Date: Unkown

Place: Unknown

“We will not fall against the likes of them!” Tyramon looked at General Archon, roaring his speech over the heads of hundreds of soldiers, waving his hand in the general direction of the enemy, somewhere beyond the blood-soaked dirt. His blue jacket was pristine, his jaw razor sharp, just like the sword in his hand, his eyes unblinking. The horse under him was enormous; its black coat shone in the sun. 

Tyramon passed a patch of burnt grass, the logs around it reduced to embers, the corpses cramped, blackened, and untouched. Their own men. Burnt beyond recognition. People who were further away had their hair incinerated, their clothes burnt; those were the lucky ones. They were alive. Private Sior’s side of his face had melted like a stick of butter. His bandaged head oozed. No one knew how long he would live for. No one knew who caused it. Maybe it was one of the burnt. Maybe not. The soldiers gave the ground a wide berth, as if it were cursed.

The soldiers looked at the general as he spoke, although they were covered in mud, blood, and even more unmentionable traces of war. Some held their swords in their hands while missing fingers, the metal glinting in the fierce sun. Others held onto the pommels; the metal rested in their shafts. They eyed each other with as much distrust as the enemy. 

General Archon’s voice was heavy with power and smoke. “We will conquer our enemy and fight for those we have lost!” Tyramon looked into their eyes filled with exhaustion, slapped them on their shoulders, weighed down in defeat. They had to hold on to hope a little longer. The enemy had suffered greatly. One more push and they would win. Tyramon asked himself what they would win, exactly. This piece of dirt drenched in blood? People cursed with ways to accidentally incinerate their families, freeze their friends, or split the earth beneath their feet? 

Never did General Archon waver, although Tyramon knew he was as exhausted as the men in front of him. “We will avenge our brothers! For they will not have died in vain!” But it was not his call. As a general, he was forced to act out the Nation’s wishes. Even though he didn’t care about this strange land, with its rocks jutting out of the ground, its mountains, or its alien-looking shrubbery. A country full of madmen. Even the trees leaked red.

The men cheered at the end of the speech. Tyramon looked into the General’s eyes; the red rims below them betrayed his exhaustion, but the blue still shone. Tyramon spurred his magnificent beast, which moved so they were side by side. Close enough to touch.

“One more charge,” Tyramon said more to himself than to anyone. Tyramon echoed him. “One more charge.” His hands were sore from holding on to the reins of his equally regal beast. Together, they looked over the battlefield. In a way, it looked like any other; men from both sides were strewn across the kicked-up dirt. Filled with arrows, missing limbs, cracked skulls. But it was the other things that made Tyramon shiver. Corpses burnt black, skin melted, hair gone. Or frozen in place and time, standing still as if to deliver the final blow to a soldier who wasn’t there anymore. A few men reduced to nothing more than drops of flesh and gore.

Some whispered that it was a curse of the land. Others whispered it was a curse of the enemy. Tyramon had to admit that it would have been a clever tactic had he not heard whispers before. Stories told by his grandparents, his neighbors, that his parents never wanted Tyramon to hear. About people who could use magic and could do wonderful and terrible things. He always had trouble sleeping after those stories. He had trouble sleeping now. 

***

Smoke mixed with horse dung and fear hung in the air. So there they stood on top of the hill. His horse pawing at the ground, the sword heavy in his hand. The ground before them was torched, frozen, drenched with blood. He took a deep breath. The horns blew, his horse pranced forward without him egging it on. The muscles of it worked hard under him, and hooves flew over the ground. And so the charge began. General Archon beside him, his face grim. His sword was high above his head as he screamed. A rare moment of sunlight, making metal sparkle and warming his face. Archon shot him a smile. Then the sun was covered again, the grey cloud moving too fast.

Whistling.

Whistling?

Tyramon narrowed his eyes and saw it too late. A cloud of arrows rained down on them. He lifted his shield, covering his face. Around him, horses tripped, flinging their riders from their saddles. Men screamed and fell in a sea of moving bodies. Hooves thundered over the ground, grinding on flesh and bone.

Something fierce smashed into Tyramon’s shield, his shoulder almost pulled from its socket. He barely felt the pain, adrenaline sharpening all his senses except one. 

The wall of bodies on the other side came frightfully close. Tyramon could make out their red jackets, their colored shields, and their bloody metal. His heart screamed in his chest, and he screamed with it. Wind tore at his eyes, making them water. But it was better to not see the enemy too clearly. Good to see them through a cloud. General Archon was half a stride in front of him. His sword pointed forward and then… 

A lurch, gray sky, black coat, and brown dirt twirled. His limbs flew around as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut. A flash of white pain erupted in his head as the ground smashed against it. Dirt and blood filled his mouth.

But he was alive.

He hadn’t had time to process that thought when a nauseating pain in his leg took over. The ground under him moved and trembled as the horses stormed by. A hoof dug into the ground near his head. Someone cried for their mother. Metal clanged against metal. People screamed and shrieked as they met the enemy. The fight had begun, and he was blinking the world into view. He looked at his painful leg. It was crushed under the dead weight of his horse. Grasping at clumps of dirt and grass, he pulled himself out from underneath it. Boots stamped around him.

An arrow pierced the ground where his hand had been not a moment earlier. Someone stepped on his back, and the air pressed out of him. He gasped, but no air made it to his lungs. Then the weight moved and slipped. Crashing beside him, he looked at the man as he inhaled loudly. His lungs begged for air. He was wearing blue, an ally, a piece of skull was removed. Blood soaked the earth.

It became cold, his hands froze to the ground, and people slipped over the frozen mud. Screamed. He couldn’t get away from the cold with his leg still crushed underneath his horse. Until he did. His foot split out of his boot. He didn’t feel it, it was too cold. Someone screamed, a battle cry of a lost man.

The earth shuddered from somewhere deep, broke, not far from him. The battlefield was torn in two like a wound, while the earth bouldered in protest. Bodies of horses and men disappeared in the chasm. Men around him yelled and fought tooth and nail while Tyramon’s vision darkened.

All this for a blood-soaked piece of dirt with a crack in it?