Are - Are you all right?”

She let out a ragged laugh. “Do I look all right, Tadsson?” she scoffed, but then grinned. “What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Reme closed her eyes for a brief moment, letting out a heavy, haggard breath. “Damn, Banner. First battle in command of my own company, and I fuck it up.”

“You didn’t -”

Reme squeezed his hand again. “Stop that,” she told him sternly. She started to say something more, then stopped, coughing harshly. Her free arm wrapped around her stomach, and there were tears in her eyes when she managed to stop. Banner’s vision was a little blurry, too.

“Do - What do you need?” Banner asked anxiously. “I can - I can get you some water.” He looked up; the tent seemed to have calmed a little. There were fewer medics, and they moved with a bit less urgency than before. Their patients seemed to be sleeping, or at least quiet, except for the occasional moan of pain, and the lit candles and darkness outside showed that the sun had long st.

“Stay with me.” Reme’s voice was little more than a whisper, and her grip tightened on his hand. “Please.”

Banner didn’t move. “All right,” he said, after a moment, and squeezed her hand back. He waited a beat, then mumbled, “You didn’t fuck it up.”

Reme laughed again. It sounded healthier this time, less full of death and horror, but then it trailed off into another painful cough. “We’ll see,” she said, finally, eyes closed from the pain. “Once I get to my muster.”

“Your second lieutenant has it handled,” Banner assured her. “I saw him earlier.”

She relaxed at that. They fell into a silence, and Banner listened to her breathing, unconsciously matching his own to her pace. After a long moment, Reme said, “I knew it was - it was the metal mage. So I dropped my sword.” She gave that haggard, painful laugh again. “And got out my knife, Banner, gods, I’m such an idiot. Why I thought that would work…”

She shook her head. Banner brought her hand up, carefully, and kissed the back of it, unable to think of anything to say. “Metal mage, so I use a knife instead,” Reme said again, letting out another laugh. She closed her eyes and shifted, so that the side of her head pressed against Banner’s leg.

He went still for a moment, then carefully moved himself, lying down before pulling Reme into his arms. She moved slowly so that she laid across his chest, turning her face into his jacket and sobbing. He hugged her close, slipping his fingers into her hair.

She quieted, eventually, and her breathing evened out again. Banner closed his eyes, and after a long moment, he said quietly, “I should have killed him.”

They both knew he wasn’t talking about the battle. Reme slipped her hand under his jacket, curling it under his shoulder. “Banner -”

“We - We could’ve taken them prisoner,” Banner whispered. “They were mages, we should’ve - we should’ve taken care of ‘em. Then -”

Then they wouldn’t have lost so many soldiers. Then Reme wouldn’t be here, a knife wound in her gut, laid low by the man they could have killed already.

“...I know,” Reme said, after a long moment. “But - Banner, you -”

She cut herself off, for once the one who couldn’t think of how to say what she wanted to say. “I think we did the right thing,” she whispered, finally. “We were wounded and exhausted, Banner, and they were mages - I don’t think we would have won.”

Reme pressed her thumb, rubbing it along Banner’s ribs without thinking. He tried to ignore the feeling, until it went from distracting to soothing. “And I - I don’t think I could live with myself if we…”

If they had attacked them after lulling the Cords into a false sense of security. Banner stared at the tent ceiling, and realized that he agreed with Reme. He wouldn’t have been able to do it. 

But because of his unwillingness to fight, how many people had the metal mage killed, instead? 

“How badly are you hurt?” Reme asked, after a long moment. Banner blinked, then looked down at the top of her head.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. It was true. He could feel the pain, and he knew, if only because Marles had yelled at him time and time again, that not at least cleaning himself up would result in sickness, if not more blood loss. But Banner couldn’t bring himself to care. “I’ll - I’ll look at it later.”

“If you get an infection and die, I’m burying you,” Reme warned, but with a tired smile. Banner found one creeping onto his own face, and he finally, finally relaxed.

Jyyr blinked out of his reverie, looking over to a grinning young man. About his same age, he was at least half a head taller, and easily twice as broad, built the same way a brick wall might be if it enjoyed eating hearty dinners a bit too much. He stuck out a hand. "You're the new recruit, right? You can call me Boar."

"Your family had a sense of how big you'd grow up to be, then?" Jyyr asked, finally quirking a smile, and taking his hand. 

"Nah, but the military did. Everyone calls me Boar." 

"You're missing the tusks," he said, pointing at his lips. "I'm Jyyr. Darbinyan," he added, still getting used to being addressed by his surname. There were too many of his siblings in Rivercrest to ever keep them all straight by surnames alone, and the town had been small enough that everyone knew each other. That was the only good part about getting pulled away into this--this mess of a war. 

"You're a mage too?" Boar asked, looking him up and down. "Fire?" he guessed after a moment.

Jyyr shook his head, and pulled a few bronze coins out of his pouch. They flipped obediently into the air, then stretched until they became two elongated strips of metal, and hovered near the other man's mouth to give the impression of tusks. "Metal," he corrected. "What about you? Earth?"

"Wind," he said with another grin, a gust of air sending the stretched coins spinning back into Jyyr's palm. "What, don't I look the part? I've never met a metal mage before," he added, sounding too enthusiastic about it for Jyyr's liking. "Where did they dig you up?"

"Too far from here," Jyyr said quietly, leaning back against a tree to watch the camp. They had been set up for three days, and slowly but surely more and more men gathered together, forming their companies, checking weapons, stitching armor, passing orders, and shaking hands. Jyyr had avoided them as much as he could, getting his assignment and staying out of the way. He did his duties, and not a stitch more. "And getting further by the day, it seems like." He frowned, bending the coins back into shape, and tucking them into his pouch again. He slumped down. "What about you?"

"Oh, gods, not that far. Aelford, though my wife would probably like me further away," he admitted with a crooked smile, and finally sat down beside Jyyr, bumping his shoulder fondly. "You got that patch for your company, right? That means you'll be with me. We'll be in the same mage corp. Guess you'll be stuck with me for awhile."

Despite himself, Jyyr felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose it could be worse," he said at last, and leaned his shoulder against Boar's, sagging his weight against him to see if the other man would so much as budge. He didn't. "Have you been enlisted long?"

"Long enough to have gone through all the training and been marched all around, not long enough to see battle yet." At last, his cheeriness faded. "Though with Eola pressing this close, I imagine it won't be much longer. I heard the Sergeant talking about moving in the morning." He straightened his back, and slung his arm around Jyyr, nearly knocking the breath from him. "But, that'll mean we can end this war all the quicker, huh? My wife has already been writing me letters telling me I'd better be back in time for my daughter's birthday, or she'll kill me herself."

"How old is your daughter?" Jyyr asked, once he had gasped in breath again..

"Almost one. So we've got two months to make the Eolans beg for peace. Should be easy, shouldn't it?"

---

Should be easy. 

Jyyr leaned back on his heels, pulling on his horse's reins as hard as he could to help the animal slog out of the bank of mud. He pulled at the iron of her shoes, and the animal snorted protest, finally wallowing free and onto the bank, standing shivering beside a half dozen other cavalry they had already pulled out. It had been a clever little trap, and though it did no more than slow them down, they were certainly slowed severely.

"Two more to go," Boar called, standing waist-deep in the mud and stroking the neck of a gray mare whose eyes kept rolling, her withers shaking. "We're never going to catch up to the rest of them at this rate." 

"Less talking and more pushing, Mercer," the Sergeant called, wrapping the reins around her wrist to brace herself. "Darbinyan, give her a lift too, won't you?" 

"Sir, if the horses will be too tired to bear us, maybe you could have Boar carry us all there?" Jyyr suggested, sitting in the mud to concentrate his magic, half-lifting the saddle as the three of them heaved at the terrified horse, trying to get her free from the pit. 

"With the wind, or my back?" Boar asked, nearly getting kicked in the head as the horse lurched free, and immediately whinnied and tried to bolt. A few other soldiers caught her before she could get far off the path, soothing as best they could. 

"I was thinking your back," Jyyr said, letting out an exhausted breath. "It's broad enough for at least two of us."

"Less talking," the Sergeant said again, in a manner that suggested she'd had to tell them too many times already. "Let's get them out of the mud, and then we'll meet the rest of the corp. Last one--don't get kicked, Mercer.”

"But sir, I think she was just trying to make him more attractive," Jyyr protested, moving over to the last horse and stroking the stallion's nose. Unlike the other horses, he was waiting calmly, ears flicked back in annoyance.

"Darbinyan, I'll have you gagged for the rest of the campaign. I don't need your mouth to use your magic." But the Sergeant couldn't help her weary smile, and stood back to let the two mages push and pull and coax the stallion free. "There's a stream just on the other side of the bank there. All of you, get cleaned up so you don't embarrass me. Eolans won't get frightened by a few mud beasts." 

"They should," Boar muttered, leaning against Jyyr as he headed for the water, nearly knocking him over. "They're the ones that covered that mess so we'd ride right into it. Hours wasted. Shouldn't have split up to cut around."

"Yeah, well, you wanna tell Captain Tiorre that?" Jyyr pointed out, shoving him away and stifling a yawn. "If there is a battle waiting for us, we're not going to have any energy left to cast. All I want to do is sleep it off."

"That makes two of us," he agreed, splashing into the shallow creek; the water barely came to his knees, but it was enough to wash most of the sticky mud off. "I'm still sick from magicsbane, and that was nearly a week ago. I swear I've barely been able to eat."

"You ate two plates last night," Jyyr reminded him, splashing his face when he bent down to wash it off.

Boar responded by kicking up a gust of wind against the surface of the water, soaking Jyyr with a quick spray. “Like I said, I’ve hardly eaten anything.”

Despite himself, Jyyr laughed. He sat down on the bank, shaking water from his hands and brushing his sopping hair out of his eyes. “Three coppers says when we finally get to the border, there’s not even a battle left for us to fight.”

Boar offered him a hand up. “It’s a bet.”

---

“You owe me three coppers.” 

The stink of blood and burnt flesh permeated the camp, even though they had spread their bedrolls as far from the last battle as they dared, nervous guards keeping an eye on the ranks of Eolan soldiers that camped on the rise, the smoke from their cook fires promising enough men left alive to still cause trouble. The earth was still damp from the recent rain, and the chill soaked through their blankets too quickly. Jyyr’s hands shook as he held a clean cloth against the gash on Boar’s head, serving as extra help for the overwhelmed medics only because he was one of the few not injured. He fought exhaustion like he had never known before, and every time he blinked all he could see was the electric shock of metal coming at them again and again. Swords, arrows, axes, halberds, charging calvarymen that found their horses tripping and sent squealing to the ground as Jyyr twisted the metal horseshoes to one side before their riders could plunge into the ranks. With every pulse of his heartbeat, he could hear screaming, cursing, shouts and prayers and the cries of the dying on the ground that was too wet to soak up any more blood.

“Jyyr.” Boar squeezed his arm, looking up to him. “You hear me?”

“Stop moving,” the medic scolded.

Jyyr startled. He moved his hands back when the medic batted at them, and gave Boar a listless smile. “I didn’t, sorry.”

“I said, you owe me three coppers.” 

“Talking counts as moving,” the medic said, wrapping a cloth around his head, securing a poultice against the wound. “If that starts bleeding again, you call for me and I’ll seal it up properly. Right now we’re saving magic for the mortally wounded.”

Jyyr nodded numbly, and once the medic moved on, his shoulders sagged. He still held Boar’s head against his thigh, and raked his fingers carefully through the other man’s hair, brushing it away from his face. 

“You’re shaking,” Boar said quietly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not injured.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Ignoring the throbbing headache that protested the movement, Boar propped himself up on one arm. “Lay down with me, because if I sit up the medics will come howling down on me.”

Jyyr shook his head, watching the light fading on the horizon, sinking behind the Eolan camp and silhouetting the soldiers like looming demons. The sunset caught glimmers of swords being cleaned, arrowheads wrapped on fresh shafts, dipped in magicsbane or wrapped in oil-soaked rags. Horses chomped at their bits, their eyes flashing like fire against the flame of color streaking along the hill.

“Hey.” A gust of wind knocked against Jyyr’s back, then curled around him like a blanket, exerting gentle pressure until he finally gave in and sank down on the bedroll beside Boar. 

“Sorry,” Jyyr murmured, pressing his face against the other man’s shoulder. It did nothing to drown out the smell of death, or the ringing in his ears, but at least he was no longer staring at the red sunset that blazed like a foretelling of doom. 

Boar shifted enough to put his arm around Jyyr, pulling him against his side and easing back against the rolled blanket that served as a makeshift pillow for his aching head. “You have no reason to be sorry. I’m the one that should be begging for forgiveness. It’s my daughter’s birthday. My wife’s gonna kill me.”

Jyyr spread one hand on his chest, using the pulse of his heartbeat as a focus, anything to pull himself out of screaming, swirling battle. “I’ll make her something for you to send back with a letter,” he promised, his own voice sounding hollow and far away, like it was just another echo of memory. “I used to make little metal animals for my younger cousins.”

“I bet she’d like that,” he agreed, closing his eyes at last.

“I’ll make it in the morning,” he promised. By then, maybe he would have enough magic for it, and maybe they could get it in a parcel before the next charge of battle, before maybe neither of them would ever have a chance to send a letter again, before they fell on the already-flooded earth, added to the bodies on the pyres, for the war that never seemed to stop--

“You’ll have time to do it later,” Boar interrupted, and traced a soothing pattern on Jyyr’s back with his broad hand. “Go to sleep. We’ll have time.”

---

They had time. 

When the morning broke with another blaze of red and a promise of more rain in the purple clouds rolling in, the Eolan camp had doubled in size, and quietly they packed camp, and retreated. 

“We’re going to regroup with another unit,” the Sergeant told them with a confidence that didn’t quite seem to reach her eyes. The side of her face was pink from newly-healed wounds, a ragged gash that should have had her cheek flayed from eye to jaw, but Jyyr supposed the medics had deemed her important enough for magical intervention. Or at least near enough to death. “This isn’t a retreat.”

“Feels like one,” Boar murmured, leaning close to Jyyr so that only he could hear.

Jyyr nodded numbly. Both of them were walking; they had lost enough horses in battle that the only ones riding were those too injured to walk. Even the officers had dismounted. By midday, the skies opened up again.

It rained on and off for two weeks.

The other units they met with were just as haggard. They pushed back deeper. Towns emptied ahead of their retreat, or boarded themselves in their houses, watching the soldiers with hollow eyes. The border moved again; the folk that lived along it were too used to it. They paid their taxes to either king with the same dry disinterest. Jyyr thought about boarding himself in with them. Boar cracked jokes about anything that came to mind, trying to goad the rest of the company into a marching tune to lift the drudgery. 

By the end of the month, even his teasing came strained.

"We're close to home," he whispered to Jyyr as they broke camp. Even early in the morning, the summer heat was oppressive. Boar's I'm sweating like a pig jokes had long since ceased to make Jyyr smile. Now, Boar had no smile, either. "I never thought the battles would come--would come so close to Aelford."

"Will they let you send a letter home?"

He shook his head, rolling his blankets tighter. "All correspondence has been suspended. Sergeant already warned me not to send a wind message either, or she’ll hang me by my heels. But they’ll--they’ll hear if the city is going to be attacked. My wife has relatives in the country, and they can stay with them until all of this--” The wind kicked at his feet, his magic breaking free with his emotions, even if his face stayed tight.

Jyyr took his arm. “If you want to go to them,” he said quietly, “I’ll help you get away.”

“You’re offering to commit treason for me?” Boar asked with a smile that didn’t stick. “They’d hang us both for desertion if we were caught. You can’t bend a noose.”

“So I’ve been told,” he muttered. 

“And my wife wouldn’t get any of my pay if I deserted,” he added, shouldering his pack at last. “She’ll be--they’ll be fine.” He gripped the straps of his pack. “We’ll beat the Eolans back, and they’ll never get close enough.”

Jyyr wiped sweat from his brow, the humidity hanging in the air like an unanswered question. “We will,” he agreed. If they ever stopped retreating.

---

The battle seemed to stretch on for hours. 

Though the ground had hardened in the summer drought, soon it became slick with sweat and blood, and the air choked with smoke and screaming. Jyyr felt the ground heave and twitch under the direction of one of the earth mages, and to his right he could just see the vicious swirl of wind that promised Boar was trying to use the last of the dust as a blinding whirl into the Eolan’s eyes. 

He had to get to him. He had to make sure the big oaf got home to his wife and child. Back to the home that was so close, it made Boar reckless in defense of his land. Jyyr tripped over a body, throwing up his hands when a soldier with an axe and hand-shield came barreling towards him. The shield split in half with a terrible screech of metal, and the axe stopped mid-swing, using the same momentum to impale itself into its owner’s skull instead. Blood sprayed over Jyyr’s face. He told himself it was sweat. A medic crouched over a soldier holding her own intestines and crying for her mother. Jyyr stepped around them both, pulling a wayward arrow off-course so it buried in the dirt beside the medic instead of in his back. Swearing, his dark hair slick against his forehead, pulled up enough to show the tattoo on the back of his neck, the medic never looked up. 

The wind howled like a shrieking banshee. Jyyr broke into a run, stumbling over fallen weapons and soldiers alike. He hardly saw the battle, putting up his magic like a wall around him. Swords turned before they hit his skin, spears snapped just under their heads, crossbow bolts spun away harmlessly to the slick earth. Boar grappled with a soldier at least his width, but taller and clearly more well-rested, one that buried a knife into Boar’s shoulder. He yelled, and the wind immediately died, a promise of magicsbane coating the blade. 

Jyyr picked up a fallen dagger without ever touching the hilt, and sent it flying into the offending soldier’s neck. “Fall back,” he called to Boar, putting himself between the man and the Eolan line. Arrows hissed towards them, turning at the last minute to go flying back into the ranks. Six men fell screaming, and anger pounded in Jyyr’s chest. He heard the Eolans call to each other, heard their whistles that signaled a new threat, a new target, and he squared himself in front of Boar. 

“I can still fight,” Boar insisted, putting a hand on Jyyr’s back. 

“Fall back to the line, damn you!”

Three soldiers charged forward. Jyyr sent the first one flying backwards by the metal buckles on his belt, and he hit the dirt breathless. The second one shrieked as her own knife twisted into her stomach. The third carried two broken halves of a wooden staff.

“Jyyr!”

The world slowed, narrowed, brightened. Sweat and blood ran down his face, and Boar’s hand on his back gave way. He hit the dirt, and the blaze of sunlight, hazed with death and smoke, blinded him. 

So did the broken staff, impaled into his right eye. 

The world flickered in and out. 

Boar, moving over him, screaming rage and death at the other soldier. A blurry face over him. Dragged a few feet on his back, then lifted by strong arms. Heat. Blackness. Horns calling retreat; he wasn't sure which side. A jarring pain pulling him awake with a shriek, vile medicine forced down his throat.

Blackness. Quiet. Waking with a sense that there should be pain, but only numbness in its place. He took a careful breath. He cracked open his eye, and saw the top of a medical tent. His body burned, sweat slick against the bandages that wrapped his head. To his right, he heard someone whimpering, praying in a fevered tone that matched the heat in his body. The tent smelled like death. Or maybe that was him. 

“Don’t move,” a voice snapped when Jyyr tried to lift his hand. The medic came over and put a hand on his chest. “You’re barely alive. Don’t move.”

Barely alive. He was alive. The other patient cried out, and the medic left him. Jyyr lifted his hand to touch the bandages on his face. His face hollowed in his eye socket, and though he couldn’t feel the pain, he was acutely aware that it was missing. He burned. From the inside out, he burned. 

“You weren’t supposed to be a fire mage.”

Time had passed. He was barely aware of it, but his body had a new ache. He turned his head enough to see Boar, and felt the pain ease back into numbness. He couldn’t get his vision to focus, but he could make out the shape of his friend, the frown between his eyes. He could feel Boar’s hands around his, the heat from his hands. Or maybe that was the heat still rolling off of Jyyr. 

“Hi.”

“Hi?” Boar repeated. His out-of-focus lips smiled. He leaned closer. “That’s it? Fuck, I thought you were dead.”

“Not dead.” Jyyr extracted one hand with effort, and groped around for a moment at his waist. He swore, quietly. “My bag?”

“It’s down here.” Boar fumbled for a moment, then pressed it into Jyyr’s hand. “What do you need?”

His vision burned, his chest ached, and he reached blindly inside of the bag. After a few agonizing moments, he pulled free what he was searching for, and reached for Boar’s hand. He pressed a small item wrapped in soft cloth into his palm.

Remade from the scraps of battle--slivers from broken blades, snapped arrowheads, and thrown horseshoes--a metal griffin arched in Boar's hand, ball joints on its wings and legs allowing it to move. Boar caught his breath. 

"For your daughter." Jyyr's mouth was dry. He closed his eye. He felt Boar's massive hand squeeze his.

"She's gonna go crazy over it. I hope you're ready for her to latch onto your leg when you meet her."

"I'll need that hug." His voice stretched thin. Blackness pulsed in his head. Boar’s hand tightened on his. He burned. 

Wagon wheels creaked beneath him. Somebody moaned on his other side. Horses snorted. Humidity hung in the air like a promise. He burned. Someone else gave a stifled whimper of pain. It might have been him. A hand touched his face, and with it came a whisper of cooling wind. The wind soothed over his brow, fluttered the edges of his bandages, and spoke in his ear. 

“You’re going home, Jyyr. And when this war is over I’ll--we’ll--” The breeze sighed. The sun burned. A medic yelled at a soldier nearby. The wind slid through his hair. “I’ll give you those three coppers I owe you. My wife will cook us dinner. My kid will sit in your lap. Go home for me, too. I’ll see you at the end of this war.” The cart lurched forward. The wind shivered, and, thinner, repeated-- 

He was wistfully reminiscing about his wife and the day they were supposed to have in the king’s mountain retreat, when his horse fell, and he fell with it.

The animal let out a high-pitched scream as they tumbled down into a pit that shouldn’t have been there, dug deep into the road. Dayehmon was too securely seated in the saddle; instead of being thrown, he hit the ground with the horse, its weight hitting his leg, and leaving an audible crunch that had Dayehmon crying out in pain.

The horse was louder. It must have snapped one of its own legs in the fall, because it screamed and thrashed, unable to get back to its feet. Dayehmon cursed and yelled, as every heave and twist of its body further crushed his own bones into dust.

He swallowed his own pain - or tried to - and leaned forward as best as he could. His shoulder hurt, too, and his neck, but if the horse kept on like this, it would probably kill him. He ran his free hand along its neck, trying to soothe it, wishing he was in a position to put the poor damn thing out of its misery.

It finally stopped thrashing, at least, but Dayehmon was still trapped; every few moments, the horse let out a cry of pain. He felt much the same way. He fell back against the ground, soft from being recently dug, and sighed.

A bandit’s trap, mostly likely, and he hadn’t noticed anything in the dark. The pit was a good ten feet deep, and wide enough to hold the horse and Dayehmon both. After a long moment, Dayehmon pushed against the horse’s withers, trying to get himself free.

The pain blinded him. He couldn’t stop a sob from clawing out of his throat, as the shattered bones in his trapped leg ground against each other.

He definitely wasn’t going anywhere.

One of his swords was trapped under him, the hilt digging painfully into his side. Dayehmon wriggled around to move it to somewhere more comfortable. He craned his neck, trying to see all the things his pack had thrown loose when they fell, and found a handful of the beacon sticks scattered across the ground.

Just out of reach.

Someone above gave a soft call. “We caught someone!”

Someone. Dayehmon groaned and dropped his head against the dirt again. He slipped his knife into his palm as a head stuck out over the edge of the pit.

“Damn. Worked like you said it would, Orev.”

“Told ya. Did this during the war.”

Eolan accents. Dayehmon clenched his jaw as two more people joined the first, then closed his eyes. The horse, startled, let out a shrill whinny and writhed. Dayehmon bit his tongue until it bled, doing everything he could to stay still, act like he couldn’t feel the horse’s tense, powerful muscles grind against his leg. Whatever was left of it, anyway.

“Musta died during the fall,” someone muttered. There was the sound of shifting dirt and footsteps; the Eolans, sliding down into the pit.

“I dunno, coulda swore I saw him breathing earlier.”

“It’s dark as hell out here, I’m surprised you even saw him. Never seen a Padrunni on a horse.”

“I don’t think he looks Padrunni, look at his hair.”

There was another sharp, scraping sound, and Dayehmon could see light flaring despite his closed eyes. Someone hissed, and said, “Look at his badge.”

Dayehmon slit his eyes open the barest amount. One of the Eolans crouched in front of him, and pushed at his shoulder, trying to see the badge in question. “Well, shit. He’s part of the witchking’s guard.”

Snake-like, Dayehmon’s hand snapped out and wrapped around the Eolan’s shirt, yanking him close. He swept his knife up to the man’s neck, and the bandit froze, eyes wide, as the other two swore and reached for their own weapons.

The movement and noise startled the horse again, and it heaved its body, braying hoarsely and lashing out with its hooves. Dayehmon sucked in a pained breath as the horse’s weight lifted, and then fell back onto his leg; his hands spasmed from the pain, and the bandit he’d caught jerked back and away from him. 

“Damn it, kill that thing!” one of them snapped at the others. Dayehmon went for a knife in his other sleeve, but before he could do anything, the Eolan punched him in the jaw.

He blacked out, momentarily; there was an ear-piercing squeal from the horse, but then, finally, it had stopped moving. When Dayehmon managed to blink the stars from his eyes, he saw one of the bandits wrench a spear out of the horse.

“Part of the witchking’s guard, huh?” sneered the spearman. His voice belonged to the one someone else had called Orev, and he poked Dayehmon’s ribs with his spear, the barbed head of it covered in the horse’s blood and gore. “Bring that light over.”

Dayehmon shut his eyes as the pain in his jaw sharpened from the light now right in his face. His head pounded, but it wasn’t as heavy as the sick knot in his stomach.

Orev crouched down next to Dayehmon, fearlessly within his reach. “Badge from the royal guard, and those ugly scars down that mug of yours,” he remarked, drawing his own fingers down his cheek in mimicry of the three stark white lines that marked the side of Dayehmon’s face. “I’ve seen you. Followin’ after the cursed witchking, lickin’ every one of his footsteps.”

Dayehmon narrowed his eyes at Orev. “Funny,” he bit out, doing everything he could to keep his voice level and calm. “I don’t remember you.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Orev’s lip curled, and he stood up, before driving the butt of his spear into Dayehmon’s side. Dayehmon bit down on a curse as he felt something snap.

“You wouldn’t,” Orev snarled, and hit him again. “There weren’t enough people left alive in that village for any of you to take note.”

He jerked his chin towards the other two. “Get that damn horse off him. We’re gonna have some fun tonight.”

Dayehmon clenched his jaw. He glanced again towards the beacon sticks, and as the other two highwaymen discussed how to move the horse, he shifted slightly, trying to move close enough to reach the beacon sticks - and, like he’d expected, he drew Orev’s attention. 

The spear came down on Dayehmon’s hand, the metal tip slicing straight through and pinning it to the ground. He couldn’t help the cry of pain this time.

“The hell are those s’posed to be?” Orev demanded, holding his light over to get a better look at the beacon sticks. Dayehmon clenched his jaw and didn’t answer, just breathing through the pain. He let out a sharp hiss as the other bandits finally started to drag at the horse, its weight sliding along his ruined leg one last time.

If he didn’t die from infection from the damn spear, he’d never be able to use that leg again.

“Nothing,” Dayehmon said hoarsely. Orev squinted at him suspiciously, then scoffed, and brought his heel down on the scattered beacon sticks, breaking three or four at once.

Dayehmon smiled.

“More of your witchery?” Orev sneered. He didn’t notice how the shattered pieces of the beacon sticks clung to his boot; even if Dayehmon died, they’d be able to track Orev down. “But you aren’t a witch, are you?”

“You really shouldn’t be complaining about magecraft when you’re on our side of the border,” Dayehmon pointed out. 

Orev yanked the spear out of Dayehmon’s hand. Dayehmon whined like a beaten dog, pulling his arm to his chest on instinct. Orev kicked him.

“This is our land,” he snarled. “You bastards stole it from us. You have no rights here.”

Dayehmon tried to push himself up, pain squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes. “We won it -”

“You witches burned every village from here all the way down the Roar,” Orev hissed. He reached down, one strong hand wrapping around Dayehmon’s shirt, and pulled him a bit closer. A burn scar cascaded across the side of Orev’s neck, disappearing underneath his shirt collar. “You’ll pay for your crimes. All of them.“

He shoved Dayehmon against the side of the pit and straightened up. Panting for breath, Dayehmon watched the three bandits warily, trying to decide if it was worth it to try and stab one of them. His leg was crushed and his hand was ruined and he was pretty sure he had a broken rib, so it wasn’t like he was getting out of here any time soon.

He may as well make them miserable.

“Damn, this is water-steel.” One of the other bandits picked up Dayehmon’s second sword; he’d had it strapped to the horse instead of his back, and the woman gave a whistle as she drew the blade a couple inches out of the sheath. Dayehmon’s good hand twitched.

“They’re cursed,” he said blandly, and the Eolan woman jumped and dropped it.

Orev scoffed. “Don’t listen to him,” he snapped at her, and kicked Dayehmon’s crushed leg. Dayehmon closed his eyes against a burst of stars. “You can’t curse swords.”

“You can, actually.” Dayehmon cradled his bleeding, ruined hand to his chest. Orev scoffed again and reached down, grabbing the hilt of Dayehmon’s sword that still hung at his hip - though very awkwardly, now.

As he pulled the blade free, Dayehmon slipped his second knife from his sleeve and stabbed him in the chest. Or at least he tried to - armor hidden by the man’s shirt and the shadows of the night shunted the blade to the side, and it slipped deep into Orev’s shoulder, instead.

The bandit howled from pain and jumped back, pulling the knife from Dayehmon’s hand before he had a chance to yank it out and try again. Swearing, Orev clamped his hand around the short blade; blood welled up between his fingers, and in retaliation, Orev slammed his spear into Dayehmon’s shoulder.

He must have blacked out again, because the next thing Dayehmon felt was the awful, tearing pain as Orev pulled the barbed spearhead free from his body. “You piece of shit,” Orev seethed. He dragged the bloody spearhead across Dayehmon’s chest. “You’ll pay for that. Give you some new scars to even your ugly mug out, yeah?”

Dayehmon flinched as the spear tapped against his scarred cheek; the lines went down his neck and under his collar, too, and Orev asked, “Wonder how far down those go?”

“Only my wife knows that,” Dayehmon quipped, breathless and unable to see straight - unable to think straight from the pain.

Orev snorted, and then he spat, a glob of saliva landing on Dayehmon’s shirt.

“Let’s get him out of here and off the road,” Orev ordered the other two bandits. “Grab his things. Maybe this witch-worshipping filth has something else worth keeping.”

Dayehmon watched one of the bandits scramble awkwardly out of the pit, the soft, loose dirt giving them some trouble. The woman gathered everything together, stuffing it back haphazardly into Dayehmon’s pack. She crumpled the few remaining beacon sticks as she did, and Dayehmon wondered where the hell Mafvin was - would he even be close enough to sense the broken sticks?

He dropped his head back against the wall of the pit. The pain was overwhelming, but he tried to press his bloody hand to his bloody shoulder, a weak attempt at staunching the flow. None of it hurt worse than his crushed leg, spikes of pain radiating from his knee; it had taken the brunt of the damage from the horse’s fall.

He didn’t notice the rope until Orev fastened it around his neck. Dayehmon’s eyes snapped open, and the bandit grinned down at him. “I was worried you were gone,” he said, and pressed his foot down on Dayehmon’s shattered knee. Gasping, Dayehmon couldn’t help but writhe from the added pain. “Stay awake, bastard.”

Orev stepped back, taking the pressure off of Dayehmon’s leg, and called up to the other two bandits, now both out of the pit, “Haul him out.”

The rope tightened around Dayehmon’s throat. He sucked in a breath; ignoring the screaming from his shoulder, he reached up with his unharmed hand, trying to fit a finger in between the rope and his neck as they dragged him upwards. Struggling weakly, Dayehmon gasped for breath, his vision going white. He tried to get his good leg underneath him, to take some of the pressure off his windpipe, but that only lasted long enough for him to get a quick breath of air, before the pulling took over again.

It felt like an eternity before Dayehmon was on his back again, on level ground and staring up at the stars through tears-blurred eyes. He pulled feebly at the taut rope around his neck, but one of the bandits he couldn’t see kept the pressure just tight enough to make every breath a struggle.

He could see the female bandit out of the corner of his eye, pacing over to the pit to reach down; Orev scrambled up a moment later.

“Still awake?” Orev ground the butt of his spear into Dayehmon’s shoulder, prompting a whimper from the guard. Orev grinned. “Good. We still got a ways to go, and I ain’t wasting the time to put you on a horse. Better keep breathing.”

He looked away from Dayehmon and opened his mouth to call to the others. Whatever words were going to come out instead turned into a strangled shriek as thorny vines burst from the middle of the road, snaking up Orev’s legs. The other bandits shouted in alarm, and the rope around Dayehmon’s neck slackened as they dropped it, the holder running to Orev instead. They didn’t get very far - another set of lashing vines grabbed them and pulled them to the ground.

Dayehmon dropped his head to the ground, an awful, hysterical laugh clawing its way out of his throat. He could feel, more than hear, the vibrating of hooves, galloping along the road, and he dropped his head to one side to see the white socks of his king’s horse skid to a stop.

“Tibur!” More plants curled around Dayehmon now - but they were free of spikes and thorns, far gentler with him than they were with the three bandits. Petal-soft vines wrapped gently around his bleeding shoulder, but living plants could do little to staunch blood flow, even when guided by the magic of Dayehmon’s king. A soft groan escaped him as he felt his head and shoulders gently lifted, Mafvin cradling Dayehmon in his lap.

“Tibur, I’m sorry,” Mafvin said, his green eyes wide and frantic as he pressed his hand to the plants covering Dayehmon’s bleeding shoulder. More wrapped around his hand, thinner and flowering, the petals pressing against the wounds. “I’m sorry, I - I didn’t meant to be gone for long - You should have stayed -”

Dayehmon forced a tired smile. It was difficult to focus on the king’s face; he closed his eyes for a moment, and shivered when he felt the rope wrapped around his neck slither away. “Wherever you go, your majesty,” Dayehmon panted, “I follow.”

“I know.” Mafvin dropped his head, bowing until his forehead pressed against Dayehmon’s. Something wet fell against the bodyguard’s scarred cheek. “I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t - I shouldn’t have run off -”

“It’s all right.” Dayehmon forced a grin, the expression pulled crooked by his scars. “Think this is the fastest I’ve found you again in years.”

A cracked laugh clawed its way out of Mafvin’s throat. He pressed his lips to the corner of Dayehmon’s mouth; Dayehmon tried to lift a hand, but the pain was too much, and he dropped it again with a wince. All the thoughts he had, all the anger and annoyance at Mafvin running off again, had long disappeared. He was just glad the king was here now.

The king looked up at a choked-off curse, and his face hardened as he remembered the bandits, all caught up in spiked vines. Orev struggled with a knife, trying to slice through the plants that held him captive, a couple of feet off the ground.

“You gods-fucking, murderous, monster,” the Eolan spat at Mafvin. “What are you gonna do to us?”

Mafvin’s voice was perfectly cold - but the vines around Orev loosened, just a fraction, just enough to give the bandit hope. “I promised I would take no more lives after the Desolation.”

“Promises mean nothin’, with a cowardly witch like you,” Orev sneered. Mafvin’s face became stone.

“You’re right,” he said softly. Dayehmon watched the king raise his hand, and then closed it into a fist. He closed his eyes, sighing with a motion that cracked his ribs even more. 

A sickening crunch of bones, and a cry of pain that was cut short into a gurgle, as the vines wrapped themselves tighter and tighter around the three bandits. Dayehmon had killed his fair share of people, and seen even more die, in horrible ways - but he turned his face into Mafvin’s shirt, grasping the cloth weakly with one hand until the screams and cries fell silent.

King Mafvin was not physically strong enough to pick Dayehmon up, but he did anyway, lifting the guard with supernatural ease. As gentle as he was, Dayehmon still let out a hiss of pain. 

“I’m sorry, Commander,” Mafvin whispered, as a wind rose around them, and along with it, the vertigo that came every time Mafvin magically transported them somewhere. With his injuries, Dayehmon didn’t think he could stand it; he moaned in pain and clutched even tighter at Mafvin. The king could do anything he wanted with his magic - anything, except heal. 

They didn’t stay much longer than that. Marles checked Banner and Brody both over, and finally grumbled that Reme’s work on them was “passable.”

Reme grinned over at Brody, slipping his arm across her shoulders and helping him to stand. “Damn. I don’t think I’ve ever had higher praise.”

Brody gave her a wan smile in return. “He’s gotta be growing soft.”

Marles growled at them both to shut up as he stuffed his supplies back into his kit. Banner looked over the letter in his hands, slipped from the dead Cordellan’s pocket. He’d scrubbed his hands in the river over and over, until his skin was raw and chafed, but he still felt sick to his stomach, and tired.

So tired.

He’d left bloody fingerprints on the envelope, as best as he’d tried to avoid it. Banner startled when Reme brushed his elbow.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked quietly. Banner nodded automatically. He didn’t want to stay here, anyway, at the edge of a battlefield that had been torn up by the Cords’ own out-of-control magic, where he’d killed a mage-soldier at their own request, needlessly.

His stomach clenched, and he leaned forward a little, but he’d already thrown up everything he had in him. Marles eyed him, then wordlessly passed a flask to Banner. “We’ve fallen behind. They’ll be marching through most of the night, and we don’t know when they’ll send the carrion crows out here.”

Both armies would have people returning to the field, to take care of their dead and scavenge weapons and armor. At least, from what was left after bandits and the like picked the corpses over. Banner hoped they’d be too frightened to come here before the death crews did.

He took a drink from the flask, and grimaced as layek burned down his throat. Banner blinked once, twice, hard, then passed it to Brody. The poor scout probably needed it more than him, especially with his twisted ankle. In a few minutes, the energy from the layek would crash into them, and judging by how strong the taste was, it would carry them through the morning.

“You always pack the strong stuff,” Banner muttered, as Brody took a swallow and grimaced. Marles gave him a dry smirk as he took the flask back; Reme refused it with a shake of her head. 

“I ain’t lumping you on my back,” Marles huffed. “So keep up, or join the rest of ‘em.” He gestured towards the battlefield. Reme rolled her eyes.

“Yes, sir,” she muttered.

“Don’t call me sir,” Marles huffed, and Reme made a childish face at him. 

“If you insist, your lordship,” she said instead. Marles shot her a dirty look. 

Banner put himself between the two of them. His clothes, singed ragged from the rough night, chafed against the burns on his skin, and he quietly ushered the small group along. They moved slowly, picking their way between the dead and recent gouges in the ground. He wondered if they had been from the earth mage, and then firmly turned his thoughts from that, his stomach churning.

Still, his tears didn’t dry until they had reached the shelter of the trees half a mile away. The going was just as slow through here, but for different reasons: instead of corpses and pitfalls impeding their path, they had to struggle through brush and over thick, tangled roots, until Marles found a game trail that headed the same way they were.

They didn’t talk much, and had to rest frequently. Banner insisted it was for Brody’s sake, and the scout’s ankle, but he felt a weary relief with each stop. The soothing from the burn ointment earlier had long faded, but he didn’t ask Marles for more. He knew the medic’s kit was running low.

The rest of Marles’ extremely strong layek had the four of them going well past sunset. Banner knew they would be late to muster back up with the original force, but he didn’t want to take any longer than they needed to. Still, as the moon crept above the trees, he stumbled over rocks and tree roots, and could hear the others cursing or grunting whenever they did the same. Tovi would be ashamed of the lot of them, he thought, too weary to care about the noise they were making when he tripped right over the Cord soldiers.

Literally - Banner pushed through a pair of bushes and his foot caught on someone’s outstretched ankle. That someone let out a cry of pain, and a second later, someone else bulled into Banner from the side, the two of them crashing to the ground.

The Cordellan soldier was much bigger than him, but Banner instinctively grabbed onto his shirt and threw a knee into the man’s stomach, prompting a grunted curse. Banner heaved him off, struggling to his feet. He couldn’t get up any further than his knees when the metal swatches of his brigandine jerked and pulled him backwards, slamming him against a broad tree. Banner grabbed for his sword, but it bucked in his scabbard, and he looked up as the Cordellan picked himself up, drawing his own weapon.

Marles stumbled between them before the Cord could get any closer; over the medic’s shoulder, Banner could see another pair of Cordellan soldiers, a dark-haired man kneeling over a woman lying on the ground. 

“Stop!” Marles snapped at the bigger of the three soldiers, and to Banner’s surprise, the man backed down immediately, clearly recognizing the cut of a medic’s uniform, or maybe the gold ring on Marles’ middle right finger.

Banner tugged at his sword anyway, but it remained stuck in the sheath, and the patches of metal on his armor kept pressing backwards, keeping him pinned against the tree. Out of the corner of Banner’s eye, he could see Reme and Brody, wide-eyed; she reached down for her knife, and Banner quickly shook his head.

“Get out of the way, medic,” the first soldier spat, his hair a dusty blonde and his sword in his hand. He was nearly twice Marles’ size, but the medic just glared him down. The wind picked up and howled around them - it hadn’t been windy earlier.

“Stand down,” Marles snarled back, as much to Reme and Brody as the Cords; the other man stood up, now, placing himself between the Eolans and his comrade on the ground. “I call medic’s peace.”

That made the dark-haired Cordellan pause, and Banner’s breath came a little easier when the pressure on him from his armor eased. The blond one frowned. “What?”

“Marles,” Reme hissed, her eyes widening.

“It means, we’re not fighting tonight,” Marles said sharply. “And if they attack you, any harm they do to you, you do to me in turn.”

Banner shoved away from the tree, and this time, his armor allowed him, though his sword remained firmly in his scabbard. He grabbed Marles by the arm, pulling him back, and hissed, “The metal mage’s here.”

“Quiet, Lieutenant,” Marles said curtly, while the two Cordellan soldiers watched them carefully. Reme left Brody supported against a tree, and came to join Banner and Marles. 

The woman on the ground groaned as she pushed herself into a sitting position. Her face was so pale it nearly glowed in the darkness, puckered by a scar down the side of her face. “Here’s the problem,” she said, her voice shaky but hostile. “We might want to kill your friends, instead.”

“You really think you could?” Reme warned.

“I told you all to shut up,” Marles said flatly. He looked past the soldiers, and Banner followed his gaze; a weary pony snatched at ferns and bits of grass poking up from the roots around them. “You have food.”

The big soldier shifted his weight, eyes narrow. The wind kicked up around them. “You gonna take it?”

“Don’t see any medical supplies.” Marles waited a beat, then stepped forward. Banner opened his mouth to give a warning, but closed it at the dark look Marles sent him. Rumors had been running through the ranks: the Cords had taken a medic captive a month ago, beaten her, killed her, broken every convention surrounding medics and healers.

Marles, when he’d heard, had scoffed. “People say that every time,” he’d said, bandaging up a shallow, but long and bloody gash down Banner’s side. “We can’t believe it, Tadsson, else we’ll break the same rules, and then no medic would be safe.”

Maybe it was just a rumor, just an excuse to dishonor themselves. But Banner eyed the Cords and stepped closer to Marles anyway.

The big soldier eyed Marles suspiciously, then sighed. “What are you saying?”

“Medic’s peace,” Marles said curtly. “Truce.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating Banner and the two others. “Feed them. I’ll look at your friend.”

“Marles,” Banner protested, at the same time the female Cord said, “Not a chance in hell.”

The blond man exchanged a look with the dark-haired soldier, then sighed. “Fine.”

“Boar!” the woman hissed. He looked down at her and snapped, “Sergeant, you’re bleeding out. You’re hurt, and I’m hungry -”

“You’re always hungry,” murmured the other soldier with a slight smile.

“ - and I’m fucking tired of fighting!” Boar might have thrown down his sword in frustration, except looked down and realized he’d stab his sergeant through the leg if he did. He looked extremely disgusted that he couldn’t throw anything to make his point.

"Lieutenant," Reme said plaintively. Banner looked over his shoulder at her. He couldn't tell if she disagreed, or if she wanted the relief of not having to cut these people down.

Banner sighed through his nose. He was tired of fighting, too.

His hands went to his belt again. The soldier by the pony and the Cord sergeant gave him a sharp look, and Banner's sword started to slide out of its sheath under its own volition - until Banner undid his belt, and passed it and the sword over to Marles. "Truce, then?"

Despite his outburst, Boar looked hesitant. It was the metal mage who finally sighed, and undid his own sword belt. "Truce," he agreed, albeit warily, as he passed the sword over to Marles.

"I object to this," the female sergeant fumed. Boar gave a crooked grin as he reached down to help her to her feet.

"Sorry, Sarge," he told her, supporting her with a strong arm. "C'mon, there's a clear area over here, we can set up a fire and - and whatever."

He looked to the metal mage, and asked, "Mind grabbing my sword?"

"That's your wife's job, Boar."

Banner stopped listening to them, glancing back to check on the rest of his group. He didn't want to hear the Cords banter with each other, or Marles chastising Boar for his improper handling of the wounded sergeant, or Boar's soothing words to his officer. He didn't want to think of these people as - as people.

He and Reme helped Brody to the clearing Boar had found. With the pony’s bulk, and the sergeant needing to lie down, it was cramped, but it was better than trying to sort themselves out among the thickly-crowded trees and brambles. He helped to clear the space a little more, while Reme started a fire and settled Brody down next to it; he'd been shivering all day, probably from the dunk in the river.

The campfire smoke drifted up, getting caught in the thick foliage overhead. Now and then, a small breeze filtered it away, and Banner started to think that either Boar or the sergeant was controlling that. It didn't make him feel much better. Reme and Brody watched the Cordellans warily, who watched them back just as carefully, while the metal mage warmed some of the promised food from the pack pony over the fire. Boar finally settled down by the metal mage, and smiled over at them. "You guys are, what, a patrol?"

Marles shook his head, but it was impossible to tell if he was answering the question, or disgusted at the poor bandaging wrapped around the sergeant's abdomen. 

"We got split away from the battalion," Brody piped up, when no one else answered. "After the last battle, and - and the fires." His eyes hadn't left the bright, crackling campfire since it started, except for the split second whenever he had to sneeze. He shivered and pressed closer to Reme. Banner, rather than settle with them next to the fire, dropped down by a tree, leaning back against the trunk.

"Oh, same here," Boar said. "Pretty rough one this time, huh?"

"Boar," the metal mage muttered, but with a sense of resignation that suggested the man was irrepressible. 

Brody glanced over to where Marles crouched over the sergeant. "What happened to her?"

"Ah, one of your lot stabbed her in the gut," Boar said, rolling his broad shoulders in a shrug. "Wasn't too bad, except she took a nasty spill earlier, down a hill, and we think it tore up the wound a bit more."

"You shouldn't have been moving her in the first place," Marles huffed, and when the sergeant opened her mouth, he cut her off by pressing down on her stomach as he tended to her, washing the wound out with what was left of their precious water. She gave a strangled squeak instead.

"We couldn't just stay there," Boar pointed out. He grinned. "Not with crazy Eolans still running around looking to start another fight."

"Let's not talk about the war," Reme put in. With a grim smile, she added, "Might remind a few of us what we're doin' here."

That managed to shut Boar up, at least for a moment; he looked at Reme with a slight frown, eyeing her brown skin patched with white. "Are you -"

"I'm not sick."

"...Wasn't gonna ask that," Boar mumbled, with the tone of voice that suggested that that was exactly what he had been about to ask. Reme scoffed.

Along with the food supplies on their little pack pony, the Cords had a few bits of cookware. When Reme noticed a small kettle, she asked for it. The mage, barely looking up, twitched his fingers. and it lifted itself and floated over. Brody stared at it for a moment, before Reme sighed and picked it up.

"What are you making?" Boar asked.

"Layek. The good kind," Reme added, digging a flask from her pack, as well as a small bag of spices. "The keeps-you-going kind."

"Don't wanna keep going," Boar stuffed into his beard.

"Maybe not, but your sergeant does," Marles gruffed right back. Reme hadn't been making it for the sergeant, but she didn't protest as she heated some water. The small camp fell into an awkward silence as they all waited for the food and the layek to be done. Banner, slouched against the tree, preferred it over the attempts at idle chatter. He glanced up at the sky, though he couldn’t see much in between the crowded leaves and pines. Far off, they all heard a single wolf raise its voice.

Brody looked up from the fire at long last, and Reme hummed slightly under her breath. The Cord sergeant eyed them narrowly as Marles wiped blood from her stomach, then asked snidely, “Listening to your people?”

Reme’s gaze darted straight for her, her expression jumping to cutthroat. She opened her mouth, but then Banner caught her eye, and shook his head. They didn’t need to respond to jibes like that, as much as it put his own back up. 

“You do have that mutt patch,” Boar pointed out, albeit his tone was a bit more careful, as he nodded to the emblem the Eolan soldiers all wore on their jackets - a red dog, leaping. “Don't think I’ve actually seen any of your soldiers wearing that before.”

“Please don’t call us that,” Brody said, timidly.

“What, mutt?” the sergeant said, and flinched when Marles pressed a bit too hard on her wound. She dropped her head back against the ground and grumbled under her breath.

“If you don’t like being called dogs, then why do you wear ‘em?” Boar asked.

“Listen, pig,” Reme snapped in Brody’s defense, when the scout frowned and ducked his head, “you know exactly why it’s an insult, coming from you bastards.”

Boar bristled. “Don’t call me pig -”

“Rilsama’s Deeps,” Reme scoffed, “do you hear yourself?” Brody looked anxiously between the two of them; the fire flared a little, but no one noticed.

“Look, it was an innocent question -”

Banner cupped his hands around his mouth and howled back to the wolf, interrupting the conversation. He did an eerily realistic job; even Marles got a shiver down his spine, and glared over at Banner. The Cordellans shifted uncomfortably as, all around them, somewhere deep in the forest, half a dozen other wolves joined the song.

Reme smiled to herself and stirred the fire.

After a moment, Boar muttered, “Still don’t see why we can’t -”

“Shut up, pig,” the metal mage said pointedly.

The wounded Cordellan sergeant cried out, and Marles swore, his hands covered up to the wrists in her blood. “Reme,” he snapped over his shoulder, as the woman writhed beneath him. Reme got to her feet.

Boar stood up to intervene, alarmed by the sudden crying of his sergeant. “Wait -”

“Get the fuck out of her way,” Marles snarled over his shoulder. Reme pushed past Boar to kneel down, pressing her hands gently on the sergeant’s shoulders as she struggled. 

“You’re killing her,” Boar protested. The wind howled around them, nearly drowning out the wolves’ cries. The metal mage got up, too, and hovered anxiously over the medic, Reme, and their patient.

“What happened?”

“Stop talking,” Marles snarled. “Sit down, you fat bastard, you’re in my light.”

“Something’s stuck in her wound,” Reme said.

“I could help -” started Boar, but Marles interrupted.

“Help by getting out of my light.”

Boar frowned deeply, but he backed away, eyebrows creasing, when the metal mage touched his arm. Banner was on his own feet by now, still watching the Cords intently. It didn’t matter that Marles had taken all their weapons, stacking them off to the side. He didn’t trust these people - especially when he suspected that either Boar or the sergeant were a mage, too.

“You,” Marles snapped over his shoulder, looking at the metal mage. “C’mere. How good are you with your magic?”

“Marles,” Banner started anxiously.

“Sit down, Lieutenant,” Marles said curtly. The metal mage stepped over, careful not to get between Marles and the campfire, and Reme made room to allow him to kneel down next to her. “Looks like a bit of a sword got stuck in there, and I can’t get it out without hurting her more,” Marles went on.

“You’re hurting her plenty,” Boar groused with a scowl, watching the way the sergeant moaned and writhed in pain. The metal mage frowned, looking over the wound as Marles held it open.

Banner fretted, twisting one of his rings around his finger, before moving towards Marles, too. Boar intercepted him, putting a hand on Banner’s arm. Banner glared up at him.

Marles didn’t even look up. “The two of you, go have your pissing contest somewhere else. There, in the bone,” he told the metal mage, carefully holding the bloody wound open. Reme did her best to keep the sergeant still, but the woman sobbed quietly, squirming nonetheless. 

Banner didn’t see what happened, but he heard the sergeant cry out again, and Marles make an approving noise; he assumed they’d gotten the bit of metal out.

“Quit your crying,” Marles groused. “I don’t have anything to give you for the pain. Used it up already. We have to stitch, now, so it’s gonna hurt a hell of a lot more.”

Boar looked to Banner. “Your medic doesn’t know how to make people feel better.”

Banner snorted. “Trust me,” he muttered, “I know. But at least she’s not gonna die any time soon.”

When the metal mage stepped away, Banner relaxed, and went back to sit against his tree. Brody hadn’t said much this entire time, just watching the fire instead, and tending to the layek Reme had left behind. Marles threaded a needle. Reme shifted the woman’s head into her lap, brushing her sweat-soaked hair out of her face. She sang quietly, her words in Padrunni, and slipped a bit of leather from Marles’ kit into the sergeant’s mouth as he began stitching her together again.

The Cord woman whimpered around the leather, but - either through exhaustion, or Reme’s firm, but soothing, motions - kept still enough for Marles to sew the gash together again. It didn’t take long. Marles may not have had any sense of bedside manner, but his motions were quick, efficient, and effective.

“She’ll live, long as you can keep it from getting infected,” he grunted, tying off the thread. “I wouldn’t move her for a couple days.”

The metal mage frowned. “We have to. We can’t stay here. The Eolans -”

He cut himself off, frowning over his shoulder at the Eolans they were cooking dinner for. Marles glanced over at Banner, who sighed.

“We’re not regrouping near here,” he said, finally, looking away. “We’ve been straggling behind. You shouldn’t have to worry.” They shouldn’t have to worry about a real patrol of Eolan soldiers finding them. Able-bodied soldiers who wouldn’t think twice about taking them prisoner - or simply cutting them down. 

Boar frowned slightly, glancing over at his dark-haired friend. Banner closed his eyes, tipping his head back against the tree. He flipped the letter from the Cordellan soldier over and over in his hands. Blood from the soldier still smeared the edges, as much as he’d tried wiping it away earlier. He knew he shouldn’t risk falling asleep, but dragons, he was so exhausted -

He startled from a light, unwitting doze when someone settled next to him. Banner reflexively reached for his hip, before realizing that he’d given his sword to Marles, and that they weren’t fighting. The metal mage arched his eyebrows and shifted a touch further back.

“Soup’s ready,” he said. He eyed Banner, before offering him a bowl. “We were introducing ourselves while you were napping. My name’s -”

“Don’t.” Banner took the bowl automatically, but looked away from the other man.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t,” Banner repeated. He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to know this man’s name. He didn’t want to know any of their names; he wished he could forget Boar’s ridiculous nickname, or the fact that the two men were simply protecting each other and their wounded sergeant. He didn’t want to look and see a friendly man offering him dinner. He didn’t want to know these people.

Because then he wouldn’t want to kill them.

The mage hesitated, then merely nodded and moved back to the fire. Branner cradled the bowl, letting it warm his hands. Reme offered the mage a dry smile, then offered, “He got a few lungfuls of smoke earlier. His throat probably still hurts.”

“Didn’t seem to be hurtin’ when he was howlin’ for the wolves earlier,” Boar muttered under his breath. Reme’s smile slid into a smirk.

She sat with the Cord sergeant’s head still in her lap; the woman seemed to have finally relaxed, her eyes glassy. Most likely from the layek, which was the only respite any of them would get from their pain and weariness.

Reme hummed idly as they ate, careful not to drop any of the soup on the sergeant. Besides her tune, the camp was quiet. Marles had moved on from the sergeant, and captured Boar’s arm, rucking up the man’s sleeve to inspect a gash on the inside of his forearm with a scowl. The big Cordellan looked both amused and irritated, but at least he knew better than to try and get Marles to leave him alone.

“What is that song?” the sergeant finally asked, her voice weak and her eyes drifting close. “I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

Reme stopped humming. She glanced over at Marles, then to Banner. “The old soldier’s song,” she said, finally. “You don’t look old enough to know it.”

The sergeant gave a soft scoff, cracking her eyes open to look up at Reme. “Speak for yourself. How old are you, sixteen?”

“And a half,” Reme said, grinning. 

“Don’t think I’ve heard that one,” Boar said, leaning back on his free hand. Marles glared at him until he sighed and straightened back up. “It’s an Eolan one, right? Sarge, I thought you grew up too far west to hear anything from Eola.”

“It’s a soldier’s song,” Marles corrected. He eyed the three Cordellans. “From both sides. This your first war?”

Boar exchanged a look with the metal mage, before nodding. Marles grunted. “You probably wouldn’t know it, then, but you may as well hear it now.”

“Are you going to sing it for us, Marles?” Brody asked with a pain smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

Marles gave him a withering look. “And with who your father is? Can’t say as I’m surprised,” he grumbled. “Best turn that question to the arrow fodder. And best not tell any of your noble friends you’ve heard them singing it.”

Reme bit back a smile, looking over at Banner. His face reddened a touch as he looked into his bowl, still half-full of soup, and cooling rapidly. He didn’t feel much like singing.

He felt a lot like arrow fodder.

“Lieutenant,” Reme said quietly. When he didn’t look up, she said, “Banner,” to get his attention. “Songs help the healing.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about the wounded sergeant. “Don’t think this song does much healing,” he muttered. He set his bowl aside, unfinished, and found himself playing with the earth mage’s letter again. He looked down at the bloody thumbprints he’d left on the edges. Banner had washed his hands in the river afterwards, scrubbing them over and over - but in the firelight, they were red with blood again.

“You’re too young, Lieutenant, you shouldn’t know it either,” Marles muttered. Boar hissed between his teeth when Marles tightened the bandaging on his arm. Banner shrugged. 

“My mother taught me,” he said quietly. “When she knew I was staying in after my conscription ended.”

Boar frowned a little. “Why’s that?”

Banner wished they could go back to pretending the others didn’t exist. “She said that, sooner or later, I’d get caught up in another war, and I better know what I was signing myself up for. She was in the navy,” he added belatedly. “Lost her arm fighting the Aabastroans.”

“Rotten luck,” murmured the sergeant. Banner shrugged again and looked away. “What’s the big deal about this? Isn’t it just a song?”

Marles, for the first time Banner could remember, gave them a crooked grin. Like most of his smiles, it wasn’t a happy or comforting one. “Should be. But it’s not good for morale when your footsoldiers realize that this - none of this - matters. That this war we’re fighting will never matter. All these lives lost will have been for nothing, except the pride of those who wear the crowns.”

Boar winced again, and Banner doubted it was from Marles’ tending.

“Gods, you’re one of those,” the sergeant grumbled, dropping her head back into Reme’s lap. “Of course it matters.”

“If it mattered,” Marles shot back, “then why are we fighting again? Wouldn’t’ve this been solved after the first conflict?” He didn’t give the sergeant a chance to answer, before surging on. “If it mattered, then why are we just sitting here, dogs and hawks, sharing a meal, instead of killing each other?”

The silence that followed was brittle and telling. Boar shifted uncomfortably, looking at the fire. The sergeant opened her mouth, then shut it again into a thin line. After a long moment, the metal mage said, “Let’s hear it, then.”

It was a moment before Banner realized the mage was staring at him. “What?”

“The song,” the metal mage said patiently. Banner’s face reddened slightly, and he looked down. A few seconds later, Reme began humming again, the same tune. He glanced at her, and she offered him a little smile.

He sighed, then straightened a little, looking upwards, past the smoke, past the leaves, to wherever the stars hid behind the foliage and the haze of the last day’s wildfires and battles. He’d never had any illusions that he had a good voice, but Reme had always liked it, coaxing him to sing more often for her.

He ran a hand through his hair. When he started to sing, quietly, Reme joined him, a much smoother counterpart to his smoke-roughened voice.

Over fields of blood Through a forest of graves We march, we march And pray we make it back home And pray we make it back home

We march to war We march to fight We march to save What we thought was right And pray we make it back home And pray we make it back home

Our swords are stained with blood Our hands, our hearts are too We fight, we kill We’ve learned nought else to do But pray we make it back home But pray we make it back home

We’ve served the crown We’ve paid our dues We’ve stained our souls with honor And suffered our king’s abuse And still we march, we march And pray we make it back home And pray we make it back home

Tell my love I miss her so But I cannot find the way back home My soul is weighed with blood This battlefield is all I know For I marched and marched And did not make it back home I did not make it back home

Banner couldn’t finish the last verse. His voice dropped, leaving Reme to finish the last notes on her own, her voice hovering in the air much the same way the smoke caught against the foliage overhead. Banner’s hands clenched, crinkling the paper in one fist, and he closed his eyes, seeing nothing but the Cordellan earth mage, smiling as Banner slit their throat.

He wanted to throw up.

“Marles, are you done?” Banner almost didn’t recognize himself speaking, his words sharp as he stood. Marles looked up, then shoved Boar’s arm away and nodded. “Good. We’re leaving.”

Brody blinked, startling out of his daze. He finally dragged his gaze from the fire. “We’re leaving?”

Glancing down, Banner flipped the letter over one more time, before rounding the fire. The metal mage stood, albeit a bit warily, when Banner held out the paper.

“Can you send that on to Finns?” he asked the mage quietly.

“What is it?”

“It’s from one of your own.” Banner didn’t say any more than that. He didn’t think he could. He turned away as soon as the mage took it with a slight frown, looking at the handwriting across the outside of the letter.

“Sir,” Brody said quietly. Banner came over to help him up. Brody exchanged an anxious look with Reme, and started to protest, but it died when he got a better look at Banner’s expression. Carefully, Reme eased herself out from underneath the Cordellan sergeant. Boar glanced to the metal mage, and then to their stack of weapons. The mage shook his head.

Reme went to retrieve their weapons. Marles pulled his coat off, and picked up Boar’s from where he’d dropped it on the ground earlier. He was in the middle of showing them how to put together a stretcher for the sergeant when Boar stiffened.

“Someone’s coming,” he said, quietly, mere seconds before the faint whicker of a horse could be heard. They all froze, Reme in the middle of buckling her sword belt on.

A thousand thoughts crashed through Banner’s head, all at once. Reme had given him and Brody their blades already, and even Marles looked to him, slowly distancing himself from the Cordellans. The wind picked up around them, and with it came voices - Eolan voices.

"Quiet the horse," Banner snapped over his shoulder; the metal mage went to it immediately, soothing the pony before it could whicker back. Banner kept Brody steady, his shoulders tense - though there was no reason that Banner should be tense. Those were his people, just out of sight. He shouldn’t be afraid. His stomach shouldn’t be so knotted.

He started to move with Brody, when he felt a familiar pressure return, the metal of his armor pressing against him. Banner turned to stare across the coals of a hastily snuffed fire at the metal mage. His free hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

“What are you going to do?” the metal mage asked, his voice quiet. Banner didn’t answer, just looking at him, even while he felt Marles and Reme’s eyes on him. The wind picked up again.

Banner looked away. “Get her ready to move,” he told them curtly.

“We’re not going with you,” Boar hissed.

“I said, get her ready to move,” Banner snapped back, glaring right back at the other two men. “Reme, Marles, go meet them.”

He stared the metal mage down, though some small, quiet part of him was relieved when neither of the Cords made a move to stop Reme or Marles. After another long moment, Banner turned away to follow. Brody hissed when his injured foot bumped over a tree root, and Banner tightened his grip on the younger man.

They had to struggle through more brush, but when they finally caught up to the others, Banner glanced over his shoulder. He could see no sign of their little camp, or the three Cordellans (and one pack pony) they’d left behind. Reme and Marles spoke with a patrol of six Eolans, all mounted, all dressed in the blue and black of the cavalry. Banner propped Brody up against a tree, before saluting the patrol.

“Lieutenant Tadsson, Third Cohort, Seventh Battalion,” he said, shortening the usual introductions out of weariness. 

“Lieutenant Delaney, Fourth Cohort, Fourth Battalion,” the leader of the patrol returned. She frowned down at them. “Everything all right? Your medic here was just telling us you came from the battlefield. You’re very far behind, Lieutenant.”

“We know.” Banner hesitated. Reme looked at him, then beyond him, towards the dark forest. “We had to stop and rest. What are you doing out here?”

“Patrolling.” Delaney grinned, leaning forward in her saddle. “Looking for stragglers, like you. Or like the other kind.”

“Got lucky,” one of the other horsemen piped up. “Found a coupla Cords, took care of ‘em quick enough. Looks like they’re more scattered than we are. Those fucking fires.”

“Those fires,” Banner repeated in a murmur. He and Delaney were the same rank, but he was sure he could stop them from dispatching the Cords they’d found. They could take them prisoner, instead, march them back to their mustering point. 

“We’re on our way back,” Delaney added. “We can take your scout, there, put him on a horse and walk you all back. We just need to check a little bit further. You see anything, where you came from?”

He paused at the question. Reme stared at Banner, her eyes weary and pleading. Duty and obedience demanded that Banner tell the patrol about Boar and the others, just behind him, hiding in the trees, but something held him back.

He had to tell them. The metal mage was back there. If Banner kept silent, he would fight the Eolans again. He would cause havoc and death. More people would die, by their own swords and armor. More of Banner's people. 

The next time Banner saw them, he would have to fight them. He would have to kill them.

The next time.

But not tonight.

Banner looked up to the officer and said, "We saw no one."

And as he said it, a cold weight settled in his stomach, at the same time a weight was lifted from his shoulders. A breeze filtered through their group, chilling the back of his neck.

"All right, then," the patrol officer said. She drummed her fingers against her thigh. “All right,” she repeated, and ran a hand down her face. “I’m exhausted, and we’re running behind. Get your scout up behind Albur, and let’s head back.” She turned their horse around, gesturing for the others to follow. Banner didn't move for a long moment. His hand curled around the hilt of his sword, as Marles moved to help Brody limp to one of the cavalrymen’s horses, Reme there to boost him into the saddle.

A brush of wind curled against the nape of Banner’s neck; a quiet voice murmured, Good dog. Banner shivered and slapped a hand to his neck, like a fly had bit him, and glared over his shoulder.

There was nothing there.

When Banner woke up again, the sun was high in the sky. His leg was wrapped in bandages, and his wrists in cords behind his back. He laid on his side in the dirt, and when he struggled to push himself up, a light weight dragged at his neck.

They’d tied him from the collar around his neck to a stake pounded into the dirt. He grit his teeth, and got up to his knees.

When he tried to stand, the rope stretched taut, and forced Banner to stay kneeling in the dirt. There was barely any leeway; he only had a couple feet of slack. He bit the inside of his cheek and settled back into a sitting position.

The Cords had staked him in the center of their camp, a cookfire some ten feet away, and then tents pitched in orderly rows around him. He could hear the river, and see it between a pair of tents, down a slope. He was missing his boots and his jacket, but there was something else missing. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it at first, until he fidgeted with the ropes around his wrists, and realized -

His rings were gone.

Banner’s stomach twisted, and he cursed under his breath. Those bastards - they’d taken his rings, all of them, even his family ring. He kept rubbing his thumbs along the inside of his fingers, as if his rings would reappear with each pass, but they didn’t. He was going to kill them.

Banner closed his eyes and slumped back. His shoulders ached, but so did every other part of his body. There didn’t seem to be any guards nearby, but considering that he was in the middle of their camp, Banner doubted he’d be able to get away with so much as a rude comment. Cordellan soldiers passed by, going about their business. Other than a few glances sent his way, he went largely ignored.

He was starving, and he hadn’t been given anything to drink since they had captured him. Banner doubted they were going to change that now. He settled on his side again, seething with pain and fury, and stretched his wounded leg out, trying to get as comfortable as possible.

“Get up.”

Banner slit his eyes open when he felt a tug on his neck. He wasn’t sure when he’d drifted off, but it hadn’t made him feel any better - in fact, he ached more than ever.

The rope no longer tethered him to the stake. It dipped from his neck towards the ground, and then up into someone’s hands; Banner didn’t bother looking up high enough to see who. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and then stayed there, ignoring the second tug at his collar.

“Hey,” the same voice sneered. One of the two pairs of boots near him nudged his knee. When Banner didn’t move, the man kicked him in the ribs. “I won’t tell you again.”

Banner coughed, hunching slightly over the new pain. He was too tired to think of anything to say back, and too tired to get up - and he didn’t want to.

The first soldier kicked him again, hard enough to knock Banner back over. The other scoffed and smacked the first soldier’s arm.

“Just grab him,” he snapped, already reaching down to grab Banner by his collar. “You keep this up, captain, and we’ll drag you over like the dog you are.”

In the end, that’s what they had to do. Jerking Banner to his feet, the two soldiers hauled him a short distance, towards the camp’s main fire. Like the night before, most of the cavalry were gathered again, and Banner dully noticed several of the people he’d fought the night before.

Instead of giving him a stick to play with, though, one of the men kicked the back of his legs, and he dropped to his knees as they buckled. He couldn’t quite stifle a small whimper as he hit the ground, pain flaring along the cut in his leg, and a thousand other aches in his body.

A firm grip on his shirt kept him from pitching to the ground entirely. Banner’s vision blurred, and when he looked up towards the fire, he flinched at the light. 

“Nice of you to join us, captain.” Tralyn paced into his vision, and Banner grit his teeth. “I hope you’ve rested well.”

He paused for an answer.

“Give me my rings back.” Banner watched Tralyn warily, shifting his weight on his knees, but too exhausted to do much anything else.

Tralyn snorted. “Rings?” he asked innocently. “Dogs don’t wear jewelry, captain.”

“Give me my fucking -”

One of the soldiers flanking him clouted Banner on the side of the head, sending him to the dirt. Banner swore and struggled to get back up to his knees. Tralyn waited patiently, hands clasped loosely behind his back and sharing an amused look with the others.

“No standing?” Tralyn asked idly. “You were so adamant about last night. Did you finally learn where you belong?”

Banner looked up at him, then clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t rise to the bait - but he did, struggling to get one foot underneath him. He’d nearly straightened up entirely, when Tralyn put a hand on his shoulder, and shoved him back down.

It was pitifully easy to force Banner to his knees again. He hissed in pain as he hit the dirt, barely stopping himself from toppling over onto his side. Tralyn grabbed a chunk of his hair, steadying him. “Is this what passes for officers in the Eolan army these days?”

Banner thought about headbutting him. He couldn’t quite muster up the energy.

Tralyn pulled a knife from his belt, the firelight gleaming along the polished blade. “Do you know what I used to do, captain? Before the war?”

Banner didn’t care.

“My family raises hunting hounds.” Tralyn let go of his hair, ambling around Banner in a circle as he played with the knife. “We’re quite well-known for them. The king, in fact, has many of our dogs in his kennels.”

Banner sighed slightly, wondering where this was going. Tralyn must have noticed his attention drifting, because he brought it back by digging the tip of the knife into the back of Banner’s neck. “I do believe, even before the war, captain, that your king may have had a couple of our bitches in his halls. In his bed, too, I imagine -”

“Shut up,” Banner snarled, finally, twisting around to glare at Tralyn. He started to stand again, and Tralyn clamped a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down on his knees. 

“Finally got a bark out of you,” Tralyn said, smirking. He squeezed, his grip painfully tight on Banner’s shoulder, digging into an old bruise there. “Of course, the king has many hunting hounds, I’m sure. Do you know how we tell them apart? Tell who bred them?”

Banner didn’t particularly care. “Take it back,” he growled instead. Tralyn reached down and tugged sharply on Banner’s collar. “Take it back, you fucking -”

“Shut up,” Tralyn ordered sharply. “You can yap when I let you.”

“Shut me up yourself,” Banner said, his face red. A slow, grim smile spread over Tralyn’s face.

“Very well. Let’s muzzle the dog, shall we?” Tralyn gestured over to his soldiers, and one scurried off obediently. Banner clenched his jaw. Tralyn smirked down at him, his eyes hooded. “Don’t look at me like that, captain. You asked for this.”

Banner watched him narrowly, as Tralyn paced around while they waited. When the corporal turned his back to him, Banner surged to his feet, pushing through the exhaustion and the pain -

Only to be jerked back to the ground, the rope growing taught and dragging Banner down again. He coughed and swore, as someone gave the rope another yank. He became aware of laughter over his head, as Banner gasped for breath, blinking to try and get rid of the fuzziness in his vision.

“Reach the end of your chain, captain?” Tralyn taunted, just out of reach. The soldier who had been sent away trotted back now, a metal contraption in hand. Another reached down to drag Banner to his knees again, holding him there with a firm grip on his shoulders. 

Banner’s stomach twisted when he saw what the cavalryman had brought. He clenched his jaw shut, and two of the soldiers had to wrestle his mouth open, holding his jaw as they forced the muzzle over his head, strapping it behind his head, and forcing the metal bit into his mouth. Tralyn twirled his knife between his hands as he waited for them to be done; Banner’s face burned red with rage and humiliation by the time they’d finished.

Tralyn smiled slightly. “That’s better. What were we talking about?”

Banner glared balefully up at him. Tralyn waited a beat, before he stepped forward and tangled his fingers in Banner’s hair again. “That’s right. Hounds. How we tell who owns which ones. It’s very simple.”

He showed Banner the blade. “We notch the ears. It doesn’t hurt them very much - usually we do it as pups, give them something to let them sleep through the notching. Of course, you’re hardly a pup any more. You can stand the pain.”

He reached down and grabbed Banner’s ear, and without any further ado, cut into the shell of Banner’s ear, splitting the skin. He flinched and swore, or tried to; it was lost in the metal gag.

“The Tralyn family’s mark,” the corporal went on idly, as Banner felt blood stream down his ear, dripping onto his shoulder, “is two notches on the right, one on the left.”

He paced around to Banner’s right side, and when the redheaded captain flinched away, another of the soldiers reached over to grab him, hold his head still.

“Come now, captain.” Tralyn’s eyes glinted in the firelight. He lowered his voice. “You insist you’re not a dog, to flinch and cry at such small pain. Go on, then, prove it. Hold your head high.”

Banner bit down around the muzzle as best he could, the sharp edges of the metal cutting into the sides of his mouth. He straightened his spine, though, steeled himself, and Tralyn nodded to the soldier, who let go of him. 

Tralyn took his time, slowly sawing the edge of the knife into Banner’s ear once, near the front, and then again, after the top curve of his ear. Banner closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of the soldiers sneering and laughing around him, and focused instead on trying to breath through the muzzle. Warm blood slid down the side of his neck, and Tralyn swiped two fingers through it. He smeared the blood across Banner’s cheek. “That wasn’t too bad, now, was it?”

Banner didn’t answer; he couldn’t, after all, but he wouldn’t have been able to find the words even if he didn’t have the damned muzzle preventing him from speaking. Tralyn considered him a moment, then wiped his bloodied knife clean on Banner’s shirt, and nodded to the soldiers.

“Rilsama’s deeps, Tadsson, how are you still going?” Reme complained, breaking away from him to puff and gasp for breath. Banner grinned back at her and straightened, lowering his fists to give her a moment to catch her wind again.

Only a moment, though, and then he’d be back at it. 

“He’s impossible to wear down, I told you that,” Tovi called from where she perched on the fence. It was a rundown affair probably used years ago to keep in cattle, but the cattle must have long since broken through and no one bothered to round them back up. 

“We’ve been at this for almost an hour,” Reme whined, though Banner was pretty sure it hadn’t been quite that long.

“Come on,” he told her, and went at her again, landing a loose hit to her shoulder that had her skipping back with an easy grace marred by clear fatigue. 

She threw a combo that he blocked all too easily, prompting a scowl onto her white and brown face. “What happened to when I could leave your arse in the dirt?”

“You did,” Banner pointed out cheerfully; she’d dumped him twice, now. “You just said that you could outlast me any day, though.”

“That was before you cheated, somehow!” Reme backed around their impromptu battlefield, bare feet tracking through the grass. A stream burbled cheerfully not too far away, and Banner thought for a moment about tossing her in. He paid for the momentary distraction by Reme landed a smack to his cheek.

He laughed and tucked his chin again, backing up. “I don’t cheat. I just don’t waste my breath complaining.”

Scowling, Reme dropped her fists. “Gods, this is ridiculous. Tovi, get over here.”

“That wasn’t part of the bet,” Banner said, but Tovi, grinning, had already hopped off the fence and came over with her fists raised. Banner turned to face her, and then staggered.

A weight hit his back, and Reme’s spotted arms wrapped around him, as she gripped his waist with her legs. Banner staggered to try and keep his balance, as Reme clung to his back. “All right, Farrier, get him!”

Tovi laughed and advanced. Scowling, Banner took a couple of her pulled punches on his forearms, before he grabbed her arm and yanked her forward. Tovi yelped as Banner cracked his forehead against hers. He might have done the same - that hurt more than he’d like to admit.

“Gods, Tadsson!” Tovi laughed as she staggered backwards, holding her head. “Even with a damned handicap -”

“Everything all right?” Taryn wandered into view from out of a small copse of trees. The main camp bustled around the abandoned farmhouse some ways away, and from the crossbow he carried, Taryn must have just been relieved from watch.

“He headbutted me!” Tovi whined, and Taryn snorted and dropped his crossbow as he looked at the three of them. Banner shifted, half-heartedly trying to pry Reme off of him, but he was getting tired, too.

“Your fault for getting too close,” Taryn pointed out with a grin. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get him down,” Reme huffed. She wrapped her hands up in Banner’s shirt, then threw her weight backwards. He grunted and staggered, but managed to keep his feet. “And keep him down.”

“That’s impossible,” Taryn said, grinning. Tovi rubbed her forehead one last time, then bulled forward. Banner let out a curse as she hit him, and set his stance, just barely keeping upright.

Tovi groaned loudly and pushed him again. “Get over here, Taryn, make yourself useful.”

“This wasn’t the bet,” Banner complained, and he hastily backed up, Reme still attached to his back, as Taryn grinned and pulled off his weapons and armor. Taryn was just as broad-shouldered and muscular as he was - maybe a touch larger, honestly. He grunted as Tovi tried to tackle him again, pushing against his midsection with her arms around him and Reme.

“It’s like riding a damned mountain,” Reme laughed. Banner tried to retreat, but then Taryn hit him like a sack of bricks from the side.

He tried not to crush Reme as he went down, cursing and laughing with the other three on top of him. 

“Stay down, this time,” Reme told him, wiggling out from underneath him, so that she could promptly sit on Banner’s chest. He let out a strained, wheezing laugh.

“Gods, Reme, fine, I’m done,” he huffed. “But you all cheated.”

Tovi looked up between Taryn’s arm and head; he’d ended up on top of her, and didn’t seem inclined to move. “S’not cheating.”

“It might be,” Reme said, in the interest of fairness. Banner raised a hand, started to say something, then dropped his hand in defeat.

“Can you let me up?”

“Nah,” Taryn said. “When’s the last time you took a break, lieutenant?”

“Yesterday -”

“Two days ago,” Reme corrected. “They’ve been working you like a draft horse, Banner. I can’t believe you wanted to relax by sparring.”

Banner groaned, and dropped his head against the dirt. “Hitting people is how he relaxes,” Tovi pointed out.

Reme conceded that with a nod and a little hmm. “Well, time you learned a different way,” she declared, and slid backwards until her rear was on the ground again, but her legs still stretched across Banner’s torso. He looked at her with one eye open. “We ain’t letting you get up until you’ve had some proper rest.”

“...All right.”

His admission clearly startled Reme. Banner grinned at the surprise on her face, and then shifted until he had his hands laced behind his head. “Let’s at least get a little more comfortable, yeah?”

Marles found them while they were all sorting themselves out against a large boulder, Banner with Reme tucked up against his side and Taryn on the other with Tovi in his lap.

“What are you idiots doing?” Marles asked, scowling at the bruises on Banner and Reme’s faces.

“Trying to get some peace and quiet, but then you showed up,” Taryn drawled. Marles had a letter in his hand; scowling, and without another word, he stomped over and settled himself into Banner’s lap, unfolding the paper to read it in silence. Banner opened his mouth to say something, and then didn’t. Marles had been away from his wife for far too long, and they’d all noticed.

“Is this too much for you?” Reme asked a while later, the warmth of the boulder and the sunlight and the shade of a tree slowly creeping across them making the whole group drowsy. Banner dropped his head against the boulder.

“Not today,” he replied, quietly, and it was true. He couldn’t always bear the prolonged contact, but today - 

It was fine.

“Good,” Reme murmured, and burrowed a little more into his side. He squeezed her shoulders, and managed to relax as all the others slowly drifted off into sleep. Banner wasn’t the only one who’d been run ragged lately.

Captain Slate came across them some time later; Banner had lost track in his light doze, but he’d heard the captain’s footfalls through the grass, and slit open his eyes. Slate had a crooked grin on his face, hands on his hips as he surveyed them. “Everything all right, sir?”

“I was going to see if you had the guard reports from last night.”

“On your desk, sir.”

Slate nodded. “What is all this?”

“Mutiny, sir. They’re holding me hostage until I relax ‘nough for ‘em.”

Reme shifted slightly at the voices, smiling, but her eyes remained close. Slate’s grin shifted to a bit of a smirk. “Well, then.”

“Sir,” Banner said, “I can get back to work -”

“The court-martial for you lot can wait,” Slate interrupted, raising a hand. “Take a break, lieutenant, we all could use one.”

He turned to head back towards the camp. Banner licked his lips, then said, “Sir.”

Slate stopped and glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows arched. Banner grinned.

“There’s room for one more, sir.”

---

my continued quest to puppy pile all my characters continues

Banner frowned down at his wrists as one of the Cord scouts unwrapped the rope bindings. His skin was red from chafing, scraped raw along the outside of his wrists. He started to flex his hands and rub the feeling back into them, watching the soldiers surrounding him warily as the scout undid the rope that had been tied around the leather strap placed around his neck.

“What’s this?” He frowned, taking the heavy stick the same scout handed to him. It was little more than wood carved in the approximate shape of a sword; one side of what was supposed to be the hilt was smaller than the other. Petulantly, he thought about how far it fell short of Eolan training weapons.

Stupid thing to think about, really, when he’d been taken as a prisoner of war.

“What does it look like, Captain?” Corporal Tralyn paced in front of him, a sneer Banner was beginning to think permanent curling his lip. “Surely you, of all people, know what a practice sword is.”

Banner hated how the heat rose in his cheeks, as if he had anything to be ashamed about. Instead of ask what he was supposed to be doing with it, he just stared at the corporal.

“You put up quite a fight earlier,” Tralyn said, as the same scout from earlier stood in front of Banner. “It seems a shame to let that go unrewarded.”

Banner’s head pounded from where he’d been hit. “Let me go,” he suggested, and the corporal scoffed.

“You have to earn that right, Captain,” Tralyn said airily. “Win against me in a fair fight, and I’ll let you run back to the rest of your mangy pack of mongrels.”

Banner had been too busy counting how many of Tralyn’s cavalry were around the camp. “Win against who?” he said, distracted, and then sucked in a breath and skipped back as the scout, now carrying a wooden sword of her own, lunged towards him.

He parried her downward swing a bit too quickly; the stick was too short, too light for him, fashioned after a a cavalry blade than his heavier shortsword he was used to. Banner shifted back again, jaw clenched, as the scout swung at him again.

She was too used to fighting on a horse, he thought; she acted as if her reach was greater than it was, and after a few quick exchanges it was easy for Banner to knock her sword aside and then drive his, hard, into her gut. He disarmed her when she doubled over, and out of spite, kicked the side of her knee, forcing the woman to drop to the ground as she gasped for breath.

Banner flicked Tralyn a disgusted look. “Done.”

Tralyn’s expression was far milder than Banner expected, as the scout, frowning, flung a muttered curse at him and limped off the impromptu sparring field. She passed the false sword off to another soldier. Banner’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, and he took a small step back as the other man stepped into the ring of soldiers.

“You said, if I win -”

“Against me,” Tralyn interrupted. Banner shot him a quick glance. He wanted to snarl at Tralyn to move into the ring, then, but instead he felt a heavy thud of pain against his ribs.

The Cord grinned at him. “Better pay attention, Captain.”

Growling under his breath, Banner went on the offensive. He pushed through the exhaustion and the bruises he’d already gathered, surprising his opponent, and disarmed the other man in less than a minute.

“What are you playing at?” Banner snapped, frustrated. He forced himself not to rub his bruised side. “Get in the ring.”

Tralyn snorted a laugh. He paced forward, but kept his hands empty and clasped behind his back; Banner strangled the urge to jump him as the man came within striking distance - and then closer.

“Do you not remember them, Captain?” Tralyn asked smoothly. He gestured to the two Cords Banner had already fought, and then further, pointing out several others, their expressions hungry and hostile. “Don’t you recognize your own prisoners?”

Banner dug his feet into the pine needle-covered ground, ignoring the unease trailing down his spine. “I held no prisoners,” he said, quietly, and gripped the practice sword until the scabs on his knuckles split and bled anew.

“Don’t lie to us,” Tralyn snarled, pacing right up to Banner until they were face to face. He stared down coldly at Banner, several inches higher. “I and my riders were held in those dungeons. Less than half of us survived.”

That wasn’t Banner’s fault.

“We are owed retribution, Captain,” Tralyn said quietly. “You will give it to us.” He stood there a moment longer, as Banner rooted himself to the ground, refusing to move, to show any sign of fear.

That wasn’t his fault.

Tralyn stepped backwards and tipped his head at another soldier. “You can fight all the survivors of Aelford, Captain. And if you win, you have your freedom.”

—

Banner lost track of how many bouts the Cordellans put him through. It felt like an eternity - no, more like a war, he the only soldier against enemy after enemy after enemy. He didn’t realize he’d fought the very first scout again until she was on the ground at his feet, cursing over a broken arm. Sweat stung his vision, and the only thing louder than his panting breath was the awful, constant pounding in the back of Banner’s head.

They hardly gave him a chance to breathe, and as someone stepped into the ring, replacing the scout, Banner lost what little control he had.

They were only practice swords, carved from wood, and while they could kill Banner as easily as any metal sword, they had no real blades. He just raised his arm as the new soldier swung at him, and the stick cracked against his elbow, bringing tears of pain of Banner’s eyes. Growling, he grabbed the sword by its blade, and jerked the other soldier forward with it. They met the crudely-formed pommel of Banner’s practice weapon with their face, and crumpled to the ground.

“Hold.”

Tralyn’s voice was more unwelcome than the advent of the sleeping dragons. Banner only just stopped himself from hitting the man on the ground again - and then, sullenly, wondered why he didn’t use these damned sticks to break the bastard’s neck.

“You’re getting sloppy, Captain,” Tralyn remarked, moving around the edge of the circle. Instead of answering, Banner skipped back when the man on the ground snarl and kicked at him. “You Eolans train as if these are swords, not sticks, don’t you? Perhaps you need a reminder.”

Tralyn nodded to another of the cavalry riders, who grinned back, drawing their sword as they stepped into the ring.

Their real sword.

The fading light gleamed off the Cord’s blade as he stepped forward and slashed at Banner. Adrenaline chased his weariness away, if only for a moment, and the heavier sword nearly knocked Banner’s stick from his hands. He stumbled back, exhaustion flooding back into his bones not a moment later. He couldn’t keep doing this -

Banner let out a shout when the Cord, feinting, slipped all too easily around his guard and cut his sword into Banner’s calf. The sword caught on the thick leather of Banner’s calf-high boots, but still cut deeply enough that Banner fell to one knee. He barely managed to deflect the next blow with his practice sword, pushing it above his head.

It broke in half, splinters cutting into Banner’s cheek. Gritting his teeth, he took advantage of the Cordellan’s second of gloating and threw himself forward. Pain seared along his leg, as Banner shoved off the dirt and tackled the soldier around the middle.

The Cord dropped his sword as they both hit the ground, but the other man had the upper hand in a second, throwing Banner off of him. Banner rolled over onto his stomach, and pushed himself up to his knees.

The Cordellan grabbed a fistful of Banner’s unkempt red hair, planted a knee in his back, and then grabbed the back of the collar around Banner’s throat, and pulled.

Banner choked as the leather tightened against his windpipe. Blood pounded in his ears, and he scrabbled at the collar, trying to get even a finger’s-width of slack. Behind him, the Cord twisted their grip on the collar, cutting off bloodflow and air both.

Banner didn’t hear Tralyn call off his soldier. He fell to his elbows and knees when the Cordellan released him, gasping for breath and unable to hear over the roaring in his ears.

“Captain. Captain.”

Banner squinted upwards, uncertain how many times Tralyn had spoken. He could see the look of gloating on the corporal’s face, and wanted nothing more than to punch it off the bastard’s face.

His body wouldn’t move.

“Well, you made it much farther along than any of us expected,” Tralyn said, his voice amused as his boots stopped just in Banner’s line of sight. Coughing, Banner blinked, and blinked again, trying to get rid of the blurriness in his vision. It didn’t work.

“You can try again later,” Tralyn said, looking towards the tree-blurred sky. “It’s late.”

“Fight me.”

The corporal paused at Banner’s hoarse, barely-audible demand. He turned, arching an eyebrow, and looked down at the bloodied, bruised, pathetic Eolan soldier.

“You can’t even stand, Captain,” Tralyn said, condescension dripping from each word. Banner glared at him, then grit his teeth, and pushed himself to his knees.

He wavered a moment, as the Cordellan soldiers surrounding them quieted themselves. Every inch of Banner, battered and bruised, ached with every single breath he took. Eyes screwed shut, Banner put his hands on his knees, then struggled to shift his weight, get one foot out from underneath him.

Shaking, Banner stood, and fixed Tralyn with a glare. “Fight me, you dragons-cursed coward.”

All traces of amusement had left the corporal’s face. He took two steps forward, too quickly for Banner to force his sluggish, beaten body to react, and backhanded Banner across the face with a gauntleted fist.

Banner hit the ground again. Blood poured fresh from his nose and his split lips; staring down at the dirt, he couldn’t make his eyes focus on anything. He sobbed once, and then pushed up from the ground, back to his hands and knees, and spat blood at Tralyn’s feet.

Curling his lip, Tralyn drew back one boot.