Begin Book 3

“Grab the banner!” The woman screamed, her voice raw from doing so for hours.

She ducked under a sword swing and returned one of her own, the blade of her steel biting hard into the leather-clad shoulder of the elf—or was he half?— that had tried to separate her bones from her spirit. He cried out as blood sprayed up in a gout, drenching the both of them. The woman yanked on the handle of her weapon, ripping the edge from the fleshy sheath and leveling a kick to the man’s hip that sent him crumbling to the ground. She flipped the blade, bringing it down in a grievous, life-ending thrust before peering back at her legion.

Sweat and blood streamed down her forehead and into her eyes, but she’d long grown used to the sensation enough to ignore it for the din of battle. She was submerged in a sea of writhing, gnashing, clamoring bodies, each existing as a juxtapositioned commingling of fear and blood lust as they battered and cut and broke and bashed against one another in the slop of combat. Every gabion, every parapet, every buttress and other structure in the sprawling acreage-sized courtyard of the fortification was confessedly lousy with fighting folk. As their commander, she had caused it. Then the volley began.

She moved like lightning, a blur of silver and steel, dodging and weaving between streams of magic. The air around her crackled with energy as bolts of lightning and blasts of fire surged toward her. But she was too quick, her blade a shimmering arc that easily deflected each attack.

It was harrowing. But she was not afraid. She was a warrior, forged in the heat of battle, honed by years of conflict. And she would not be defeated by a handful of mages. Instead of fear, she felt… exhilaration. A natural sensation of belonging. Ever since she first stepped forth into the dirt and muck of this strange earth, she’d felt more at home than she ever had. And never more than when there was fighting to be had.

She darted forward, her sword leading the way. The mages recoiled, their spells faltering as they realized her attack's sheer speed and ferocity. She struck with unerring precision, her blade flashing like silver fire as she cut them down one by one.

Their magic was no match for her skill, and as the last of them fell, she took a moment to catch her breath, her chest heaving as she surveyed the battlefield. The mages were gone, but there were more enemies to face and more immediate battles to be won.

She squinted. She spotted the standard on a hill high overhead, tattered and torn but still clinging to the goddamned pole.

“Grab the fucking banner!” She screamed again, drawing another several eyes to her location. Men and women bent in the crook of vengeance, goats all, hungry to take down the wolf that had invaded their buck shed. The woman sneered and lifted her sword—a golden-hilted beauty with a perfect, silvery sheen to the blade—even now, caked with blood.

“As you will then, cretins,” she barked at them. “But you’d be best to kill me from afar. I’m a menace up close.”

There was no smirk, growl, or returning of words from the four who faced her, only unvarnished, grim advancement. The woman took quick stock of them. A dwarf, haggard, tired, favoring one leg over the other, his knuckles curled around the handle of a sword with a chipped edge. A half-elf, lightly armored, no helmet or gorget, a slim spear held firm in the right hand but wedged tight between the elbow and her flank on her left. A human, a sword in either grip, her armor dented and covered in viscera, her eyes hard beneath her conical helm, a scar crossing her grimacing lips. Lastly, a large young man hardly older than a boy, his kingdom tabard still crisp green and unblemished by blood or grime—likely fresh to the assault—his only weapon a pair of iron clasps and a long coil of chain.

They mean to take me prisoner, then? The woman thought. That’s unfortunate for them.

Having taken their accounts, she stole one step back to allow her Ability to work its magic. She’d used it recently, though she wasn’t sure if it would be too soon. The cooldown was ten minutes. That could have been mere moments or hours before; one could never know for certain in the midst of fighting—and she had no time to check her menu. The woman in the abused armor with two swords was the most dangerous, then the dwarf, then the spear-wielder. The child wasn’t a worry. They drew themselves into the area she affected, and when they did, she pounced. Her Ability caused a flash to go off around her feet as she sprang into the air. The hardened woman with scarred lips was unimpressed, but the other three’s eyes grew wide. But it was too late for them. The scar-faced fighter brought one blade up in a slashing arc, going for the commander’s legs while her off-hand weapon remained close to defend her body. But the commander had reckoned Two-Swords was seasoned in battle and would perform thusly. The raw-voiced woman brought her own sword down to counter the swipe, and the metals rang loudly as they met. But her gold and silver sword shoved Two-Sword's aside toward her swing, and she stumbled.

She landed hard in the churned-up earth next to her foe, abandoning her momentarily and flashing toward the dwarf, who had no time to bring his own weapon up as she feinted a jab at his face. He stepped back on his stronger leg, and she pivoted her sword to crash against his weakened knee, and he went down with a scream in a tangle of his limbs. Then she slid forward on her own knees under the waiting strike of a spear point and hacked the end off it before jamming her mailed fist into the half-elf woman’s solar plexus. The half-elf doubled over, and the commander chopped into her unprotected trapezius and jugular. She heard heavy movement and spun, keeping her sword diagonal across her body and blocking the unseen slice of the other warrior woman who’d recovered from her unbalancing. The commander pressed Two-Sword’s blade down and swiped to the right to catch her second blade with a heavy blow, forcing it to spring back and opening the woman up to an attack. Her torso was protected, so instead, she chopped at the wrist holding the first blade, hearing a tremendous crack as the bones broke within the armored gauntlet.

The warrior cried out through clenched teeth, striking again with her healthy arm. But she was too slow and the other woman too strong. She ducked, the swipe passing harmlessly overhead as she slammed her pauldron into the woman’s rib cage with all the might and ferocity she could muster with her shoulder. The warrior fell, and the woman quickly arrested her ascent by slamming a boot down on her neck. Soon, all that remained was the boy. He was big but untested, and the woman knew it. Her Ability faded, but so had his spirits. He backed away, seeing his protectors killed or otherwise maimed. The woman let him flee. She did not kill children.

Unassailed momentarily, the woman glared at the arrogantly fluttering ensign still atop the hill. Spotting her subordinate, she roared in his direction with a voice nearly empty of sound.

“Voder! You son of a fucker—tear down that banner!”

The man paused mid-murder of a soldier and looked in her indicated direction before returning to her with a nod.

“Yes, Commander!” He barked back.

She sighed.

The captain led several men to do as she bid, and she continued fighting.

Less than twenty minutes afterward, the fight was finished. The woman breathed heavily, adrenaline still pulsing through her veins, her sword arm raised as if ready to strike again. She looked around and saw her bloodied but barely-battered legion, triumphant in their victory. They looked at her with reverence and awe as if they had just witnessed a miracle.

But this was no miracle. This was pure, unadulterated strength. Voder and his men returned, the banner flailing against the wind in their grasp as they offered it to her. She lowered her sword and approached the standard, taking it in her hands. Then she raised it above her head, letting the torn cloth flutter in the wind again, symbolizing their dominion over the body-strewn battlefield.

The legion gathered around her, cheering and shouting, their voices hoarse from the hours of fighting. But as she looked upon their faces, she saw joy and pride in their prowess. They had fought and persevered, and at a cost so stunningly small, it was almost negligible.

She let the banner drop to the ground, a token tribute to the few fallen. The legion fell silent, their cheers dying away as they, too, remembered the cost of their victory, but only for a moment. This was a time for celebration, to revel in their strength and bask in the glory of their success.

“Speech!” Her men shouted. “Give us a speech!”

The woman smirked. Then she turned to her legion and spoke with iron and pleasure, "We are the destruction of these oppressors. The victors. The just. The enemy may have fallen, but their mewling cries will forever linger as a reminder of our creed. We lost few, but their sacrifices will be remembered and celebrated. We stand here, our swords raised, our annexed banner waving, a symbol of our small triumph over death and destruction. His Majesty’s mightiest—the king’s backwash, more like—will tremble at the mention of our name, for we are the conquerors, the masters of this battlefield. Corpse makers. Remember this day, for it is a day of victory, a day of glory, a day of our rebuke. Redmark!"

The legion nodded, their faces alight with pride, and they returned the call of ‘Redmark’ with vigor. There was no mourning here, only domination's afterbirth. And so, with heads held high, they made their way into the broken gates of the inner halls of the fortification, the banner trailing behind them, their feet crunching over the broken stone and splintered wood.