《Neither Snow Nor Rain》


 000-Ministry of Health Orphanage #42

    A baby crying at the door. The head madam takes the child as is usual. A process performed a thousands of times in hundreds of different locations. This particular location though is somewhat unique in function.


    The newly born child is rested in a crib next to another baby. A female who is considerably larger than the new resident, and a few months older.


    They wake to each other crying, They eat at the same time, They are changed at the same time, and each are held for the exact same amount of time. This schedule repeats ad nauseum until the syllabus is broken when the infant girl speaks the words ¡°mama¡±. A word repeatedly spoken by their caregivers. The newest resident follows suit shortly after with his first mumbling of mama.


    The infants now are each given a young woman who holds them and talks to them constantly. This is to foster language and social skills, things crucial to any working citizen. Each of the subsequent milestones of these children''s lives, introduce small changes to the formula.


    After their second year of living at the orphanage, each child is given a name. The girl was given the name ¡®Rose¡¯, and the other baby, a boy, the name ¡®Slate¡¯. Rose and Slate are now being introduced to the concepts of books and reading, as to prepare them for academic study.


    At the age of six, Rose and Slate are introduced into a classroom filled with three other children. They are seven years of age and one is male and the others are female. Their names are Jasmine and Sage for the girls and Cobalt for the boy. Together the five children are taught the alphabet and basic arithmetic by a teacher qualified through the state.


    Midway through the curriculum, during Rose and Slate¡¯s seventh year, a beastkin child of a similar age, with large floppy dog like ears is introduced. The beast being a sociable creature, gets on amiably with the children.


    The beast having no basis in the local language or academics falls behind as expected. Seeking help from its fellows, the Beast implores Slate to help catch it up. In exchange for this help, the Beast will teach Slate his native tongue. An unforeseen arrangement but not unwelcome.


    The curriculum changes as time progresses, introducing various history, geology and biology studies. At the age of ten, the males begin physical education and training, promoting endurance and discipline. The females are taught various household skills such as sewing, cooking, child rearing and managing finances.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The children of the class, aged now, twelve and thirteen years of age. The girls experience their menarche and begin to form some degree of separation to the boys as is expected. Jasmine, developing only plain looks is hired out as an apprentice maid. Rose, being a redhead of exceptional physique has her state dowry paid by a merchant. The same with Sage, but at a much higher price.


    The Males remain an additional year to allow them to better develop. They, as usual are distraught by the disappearance of their peers, but this serves to strengthen their bonds, mostly that of Slate and the Beast.They spend most of their allotted free time together.


    On the Beast¡¯s fourteenth birthday and the peak of his magical puberty, he is culled and harvested by order of the Wordsmith. His mana content is exceptional.


    Slate appears to become depressed at the removal of his ¡®friend¡¯,but Cobalt is unaffected, instead deriving enjoyment from the additional time allotted to them with the personal trainer.


    On their fifteenth birthday. Cobalt is sent to train as a regular in the infantry, fast tracked to rise through the ranks due to his superb academics and discipline. Slate is sent to the Postman battalion in order to fulfill our quota.


    In conclusion this year we have had:


    Females:


    Apprenticeship:


    Jasmine(Maid), Lotus(Maid), Ivy(Maid), Willow(Midwife), Indigo(Tailor)


    Dowry:


    Petunia(10,000), Rose(12,510), Sage(12,750), Celandine(9,000),


    Clover(15,000), Daisy(11,000), Kalina(11,900)


    Males:


    Military:


    Cobalt(Infantry), Chalk(Infantry), Basalt(Infantry),Clay(infantry),Loam(Artillery)


    Bureaucracies:


    Gneiss(Higher Education)


    Quotas:


    Postman(3/3)


    Slate,Granite,Shale


    Notes: All goals have been met and the Dowries have been much larger than anticipated.The mana content of the Beast kin was also excellent. Expect more in the future so we can see if the results were a fluke or due to your staff. This class is both intelligent and show a large degree of physical aptitude. The program appears to be succeeding.

 001-Arrival part 1

    Walls, wooden and confining, surround like a coffin leaving the air dry and hot. My foot taps without thought to a distant harmonica, possessed by its urgency. An oiled rag wipes heavily over my bayonet, leaving it glistening in the lowlight of the train car. Examining it twice, the eighteen inches of cold steel is sheathed against my hip.


    Swords and rifles line the walls awaiting their delivery to able hands. The harsh echo ofshouting bounce throughout the train, but from here, it is only a whisper. Sunlight drifts lazily from the cracked boards of the wooden ceiling. A soft gnawing in my stomach occupies my thoughts. Food is in another car.


    Standing myself upright, I move towards the front of the train. The next two cars are for equipment, stocked well with armor and artillery respectably. The harmonica grows in volume as I approach the third doorway. Knocking three times I enter.


    Three man sit around a table playing cards, one although, is much more preoccupied playing the harmonica. Two of the men are the same age as me, sixteen, meaning they also recently finished training to become Postman for the army.


    The one on the left has light blonde hair, curly, with a sharp but weathered face. The Other is smirking, staring at his cards with glee. Shaved bald with a chubby face, he looks rather unremarkable. The final resident of the table is our commanding officer, a man of short black hair and lack luster harmonica skills, only seeming to know only one song. He is considerably older than us, twenty seven an impressive feat for a Postman.


    The train car in which we are posted in is filled with documents. Mail and orders which are to be delivered to the front. We as postman are tasked with guarding the missives. I sit down to rejoin the game of cards, hunger forgotten.


    ¡°Everything in order Slate?¡± Enquires the older man with disinterest.


    ¡°Yes, Senior Postman Oak¡± I reply


    A round of betting later, the bald man, Robert, wins the pot. Oak halts his harmonica performance, picking up the cards and reshuffling with practiced ease. The curly headed blonde, red in the face, paces the room mumbling.


    ¡°Damnit Robert, I told my mother I could send her some cash this month!¡± stomping heavily throughout the wooden floor, ¡°Not asking for much, but do you really need to keep all of it, I thought we weren''t being serious.¡±


    ¡°Ahh, but little JoJo, I would love to deliver this to your lovely mother''s house. I¡¯ll just do it the next time I visit her. She sure ~loves~ my company.¡± Robert sends Joseph a shit eating grin.


    ¡°Thats rich coming from the son of a whore!¡± Roars Joseph


    ¡°What did you sa...¡±


    ¡°Enough of that kids. Sit back down.¡± Oak orders smoothly


    The blonde and the bald stare at each other for a moment before sitting down on either side of me. Senior Postman Oak deals the cards, Two for each player and three in the middle. Oak picks up his harmonica and drums up the same song. Lifting our cards, Oak begins betting.


    My cards are lacking, but with another of the same suit I have a flush, so I bet high. I don''t really have a use for money anyways. After a round of conservative, but still healthy bets, Oak draws the next card. Looking to the others, their faces are hard to read, set in stone, relaxed and seemingly disinterested. Robert¡¯s foot on the other hand stopped tapping to the tune of Oaks harmonica, must''ve saw something he liked.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Oak bets high, Joseph folds, Lacking my straight I still bid high, and Robert raises. The fifth card is drawn. Oak plays his harmonica, relaxed as can be. Robert on the other hand gently thumbs one of his card in a slow motion. So only one card is either a pair or three of a kind. Not a bad hand but I just got my straight.


    Oak bets high, but he always does on the final round. I raise half of my next month''s salary, The rest follow. The cards are shown. Oak has two pair, Robert three of a kind and me astraight. So I won the biggest pot of the night.


    ¡°First round of the night for the kid and he cleans us out.¡± Remarks Oak shaking his head.


    ¡°Always the damn brooding silent types.¡± Grumbles Robert.


    All three stare at me as I pull in the various coins and bills of my earnings. My face reddens embarrassed at their attention. I look toward Joseph, but in my embarrassment, can''t look him in the eyes.


    He seems to think that I will give him back his money. Definitely don''t see why I should. Don''t bet what you can''t afford to lose.


    I go back to counting my earnings separating them into neat orderly piles.The rough coinage feels ice cold in the heat of the cramped car.


    ¡°You orphan kind always make my hair stand on end. You folks just act so off.¡± Says a disgusted Robert.


    ¡°Just how we were brought up I guess.¡± replies Oak restarting the familiar melody on his Harmonica.


    The brakes of the train engage shuddering violently. With two whistles the conductor signals our arrival.


    ¡°You three unload, I''ll talk to the commander.¡± Oak


    We start rapidly grabbing our equipment. Flintlock carbines, ammunition, powder horns, canteens and a flintlock pistol incase things get really desperate. We all don our sets of chainmail and the leather over coats that work to protect us from shrapnel.


    Approaching the side door for loading and unloading, Oak unlocks it and throws it open. Bright light blooms, blinding us. Hot arid air greets us, leaving our mouths dry and tacky, seemingly full of cotton. Adjusting to the light, the white immaculate desert sands frame buildings and massive awnings of cloths protecting from the sun.


    ¡°Welcome to camp ¡¯Last Stop¡¯. The farthest east the railroad reaches.¡± Hollars Oak as he walks out into the base.


    For the next few hours we unload countless boxes of supplies. The sun at this point has fallen to its barest of minimums, offering only the most insubstantial of lights. Oceans of heat dance upwards returning to the sky. Every few minutes when the canteens run dry we head to the tanker on the train filled with fresh beautiful water, potable.


    The entire time, moans of agony erupted throughout the camp. The field hospital, overpacked and undermanned was the sole source of life. The stench of rot and ether intermingled, running circles throughout one''s stomach. Headless corpses would emerge in intervals, to be buried in a large trench, efficient.


    Oak is walking towards us with a man. His graying hair and bushy, but well kept mustache a sign of his veterancy.


    ¡°Postman salute Lieutenant General Hadrian!¡± Barks our leader.


    Three backs right themselves, rigid and stiff, hands snapping to their places. Hadrian examines each of us. His mustache sinks, his face frowning, eyes full of sadness. The medals on his chest rise as he takes a deep breath, breathing out as if to dispel whatever thoughts reside in his head. His voice is raspy, but commanding


    ¡°Postman,¡± A pause as he addresses us with his eyes once more ¡°Twenty of your colleagues were deployed under my command at the start of this mission. Four remain. Unfortunate as this is,¡± another pause, indulgently long ¡°you will be under my command until further notice. Get some sleep. You will get your orders tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir!¡± Rings from four unwilling throats.


    No one slept well. Oaks harmonica, the only thing breaking up the silence of our camp; well, other than the screams of the dying.

 002-Arrival part 2

    We got our orders. Stay at camp until the next enemy attack so we can deliver messages to the three outposts. Oak took it upon himself to train us. No one would refuse such an offer.


    ¡°The damn beasts got magic, So you''re already pretty much screwed if a mage or a knight finds you. Fortunately for you, Ive fought against knights before, I even managed to kill one and maim another. You guys on the other hand, will not be fighting knights but instead you will be taught to survive. Knives at the ready!¡±


    We were first taught how to avoid slashes and stabs. Unfortunately, the enemy was much faster than us so we trained by having Oak and two others came at the remainder with constant attacks. Each of us were bruised terribly, sheathed blades clubbing into arms and soft bellies.


    Joseph and Robert were trash, too used to their overindulgent lives due to the brilliant administration by the Wordsmith. They did although, seem to bond over the fact that they left with much more bruising then I did. Their usual argument instead turning to more gentle ribbing.


    Of Course we also trained with our carbines, but Postman training in that regard is already quite heavy. Pistols were a whole nother story, Oak teaching us how to use it to distract enemies and finish them off.


    Oak seemed keen to utilize weak points found in humanoid anatomy, but also sometimes told us to completely ignore them, as long as it meant our enemy had to respond to the pistol. Then hand to hand can be utilized to throw the opponent of balance.


    The mercifully cold night is a sobering sensation to our burned and worn bodies. Oak¡¯s harmonica rings out the same song it always had. It has since lost its novelty completely.


    ¡°By the Wordsmith Oak! You think you would be working for the Ministry of Culture or something! You never stop playing that thing!¡± Robert rages, exasperated with its constant droning.


    ¡°Yeah, Oak. Whats with the harmonica?¡± Joseph with actual curiosity asks.


    The two sit close on a box labeled ¡®blankets¡¯. I on the other hand sit somewhat between Oak and them, not willing to infringe on either groups space.


    Pulling his hands from his mouth, Oak looks up, his face an angry red from the overbearing sun.


    ¡°It used to be my friends, he only taught me this song.¡± A matter-of-fact reply, one that''s too easy, too simple, not human.


    ¡°What was his name?¡± the words leave my mouth unbidden.


    Oak¡¯s green eyes turn to face me. Slowly methodically, appearing almost afraid to move too fast.


    ¡°Hickory, he was someone I grew up with in the orphanage. We both ended up being selected to be Postman. I¡¯m pretty sure you have a similar story to mine. It''s not interesting, he died and I lived.¡±


    ¡°Why haven''t you learned another song?¡± I don''t even know why I care.


    He shrugs, his shoulders falling heavily. ¡°Why should I?¡±


    The conversation falls dead. The mood turning much more sour. Oak didn''t play his harmonica a single time that night.


    *Boom*


    The report of a flintlock carbine rings out over the desert night. The frigid air a welcome change from the blistering day. I couldn''t sleep. My mind to chaotic, restless.


    ¡°Hey kid, you look pretty cold.¡± Oak¡¯s voice is alarming, his footsteps always silent, soft.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Oak hands me a tin cup. It¡¯s metal is cold and beaten. My hands grasp firmly around it. I take a sip. A cozy ball of fire settles in my stomach.


    ¡°Pretty good right. I remember my first real drink of whiskey after leaving the orphanage.¡± Oak''s face alights with a nostalgic grin.


    I sit down sipping on the whiskey. Both of us sit there in silence, watching the twinkling of the stars, incandescent and innumerable. The distant lights of the other outposts glow upon the horizon.


    Looking at Oaks distant expression, ¡°Oak, how did you get over losing your friend?¡±


    Oak¡¯s hand rises to his face, roughly tracing his chin.


    ¡°I didn''t, not really. It just happens enough times that you''re used to it. Been so long that I don''t remember how it used to feel.¡± Oak exhales looking at me, ¡°I''m telling you kid, I got your back. I''m tired of watching people die. Speaking of which, you got enough energy to mope, got enough to train. Lets see how well your doing.¡±


    I stand up and grab my still cased bayonet from my belt. Me and Oak circle slowly, his height an advantage to him, but a fairly obvious one. Even in the low light, I can see Oak¡¯s right hand begin to turn inside, ready for a slash upward. Moving to his left side it''s easily dodged, but Oak fights conservatively holding his bayonet close to his chest.


    Lunging forward, I feint a slash to the face, to put him off balance. He dodges easily lashing out with a stab, but I''m already inside his left, crouching down away from his blade. Oak¡¯s body snaps into motion sending a knee into my arm redirecting it. My arm aches dully. Seeing how Oak¡¯s dominant foot stepped forward, I lunged forward avoiding his stab. Oak simply grabs my extended leg and ¡®stabs¡¯ me in the back.


    My mind is too lethargic to fight with real conviction.


    ¡°Not bad kid, but keep moving. Don''t put yourself in a position that''s hard to get out of.¡±


    With a nod we continue to spar until the bitter cold gets to us. We return to camp wornout. I''m out in an instant.


    This type of lifestyle continues for two weeks. Each of us sunburned, but now used to life under such an oppressive sun. I look into the worn mirror, my brown hair and hazel eyes stare back. A short set of stubble has planted itself onto my clenched jaw. I grab a razor and trim away, leaving my hair short and face clean shaven.


    This afternoon, the tedium changed with the loud whistle of a train.


    Almost five hundred souls delivered for the coming battle. Fresh faces unused to the heat. Each of them well armed with flintlock rifles, longswords, and heavy breastplates of steel. A few of them hold spears and shield tempered with mana resistant demon''s blood.


    Their uniforms of bright red and white ripple in the light breeze of an unusually mild day. Aligned in rank they stand, waiting to be addressed by the commander.


    ¡°Two days ago we lost scouts in camp Leopold, safe to say the battle is about to begin. Remember your training, shoot straight, and most importantly protect the damn artillery! Dismissed!¡± Lieutenant General Hadrian turns, leaving, his gait somewhat unstable.


    He was in his cups, as we learned he always was. The man of few words was fearful of vomiting in the bright sun. Wordsmith save us.


    We few postman sit in our camp waiting for the morning. I never really talked much to Joseph and Robert, but that''s to be expected coming from one of those damnable orphanages. We still share some kinship through, training together all day for three or so weeks straight.


    I still although had my private training sessions with oak though, it wasn''t just fighting too, he gave me lots of information on how to sneak and live off the land. Tonight would be the last of those sessions.


    ¡°So kid, tell me again the diet of a wyvern... Coastal.¡± Oak quizzes.


    Confusion evident on my face I ask Oak ¡°Why am just ¡®I¡¯ learning this? All of this is good to know.¡±


    Oak looks saddened for a second but only for a second, ¡°You''re the only one who''s got a real chance of surviving this of you three kids. The others.... they just.... there not made out to do this. So...|. it''s better to spend my resources and time on one who is. Trust me.¡±


    I should be upset about the blatant favoritism this man is showing me, but in all honestly, i''m glad. I still needs answers for so much in my life.


    Simply I respond ¡°I understand.¡±


    If there''s one thing the orphanage taught me, it''s that being friends with someone won''t get you anywhere. What''s loyalty when someone else holds your leash. Robert and Joseph haven''t learned this yet. They will, just like I did with Tomo.


    Oak looks glad smiling softly ¡°Hey kid, how bout I teach you how to play the harmonica?¡±


    The man who says he can protect me. Someone looking so hard to find his missing friend Hickory within another. His friendly words a facade for his own selfish desires, to be a friend, to not be so alone, to not be alone, be alone. A hypocrite... just like me.


    I nod in response, and so that night, I learned how to play the harmonica.

 003-Baptism by fire part 1

    My legs pump hard against the sand, sun beaming overhead reducing the world to a haze of heat. Ducking low the sand behind me explodes violently, throwing it high into the air. Arcane energy, pillars of fire, bolts of lightning seek out my position in the dune.


    A bolt strikes directly to my left creating a tree of glass reaching towards the sky, bright and colorful. My feet pump, body low, running to the outpost my breath hitched, pulse racing.


    A blinding white light bursts into brilliance. I slam my chest into the ground, using the dune next to me as cover. Sweltering flames cascade amongst the dunes, great gouts of fire and molten glass land against my covered back. With a grunt of pain, the stench of burning flesh pierces my nostrils.


    Gathering my satchel, my delivery, I run. I run as arrows descend seeking my throat, I run as the symphony of rifles bark abrupt tones, ending the lives of some of my pursuers. I can see my allies fortifications, great barrels of sand and steel bayonets pointing towards scenes of death.


    My first taste of combat. The great dance of death roiling around me. Lives snuffed out and glory suffuses the crimson blood. It all feels like one of the Wordsmith¡¯s poems. The carnage, the elegance, so simple¡­ so genuine.


    My feet lead me to the foot of the fortifications, the enemy backing off after firing a mana bolt or two into the ranks. Men go flying, an arm detached ascending in a scintillating trail towards the relentless sun.


    ¡°Postman delivery!¡±


    The commander of the forces, a tall man in his late forties covered head to toe in plate mail rushes toward me.


    ¡°Give here Postman!¡± his voice is full of panic.


    Reaching into the satchel, I find a slab of stone, heavy. A message from the Wordsmith himself, carved from the very mountain He resides in. I give it to the man and he in shock stands mouth agape.


    He clears his throat, his eyes tear up, his face the very picture of relief. He reads the cryptic phrase.


    ¡°Such Beasts, as they glutton only blood. We will bring a Feast to greet them.¡±


    Tears pouring freely from his eyes as soldiers watch in disbelief. The Wordsmith is with us. He has seen our victory, we are but his tools. My emotions bubble to extremes, disgust and reverence in equal measure.


    The commander takes a chisel and in four perfect strikes, removes the word Feast.


    *KAROOOOOM* *KAROOOOOOM*


    The enemy warhorn rings out, but not a soul moves. Locked as they are in the ecstasy of the promise of such a word.


    With utter reverence the plate mailed commander whispers  ¡°Feast¡±


    A burst of thunder in a cloudless sky. Blood is pulled from the sandy earth in long silky streams. Pooling high in the air. The enemy shouts just beyond my comprehension, too transfixed by the will of the Wordsmith, Humanities True God.


    The sands return to their virgin white, unwatered with the blood of man and beast. The floating orb of blood ebbs and flows then...shatters.


    Thousands of birds, blood red, rush towards the beasts. They rip and tear at their faces, plucking eyes and ripping into throats. Those false beasts of humanity die in droves screaming as the birds climb into their mouths only to tear apart their insides.


    One of Beastman mages walk forth. Her lips move rapidly desperate to weave a spell to end the chaos. It takes some time, but with a mighty heave the air stills and bloody birds are no more. Plenty of the beasts yet remain to die upon our bayonets.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°KILL THEM ALL!¡± Shouts the commander, high off such a sight.


    Twenty pieces of artillery fire simultaneously, the heaving ordinance spinning towards the reeling enemy. Firey death erupts within the enemy ranks. Enemy mages steps forward desperately casting protection spells, but nothing truly protects from heaps of metal.


    Taking positions, the soldiers rifles ringe out. Most bounce off steel shields and woven spell work, but some still strike exposed skin.


    The enemy mages return fire, throwing raw arcanum at the fortifications. Ducking down, soldiers armed with the demon blood tempered shields rise, absorbing what magic they can. The very air itself hums with the raw potential of magic.


    *KAROOOOOM*


    A thousand enemy throats ring out, a cry of defiance in the face of death. Soldiers desperately reload, powder pouring and minie balls rammed down barrels. A thunderous cacophony of noise rings out as each man stands and fires. The enemy front ranks topple and fall, others rushing to replace them.


    Dashing down friendly lines, I look for a opportunity to escape. I need to go back to base in order to deliver more orders to the front. Readying my carbine, I peak over the shoulder of a soldier firing.


    Beastman, close enough to smell the stench of their maliciousness, run with spear and sword ready to avenge their brothers.


    My carbine rises, sight lined up, a slight lead. A flash of smoke and the charging barbian falls. A hit to his leg, a place usually not covered by protective spells. A waste of mana it seems.


    A blur crosses my vision, silver. The man beside me falls with a gurgle. In the mass of humanity I am unable to see the cause of his death.


    ¡°...cleave my foes oh winds of wicked!¡±


    The soldiers in front of me scream, dozens of torsos flying high into the air. The slaughter only stops when the spells momentum breaks itself against the flesh of the man in front of me.


    Blood falls gently against my face like an early spring rain. A feminine form, draped in steel, stands before me blade extended, dripping the ichor of my comrades. Two horns of the ox rise barely through the holes in her bucket like helmet. No gapes in her armor to exploit.


    ¡°Rush o¡¯spirits, hasten thy impale!¡±


    A cloud of dirt bursts forth from her heals, body flying towards me. If I couldn''t understand their tongue, I would''ve died before even beginning to react.


    Scrambling to the side, my out stretched carbine shatters as it redirects her thrust. Hands now free, I take advantage of her overextended posture.


    Right hand to her sword hand, keep it outstretched. Left hand to the front of her face, kick into the back of her legs and throw downward.


    Remove helmet, strip of leather under the chin, twist and pull. Flawless porcelain glistening with sweat. Curtains of long black hair, stuck to her face. Eyes of the most hate driven red, fat tears welling beneath them. Her thin lips spread in a snarl.


    ¡°Wisp O¡¯F¡­.¡±


    I jam my fingers into her mouth, silencing the foul magic, vomit spewing from her throat. She can''t use magic without chanting, not yet a true knight.


    Her plate fist blurs, my vision teeters on the edge of darkness. I lean in close, face close to hers utilizing my larger weight.


    Reaching my left hand across my belt I pull free my pistol. The gnawing on my fingers intensifying, brilliant scarlet spheres widening in fear.


    I jab the pistol to her head and in front of my face and squeeze the trigger.


    My ears ring, but the beast has stopped struggling. Pulling my bloody fingers free from the agape mouth I stand. My right eye is swollen shut, blood dripping down my face and hand. A warm rivulet of blood descends from my ear tracing my jaw.


    I reach down tearing off the shirt of one of the fallen soldiers and wrapping my fingers with it. I also grab his rifle slinging it against my back. Slowly, the ringing subsides.


    The battle is still underway, ignorant to the fight I just had. The enemy grunts are among us, Spear and bayonets darting back and forth. So many isolated battles of life and death, meaningless in the face of the grander battle.


    Turning around I run away, back toward the main headquarters. There should be more orders waiting for me there. I''m not a soldier, this isn''t my fight.


    Climbing the outposts surroundings stockades, I fall heavily into the soft sand. Rolling to my feet, I run cradling my injured hand.


    -----------------------


    Oak stands at the camp. Large claw marks ripped through out his overcoat revealing the hidden chainmail. Exhausted, his skin glistening with sweat and blood, he notices my arrival. A slight upward tug on his lips.


    ¡°Let me see your hand kid.¡±


    I reach out unraveling the cloth, my fingers swollen and shredded.


    ¡°Just clean it out and you''ll be fine, nothing''s broken.¡±


    Oak turns around grabbing a canteen.


    ¡°Gotta go kid. Drink this, it''ll take the edge off.¡±


    Something alcoholic, hard and fiery. It does take the edge off.


    ¡°Hey Oak, is there any more deliveries?¡±


    ¡°None, Robert and Joseph are still missing though. I''m going to find them before sun down.¡±


    If those two die, someone has to take their deliveries. A death sentence.


    ¡°I''ll go with.¡±

 004-Baptism by fire part 2

    I follow closely behind Oak¡¯s shrouded form, concealed by the shadows of a late dusk sun. Together we move towards the second outpost. As far as anyone knows the defence of the second outpost was a complete and total failure.


    Oak holds up his hand flat signalling me to stop. In front of us is the burning corpse of outpost two, outpost ¡°Stalwart¡±. Half of Stalwart which was built on a large rocky overhang and had collapsed, causing it to lose its artillery support almost immediately it seems.


    Stalwart had been overrun, and now flocks of vultures feast on the dead. A large gryphon flies overhead, calling its mate so they both can share a meal together. Such sociable creatures.


    Fortunately for us, as Postman we are privy to secret information, including the fact that this fort has a underground component to it. So that''s where we¡¯re going.


    Oak grabs my shoulder pulling me close. ¡°If the Gryphon sees you, walk towards it tall, but slowly. Gryphons are used to dealing with more magical humanoids so they developed in born fear of the confident.¡±


    Nodding we make our way into the camp.


    The stench of death is heavy, bodies littering the ground, limbs strewn throughout. Mostly human faces but a few animal like characteristics are apparent as we walk past. They made them pay for every inch of ground.


    Every step, a veritable quagmire of blood and viscera. The heady scent, consuming all other senses. Lots of bodies here. It would be wise not to stay after sun down.


    As we approach the center of the camp the ground becomes more uneven. Stepping into the main command tent, Oak slips falling to his hands.


    The inside of the tent is frigid, colder than I''ve ever felt. A whole regiment of soldiers are frozen, statues of ice, bayonets at the ready.


    The ground is slick with ice, even after all this time. The blood coating the bottom of my boots freeze, sticking me to the ground. It taste several pulls before I lift myself.


    Oak stands wiping his hands on his pants, having lost some skin on his palms to the ice. ¡°A powerful mage¡­ If he''s still here kiss your ass goodbye kid.¡±


    Weapons drawn we move towards a gaudy desk located at the back of the tent. Oak nods and presses his shoulder to the desk. I hold my rifle at the ready, prepared for any possibility.


    With a grunt the desk jerks revealing a trap door. Looking to Oak who lets out a long exhale, he gestures for me to throw open the hatch. I do so and we both descend into the dark tunnels.


    Bodies line the wall, fallen, blocking our path. The dead look immaculate, no wounds on them except for a layer of soot covering their bodies and faces.


    I look back towards Oak who is lighting a oil lamp. ¡°They smoked them out. Starved them of oxygen somehow.¡±


    ¡°That''ll do it.¡± he responds casually holding the now lit lamp in front of him.


    Oak sighs ¡±We might get caught in here at night. Make sure the dead stay dead kid.¡±


    I nod, affixing the bayonet to my rifle. I stab each corpse in the throat doing my best to sever the spine. Up down up down up down goes the rifle constantly causing my arms to burn.


    Oak leads me through this seemingly labyrinth like tunnel system. He manages to find a path clear of bodies and soot. This seems to be the most likely place for any survivors, so we decided to search the all tunnels leading to this one.


    No bodies line the hall and the gas lamps are still lit, meaning they were never starved of oxygen. Oak crouches, looking over the turned soil of the floor.


    ¡°Everyone was moving the same direction.¡± Oak gestures to a hallway down the left.


    It lead to a door of solid steel untouched. Attempting to open it, its locked. Oak looks very pleased and knocks roughly on the door. A slit in the door is jammed open.


    A rushed voice ¡°Who is the Wordsmith?¡±


    ¡°God¡± answers Oak disinterested.


    The slit closes. A series of clicks later and the metal door opens. The room is packed with people, Soldiers, command staff, and it looks like one Postman who is sitting in the corner.


    ¡°Joseph!¡± I call out towards the head of shaggy blonde hair.


    Turning towards us ¡°Slate?¡±


    ¡°Oak too.¡±


    Pushing our way through the crowd, Joseph grabs onto to me steadying himself to his feet. His voice unsteady.


    ¡°Thanks guys, I thought I was goin¡­¡±


    *knock* *knock* *knock*


    ¡°Oh you guys brought more.¡± remarks the guard opening the slit.


    ¡°Who is the Wordsmith?¡±


    A shrill voice responds, full of rage ¡°A LIAR!¡±


    A gunshot rings out, spraying the doorman¡¯s brain matter throughout the room.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    A nearby soldier leaps to his feet running to close the small eye level split. The barrel of a rifle, dull with soot pokes through firing. A man screeches in pain holding his stomach.


    Oak shouts ¡°Put on your fucking armor idiots! It''s the Risen! Goddamnit they have a necromancer!¡±


    Another cloud erupts from the door, before the soldier can shut the door.


    In the utter silence, we stand soaking in the atmosphere of terror. Wait...It shouldn''t be silent. Didn''t someone get shot. Oak comes to the realization before me.


    ¡°Somebody remove that man''s head before he comes back! It''s still the witching hour!¡±


    Pushing past, bayonet drawn, I follow the rapidly expanding pool of blood to its origin. The man crawled into a corner to die alone. No one was watching him.


    I see him curled against his rifle. Holding it as if to ward off death.


    I lunge forward aiming to scramble his brains and hopefully preventing reanimation. I got here in time.


    His left hand snaps up catching my blade. I push with all my weight pushing the blade ever closer to his skull. The Risen, simply confused pushing my blade down forcing it to enter his chest. Thick bright red blood oozes from the wound.


    The Risen sees something behind me and smiles.


    His emotionless voice intones, ¡°Oh is that Jason?... It is isn''t it?¡± The risen shows his teeth in a false imitation of a smile. ¡°Stand right there so I don''t miss okay?¡±


    The Risen¡¯s right hand rises holding the rifle. I abandon my knife, wrestling for the gun, but the strength of the dead should not be underestimated. The Risen fires.


    The shot pierces through a man''s stomach spiraling through his back striking the throat of another. Blood squirting with careless abandon.


    A man with a well maintained mustache of red, runs forward sword drawn. Ducking down the man swings sticking solidly into the Risens broad neck.


    The mustached man snarling takes his booted foot kicking the blade all the way through


    Its seems it was too little, too late. The dead rising up in the room firing off their guns in the tight corners.


    The room fills with smoke stinging the eyes and throat. A hand grabs onto me, pulling me across the room which has descended into utter pandemonium.


    Swords are swinging indiscriminately, and its possible to tell who is Risen or alive.


    The metal door swings open, a Risen missing his arm is hanging onto the door allowing his allies to enter. This room is a total wipe, indefensible now.


    Being dragged, I notice joseph is following close behind me. A Risen tackles him pulling him to the ground.


    The Risen snarls, ¡°Hey can someone come gut this kid?!¡± he yells


    There''s not enough space in the room to bring the rifle to bear so I break free of the hand. I rush towards Joseph, drawing my pistol. Slamming its barrel to the Rising head I pull the trigger. The bullet goes cleanly through his head and strikes someone else i can''t see. Friend or foe it doesn''t really matter.


    I grab Joseph, pulling him to his feet.


    ¡°Gotta find Oak!¡±


    Joseph¡¯s blonde curls bob up and down in agreement.


    Running forwards, I can see Oak tussling with three Risen. He manages to easily get behind one, severing the its spine with his knife. My rifle ends another, while Joseph attempts to immobilize the third Risen, but to no avail. The flailing Risen laughs as it slams Joseph into the hardened stone walls . Joseph gasps letting go.


    The Risen crouches down and bolts, reaching down and picking up a sword from the floor. Whoever this risen was in life was fast, in the prime of his athletic ability. Stepping forward I throw my bayonet and strike its thigh. It stumbles. Its sword arm overextends in a wild stab.


    Grab the wrist, twist the hips, redirection not force. I remain holding on to its arm as the Risen completes its fall from my throw. Stomping hard its arm is broken. Retrieve the knife and stab into the spine. Immobilized.


    From across the room I hear Joseph.


    ¡°Slate! Oak¡¯s found a way out!¡± Coughs Joseph, blood sputtering from his lips.


    The crowd is too dense, people fighting and pushing, a mad press of bodies. Every few moments a shot rings out and someone screams. A group of risen stand to one side of the room reloading and firing as the rest engage in melee.


    A hand reaches through the press pulls me hard off my feet.


    ¡°Get ready to run kid!¡±


    Oak reaches into his bag and pull from it a red crystal shaped into a cone. He presses it to the wall and concentrates. A bolt of light rushes into the crystal.


    A deafening boom rocks the room and it quickly fills with dust. Rocks from above fall in clumps concussing many on both sides. The walls begin to temor dangerously. A small hole has been punched to the hallway outside.


    The risen that had been unfortunate enough to have been standing on the other side of the hall have been pulped, their bloody innards decorating the sandstone walls a deep red.


    ¡°Everyone still alive! Make a run for it through the tunnels!¡± Oak commands brushing dust from his ashy face.


    Luckily the three of us are closest to the newly breached ¡®exit¡¯ and we avoid what I can only assume will be a monumental traffic jam as dozens try to cram through a man sized hole.


    My boots squelch on the guts strewn amongst the floor, but that hasn''t slowed Oak one bit. He sprints, using his rifle to prevent any Risen from shooting at us in the cramp confines of the tunnels. The tunnels are only big enough for one and a half people to stand side by side so Oak¡¯s blockade does wonders to stop the tide of the rushing dead.


    Behind us the tunnel is clear. The escaping soldier are now emerging. Some remain just long enough to pull the next man through before running, but through their wild desperation they ignore Oak and unending torrents he is holding back.


    Rifles anointed with bayonets flash towards Oak from throughout the press of body. The chainmail and coat only protect his core. His hands and face leak blood from multiple slices.


    I have to help. Using my rifle, I do what i can do keep blades away from his unprotected extremities. The dead unfortunately are adults, with adult bodies that are both longer and stronger than me. I still manage to prevent the cuts from being too deep.


    The dead man in the front lines with a face filled with hollow scars smiles, his dimples deep and wide.


    ¡°Wow you guys are pretty heroic! I work for The Haven¡¯s Herald can I get a interview after I kill you!¡± The dead man''s voice, filled with genuine respect fills in the spaces between the pained grunts from Oak.


    The rifle in my hands is slick with sweat, its wooden stock slides in my grip as I continue to redirects blows. A bonfire burns in my chest. The sweaty and hot, cramped air makes every breath a labor. I can only imagine what oak is feeling.


    Someone taps on my shoulder. Joseph, he''s got something in his hand.


    ¡°Get some distance so I can collapse the tunnel!¡¯


    Grunting in agreeance I signal to Oak to run. With a rough kick to the ankle the leading risen is tripped. His body blocks the path. I can hear a spark in my ear and the fizzle of some type of fuze. Don''t know where Joseph found a grenade.


    Five


    Thankfully the tunnel behind us is clear, the soldiers having evacuated.


    Four


    Joseph slips on the turned dirt.


    Three


    He stands and runs


    Two


    A left then a right turn.


    One


    Are we far enough?!?!


    For a very a split second a deafening boom shatters the silence. My head aches as my ears begin to ring, warm fluids washing down my cheeks. My vision begins to tunnel the pain too great.


    Oak, joseph seem to be doing no better. I go to my knees, finger desperately clawing at the hardened dirt floor. People are approaching.


    They pick each of us up and drag us. Their lips are moving, can''t hear a thing over the ringing.


    The cold night air of desert seeps throughout the floor. An exit.


    Artificial light of the tunnel gives way to natural moonlight, I can make out some figures waiting for us.


    I''m so tired. Haven''t slept for a full day. Impossible to open my eyes. I don''t want to die.

 005- Licking wounds part 1

    ¡°Are you awake?¡± A voice of tin queries.


    I''m surprised when my own voice sounding hollow and far replies, ¡°Where?¡±


    A lab coat answers my question,¡± Last Stop Field hospital son, those soldiers dragged you back.¡± and continues to scrawl something on his clipboard.


    ¡°Oak?¡± Did my voice always sound this week?


    ¡°Fine. Hearing loss just like yourself but one infusion injection seemed to fix it.¡± He sets the clipboard at the end of the bed.


    Pushing my back to the bedframe i rise to look at the man''s face. Greying hair, glasses, dark bags under his eyes framed by pale skin, the very picture of a overworked doctor.


    ¡°Am I fit to leave?¡±


    Letting out a long breath.¡± Fit? No. Allowed? Yes, bed space is very limited so please do.¡±


    Alright? Guess it''s time for me to leave. The doctor was kind enough to lend me so pants, so I at least could have some dignity when leaving. My body is covered in bandages, back tight with stitches and my left hand is simply a bandaged mess. Wonderful.


    The sun outside, as it generally is in the desert, is relentless. Having no clue where to go or report to, I simply walk back to the tents that Oak, Joseph, Robert, and me set up. I''m surprised to see two of the former. I wave towards them.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Robert?¡±


    ¡°Dead, turns out the area between the Last Stop and East Outpost wasn''t nearly as safe as our routes.¡±


    Joseph snorts, ¡°Yeah, ours were so~~ safe.¡±


    Oak responds with a shrug. ¡°Alive with all four limbs is pretty damned good.¡±


    Sitting next to both of them I stare at Robert¡¯s tent. I look toward Joseph, he doesn''t look to bothered. I thought for a while i was going to have to pretend I cared. Good thing I don''t. A question rises to my lips.


    ¡°So, was yesterday a¡­ victory?¡±


    ¡°Well we confirmed they have a necromancer, lost almost two thousand troops, protected the railway thankfully, but lost two out of the three outposts, and round it out by getting a Brigade as reinforcements meaning soon we¡¯ll have three times as many men as we began with. The enemy on the other hand cannot replace any of the resources they have lost in a timely manner.¡± Oak scratches his head.


    I nod, ¡°Good thing we have the logistics to outlast them.¡±


    Joseph snarks, ¡°Great! We¡¯re just flesh for the meat grinder!¡±


    What a pessimistic way to view things.


    Our side of the camp is silent. We no longer speak about the conflict. I understand that the Wordsmith would never get us involved in a losing battle. I do question Joseph¡¯s piety though, but honestly, he plays his role in this war and doesn''t complain too often. It can be forgiven.


    Oak gets out his harmonica and play Hickory¡¯s tune. Knowing the song¡¯s origins has made it somewhat easier to listen to ad nauseum. It''s somewhat comforting hearing the same song every day, but it makes me wonder what is going through Oak¡¯s mind.


    The chugging of a train wakes me from my stupor. It''s longer than one I''ve ever seen arrive before. The doors slide open and hundreds of soldiers disembark. In one day we¡¯ve already replace all our losses and double our forces. Tomorrow the same thing will happen if deliveries go on schedule.


    Someone by the train yells,¡± Can I get a camp Postman!¡±


    All three of us mumble and grumble, I raise my hand to signal the others that I''ve got it. I go into my tent and quickly change into a more presentable outfit then being bare chested.


    I jog over to the middle aged with the immaculately groom mustache.


    I shout, ¡°At your service sir!¡± and salute to the man.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°A bit late.¡± He¡¯s got a posh urban accent; this man comes from wealth. ¡°Here are the new orders, deliver them with all necessary haste.¡±


    He hands me a satchel which I strap to my chest.


    ¡°Yes sir!¡± I drop my salute and sprint towards the command tent. An out of breath Postman is a punctual one.


    Saluting the men standing guard they pull open the tent.


    Inside stands Lieutenant General Hadrian and a much younger blonde man who stands talking with him.


    ¡°Postman delivery Lieutenant General.¡± I slide off the satchel and hand it to a nearby aide.


    Hadrian turns to look at me, his eyes evaluate my frame and a small scowl appears.


    ¡°Your injured. Why couldn''t the brigade¡¯s Postman take care of this.¡± he looks to the man he was talking to earlier, ¡°Colonel Oberfell?¡±


    Oh, the blonde must be the leader of the new brigade then.


    Colonel Oberfell addresses me with a nod and responds, ¡°My Postman are still weary from getting the train organized.¡±


    The man has the same posh accent as the other man, this whole brigade must have been founded in one of the richer areas. It is the duty of the privileged to help defend the weak. A zealous group then.


    Lieutenant General Hadrian looks unconvinced his grey mustache rising in contempt


    ¡°My Postman, were just recently involved in a battle and heavily injured. All of them.¡± He grits his teeth at the Colonel,¡± So I hope next time your Postman can get OF THEIR LAZY ASSES AND DO THEIR JOB! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Lieutenant General sir!¡± confirms the browbeaten Colonel.


    The Lieutenant General tsks and opens the satchel, finding various maps and folders. He signals for an aide to unroll a map and post it against the table, he himself opens a folder and skims through.


    ¡°Look like it''s your lucky day Colonel.¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    Hadrian gestures to the folder in hand, ¡°You and I get to lead the very first assault ever into the Beastkin lands. The Wordsmith has spoken.¡±


    Colonel Oberfell fails to hide his smile, ¡°The Wordsmith is surely great and wise to include me in this endeavor! This bring glory to my house and country!¡±


    ¡°I am sure of it.¡± Responds Hadrian, ¡°We will push all the way into the Forest of Broken Exodus. The initial assault will begin within the next two weeks.¡±


    The Colonel bows in the fashion of the city bourgeois,¡± I feel as if we will do great work together Lieutenant General Hadrian.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I am sure of it. Colonel, Postman you are dismissed. The day is your own.¡±


    A quick salute and I leave the building. Outside, I see only Oak still by the tents. He plays his harmonica.


    ¡°Joseph?¡±


    Lowering his harmonica, ¡°Went for a walk.¡± scratching his head in concentration, ¡° I think Robert¡¯s death bothered him more then he let on.¡±


    ¡°Probably.¡±


    Oak picks back up playing, the song remains the same, Hickory¡¯s song. Its notes tinge of familiarity and comfort. The frosty nights of the desert when we would train. So long had we prepared for days like these, but still... Robert¡¯s life was taken easier than a pull of a trigger.


    How much of our survival was pure luck? Was the Wordsmith protecting us? Who else will die before all of this is over?


    A deep baritone voice brings me from my thoughts


    ¡°Good job today kid.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, I wouldn''t have made it without your help.¡±


    Oak chuckles, ¡°Damn straight. Seems like you''re hearing is fine.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°SEEMS YOUR HE¡­¡± Oak sees my smile,¡± Did you just make a joke?¡±


    His response is met by my chuckling.


    Oak smiles, but it quickly runs away from his face. He rolls the harmonica between his hands while he sighs deeply.


    ¡°Do you trust me kid?¡±


    That statement hardly leads to good places.


    Oak¡¯s intense gaze forces my eyes to the ground.


    ¡°What was in that message Slate?¡±


    I can''t answer that, he knows that. Fucker pushing me into a corner, ¡®do you trust me?¡¯ guilting me with his fucking mind games. Hell, he¡¯ll now soon enough.


    I can''t keep a growl from my voice.


    ¡°We are to advance. The forests, we are to advance into the forest.¡±


    Slate lowers his gaze, hopefully ashamed.


    ¡°Sorry for doing you like that kid.¡±


    He doesn''t really care.


    Oak rises to his feet; a few choice words leave his lips as he departs to his tent.


    ¡°I''m glad you trust me. I swear I¡¯ll get you through this, it just¡­ it won''t end how you want it to.¡±


    The sincerity catches me off guard. What in the Wordsmith did any of that mean, I don''t even know how I want things to end.


    I walk back to my tent; a lot is on my mind. Joseph is standing by its entrance. The curly headed blonde gestures for me to go inside. I do so.


    ¡°He saved you, uhm, Oak I mean.¡± he ponders an expression, but it flees from his face. ¡°You got knocked out pretty far from the exit. Shit, I didn''t even notice you weren''t there. He went back, not a thought in his mind for himself, just went back.¡±


    He begins to chuckle awkwardly.


    ¡°Wordsmith knows he wouldn''t do that for me. I just¡­¡± another complicated expression, ¡°I just wanted you to know.¡±


    A dull ache strikes my heart, this whole thing reminds me of Leon. That fucking dog beastman they had at my orphanage. I can''t recall a time anyone had done anything for me since him. What did I do for Leon? Nothing but watch as he was bled dry.


    I''m not to blame though, the Wordsmith gave him a purpose. It doesn''t matter at the end because Leon was nothing but an animal, a pet! Right! Right. Right? Pathetic...I can''t even give him the courtesy of calling him my friend. I can''t even admit how much he meant to me.


    ¡°Leave joseph.¡±


    He looks confused but understanding. Weak that''s all that man will ever be, weak. Who am I really talking about? Joseph or me?


    The soft shifting of the sands by Joseph footsteps accents my every thought, every memory rising to the forefront of my mind.


    I thought I was over it all.


    I guess I wasn''t.

 006- Licking Wounds part 2

    Something tells me when I left that field hospital I had enough morphine in my blood to kill a horse. By the Wordsmith how was I walking. I think that Beast bitch fractured my jaw when she hit me. Shit, I doubt they would give something more to dull the pain, selfish bastards.


    Surprisingly no one has come to my tent to wake me up. Haven''t slept this late in well... ever. I roll to the side and grab a thin cotton shirt and a pair of pants. There is no way they are actually giving me a day off. In fact, the more likely outcome is that someone is letting me dig my own grave in order to justify giving me some terrible task. Yeah that''s it.


    The sun is high in the sky, noon. Thankfully the brigade brought plenty of canvas to create shade around the camp. It''s not so bad, but it''s dangerous if you''re not drinking water pretty much every hour or so. No clue how these Beastman are surviving this heat, got to be magic.


    *Grrrrrr*


    There¡¯s my stomach to remind me that I haven''t eaten in 24 hours. They should be serving lunch by now.


    A large hunk of bread and a bowl of stew loaded with various ''goodies''. At Least it''s enough carbs and proteins to keep healthy. Good on you Chef Corps.


    Walking around carrying my food I look for a table to sit. Its surprising to see so many sitting and having a meal. Guess the Brigade hasn''t started diffusing yet. Annoying, guess I can eat in front of my tent.


    "Hey Postman!" Me? "Postman who was in the tunnels yesterday come here man!"


    Oh, I guess they do mean me.


    A table is calling out to me, soldiers wearing their fatigues casually. All the folks on it are bandaged to hell, some of their faces look familiar too. Guess it wouldn''t hurt to sit with them. They push together making me a seat.


    The wounded soldiers reach across the table and introduce themselves by shaking my hand.


    "The names Richard, me and my fellows here were in those damnable tunnels yesterday."


    Richard, a dark-skinned man barely older than myself, but much much taller. He like the rest of the soldiers keeps his face and hair clean shaven. His hand is rough, not unused to hard labor.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Richard keeps shaking my hand while speaking


    "I can''t believe only forty-two of us even made it out. Wordsmith knows I''m thankful that I was one of those forty-two."


    What¡¯s this man¡¯s point?


    Adopting a small smile, I reply, "Don''t think anything of it, you would do the same thing. "


    We weren''t even there for them, but it doesn''t hurt to take credit for happy little accidents.


    Richard smiles brightly, "I wouldn''t be too sure, but that kind of brings me to the point of bringing you over." He scratches his head while reaching into his pocket and grabbing a sergeant¡¯s patch. "Our regiment was disbanded. The few of us who can still fight have been promoted, any time you need some extra bodies me and the boys here will get you as many as possible. Make sure to pass on the offer to the other postman who helped out."


    I can do that, " I don''t know if i''ll ever take you up on that, but I''ll make sure to pass it on."


    Richard lets go of my hand, finally. The rest of the time was filled with small talk, sharing memories of the dead and also talking about family members, more specifically how much they miss them. Not much i could relate to. Surprising how much bread and brothy soup can fill one¡¯s belly.


    I found Oak later on in the day. i told him about the group of soldiers offer. He was surprisingly interested. So intrested in fact that he immediately went to talk to them. Although he did tell me that the Colonel and Lieutenant General needed someone to interrogate some prisoners. Surprisingly, I''m one of four in the camp who can speak the Beast tongue.


    The command tent occupies a central location, its foundation lies on the rocky stone that sometimes finds itself on the surface of the desert.


    Even dressed as I am, I decided that I should go offer my translating services to the two officers. The guards were the same as the previous day, so they let me in with little fanfare.


    The integration went smoother than one would think. A Beastman Male with a large rack of antlers sprouting from his forehead was the target of our questions. Thankfully do to the feudal nature of the Beast''s society, peasants such as this one has little loyalty to the lords who levy them to war.


    The whole thing was basically a wash, but we did manage to confirm that with the last attack almost all of the mages are out of mana. Lieutenant General Hadrian was especially glad to learn this as he was going to have to keep quite a large reserve if any mages could take to the field. Now the enemy will feel the entire weight of humanities forces.


    After the interrogation some battalion postman, Coddled children more like, were given messages to deliver around camp. The battalion was set to attack the two lost outposts and to also push from the third. A lot of people are going to die. Thankfully I won''t be one of them, well at least for today.


    Oak, Joseph, and I were given a week to rest and recuperate. Not that any of us are resting. We almost all died so we took as much time as we could learn from the mistakes we made that battle.


    Still, Oak has been giving me additional lessons separate from Joseph. He mostly focused on stealth techniques. The veteran Postman seems to think that it''ll be real useful in the future. Scouting can fall under a postman''s obligation, but there is no way someone would use such a valuable asset in such a risky way.


    I ate those words at the end of the week.

 007-A Night in the Desert part 1

    Who in their right mind would kick someone awake? I¡¯ll tell you who, Postman Oak. So here I find myself, a simple statement of ''Grab your equipment'' and now we''re walking through the desert straight towards enemy territory.


    Turns out Oak got the order to scout the enemy¡¯s main camp in the Forest of Exodus, Lieutenant General Hadrian was also nice enough to allow him to take someone else. Of course, that someone else is me.


    It¡¯s a full moon tonight, bright enough for us to see any patrols. Usually travel at such a time would be a bad idea, but the beastman have spells to help them see in the pitch black, we on the other hand can¡¯t see shit, so we are leaving at night simply because more people will be asleep.


    Oak is just ahead of me, crouched low using the rocky valleys and sandy dunes to try to cut off line of sight if possible. Honestly, enemy patrols should be pretty drained, the Colonel Oberfell lead a massive attack that has the enemy on the backfoot, we''ve been taking ground faster than our supply lands can handle. The Wordsmith definitely sent the right man for the job.


    Oak holds up a signal to stop, I go prone and bring my rifle to bear. I keep my weight on my elbows allowing my breath to be steady. A spoiled breath is often a spoiled shot.


    I can¡¯t see or hear anyone, but Oak is looking intently over a rocky outcropping. He pats the stone next to him. I find a place next to him


    in the distance is the silhouette of figures. They walk using the butts of their spears against the packed sand. Unfortunately for us they also seem to be heading in or direction.


    Oak pulls me from the rocky out cropping and leads me father back to where the stone meet soft pliable sand. Reaching into his bag oak pulls out his camping blanket. Doing the same, I follow along as Oak digs himself slightly into the sand and cover himself with the blanket. In the dark he looks like an odd protrusion in the dune, but whatever that much better than looking like a human on a dune.


    I remained covered trying my best to be as silent as possible. The footsteps grew louder, and I could hear their passing conversation.


    "King''s been offering gold, hiring any adventuring and monster hunting team he can get his hands on."


    Oh, by the Wordsmith that man¡¯s accent is barely intelligible.


    "Hah, let¡¯s see how those Forsaken deal with the best of the best."


    Ahh, the second one is much more understandable.


    "I wouldn¡¯t be too sure, the Forsaken are a much different breed of monster, too damn smart and they can replace a body and outfit it with steel almost immediately. An adventurer is a culmination of our best training and enchanted gear that¡¯s almost impossible to replace. Each one lost is one less clearing dungeons and killing monsters. Anyways, the treasuries going to be drained by this rate. Do you really want to win this war only for your earnings to be taxed to the underworld?¡±


    A third voice, how many are there?


    "Damnit Matthaeus! Things are hard enough, just shut your trap."


    A female voice. The men so weak they need their women to fight for them.


    The footsteps are agonizingly close. The pounding of probably a dozen or so soldiers.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    Poison hath no hold."


    POUND BY POUND, INCH BY INCH, EARTH SHAKE AND QUIVER THEN RIP!"


    Thy body is worthy!"


    The Hunters of Lisa, we weren¡¯t supposed to die this way. I shouldn¡¯t have agreed to this."


    Jeremiah I¡¯m sorry! I love you! I just wasn¡¯t brave enough to say it! Please find me in thenext life, I¡¯m solost without you."


    Thank you"

 008- A Night in the Desert part 2

    Three more of those beastmen were still unconscious. We made sure to kill them before anything else.


    Oak sits on a log by the dwindling fire, he reads a paper.


    "A group of monster hunters." He smirks, "Got lucky with that Mana thief, they could all chant."


    I finish strapping the leather cuirass on my chest, they worked well enough against us. To the victor goes the spoils. Oak''s finding grows some pride in my chest.


    "Wait, if those are monster hunters," I tap on my newly acquired leather armor," is this monster leather?"


    "Probably." Oak continues to sift through the papers he found.


    "Oh, here it is! A map!" Oak gestures for me to sit next to him.


    "See kid we are right here," he gestures towards the desert marked ''Forsaken''s Shield''. He then moves his finger a short distance to a small town at the border of the forest, ''Spearpoint'' "see I knew it, they set up their base at the border town. Lucky for us, I¡¯ve scouted here before. We shouldn¡¯t have any problems."


    Oak pulls to the forefront another map which is marked by lines of red and small script that gives information on troop movement. Ahh, a treasure trove of information.


    I do notice though, "The maps out of date. It shows patrol routes that reach deep into humanity territory."


    Oak shrugs, "We can¡¯t have everything we want."


    "It¡¯s still good information, anyways one of us should take it back to Last Stop." I suggest


    "No, our objective is the base."


    "Oak, there¡¯s two of us, only one of us needs to scout the bas--"


    "Kid, forget about the map, that¡¯s an order."


    I nod, I don¡¯t understand his reasoning, but he¡¯s been doing this much longer than I have. Got to put my trust in him. He said he''ll get me through this.


    "Alright kid, reload your carbine and pistol. Don¡¯t worry about taking any of the enchanted gear from the bodies, we can¡¯t utilize any of them anyways and our steel is much better."


    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Thankfully the camp had a bucket of water, I pour it over my head, vermillion trails fall from my face and cloths. It was starting to smell anyways.


    The night is young, so we continue to take advantage of the time to travel some more. The closer we get to the Forest of Exodus, the more wild life we see. Harpies, Dire hawks, and even goblins are becoming common sights. It¡¯s true then that the desert is the border separating the realm of men and magic.


    Oak seems bothered, looking towards the jewels in the night sky, staring intently looking for something out of place in their glimmer. His steps which were once methodical and deliberate are now more erratic and excited. What does he expect to find?


    With the map avoiding the enemy patrols are simple. We didn¡¯t even have to take any major detours on our path. Eventually, when the sun is just teasing the horizon, we reach the Forest of Exodus, a veritable oasis of greenery in a landscape of barren reds.


    "We''ll sleep between the tree, just off the road."


    The shade is heavenly, the sun peeking through the green leaves shining down upon brightly colored flowers. Little squirrels skitter about, their bushy tails blurring in their labor. I even saw a deer, such a proud beast with a great big rack of antler much bigger than any Beast man¡¯s I¡¯ve seen.


    The air is fresh, smelling of life and warmth, but a distant scent hints at coming rain. Much better than the acrid scent of the capital.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The cities of the homeland''s lack such life, but when we¡¯re training to climb, the Walls of Humanity had yet to have all its life driven from it. Sometimes I find myself longing for those mountains, pining like a spurned lover. Ridiculous.


    Finding a good clearing, we set our tents. Oak found some Goblin dung to rub against the trees. The stench should alert predators and prevent them from coming our way. That¡¯s the idea anyways.


    I killed two people earlier today. Huh, crazy how easily that kind of thing slips one¡¯s mind.


    Sleep claimed me in moments.


    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Wow, we didn¡¯t even set a watch last night. That¡¯s pretty ballsy. Oak is awake, cooking on an open fire. Bacon, eggs (how?), and buttered toast? Those seem to be the smells wafting towards me. I dress, glad to have the leather breastplate supporting my chainmail and much thinner leather over coat. Said overcoat does a great job keeping the light drizzle of rain of my clothes.


    Oak greets me with an easy wave. He answers my unspoken question.


    "Close enough now that campfires are too common to check for spies."


    "Sounds like you know from experience."


    "Two years ago."


    Very interesting, I assumed that he''s made this trip before, but didn¡¯t know for sure. The thin scars covering Oak''s face stretch as he recalls some distant memory.


    A voice hued with nostalgia, "This place isn¡¯t as bad as everyone makes it out to be." Oak''s eyes drift to the left deep in thought, ¡°Well, if you ignore the fact that the people here will do everything in their power to ruin your life, but honestly is that too different from home."


    ''Ignoring the fact, they want you dead'', nice rose-colored glasses you got there Oak, "No one back home has tried to ruin my life."


    Oak smirks pulling the bright scars into uneven clumps of flesh "Kid, most people by a hundred haven¡¯t almost died the amount of times you have at sixteen."


    Fair enough.


    Just as the man said, even with the fire we didn¡¯t have any issues. After the rather hearty breakfast, Oak discussed his plan for getting into Spearpoint. Simply put, this far behind enemy lines the beastman are too disorganized lacking any one leader (thank you feudal society) meaning that the town guards are not trained soldiers looking for spies, but instead simple towns folk.


    According to Oak the only need to do two things, stash the rifles, they are too large to conceal, and wear some hoods. Oh, and would you look at that the rain has picked up, awfully convenient. Bless the Wordsmith for his small gifts.


    That¡¯s how we find ourselves approaching the front gates of an enemy settlement with nothing, but some short knives and a pair of flintlock pistol liable to fuck up in the rain. Just wonderful.


    A guard lowers his spear, more like pointed stick, and queries us. "Hold there good fellows! What¡¯s your purpose this night?"


    My beast tongue is rusty, but passable. "Me and me Cousin are stuck in the rain. Can we have shelter?" Gah, beast tongue grammar is the worse. It lacks the fluidity of the Wordsmith''s language.


    The owlish, literally has feathers around the ears, guard clicks his tongue in annoyance. "Aye, that I can see. Why were you out so late? You seem a bit too well armored to be a traveler."


    Uhm, "That¡¯s right we work for the supply wagons, guarding them and such. Our caravan got attacked but we got away."


    With a skeptical face, "You don¡¯t seem to urgent for folks who just got attacked." the guard seems to realize something, " By the Immortal axe, it doesn¡¯t matter anyways. I¡¯ll take you to the captain and he''ll deal with ya."


    The guard takes a small iron key from a pouch. He places it into the heavy Oak door behind him. A muttered phrase and a twist of the wrist, the door unlocks with a ''clunk''.


    Inside, the town is well lit. It really isn¡¯t much of a town, much smaller than any ''town'' I¡¯ve seen in the homeland. A few dozen houses and a rough gravel street. Thank the wordsmith for that, trying to move on mud roads in this rain would be unpleasant to say the least.


    An odd humming hangs in the air, but it¡¯s safe to assume it¡¯s just some mana crystal or some magic. Makes no difference. What does make a difference is that Oak has also noticed the humming. He does not seem to take it lightly. His face pulling into a grimace. He stares at the sky not even bothering to continue to walk.


    "Keep up you two. Stop your loitering."


    I cover for Oak. "Sorry guardsman but my cousin is a bit slow. Gets skittish when in new places, like a dog you see."


    The owlman nods, "Ahh I see" what an understanding man. "Do you two out of towners hear that humming."


    Yes, I do, it¡¯s also getting much MUCH louder.


    I see the tensed legs of Oak, he¡¯s preparing to run. With a soft mutter of ¡®fuck¡¯, he begins to dash towards a building. My feet pound after him, followed by an angry town guardsman. Oak slams into a door, breaking it loose and waking its denizens from their slumber.


    The out of breath guardsman levels the spear at us which sways with exhaustion. "Just what do you think you are doing?"


    Oak ignores the threat, instead crawling underneath the table. Just what purpose does hiding under a table serve..


    "Airship! Get under here!"


    "Hold on here just what language is that!"


    What is an airship? I push pass the useless guard and crouch under the table. This feels absolutely ridiculous, especially with the family cowering in the houses corner as we hide under the fucking dining set.


    Deafening explosions ring out and the earth shakes. Pieces of wood splinter from the ceiling falling down, one smashing into the guard which ends his shouting. I can recognize the noise causing all this damage.


    Whatever an airship is... It has an absurd number of cannons.

 009- The Burning of Spearpoint

    At some point the family decided that cowering in the corner was a much worse decision than squeezing under the table with us. Now I find myself huddle against some beastmen, one of which is a child, a child who won¡¯t stop screaming. That¡¯s fine, I¡¯m screaming too.


    At some point the bombardment moves on. The cannonade still rings out proudly, but over some other poor bastard¡¯s house. Kicking out of the grip of the family, Oak and I move out to the street. We need to leave, don¡¯t feel like dying to friendly fire.


    The rains fight against the rapidly spreading fires, but nothing stops the gluttonous flames.


    Oak shouts, "Why the fuck did they bring an airship here?!?!"


    "You get concussed or something! It¡¯s the beastman''s main base!"


    "That¡¯s a lie kid! This is just some town in the boondocks!"


    What the hell! Why are we out here then? What could be Lieutenant general¡¯s objective? Oak begins to jog deeper into town, the wrong direction if you¡¯re asking me. We should be leaving. I shout after Oak, it¡¯s got to be part of the mission.


    "Oak! What¡¯s the objective then!"


    "We have to meet up with a deserter!"


    A deserter. Must be someone important if we''re being sent all this way. Hopefully they can get out of town before the whole area becomes nothing but cinders.


    Running over fallen debris and bodies, we head towards the town square. Citizen dressed in torn clothing are grabbing buckets doing their best to fight the fires consuming their homes. The stench of burning flesh and gunpowder mix to create a particularly disgusting smell that lingers in the nose.


    Looking up, fat rain drops hit my face, I can see the ''airship''. I¡¯veseen the ports before, the sea borne ships of incomparable power. Somehow the crazy sons of bitches in the Ministry ofScience covered one of those warships in metal and got it to float using, what, a balloon?


    Dark, thick lines descend from the airship slapping into the ground. Figures leap over board holding onto these lines sliding towards the ground. Blindingballs of red energy are launched off deck, landing on houses and blasting them apart with raw arcane power, blood crystals. So many blood crystals.


    The splashing of puddles alerts me to the movement of others.


    "Kid, don¡¯t let those soldiers see you! These guys are bad news, run or kill! Don¡¯t hesitate!"


    Small arms ring out, grenades are thrown with wild abandon. We avoid the sounds of the dying andcontinue across the town, unfortunately we see, to be running against the waves of retreating civilians. What¡¯s your plan Oak?


    This was going to happen if we continued our path. Three of the soldiers stand in front of us, the rain gently pinging of steel plate. They wear full steel, well-articulated, fitted like a glove. Material is underneath it. Their head, is covered by a large helmet that forms a mask over the face. I¡¯ve never seen soldiers like these. They walk easy, gunning down beastman with practiced ease utilizing several pistols they have strapped to their chest.


    They keep their rifles signed by their side, one of them even has a blunderbuss. Oak doesn¡¯t even falter, sprinting through an alley to avoid them. Happens that we didn¡¯t avoid them at all, instead we ran perpendicular into another group.


    Oak slides, taking out the legs of one. With a roll he gets back to his feet, his back covered in wet mud. He is dashing across the street running through anopened doorway.


    I pull free my pistol and fire at the far premier soldier of humanity, the minie ball is sent careening as it scrapes off his breast plate.


    I hear a shout of "Pistol! They got fire arms!"


    it doesn¡¯t matter anyways, they aren¡¯t able to get a bead on me before I follow close behind Oak entering the building.


    Inside the building I take a right, following thebangingof footsteps. I see a blur of Oak before he slams into a door splintering it off its hinges.


    An explosion rings out and the wall behind me is shredded as almost a dozen musket ball tear through it. Damn blunderbuss!


    I can hear the pounding of feet as I erupt into the street. I pause. Left, right. Oaks to the right. The crack of a bullet passing my ear. I dash to the right, slipping on the wet gravel. A hand roughly grabs my overcoat. I pull an arm through shedding the jacket.


    Oak''s ahead of me, at one of the other exit gates of the city. Bodies of beastman litter the floor in front of the gate causing Oak to stumble. The road glistens, small rivers of blood and rain flowing in equal measure.


    A flurry of desperate shots rings out but it¡¯s hard enough to hit a sprinting target yet alone, butin the rain and smoke it¡¯s almost impossible. I don¡¯t even think about how these pistols could be firing with what I can only assume to be wet primer powder.


    Oak dives down, using the bodies as cover splashing a slurry of blood, and mud over his prone form. He draws his pistol. A plume of smoke and my closest chaser falls with a hole in his boot.


    Still sprinting, I look back to see a group of five or six soldier lining up, rifles drawn. Shit shit shit, duck and weave. The smokes too thick to see me. Who am I kidding this road isn¡¯t that big. Diving down I pull the nearest corpse over me.


    With perfect unison the men fire a volley, adding yet more smoke to the hazy air. My meat shield takes the punch of a lead bullet, but it doesn¡¯t over penetrate, much to my growing luck.


    scrambling, my feet gouge deeply into the soaked ground, I run towards Oak, the man¡¯s already long gone. Hopefully, those soldiers will say the same about me and stops pursuing.


    I sprint through the gate, a heavy burning in my lungs. The smoke causing damage to my already fatigued lungs. My eyes have been dried to the point of tears. I pour some water over my face watching it descend black, mixed with soot.


    I see Oak leaning against one of the trees, resting in the cover under its cover.


    Great pillars of smoke rise from the town, the now heavy raining is the only thing preventing the town from becoming a bonfire. Glory to Wordsmith, that¡¯s a fucking airship!


    "kid" a few more deep breaths by Oak," We got lucky they didn¡¯t surround all of the exits." Oak takes out his canteen taking a swig, "The target was supposed to meet us until tomorrow. We''ll just have to show up at her keep."


    "Who were those soldiers?"


    Oak clicks his tongue, frustrated"Nasty people, any time there is any dissent in the home country, those are who they send in. Disgusting bastards don¡¯t care who they kill."


    I¡¯ve never heard of such a group. I wonder where oak has.


    Oak stands walking away from the town.


    "Come on kid, the place isn¡¯t too far."


    Moving through the forest, no signs of life can be heard, any refugees have long sinceescaped deep into the forest. We don¡¯t even bother reloading our pistols, the primer will just get soaked through.


    It was unfortunatewe decided to stash our rifles and bags.We willnever see either of those again, hopefully we won¡¯t need them.


    Eventually our walk becomes a jog, both of us desperate to get out of the rain. Oak has his compass out. We''re travelingsouth-east. He says we''ll have travel through the day.


    A shiver runs down my spine, soaked clothes leeching my heat. I want nothing more than to dry off right now.


    With the rising of the sun comes new warmth. I strip out of what clothes I can and carry them by my side. The sun warms my skin eventhrough the light drizzle that yet persists.


    Not long after noon the rain stops. I wring out my clothes and re dress. Finally, I reload the pistol with the small powder horn I keep hidden at the small of my back. Don¡¯t feel quite so vulnerable with a loaded pistol.


    Before us lies a series of houses made of stone, not a single crack or crevasse but one smooth surface. The villagers stare at us as we enter town. We didn¡¯t event try to hide the fact we''re human. While seeming perturbed, almost assuredly these villagers haven¡¯t seen a Human before, so they probablyjust think we are some rare breed of beastman.


    occupying the middle of the village is a large stone structure.Lacking in detail, the only thing preventing it from being a rather large cube is a few chimneys and windows covered by leathers.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Oak singles this house out walking towards it. At the front lies a heavy stone door, impossibly cut with working hinges. It must be magic. To the right of the door is a small string leading to a hole in the wall. Pulling it, a bell rings pleasantly.


    "Coming!"


    Oak looks at me, "Don¡¯t act out, they¡¯re good people."


    "You''ve met the objective before?"


    "Yes"


    The door swings open without noise, an impressive foot. A girl, young, probably fourteen or so stands before us. With dark brown hair andpupils little more than dark slits on a white background, she makes me feel very unsettled. She is dressed simply, a brown dress and barefoot.


    A shocked expression comes to her face. She forces it back down but it¡¯s clear to see she¡¯s as disturbed with us as we are with here. Doesn¡¯t help that my holster is visible along with an array of knives that run along my chest.


    She bows deeply, "How can this servant help you seers today?"


    I translate to Oak. If the young servants surprised by us speaking the language of the Wordsmith, it doesn¡¯t show.


    Oak keys me in on what to say.


    I do my best to sound polite, "Good afternoon, is the lady of the house available?"


    Still bowed the servant shakes her head, "No good seers she¡¯s, she is finishing some errands in the village. Would you like to wait inside as I fetch her?"


    "Of course."


    The servant rises only to bow again, she points us to somechairs by a fire place. Thankfully, unlike most of the house, thesechairs are not stone, but instead wood. The servant leaves, we alone remain in the house.


    Oak makes some conversation to pass the time.


    "Those soldiers that we saw, they are the ones that killed hickory." I move to speak, Oak raises a hand to silence me. "Two years ago, Hickory and I were sent to several villages in the Forest of Exodus to see the plausibility of an attack. During our time here, Hickory changed. He envied the freedom he saw. He always hated how rigid the homeland was."


    Oak takes out the harmonica, flipping it in his hand.


    "When we came back, Hickory tried to lead some people out of the homeland and into the Forests of Exodus. The government caught wind of it and sent those soldiers to hunt him down."


    There¡¯s a whole in his story, how he knows who was sent after hickory, unless "You were there Oak, you tried to leave with Hickory."


    "Sure did, the government bastards never found out."


    The soft steps of boots bring us out of our conversation.


    "Hello Oak." a feminine voice ring out from the other side of the room. It¡¯s an uneasy voice, on the edge of some tumultuous emotion.


    Oak stiffens before relaxing his posture. He looks behind me to the origin of the voice. An odd expression lies on his face.


    "Lucania"


    I rest my elbow on the arm rest holding my head up with my palm. I get the feeling that this isn¡¯t my conversation to be had. I¡¯ve been awake for too long some rest while I can.


    Lucania ignores me, instead moving towards Oak ever so slowly, one small step at a time. she comes into my view, but she doesn¡¯t even notice my existence.


    She''s beautiful, skin kissed by the sun, aluminescent bronze.Chocolate locks of brilliance cascade from her scalpresting on her tense shoulders. Lithe and fit, proportions perfect. She is the epitome of feminine grace, even in black trousers dirty from a day of labor. Her trembling throat is laid bare by the loosely tied red blouse.


    A thin aristocratic face, eyes as blue as the sea glimmering as a tear drops from her face. Pale pink lips quiver in a flurry of emotions.


    If only would could ignore the emerald scales that dance along her arms. She could be, no she would be the most beautiful woman I¡¯ve ever seen.


    "I thought you were dead. I mourned you."


    Her words torment my ear, pain not meant for me dripping freely from her face.


    Oak sigh reducing to meet her eyes. He cradles the harmonica in both hands considering the eyes of Lucania.


    "I was dead, without Hickory, without... you." Oak stands trying to take Lucania¡¯s hands within his own. She pulls them close to her chest refusing. Oak wraps his arms around her resting his head next to hers. "I died too that day in the desert when Hickory was killed because of my inability. I died again when I decided to run away instead of finding you. I die every day I decide to live while he is waiting for me on the other side."


    whispering, her voiced laced with venom, ¡°Then why does this dead man haunt me?!?!"


    Hugging tighter "Because I decided to steal the life that Hickory can no longer live. I''ve seen what you are doing for these people, you¡¯re doing it too."


    Lucania pushes him away, her chin raised proudly even as she sniffles.


    "Of course, I am! unlike other people I remember my promises!"


    Oak shakes his head a chuckle on his lips, an uproarish laughter breaks from his lips. Tear form in his eyes as he stares at Lucania. Lucania sniffles, a cute chuckle breaking free, the two lunatics laughing at nothing.


    They sense of relief is palpable as they finish laughing a smile on their faces.


    "You remember your promise to me then Lucania?"


    "I remember all my promises."


    Lucaniakisses Oak gingerly, a gentle but reassurance of some unspoken promise. The woman embarrassed turns her head to the side, looking at me sitting relaxed. I wave my free in asimple greeting. Her eyes widen in shock as she finally notices my presence.


    "HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN THERE!"


    I gesture to Oak, "I arrived with him."


    Lucania points at Oak then me, "Just who is HE."


    "The kid is my colleague, good at thinking on his feet just like Hickory he''ll be a useful ally."


    before anyone could say anything, else there is something I want to know before I forget, "How are you speaking the Wordsmith''s language."


    she looks at me for the barest moment, "Translation magic," she turns back to Oak ¡°, so you brought a stray here."


    Ouch


    "Hey, don¡¯t be so disrespectful. Kids a better postman now than when I was his age. " Thanks Oak.


    The Beast woman shrugs, ¡°Not as useful as a mage."


    Taking some offense to this I reply, "I killed some mages who thought the same thing."


    Lucania raises an eyebrow.


    "Madam, Lunch is ready if you wish to eat with your guests." the servant announces from the other room.


    I stand heading to the room. Lucania watches me as I go.


    "You speak Fae."


    I grunt an affirmation that I do indeed speak the Beast tongue. Fae tongue is much too grandiose a title for such a barbaric language. Sure, it can use magic, but so can goblins and dragons and you don¡¯t hear them proclaim their language as THE Fae tongue.


    I¡¯m the first one in the dining room other than the servant girl who sets the table. The lady of the house follows shortly behind me hanging off the arm of the old Postman. They sit next to each other, I elect to give them some privacy and sit on the far side of the table.


    It¡¯s amazing that Oak made some girl fall so madly in love with him that she betrayed her country out of love. I wouldn¡¯t believe it if I hadn¡¯t seen it myself, but one of those Beasts? Pretty questionable choice, the Wordsmith doesn¡¯t approve of such things.


    The meal was simple, vegetables and bread. Nothing to complain about. What was more exciting was that Lucania brought out of bottles of wine. I don¡¯t know If I was just so tired or if it¡¯s the alcohol, but it didn¡¯t take too long before I told the servant (who I learned is Lucania¡¯s apprentice) to lead me to my room.


    It was a spartan thing, a cot in the middle of the room and a small chest to put my things in. It didn¡¯t look comfortable. I was asleep when my head hit the pillow.


    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Someone left a change of clothes for me. A black pair of hemp pants and a white shirt of cotton. They itch a bit, but are warm and dry, aint nothing to complain about. I put on my holster, strap my bayonet to the side; lastly, I put on the bandolier of throwing knives. If only there wasa mirror, I must look like some rogue hero from a play.


    Downstairs, a group of individuals sit around a table eating a breakfast of ham and beans. Oak and Lucania is there, but there are three figures I don¡¯t recognize. Before I can even take in the situation one of the men, stick thin wearing a suit styled in the manner of the homeland, its well-made if not for the fact that the beastman''s arms hang way too low to the ground, what an odd breed. Thismanboy seems to be even younger than me, maybe fourteen or fifteen. He shakes my hand, Beastmen don¡¯t shake hands.


    "Hello, Forsaken, have you happened to see the play ''John and the Shepard'' it was in theatres all over theForsaken lands. I heard the critics gave it stupendous reviews, couldn¡¯t recommended it enough. No, you haven¡¯t. It¡¯s no matter. Is it true that some train carshave luxury carswhere they serve high quality food and liquor? Fantastic! Do you know when Johann Schmidt will be having is tour over the applications of the modern steam engine? Next month really! Oh, how rude, I¡¯m Gaius the Omniscient. Nice to meet you Slate"


    What.


    A brute of a beastman with massive bull horns smirks, "Don¡¯t mind the boy, he''s just a little enamored is all. Obsessed with your folk¡¯s culture. Also, he can read minds so if he¡¯s asking questions that what he¡¯s doing. I''m Emil the Large, nice of you join our little conspiracy."


    I nod, Emil the Large, what an appropriate name. The final figure, a handsome looking Elf of shaggy brown hair and a patchy beard, He nods between puffs of smoke.


    He opens his mouth for the barest of moment, "Alexandrian"


    They all look at me as I take a seat at the table. I load up a plate and begin to eat. They continue to stare at me.


    Oak clear his throat, I look at him.


    "Kid, these folks aren¡¯t deserters."


    I reply between spoon full of beans.


    "Do you know where they''re at?"


    "Yes, they are in this room"


    "You just said they weren''t."


    Oak scratches his head but moves closer putting a hand on my shoulder.


    "It¡¯s uskidthere was no mission."


    "Oh, he''s pissed." Correctly remarks Gaius the Omniscient.


    Red hot fury flows through my veins. I grab the kitchen knife in my right only to find my hand being constricted by a ring of wood that has risen from the table. The elf holds up his hand willing the constraints tighter and tighter.


    "Hold on kid! Listen to us!" I lash out with my left hand, but its simple for him to grab my wrist and pin it behind my back. I can feel the tending straining in his grip.


    "A liar nothing but a fraud!"


    "It was for the best kid trust me!"


    I stop fighting, letting myself go limp in his grip. He lets go of me and takes a few steps back.


    "Let me just tell you wha-"


    The bayonet descends, its edge as sharpas a razor. The first swing cleaves halfway through my wrist.


    "By the Axeman he''s gone insane!''


    The second swing breaks through the bone freeing me. I slide my arm out and rush Oak. That bastard will die. They always lie. They lied about Tomo, they lied about being a postman, they lied about these damn beastman.


    I struggle overOakknife dripping blood on his traitor face. With two hands it¡¯s easy for him to keep me at bay. I hammer into him with the stump of my arm spraying him with blood forcing him to close his eye. I feel no pain for the Wordsmith is with me! None of you other fucks know true devotion.


    I feel something hard wrap around my waist. It squeezes and my vision tunnels, chucks of something is thrown up. I can¡¯t breathe, it burns. It pulls me off Oak throwing me through the doorway. A stone hand, it was a stone hand coming through a wall. That¡¯s what killed me.


    "Lucania, you fucking idiot!"


    I can see Oak running towards me, I pull free my pistol and squeeze the trigger.


    *click*


    The hammer bent in the fall. I can¡¯t feel my legs. Those chunks had to have been intestines, my waist squeezed almost to separation.


    "Stay with me Hickory!" in the encroaching darkness of my vision I can see Oak his head, "Lucania! Why did you have to do this!"


    Some words are yelled back and forth but humming of blood in my ears defense me. On my back, I can see a of a beautiful blue sky. In my delirium I see a great metal dragon heading for me. Beams of lights fly from its wings. The ground shakes. I can hear there screams at the edge of my perception. At least my brain tricked me to believe I had some retribution in the end.


    It¡¯s cold.

 010- Wordsmith (Corrected chapter)

    I wait for death, but he is nowhere to be found.


    My body regains consciousness. My back is pressed against a stone floor, nothing but a shirt to protect me from its cold. I should be hurting right now, but I feel fine. In fact, I feel more well rested and pain free then I ever have during that damnable campaign.


    I open my eyes, surprised to find myself greeted with the flickering of multiple fires. A roof of smooth stone hangs above me. I appear to be in a cave judging by my decor. Surprisingly I don¡¯t smell any smoke, or even see any smoke, but that could just mean that the face opens somewhere nearby.


    I push off with both hands. Yes, I do now appear to have both hands, and yes, my legs are working fine.


    Rising to my full height, I stretch my arms above my head, joints popping and cracking. I reach my hands to my face to rub away the last vestiges of sleep only to find a new fuzzy companion on my face. A beard. I can¡¯t grow a beard, too young.


    The cave is smooth stone throughout, and the only exit is a set of ornate doors of heavy oak. Oddly enough one of the walls is flat, just a sheer perpendicular to the unnaturally even floor. Said perpendicular wall is where two large braziers are located, no wood within them, but still they burn with the intensity of a well-maintained flame.


    Well this is the oddest prison cell I¡¯ve ever been in. Not that I¡¯ve ever been in a cell before, but just using common knowledge they aren¡¯t generally a perfect one-hundred-yard cube. Much too large.


    A strange red glow come from the strange perpendicular wall. Line of ominous red are carved into its surface. Where do I recognize this stone?


    I approach the glowing rock face only to be surprised at what I found.


    ''The words of a prophet, only heard withintheaira voice carries.''


    Every fiber of my being trembles reading the words written for me by the Wordsmith. So many of them too!


    "My Lord I implore you! Tell me what to do!"


    I await the as more of the stone turns red and is written upon by the glorious lord of humanities magics. Captivating, the only word to describe it, utterly captivating. The length of the sentence...no, it¡¯s a paragraph! Sends a shiver down my spine. Such an incomparable being is wasting such words on an insignificant man such as myself. Glory to the Wordsmith!


    ''The messengers body was sundered. To save one from death, some must accept the ministrationsof others. The flesh of the demon, fed well and grew on the wrath of the courier. Strength of arms and swiftness of feet, a blessing granted by such a thing. It now stands for its labor.''


    To my right is a mass of metal, barely am I able to make out a wing from the beast. This must be one of the three remaining demon¡¯s greed. Guess I really saw some sort of dragon creature. Greed had to have saved me then, but how did it get me back here without me bleeding out? How did I not see it earlier? The demon flesh must be Greedy.


    ''SLATE''


    ''Take six cylindered death, Revolver. Forget all worldly possessions, a satchel to carry a true burden.''


    THE WORDSMITH SAID MY NAME! In front of me falls from somewhere unseen, a satchel and holster. Not rising from my bowed form, I crawl towards them. Revolver is like nothing I have ever seen. Her body is metal, runes of indescribable beauty are etched into her surface with an artist¡¯s precision. On her handle lays a large blue crystal which is warm to the touch.Six cylinders which holds ammunition to deliver the Wordsmith''s wrath.


    I know not how to use it, but for some reason my body acts on instinct reaching into the never-ending satchel and loading the cylinder with rounds. Another blessing of the Wordsmith. He gives gifts, so I know to use his tools.


    The Satchel is indeed almost unending food, blood crystals, more of these strange cylinder bullets which lack priming powder, and any survival gear a man could dream of.


    ''The journey of the messenger will find himself in the lands of the Abominations. Give the Beast King my message, only when the messenger has seen twotimes when the sun has dipped lowestin the land of the Abomination. The messenger will not be idle though in this time, ingratiated he will be to the Abominations ''?The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    I must spend two winter solstices in the lands of the Beastman and deliver the Wordsmith''s message, which I assume to be in the bag.I hide revolver within my waist band.


    Reaching into the satchel, I pull free a clean uniform of a city postman. Its shorts and button down white short sleeved shirtis a staple in the city.


    I reach the oaken doors, briefly admiring the carving on its frame before turning the handle and stepping through. A brief spell of nausea hits me. Looking behind me, only loose rocks of a tall mountain can be seen, no door. Directly ahead of me is Wordsmith''s Paradise, A valley city of a million souls which reside in the shadow of his very mountain. Endless rows of houses puff black smoke into the smoky air. No place like home.


    The streets are busy, citizens rushing to and for dressed simply as to preserve material for the war effort. With how long this beard is though. I¡¯m afraid the war is much over.


    An urchin sells newspapers to passersby while shouting about some story about the protectorate. I pull a coin from the satchel.


    "I''ll take one boy."


    Flipping him the coin.


    "Thank your ash."


    Pushing through the crowd I find a bench on the side of the cobble stone throughway."Happy two years anniversary of claiming the Protectorate!"It shows an impressed image of a map. The forest of Exodus.


    Also, the date on the paper is Spring 347, three whole years from when Oak betrayed me. I wonder where that snake bastard is now.


    It seems like the boys pulled through and won the war. They did have to stop though when they reached the plains. The say that the area we conquered was only a duchy and now, we''re running smack dab up against a large kingdom.


    the other articles were gossip pieces of little import, whose fucking who and whose planning on running for what position. Not entirely interesting. What is interesting though is the recovery of my hand.


    Its back now and while it doesn¡¯tlookvery different, its night and day. The sensation of power I can feel in my entire arm is intense. Putting my hand on the metal bench, I squeeze the metal bends and contorts. Feeling it with my other hand I can barely make out the strange structure of my remade right arm. the muscles are no longer pliant, and this is true all the way up to the shoulder.


    My legs also have been remade, as all mylower bodyfeels odd, too sturdy and strong. I feel ready to break into a sprint at any moment, but I digress.


    Standing from the now vandalized bench Ilook for a barber to remove this unruly mass of hair on my face. Thankfully I don¡¯t have to look far. The place is simple, a small storefront under a few floors of apartments. I pay the man for a shave.


    He makes some small talk, as barbers tend to do, and in our little conversation we just happened to get on the topic of the Protectorate. From what he can tell me, it¡¯s a place where Beastmen and human''s both live. As soon as the land was conquered, colonists were sent to alleviate some of the overcrowding.


    From what he''s heard, the Beastman nobility isn¡¯t all too happy about the new arrangement, well they were stripped of title. The Beast peasants have accepted their new overlords with a surprising amount of acceptance. Apparently, food shortages were a real problem into we introduced our farming techniques. Turns out the Beast''s choosing to serve those who feed them, fickle creatures.


    Rubbing my smooth chin, I pace down the street. My sour mood has kept people away from me in the most part. I don¡¯t mind it gives me plenty of space to think.


    It¡¯s been three years since the war began. I¡¯m almost nineteen years old. Oak by now, I¡¯m certain has gotten himself ingrained into Beastman society.


    Oak said he would get me through ''this'' when talking about the war. What the hell did he ever do but get me for all intents and purposes killed. The wordsmith saved me. I can¡¯t wait and find that heathen and torture him until he admits folly.


    Thinking about Oak does remind me though. I still have some pay I am entitled to from the war. Also, I might be listed as adeserter,so I''d rather not have my name being spread around.


    I can hear the distant horn of a train. I have no reason to remain in the city. Jogging over to the train station, my body seemed to have suffered no fatigue from the three-year nap, I arrive just in time to see the thing leaving.


    Ignoring the protests of the employees I sprint after the train. My new legs are filled with more power than I know what to do with and I easily catch up to the train. With a leap, I grab onto a ladder. and drag myself over to a door.


    Straightening out my clothes and hair from the wind I enter the train.


    Never would I think to see a civilian train heading to the east, but here it is. The train is loaded with individuals of all shapes in sizes, all human of course. It takes a lot of different kinds of people to modernize an area almost the same size as the Homeland and that¡¯s what these folks are trying to do.


    I continue walking through the rows of train cars until reaching a dining cart with a bar. I simply ask for hard liquor and the man pours me something that smells vaguely of burning coal. It burns on the way down so that¡¯s good enough for me. I drink to the thoughts I¡¯ve been holding off in my mind.


    Why could I be such an idiot as to think I could trust anyone. It was obvious since the beginning that Oak was just grooming me to be his replacement Hickory. The extra training, the friendliness, even the fact he taught me to play the harmonica.


    That man didn¡¯t even view me as a person. Not that I mind that too much. What I do mind is that he convinced my stupid ass that he really cared and then used me. It was the pretending that got me, for a second there I almost felt like I was doing something important and had a friend.


    How many of these have I drank?


    The world begins to spin, I lay my head down on the booth table and go to sleep.