Deep in the miasma, Hamus never ceased ringing his bell. The Bemoaner watched the man's wrists, genuinely wondering what arcane reinforcement allowed such relentless motion for the entirety of the battle. A few minutes' worth of lessons from Hamus, and he had been able to learn a spell to enable him to see just fine in the miasma. Guess it made sense. He also needed to see.
"How is it going?" a deep baritone voice queried from the shadows.
"Better than I expected. Great, I'd say," Hamus rasped, the bell never faltering. "My troops were greener than vomit, and yet the empire struggled this much."
"Brown," the baritone corrected.
"What?"
"It depends on what you've eaten, but mostly it's brown. Second most common is white."
Hamus blinked once. Then again.
Long stretches of peace and a lack of worthy opposition had turned the Sun-Vale—an empire so vast that it was a realm where the Arbiter always had a gaze over a part of—into a fat, lazy house cat. The proof was in the pudding: the successful assassination of the crown prince. But Hamus had felt the subtler rot. The one felt by only a keen eye, loads of Words of Assertions, and a ton of qualified Arcanists. His miasma had been deployed as a triple-layered tool: a shroud, a hiding place for his modified Menhir, and a massive antenna.
His Arcanists, who never ceased to amaze him, had crafted elemental sensors that pulsed in specific frequencies, searching for his unique Signature. They were then connected to cowbells that were themselves linked to the bell he was holding in his hand and therefore to the miasma. And that had been his main reason for choosing the open field. To reduce obstructions, he made himself a giant target. And the data had poured in.
He'd felt the moment a familiar Signature—one of his own Battlemages—was snuffed out. But more than that, he'd mapped the enemy's disorganization. The Battlemages were spread too thin, the Swordsmen leaned heavily on their bestial instincts; it had made them deadlier, but predictable, and the Arcanists did not properly finetune the equipment to the men. The imperial war machine was trying to march, but its joints were screaming, full of rust and incompetence.
"Bemoaner. Why do they use 'moan' for pleasure instead of 'mourn' for crying?"
"It is meant to be a derogatory term."
"Nah! It's because the elements fucked you!"
"Where do you even get your jokes?" The Bemoaner's voice was flat, his face a mask of disapproval.
"In the fuck."
"What the fuck?"
Hamus was pleased with the insult and the assault. But then he felt it—a subtle twitch in the Order, a strain that pushed the Balance just beyond his reach.
"The Arbiter has denied us," Hamus stated, all humor gone.
The Bemoaner could obviously not feel it, and neither did it affect his strength. His kind was the rebellion's contingency for moments like this.
"Today we walk away." Hamus stopped ringing the bell. Across the field, cowbells tied to the necks of his minions disintegrated into dust. His Battlemages broke from their engagements, melting back into the shrinking miasma. When the darkness had coalesced into a five-meter sphere around the modified Menhir, Hamus drew a Scroll. He uttered a Word of Assertion, and the Scroll transformed into a dot of light that streaked into his bell.
Leaving the bell to ring on its own, Hamus stepped onto the Menhir after the Bemoaner. He placed an arcane crystal at its center, chanted the Words of Assertion, and vanished. The Menhir followed a heartbeat later.
Without the miasma to sustain them, the remaining minions were cut down by furious Swordsmen. The Swordsmen had just kept maiming and butchering until they met the miasma, and then still slaughtered and stopped only when they found the still tolling bell. When one of them approached it, it disintegrated into dust. The miasma then blew away like smoke snaking its way to the heavens.
Still, today, they had been hunted, and all they had been able to do was hope. The disengagement of the Battlemages had been a relief—a physical weight, pressing the surviving men into the mud—a churning slop of blood and gore. Every footstep made a wet, slopping sound that rattled in the skull. They lay there, spent, warming themselves under the Arbiter's gaze.
A wave of piety washed over Torrin. He did not know where it came from, but maybe the close call with Borus had catalyzed it. He had felt it as the relief watched over him, and he felt it in his bones that his spirit wanted to rejoice, but the flesh was not willing. He still willed his heart to rejoice under the gaze of the Arbiter. Today, the Arbiter had cast his gaze over at him, and when he had affirmed that it was never right for a man to suffer for another's sins, the Arbiter had agreed with him.
"You can walk, right?" Torrin asked.
"I'll manage."
"Okay, I'll accompany you to the barracks, then home. You have to, Borus, you have to go to the City Hall and get a Biomancer to administer some form of treatment. If not, file a request with the Military's Hospice. They'll send an Arcanist and a Biomancer to fix you up."
"Yeah, yeah," Borus said, making a shooing gesture. "I'll go with the Hospice. I've got the merit points."
"You could die this time."
"Or I could be reborn. Better. Faster. Stronger. A beast amongst men."
"Seriously, you could die."
"And?"
"Don't do that to Meryl."
"Maybe you should be with her! Why... why do you always bring her up?"
"She loves you, Borus."
"My dog also loves me."
"She just wants to be with you, that's all."
"So does my dog. Also, the prospects with the Miller's daughter seem promising."
A celebratory whistle escaped Torrin. A sense of pride for his friend washed over him. "Valid reason," he said, raising his palms in surrender. "Still, better the bird in hand than the one in the bush."
"Batshit talk from virgin old men," Borus countered.
"Maybe it was one of your great uncles." Torrin found a nerve to hit.
"Then I am glad he died a virgin and wiped out the family's shame."
"Your words may attract a curse."
"From who? Them? They failed to attract women, and now they attract curses? That's wild talk." Borus even flicked his hand down to emphasize the point.
"There's been similar documented events."
Torrin towered over his friend and extended a hand. Borus grasped it and levered himself up. He collected his sword, slung his pack, took his shield, and fell in step behind Torrin.
As they neared the city gates, the reality of their survival hit Borus, and he felt his knees buckle in a sudden, dizzying wave of relief.
"You okay?" Torrin asked.
"Fine." The tone left no room for further consultations.
Every time he spoke to the annoying creature, Torrin regretted calling the Biomancer so quickly. Maybe he should have waited a little longer. Sacrilegious thoughts are not for tense nerves, he warned himself, flashing a smile at Borus to mask the storm within whilst twirling his fingers to prevent a tremor running through him.
They passed through the gates to a warehouse built against the Argent Wall itself. They stepped onto the Menhir. The same nauseating twist, and this time, for the first time, Borus rushed to a dump in the corner to vomit.
"See! Now you really need that Biomancer. Just wipe clean the Arcanists' nonsense that you have in your brain. Do a reset."
"Maybe I'll be reforged anew."
"I shall spread malicious rumors upon your death."
"Nah, they'll say you did not meet me in my prime."
Torrin felt a migraine coming on. He pressed a finger to his temples and then rubbed them. He'd lowered himself to a stupid joke, and the guy hadn't even batted an eye.
I shall dig your grave with joy.
They lined up to return their gear and sign paperwork. Later, in the barracks' garden, the Baron's personal band played as wine—soothing to the throat and warm to the tummy—flowed. The meat tore easily, its oily richness a balm.
When the Arbiter began to shut his eye, ceding to the powers of chaos, Torrin headed to his flat. He was too exhausted to care about Borus; the name couldn't even form in his mind.
This place held deep importance to him. And for some reason, it had concurred with the empire's feeling that it was also important. To him, this was his birthplace. The place where he had shared every small achievement in life with the ones he cared about. The place where his progenitors had lived, and his descendants will call home. Anything that tried to deny him that would have itself to blame when it was gutted.
He walked on muscle memory alone, his eyes seeing only blots of light in a blurry world. He found his door, closed it, and the pious feeling returned, washing over him once more. A single tear fell from his left eye, and he slammed face-first onto the floor.