Hours, minutes, days, it’s hard to tell how much time has passed when you are staring at a corpse. John sits in the sand. He always hated killing. Somehow it is even worse when it was an accident. When two people are locked in a battle of kill or be killed, no one can blame you for being the survivor. It was John’s every intention to spare this man, and look how that turned out. Yael drags another body to the pile he’s been working on.

  “Could, not, find, last. Flung, too, far.”

  His speech is slow and raspy. Still recovering from his fiery breath. Yael grabs the body John had been watching.

  “Must, burn.”

  “You didn’t want to honor the Rautt, but do want to honor these Knights. What difference does it make to you?”

  “Not honor; poison."

  Seeing John’s confusion, Yael realises he must show as he is in no state to tell. From his bag a piece of dried Lezzan meat is pulled. Gently, using his claw tips, Yael dips the meat into the pooled black blood. Instantly, it begins to dissolve. Joining the blood as a toxic, viscous liquid seeping into the grains.

  “What creature of God would produce something so horrible?”

  “Not, God. Just, monsters, who think, they, are, God.”

  Yael lifts the head of the fallen Knight and rips away the Crimson helmet. Before them is a head with no face. Just a withered mass of putrid flesh. Icy white and unnaturally thick skinned. This is no creature of any God John would pray to.

  “Abomination. No, Father. No Sons. Only, Duty. Would, murder, orphans, without, hesitation. Feel, not, for, this, thing. It, feels, not, for you.”

  With a single spark from a flint stone, the blood ignites. Burning as if it were crude oil. A thick, black smoke rising from the flames.

  “That smoke will carry the poison. It will ruin some other land.”

  “Less, than, left, unburned. There, is, no, winning. Only, lessening."

  Yael chugs a bottle of healing elixir. All that bubbling in his mouth isn’t particularly comfortable. Compared to the intense pain of his throat burning, this is pleasant. There was a time when using his fiery breath did not hurt so much. That time ended the same day he lost his throne.

  Flesh and blood burn quickly in flames. Even their bones proved unusually flammable, reducing quickly to ash and charcoal. No matter what, the armor did not melt. The Crimson paint charred but the metal itself stayed the same as it was. Down to the finest etchings.

  “This armor is strong. Think I could make use of it?”

  “You are too tall and too wide to fit. P-too”

  Yael is able to speak normally again. He just needs to spit the excess elixir bubbles. John examines a breastplate. It does appear to be built for a much smaller man. The Knights were putting up such a fight John didn’t even notice they were on the smaller side of human stature. Perhaps 5 foot 2 and a hundred pounds wet. Yet if not for his own enhanced strength this creature would have been twice his physical ability. Faster than any boxer or eastern martial artist. Stronger than those performers at the three ring circus. And more fearless than an already dying man in a desperate charge. Size only means so much in this world.

  “It may not make good armor for me, but I may be able to fasten a shield out of these plates. It would be a shame to let such strong material go to waste.”

  “Here. P-too. Some Lezzan leather. It’s far from P-too, the highest quality. Should do well enough. P-too.”

  With a little elbow grease and lots of knots, John is able to fasten a passable shield. It’s stiff and awkward. Hopefully still as sturdy.

  “Pure DuskRok. P-too. Straight from my homeland. Once cast it is impossible to break. It is wa-COUAGUAhh, PLAGH! Disgusting. Wasted on these things.”

  John’s curiosity starts to get the better of him. He picks up one of the discarded spears and examines it closely. The whole spear is made of a strong, sturdy metal. It is not as indestructible as DuskRok, but is still tougher than any steel John has seen before. Yet it is light, perhaps three pounds for the whole of it. The spear head has two sharp prongs with strange electrical parts inside.

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  “Do not bring that. P-too. Will only attract unwanted attention.”

  “I should still learn how it works, in case I ever need one.”

  “Hmmm… P-too. I suppose you are right.”

  Yael takes another spear and twirls it between his fingers.

  “This one is a bit small. Have you used a spear before? P-too.”

  “Something like it.”

  “Show me.”

  Taking a stance he practiced countless hours at bootcamp and zero seconds in the battlefield, John thrusts forward with the spear, aiming at an invisible sandbag.”

  “A strong thrust. Rather basic but should be enough. P-too. Now for the part I am willing to guess you are not familiar with.”

  Yael pushed two small, hidden buttons. The spear unlocks, a hidden compartment revealed. Inside is a small yellow rock about the size of a gumball. It has a look and texture similar to petrified wood. This is a Saprophite stone, not unlike the ones in their packs.

  “These allow the spear to fire. One stone used to power twenty to thirty bolts. On the lower setting you can sometimes get sixty. Though these cretins, P-too, they always had them on the highest power. Only get about five if you are lucky. So now their spears do not have the option to change power to keep them from wasting valuable stones. What you saw was the lowest setting.”

  Yael holds out the spear with one hand. He squeezes hard, which causes the spear tip to ignite with energy. His thumb slides back across the spear shaft and a blue bolt flies out, turning another large bucket worth of sand into an esoteric glass sculpture.

  “That was low? What do these do on high?”

  “If one hit you, all that would be left would be, HAAAAK-PLUUAGG, about that.”

  A clawed finger points at the green loogie in the sand. John can’t help but think aloud.

  “And I thought I had seen the worst that war could produce.”

  “Do not worry. It will always get worse. P-too.”

  Yael tosses the spear away. He kicks the armor around. Scattering it all about and covering them with sand.

  “We are in luck. P-too. This patrol had only just set out. Their disappearance will not be noticed for another two or three days. The longer it takes for them to be found, P-too, the better.”

  “The last set of Knights we saw didn’t bother. These ones didn’t hesitate. What changed?”

  “Their orders. All they care about, to the exact word. I would wager their orders were something to the effect of “kill all Rautt” or “murder all the merchants”. As we were neither, they let us go. While these would have been ordered to kill anyone and anyone they see on their patrol regardless of who or what they are. I doubt they had any idea who we were. Not that it mattered to them.”

  Yael grabs at his throat.

  “Oh good, no more bile.”

  John takes the spear. He points its deadly end at a half buried breastplate. He squeezes, rubs his thumb, and it fires. No recoil. Bolt was off by some twenty feet but with no sights what can be expected?

  “Aim with the prongs.”

  John uses the prongs of the head to line up with the plate. This bolt lands under a foot away. Some slight adjustment, and the third is the charm. Hardly pin point accuracy. Not that an inch or two to the left or right matter much. The armor still remains unscathed.

  “A potent weapon. Though I think I still prefer iron and powder.”

  “And I, a blade and shield. If we were not in hiding, I would force you to retire that Rautt scrap in an instance. Unfortunately we do not all get what we want.”

  John tosses the spear to the sands and lightly covers it. He does, however, take a knife. Razor sharp and eight inches long. With his rifle, whip, and new shield John is feeling much more confident about his chances.

  “We should get moving. A couple days isn’t a very long time. We are going to want to be as far away from here as possible when they realise these Knights are missing.”

  “No sleep. Here, eat these. Should help keep up our strength.”

  Yael hands a handful of dark black beans. John takes one and smells it. It smells much like coffee. With one thoroughly chewed, it tastes much like coffee as well.

  “These are better ground and boiled. We will just have to make do.”

  “Of all the tastes of home to find on this desolate wasteland, I didn’t expect coffee to be the first. Glad to have it.”

  “Covvea? That disgusting tar people muse to patch their homes?”

  “No, coffee. That’s what we call these. Or at least something a lot like them.”

  John eats another, just to confirm to himself that the flavor is indeed what he knows. Then he moves to eat the whole handful in a single go, before being stopped by Yael’s claw covering his mouth.

  I know not of this “Coffee”. I do advise that you not eat more than one Spur Nut an hour. It would be a shame if you were to get addicted. I’ve seen great men reduced to begging on the streets for one more bite.”