The afternoon slipped away as Gideon walked through the alfalfa under the sun’s oppressive heat. By the time it neared the horizon, he began to believe that the field might never end until, without warning, the alfalfa gave way to long rolling hills covered with green grass. When he got closer to the end of the field he saw small groupings of stunted trees clustered in the depressions between the hills, indicating, perhaps, the presence of water in those areas.

Once out of the field the road stretched up and over a particularly long hill, and when Gideon reached the top he spotted the Kenanite army camp in the distance; an ugly splotch of brown mud and wood palisades standing out like a boil from the surrounding picturesque landscape. Roughly a mile north of the camp stood the high walls of Forelia City, from which small puffs of black and white smoke still billowed.

The day's heat had just begun to die down by the time Gideon reached the camp’s south gate. The gate’s guards were playing cards on a low table in the grass by the road, and they didn't look up as he walked past them.

Inside the camp the road became one long causeway of mud, kneaded into doughy softness by the previous night’s rain and the constant activity of the camp’s residents. Twenty thousand soldiers had been living in the camp ever since the siege began in early spring, and each one of them had done everything within their power to make their living situation more comfortable, as soldiers always did. Crowded tents lined every inch of space along both sides of the road, interspersed with a few shoddy wood structures that served as assembly areas, armories, mess halls, and saloons.

The only empty spaces in the camp were the designated latrine areas, where the men sat under open air on their portable toilets and did their business. To handle the waste produced by the camp, several latrine ditches had been dug that drained into a gully a few hundred meters away. Every now and then the wind would carry the smell of the gully to the camp, causing the stomachs of even the most hardened and experienced soldiers to churn.

Once he had passed through the gate, Gideon struggled through the mud towards the right side of the road, where a crude gangway of wooden planks had been laid. He stepped onto the gangway and looked in the direction of the camp’s center where the Blades had been quartered, searching for any signs of other survivors who might have made it back.

What he spotted instead shocked him. Two Kenanite horsemen were at the head of a long column of naked men marching through the mud. The men were totally hairless, save for their eyebrows, and crude iron collars were locked around their necks. Small chains attached to their collars connected them to a much longer chain which ran down the length of the column.

The two horsemen leading the column held the front end of the long chain, and at the column’s rear two more horsemen held the end. Behind the column a dozen more horsemen were following along, iron clubs hanging from their belts. The naked men struggled to stay upright as they trudged barefoot through the mud, splattering their naked flesh with it and stumbling often as the horsemen pulled them along.

Disquiet passed over the camp as the column marched through. Gideon understood from the assortment of pale and dark skins, and their physiques, that the naked men had been Forelian soldiers before being enslaved.

His teeth began to grind as he watched the column. The humiliation of being paraded naked and mud covered in front of their enemies was evident enough, but the future they had in store would be much worse. They might be worked to death or forced to kill each other in Kenan’s grand arena, if they were lucky. They’d be subjected to fates worse than death if they weren’t. The Kenanites were infamous for their zeal for slavery, and for their extreme mistreatment of slaves.

As the column streamed by, Gideon’s anger grew until he could no longer take it. He tore his gaze away from the column and marched down the gangway, stepping around a group of Kenanite soldiers who continued to watch the column. As he passed them, Gideon caught a snippet of their conversation.

“Guess we humble nothings are too lowly to be given themlike.”

He stopped mid-step and stood very still. His right hand curled into a fist, and he felt his teeth grinding painfully as he turned his head to glare at the men.

The soldiers noticed and turned to look at him. “What’s his problem?”

Abruptly, he turned back to the front and marched off again, his right hand still curled tight.

The Singing Blades had been quartered in the dead center of the camp, along with several other mercenary bands the king of Kenan had hired for the campaign against the Forelians. Gideon turned onto the narrow muddy alleyway that led to the Singing Blade’s barracks and immediately saw that the flap to their tent had been left open to swing in the breeze. He stepped inside, and instead of the neat and orderly rows of cots he expected to find he was greeted with the sight of a gigantic mess. Someone had gone through the tent and ransacked the personal lockers the men had kept underneath their cots. Clothing, boots, and other random items had been dumped onto the cots in large piles that had partially spilled onto the floor.

Gideon frowned with dismay as he took in the sight of all his belongings dumped out over his cot on the far side of the tent. With a loud, frustrated sigh he stepped back outside, closing the tent flap behind him.

He walked back to the gangway and looked around once more, not entirely sure why he'd hoped to find other survivors. He’d never been popular in the band, despite his father being its captain, and it seemed doubtful any of them would be eager to see him again.

Everywhere he looked he saw Kenanite soldiers and mercenaries from other bands going about their business as usual. For them, the day had probably brought no major changes. Gideon imagined how they might react if he stopped any of them to break the news.

One of the mercenary bands happened across some Lake Men on a patrol and met a gruesome end. And so what? Better them than me.

Gideon shook his head. What am I going to do now?

It was then he spotted two familiar men walking together on the far side of the road. He studied them, trying to remember who they were, and soon their names came to him. Romus and Julian, two of the shield bearer sergeants.

Julian was a gaunt and gangly Losoan, and roughly as tall as Gideon. His scruffy, uncombed black hair was the most immediately noticeable thing about him, followed by his prominent nose and high cheekbones.

His companion Romus had a round head and a flat nose, with a thick beard of curly red hair that merged imperceptibly with the curly hair on his head, as was the case with most Levidians. Romus stood four inches shorter than Julian, but was noticeably more muscular. Both of them were pale skinned, just like Gideon and most of the band. Gideon might have recognized them both at once but for the fact they didn’t have their swords and shields.

The two men entered the saloon across the road, a spot that had been popular among the Blades for its proximity to the tent in spite of the incredibly low quality booze it offered at atrocious prices. Gideon crossed the road in a hurry and entered the saloon after them.

The saloon was little more than four flimsy wooden walls and a linen tarp stretched over the top. A few tables, cannibalized from the wheels of a wagon, had been scattered about the place, with empty grog barrels acting as seats. The saloon's bar had previously served as the sidewall of a wagon before its current duty. Romus and Julian were already standing at it when Gideon entered, ordering drinks from the elderly Kenanite man who owned the place.

Gideon walked up to the bar and tapped on it with his fingers to get the old man's attention. "Hey, water and whiskey. Bring the water first."

Romus and Julian were both startled when they realized who had just walked up next to them. Romus found his voice first.

“Gideon! Yer alive!”

The old man brought Gideon his water and whiskey. He nodded at Romus as he downed the water, setting down the empty mug with a satisfied sigh.

“Just barely.”

Julian and Romus shared a surprised look. “Where’s Dance?” Julian asked slowly.

Gideon blinked hard before downing the shot of whiskey.

“He’s dead. Stabbed in the gut.”

The pair seemed crestfallen at the news. “Sorry, kid.” Julian said quietly.

Gideon heard the genuine sorrow in Julian’s voice, but just shrugged.

“ 'n there ain’t no more work to be found ‘round here,” said Romus. “Cryin’ shame the old man couldn’ get us into the city durin’ the sack. Don’ suppose he ever told you the real reason fer that?”

Gideon shook his head and looked down at his two empty glasses. The men had been outraged that after three months of siege they’d been excluded from the sack. Dance had claimed that the order came from above, but the band had been absolutely furious with him nonetheless. Many refused to believe him, saying that no order had ever come, that he was punishing the band for some reason or another. The men had come about as close to mutiny as Gideon had ever seen the previous night, but the battle with the Lake Men that morning settled the issue forever.

He asked for another shot and swallowed it the instant it found it's way to his hand. Rapine was expected to be the most exciting moment of a soldier’s life, the grandest opportunity in the profession. The Blades had been cruelly denied their right to rape everything on two legs and steal anything that wasn’t nailed down; the victorious soldier’s time honored tradition. The band had participated in sacks before, but Gideon had refused to join each time, staying well away as it happened. He couldn’t understand how they could stomach the guilt.

Julian leaned on his side against the bar and studied Gideon’s face. “We just saw the paymaster. They won’t pay up since our officers are all dead.”

“Shit-eatin’ pig fuckers…” Romus drawled as he played with his empty glass.

Julian narrowed his eyes. “They might shell out if you tell them you’ve inherited the band.”

Gideon stared at him. Julian wasn’t just asking for help in getting them paid, he wanted to know if Gideon intended to claim leadership over whatever was left of the Singing Blades.

“What do I want with a band that has only three men?” Gideon asked.

Julian gave him a light shrug and looked away. Romus sounded testy. “I wouldn’ follow you into a fight anyhow.”

An awkward silence fell over them, each lost in their own thoughts. In the silence the old man came by and filled up their glasses again.

Julian sounded solemn as he thanked him. He swallowed his shot and looked over at Romus. “Well, I think I’ll head back to Loso. There’s always work for men like me back home.”

Romus didn’t miss a beat. “What you mean is you’ve lost yer taste fer danger 'n yer settlin’ fer lookin’ scary on behalf of some fat wealthy prick.” He chortled. “Man of yer skills is completely wasted as such.”

Julian looked annoyed. “Well, so what? Little enough money ever stayed in my pockets during this gig, or any other as a matter of fact. If it’s my fate to be poor, well then by Kali I’d at least like to spend my nights in a warm bed instead of a rainy mud puddle in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.”

“Yer bein’ stupid. Less pay fer nothin’…Heh! S’why I’m headin’ fer the tourney. No one’s like to match up to me in the furball. 'n the prize! Twenty-five hundred denars...Jus’ imagine all the whores 'n liquor, Jules…”

“If I’m stupid, then you’re crazy. Kenanite tournaments are just ritual sacrifices. And so what if you’re a better swordsman than most? Alone against a group? Well, one bad move is all it takes to- ” He made a cutting motion across his throat with his thumb and added a scratching sound.

“The only group I’ve heard ‘bout is the one takin’ turns lickin’ yer momma’s salty asshole.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “Besides, it isn’t happening for another two months, and I’m not going to be around to keep your soaked ass from getting enslaved down there in the meantime.”

They carried on, bantering back and forth at length until Gideon realized he had stopped being part of the conversation. Socializing always seemed to come naturally to others, but not for him. Not in the same ways other men seemed to take for granted.

He pulled out a few denars from his pocket and put them on the counter for the old man. As he turned to leave, Julian called out to him. “Wait…Gideon? You’re leaving already?”

Gideon turned back and gave him a tired shrug. Romus peered at Gideon with a deep frown as Julian questioned him. “Well…where are you going? What’s your plan?”

“I’m going to go get some sleep, and my plan is to get drunk everyday for the rest of my life.”

Romus snorted. “Wouldja look at that, we have somethin’ in common after all. Bless yer heart.”

For his part, Julian looked troubled. “Well…see you around, Gideon.”

Gideon looked between the two of them. It didn’t need to be said that if they ever met again it might be as enemies. “See you.”

As he left the saloon he felt their eyes boring into his back. He felt sure they were relieved to see him go, even if they wouldn’t openly admit it.

The stars had come out by the time Gideon exited the saloon. Across the street he saw a pair of Kenanite soldiers moving along the gangway, lighting up the unlit torches that had been staked into the ground by every tent's entrance. The exhaustion of the day’s events finally hit him in full force as he watched them go about their work. Once they had passed by he crossed the road, doing his best not to fall in the dim torchlight, and headed for the Blades’ tent.

With only a few steps left before reaching the tent's flap door, Gideon noticed a glow coming from inside. He stopped in place to listen, and after a few seconds he heard loud whispering. Quietly, he reached over his shoulder and unbuttoned the lock strap on his claymore’s sheathe. He inched toward the flap and flung it open when he was close enough, stepping inside to find two Kenanite soldiers, one holding a lantern, bent over at the waist as they picked through the mess. Sabers hung from their belts. The moment Gideon threw back the door they jolted to attention, staring wide eyed at him.

His voice was full of menace. “Get out.”

No one could mistake the threat within those words, and it had a dramatic effect on the Kenanites. The face of the one closest to Gideon twisted with rage as he took a few steps towards him, grabbing the handle of his saber. “Who’re you to tell us what to do, fuckin’ merc?”

Gideon nearly reached for his claymore when the Kenanite holding the lamp rested his free hand on the other’s shoulder. “Hey, leave off. These scraps aren’t worth it.”

The angry Kenanite glared at Gideon. After a few seconds of quiet thinking, the Kenanite glanced at Gideon’s claymore before nodding to his companion. Gideon stood aside, and the men walked out of the tent past him.

He tied the tent flap shut behind them and felt his way through the pitch black mess to where his cot was. When he found it he began to strip out of his blood stained armor and clothing, carelessly flinging it in random directions. Once down to his briefs, he set his claymore on the ground within reach of the cot and laid down on it with an exhausted sigh, feeling so tired that the stiff and uncomfortable cot felt welcoming for once.

He closed his eyes, eager for sleep, but after many minutes of restlessness he opened them again. His mind began racing as he stared into the darkness.

You have always been Kali’s curse on me.

For ten years, Dance had only ever been cruel to Gideon when he wasn’t distant. What he'd said as he lay dying underneath the tree had not been a spontaneous statement spawned from fear: it was his true feelings. Dance had always been a negative force in his life, hovering silently on the periphery of his awareness. The only positive thing he'd ever done for Gideon had been to allow the others to train him.

At the beginning of the training, he'd been driven by feelings of heroism and justice, eager to use his growing strength and skill for good. But then he made his first kill, and every high minded ideal had been shattered. All at once reality had come crashing down on him, along with terrible guilt. He’d stayed with the band anyway, and kept on killing even as the guilt grew and became compounded. The more it happened, the more it changed him into someone different then he’d hoped or wanted to be. He became accustomed to death, and gleaned savage joy from killing.

But now Dance and the Singing Blades were dead. Gideon knew that his only obligations had died with Dance, that with his death he'd been freed to do whatever he wanted, pursue any kind of life he wished, but in truth he had never once considered leaving the Blades. Despite the friction he had with the band, despite the killing, all the wrongness, and the guilt, he had always chosen to stay. The Blades had given him a semblance of comfort, and a sense of belonging. Now that they were gone, Gideon didn't feel free. He felt defenseless, vulnerable in every way as the world began to crowd in around him.

How do I deal with this?

Gideon wanted to jump off his cot and run back to the saloon to finish getting drunk until he remembered what Romus had mentioned. A tournament in Kenan, one with a cash prize large enough to live the rest of his life at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. It would be dangerous, and he might get killed instead of winning the prize. As he considered it, he realized that either outcome would be fine, and accepted what that meant about his willingness to continue living.

Relieved beyond measure to have a new goal to focus on, Gideon closed his eyes and, at long last, fell asleep.