Iskal sat back on his ankles, pressing his palm to the ground for balance, the moist soil glueing itself to the tacky blood coating his hands. It was cool to the touch. Bilman's eyes were glazed over, the whites now pale grey like summer clouds. Tears were stinging his own. Crying was a rarity for him; he'd forgotten what came with it. The running nose, the hitching motion of his chest, the catch in the throat. In this moment he didn't even really care to scan the surroundings for any remaining enemies. He felt in his gut that he was truly alone here now though.

  Lithan, the poor rawflesh who hadn't seen one iota of combat until today, fell to the first of the two scourges that had challenged them. From Iskal's position it looked like he'd simply frozen. All the training out of the window in a blink. Iskal had managed to dispatch these two by himself but took large gash just above the knee in the process. It was trickling blood onto the ground where he kneeled. He went to secure it with the remaining gauze. He needed a distraction.

  With his knee wrapped he decided to move on to the next distraction, searching the scoundrels that had slain his unit. He rifled through each of their pockets. They all seemed to be wearing similar clothes: A leather jerkin with the muddy green cloak. There was no identification on them, just a significant quantity of money - several bags of ducads and even a few ryals. But then, just as he was about to stand, he noticed a tiny scar peeking at the edge of the beltline of the older man, who he'd now judged to be the leader. On closer inspection though it was revealed to be a brand of three letters:

  'EHG'

  'En Holistis, Glory... The New Becoming.' Iskal thought to himself. The cultish sect bent on unifying the three nations of Oros under one monarch. He and the unit had been briefed about them at a quarterly operations meeting about eight months ago. 'Up and comers but with limited resources.' They'd been labelled by the Lieutenant giving the talk. Iskal put two and two together. They must've been growing these... What did Fiegh call them? two-cross ajers? To either sell and fund their activities or maybe even wield their magic for the purpose of committing insurgent attacks of disruption on the respective governments.

  What a mess it all was. What an unbearable shame. None of the soldiers he'd lost had come close to reaching even their half lives. And here he was at forty-four, the only one standing. He wanted to carry them all back on his shoulders, to bear the physical burden at least, but he knew that was a fool's idea. He'd have to leave them here, in this beautiful but cold forest. He decided to bury his troops at least. The cultists could be picked at by the creatures of the forest for all he cared.

  It took him 3 hours to dig a grave big enough for his four Marchers. He lowered them carefully, respectfully. The work would have to be undone soon of course, when soldiers would return to review and analyse and exhume the remains to be transported to Embestour. But it was still the proper, dutiful act.

  It was dark now, and Iskal was exhausted, but it was time to leave. He wanted to be cleansed of this place and its heady air and endless shade. He took up his partizan but his legs refused to move. He was looking at the two-cross ajers. Their yellow heads seemed to glow and cut through the darkness of night. Without thinking, he moved towards the patch and kneeled down at the edge. He reached out and plucked only two of the flowers, so as not to leave too-large a gap in the crop. The roots came with them, dripping that same sunshine-yellow liquid onto the flowerbed. He wrapped them in some spare wax paper he found in the front pocket of his travel pack, and then again in his waterproof cape.

  He then, finally, departed. First through the forest, tripping occasionally over hidden mud clumps and fallen branches, and then through the gap in the mountain stone, and then down the goat path and then due west on the east road towards Collosea. As he walked down towards the long range of farmland, he refused to acknowledge what he'd just done. Although, in a small chamber at the back of his mind the conversation was being held.

  In the flashes where he overheard this discussion, one party was suggesting that he'd paid the value of the ajers with the lives of his unit. This was the source of the real shame, not the godforsaken flora. They were under his watch, now they were gone. He'd failed the duty elemental, his working purpose. This reality bobbed about in his head as he walked.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  After a few miles he found a hamlet consisting of a dozen houses, two market shops, and a tavern. Up on an overlook was the infantry garrison, a large one for such a small commune but they were close to Embestour so it wasn't out of the ordinary. Just as he stepped off the main way he saw an undara coach noisily driving up the east road. He still wasn't used to seeing them, even after their 5 years of existence. Goods transported not by horses or gorgons or humans but by... heat and pressure? The world of Oros was moving fast.

  He knocked and entered, and saw about eight soldiers, some on bunks, some sat at a table with mugs of ale, one at the window looking out at the tall peaks rising from the other side of the basin of farmland. It was at this moment that Iskal realised he didn't know what to say. Their Acting Frontstock, a man sat at one of the tables, spoke for him.

  'You look a bit rough soldier.' He said while placing a domino onto the chain on the table.

  'Good evening... Hello... Can I have a word with you?' He replied. His throat was stiff. This was the first utterance since his final words to Bilman.

  The Acting Frontstock appeared puzzled, but then shrugged and stood to follow Iskal outside. He then told him the whole story, all apart from the pilferage of the two-cross ajers. Upon finishing, just when he was expecting words of disownment, the other Acting Frontstock, who'd addressed himself as Hull, offered him ones of understanding instead. Looking back on it, Iskal imagined the other Frontstock must be thinking of his own unit, how he'd feel if he lost them.

  *

  The next few days were a blur. Iskal slept in the large garrison on the night he arrived, unseating a grumbling but sympathetic Marcher from his bunk. Early the following morning, as the first peach colours of dawn were beginning to creep into the skyscape, he set out with six of the eight soldiers up to the goat path and through the crack in the wall to retrieve the bodies of his unit and get a better impression of the scene.

  Before they departed, Iskal wrote several letters, which he took to the Hamlet's resident Falconer with the request that they be sent to the Central Falconry in Embestour. The first was to his wife, in which he told Viella of the reason for his late return, and to give their son Arburne a long hug that lasted, at the very least, for several minutes. The next was to his superior, Frontstock Officer Yered, which contained a more formal and detailed account of these reasons. Finally, he wrote a letter to each of his Marchers' next of kin - whose details he'd always kept in a folded envelope in his front breast pocket - standard practice in case of tragedy. In the letters he extolled how they died on their feet for the greater cause of the Collosean realm and the people within. There was an unerring truth to these words. He then paid the falconer with a weighty roll of ducads to ensure swift delivery.

  Once at the ajer patch, they dug up the remains of his unit and transported them on a cart, under the cover of a cloth tarp dyed with the Collosean colours, the same blue green as their leathers and armour. This colour was chosen years ago to symbolise the iridescent flame created from burning copper, itself a reflection of the source of Collosea's wealth, its vast deposits of various non-precious metal ores.

  The remains were kept packed in ice for the rest of the day while the assigned investigator for the region, one of the Marcher First Classes in Hull's unit, reviewed the dead members of The New Becoming, and compared it to Iskal's report. He found nothing amiss. The two-cross ajers were naturally the focus of attention. None of the Hamlet unit had even heard of them but they kept their distance for the reputation of arcane flora. Hull wrote a special sealed letter to the Ministry of Botanics in Collosea, with a request that their experts on arcane flora be sent to their location with a unit of guards in accompaniment.

  Iskal watched all of them as they hovered around the flowers. His acting was good, matching their looks of fearful wonder. No one seemed to notice the small empty space in the patch, or at least if they did they kept a good poker face. Either way, he would find out soon enough if anyone had realised foul play.

  A day later, an undara coach owned by the Embestour military mortuary arrived to take them to their final resting places. Iskal bid farewell and thanks to Hull and his unit and joined the coach driver on the puttering horseless cart. He originally thought of walking. It felt a good opportunity for solitude and to gather his thoughts, but he yearned to see his wife and young son once more.

  It was Iskal's first time riding an undara coach. There was a fine peculiarity about it: The enormous wheel, like that of a large ship's, propped in front of the pilot, the gaseous huffing sound it made, the pleasant, spicy herbal smell produced from the slow-burning undara serum within the engine. He was handed some thick tinted goggles that looked like gorgon horn stumps, probably for the purpose of avoiding the dust kicked up from the road. The driver didn't say many words on the two-day journey to Embestour, such was the solemn way of their work. Iskal was happy for this though, he still didn't feel much like talking.