William

No one knew what to expect of the Deadlands. The generals sent scouts as soon as the battle ended. They didn’t waste time browsing the ruined Lockehold citadel. When the scouts returned, speaking of a better location for encampment, the generals called for a march. The Medical Corps agreed the wounded could not stay on the battlefield or follow through the pass. Come morning, soldiers guarded the caravan of the injured south to the last city before the Dread Peaks. There the wounded could heal, then catch up later. They may pass a few friends along the way, too.

Soldiers celebrated too enthusiastically that night. Three made life ending decisions and found their corpses hanging from trees. The word traitor had been carved crookedly into their bare chests, no doubt while they were still breathing, and their severed hands lay at the ground beneath their feet.

“Were we truly in need of more dead?” Charmaine muttered, teeth chattering from the morning frost.

Oscar huddled close to her. The young soldier followed William around most of the night, then Charmaine upon realizing she spoke more than her friend.

“They laid with fae, didn’t they?” Oscar sniffled and rubbed his hands against his flushed cheeks. “During training, everyone said fae and mortal ain’t meant to be together. Folk said you’d meet a bad fate, but I never expected that.”

“The consequences aren’t always so bad,” she explained. “Sometimes it’s nothing more than being ignored, but after this battle, I am not surprised by the violence. I doubt the men were fond of their friends laying with those known for treating us worse than the dirt beneath their boots.”

“Mortals have always found the act more egregious than fae,” William contributed. “I’ve overheard the lying scum treat bedding mortals as a game, seeing who can deceive the most in a single evening. I wouldn’t be surprised if the fae they laid with were the ones who revealed to everyone what had transpired.”

“Well, I ain’t going near one of ‘em with a twenty-foot stick,” Oscar grumbled. “I never saw much of the lot till now. Never had fae in our ranks, only heard they were no good. I would rather not learn that the hard way.”

“No, you certainly do not.”

Although it would be inevitable. Fae ensured any who crossed their paths had fearsome stories to share. Nightmares plagued William concerning his.

“But you stood up to one.” Oscar sounded awe inspired. “To a shade, no less. You are brave, doc. I never learned much about shades, but I know they’re not right, corrupt.”

“They have strength we, and even their own kin, cannot fathom,” Charmaine said, then swung an arm around Oscar’s shoulders and pointed accusingly at William. “Do not take notes from William. He shouldn’t have done that last night, so you should rethink idolizing his moment of insanity.”

“Idolize? I, no, I just thought it was brave, is all.”

William nodded. “Albie is right. Such behavior shouldn’t be idolized, but never let a fae walk over you, either. Once you do, they will end you.”

Oscar repeated the advice as if his words were gospel and the march continued on.

The Deadlands had a fitting name, for they came across nothing living, save the trees. A sea of evergreens stretched far and wide. Snow piled high. Clouds blocked out the sun, coloring the world a dull gray. Soldiers coughed and hacked. Medical officers ordered everyone to cover their faces. There was no telling what they inhaled, and the scent of sulfur grew during their long walk.

“We’ve yet to cross any monsters,” Charmaine said, voice muffled by the cloth wound around her face.

“With how many protected Lockehold, Fearworn likely assumed they didn’t need more near the keep,” William replied.

“Or they fled,” Oscar said. “After what happened, they could have retreated and regrouped elsewhere.”

“That could be true. I’ve heard Nicholas Darkmoon gained a tremendous artifact from Lockehold,” Charmaine whispered, as if this gossip hadn’t already spread through the troops. “A tome, of sorts, something very secret. The beasts may have known this and fled to their master. We’re close. Not just to Fearworn, but to the end of this damned war. I can feel it.”

“Are you sure that feeling isn’t indigestion?” He winced when Charmaine pinched his earlobe.

“Don’t mock me. Your optimism may be dead as a poisoned rat, but I carry mine wherever I go.”

“I am more than aware of that, though that will not prevent me from reminding you we’ve been told for years that the war is almost at its end.”

“And we never had a genuine reason to believe that until now.”

He allowed Charmaine her hope. Not as if he could ever douse it, nor did he truly want to. However, Calix Fearworn went two decades with no one paying his devious plans any mind. Then almost another decade before he attacked both Terra and Faerie. Humans and fae finally agreed to fight together. Within all those years, Fearworn showed himself only when absolutely necessary. It’s how he survived this long.

Even if they defeated Fearworn, the world changed forever. There are more Shimmers, portals that once joined only Terra and Faerie. Fae call them Scars, probably because they considered humans a scar upon their lives. Now, there are Shimmers to the unholy plane Fearworn opened to summon monsters. Those portals will never close. Their lands will forever be infested.

Even his Mother, across the sea in Heign, suffered from an increase of monsters invading their backyard to steal cattle, ruin crops, and kill innocents.

William pressed a hand to his chest. Beneath his jacket, tucked in one of the interior pockets, was one of her many letters.

Matilda wrote to him often, far more than he replied. He knew that hurt her, but he ached after reading and asked himself if he remembered her voice correctly.

Am I terrible son if I struggle to remind them? He wondered.

Matilda always sprayed the letter with perfume, too. By the time the letters reached him, the scent had dulled. He barely got a whiff of honeysuckle, but when the aroma hit his nostrils, he had the urge to cry, to scream, to beg, and to run home. Fear overtook him because his family would not recognize who he became. He’d be reminded home hadn’t changed, but he did, and life would never be what it once was.

Plucking the letter from his pocket, he flipped open the pages to read a fifth time. Matilda shared updates of their family. Arthur married two years back. They recently welcomed a daughter. He ached over missing his brother’s wedding and the birth of his niece, but Matilda always wrote in great detail. Even that charming dolt, Richard, started courting a lady. Matilda and Robert hoped to receive news concerning an engagement soon.

The brief moments reading over her letters set him at ease. She did what she could to remind him of the home waiting for him. She ensured he didn’t feel left out, that he knew his family and what they were up to, that he had a home to return to, and they were waiting for him.

Any comfort brought on by the letters shattered when a set of horns blared proclaiming the troops were to make camp.

The scouts discovered ruins of an old village once inhabited by the unfortunates who farmed these lands before Fearworn claimed it as his domain. Two of the buildings became the medical bay where William inspected soldiers suffering from fever, fatigue, and potential Shimmer Sickness.

Although the army didn’t come across a Shimmer for days, some were more sensitive than others. The affected became dazed and loopy, stumbling over their feet, forgetting to eat and drink. These were simple cases where giving them more food and water eased their symptoms. The more severe cases left people laying motionless in bed, as if the Shimmer called for their souls and trapped them in limbo. The only solution was to take them far from any Shimmers and hospitalize them. Most woke up eventually. Those who didn’t passed slowly.

Between inspections, he took breaks to write Matilda back. He never shared much. It was doubtful his mother wished to know how many limbs he severed or fingers he reattached. The least he could do was let her know he was alive and pretend to be himself.

With the sun about to set, he worried he couldn’t find the postmaster. Another soldier explained the postmaster refused to pass the Dread Peaks. Two soldiers volunteered to cart letters to the nearest town, but that would be the last of any letters. The generals wouldn’t risk sending men on their own or force anyone to retrieve letters. Birds didn’t work, either. All the messenger birds died when entering the Deadlands, an ominous omen for certain.

The soldiers in charge of tossing duffle bags into a rickety old carriage were kind enough to allow him to write a swift note, informing his family they may not hear from him for some time. Then the carriage departed.