They only noticed their absence past dawn. Crows pecked and gnawed at the freshly rotting bodies past the other side of the long moat. Men grey with death after a few days now showed signs of bloating, along with the gut spilling stench that came with the low buzzing of corpse flies. Their glassy eyes stared back at Edus, questioning and condemning him. Why? Why did he yet live and they die in his place? He retched in answer to their festering hate, acidic bile burning his throat.

They stepped over the field of corpses, more tabards of dark bloodied blue and amber than the crimson heraldry of Raul. How many sons, fathers, brothers died that day and before? Whole generations wiped out, future families ended with their lost forefathers. They reached the Middenfort’s gates with no resistance, trudging in a wary shield wall.

“What are your thoughts, Revus?” Landon asked Grizwald.

“The fort is deserted, Sigmarius,” said the grizzled captain. “My men can climb the walls with one of the ladders and open the gates from the other side. If there are still soldiers in the fort, you risk but one squad.”

“Brave as you may be, I will not risk you and your lot. You are my personal guard, Revus. And you will act as such without going out in a blaze of glory, such as your reckless abandon at the Crossroads.”

Grizwald gave Landon one of his deadpan stares, “As is your will, Sigmarius.”

“Will be damned, you’re here to guard your Sigmarius and be the backbone of this battalion should I fall,” Landon said grimly. “Squads by first odd numbers until nine, climb the walls and open the gates!”

Several squads scuttled behind the safety of their raised shields and carried the fallen ladders that had left their imprint on the tall wet grass, placing them upon the lichen encrusted grey stone. The rest of the men stood or knelt behind the shield wall uneasily in wait, only their breaths greeting the silence.

It was not long before the gates opened, oaken doors standing ten feet high. The fort was never meant to keep out the natives. It was made to keep out men. They entered squad by squad, Edus being one of the last to pass the battlements. The fort was built into a hamlet of sorts, two storied stoned buildings the same as the Oxenfort that set up a squared courtyard of dark earth and a solitary cobbled well. A bloated hand peeked out from the circled stone, and Landon walked towards it, Edus and his squad behind. A rank smell flooded the air, the well its fetid heart.

“So that is where all the bodies went,” Landon murmured when he stared into its depths, his expression hidden behind his makeshift grey bandanna. Edus and his squad gathered round the well. It was filled with the fallen garrison, bodies recognizable in allegiance only by their black stained blue tabards.

Edus tried again to retch, but he only spat out soured phlegm.

“Grizwald,” Landon said. “Direct the others to pull out these men and give them a proper burial. See to it that they all wear their leather gloves. None of you or your squad is allowed to handle them. I want all of them out. All of them. Noone is to use the well after it is done.”

“Sigmarius,” Sven saluted. “If I may, would you allow me to recover the body of my brother?”

Landon nodded. “The rest of you, see to this man.”

With that he strode off to speak with the other officers.

“They must have left in the dark of night,” Corro muttered. He did not say out loud what lingered in their minds; all these men dead, Edgard and Saul, for what purpose?

Nothing but pawns for the mageborn, Edus thought with dark anger. Where were they; when men sacrificed themselves whilst they stayed in their castles, knowing they hold the higher power.

The field was vast, leagues of sloping grass within the moat line. And strewn throughout were the broken husks of men grey with decay. Saul had died, no, been killed just two days past. To tell him apart meant to look at each dead man’s face. To turn him over and gaze back, close his eyes forevermore and ignore the maggots fattened by their rotting flesh.

Edus wondered how the flies and crows could appear so suddenly in such numbers. Did they sense the bodies from miles away, foretelling that death had come and given them a feast in their honor? Or had they been waiting, lurking in the air just before, knowing the frailty of man’s own nature? That one strike could inflict such pain and inevitable death. Soft flesh that was so weak and so easily broken.

Mikaal was the one who found Saul. He was surrounded by the soldiers he had killed. They looked the same. No signs of evil nature in each of their grey lifeless faces. Death had a way of treating all men equal. You were feasted on just the same, as a Sigmarius of Raul proved, recognizable by his winged helmet, bloated putrid face pressed past the opening of his helm. All rank, all lineage meant nothing in the face of the ultimate end.

Sven stood over the body of his brother. He was swollen and pale as the maggots that crawled out from his cheek. Sven knelt down to close his eyes forevermore.

“You won’t wander the void, Saul,” he said. “You’re in the holy lands now. The divine. Do you hear me?” Sven looked skyward, tears falling and dropping onto the grass to mix with the morning dew. “You always were the devout one. Now it’s my turn to keep your peace.”

They carried Saul. Corro, Mikaal, and Sven supported his great weight from their shoulders, Edus and Fredric opposite.

“Where do you suppose we should bury him?” Corro asked, voice low.

“I haven’t a fecking clue,” Sven confessed. “Anywhere that’s ways from here. I suppose where Edgard was buried, or else Saul will still be fighting those cunts in the next life.”

Edgard’s grave was half a league away. They trudged on, past the moat of ashes and into the neverending grassland. The Heartlands, where Saul had been born and had died, as had Edgard. So they would be buried together, comrades in battle. At least buried several feet apart from the others that had died in the battle of the Middenfort siege. The march back to camp was slow and arduous, though they pressed on with solemn resolve.

They took care to not dig too close to the other graves, for they were unmarked save for the sign of freshly upturned earth drowning the grass.

When it was all over Sven whispered, “We should have listened to father, Saul.” He laughed bitterly. “What fools we were, eh? Nothing but damned fools.”

Sven unshouldered his pack to take out his wooden flute. The craftsmanship was now far from its shoddy quality before they had enlisted, and his long practiced tune of A Soldier’s March trilled high and true. He let the notes continue, long and echoing past the rustle of the swaying tall grass. The song took on its own character, away from its faster light hearted original. Edus was the first to sing, and the others joined with the slower cadence of Sven’s melody.

I am a wayfaring soldier

Far from home, far from home

I fight for the Empire

I march not alone

My brothers march beside me

The northern star to guide me

I am a wayfaring soldier

Far from home, far from home

And as we march, to face our foe

We’ll chant a soldier’s song

I fear no evil, fear no danger

My armor is of honor, my shield is of hope

And I wield my sword with valor

For others fight beside me

My brothers march beside me

I am a wayfaring soldier

Far from home, far from home

I fight for the Empire

I march not alone

When it was done Sven said, “I think I’ll play a little while longer. You can head on without me, lads.”

They made their way back to the fort. Even Corro did not muster a word to break away the silence. Other squads carried their fallen to be buried away from the field of battle, so that they too would find some peace in the next life. As for the men of Raul; they were stripped of their arms and armor and pushed into a great pit not far from the fort to be covered in pitch and burned.

There was no speech given to them, no quarter after their deaths. Only fire, and the rotten acrid smoke which soon followed.