“It makes absolutely no sense.”

Alyss and Stromund were at their usual positions at the round table. Alyss rubbed her temples,

“Why do they keep insisting on skirmishing? They obviously aren’t accomplishing anything, so why waste the manpower?”

Stromund was in a similar state of confusion. He stroked his chin, trying to make sense of things.

“I’ve no clue. We lost a good number of men in the last push, so why aren’t they finishing us off?”

The situation was so unusual. They’d only narrowly been able to repel the last large advance, succeeding in killing or otherwise wounding around a third of their troops.

That wasn’t the unusual part, especially considering they had fighters like Geld and Stromund on their side. What was unusual was the fact that even though they only had a little over thirty men left in the fort, the Khods weren’t dealing the finishing blow.

It was obvious that they could, scout reports stated that they still had at least two thousand men left, so why hadn’t they? For the past several weeks they’d only been sending small parties, generally less than fifty soldiers at a time, nearly everyday.

“We have lost a couple men in the larger skirmishes...could they be trying to wear us down?”

Stromund shook his head, “They have enough men to take us all in one fell swoop, there had to be a specific reason as to why they haven’t.”

Alyss let out a long, drawn out sigh.

“At least we’re not taking too many casualties, we should last a while the way things are going.”

“No, numbers aren't the problem. The problem’s morale.”

It was easy to tell at a glance. The soldiers were underfed and overworked. Their injuries, although small, were beginning to mount from the sustained combat.

“Most of our soldiers don’t have basic training, and the ones that do weren’t trained for prolonged battle. Having them battle every day without rest is a recipe for disaster.”

Even someone as inexperienced as Alyss could sense it. A seriousness, a graveness in the air. The mental strain and exhaustion was evident all throughout the fort.

This mental stress was especially prominent around the newer recruits that had experienced battle for the first time.

She furrowed her brows as a worried expression spread across her face.

There was one person who was hit the hardest by the battle.

It didn’t matter how hard he tried to hide it, Malt had changed.

It was almost scary how broken he was after his first battle. He was past horrified, he was completely unresponsive. He refused to talk or eat, he couldn’t even speak. His gaze was wild and he didn’t seem to recognize anyone that he saw. All he did was sit there with slumped shoulders and wild eyes.

That night he turned and tossed in his sleep, almost like he had a high fever. The following morning he’d thankfully regained most of his senses, but the gloom was still there. Regardless, he spoke and went about his day just like any other.

Anyone paying even a bit of attention to Malt could see the difference though. His speech was largely the same, but all his words were empty, as though he never meant the things he said. His smile seemed shallow and his laughter forced. His first kill was obviously tormenting him.

Stromund placed a hand on her shoulder, “Worried about the kid are we?”

She shifted a little, “I think he’s going through a lot right now…” She gulped, “Sir Stromund...is it hard to take a life?”

He sighed through his nose, stroking his chin. “Well, it depends.” He paused for several moments, “The situation has a lot to do with it, but generally, killing for most people feels terrible. You feel guilty and dirty, you start realizing that the person you killed probably has a family and loved ones and…”

He furrowed his brows.

“Here, let me put it this way.”

He crossed his arms, “Alyss, who is the enemy?”

She looked perplexed, the answer seemed obvious. “The Khods are right?”

“Wrong. We have no enemies.”

She tilted her head, “What do you…? But they’ve killed so many of our comrades...”

“We’ve done the same to them. In fact we’ve killed even more of them than they have us.”

“But that’s their fault for trying to invade Astou-”

“Wrong again. The soldiers don’t want to, it's their ruler and their nobles that do. They’re just people like you and I that have families, people they want to protect, and they think that following the orders of their leaders is the best way to do that.”

She opened her mouth and closed it several times as the truth began to sink in. Only now did she understand the weight of their actions.

“Do you feel it? That guilt? That's what most people feel after killing, only after it's too late. Only after do you realise that you’ll never be the same person again.”

The feeling was horrible. She felt like her chest was tightening, so much so that breathing was becoming difficult.

Stromund continued, “Some, like Malt, feel it immediately. Some don’t feel it for years. Hell, some don’t feel it at all. There's a lot of variables that go into how a person reacts to their first kill. And everyone copes differently.”

He patted her back comfortingly, “Don’t think about it too much, it’ll only get you more depressed. All you can do is keep going forward. We’ll just have to wait and see how well he copes.”

***

Malt withdrew the blade from the Khod’s flesh, leaving a thin trail of viscera. The man fell to the mud like a sack of wet cement.

He averted his eyes from the corpse and flicked the blood off his knife. He was always careful when he killed, if his eyes lingered on the cadaver for too long he might have another breakdown.

His throat seared as vomit threatened to pour out. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he was getting used to swallowing his own bile.

His comrades were around him doing the same. The battle was over and all that was left to do was to kill the stragglers. This one was pretty standard, it was an even fifteen versus fifteen skirmish that they’d been able to win, albeit marginally.

The Khods, broken in both body and spirit lay on the ground groaning in pain. Standard protocol dictated that they take some of the healthier ones as prisoners and kill the rest.

This had been going on daily for two weeks.

In this time, Malt had plenty of time to sort out his emotions.

His first kill felt terrible. Absolutely and undeniably terrible. Even now he felt like shit. Even after he regained his composure, he still felt like utter shit. And so, he decided to follow the advice of the older soldiers.

Find a reason to kill.

One immediately came to mind. He would fight for his friends back in the capital. To protect them so that they could do their job.

After this realization, killing suddenly became more palatable. He even felt a little proud when he fought. All he had to do was repeat the message inside his head, over and over. An unending mantra to soothe his guilt.

After they’d slaughtered the survivors and stripped their remains of equipment, they began to make their way back to base. They passed by corpses, old and new; rotting or still bleeding. The sight really was ghastly, but it didn’t worry him much.

All Malt had to do was not look.