text: [Themes: fantasy, humor, war, action]
  
  You travel the way you came. Back through the hall, stepping over the dead, keeping a steady eye on the fallen to make sure they don't rise again. Once is enough for you. In the small religious room, you place the ravenlight torch back on the hook where you found it. How polite. How civilized. Two steps into the tunnel, you undo the good deed, needing the light to guide you back to the ladder. There's no sense in wasting another match or two.
  
  Corporal Redding volunteers to take the ladder first, which you take no argument with. You slump down, back against the tunnel wall, and pause a moment while he climbs up. It's hard to formulate thoughts on what you just experienced. Necromancy is not unheard of. It's rare, sure, but it's not something of myth or fable. It's just what you weren't expecting from the natives. The stories in Alteran made them out to be large beasts without the knowledge or intellect for such magic. That's two occasions now, counting the voyage landing. Mentally you agree to block out such stories going forward. They can only result in underestimating your enemy, something many dead men are guilty of.
  
  Mid-thought the rope ladder suddenly sways back and forth. You shelve your thoughts for another time. Now you need to focus on climbing. It's not a difficult task, but you'd rather remain in the present moment to prevent a fall resulting in broken bones, or worse. Just as you came down, you intentionally go slowly to preserve strength and endurance. After several minutes, you reach the top. An outstretched palm greets you at the top, thrust through the square amount of sunlight shining through the open trap door. Palm meeting palm, you allow Corporal Redding to pull you up.
  
  Only it's not Corporal Redding. You arrive face-to-face with a soldier of Magda. Magda, the territory at the High King's heel.
  
  In contrast to the long blue overcoat of the Alteran soldier, the soldiers of Magda wear deep crimson tunics, tucked into their pants to allow for their steel breastplates to shine magnificently. You see, their hearts belong to Supreme Leader Fargrave (spit), and they will make sure their leader's property is well defended. To that effect, each wears a small hand buckler at their waist to pair with a broadsword resting on the opposite hip. This man in particular has sharp features, thin nose, a thin chin seemingly trying to stretch away from his face. His brown hair is slicked back and tied at the base of his neck.
  
  In reaction to seeing your country's rival, you allow your other hand to greet the man in return, although yours is in the form of a fist to his jaw. The man crumples to the ground. It's then that you see the rest of the company bound by rope, more soldiers standing guard nearby. Bastus appears to enjoy your shot, despite the cloth gag tied at his mouth, the approval written in his eyes. Good. At least they're still alive. Can the same be said for...
  
  Corporal Redding.
  
  He's engaged in discussion with the Madga superior officer, showing off the artifact. Since you know the man, you can tell he's doing his best not to hand over the artifact, subtly gesturing with the dagger as if it were in the hands of the officer. Then again, can you really claim that you know the man? First, the deception with the company. Second, the apparent friendliness towards the soldiers of Magda. Hopefully that's it. A betting man might toss money towards a third.
  
  You briefly entertain the idea of drawing your flintlock and firing upon the soldiers. As quickly as the thought appears, it vanishes. You know how that story ends. Two, maybe three soldiers would go down with you. Now's not the time or place for such heroics. Besides, after the left hook, the soldiers seem to rest their hands a little closer to the hilt of their broadswords. Plus, the High King never gave permission. A punch is excusable. Even a duel with swords is. But outright killing? No, that's against the rules of civilized war, especially when the Alteran leader hasn't declared it in the first place. When struggles happen between Alteran and Magda in the Old World, the import and export of POWs become their main business, minus the factories creating weapons of war, of course.
  
  The soldier you hit rises from the ground, anger visible on his face, one that is turning a crimson to match his tunic. His arm cocks back to return fire. His emotions cause him to wind up, something that all hand-to-hand combat instructors warn against. It's the easiest punch in the world to dodge, brought upon by untempered emotion and the desire to knock an opponent the fuck out. Such techniques, if you can call it that, are only effective when set up with another strike or with your opponent stunned, dazed, or bound.
  
  Two sturdy hands grab for each of your arms simultaneously, reminding you, again, of a childhood memory, pinning them against your body, soldiers unseen from behind you. You manage to twist your head to soften the blow, but it still hits, glancing off your cheek. If the man wasn't angry before, he sure as hell is now, clearly noticing your ability to slip from the solid punch. He winds up again, another slow telegraph, but it's not like you're going anywhere.
  
  "That's enough!"
  
  The man speaking to Corporal Redding silences the skirmish with two words. Instantly, the soldiers release your arms, the one in front of you bringing both hands to his sides, although you notice his fists are still clenched. The apparent leader of the Magda soldiers walks forward. He's a large man, but not overly so, possessing natural strength while, perhaps, not displaying the physique in a cut manner. In contrast to Redding's scraggly beard, the man has his trimmed short and neat, matching the way his black hair is styled.
  
  "These are our guests, Benjamin. Our allies."
  
  Benjamin, the soldier you hit protests. "But he struck first!"
  
  "Merely startled him is all," Corporal Redding interjects, much to the obvious disapproval of the leader. "The fault lies with me for not warning him ahead of time."
  
  "Is that so?"
  
  Corporal Redding now has the scrutiny of the soldiers' commanding officer, not an unusual thing by any means. What is unusual is that it's from a Fargrave loyalist.
  
  "You didn't share the plan with your most trusted soldier? What if he pulled a sidearm? What if he killed one of my men?"
  
  "One question at a time. Please, Alexander," Redding answers. "Obviously because it's my 'most trusted soldier,' I knew what his reaction would be."
  
  "He hit me," Benjamin retorts. "Did you know that would happen?"
  
  "Well?" Alexander, the leader, comes to the aid of his man.
  
  "It was a coin toss," Redding says. "And to be fair, I knew you'd hit him back, probably worse than you received. Seems I was right about that."
  
  Alexander simply shakes his head. "Redding you old bastard. You're still the same unconventional mastermind after all these years."
  
  All these years? Those two knew each other before? They must. The turning of one's coat doesn't come easily, at least not for a man like Redding who you've known for years. He's never been one for material wealth. No, he considers experience far above possessions and a heavy coin purse.
  
  Suddenly, you realize why he's taken such an interest in you over the years. It hits you like a crossbow bolt to the chest, an unexpected appearance of a lover, the news of a close friend's death. He must know your past. A family line born of Magda. That's the only explanation. Still, you resolve not to disclose damning information that isn't expressed explicitly. As soon as Alexander bargains with Frontrunner's Camp, you'll be back home, or at least the New World equivalent. Best not to whisper anything that will punch your ticket to the gallows.
  
  While POWs are easily returned back to their country, spies are hung by the neck. Battling to death in the field of battle is honorable; lying to one's neighbor and selling country secrets is much the opposite. The fact that the company is alive and witnessing everything, doesn't speak well for you--even if you might have been at odds with Benjamin. They'll be returned, spread the story of Redding and his prodigy's betrayal, and a picture of your face will be posted at every tavern, bar, and inn with the amount of money your life is deemed worth.
  
  "Now that's settled," Alexander continues, gesturing towards the Alteran company. "Form up. Ensure those ropes are tight. The garrison is stationed only a few miles from here. But still, I'd like to have a nice and peaceful march there. Can you do that for me, men?"
  
  The soldiers of Magda shout their agreement along with a salute. Despite your small scuffle, they don't tie you up. They don't take your weapons from you. Whatever arrangement Redding made must have included you as one of their turncoats, or spies, or whatever--it doesn't really matter. Compliance with Magda will result in Alteran marking you for death, and you're not exactly in the best position to refuse. Still, you're armed, and the element of surprise can turn the tide, especially if you can free the rest of the company.
  
  > Rescue attempt
  The soldiers form up. You count 17 of them, including Alexander. That leaves 16 under his command, a few more bodies than the typical Alteran company. They do strange things in Magda. Of course that means there are too many to fight on your own. Your first objective is to free the men. With numbers evened out, along with the chaos that your surprise will bring, the odds are fairly good. The act isn't to save the lives of the men; they'll be returned safely. The act is to save your own life within Alteran. Redding be damned. He's already made his choice. The hell you won't make your own.
  
  Four rows of four line up, the bound Alteran soldiers sent to the middle to be closely guarded. That leaves eight in front, and eight behind if you exclude Alexander and Redding from the equation. A plan begins to form in your mind. With the company free, tearing through eight surprised soldiers of Magda will be no problem. You've seen how deadly the company can be. Introduce a little urgency from prisoner's bonds, and they'll fight like crazed animals to be free. They may have questions in your involvement, but once the action begins their training and instinct should take over.
  
  They put you next to Corporal Redding, perhaps so he can keep an eye on you. You suppose it's just Redding now, or whichever rank he holds in Magda. You've never heard of a spy holding such a low rank as corporal. Typically, they're above even that of a captain's rank. Another realization hits you. If Redding was posing as a lowly corporal, then of course success followed the man since he's operating at a level far below his station. Hopefully that's the last one for the day. Truthfully, you're damn tired of discovering truths that long hid themselves as lies within your life.
  
  You use the overgrowth of the forest as your ally. As the group travels through an especially thick section, you act, suddenly turning on the soldiers marching behind you. The first one's breastplate makes a perfect kicking target. You push the sole of your foot out, stamping it onto the breastplate, leaving behind a dirty imprint of your boot. Unprepared for the assault, he staggers back into the waiting arms of Bastus. Then the swarm begins.
  
  The bound company use their tied wrists as clubs, some reaching for the man's broadsword. With the broadsword in hand, one-by-one, each removes themselves of their bonds. You pull your flintlock, press the hammer back, and fill the jungle air with gunpowder smoke. The shot blasts through a Magda soldier's face, and he drops to the dirt like a board, his legs stiff. You toss his broadsword to the company. There's no going back now; blood has been spilled. You repeat the process with another nearby soldier. Alteran flintlock, standard issue. Double barreled.
  
  "Redding, you daft fool. Control your man!" Alexander shouts from the front of the group.
  
  Through the chaos, you barely hear Redding's response. "Been trying for years. The kid's a wildfire." Probably not the one Alexander was looking for.
  
  A scream from the company. One has fallen. You cut your way towards them, then a soldier of Magda blocks you off. Benjamin. He looks pleased to see you, no doubt approving of your decision to fight. It's written all over his face. He'll put you down, and they'll probably slap a goddamn medal on his chest for doing so. There are harsh consequences for breaking the civility of war.
  
  Benjamin stands in front of you, broadsword and hand buckler gleaming from the small amount of light that made it through the canopy. It might as well be a cloudless sunny day for you after traveling through the underbelly of the ruins and the darkness within. The sight advantage, yours. The superior numbers, weapons, and armor, his. The inside of your mouth suddenly feels rather dry.
  
  > Longsword
  They outnumber you, and the flintlock only holds two bullets at a time. You're pretty quick at reloading, quicker than most soldiers you've served alongside, but no one's that fast. It's loaded, ready to spark death, but you leave it in your holster. Should you find yourself in an...unfortunate position, it'll be ready to come to your aid. Until then, it'll be your little secret.
  
  You carry it on your back. It runs from right shoulder to left hip. Your right hand reaches back and finds the hilt of your longsword. With a sound that you've heard many times, the sound of imminent struggle, the sound that warns your arms for the upcoming beating that's about to occur, you draw the blade. It can be wielded with one or both hands. You opt for both.
  
  You take the offensive, knowing that you can't afford to engage with a single man longer than necessary. The trick to fighting outnumbered is to strike hard and fast. Take down each as soon as possible before being overwhelmed. It requires aggression. It requires the ferocity of a caged animal. You swing low, then prod the blade forward looking for holes in Benjamin's defenses. He raises the hand buckler expertly, deflecting each swing of your sword. You engage again, running through a series of feints and thrusts. Again, he merely blocks your advance, not even attempting to counter. A smile begins to spread on the man's face. You realize why.
  
  Superior armor and numbers, not to mention swords, Benjamin is taking the patient route towards your death. He does not need to out-duel you with the clashing of blades; he merely needs to keep you busy until the others can run you through. Realization urges you to a greater level of focus, feeling very much like the aforementioned caged animal. You switch from quick prods and thrusts to full-blown swings and life-ending attempts, knowing that you must drop the man in front of you soon.
  
  Each successful defense grows the smile on Benjamin's face. You're both thinking the same thing. The end is near. It causes you to slash with the longsword, perhaps a bit more recklessly than your disciplined training would have liked. However, it's now or never. Like your training warned against, such "technique," if you can call it that, are telegraphed, easy to see coming and defend against. They also, often, bring the user off-balance by putting too much of their body into one powerful swing, as is the case here. Your slash precedes your footwork, leaving behind its sturdy foundation in the dust. Benjamin takes full advantage, attacking for the first time, drawing blood.
  
  Pain appears at your side as you fall to one knee, clutching at the broadsword-sized hole just below your left ribs.
  
  "Hit me first and I'll hit back, worse," Benjamin says, alluding to your punch from earlier, echoing Redding's words. He doesn't give you the chance for a retort. His sword arm raises overhead. You close your eyes and think of home.