Beyond the woods emerged a field of sand and grass. As the evening sun set, the earth gained a purple shade, and the fires that populated it burned bright, revealing hundreds of tents, each larger than even the Sacredate’s on the road, like those of a circus. When the army emerged from the trees, a face appeared from the door of each tent; each shouted with celebration. The Sacredate, sitting on a throne held up by servants at the front of the pack, outstretched his arms, and the shouts grew louder.

Taramiel remembered a small exchange then, a brief reprieve from his misery while being pressed against at all sides, when another foot soldier had asked the Sacredate why he rode like that, even sometimes into battle, leaving his—well, frankly, frail—body exposed. The Sacredate had laughed as if the man were an old friend and clapped him on his back, with strength enough to stagger the soldier. And the Sacredate said, with glee, no arrow will ever fell me, and returned to his duties. And it was true. As if to spite the soldier, he made a point of riding in an even more extravagant and unnecessary chair, heads above the army, on the backs of many servants. Only one arrow drew close to him—and, as if the world had known, the battlefield became quiet and watched—and it sped just past his cheek, leaving no mark, and landed in the chest of the very same foot soldier, in the only space between two plates of armor, and he died immediately.

Taramiel had to shove through more stationary idiots to make it to his tent. He would’ve done anything to silence the night’s festivities, to make one shout, shine one light on the insects and get them to break and scuttle back to their holes-in-the-wall. But only the Sacredate had that power. The truth was clear; he was the only one here, perhaps in the Sacredate’s entire army, disciplined and determined enough to have the honor of fighting for the Sacredate. Careless and unhelpful, the lot of them were. The whole army’s responsibilities lay heavily on his shoulders, and he trained dutifully to carry it. His reward was death by smothering with the drunken laughter of men no better than children.

Even the Sacredate—perfect as he is—did nothing more than push him around like a carthorse. Some part of him worried that the Sacredate might hear the next words he planned on thinking, but he didn’t care any longer. The Sacredate’s body was sick and twisted, unevenly built. His face seemed fairly symmetrical but always left a ghastly aftertaste in a man’s heart. Even one of those pathetic soldiers could kill the Sacredate; it would be no more difficult than killing a 50-year old farmer. All he had was obedience and a booming voice, and apparently the favor of the gods. For years now the Sacredate had done nothing but raze village after village to the ground, and steal whoever had lived—preach to a few he deemed worthy. Where was his grand vision? Nowhere on this earth. Taramiel was enslaved to what was at best a disembodied voice.

Perhaps half an hour after he had entered the tent, Taramiel left in search of someone to spite. The soldiers outside were trying to keep their eyes tucked away and safe from Taramiel’s way. He caught a few people watching him, but they spun their heads around once they knew Taramiel had noticed. Something dark was beating in Taramiel’s chest. He found an entire army worthy of the title of coward.

“Can’t even catch a little boy, Taramiel?” Armund said. He was laid out behind a fire, his beard looking like the ashes of one. His face looked even more wrinkled and shadowy than it had before—probably because of the deep grin on his face. The group of soldiers beside Armund didn’t dare turn their heads from the flames.

Without pausing to think, Taramiel walked up to the fire and kicked it at Armund. The other soldiers scattered. Armund shouted and kicked the firewood away, and rolled around in the dirt until the flames had been extinguished. There were small burn marks in his face, one just over one of his eyes, and his cloak and beard had sustained injuries as well. He rose slowly, took a few heavy steps towards Taramiel (who still stood unmoving, but trying to keep himself from laughing), and had his arms outstretched towards him. Taramiel threw a punch that Armund dodged before lunging for Taramiel’s midsection. They both fell to the ground and both lost their wind, but as Taramiel’s lungs were still filling up he kneed Armund in the guts. Armund’s grip relaxed and Taramiel flipped the old man over and sat on his stomach, trying to wriggle his hands towards Armund’s throat. Armund kept his hands tight to his face and his face well protected, so Taramiel rained blows down upon him. But his seated position was growing unstable as Armund flailed with his legs from beneath him. Taramiel could hear some of the men around him talking about bets.

“Stop bickering, the two of you,” the Sacredate said. With Taramiel’s head turned, Armund wriggled out from under him and shot up, hands clasped behind his back and watching the Sacredate respectfully. Taramiel rose more slowly. A few guards pushed a wooden box in front of the Sacredate’s tent, and almost as if he had willed it, the Sacredate appeared on top of it.

“I believe an announcement is due, given the length of my last departure. First, I believe some recognition for the work of our soldiers in the region East of here is in order. We have dealt justice to the silent and the stationary. Too many at the outskirts of the cities sit quietly and patiently for the world to reward them while the world falls perpetually into decay. And what they eat up, they steal from those of us worthy of the challenge. A new kingdom cannot afford such people. In our quest, we have destroyed port cities and crushed some semblance of a resistance, brought down by their own weakness. Here, we can vanquish all.”

It was a miracle that anyone could hear him. Somehow, his voice traveled throughout the entire camp. The Sacredate didn’t enjoy shouting, as it were, especially not over the thousands of men cheering at him. They didn’t stop for some time, but ceased immediately the moment a frown seemed to appear on the Sacredate’s face.

“But there have been challenges. In one of our raids, a child managed to slip out of our grasp.” Taramiel blinked, and he was certain some people had turned to watch his expression, which he kept frozen and forward.

“Although we gave the child great chase, he always seemed a step ahead of us. It appears as though every village he stopped at helped him, somewhat, on his journey. Although it is still a high priority that we catch the child, we must have gratitude to those who have aided us in the challenge: Taramiel led the charge against the child, and without him, there would be no hope of ever catching the boy. As always, Taramiel remains an honorable warrior.”

And another round of cheering came. Even Armund was applauding for him, turned to him and grinning.

“It is time for our next journey to begin. We have gathered the strength of a thousand armies, and taken the world’s corners; it is time we aim for the center. Next, we march on the kingdom itself!”

Taramiel was one of the last people to make his way to his tent. His head was throbbing by then, and his body drained, but his heart kept beating furiously, as though it would jump out of his chest and flop around in the dirt like a fish. He played through old memories, resounding victories on the battlefield, the rush of war on horseback with the wind in your face. That was where he was meant to be. Not wrestling others on the ground. Why had he gone so far astray? He admonished himself as much as he could before slipping into bed, and closing his eyes.

But no matter what he did, he couldn’t get himself to sleep for a few more hours. There was something stuck at the back of his mind, something that he couldn’t let go.

What if he wasn’t wrong about the Sacredate?