The morning was like any other, but John was still able to look nervous even as he pretended not to be. He stood on top of the fortress walls, a spear gripped a little too tightly in his hands, as he scanned the horizon, more out of habit than duty. The wind was cold that morning, and it felt positively freezing even to John, who was wearing armor, and it brought with it the smell of old blood, iron, and wet stone. Down below him, slaves were scurrying around the courtyard of the fortress like ants, and they were carrying supplies, scrubbing walls and floors, and working quietly and diligently, and John watched them as he always did, as if he needed them scurrying around at his feet so that he could feel taller.
He straightened his back as other soldiers walked past him, always puffing out his chest, and sneering at the nameless slave boy who limped past him with a bucket in his hand.
"Move faster," he had shouted at him earlier, trying to make his voice sharper to compensate for the shaking in his hands.
The boy hadn't looked up at him, and that, more than anything, had irritated him. John gripped his spear a little tighter and looked out at the plains in the distance, trying to will himself into belonging up here with the other men who mattered. He kept daydreaming as he was thinking that way, and that was when he saw it.
At first, it looked like just a heat mirage, a dark line was seen against the horizon, it was low and stretched out wider compared to how wide it should normally be. He squinted and leaned forward as if that would correct what his eyes were seeing. The line moved, slowly at first, then a bit quicker, then much too quickly, and his heart skipped enough beats that it felt like it would stop.
"No way…" he muttered.
The shape resolved itself with each breath he took. There were many banners, many armors glinting in the sunlight, a wave of soldiers advancing like a tsunami, and there were many, so very very many. A horn blared, then another, then a third, and the cries that followed the horns boomed through the walls like thunder.
"ENEMY SIGHTED!"
The fortress fell into chaos, many shouted orders overlapping, the sounds of boots pounding against stone, men bumping into each other as they rushed to their stations, and John stumbled backward as soldiers pushed past him.
"How many are there?!" someone shouted.
"Where the hell did they come from?!" a second shouted.
And another, "Sound the inner alarm!"
John's mouth went dry and his legs turned to water, but he forced himself to shout along with the others, forced his voice to remain steady even as he was freaking out on the inside.
"Get in formation!" he yelled at no one in particular.
Down in the courtyard of the fortress, chaos reigned. Officers screamed orders, dragging slaves into makeshift lines, and the words that followed were the same words they always used when the fortress needed time bought with flesh.
"Send them first!" "Buy us time!" "Open the outer gate!"
John leaned over the battlement as the gates creaked open and the slaves flowed out, all of them were unarmed, they were also lightly armored, some of them were weeping, some of them stood in stunned silence. And among them, he spotted him, with tattered rags, an unsteady posture, and his scarred face turned down toward the ground. Good, John thought with bitter amusement. Let them see what real war looks like.
The gates clapped shut, and for a slight moment, there was silence, and then the screams began. They began from being small, distant, and faint, but then built into a symphony of screaming agony. John heard the ripping of flesh, the crash of metal, the snapping of human voices, and he swallowed hard as if he could will the noise back down his throat. Too many minutes passed like that, and then the order came for us to advance.
When the gates opened again, John was frozen in place by what he saw. There were bodies everywhere. Slaves mangled, trampled, impaled, and dismembered, and blood lay so thick on the ground that it started to look black. Some were still writhing, most were not, and the enemy stood among them, hardly faltering.
"HOLD THE LINE!"
The soldiers poured forward, and John was swept up with them, whether he wanted to be or not. He fought quite poorly. His spear wobbled wildly, and when an enemy charged him, he took a stumbling step backward with his heart racing so loudly he could hardly think. A sword flashed toward his throat, and John raised his arms in reflex, his eyes screwed shut, his face bracing for the impact that never came. Instead, there was a squelching sound. He opened his eyes to find the enemy soldier staring at his chest in shock. A sword was thrust straight through his armor, blood dripping from his lips before his body fell.
John gasped a trembling breath and looked up, and there he was. The nameless slave boy stood before him, his body smeared with blood from head to toe, but not all of it was his. His stance was straight. His eyes were empty and lifeless, completely dead. John felt a rush of relief for a split second before confusion hit him so hard it nearly choked him.
"Y you…" he stuttered.
And just as he opened his mouth to speak, agony erupted in his chest, hot and final. The boy's sword had found its mark. John gazed down, then back up, and this time the boy's face was different. A small, cold smile played on his lips, it was a mocking smile. As John's sight faded, the last thing he comprehended was that the weakest being in the fortress had never been the nameless slave, it was himself.
———
Lord Damian disliked the sound of horns in general. They were crude instruments, too loud, too barbaric, made for raising a panic, not for creating order. Now they blew incessantly throughout the fortress, their calls overlapping into an agonizing noise that grated on his nerves.
"Enough of that nonsense," he snapped, pacing the length of the command chamber. "I can hear them well enough."
The room was heavy with tension, the maps scattered across the table, weighed down by goblets and daggers. A servant stood frozen in the doorway, shaking, and Lord Damian gave him a look that could slice meat.
"Out," he said coldly.
The servant ran and Sir Pants drew closer, bowing low, his posture perfect despite the turmoil raging outside the walls.
"My lord," he said obediently, "the scouts have confirmed it. The enemy strength is… much greater than anticipated."
"Anticipated by whom?" Damian sneered. "Incompetent shits who think war comes with a courtesy call?"
He ceased pacing and leaned over the table, his hands planted on the wood. "This fortress has stood for centuries," he went on. "Stone like this doesn't just fall apart because a mob knocks on its doors."
Outside, another horn blasted, then the shouting, and Damian's face clenched as if he could bite the sound back into silence. Sir Pants picked his words with care.
"And yet…" Sir Pants said delicately, "they are moving ahead of schedule."
Damian straightened, adjusting the sleeves of his elegant coat as if for a ball rather than a siege. "Then we weaken them first," he said. "with various methods such as slaves, the outer perimeter, and delaying tactics."
Sir Pants nodded promptly. "Of course, my lord. A sound application of disposable assets."
Damian's mouth twisted slightly into a smirk. He liked that word choice. Disposable.
"Where is the garrison captain?" Damian growled.
"Rallying the troops, my lord," Sir Pants said. "Though morale is a bit… iffy."
"Morale is an indulgence," Damian said bluntly. "Victory isn't won on sentiment and emotion."
A distant vibration shook the floor, and a trickle of dust fell from the ceiling, and Damian's gaze darted up for an instant before he controlled his expression to go back to calm.
"Prepare the inner defenses," he commanded. "Seal the western corridor. If the outer wall falls, we fall back t-"
Another shout rang out from outside, this time closer, and Sir Pants hesitated just an instant, as if weighing the best way to phrase a warning in a room full of blades.
"My lord," he whispered, "if the worst should happen… perhaps plans should be made."
Damian turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Plans?" he repeated. "You think I should run?"
"N-No," Sir Pants said hastily. "Only that-"
"This is my fortress," Damian cut in. " My lands and my name."
He leaned in close, his voice low and deadly. "I will not be remembered as a lord who ran."
Sir Pants swallowed hard and nodded vigorously. "Of course, my lord. Of course."
Damian took a sharp breath and turned back to the table. "Take charge of the front," he said. "Stabilize the lines. Show the men that order still exists."
Sir Pants' face lit up instantly, from the glory and the chance this had gotten him.
"At once," he said, bowing deeply. "I will not fail you."
"I expect that you won't," Damian said curtly. "You have much to lose."
Sir Pants straightened, adjusted his armor, and strode towards the chamber doors. As they swung shut behind him, Lord Damian stood alone, lighting a cigarette in his mouth, and the horns blared on. For the first time since taking over the fortress, he wondered if stone and honor would be enough.
———
Sir Pants hurried down the command corridor, the steps of his polished boots echoing off the cold stone. He kept his head held high, bending slightly to nod at officers, at servants, forcing a smile where necessary, because in a place like this, survival was not merely a matter of strength, but of knowing whom to placate and when. Every face reminded him that he had been selected, trusted, promoted, above the rest of the wretched soldiers who stumbled about in the mire of chaos. A young lieutenant approached him, his voice trembling with fear.
"The front lines are... unstable," the lieutenant stammered.
Sir Pants' lips curled slightly. "Unstable?" he repeated, his voice full of mock concern. "You mean disorderly, yes? That is why we are here. To impose order."
The lieutenant swallowed hard and nodded hastily. Sir Pants tightened his belt and let his gaze wander over the courtyard below, the only thing that he saw clearly was that chaos and mayhem reigned supreme, smoke also rose from the broken wooden barricades, and men ran about in all directions. A scream echoed off the stones in one area, and Sir Pants let out a soft sigh, damn amateurs. A sergeant drew closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as if the walls themselves might be listening.
"Reports from the outer wall," the sergeant muttered, casting a nervous glance at him. "Some say... there's that lad. The one with the... peculiar face."
Sir Pants raised an eyebrow. "Peculiar face?" he repeated. "Tell me more."
"Well… you know… the scars, the missing eye… some of the men claim they saw him out there… moving among the chaos."
Sir Pants pursed his lips. Heh, moving among the chaos… as if he had any place here. He let the matter drop with a dismissive gesture, because it sounded ridiculous, but the whispers had been enough to prick his curiosity.
He leaned over the wall, scanning the battlefield below, taking in the screams, the many clashes of steel, the smell of smoke and blood, the pure and unrelenting mess of war. Then he saw him.
Three enemy bodies lay at his feet. The nameless slave boy stood among them, still, silent, and covered in blood from his head to his feet. The wind stirred his hair and the soldiers nearest to Sir Pants whispered nervously, unsure if they should approach or turn away. Sir Pants stepped forward, voice careful.
"What… what happened here?"
Nobody answered, and he scanned the area around the boy, no other bodies, no fleeing enemies, only the three at his feet. His stomach twisted. He looked again and the boy was gone, where he had stood, there remained only the three enemy soldiers. Sir Pants' fingers clenched around the cold stone edge of the wall, because the rumor, the odd whisper of a strange slave, now carried weight he could not ignore. He is not like the others… he is something else entirely.
———
Lord Damian was alone in the command chamber once more, a thin line of smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. The sounds of the horns had not ceased. They blended into each other endlessly, a sound that grated against his brain, and each one brought with it a rush of panic, of failure, of collapse. He breathed slowly, willing the calm, because stone would endure, as it always had. The fortress had weathered wars through the years, and it would weather this one too. Men could be replaced. Walls could not.
"Somebody give me a report," he commanded the empty room, but no one replied.
Another vibration rippled through the floor, and dust rained down. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and turned, and then a voice spoke up from behind him, the voice was, toneless, dead, yet also too close.
"Hello there, lord."
Damian's blood turned to cold as he turned slowly, and the nameless slave boy stood there in the torchlit shadows near the door, blood smeared on him like a second skin. One eye was empty. The other was dull and unreadable. For a long moment, Damian just stared at the sight of him.
"…You shouldn't be here," he said.
The boy didn't react. Damian straightened his posture, his spine stiffening with pride even as his heart started racing.
"Did you think the mayhem outside made you bold?" he sneered. "Or just stupid?"
The boy took another step forward, then another, and his voice was still flat and empty of triumph.
"Everyone is dying out there," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you felt a fraction of it."
A scream reverberated through the walls, closer than before, and Damian flinched, then covered it with a sneer. "You think you've won something?" he snapped. "You're nothing. Even now. You will die here like the rest."
The boy raised the bow he was holding, and for the first time, Damian felt it, the fear that didn't care about titles or walls.
"No wait!" Damian said sharply. "You don't understand. I can still-"
"Fix this?" the boy interrupted, his voice still flat and empty of triumph.
The arrow struck, it wasn't a deadly shot, instead it was deliberate, and pain lanced through him as he fell gasping, hands flailing at the floor. His fine coat was now soaked with blood. The cigarette dropped from his fingers and rolled softly against the stone.
"You..!!" he gagged. "You stupid little..!"
Something came loose from his coat with a clink and slid across the floor until it stopped near the boy's foot… A key? Damian's eyes widened and panic burst through him in full force.
"No!" he whispered.
He tried to reach for it, and the boy stomped on his hand until he heard the bones snap. The boy knelt down and picked up the key, examining it in the light.
"What's this for?" he asked.
"A vault," Damian lied on the spot. "Just ledgers and war records, it's worthless to you!"
The boy didn't say anything. His eyes wandered past Damian to the wall, to the plain unadorned door that seemed out of place, and his breathing slowed as if he could hear something Damian couldn't. He walked to it, unlocked it, and inside waited a single lever. The silence in the room was the kind that makes a man realize he is about to be wiped out. Damian felt it then, true terror.
"No..!" he croaked. "Please... that's not... you don't understand what that is!"
The boy stood there, staring at it, then at Damian. "What is it then?" he asked.
"It's a last resort," Damian said desperately. "A deterrent! A weapon meant to never be used."
The boy's fingers touched the handle, and Damian's voice broke into pleading. "If you pull that, everything dies and that most certainly includes you too!!"
The boy turned to him. "For once," he whispered, "that's fair." He said as he pulled the lever.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
In that moment, a blinding white light engulfed the windows and sound disappeared, it didn't explode, it simply disappeared, and silence crushed in like a weight. The nameless slave boy stood there, with his heart racing, he felt suddenly uncertain, and the doubt crept in too late. He walked to the window, and outside, the sky was gone. Instead, a massive column of fire and smoke towered into the air, a mushroom cloud so large and rapidly that it felt like it could swallow the world he knew.
He looked down, and Lord Damian lay motionless, his throat slit open. The boy stood there, staring at him for a long moment, then he noticed the cigarette lying next to Damian's body, still smoldering. He picked it up, and held it awkwardly, as he studied it, then brought it to his lips. He took a drag and coughed violently once, then twice, then again, slower every time, and smoke seared his lungs. He exhaled, watching the gray smoke flow.
"…So that's why," he whispered gently.
He took another drag, longer this time, before smiling softly.
"I quite like it," he said quietly, to no one in particular.
Heat flooded in and the sound came back in a large boom, as flames engulfed the room. The boy didn't move, rather he felt a sense of relief. As his body turned to ash, something opened behind him, a silent tear in space and time, and his soul was ripped loose and pulled into it. The fortress disappeared. His pain was over. And the nameless slave boy did not die in fear. The boy who had lived a life of torture and suffering left it quietly rather than screaming.