For Ul-Baqsha, the battle of Jama Bog was a succinct dessert. A drop of harmonious victory in the war against the Ontullian Legus. Dwarves dying for their proud nation and elves falling in greater number. The Ul-Baqshan prince, or as they would call him, ‘Ultin’, laughed as the piles of long-eared meat made a mountain. Red juices seeping into the black ooze of nature’s graveyard. The Ultin raised his iron in celebration. His men did the same. As their dastardly foe, Commander Dreyadus, withdrew to Fort Blavim.

  Yet not all of the Ultin’s soldiers were loyal dwarven heads. Money makes mortals muster, and both sides knew this well. In the company of the Ul-Baqsha Razsinate, essential to their victory in the bog, was a blue-scaled dracokin mercenary. Armed with a fiery limb of a Sorcerum Construct. Arnzos Loftclaw. Modeled by those above with the face and sharp scutes of a dragon, but the body structure of a human. He would never escape this fact. Every day reminded him of it.

  Arnzos’ contribution to the affair was a collection of mangled elves. Many lost limbs or were paralyzed by precise blows, but not many died. His flaming blade cauterized the wounds before they drained the soldiers dead. Leaving them in unimaginable pain, but still kicking. Though three elven men, by Arnzos’ confirmation, were utterly gone. Two recruits, barely noticeable. Not much of a contribution.

  And a captain. An ‘Optio’, as the Legus would call them. Arnzos stood over the slain elf. Tracing his eyes along the gash that split open the Optio’s chest cavity. Sizzling from heat. As the Ultin and his troop cheered to the heavens, howling like wolves, Arnzos kept silent. He knelt before the defeated, the enemy, and bowed.

  “Well fought. May peace find you in another life.” he whispered. So did his fingers fall upon the elf’s eyelids, laying him to rest proper.

  Chants from the Ul-Baqshans drowned out Arnzos’ purred words. “Aj-Malik! Aj-Malik! Aj-Malik!”

  The Ultin, Aj-Malik Kabihra, bathed in the pride. He would continue to bathe in it for hours. As the troop marched along the bog, Arnzos could practically cut open the euphoria. So potent. So loud. Not very smart in a war, Arnzos thought. Alas, the dracokin was not paid to think. Nor was he even paid to speak, so because of this, he did not utter a single word until…

  Aj-Malik’s new camp in Jama Bog was established. Arnzos watched the Ultin launch his colorful carrying raptor into the clouds. A message for their allies clasped in its talons. For what exactly? Only Aj-Malik knew. Soon it was gone, just a speck in the overwhelming blue. And again, the Ultin’s men cheered. They seemed to cheer for anything he did.

  Their exuberance continued into the night. Flying their banners in the darkness. Planting tents, in black and orange, to rest their shaky legs and sore arms. Arnzos followed the crowd. Uttering his words. Quite inconsequential ones.

  “Where should I build my tent?”

  One of the camp’s many ‘Wardens’ directed him. Da’haz. A scarred dwarf with a permanent scowl. Taking the trophy for the longest beard Arnzos had ever seen. Coal-black. Spattered with dust. Da’haz threw a kit, a hammer, and a bag of nails at Arnzos’ feet.

  “Right here.” Da’haz grumbled. “And make sure you hammer ‘em good! Ultin Aj-Malik doesn’t like seeing tall nails.”

  Arnzos cocked his lip ever-so. “The Ultin knows how to set up a tent?”

  “A dirty merc dares to shame his majesty!?” Da’haz snarled in response. “You know ‘ow easily I can spin a story to make your head roll?”

  “I wasn’t shaming him, sir. That was a genuine question. Maybe you’re projecting your thoughts onto my words.”

  Da’haz growled. He enjoyed making many sounds an animal would produce. “No more words from you, scutumhead. Set your tent, quick!”

  ‘Scutumhead.’ No other word could make Arnzos grimace quite like that. Sure, he could have bitten off this dwarf’s head and ripped out his heart for saying it, but that would prove unwise for two reasons.

  The first was an unspoken barrier between all mortals of different kin. Humans, dwarves, elves, dracokin, rabbitkin, minidrakes, felinians, cerogs. Too many to list. This barrier is a light one, transparent, and prone to shattering. Extermination and wars and slavery are all products of that shattered barrier. So, a tactic for many kin is to tiptoe next to it. Weave between the rotund and unpredictable nature of this barrier.

  Secondly, Arnzos would not get paid. Shinies were a rather nice item to have. To pay for the act of living, most importantly, but other things too. Maybe… a lantern? A nice coat? Arnzos wasn’t sure yet. What he was sure of was paying for his niece’s medicine. To stave off the creeping rot of bodily illness. Gran Fluensys. Skull flu.

  Therefore, reason one and reason two were enough to sit Arnzos in the mud and get him to work. Da’haz chuckled with fervor, thinking himself mighty, but very easily became distracted by Arnzos’ fiery limb.

  The blade. ‘Sunslash’. Heat emanating from it. Like a smoldering forge crafted into warring steel.

  Yet, the blade was not steel. It looked of obsidian, but not nearly as striking. It functioned more like a hard clay. The deepest black a hard clay could be, but still with a matted texture.

  Until Da’haz saw it spark. Fire coursed through previously invisible veins. This enchanted chunk of stone pulled him in. Da’haz glanced at the Ultin’s tent. Then back at the sword. Again, he swung his head. Back and forth. Back. And forth.

  The Warden would like to have Sunslash. But… not for himself. Arnzos could guess this too, as the uncomfortable gaze of this dwarf behind him lingered a tad bit too long.

  “Your weapon. It’s glorious.” Da’haz said.

  Arnzos nodded. “Sure. It does its job.”

  “If, for any reason, you’d have to part with it—”

  “I’m not interested in selling.” Arnzos hammered a nail into the soggy dirt below. “Well, hmm. I might be interested in selling. Take my weekly pay, increase it thirty times over, and have it to me within the next few days. Do that and maybe, just maybe, I might sell it to you.”

  Once more, Da’haz chuckled. Arnzos could tell this was a desperate laugh. To convince himself he was still superior. To soothe his ego without engaging in argument. However, the mouth and the eyes. Apart, they can lie. But together, they have no choice but to tell the truth. And Da’haz was certainly wounded.

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  The dwarf curled his lip. “You shouldn’t talk to me that way, draco—”

  “When it concerns my sword, the way I make my living, I’ll talk to you any way I please.”

  Da’haz now felt the poisonous gaze of not only Arnzos, but his cohorts as well. Surrounding them, one by one. Curious of their Warden’s consultation with this mercenary. Da’haz could practically hear the soldier’s thoughts. ‘Is he begging a merc to do something?’ ‘That’s our Warden? What a pathetic display.’ His body flushed with embarrassment, his earlobes redder than a freshly picked apple.

  “Right. Well, good luck on the field.” Da’haz said, with a playful smack to Arnzos’ shoulder. “Those long-ears ‘re a nasty bunch.”

  With no more bile to hurl, the Warden took his leave. Following him, were the soldiers. On to whatever other minute disagreement might offer them entertainment. The explosive warfare made them hungry for any kind of scrap. With words or with steel.

  Arnzos was too tired to care. Light pockets can have that effect. So, the clock spun and the hours went, as night arrived. The deserted wastes of mud were now a hub of lantern-lit tents and obnoxious merrymakers.

  The Ultin’s army fought hard and partied harder. Their oceans of ale flooded bellies just as much as the bog’s ground. They wrestled with arms, danced to bad singers, and delighted in the occasional fist fight. All while Aj-Malik chanted to the sky. He did so to appease the grandgod, the Summit, father of everything Ul-Baqshan. Blessed was he, and blessed was the life he bestowed. Yet also, blessed was the death the Summit cast on their enemies. One versed in stories of the Summit would tell you that he was a cruel, vengeful god.

  Or perhaps, he was only cruel and vengeful in modern perception, and not through the written texts. For some, it’s difficult to differentiate. Whatever the case, Aj-Malik needed his cruelty. He needed a rage to fuel the fires of war. To keep his pack thirsty. To show his father and his brothers and his sister that he is mighty. He continued to chant.

  As for Arnzos, he didn’t like the flavor of ale. Bad aftertaste. Nor did he have any proficiency in dancing or singing or general tomfoolery. He could learn, sure, but the call of sleep was shouting his name. His eyes felt heavy, even with so much noise around him. It muffled itself before Arnzos could fall into his pillow.

  Eyes heavy, and falling…

  ?

  Arnzos had plenty of dreams he could recall. From those of playing dice with blurry faced strangers, to racing on horses throughout a sunny meadow, as well as those with more explicit images he would rather keep to himself. The dreamscape within his mind served as one of the few respites he could retreat to. He felt lucky to remember his dreams. Though, he also remembered his nightmares.

  But that night, of the Jama Bog’s conquest, was unusual in terms of respite. There was no joy in minutia. There was no sound, no color, no splendid activities to partake in. All Arnzos’ mind whipped up for him was an argument between two elves.

  These two were dressed in extravagant furs and cloth. Jewels and shining beads hung from their necks and their wrists, swinging with every movement. The male elf, countered by a female one, wore an opulent crown atop his head. Arnzos sighed, unsure of what psychological meaning this dream could entail. Or perhaps it was a joke from the inner machinations of his brain. As punishment for killing Ontullians, he would be doomed to watch the rich amongst them quarrel. Presumably, over nothing.

  However, thinking about his situation a little more, that might not be so bad. Arnzos found a comfy spot against the bedroom wall to sit at. And he watched the presumed couple spit venom. With no sound as well. How nice. As they were at each others’ throats, Arnzos observed the room he magically appeared in. Pristine furniture, a bed bigger than the houses back home. And of course, the Ontullian royal banner.

  A single flower encompassed by a greyish background. If only Arnzos could see color here. That would help immensely. Still, the longer Arnzos stared at the banner, the more unfamiliar it seemed. This was not what the elven flag-bearers flew in their previous battle. This was an entirely different beast.

  In noticing that, Arnzos did see the odd coloration of their skin, in terms of what Ontullians expected for their citizens. Even without color to help him, Arnzos knew these two royals were much darker than the average Ontullian. Their greyish pigment fit a molten elf more than a clouded one, as clouded elves were the majority in the Legus.

  They couldn’t be the emperor and empress. And molten elf nobles were exceedingly rare. So, who were they? Arnzos weighed the possibility of this being overthought, but not a second later, his dream vanished. He returned to the darkness of slumber. Nothing for his eyes to feast upon.

  Until… a soft voice tickled him. “It isn’t right. The suffering you’ve faced.”

  Arnzos awoke, back to sound and sight and color. Back to the filthy, cramped tent in the boisterous swamp. He wished his reprieve wasn’t so brief, but alas, he needed to earn his shinies.

  He crawled through the flaps, bringing him into the outside again. Only for the moon to still hang in the sky. Darkness reigned and it wouldn’t be many hours until sunlight. For once, Arnzos was grateful to arise like this. For arising while the moon was still high meant another good chunk of delicious slumber. Arnzos could already taste the delight of resting his eyes once more. A big grin crinkled his cheeks.

  He began to crawl through the beige flaps of fabric, only to watch his tent disappear behind a veil of black fog. Everything began to disappear. The crescented moon. The brilliant army of stars. And all his fellows. The soldiers he rode, ate, and killed with. Gone and swallowed by a black cloak of nature.

  The fog moved with Arnzos, every step shifting it to remain him centered. Even a full sprint would not catch it off guard. A never-ending ocean of darkness. And it dawned on him that he couldn’t use Sunslash. For these black clouds ate it. His deep gray armor too. That couldn’t be retrieved.

  “Warden Da’haz!” Arnzos yelled. “Ultin! Dwarves!?”

  Nothing. He waited a little longer. Still… silence. Perhaps this was the punishment for being so rambunctious in a warzone. It was entirely possible the Ul-Baqshans were ambushed by enemy mancers. Ontullians, striking at their perfect moment between the dance of sun and moon. Would Arnzos soon suffocate in this giant dark cloud? Unclear. Would he be crushed by a giant boulder or set aflame or drowned by a flying stream of water? Also unclear. He could die at any moment, as this daze left him pregnable.

  “Da’haz! Ultin! Shit—”

  “Arnzos Loftclaw.” the soft voice said.

  The dracokin flipped around in less than a second. Already unleashing a scaled fist in the direction of the whisper. His hand pierced a cold mist, like the kind one might find just before dawn. He felt no flesh, no skin, no muscle. But, someone was still there. An ethereal being. Made of a green-tinted light.

  It took the form of a woman. The royal elf in Arnzos’ dream. Everything about her was the same. The clothes, the ears, the mannerisms. Yet now, he had a voice to go with her presence. And Arnzos was beginning to doubt if he was awake. Was this another dream? A spiral of ideas and fiction within his head?

  “We have both suffered.” she claimed, hovering closer to Arnzos. “And millions more will if we don’t stop him.”

  “Who? If we don’t stop who?”

  There was no answer, as she began to dissipate. The very light of her being fading away. Along with the fog. With the darkness devouring them. It fled as quickly as it arrived. And returning, was the camp and the Warden and the Ultin’s forces. All back in view. Like nothing ever changed.

  In fact, Arnzos and Da’haz were face to face. The Warden stood next to a mounted soldier, riding a pure black horse. He slapped the rear-end, sending them off into the swamp. Galloping past the stunned Arnzos. While he tried to process what had just transpired, Da’haz gave him the sickest of glares. Truly revolted by the dracokin’s presence. In that moment, with a stomach-turning pinch in his belly, Arnzos knew the elven woman was no hallucination.

  Whatever had played in Arnzos’ head was no dream at all.