“Dovar, wake up. This is important.” His hand reaches down and shakes me by my shoulder.

“Khh… urrhhhh…” I try to move my mouth and get a sound out, but all I can muster is a discontented groan. “Hands off me, man…” There.

Suddenly, I feel it in my throat, my stomach. I open my eyes, and, a blaze, flares, beams of light absolutely murder my head. Queasiness overtakes me, and my eyes lull backwards. I roll to my right and hurl off of the side of my cot. The stench is putrid, booze mixed with stomach acid and half-digested lamb. The feeling is acidic, a burning sensation flaring through my throat. I puke again, and again, until my stomach’s cramping and I can no longer muster anything to expel from my bloated corpse. This is the body of a dead man, certainly. A smell like that and a sensation like this couldn’t come from anything else.

Cold! COLD! WET!

Asshole poured cold water down my face!

“Wake the fuck up, Dovar!” He grabs my shirt and yanks me upright. “This is your penitence for your debauchery last night! Clean up and grab your blade and armor—hastily. The damned knife-ears are here.” With that, I stagger to my feet. Elves, huh? I’ll show them what humans are really made of. I stumble, and collapse on the floor, but after a few seconds, clamber to my feet again. “Knew I should have confiscated the damn booze from you wretches last night. Damn it. Hurry up, we’ve a fight ahead.”

“Of course, Officer Shitdick, I’ll get right on—” As I form the words in my mouth, they’re interrupted by one final spew of horrible, deathly vomit. Squarely onto the floor.

“This isn’t a drill, Dovar. I’ll meet you outside, if your pathetic ass can muster the energy required to take six steps.” He turns and steps through the flaps of the tent.

I rush to strap on my leather armor, and grab an axe from the rack. No swords left, and I’m not going to debase myself by using a spear. What am I, a common foot soldier? I look at my feet. Maybe I am. A vomit-covered feet-soldier.

I push through the flaps and see a haunting scene before me. Elves and humans striking at one another with blades, arrows raining down from the skies, a blaze consuming the center of the camp. Shit. This is it. This is how I die. I’ll take a few with me, then.

“Dovar! Here!” Officer Shaddick, or, as I called him, Shitdick, is pinned down by two of the elves. He seems to be holding his own, but I could certainly help. More, were I sober.

I adjust the axe handle in my hand, and look at my target. One of the elves pulls back his arm and prepares to strike. Too slow. With a quick cleave, his right hand falls to the ground with a rough thud, and the blade dislodges itself from the now lifeless fingers which once gripped it. The other elf turns to me, and Shaddick smashes in its face with a bash of his shield, then thrusts his sword into the elf’s gut.

“Took you long enough. Let’s go.” I feel my stomach stir once more as I step forward again, and spill my guts on the ground. Only now does the stench of the corpses in our camp which has quickly become a mass grave reach my nose. A stinging, metal scent, mixed with the puke that’s dressing my loosely strapped armor. Pungent.

“Dovar, keep your fucking head up and move. More knife-ears incomi—” An arrow hits him squarely in the chest, and he staggers back. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, sh—I barely dodge another arrow that whizzes by my head. The arrow hits a post with a loud thunk. As I turn to look at Shaddick, I see blood beginning to pool around him already. He tries to speak up, say something, but all that comes out is that spittle, red droplets, and the horrible sound of a death rattle. Exasperated breathing. Shit.

Another arrow, this time it grazes my shoulder, draws blood. Fuck. I duck and roll out to my left, holding my axe in front of my face in case a stray shot manages to lock on, and throw myself behind any cover I can find. An overturned, wooden table.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Another thunk. Like clockwork, the arrows keep thudding against the top of the table, while I sit with my back up against it. The arrow that grazed my shoulder must have been poisoned, because the wound is foaming up slightly, and my head feels a bit woozy. It’s not the hangover, though. No, the blood isn’t slowing any, either. These fucking elves are using poison arrows. Inhuman.

Screams, all around me. All I can think of is nursing my own damn wound. Gods, if only I had been awake when they descended on the camp. No, nothing would have changed. Hell, the drinking probably saved me. Another scream pierces the air. Another.

Doing the bidding of their faux-god emperor, these elves are marching to their deaths in a pointless war. They slaughtered at the Red Field twice over, both pilgrims and travelers. They slaughtered along the Silvered Coast, poor fishermen and farmers trying to eke out a living. And now, outside Isma, one of the few strongholds of human civilization… Where the rulers thought they could work with the elves. The Amar Family, the Renault Family, the Veras Family. Bastards sold out their own people to try and cut a deal with a glorified murderer.

My arm grows heavy, and my fingers start to lock up. The axe falls from my grip, just as Shaddick’s sword fell from his when the arrow pierced his chest, and just like the blade fell from the dismembered elven hand earlier. Just as weapons fall in battle. Though, this isn’t my death. Not yet. I’m quite certain of that fact. Were I dying, well, I wouldn’t feel like this. No, it’s simply the poison. Probably whiptail extract, all things considered. My vision’s slightly blurry, and my hand is losing sensation and growing heavy.

“You, soldier.” Huh? “Look up at me.” An elven man looks down at me. This is it. This is where I die. “Look me in the eye, human. Have some dignity.” My head, heavy. I look up at him with all my force, but my chin droops. My eyes roll up to look at him. He takes a rapier from his waist, or a foil. Some thin blade. He places the tip beneath my chin, and lifts my head for me. Blood drawn. Not poisoned. “If you don’t want to die, stand up. Your men are routed, running. Daurellian bears down on Isma, now. The Amar Count sold his city. Daurellian’s imminent victory over the humans is approaching. Now, stand. Quickly.” I place my mobile arm on the ground and push up, trying to stand to my feet. I seemingly take too long, as the elven man grabs my armor by the chest and yanks me to my feet. Woozy. Dizzy. Heavy. “This way. Your time for death is not yet here.”

“I…” He yanks me behind a pile of wooden planks as an arrow whizzes by my head once again.

“Shh. Don’t talk. No, not now. Whiptail extract… takes a toll. Let’s get you out of here.” I close my eyes, and lean on the man. The battle around me fades.

“Quickly, get him on the table. Now!” I feel my body weigh myself down, and collapse.