Among the Fallen

The dead were arranged in orderly rows, their naked forms sprawled amidst the grimy mud and freshly upturned earth. The cries and pleas of the wounded fell upon deaf ears, their torment ignored by the victorious forces who carried out their tasks with methodical precision. The enemy's bodies were systematically stripped down to bare flesh. At the same time, their weapons and armour were callously cast into a growing, disorderly pile.

The victorious soldiers, donning grey surcoats over their mail, had a red handprint symbol on their chest. The fallen soldiers wearing grey were respectfully removed from the battlefield and laid to rest.

The sky was dark and overcast in the afternoon, as if nature was aware of the day's events and unhappy with them. The rain started shortly after the trap was set, and grey clouds and a heavy downpour quickly replaced the clear blue sky. The skirmish became a muddy and challenging struggle due to the adverse weather conditions.

The battle unfolded in a confined stretch of the winding roadway, where the ambushed caravan had no choice but to form a single, vulnerable column. The advantage lay with the grey-garbed warriors, who struck from seemingly every direction, trapping the caravan within a narrow ravine.

A colossal figure, his towering frame cloaked in a long, sweeping overcoat of earthy hues that billowed behind him, strode through the grim aftermath of the battlefield. Tangled, lifeless, ebony-coloured hair cascaded to his shoulders. His massive, weathered black leather boots sank deep into the churned earth with each thunderous step. Unlike every other figure that traversed the field, he bore no mail and carried no blade.

He moved along the orderly rows of the fallen and the wounded, his gaze sweeping over the defeated foes. Like a seasoned general inspecting troops on parade, he scrutinized their naked forms with an air of sad authority. As the figure approached, the men in grey concentrated on their indecent task of stripping their enemy. They visibly tensed in his presence and struggled to ignore the looming threat of his passage.

Aoric ignored his men as he passed, well accustomed to the apprehensions that his appearance evoked. Any emotion he had for the enemy, dead and injured, was hidden behind a black featureless ceramic mask, his studious eyes the only sign of humanity, watching his surroundings like a wolf’s eyes stalking its prey.

A lean man with dark blue hair streaked with varying shades that marked the passage of time strode purposefully towards Aoric between the rows of the dead. His face bore a perpetual scowl etched into features that had seen the weight of years. A rare gift, a smile, rarely graced his lips. Selenas was a contrast study; his sharp edges softened only by the subtle signs of age.

He donned attire similar to those around him, a surcoat and mail drenched in blood, yet he wore it with regal dignity. Selenas moved with the precision of a man accustomed to endless marches, navigating the unforgiving mud and relentless rain without missing a beat.

"No sign of him," Selenas reported, coming to a halt a few paces before Aoric, his hands clasped stoically behind his back. Much like his measured stride, his words carried an air of precision. Selenas was one of the rare few who could maintain composure in Aoric's imposing presence.

"Have you checked them all?" Aoric inquired, his voice resonating deep and guttural, resembling the growl of a bear more than a human's speech. He only briefly glanced at Selenas, his focus absorbed by the lifeless bodies surrounding them.

Selenas responded with a brisk nod, his scowl etching deeper lines onto his rugged countenance. His unwavering gaze remained steadfastly affixed to Aoric's imposing chest, and years of discipline had ingrained in him the necessity of maintaining composure.

"Who's responsible for this?" Aoric questioned as he stepped up beside Selenas, now facing in the opposite direction. Despite Aoric's slight height advantage, his colossal build lent him a towering presence.

"Several survivors mentioned his escape a few days ago," Selenas reported.

Aoric halted his examination of the lifeless and injured figures strewn around them. He placed a hand on Selenas' shoulder, and the pressure of that touch felt akin to carrying a wounded comrade.

"Unfortunate timing, it seems," Aoric remarked.

Selenas locked eyes with the masked man, his scowl unwavering from the moment he had set foot on the battlefield. The weight on his shoulder grew increasingly burdensome.

"It does appear that way," Selenas affirmed.

Aoric released a heavy sigh, his masked visage shifting as he scanned the battlefield again. His hand, which typically signalled affection, tightened on Selenas' shoulder. Instead of warmth, it sent waves of excruciating pain surging through Selenas's body, momentarily stealing his breath. Still, he endured the agony in silence.

"Who among them speaks for the survivors?" Aoric inquired.

"A young member of the Brethren," Selenas managed to say through clenched teeth, the pain coursing down his arm and into his back. If Aoric noticed the discomfort his grip had inflicted, he made no sign of it behind the mask.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Selenas pulled a cloth from his belt and handed it to Aoric.

"I should have been informed of the Brethren's presence among them," Aoric grumbled, accepting the unfurled white cloth. He released his grip on Selenas and examined the fabric briefly before returning it to Selenas. "Bring him to me."

Selenas nodded and signalled to some waiting men. In a matter of moments, a bound figure, his wrists and ankles tied with rough rope, was carried over and unceremoniously dropped into the muddy ground before Aoric. The young man had a handsome countenance, dark hair and soft yellow eyes that could have easily charmed many. Like the other survivors, he was stripped to the bare flesh, his tied hands covering his modesty.

Aoric scratched at the back of his massive neck, which was as thick as a tree trunk, while he uncorked a dark orange flask at his side with his other hand. The contents were putrid smelling, like vegetables left in the sun too long, and he took a long drink of the foul liquid.

Aoric peered down at the young man, his gaze unwavering, as the defiant Brethren lifted his chin and curled his lips in contempt at the featureless black mask. With fluid grace, Aoric squatted next to the youth, observing as he struggled to push himself onto his hands and knees in the slippery mud.

"What is your name, boy?" Aoric's deep voice rumbled as the handsome man managed to rise into a kneeling position before him.

"I won't answer your questions, traitor," the Brethren spat at Aoric, a thick glob of phlegm landing on the right cheek of the black mask.

Aoric remained still as several tense heartbeats passed, the saliva gradually sliding down the mask's surface. The naked man, defiance waning, eventually averted his eyes from Aoric's intense gaze, focusing instead on the mud beneath him.

"Traitor, you call me," Aoric finally responded, his words slow and grating, and he made no move to wipe away the spit. Instead, he inclined his head toward the Brethren. "From your perspective, I can see that. But then, not everything is from your perspective, is it?"

The younger man frowned and swallowed, his shoulders pulling inward as he tried to ignore the intimidating presence of the other man.

"No, but the perspective doesn't change the fact that you're a traitor. You broke your vows, Bloodfist."

"Aye," Aoric agreed, absentmindedly nodding as he turned to gaze to the south. His eyes remained fixed on some distant point for several moments. "Broken vows made while a broken man."

Those words lingered in the air, leaving the young man speechless. Every biting word and rehearsed comment he had prepared for the terrifying figure who stood so close to him vanished, unable to contend with the weight of Aoric's statement.

The black mask turned back to him, its expression still impassive.

"If the fists of the interrogator coerce a confession, is it a true confession?" Aoric asked.

"If someone confesses, then they confess. The True Man never waivers," the captive responded.

"Scripture," Aoric said, shaking his head slowly, his broad hands clutching his bent knees to keep them from shaking. "Of course, you quote scripture."

"For only the True Man shall walk, blessed in her—"

The words were abruptly cut short by the heel of Selenas' boot shattering into the man's sternum, sending him sprawling backward into the mud. The prisoner writhed in agony, clutching his chest and throat, his modesty forgotten.

"There is no need for this," Selenas declared, standing over the gasping, naked man before looking in Aoric's direction. "We should cut his throat and be done with it."

Selenas drew the thick slashing blade hanging at his side to emphasize the threat.

Aoric paid no attention to Selenas; instead, he silently observed the prisoner as the young man struggled to catch his breath and rolled onto his side.

"Bring the Scribe," Aoric ordered.

The prisoner's face drained of colour at those words. He licked his lips, and his eyes darted anxiously between the two men. His mouth moved as if attempting to speak, but no sound escaped. A cold, emotionless smile curved Selenas's lips, though it failed to reach his eyes, as he nodded his agreement and stepped away from the captive.

"Aldaris Yimux," the young man eventually stammered as he watched Selenas move away.

"Aldaris," Aoric repeated, savouring the name as it rolled off his tongue. He flexed his hands and fingers, working out the stiffness. They were no longer trembling. "That's a good name. It means 'strength of the tree,' does it not?"

"It was my grandsire's name," Aldaris confirmed with a nod.

"You must have had proud parents," Aoric remarked.

"My parents are proud Followers of the Matron. Unlike you," Aldaris retorted, pushing himself up from the muddy ground. He held his hands before him, forming the shape of an M with his fingers.

Aoric's hands clenched into fists at his sides, and a muffled laugh escaped from behind the black mask.

"You tempt your fate, Brethren."

"The only fate is the one dictated by the Mother."

As they spoke, both men turned their attention to the approaching figure of Selenas. She walked with a slight hunch, a dark red birthmark staining the side of her neck, stretching up to the base of her chin. Her nose bore signs of multiple breaks, and the slight smile on her face revealed the absence of teeth on the left side of her jaw. She carried a black case, which she placed carefully in the mud.

"Please, no," Aldaris begged, pressing himself backward in the mud, his hands and feet pushing through the earth that had long since covered his naked flesh.

"Tell me where the Glyph went," Aoric demanded as the woman slowly undid the top of her case, her gnarled and twisted fingers meticulously laying out her instruments. She first withdrew a long needle and ink.

"No, no, please," Aldaris pleaded.

Selenas signalled, and a pair of men in grey surcoats approached through the mud.

"Revered Mother, my refuge and salvation, grant me your—"

Selenas' foot rose and lashed out at the prisoner. However, Aldaris rolled to the side, his bound feet spinning beneath him, catching Selenas' exposed leg and sending him crashing. With blurring speed and strength, Aldaris lunged at Selenas, his hands crashing into his mail, the strike sending a ripple through the armour.

Next, the Brethren lunged for Selenas’ blade, but that was when Aoric’s fist crashed into Aldaris’ skull, snapping the man’s neck and sending him limply to the ground. Aldaris lay on his side, unmoving, though his eyes flittered about his skull.

Aoric’s massive hand reached down and turned the crumpled body onto his back as if flipping over a piece of paper. Aldaris’ skull looked like an egg that had dropped, cracked, and dented on one side.

“When did the Glyph leave?”

Aldaris’ mouth moved, but no words came out at first.

“Tell me where he went, and we will fix the bump on your head.”

“Three nights ago,” the words were spoken through a broken jaw as blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Gone in the morning. North.”

“You are what you are, Brethren. And I am what I am. You chose your side. I would say that I’m sorry, but I’m not.” Aoric rested his hand over the man’s face, holding the massive palm down with the slightest amount of force until he felt the air on his hand go still.

"North," Aoric affirmed, his voice resonating with unshakable resolve.

The words lingered in the air, shrouded by a profound silence that had intensified with the hushed moans of the wounded enemy. A gruesome scene unfolded around them as the fallen bodies were collected into a mound at the center of the road. Aldaris's severed head impaled on a spear stood as a grotesque centrepiece, his amputated hands strung around his head, forming the twisted symbol he had made moments before his demise, but now positioned upside down—a morbid testament to the brutality of their conflict.

“Elderholm, then,” Aoric stated in his deep gravelly voice.

“It seems that way.” Selenas agreed.

“So all of this…” Aoric said, waving his other hand at the bloody mud. “Was it for nothing?”

“Not for nothing, no,” Selenas said, following Aoric’s gaze about the battlefield. “We did strike a blow.”

“Ahh. Such a mighty blow we have struck.” Aoric said, releasing his grip on Selenas’ shoulder as he looked about the battlefield. “Who did we lose?”

"Our casualties total six, though we've inflicted five times that upon her forces," Selenas said, drawing in a deep breath, the pain in his shoulder gradually subsiding. After a momentary pause, he continued, "That includes Rariek."

The mask concealed Aoric's facial expression, but a subtle shift in his posture—his shoulders dipping slightly and his hand clenching into a fist—revealed the immense weight of his response.

"North it is, then," he declared with grim determination.