It took a while for the next group to come out. About three weeks, closer to a month. And by now we’d spent two months waiting outside the cave. Our camp growing that much bigger and the hope for counter attack getting that much smaller. We had all kinds of men doing all kinds of work. Some could say it was a pampered two weeks, with the rations Xanthus sent us. Food and errand boys to wash clothes. Cooks and weaponsmiths. Even prostitutes for the men. It was an easy month to spend waiting for Duvall at the cave.

I was cutting a block of wood. Well rested, well fed, uneasy still. More uneasy by the fact that I felt good for once. That I was sat at the base of a tree with a block of wood, shaving it into a small horse. Kal lazying about, sleeping under the shade of his sword. Obrick a bit off, by the tents, tending to his weapons and keeping stock. We all kept busy somehow. Waiting was half of war - Sylas told me that a while ago - and I was beginning to believe him.

Uneasy waiting. A constant questioning of how things would turn out, what closure could be gained? It was guaranteed that we would win but that didn’t fix much of anything.

Just last week we finishing burying the final bodies. Some were wrapped in a thin fabric, a film growing yellow with each breeze of sandy air. They were to be sent to the far corners of Xyra, with no expectation that any of them would even survive the travel. Vincent decided it was best to try at least though. The air would mummify them! So much salt in the environment, they could make the trip. Be jerky by the end, but make it!

I never bought of it. Never thought for one minute that any of us would get a good grave. I just saw the dead Crows off. Wooden boxes with the film wrapper jutting out from their coffins, the Crow insignia etched onto the box. No varnish. No smoothed surface to the boxes themselves. They were cut from the oak trees around the cliff side, fresh as anything could be. And so they were without history. Without character. Manufactured boxes for this manufactured war. A king pining for dirt without the knowledge of what to do with it.

It made my heart heavier, each wave of boxes that went down the path.

The morning before the final exodus of Duvall’s army, I paid Edwin a visit.

Concern mostly, a little bit of thankfulness too. Thankfulness that he was still alive. I came into his tent. Lowell sat by the bedside with a trimmed apple naked and going brown. He was partway to taking a slice before he saw me. Lowell looked down. Eyed me, looked away again.

I hesitated to walk in. The nurses and doctors set a barrier curtain in the section of the tent. It seemed private enough with the low-light lantern and the quietness of the partition. But I could not take a step. A vampire uninvited, a ghost without capacity to haunt. I lingered by the door front with my rounded shoulders, a white tunic like an apparition. Monster be gone, ye.

“You can come in.” Edwin said.

Lowell looked to his older brother. He parted his lips and sucked them back in.

“It’s alright.” Edwin sat up.

“If he’s staying, I’m leaving.” Lowell said.

Edwin rolled his eyes.

“Then leave.”

Lowell sniffed. He set his apple down, hard enough for the bottom to smash against the wooden tray and set the rolling table to the side. He walked up and lowered his head and cut in between me and the flaps, his shoulder bumping into my body. I did not stop him, did not look back.

“He still blames you.” Edwin said.

“I figured.” I closed the flaps and stood up next to his bedding. My eyes keen on the space empty at the bottom of the bed. It was the strange feeling of confusion and sadness, that something you were always familiar with was now gone. In more ways than one.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Like shit. What do you mean how are you feeling?”

“I thought you’d get better after a week or two.” I said. “You’re eating at least, right?”

“Yeah. I’m eating.” He said. “Sleeping. Shitting. Doing all the stuff I used to do, doing it harder though.”

He stood tall against his bed frame, which was little more than a crate wall.

I took Lowell’s seat. It was sweaty, his indent was still leaving warmth. Had he slept in it?

“I should have been faster.” I looked up, arms crossed. “Could have stabbed him in the throat. Could have gotten his arm, anything would have stopped him.”

Edwin raised his palm and waved me off.

“Oh fuck off with this self-pity.” He said. “Yeah, yeah. We all could have been any such way, but we weren’t. And now we’re here.”

“I could have saved your leg.”

“Maybe. Maybe I could have saved my own leg.” He said. “Maybe I could have died too. Tons of ways this could have been worse or better. Who’s to say we would have gotten one over the other?”

“I don’t know. But I still can’t shake what could have been.”

“Of course you can’t. You’re always over thinking.” He smiled. “You should have been a scholar.”

“I hate sitting still.” I said.

“Same.”

Shadows roamed from beneath the tent canvas. They left the hint of iron and dust from their trails, scents that permeated the air. The musk of blood.

“What now?” I asked.

Edwin looked away, towards a corner in the tent. One with nothing in particular, but with an observant look on his face as if he was looking at microscopic derivatives in the atmosphere. Lesser building blocks of the lesser people we were. Smallest microcosm of smaller-greater microcosm.

“I wanted to roam Xyra. See what stories I could make of the strange lands. Westward, northward. Wherever remote mysteries could take me.” He narrowed his eyes, honing them. I’d seen that look before; on Vincent. “I will do just that. I’m leaving the Crow’s.”

“Without a leg?”

“Chet can get by with a wheelchair. I can jury rig something.” He said.

“And for self defense?”

“Bows don’t need feet to fire.” He said.

“And your brother?”

He paused, tucked his lips inside his mouth and breathed out a heavy sigh.

“Did you know you were first one he told about that girl he’s pining over?” Edwin smiled. “You were the first one to notice. The first one he spoke to about. You were always his first choice for advice.”

“Not anymore.” I said.

“This child contempt of his won’t last. It’s a tantrum. He’ll come to understand the circumstances of life and war, I’m sure of it. And when he does, he’ll be asking for your advice again. For your friendship.” He said. “Truth is, he respects you more than me. That’s why he’s so angry at you.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Oh. Oh my seven hells.” Edwin rolled his eyes. “Fuck off with that already.”

I looked down at the floor, chuckled and then jolted up. Laughter escaped me like steam from a loose pressure valve. Something hot, something that had needed to come out for a while.

“He’ll be fine. He was the one who wanted to be a Crow. He loves this, no matter how horrible it is. This is his home. But not mine.” He said. “No. It was never mine, not fully. Not a fault of any of you. I like Kal, Obrick, Sylas even.”

“What about me?” I asked.

He looked down at his missing leg and smiled.

“Your reputation is a little mired. But you’re okay.” He said. “But I can’t do this. Fighting for Xanthus. Vincent’s ambition. It’s not for me. I just want to write my stories, live my small dream. I have no need for anything more.”

“Small dream, huh.” I said. “I guess I can’t keep you. Not that I don’t blame you. Would you allow me to buy you a horse at least? A company severance package of sorts.”

“You’ll be on my good side soon enough if you keep it up.” He reached over to the top of metal tray. To the smashed apple, browning over. I grabbed it for him, giving him the small knife to take chunks from. He turned it over and started partitioning, chewing slowly. The sound of mush from the mealy flesh slopping about his mouth.

“What’s your dream, Virgil?” He asked.

I woke up. Snapped stiff.

“To secure Vincent’s dream.”

“Is that really a dream though?” He asked.

“Do people need dreams?” I asked.

“Big or small, we all dream of something. The next meal. A family. A house. A glass of water. How else do we animate ourselves?”

“Then being Vincent’s sword should count, no?”

“I guess.” He looked away. “If you’re okay with it, I guess it does count. I never was. I guess that was my problem. I mean the crazy man wants his empire back. Talk about a dream.”

“He’s not that crazy.” I said

“If you say so.”

We remained in silence. My arms crossed and about my chest. I bit my lips and tapped my fokot and listened to the sound of foot soldiers beyond the hospital beds. Every so often, a groan or squeak managing to infiltrate my concentration, to remind me of what was lost and sacrificed. I remained that way all day. Far after I left Edwin’s side. Far into my dinner and my practice. With the sounds of Sylas’ coaching and Obrick’s taunting sort of muffled like voices underwater. The day going by in blurs of stretched film, the memory slipping past into subconscious but never dedicated to anymore than that dark underbelly of ego.

It was into dinner when they emerged from the cave. The last. I assumed it was the smell of food that did them in, finally killing trepidation and forcing them through urgency out the front of the tunnel. Crazed men who slipped out one after another. The guards struggling to detain them and finally doing so with a knee to the back of the neck. Five of them were gathered like this. All of us ran for the mouth of the cave and watched. Husks and skeletons emerged from that cave, pale men with white-bone flesh. Drained to ivory, veins blue and translucent through the thin layer. They held swords in their hands but dropped them. Too emaciated, too frail that the quick breeze seemed to push them to the side and harass them. They crawled out on their knees. Some took a few steps to run and collapsed.

“By the gods.” Kal said. “These aren’t men anymore.”

Obrick grabbed a Crow and shook him.

“Get the doctors immediately.” He said.

“Why?” I stepped up to a boulder, a height above them all. “They don’t deserve it.”

“Are you looking at what I’m looking at?” Obrick asked.

“Yeah.” I said. “I see dozens of Crows dead. I see coffins. I see dismembered men. And I see the men who did that.”

“Oh, you petty man.” Obrick shook the the young Crow to his side. “Hurry up and go.”

The Crow looked to me. I rolled my eyes and nodded. He ran out and into the dark screaming doctor, doctor, doctor.

I crossed my arms and observed the enemy as they sprawled out from that dark womb. Nothing but hopelessness in their eyes. Pitch black, a black hole expanding through them. Not even the stars could escape that all encompassing despair.

“The rats are out of their hiding.” I said.

Vincent looked at them.

“That’s right.” He said. “Duvall isn’t here though. This is the last of his men, I’m sure of it.”

“Or at least close to the last of them.” I said. “I can’t imagine what he’d have left.”

“Twenty? Fifteen? Can’t be anymore than that.” Vincent said. “Could lift these carts and have them out by tonight.”

“But why?” I asked.

Vincent turned and watched me. A top the boulder at the mouth of the cave, we stood above the campfires. An expansive of bright lights across the canyon floor. Small reflection of the skies above.

“You don’t want to end this war?” He asked.

“Xanthus gave us an extension. I’m asking why we should even risk ourselves. Let’s starve them. One more week.” I said. “Have them completely drained.”

“Didn’t you hear me? There can’t be more than twenty left.” Vincent said.

“And those twenty aren’t worth a single crow.” I said. “Let them starve and suffer. Let them come out begging for quick death.”

He grabbed me by the shoulders and walked me down the boulders. Behind us the crows were wrangling the starved men into groups, herding them into wooden posts to be chained against. They filled up quickly.

“This is bordering sadism now.” He said.

“It’s good strategy.” I said. “Why should we have another man lose his legs and arms and life. None of us want it anymore. None of us.”

“You’re asking me to continue this war for another week?”

“What war?” I asked. “I’m asking you to be patient. Why rush anything? I understand that you want to show your success to Xanthus as fast as possible-”

Vincent fidgeted in place. He looked away and rolled his tongue inside his mouth. I grabbed him, both hands on both of his shoulders and stood him stiff.

“Listen. Friend. I can not allow another crow to die. I can not allow another crow to lose himself. I simply can’t.” I said. “Let’s wait a week. Let’s make sure they have nothing left and I will personally lead the charge inside the cave.”

“I wonder what motivates you; strategy, guilt, or revenge.”

“It’s a little bit of all of them.” I said. “Like most things with war.”

“One week.” He raised his finger. “That’s it. And you’re leading. And you’re capturing or killing Duvall.”

“With pleasure.” I said. “With pleasure…”