Deep in the forest, light was nearly absent. The sun had set long ago, and whatever moonlight remained was blocked by the branches and leaves overhead. The path ahead was muddy and tinted blue, the overlapping shadows only becoming real vegetation from a few feet away. Roots that had grown over the path brushed against moving feet, and the long and crooked arms of the bushes caught travellers unawares.

But Taramiel, and the band of men behind him, were untroubled atop their horses. The path was narrowing, straightening from their former bent position as grass flattened by a footstep rises, but Taramiel drove through the path as easily as he had sprinting through it the other way. The taste of spilt blood was still fresh on their tongues, but they were satisfied for the time being, and returned to camp at their leisure.

Each of them wore a suit of silver armor, a mix of loose chainmail and metal plates that could crack a poorly-swung blade; and each horse wore a coat of various shades of silver. Taramiel’s was jet black, white a white man streaking down its back.

Voices had picked up behind Taramiel. Usually a battle would leave them quiet, enjoying the wind and the songs of the animals, but that night’s adventure had been a massacre. Many of those voices belonged to riders younger than Taramiel, he thought to himself. Unfit to lead. He should’ve been, too, as he’d been reminded frequently, but those complaints had ceased quickly.

The dark fog was lifting. Some of the camp’s light must’ve reached them, accompanied by drunken shouts. The men were elbowing forward now, hooves stepping on each other to push the next rider forward. The light began piercing through the trees, and in a minute they were close enough to hear the crackling of the fires.

And with a turn, they had arrived. Soldiers sat on dirt on fresh tree stumps with a campfire at their feet and buddies by their sides. Swaths of pine needles acted as makeshift carpets. Tents, cots and hammocks lay nestled between the surrounding trees. The clearing now made an open-roofed dome where smoke obscured their vision of the night sky.

Half-conscious cheers rang out from the crowd before their producers returned to drinking. Taramiel dismounted, pausing to let the other soldiers run past him, and guided his mount to his tent, tying its reigns around the trunk. He slipped out of his armor and chains in the partial darkness. Some hadn’t even bothered with the formality, and took long drafts with only their helmets off, rolling out of reach like the severed head at a guillotine.

Taramiel wore a gray linen outfit when he rejoined the circle. He first moved towards some of his old soldier friends—since rising to general, he saw them rarely—but he couldn’t refuse the raised glass of beer from the other huddled generals, no matter how much more bitter its bottom would taste.

He sat down beside them and grabbed the drink from general Vexin’s hand. The general smiled at him, dropping his hand back into his lap, and rocked back and forth, staring into the fire.

“Find any ladies in the woods, general?” Vexin added. Taramiel let out a smile that he’d wished to suppress. Taramiel smiled, but wished he hadn’t. He drew the drink to his lips, mostly to hide his face, and drank away the top third. From over the brim, Taramiel could see general Armund staring at him.

Armund had a long beard colored like fresh ash. His eyes were set deep underneath his crown of a brow, and he wrapped a black robe around his waist. Taramiel could see the same bitter taste in Armund’s eyes.

“Like the ale?” Armund said, tightening a smile over his scowl.

“I’d take it over soldier’s piss.”

“It is Soldier’s Piss,” Armund replied, taking his own half-drained mug and pouring the rest into the fire. The flames bobbed for a moment, then returned to their previous blaze. He withdrew a flask from his robe, wrapped with black leather, and opened the nozzle with a twist of his fingers. “You should have something good to drink, no boy’s fare. I wager you’d even enjoy it.” He brought it to his lips and took a short swig.

“Your piss is about as good as any others, I’ll stick with mine.”

Armund laughed, and rubbed his nose. “This stuff is worth more in coin than you are to the Sacredate.”

“Right, those raids were useless trifles,” Taramiel said.

“You do cattle-work.” Armund’s scowl had returned, and it seemed as though his mouth had grown wider, and his teeth sharper.

“Taramiel!”

Every head turned to the tent at the back of the clearing. The fires seemed to shy away from the shout. A man wearing a black cloak folded the cloth door back, his head bent through the entrance, staining the soil in front of it with yellow light. Taramiel wished he’d had more ale. His heart began to pick up speed, although he knew there was no need. He always reminded himself of that, but it never helped.

“The Sacredate requests your presence. Come now.”

Armund smiled, but resheathed his teeth. Taramiel rose and stared at him as he poured the rest of his drink into the fire, extinguishing it. Now Armund was expressionless. Before he left, Taramiel noticed Armund examining the remaining suds in the large glasses, and sighing.

It took longer than Taramiel had hoped for the camaraderie and the fires to pick up again. Drunken laughter and shouts had returned, but even the half-conscious were watching him approach the tent. Not until he was hidden within would it return to normal. Taramiel walked up to the Black Guard at the front, a head smaller than he was, and walked in when the Guard bowed and stepped aside.

Gloss sat inside. Despite his gray hair, and the weary slump in his back, his skin was soft and absent of wrinkles. Part child and part old man, but nowhere in-between. He sat on a wooden throne of sorts, wrapped with leather straps, decorated with studs. Gloss’ visit with these portions of his army had drawn into their fourth month. Long stays were rare, but, as Gloss liked to say, any commandment delivered to him by the gods would be followed.

Signs of illness were prevalent. Gloss sniffled constantly, licked his lips. His skin was pale, and his hands trembled.

“Taramiel,” Gloss whispered, rising and steadying himself against the back of the chair. His black and purple robes dragged against the dirt floor as he approached.

“Have you been true, Taramiel?” Gloss asked. His amber eyes peered and narrowed into him.

“Yes, Sacredate.”

“Did you leave any of them alive, Taramiel?” Gloss’ voice had gained an edge.

“No.”

“Are you certain? The gods will not tolerate dissidence.”

“Yes. Nothing left alive. We levelled it.”

Gloss stepped back and drew a weak smile.

“Was there any good food there? I think I saw them cooking a delicious pig in my sleep.”

Taramiel chuckled. “I wasn’t paying attention to that.”

“You should’ve been,” Gloss said, sitting back in his chair. “Villagers savor their goods. A village feast is the beast meal you’ll ever have. In a city, every meal could be of those same delicacies, so they eat worse shit than the villagers do.”

Taramiel nodded, and waited for Gloss to continue. Instead, when Taramiel looked at him, he saw Gloss with his forehead cupped in his palm, eyes shut tight and brow and nose wrinkled. After a second, a new face appeared, teeth bared and bent forward. Taramiel thought briefly that Gloss was coming for him, a punishment for some unknown crime, but instead Gloss walked past him and out the door.

“WHAT INSANITY IS THIS? PUT OUT YOUR FIRES AND END YOUR REVELRY. WE HAVE NO TIME, NO EXCUSES FOR YOUR PATHETIC SLACK. CLEAN OUT YOUR DRINK AND INTO YOUR COTS. THERE SHOULD BE NOTHING LEFT IN THE CLEARING NEXT I STEP OUT. GO!”

And Gloss stepped back into the tent. He sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Two of the Black Guard tapped Taramiel’s shoulders and ushered him out, where he was greeted by the stumbling feet of the drunk, gathering their things and slipping away with burnt logs and empty glasses in tow. Taramiel sighed, walking through the chaos to his tent and falling into the dark.