Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Cruidín base, Western front of the Empire

He stood up, shouldered his crossbow and looked around. The sky was grey and overcast. So were his thoughts. Cold drizzle was just one more unbearability of many. And his stomach growled to remind him of such. Another pit was dug. Another mass grave. The silence of labour interrupted only by occasional cursing. The rain muffled all sounds. How many now? Did he even want to count? He knew too many names buried in that damp earth. May Naomh Cairistiòna guide them.

The losses had been limited this time. A miracle, considering that they had been fighting for weeks, perhaps months - the sense of time was deceptive - without a general. Without a general, without structure, with empty stomachs and fading will. Every confrontation was about survival. Wave after wave of elves came at them. Day after day. They must have been as desperate as the humans who tried to stop them.

The main camp was now the only one left. Back in the day - he couldn’t remember how long ago it had been - Cruidín base had consisted of another output to the north and two in the west, as well as a series of supply depots roughly half a day’s march to the east. They had received no news from any of these outposts for so long, they assumed the main camp surrounded.

The man with the crossbow walked across the battlefield and collected as much equipment as he could carry and brought it back behind the secure palisades. Individual pieces of armour, shoulder plates, a bracer here, a helmet there; swords - rather rare; an axe; three arrows that were still usable.

There was no need to collect the armour and weapons of the fallen, there was still more than enough for the few remaining who could still fight, but at least it gave him something to do. This grey, tense emptiness, this dreary, nerve-eating boredom, interrupted by short, panicked fights. Desperate sprints, screams, whirring bow-strings, commands, steel and blood. This daily grind left his spirit a bloody stump. And so he tossed the swords, axes and whatever else he had found with the other weapons, shoved the bolts into the pocket on his thigh and went back out onto the scene of the carnage. The mud of blood, rain and earth squelching underneath his boots with every step. He walked. He wanted to walk. Away from the camp. To stand in the open field, for once without fighting.

It was a grotesque mockery of a field after a harvest. Torn banners, spears, bolts and arrows growing out of the mud like stalks that had escaped the journeyman. The waystone pointing towards Andars and Bay’Asin no longer important now that there was no longer a road. Nothing more than a memory in the dirt, barely visible from the watchtowers. Corpses to either side. Elves. Disfigured by death and decay. Degraded by heedlessness. When had they given up on collecting the bodies and simply left them where they lay?

The soldier saw something flash between the metal claws of one of the elves, which snapped him out of his trance for the first time in days. On closer inspection, it turned out to be an amulet. He carefully uncurled the cold, lifeless fingers so he could examine it in a better light. It was a small crescent moon, forged from hoof nails, on a simple leather strap.

While he was still considering the significance - whether personal or religious - he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Just briefly. A shadow sweeping across the mire. He jerked his head around, his hand on the dagger at his hip. But there was nothing. Irritated, he dropped the necklace into the dirt. Step by step, he fought his way through the mud towards the tree where he’d imagined last seeing the shadow. The crossbow always firmly aimed at the trunk until suddenly, to his right, he heard the squelching sound of boots in mud. The soldier quickly turned that way and took aim at the elf who, to his surprise, was only drudging slowly towards him. He lowered his crossbow and came to face his enemy. He had no reason to shoot them, an arrow was sticking out of their left thigh and there was a gaping cut across their chest. More dead than alive it was a miracle they could still walk at all. The crossbowman wouldn’t waste a bolt on them. One thrust with a dagger and all would be over. It would be a mercy; would show some humanity out here after all. Something he thought the last few months had taken from him. He who thinks humanely hesitates and dies, a commanding officer had once told him.

One cut and their soul would travel to their ancestors.

The empty eyes of his opposite pleaded with him. Their incomprehensible words pleaded with him. Their gestures. They sank to their knees before the soldier. A bang, a jolt through their body and their expression changed. A silent question; a final question. Their body slumped into the mud. Just one of so many. They would never find their way back to their ancestors.

The soldier turned to the gunner. Short red hair. Only one arm. What was her name again? Sara? She was new here; arrived with the last supply troop, if he wasn’t mistaken. How long ago had that been? Two months? She was still standing tall, love for country and emperor still in her breast. Fire in her heart. Years on this godforsaken frontier had not yet left their cruel mark on her.

“Careful, next time they might get you”, she joked dryly. The soldier only grunted by way of reply, turned and made his way to the tree he had wanted to examine earlier.

The tree was old and withered. Dead. The wood black and without leaf for years. This shell had witnessed every battle fought on this field. The elves must imagine some god in it. If there was, he was not well-meaning. So far they had not been able to take the main camp, even if it was only a matter of time until they did. The soldier circled the tree once, but he did not find his shadow, only a single sword. He decided to take it. In the end, what did it matter?

Back at camp, he threw the sword on the pile with all the others and went to his barracks. Not many beds were still occupied. Most of the Bows had been ordered to Andras at the beginning of the war and of those who had remained, a good half were dead by now. The rest were little more than tired, pale shadows.

While walking the empty hall, the soldier was again surprised by the shadow. “What the fuck?” No response. “Come out!” Nothing. That was now the second time. Was he imagining things? Impossible. “Caolán?” Once again, no response. Dagger in hand, he snuck from bed to bed. At the last one, he finally found it. His shadow. The androgynous form of an elf crouching on the ground.

“What do we have here?” This he hadn’t expected. How had one of them gotten in here? “What are you doing so far outside the woods?” He knew what duty demanded. It was the emperor’s will. But the throne was far up north.

The elf turned to face him, but made no attempt to leap at him and slice the flesh from his bones. The dishevelled, metallic strands hung in his face and they stared at the soldier with the eye not covered by hair. Not with fear, anger or even curiosity, just icy defiance.

“So you don’t want to talk…” He grabbed the elf by their arm and pulled them up. The elf squirmed in his grip and with a deep growl slumped down again. Their gaze remained fixed on their opposite. Their right knee and left lower leg were wrapped in bandages.

Again the soldier pulled the intruder up again, but this time he shoved them onto the bed. “So the poor little elf can’t stand upright anymore. How in the hells did you make it here?” He pressed a blade to the elf’s throat. “And you’d better start talking, or I’m running out of reasons to keep you alive.”

Another deep growl. Spite in their eyes.

“Must go…” It wasn’t much. A miracle, they even knew these two words in Kádin. Still, the soldier wanted answers.

“What has you elves so sacred, you’re running to your deaths by the thousands? Surely you understand by now that you won’t make it past.” He had little hope for an actually helpful answer, but the question was burning inside him. What was so worse than breathing your last breath out there in the muck and the mud?

“Know not what coming”, the elf hissed.

“Whatever it is, we will stand as the walls of Merun!”

He wanted to ask another question. Get some kind of information from the elf. Anything that was of use, but Naomh Seaghdh had other plans.

“Elves!” - “They’ve broken through!” - “To arms! They are here!” A wild cacophony of different shouts, all with the same meaning.

The marksman cursed. Another fucked up day.

“Listen! Not elves!” His guest became more intense.

“What then? What in all the saints is it?” The soldier was beginning to lose patience. Now was not the time.

“Run!” - “Those aren’t elves!” - “Get out!”

The soldier flinched as the door crashed onto the wall behind him. He spun around and froze. This really was no elf. It had the pointed ears, the claws, the metal in its body that glimmered in the dim light. But it was no elf.

The lower jaw was split along a straight line and what had obviously once been a gaping wound at the belly was grotesquely grown over by shimmering carapace. He had thrown the dagger before he could wonder any further what abomination stood there before him. The blade dug into its shoulder but it showed no reaction. It began to run.

The soldier yanked his crossbow upward, knocked a bolt and took aim. The first bolt found its target in the chest. It didn’t stop the nightmare. It didn’t even flinch. Step by quick step, it kept running, bright blood dripping onto the ground. The second bolt hit the carapace and simply bounded off. He had killed so many elves during his time at Cruidín. So many souls sent to the afterlife. At first it had been difficult to pull the trigger. At a certain distance it was easier. When you couldn’t see the face. As the months passed, it didn’t matter anymore, when he saw the face. The emperor commanded. He obeyed. Knock the bolt. Aim. Pull the trigger. The bolt digs through clothes, skin and flesh. If it hit proper, the target dropped. Stumbled at the least. Cried in pain. That was what he had gotten used to after all this time. That was how it should be. Now that his target was so unimpressed by the shot, panic rose in him.

He pulled a new bolt from his pocket. The beast was already so damn close. He prayed. To no saint in particular. He wanted to put the bolt on. It slipped from his fingers. Fell to the ground. 

One clumsy leap and his world was dead flesh, rot, claws, blood and teeth. Before he realised what was happening, the creature dragged him to the ground. With all his strength and will, he held the tall body at bay. Jaws snapping. Nails raking. Drool dripping. From the corner of his eye, he saw the elf stirring on the bed, but he didn’t have the time to worry about that now. He kicked the beast in the stomach, the thigh - he was desperate - between the legs. It showed no reaction to anything. Again and again the three jaws snapped at him and saliva sprayed his face.

His eyes darted back and forth in panic, but nothing was within reach. Wrong! There! The knife. It was still stuck in the beast’s shoulder. He found a good moment between blows and bites and pulled it out. Bright blood soaked his clothes.

He would have almost rejoiced in this tiny victory, but in the blink of an eye, his hand hit the ground hard. He lost the knife. A jolt went through the beast and it let go of him. Struck at something to its left.

What in…?

The soldier heard the elf cry out and then fall to the ground. An opportunity… He found the knife and plunged it into the creature's neck up to the hilt. The dead flesh offered little resistance and cold blood ran over his fingers. With a jerk he yanked the blade upwards. The lifeless eyes were once again fixed on him. Behind that dull gaze, there was nothing. Another stab. Straight up. Through throat and jaw. Cold ran down his arm as the blade passed through the open throat. The bone gave way at his violence.

The monster collapsed atop him. His heart was racing. And the smell of blood and sweet decay almost made him vomit.

With effort he straightened up, grabbed his crossbow and carefully approached the elf. They didn’t move. Then it’s over for him - at last.

After wiping his face with his sleeve and knocking a new bolt, he headed to the entrance, from where the attacker had come. A quick glance outside confirmed what the screams had already told him: There wasn’t much left of Cruidín base. Everywhere soldiers fought desperately against those creatures or were simply overrun. Torn to the ground, with teeth or claws in their flesh. Helpless dead prey. Panic-stricken cattle. Life in bloody shreds. Life seeping into the earth. Life buried in mud.

The crossbow slipped from his hand. His knees threatened to give in. It cost all his strength not to collapse. All those women and men with whom he had fought side by side during these last months, eaten, slept, talked about small nothings, they died, one by one.

There it was again. Panic. He had to leave. Get away. Just away. Just away. Follow the main corridor? No. They would see him. He would… No. The road left? No. Over there one of the beasts was busy digging through a body. Róise… She was still moving. Fuck! Saints! Gods!

He fought the urge to vomit. Stumbled back, away from the door. Ran back to the window. The barricade was just beyond it. Two man-highs to get there. If he could just find a weak spot, somewhere, where they had had to repair… There were constant repairs. Maybe he could get out alive.

Fuck… As long as he stayed close to the walls hopefully none of the creatures would notice him. He ducked into the shadow. The barricade seemed to still be made from the first logs. No repairs. Shit! Godsdamned shit! In spring they did some repairs behind the mess.The old poles had rotted through during the mild winter.

In a far off corner of the base desperate orders were still shouted, until they suddenly stopped. Áed knew the voice. Ronan. He had once been under his command during a scouting run. He was a reasonable man. Calm and collected. Now one body among many.

Áed ran. With blind hope. His thoughts filled with a prayer to Naomh Cairisiòna that she might not take him yet and many curses.

He found the spot he had been looking for. The repairs were done miserably, and yet it was more difficult than he had anticipated to pry off the boards. He pulled, he kicked, he cursed and finally had a hole in the wall big enough to crawl through. He hated himself for fleeing, while his comrades died. But he didn’t want to die here. He wouldn’t die here.

As soon as he was out, he started running. He wasn’t even sure the direction was right. Wasn’t sure how far he’d make it. Just wanted to be gone. Andras? If he was lucky, he might make it there. Perhaps he could warn somebody. If not? That too wasn’t important. Just gone from here.