text: yourself face-to-face with, every instinct screams enemy! Sinister, they are. A formless mass of warriors. Even from your vantage they appear large in stature. Rumors tend to embellish; not in this case. Like the stories say, the natives stand a full head taller than the average Alteran. Suddenly, the light leather you wear doesn't seem as protective. Still, it's the armor you're used to fighting in. You're silently glad that the company is locked up away from sight. One, they are bound and defenseless. Two, they can't see you wearing the colors of the High King's rival.
  
  The sea of soldiers part, and Alexander strides forward, his feathered steel helm underneath one armpit. On the ramparts, archers still survey the battlefield, although you can tell their focus is on their captain as well, like the trained ears of a mother when a child acts out. Their arrows are nocked but not yet drawn. Alexander takes the staircase, and at the top, a figure meets him. You're surprised you didn't see him before. Unlike the other soldiers, the figure is dressed in a forest green cloak, which boasts a sizable collar, rising to the tip of the figure's nose. A bow and quiver lies on the figure's back, one of fine craftsmanship, far past the quality of the archers next to you.
  
  Alexander addresses the soldiers. Seems a speech before battle is a custom in Magda as well.
  
  "Men of the Supreme Leader, today you will bring honor to Magda. You've fought and defeated the savages of this land many times already. There may be a greater number of them now, an entire war party, but that makes your victory for the Supreme Leader even greater. The first victory has already been won. They expected to find us unawares. They thought they could show up on our doorstep and barge inside. That is not the case, the furthest thing from the case. Scoutleader Prinn here (Alexander puts his hand on a green cloaked shoulder) discovered the savages' plot, tracked them. Scoutleader--
  
  --Prinn takes another look at your crudely drawn battle plans in the dirt. It's nothing more than a simple line with an arrow pointing in its side, signaling "ambush."
  
  "I don't know," he says, adjusting his glasses. "It might just piss them off even more."
  
  Your younger self smiles. "Interesting choice of words there. Oh it will piss them off for sure."
  
  "And you're sure it won't come back on us?"
  
  "You mean splash damage?"
  
  "You know what I mean."
  
  "Fairly certain. You're the one that built the pressure plates anyway." You sigh. "We'll be wearing masks. Unless they catch us and tear them from our face, they'll never know. They'll assume, sure. But they won't have any evidence.
  
  Prinn smiles. "Let's just hope there aren't any in-depth investigations as to the series of chamber pots that have gone missing. 'Constable Marburry And The Case Of The Missing Chamber Pot.'"
  
  Childlike laughter escapes your lips. "How the hell are you the smartest in our class?"
  
  "Because it's filled with students like yourself."
  
  You throw a punch into the boy's shoulder. "They should be coming down here soon. Kelle always takes this route after lecture to save time."
  
  The two of you, wearing green cloaks to blend in with the forest, hunker down behind a tree. A silence ensues, one that often appears before combat, not that you recognized it at the time. A little while later footsteps, faintly, fill the forest air, growing louder with each step. Kelle and his two goons come into view, wearing their school robes.
  
  "Ready?" you whisper to Prinn, sliding a black cloth mask over your face.
  
  "I think so," is his reply, also covering his face.
  
  Your hands grab for the basket of spoiling vegetables sitting next to you, a squishy tomato ends up in your palm, a rotten apple in Prinn's. Motioning your head to signal now! the two of you break from your hiding place, arms cocked back like a professional Runball player. Shock. Freeze. Kelle and his two goons don't know how to react to the sudden ambush, another lesson you would learn in the military. Your tomato explodes in a splash of red, leaving a juicy impact on Kelle's robes, the splash damage hitting his face as well. That seems to bring them back to reality, just in time for Prinn's rotten apple to hit one of the goons, splattering like a wine jar falling from the table.
  
  Surprise turns to anger. "You both are dead!" Kelle shouts. You take the chance to throw another rotting vegetable his way before turning and high-tailing it deeper into the forest, Prinn already far ahead. Your vision becomes a blur of trees, leaves, and branches, coming into existence just in time for you to blow by. Your breath is heavy. But still you run, adrenaline pumping through your veins, scared, yet thrilled at the rush of emotion, half of them you probably couldn't even describe. This is true living, not sticking your nose in a book for ten hours a day.
  
  You run the course, Kelle after you, not knowing the designed route. You pass by a sturdy oak, then a sapling, then a fallen tree. The fallen tree. It lies across the path, covering the other side, framed by overhanging branches. A perfect tunnel. A perfect place for a trap. Instead of leaping over the fallen trunk, you use your momentum to kick off the trunk. Your body flies high in the air, far quicker than when you practiced--a result of fearing for your life versus simply training.
  
  There's a sturdy branch off to the side of the path, one whose sister branch bears a series of chamber pots that "mysteriously" went missing from the school. Before you have time to register your flight, your chest smacks into the branch, and you barely manage to wrap your arms around it. As you pull yourself up, the pressure of your grip shaves bark from the branch, and like a loose handhold for a rock climber, it goes tumbling down to the ground, you soon to be shortly after--
  
  --A hand clasps with yours. Prinn! He's already in the tree, one arm outstretched, his blonde curls in his eyes, but he does not dare attempt to adjust it. He's not strong enough to pull you up, but he halts your downward momentum, allowing you to slowly climb back up. Before you can thank him, footsteps, pressure plate. The mechanism tethered to the sister branch flips, and several, full, chamber pots overturn, spilling their contents onto three young boys below.
  
  First, again, surprise. Then rage, far beyond the reaction to rotten vegetables thrown their way, rage in only a way a young boy can express with the inability to formulate coherent sentences, simply guttural sounds mixed with tears, the rage of a boy who doesn't understand the present situation, yet feels white hot blood pumping through his veins. Thick brown liquid slides down the side of Kelle's face, mixing with tears. Their rage causes them to pick up rocks. While you threw soft, spoiling fruit, they choose fist-sized stones, upping the ante.
  
  Like a thick hailstorm, a wave of projectiles fly towards you. Exposed, without anywhere to hide, you're a victim to their assault. One hits you in the shoulder, another glances from your forehead. Prinn gets the same treatment. If you stay put, you're dead, so to speak. If you jump, at least there's a running chance. Silently you curse, using a word that you've heard your father whisper when he thought he was alone. Your plan ended with dumping the chamber pot contents on Kelle. Damn you for not thinking past that. With a cry, Prinn falls from the branch, a large rock doing more than glancing from his brow, his mask knocked from his face, glasses, cracked and bent, knocked from his head.
  
  Prinn!
  
  --and it's because of his bravery, and loyalty to our Supreme Leader Fargrave that we are prepared to meet the savages head-on. Gods bless the Scoutleader Prinn. Gods bless Supreme Leader Fargrave. Gods bless Magda!"
  
  Alexander's speech ends and draws you from the memory. The Scoutleader, Prinn, standing next to Alexander looks nothing like the scrawny boy you remember. You wonder if he'll recognize you. Probably not. It's been many years, just over a decade. People change. They attempt to keep up with the wheel of time, putting up a good fight, but never end up victorious. Over the years it weighs on a person. They grow wrinkled and ache in places they've never noticed before. It happens to a degree when leaving childhood behind, and is magnified tenfold in less than that many decades. The man that stands before you is proud and strong, confident, the exact opposite of his childhood self. His blonde hair is buzzed and there's no sign of his glasses.
  
  After his speech, Alexander meets with several of his officers. Prinn's gaze lands on you.
  
  (Is that recognition?)
  
  He strides atop the ramparts to where you and Redding stand. You notice his eyes don't shift from side to side, they don't watch his boots as he walks. They are focused directly on his targets: you. Prinn stops just in front of you. Up close you see he wears light leather underneath his cloak, and his belts--one at his waist two across the chest--are covered with pockets for storing small items. Gone is his boyhood face, replaced with a hardened face of a man who's faced the realities of combat. He does not introduce himself, speaking a question is more of a statement.
  
  "You possess the artifact."
  
  "The one and only," Redding answers.
  
  "Good. We'll have a...special assignment in the battle. Come with me."
  
  > go with him
  Prinn leads you back down the switchback staircase. As your foot hits the last step, you hear the distinct sound of bowstring thwungs! a volley of arrows sent raining down on the gathering natives. If you didn't experience the rough landing to the New World that you did, you would think them foolish and unprepared for the battle. From your brief glimpse on the ramparts, they didn't appear to have any siege weapons with them, nor (ugh) ladders to scale the walls of the fort. Still, somehow they managed to sink Alteran vessels moving in the water. A stationary fort, though with strong walls, may be at the mercy of such firepower. And despite Magda's well-equipped garrison, you didn't see any cannons or counter-siege weapons of their own. They may have a defensive fort, but their power is severely lacking. An Alteran fort of this size would have no less than 10 guns pointing down the road to the single gate. Sticks and stones may break bones, but cannonfire puts an end to the discussion.
  
  Back through the main yard, past a few square buildings, Prinn silently leads you without a word. Redding doesn't seem to be willing to break the silence either, likely both are listening to the battle sounds, determining the events by sound alone. Another thwung! A second volley is loosed at the natives. They'll be cut down before even reaching the garrison walls. Finally, Prinn stops at an, uncoincidentally, square building. He opens the single door, and waves you inside.
  
  The battle sounds are deadened here. It's the top level of a jail. A lone Maga soldier sits behind a table next to a reinforced locked door. The soldier looks up upon your arrival, his face glowing orange from the single candle burning on the table, dangerously close to a thick ledger. If this is the dungeon where the company is being kept, it's aptly named.
  
  "Appointment," the guard speaks.
  
  "Prinn, Scoutleader, two guests," Prinn states back.
  
  "Mhm. Mmhmm. Ah," the guard scans the ledger with one finger, oblivious to the battle happening just outside the front door. "Here we are. Prinn, Scoutleader. Two guests." The guard stands, a long drawn-out sigh escaping his lips. From his belt, he pulls a sizable keyring. You imagine if one more key were placed on the ring, it would burst apart. However, the guard pulls the exact one he's looking for with the first draw. He unlocks the door, and like Prinn just moments ago, waves you inside.
  
  "Enjoy your stay. Two feet from the cells, please."
  
  The three of you enter the dungeon. You notice the door gets locked behind you. Worst comes to worst and you need a way out, it won't be the way you just came. Somehow you think a "guest" doesn't have much leverage behind locked doors. Prinn grabs a torch hanging on the wall, a normal burning one, unlike the one you carried in the halls of the dead. Shadows dance just out of reach as you're led down the narrow corridor.
  
  Cell doors pass on either side, the torch highlighting their barred frames. Most are empty. Some have thin creatures squatting in the corner, which you catch mere glimpses of, far away from the door itself. The dungeon is orderly, so much in fact that the High King might tip his crown to the way it's run. Whoever resides here has long since been conditioned not to approach anyone walking out their door. Still, you don't take any chances and keep more than an arm's reach away.
  
  Upon reaching the final cell door, Prinn reaches inside his cloak and produces a key. It's not one he gained from the jailer as you never saw them exchange any such thing. The cell creaks open, disturbing the ominous quiet, yet adding to the uneasy feeling that's accompanying such a place as this. Prinn strides inside, and you can only keep following.
  
  "So this's what's become of you, eh?"
  
  You turn to find Bastus leaning against his cell door, directly across from the one that Prinn opened. His beard is matted with some sort of liquid, too thick to be water. It's been but a day, and yet the man looks entirely different than he did the previous morning. Only dressed in a loincloth, the large man looks thinner than before. Your mind tells you weight isn't lost that easy, but your eyes see another story.
  
  You choose your words carefully as Redding and Prinn are within listening distance. "I do as I must. That's all any man can do."
  
  Laughter spills from within the beard. It causes liquid to shake from Bastus' chin, like a mongrel after retrieving a bone from a body of water. "The lie told by a traitor, the one he tells himself is true."
  
  You do not know what to say. Any defense will raise questions with Prinn and Redding. The thought briefly enters your mind that you could drop them now; the Alteran standard flintlock is double-barreled, after all. You could then lead the company back to Frontrunner's Camp with the Magda garrison busy dealing with the Blackbirds.
  
  No.
  
  For the same reason you didn't risk escape earlier. Bastus may be treated poorly, but his life isn't at risk. The murder of two Magda members would set the garrison aflame with burning vengeance. They would hunt you down. Better to wait for the POW exchange. Do things the proper way. For now, you'll just have to endure and carry on as normal.
  
  (Quite the young hero we have here. I wonder if they would do the same in your position.)
  Doesn't matter.
  (Oh it matters, whether you're willing to admit it or not.)
  
  As you enter the cell, you leave Bastus with final words. "There is much that happens outside our narrow view." You cross into the open doorway, Bastus cackling at your back, likely more liquid sprayed in the air. The cell is meant for one, maybe two prisoners. It's empty, however, save for your two companions. Chains hang from the wall, a pair of them, answering the question of how many prisoners would occupy it. The walls are square stones. So far, the dungeon has been the only structure in the garrison built from more than lumber. Steel reinforced doors and cell walls; now stone, as the interior. Which begs the question, why are we--
  
  "You're probably wondering why we're here," Prinn says, barely louder than a whisper, the voice two parents would make over a sleeping child. "There's an escape route of sorts dug into these walls. It leads to an underground tunnel that will take us just beyond the assembling natives."
  
  "I didn't think the glorious scoutleader would be interested in running from a battle," Redding digs.
  
  "You misunderstand," Prinn answers, taking the opposite approach of Redding. "Which is the most effective way to swing a sword?"
  
  You've heard the saying before. "When your enemy least expects it."
  
  Prinn nods. "Exactly." Then his eyes narrow. "Have we met before?"
  
  Panic floods through your body. As with any lie, the words must be spoken with full confidence. "I think I'd remember meeting a scoutleader in the Supreme Leader's military."
  
  "And I a turncoat to his country."
  
  (Shouldn't he be more happy with the color of your coat?)
  Infinitely so.
  (He meant it as an insult.)
  I'm well aware.
  (Why didn't you tell him of your past?)
  The company is within earshot. Besides, the past is the past. Besides, why am I answering you?
  (Because you're used to me in your head.)
  
  Not a reassuring thought--words--whatever. You suppose the voice is right. It does feel more normal, at least as normal as a mysterious voice in your head can be. Hopefully the "conversations" stay normal, and you don't have the voice tempting you to commit a deed that will end up putting your body in a place such as this, permanently.
  
  The click of a switch, and one section of the wall reveals a small tunnel. Prinn goes first, Redding closely behind. As you enter, leaving the company behind locked up, you silently hope there aren't any more ladders that await you, although reality has a funny way of spoiling the wine in your wineskin.
  
  > Continue
  There's only enough space to travel single file, so you take your place in the rear. The tunnel is barely high enough for you to walk without crouching, though that's mostly because your head is in a constant dip. After a while, the strain starts to tense up your neck, like that of sleeping at an awkward angle. One foot in front of the other, matching the pace of the boots in front of you, your mind starts to wander...
  
  He falls from the branch, just out of reach from your grasp. Your childhood hand swipes at the open air. He falls gazing up at you, mouth wide open in a mixture of horror, surprise, and pain, both hands outstretched for your hand that missed by a fair margin. With a deadening smack, Prinn meets the forest floor like a pile of books discarded after a long lecture. His glasses, broken and cracked, hang loosely from the tip of his nose, the rock knocking his mask completely from his face.
  
  Three boys approach your fallen friend. Three boys, riled beyond all belief, revenge on their minds. Righteous revenge. The damage they mean to inflict is warranted. Justified. You see it in their eyes, glossy and unfocused on anything but Prinn's fallen body. A flintlock could fire a few feet away, and it wouldn't register in their minds. It's your plan that brought you here; the damage to Prinn, on you.
  
  Your boots hit the ground next to your fallen friend.
  
  "Knowing the runt's identity is as good as knowing yours," Kelle speaks, his words like a blacksmith's flame. "You'll get yours too."
  
  You pull the mask from your face. Your young mind is aware of what must take place next, and the face covering will only get in the way, blocking out portions of your peripheral vision. Slowly, Prinn rolls over and pushes himself up, managing to stand by bracing himself on one of your arms.
  
  "Dareisay, Kelle, piss on your cheek, shit in your hair, and it only improves your looks."
  
  In a situation such as this, only Prinn would offer insults. Though to be fair, he offers them in almost any situation. Reminded of the chamber pots, rather than the identity reveal, Kelle's teeth grimace, both hands balling into fists, joined by four others.
  
  You raise your own fists defensively. "Come on then. Unless you're scared."
  
  That angers Kelle more than Prinn's jab. Nothing sets a young boy who fancies himself a young man off like calling him afraid. Good. As one yourself, you're not surprised when Kelle charges forward, abandoning his superior numbers to a reckless rage. He winds up to throw all his power into a single right hand, telegraphing it in the process. Even untrained boys are able to dodge something as that, which you, in fact, are.
  
  Kelle's arm swings high. You duck underneath and pivot to the side, managing to shove Prinn out of the way in time. Kelle's charge takes him past you, back exposed, and for a brief moment everything is clear. You're aware of each of your opponents as well as Prinn, who probably couldn't take any on his own. The only way out is to end the skirmish quickly. Otherwise, the boys would regroup and use their superior numbers and strength. It's not honorable. It's not pretty. You surely wouldn't brag about it afterward.
  
  You muster all your strength into a single kick. Your shin lands in-between Kelle's legs.
  
  Kelle's hands reactively grab for his crotch as he crumples to the ground, fetal, knees tucked into his chest. Before you can celebrate your victory, as minor as it is, Kelle's goons rush to his aid. If you took the time, you're sure you could remember their actual names, but their importance is equal to the amount of time you spent remembering. They're followers, lifelong "yes" men, too afraid to speak their mind, hiding behind their leader's power and pretending it's their own. But still, they're boys, boys who bear the same rage from your prank, boys who are larger than you and Prinn.
  
  One of them tackles Prinn to the ground in a flurry of dust, the contents of the chamber pot mixing with Prinn's cloak and exposed skin. The other heads directly for you meaning to use the same tactic, strength over skill, both of which you are severely lacking as a boy. Your enemy charges, both arms outstretched to wrap you up. He's a wild animal, a crazed bull, a body long absent from his mind, thanks to the ambush. His thoughts are primal. He sees a threat, and he charges, giving his own well-being not a second thought.
  
  Before the boy can reach you, a match is lit within your mind. Within the timeframe, less even, of a single step towards you, a new feeling overwhelms your senses in a rush, like standing on a rooftop and feeling the wind against your body. The present moment may suggest you're in the wrong, dumping waste on top of three boys, but the struggle started long ago, and not by you or Prinn. Kelle and his goons have been a thorn, no, more than a thorn in your side for the entire year; they've been a bramble thicket growing rampantly across your path. There's but one remedy: they must be cut out, uprooted.
  
  A fire burns within you, not as untamed flames in a forest devouring all in grasp. It's a focused beam of energy, a harnessed energy that you can draw from, tuning the mind and pouring strength to your limbs. Rage fills your body, and unlike the three boys, you master it, control it. The rage serves you, not the other way around. You bend it to your will the way a horse tamer breaks a wild stallion. You may not be the smartest, nor the physically strongest either. But the fire burns, stoked to last far greater than any other. The intelligent are powerless when they encounter someone more intelligent, the strong with someone stronger. You are not burdened by such flaws.
  
  The boy closes within striking range. You keep a sturdy base in your feet. At the last second, you tuck your chin and line your forehead up with the bridge of the boy's nose. A sickening crunch echoes, even above the sounds of the skirmish. A geyser of red appears on the boy's face, mixing with the contents of the chamber pot. His momentum still carries into you, however, and the two of you go tumbling to the ground. The fire focuses you. Before you even hit the ground, you're scratching, throwing short punches. After a few rolls, both of you trying to gain the upper hand, you end up on top. Like with Kelle, you feel the need to end it quickly. Your left hand holds the boy's throat, holding his head steady, your right winds up, telegraphed, but your target isn't going anywhere.
  
  Pain explodes into your knuckles. The boy's eyes roll back in his head.
  
  You raise your fist again, meaning to rain down another devastating blow, one to an unconscious opponent. Prinn's cry draws you from the act. Arm cocked, you turn to find Prinn pinned down, the other goon blasting ape-like fists down both at once. By now Prinn's glasses are a crumpled mess, twisted, bent, and shattered nearly beyond recognition. A deep sound resonates through your throat, primal, the tone not needing coherent words to infer its meaning.
  
  You imitate the rush of the three boys, charging head down, arms propelling you to greater impact. Your shoulder drives into the boy's side, knocking him from Prinn. Your arms reactively reach down as you land, giving yourself two handfuls of dirt and fallen leaves from the forest floor, the leaves dead and scratchy in your open palms, which, naturally, you use to greet the boy's exposed face. Blinded, coughing, he tries to locate you with his arms. You easily step past them, rising to your feet and sending a foot into his gut. And another. And another. Finally, you finish by kicking more dirt into his face.
  
  "It's over!" you hear Kelle shout. He's managed to recover from your kick, and stands holding Prinn by the back of his hair. That's not what catches your eye, however. What does, is a heart-sized stone raised overhead. Over Prinn's head. "One more move and I pound the little runt's face into oblivion. He's almost as bad at fighting as you are with exams."
  
  "Put the rock down," you try to state calmly. You notice a slight tinge to your voice and hope Kelle didn't catch it.
  
  "Fat chance. You're going to watch."
  
  Terror seizes your body, overtaking the rage that beset you earlier. "Watch what?"
  
  Grinning, Kelle says, "On your knees, runt." Prinn complies with a small amount of help from Kelle. The hand holding Prinn's hair releases for a moment, but Prinn doesn't move. The rock still threatens from above. Kelle reaches inside his robe, and although it's hidden from behind Prinn's head, you know exactly what he pulled out. Kelle's grin grows wider as the sound of water dripping fills the sudden silence. Prinn's face is a combination of disgust and shame; it's a shade of red deeper than being tongue-twisted speaking to a girl. Kelle intentionally sprays a little to the side of Prinn's head, making sure to get some on his ears and cheeks. You watch, helpless to help your friend.
  
  Kelle ends with a shake. "Next time I'll save some for you." The deed done, the fighting over, the victors apparent, the two goons gather themselves and limp to Kelle. They suffered more damage than you or Prinn, but sometimes victory isn't by raw damage alone. A defeated morale makes for an easy opponent, it's the wind taken from their sails, the breath from full lungs. You don't really know what to say. There are no words that are comforting in a situation such as this. All you can do is offer Prinn a hand to his feet.
  
  Prinn meets your eyes, and you see a look you've never seen in the boy's face. It's the face of an adult that learns he's unable to provide food for his family, the face of a slave facing the gallows, the face of a boy who just was pissed on in full view of his best friend. The constant jokes, even when inappropriate, are long gone. The book-smart intelligence, top of the class smarts, served him no purpose in a fist fight, the grim reality of that fact settles on Prinn's face. His name may be at the top of the list, but the boy himself is vulnerable.
  
  "Never again," he whispers.
  
  The tunnel opens through a small door, about half the size of a man, hidden by shrubbery at the base of a small creek. Bright green, though slightly dulled by the low light, bursts into your vision. At least there aren't any ladders. Scoutleader Prinn shuts the door and pulls a padlock from the inside of his cloak. First a key, then a lock--you wonder what else is hidden inside. The creek is almost peaceful. Water runs (the shame on his face) at a comforting level, the kind that soothes a child to sleep. Smooth white stones peek through the top of the water, their size revealing to the water's depth, grassy moss spreading across the surface of each.
  
  "Is it safe to have such a tunnel lead into the garrison?" you ask.
  
  "And the trespasser would do what? Lock himself in jail?" Prinn answers, the humor from his voice long gone--by many years if you had to guess.
  
  "Yeah, forget the obviously unguarded entry into your fort," you utter to yourself. Both men ignore the comment.
  
  Prinn looks towards the canopy. "We haven't much time. I hope you're ready to put that thing to use."
  
  Redding flips the dagger in his palm. "More than."
  
  "Very good. This way then."
  
  You follow the route that Prinn climbs, stepping on the same stones as you leave the creek behind. In another time, it would be a relaxing place to spend an afternoon, especially with the company of ale and a woman. But now that's the furthest thing from your mind. Back in the New World wilderness, you find yourself wishing that you weren't given the crimson tunic of Magda. For one, it sticks out like a soldier in the wrong formation. For two, the long Alteran overcoat is better suited for the elements.
  
  Through the forest you go, led by the scoutleader. It's hard not to notice the way he carries himself in the environment opposed to Redding, for example. It's less of a military march, more of a casual stroll. Part of it could be that there are only three of you, not an entire company of soldiers, but you imagine Prinn would have the same manner whether he were alone or had a thousand men behind him. Comfortability. Ease. Prinn travels as if the forest were his bunkhouse. Being a scout, that's often the case.
  
  As you continue, the sounds of battle fade back into existence. They start light, like footsteps off in the distance growing louder with each step forward. "We're going to flank an entire war party as three men?" you whisper. Prinn turns, and for the first time since you've seen him, he has the semblance of a smile. It's not quite yet a grin, however. Just the beginning of one. Prinn simply points up towards the canopy above.
  
  You glance up to find 13, maybe 15 pairs of eyes staring back at you. They're at least several stories up. Like their scoutleader, the rest of the Magda scouts wear a forest green cloak and carry bows. Unknowing to you, they had been escorting you the entire way, lightly jumping between tree branches. Still, the fact remains.
  
  "We're going to flank an entire war party as fifteen men?" you adjust your questioning.
  
  "Not quite. We're going to shadow them to their camp. We haven't been able to find where they travel from. I've been all over the area, and there's no sign of their tribes, not to mention an entire war party, stopping anywhere."
  
  "The dagger is bait," Redding says. "You knew the Blackbirds would be upset by our...claim of the artifact."
  
  The scoutleader nods. "And we assumed, right, that they would send numbers to retrieve it. We've pulled them out of hiding, and they'll take us back to their camp. Then they'll face the full might of Magda."
  
  "Then why are we here?" you ask. "If it's the artifact the Blackbirds want, then it's out here, exposed, far from the safety of the fort. We aren't trackers, nor expert woodsmen. It seems risky to include us on a mission you're more than capable of handling yourselves."
  
  (Such boldness. Never afraid to speak your mind, are you?)
  
  "Captain Alexander thought it best," Prinn says with a sigh. "You might wear the colors of Magda, but there may still be questionable feelings among the soldiers. I heard about your run-in with the lieutenant, Benjamin."
  
  "But still," you answer. "The dagger is bait. Usually with bait a trap is waiting to be sprung. We're exposed," you say for a second time.
  
  "Orders are orders," Prinn replies. Besides, the war party is currently busy throwing themselves at the garrison. They'll be too distracted, with their tails tucked between their legs, to be aware of us. Enough talk. We draw close."
  
  No more words are shared. The three of you, along with the scouts above, creep forward, taking extra caution now that you're near to the Blackbird war party. You use the overgrowth to your advantage, never stepping out into the open air. There's always another area of cover to hide behind, and you allow yourself to bounce between cover to cover. Wind rustles through the trees, the creaking of branches holding against the unseen element, sounding not unlike the way a galleon settles into the water. Now that you're aware of them, you recognize the sound as the scouts, although the tiny sound they make blends in with the environment.
  
  You can almost make them out through the trees now. Shadowy figures standing taller than any Alteran, their backs turned towards you. Their armor is crude. It's a kind of leather far thinner than the one you currently wear. You wonder how fearsome a Blackbird would be donned in full plate, swords and arrows useless against the heavy armor. Luckily, their "armor" can barely be classified as such. Tromping through the forest, you understand why, not to mention they probably have no engineers or inventors like a civilized society boasts.
  
  Suddenly, a pair of boots lands between the three of you, a whirl of green follows like a flag raised to the top of a pole. One of Prinn's scouts.
  
  "Sir, the Blackbirds..."
  
  "The Blackbirds what, soldier?" Prinn narrows his eyes.
  
  "They've broken through the main gate."
  
  (Out of the frying pan, into the war party?)
  
  "Gods," Prinn curses.
  
  "Orders, sir?"
  
  "There's no sense in learning of their camp's location if there is no garrison to counter attack. We come to their aid."
  
  "The fifteen of us?" you interject.
  
  "Sixteen, actually," Prinn corrects. It doesn't bring any relief.
  
  > War!
  They thought they were safe behind their walls. They thought their shiny armor would protect them. Fools. The Raven is above the craftsmanship in which they take pride in. They are godless men, outsiders from across the Great Sea. The Harri'ar treat them as such. When a tiger preys on your livestock, it must be put down. The tiger thinks itself a mighty predator until the very moment of its slaying. When the spear is raised high, only then does it understand. The same goes for the invaders. Trespassers, defiliers.
  
  The Veil protected the warriors, a gift of magic from the Raven itself. The faith of their people rewarded them. Arrows fall harmlessly to the side, same for javelins. The men at the walls don't possess any of the black smoke, large cylinders exploding in a burst of fire and smoke, tearing destruction through all in its path. No, these ones only possess simple weapons, and they do not know them like the Harri'ar. A warrior is a warrior despite the weapon in his hand. The outsiders feign as warriors, using black smoke and sharpened steel as their strength. Left without either and they are but jungle vines to be cut from the Harri'ar path.
  
  Fire from Father Sun Himself tore through their walls like a rock dropped into a pond, rippling, spreading flaming destruction. Let them hide behind their walls now. Their safety, like their gods, are false. Bodies thrown from the crumbling gate, soldiers frantically trying to douse the flames. The high priests in their--in our--collective faith brought victory. Still, they mustered a defence, small men listening to the shouts of their chieftains. Horns sung in the battlefield, their sound bringing meaning to the invaders.
  
  Let them try. Let them struggle. Let them die.
  
  The Blackbird war party is entirely in the clearing, the area where the Magda garrison cut down the forest to mere stumps. You're able to creep to the very edge of the treeline without encountering any warriors. They're all concerned with attacking the keep and have not posted guards at their rear. Bodies clash. The ground is littered with countless bodies already. Like the trees, they've been cut down, also becoming stumps in many cases. And the day is still young.
  
  Like the sun high in the sky, a massive hole exists where the gate once did, its edges a reddish orange. The sight of the fiery impact draws you back to the voyage, fire raining down from above, ships sinking down to the ocean floor below. (It's almost time.) Countless bodies on the ground, countless more still breathing, attacking. Like sand running through an hourglass, the Blackbird warriors pour through the narrow opening of the gate, through the blast, the wind caused by their rush helping keep the flames alive.
  
  It's not the most thought-out plan. It's not by bravery or a sense of heroics. It's simply all you can do. You charge from the brush, weapon drawn, fifteen other soldiers at your back. Arrows whizz past your head, friendly ones. The scouts fire a volley to guide you towards the enemy. Normally, the thought of arrows shooting this close to you would make you uneasy; however, after experiencing the scouts' silent way in which they move, the flawless way they blend into the forest itself, you are completely comfortable. Relieved, even.
  
  Your longsword, in both hands, cuts through three Blackbirds before they even notice your presence. Now that they're aware of the sixteen man flank, you put a bullet in two more, the boom of your flintlock no longer an issue. The Blackbirds are fearsome, standing a full head taller than you. What they aren't is efficient. Heavy swings, telegraphed swings. They fight with full emotion, as a single warrior in a sea of them.
  
  Although it's the first time fighting with the Magda scouts (although not the first with Prinn), the discipline of a soldier takes over. Redding and you are as unified as they come, and the scouts have the good instinct to supplement your onslaught with arrows, creating a finely sharpened dagger that cuts as finely as an experienced battlefield surgeon. Speaking of dagger...
  
  Redding wields it in his off-hand, letting Blackbird warriors taste the artifact that their ancestors died to protect, bound in un-death to protect, the very thing the war party came to reclaim. As far as "turning the tide," it doesn't appear to be anything more than a dagger, albeit one that's quality is beyond all. It's just a dagger. (We'll see about that.)
  
  The Blackbirds that recognize it harbor a frenzy beyond belief. They swarm like bees disturbed in their hive. Suddenly, a sinking feeling starts in your stomach. The plan is going very wrong. The Blackbirds were lured here, yes, although losing the fort wasn't accounted for, neither was rushing into a Blackbird war party as sixteen men. To make matters worse, the company is still locked in the dungeon, vulnerable to the attacking natives.
  
  You allow the feeling to fuel your sword arm. The rage rises in your blood. Not here. Not now. Frustration, anger is a source of energy unlike any other. It burns within, focusing the mind. The world around you seems to meld into a single scene; no longer are there Blackbirds, defending soldiers, and fallen bodies. Instead, there's just you. Your mind becomes only concerned with each swing of your blade, the trigger of your flintlock. All else be damned. The Blackbird warriors that dare challenge you are handled with ease, the flow state allowing you to smoothly tear through their defenses without a second thought--without a first one either. Your body simply reacts to whatever is in front of you, the mind far removed from taking the reins, is but a passenger through the carnage.
  
  You're slightly aware of the primal grunts that spill through your lips, a deep throaty sound that accompanies the swing of your sword. Deep in your state, words have no meaning. None could express yourself as clearly as the primal sounds. The guttural tone is communication enough. Tens, perhaps even a hundred, lie dead behind you on your path towards the garrison. More, still, stand in your way. More will die.
  
  A horn sounds in the distance, the same one that rang on your arrival to the garrison. From within the fort's broken walls, the rallying cry of men shout. Alexander! He is organizing a counter attack. The horn brings you from your flow state. Instantly, thoughts begin to pour back in a great tidal wave. The company, the counter attack, the artifact, Prinn, the scouts, the High King, your standing with Frontrunner's Camp--you shake your head in an attempt to dam the thoughts.
  
  "Kid!" Redding shouts. "We've got to move."
  
  "Otherwise we're directly in their would-be retreat path, I know!" you shout back.
  
  > cut your way to Alexander
  With the Magda forces gathering, you're safer off rejoining with them. The only issue is that it's through an entire Blackbird war party. You've gained no small amount of success, however, and press on. With the scouts behind you firing arrows, you continue the momentum forward, cutting through the forces like a spearpoint finding a gap armor. The Blackbird warriors are great in size, yes. But they lack the precision and efficient movements of an Alteran or Magda soldier.
  
  You keep cutting onward to the gate, reloading the flintlock between short gaps of opponents. Soon, the time between is growing less and less. You're barely able to finish one warrior before the next is standing in his place, often more than one. The momentum halts. Instead of driving the spear into the armor gap tearing into flesh, it finds sturdy chainmail underneath.
  
  Heavy swing of axes, stabbing of spears. They rise in frequency to sheer physical impossibility to defend against them all. Not two minutes into attempting to cut your way to the garrison, a spear makes its way past your defenses, and unlike the aforementioned analogy, there is no chainmail underneath. Pain shoots throughout your body, originating from the wound between your chest and shoulder. Instantly, your left arm loses its strength, and you're forced to wield your longsword with just your right.
  
  First things first. You chop down with your longsword, snapping the spear shaft into two pieces, the point side still sticking from your torso. Next, you slice low, running the edge of your blade against the Blackbird's thigh. As he drops, unable to support his weight, you imitate the maneuver to his throat. He falls. Two more take his place, and they sense blood.
  
  Gritting your teeth, more primal sounds humming within, you don't allow them to attack. Instead, you take it for yourself, charging forward swinging the longsword more frantically than before, urgency screaming in your brain. The spear still sticks from your chest like a small sapling in a clearing. Two warriors stand in your way, one wielding two axes, the other a spear. They hungrily await your attack.
  
  > Axes
  The one wielding the axes must be taken down first. He possesses the most danger. You're witnessing first-hand the ability to continue with a spear wound. An axe wound--or several--may not be as manageable. You eye the axe heads, sharpened stone to a razor's edge, tied with leather to the wooden handle. One hit from either, and you'd be done, the head creating a deep, lengthy wound, a deadly one at that. But still, you must keep an eye on the spear as well. Can't be too focused on what's in front of you, not on a battlefield.
  
  Swinging with one arm, you attempt to use the length of your sword against the axe. Your weapon has more reach. The surface area of its blade is much greater. Without both hands to support the weapon, however, you're forced to use wide sweeps and swings, creating force with the weapon's momentum. If the warrior in front of you bore a shield, it'd be for naught. Two axes, not much in terms of defense-ability, the tactic is sound.
  
  Pain throbs at your shoulder. Your right arm starts to tire. Still, you attack.
  
  The Blackbird is able to deflect your assault, sliding back just out of reach from your follow up attack. You swing, he parries and steps back. Rinse and repeat. The skirmish takes you further into the war party's forces, away from Redding and the scouts, too contained with their own skirmishes to aid. You realize what is happening, although you're also aware what happens if you stop the assault. As long as you continue attacking, your opponent cannot return his own, especially when he does not have time between parries.
  
  The tactic is sound, save for the other Blackbird warriors. They know your death is near. Deep within your mind, you know it as well, but you aren't willing to acknowledge the thought. The others allow you to continue the duel with the axe bearer, interested in who will reign victorious. At least most of them are. Movement flashes in the edge of your vision. Instinctively, mid-attack, your left hand reaches for your flintlock. You scream in pain, but still, somehow, manage to draw the weapon and cock back the hammer.
  
  Click. Nothing.
  
  Click. Nothing.
  
  Click, click, click. The flintlock is empty; you weren't able to reload after the latest firing. The new Blackbird understands this, a smile forming at his lips. He towers above you. They all do, gathering closer and closer. Like the forest canopy preventing sunlight from reaching the surface, the Blackbird warriors do the same to you. They draw near.
  
  Click. Nothing.