The carnage had stunned him. Drust was no stranger to death and blood - it seemed to follow him wherever he went - though that hadn’t prepared him for the horrors he had witnessed in Baloria. The depravity his own so-called brothers in arms had indulged in. 

It hadn’t been a lengthy campaign. The Wulfen Kavellerie had led the Fostarran march westward in search of a suitable foothold should the tensions with their rival nation, Barlindt in the northwest, finally break. War was not something Drust was familiar with. He had grown up with stories of those who had died in war, legends of heroes forged in war. But never had he experienced it firsthand. The thought stayed with him, in sleepless nights and in long treks through marsh and waste. 

Their single skirmish with enemy soldiers had come and gone quickly. Drust and the other Kavellerie members made short work of the mounted rangers of Barlindt, the advanced guard of the Fostarran military much the same against the Barlindtan infantry. Almost unfair, Drust had thought. Even in victory, however, they still came to the conclusion that there was no good way to approach their rivals from the south. The deadlands and black mountains of the west stretched too far, were too inhospitable to large forces. And so, they returned the way they had come. On their way, however, they stopped at a village. Baloria. 

A neutral town, one that didn’t swear fealty to the king of Fostarra, Baloria was quaint. It wasn’t a bustling city, though nor was it the rustic country town Drust had imagined when told of their destination. It was a large village with a central main street that housed many interesting stores and landmarks, from a dilapidated church more than three hundred years old to a magical obelisk that stood in the very centre of town, humming with power. An artifact of the ancients, Drust assumed. 

It was normal at first. The townspeople welcomed them. They ate, drank and partook of pleasurable company before retiring to sleep. However, when a squadron of Barlindt troops entered from the north, things quickly changed. The townspeople, in their neutrality, made a fatal mistake. They welcomed the Barlindtans.

It was the sound that hit Drust first: screaming. The shrieks of women and children and the roaring of men. Soldiers and villagers alike. The Barlindtan troops had been wiped out quickly, with ease, but that hadn’t been enough for the Fostarran forces. The villagers, in their eyes, had betrayed them. The heat hit Drust next, flames erupting from buildings and unfurling into the air, edges licking the stars. 

Frozen, unable to act or think. Drust watched the chaos unfold from the window of his inn room, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. The villagers, innocent people, were being mercilessly slaughtered. Though, with abject horror, Drust realised it was only the men who were being killed. He saw the young woman who had brought his food the night before, who had told him how beautiful Foucauld was, splayed on the street below his window. Her face, pretty when she was smiling at him, was ruined by cuts and bruises. Clothes ruined, covered in blood and grime, still breathing. He watched the soldier walk away from her, laughing and staggering drunkenly after tossing her aside. Drust felt something snap within him, and suddenly the weight holding him down lifted.

He leaped from the window, onto the laughing soldier while drawing his dagger in one fluid motion. It sank into the man’s throat like it was butter. Easy. He stood, drawing his sword slowly. Fostarran troops gaped at him. He couldn’t see any of his Kavellerie comrades, but on the main street alone there were over two dozen well equipped, highly trained men, armed and clad in steel. Drust cracked his neck, whirled the sword to loosen himself up and settled into a basic stance, gaze darting between his former compatriots. A bad joke. The first to come at him was split clean in half.

Forty in total. He had stalked through the streets, into the burning buildings and through the dark alleyways. Soldiers, many seemingly drunk on the violence and mayhem around them. He caught far too many in the middle of heinous acts, more than he would have imagined. These were the men he fought with, the kingdom he fought for. His nose wrinkled in disgust, fist clenching around the grip of his sword so tightly he could hear the leather of his gloves creaking. Children, animals. There was no end. The smell of death permeated the air, mingling with the scents of smoke and ash. 

It only took an hour, Drust walked out of the village gate with Foucauld padding along at his side. Covered in blood, the two of them, they must have been a ghoulish sight. Grunting, Drust rolled his shoulder a few times to ease the stiffness of his muscles. He had taken a few hits, but nothing serious. His time in the military was over, he knew. One of the soldiers must have sent word back to the castle. Magical communication was so simple it’d have been foolish not to. 

Fourteen hours of walking, trudging and hiking back eastward from where he had come. He wished he didn’t have to cross through Fostarran territory, but it was either that or the deadlands and he knew which would kill him faster - even as a deserter. He had made camp after crossing the westward flats, on the outskirts of the Great Fostar Woods. Those, he made far better progress through. He was used to the woods. Foucauld was in high spirits as well, hunting and sprinting happily. Forests brought the two of them great joy. Though after only a couple hours, they were on the other side. The Mammoth Steppe. 

Another hour of marching over grassland. Drust’s feet already ached. Before long, though, his destination came into view. The great walls of Liestar, the bridge village. The only safe place to cross the Great River Fostar. As he drew closer, however, a figure became apparent. Sitting astride his golden greatwolf, Gildmane, captain Crescent cut an intimidating figure. His armour was burnished gold, the helmet an intricately carved wolf head with rubies inset as eyes, eyes gazing from the open maw. His cape and fauld were wolf pelt, and in his hand he held an enormous great lance, the flared base completely hiding his entire right arm. Drust’s commanding officer, captain of the Wulfen Kavellerie: Jura Crescent. 

“On guard, boy.” Came a rumbling voice from beneath the golden helmet. Crescent readied his lance, aiming it level toward Drust. Sighing, Drust gripped the leather of Foucauld’s saddle and pulled himself up with ease, swinging his leg over and settling into his riding stance. Foucauld growled, his hair standing on end as he faced down the bigger wolf ahead of him. With a flourish, Drust drew Ulfsfangur from the saddle and whirled it over his head. It sang and whistled as it whipped down to the side, pointing at the ground. 

‘He won’t let me go.’ Drust thought, and it was true. Crescent was here to kill him, eliminate the traitor. He always did take that responsibility upon himself, in Drust’s experience. Any failure in his ranks was a failure of his own. There was no running. He had to fight. 

It was like a silent horn was blown. Foucauld and Gildmane started towards each other at a sprint, growling and barking. It only took a few seconds. As the wolves collided, Drust avoided the tip of Crescent’s lance just barely, bringing his halberd up in a quick arc. The older man batted it aside and they separated. Their mounts circled each other. Foucauld had lost their initial tilt, taking a nasty wound to his cheek. Drust wouldn’t let that happen again. 

Their second charge was the last. Drust smacked the lance away with such force it sent Crescent sailing from his wolf, and as Gildmane reared up to attack Drust brought Ulfsfangur in and stabbed upward. The halberd speared straight through the beast, spraying blood over Drust and Foucauld, splashing over the ground around them. Crescent cried out, tossing the lance aside and running for his mount, but Drust was faster. He simply let go of his polearm and leaped from Foucauld, flipping in the air. Both feet crashed against the golden, wolf-emblazoned breastplate of his former captain. Drust fell into a press-up position as Crescent crashed into the ground gracelessly. He rolled several times, getting to his feet with a twirl and drawing his shining broadsword smoothly. Drust responded in kind, his own blade slipped free of its scabbard easily. 

“What were you thinking,” Crescent managed between heavy breaths, “You damn fool.”

    “You weren’t there,” Drust growled, “You didn’t see it.”

    “I’ve seen plenty!” The captain roared, “I thought your constitution stronger, boy.”

    “My constitution?” Drust’s voice dripped with venom, “Those monsters butchered and violated children, captain. This isn’t a question of constitution, it’s simple morality.”

    “Such is the way of war,” Crescent sniffed dismissively, “Of conquest. Those in unaffiliated lands have no rights, no protections. They are not people like us.”

    Drust looked at the man before him for a long moment before speaking. “... You disgust me.” He drew the dagger from his belt and flipped his grip, settling into his stance. Crescent chuckled, a deep and rumbling sound, before unsheathing his own second arm: a small single-sided axe. The Ulfritter of the Wulfen Kavellerie were all trained in unique ways, one of which being their signature unmounted style of dual wielding. They all used different weapons, facing one Ulfritter did not mean knowing them all. The two men rushed at each other without another word. 

A flurry of sparks, the air filled with the clanging of steel. Crescent grunted as he came in hard with his broadsword, and even as Drust parried the strike away he was already turning. The axe came next and slammed Drust’s sword aside. A tut, Drust spun with the momentum and lashed a kick into the captain’s chest. He staggered back, coughing and spluttering and Drust capitalised. He dashed in, a lightning-fast swipe of his sword taking the axe clean out of Crescent’s hand, his dagger whipping up and then arcing. The scrape of metal on metal, a cry from Crescent and he fell back, rolled and came back up to his feet with his broadsword in both hands. The golden wolf helmet bounced and rolled to a stop on the ground, a cut opening up on the captain’s brow. He was confused, bewildered. Drust could tell, the furrowed brows, eyes wide. His hair was plastered to his scalp and his stance was all of a sudden much more wary and tight. Drust had always been a skilled fighter, his commanding officer would know that better than most. He just hadn’t known just how much Drust had been holding back these years in service to Fostarra. 

Crescent made a move. He feinted left, brought the sword round and tried for a stab that Drust parried effortlessly, spinning the tip of the broadsword then flicking it aside. Crescent staggered and Drust stepped in, shoulder crashing against the bigger man. He stumbled, broadsword swinging wildly. Drust calmly weaved around the blade, running the blade of his dagger along the space between the captain’s breastplate and rerebrace. He wasn’t wearing chainmail and so Drust was rewarded with a shriek as the cloth under Crescent’s armour was suddenly blotted with red. Drust ducked another wild swing and brought his sword around in a tight arc, though the captain was fast. He brought his gauntlet up to defend himself and the sword clanged against it but didn’t slice through. Though it did knock his arm down, allowing Drust another opening. He crossed his right arm over, whipping the dagger up toward Crescent’s face. He drew blood once again, opening a cut along the captain’s cheek. 

Crescent backed up, trying to make as much space as possible between himself and Drust. Gaze fixed on his opponent, Drust simply walked towards him. 

    “What…” The captain managed with a shaky voice, “What are you..?”

    “Better than you.” Drust said simply. He flicked the dagger up, pointing at Crescent and at its tip a light flared. A glowing, blue circle appeared in the air with a sigil in its centre. Crescent’s mouth opened a fraction as energy erupted from the circle in the form of a focused blue bolt of magical energy. The energy crashed into the captain and he screamed as he spun through the air and crunched against the wooden village wall, collapsing into a heap on the ground. His broadsword twirled in the air twice before embedding into the dirt ground between them. 

Crescent tried to rise, but his shattered bones stopped his ascent with a whimper of pain. He glared at Drust, teeth gritting even as he lay, broken and defeated. 

    “It’s pointless,” The captain hissed, “You bested me, but you will never get through the fortress.”

    Drust looked down at him.

    “A hundred men await you, boy… And even if you escaped. Even if you crossed the river…” Crescent smiled, teeth stained red, “The Kavellerie will hunt you down. They’ll kill you.”

    Drust remained silent. A long moment passed, the captain coughing and groaning. Then Drust simply knelt down and plunged his dagger into Crescent’s throat, all the way to the hilt. One less monster. 

Crescent hadn’t been lying. Drust considered swimming across, but he knew that’d be certain death. If not for him, then certainly for Foucauld. The only way over the river was through Liestar fortress, the outer fort of the Fostarran kingdom, manned at all times by a hundred military veterans. Officers. Drust looked at the walls, a dozen metres high, the men patrolling them with their pikes and crossbows. He sighed, then started toward the main gate.

Blood, steel and stone. The smell of leather, iron and filth. War cries and anguished screams. The feeling of flesh parting at the edge of his blade. It was a blur. A mace struck his head, a hammer his ribs. A sword carved a furrow in his arm, a knife through his chest. His fingers snapped when he stupidly punched a plate steel helmet. He ran, he slashed, he kicked and clawed. Grey stone all around him, narrow and suffocating. An arrow, pierced through his shoulder. A knife in his thigh. He survived, he fought. Through it all, after the gruelling combat and maze-like fortress hallways, he made it.

His consciousness was a fickle thing, it faltered quickly only to come back painfully. Drust mounted Foucauld to cross the outer drawbridge, dodging crossbow bolts and arrows, sprinting from the shouts and cries as the blare of the alarum faded into the distance. Only a short sprint over a stretch of grassland and then, finally, the riverbank thicket came into view. The forest swallowed them, the dark embrace of the trees shielding Drust from the noise and bedlam as Foucauld - ever his stalwart companion - carried him to safety.