body it came from no one knew properly. The largest tent, set in the very heart of the camp, flapped lightly in the evening breeze, and the flags upon their standards waved lazily as a younger Wayra entered the tent.
“General?” Wayra had asked at the door.
“Yes?” came the curt reply of General Jorkinton, not bothering to look up from his maps.
Wayra stepped up to the table and winced at the object of the general’s study. The army was camped on the fringes of King Warmich’s land, a region called Nororitnaia. While the valley seemed fertile enough, the company was running low on supplies and men were in fear of starving. To provide for his army, Jorkinton had ordered raids along the villages within Warmich’s domain. The men stole everything, from food and basic supplies, to animals and women. Any man from the villages who decided to fight was put to the sword.
"General Jorkinton," he said. "My name is Wayra, son of Djarf.”
“I know who you are lad,” the general replied, looking up for only a moment. "You have a fine reputation and I am told that the men know and respect you. I'm honored to have men like you in my ranks."
"Thank you," Wayra offered, "but I must request a pardon."
The general’s eyes slowly roes to meet Wayra’s. The commander leaned forward, hands upon the map, and asked"What have you done?"
"I have followed every order given," Wayra said, "but now I wish to be pardoned from further service."
Jorkintonchuckled and stood straight. "On what grounds?" he demanded.
"I will not kill another innocent soul," Wayra stood firmly.
The chuckling stopped and the general looked down at his soldier with a serious expression. "You cannot think it is so easy," Jorkintondeclared. “You are bound to service, or face the deserter’s fate.”
“I am a killer,” Wayra professed, “but not a murderer.”
“This is war!” Jorkinton bellowed. “Did you come to save your people, or did you come to allow Warmich to continue killing your brothers and raping you sisters, wives, daughters?”
"And yet we are doing the very same thing to the innocents which inhabit the outlying villages," Wayra argued. “We kill men who are not our enemy. We steal their food, their livestock, and then make off with their women. We have a store of them in pleasure tents all over the camp!”
Jorkinton stared at the fighter, wordless and impassive.
“It is wrong,” Wayra declared firmly.
“War is not won by the faint of heart,” the general proclaimed.
“Nor should it be waged by cowards,” Wayra snapped. “I will not put another man to the sword if I can help it.”
“I fear you do not know what you are saying, my friend,” Jorkinton replied, lifting a cup from the table and taking a short pull. “We are civilized people, who do not deserve to be compared to the savages of Warmich’s land.”
“They are no better or worse than us,” Wayra defended. “I will not murder another.”
“There is no murder in war,” the general professed.
“There is no honor in killing women, children, and old men,” the soldier replied heatedly.
The general tipped his head back suddenly and laughed aloud. “No doubt you are phased by the hardships of the battle. We all are.” Jorkinton donned a fatherly presence and stepped around the table. “I will keep in mind all of the great things you have done, all of your wondrous feats, and forget that this conversation ever happened. I recommend that you do the same, Wayra, son of Djarf. Let us no more speak of leaving or pardons. No one is ever pardoned from my army, and a deserter would be seen as no better than Warrick himself.” The two stood for a moment and considered each other, Jorkinton smiling at his warrior while a darkness descended over the countenance of Wayra. “Return to your tent, and prepare for a long day tomorrow.
“Goodbye, General,” Wayra said with a nod of his head.
“Goodbye, Wayra,” he replied with a shrewd look.
Wayra stepped out of the tent, and disappeared into the night.
The next five years passed, and Wayra became a ghost. He was a legend whispered around the fires, set up as more than a man and not quite a god. One tale led to another, and soon Wayra himself would not have recognized the man in the stories. In truth, he spent most of his days cold, alone, and constantly watching over his shoulder. He was more like a beast than a man, living off the land and avoiding the villages and towns of men.
And now here he was, risking it all.
Wayra woke early, rising from bed and strapping on his swords to a faint glow from the door. He entered the tavern to find it nearly deserted. There were a few men passed out under tables, and a pair of Smoks sitting against the main door post. Wayra mistook these two for sleeping drunkards as well until one of them spoke.
“So the prince rises,” mocked one. “Are you ready?”
Wayra snorted his displeasure at the two ragged men. “Only two?” he grumbled.
“No no no, your majesty,” the second one sang. “The other two are right outside.” He bowed low and pushed the door open. Wayra took a step and peered outside. “True,” the man giggled, “they’ve had better days.”
Wayra stepped into the frozen morning air and sighed in frustration. Crumpled in a bank of snow was the little thief who was slain by Cy, and Wayra’s own challenger from last night. The men were a mixture of blue and purple and red, topped with fresh snow. Their eyes were grey and sunken, much like the rest of their faces, and their lips were contorted in a petrified wail.
“I didn’t know the little bastard there,” said the first Smok, “but the man you killed there was a hell of a fighter.”
“You better pray that you’re better,” Wayra advised, tightening his coat against the cold, “else you’ll end up just like him.”
The second Smok stepped close and squared off with Wayra, pushing a short blast of air out of his nose. “You can take them for all I care,” he informed Wayra. “I’m in no mood to die for you, deserter.”
Wayra looked him up and down calmly. “And for a pile of gold?” he asked quietly. “Will you stick your neck out for that?”
“Aye,” the man answered without emotion. “But don’t expect me to waste my time watching over you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wayra replied. “Though,” he said, “I would like to know what I shall call you.”
“Randal,” said the first, “and this is Tym,” he added with a nod to the man before Wayra.
“Nice to meet you two,” Wayra said politely. “I hope to be surprised when I see you gentlemen fight. Try to remember who you are supposed to stick with the pointy end,” he said, walking to the stables.
The three men rode for an hour through the white forests and fields in perfect silence. Wayra found the peace of the ride comforting, though he could not but help keep an eye over his shoulder.
The group entered a short valley heavily laden with trees. Wayra drew back on the rains and called, “Hold.” His two companions reigned in and looked around. “We set the ambush here,” Wayra ordered. “Tym, you’re in the bushes over there. Randal, you’re with me on the opposite ridge.” The Smoks exchanged a glance, then headed to their positions.
The sun was steadily climbing into the clear blue sky, though it provided little relief to the trio of freezing men. The horses had been tied off up the road, and the men held their positions, waiting for their caravan to arrive. Wayra and Randal sat close to one another, concealing themselves in a wide stand of low evergreens, while Tym held his place across the road.
Randal looked up and squinted into the air, watching the sun crest them overhead. “They’re not coming,” he decided quietly.
“They’ll come,” Wayra said, diligently watching the road.
“In this cold?” Randal complained. “My balls are frozen to m’leg and I can’t feel my feet for nothing. The sun is over the point of no return. They’re not coming," he said confidently.
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Wayra peered up the road and strained his ears.
“But I don’t think that bothers you none, now does it?” Randal grumbled. “My comfort is none of your concern, but how about your own then?”
“Will you shut up?” Wayra hissed.
“Come on now,” Randal pressed. “How’re your balls, Wayra?”
Wayra shushed him and asked, “You hear that?”
The men fell into silence as the sound of horses drifted through the trees. Wayra stepped gingerly to the edge of the road and got low. The two Smoks watched him suspiciously, loosening their swords in their scabbards. Wayra placed a bare hand against the frozen ground and gave Randal an intense look.
“Get the horses,” he said.
“Is it them?” Randal asked.
“Go,” Wayra snapped back, flagging the men back. “Get the horses!” His voice was low and intense, but the Smoks only stood by and stared.
“Who is it?” Tym called out.
Wayra slunk back under cover as a team of riders rounded the corner and came into view. “There!” a rider cried loudly, pointing at Randal. “The very men we seek!”
Wayra slipped up the road behind the cover bushes as the Randal turned and ran into the wood.
“Here!” one of the riders announced. Wayra turned to see Tym standing his ground in the road, brandishing a great sword in both hands. He swung once, injuring a horse and causing the rider to fall before he was run down by another rider.
Wayra turned from the scene and picked up speed. The surroundings slipped past him in a blur of