Dragon Flame | MxM Fantasy

Chapter 8: Memories

"Unit X?" Wystan prompts when the walls are secured with Gauge's fancy new enchantment.

"I thought ya knew about them?" Gauge gets a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet. Glasses are forgotten as he drinks straight from it. "You were in the Army, right? They're part of it."

Wystan rolls his eyes and sits across him, then swipes the bottle from his hands to drink too. "That means nothing considering the secretive nature, don't you think?"

Gauge pouts at him, gesturing to give the bottle back. "But a Lieutenant-General! How come ya don't know about them?"

"Lieutenant-General only in name," Wystan says, exasperated. Does everyone really think the title is real? It's as real as the piece of paper he got it with and nothing more. He hadn't been in active service for long following the promotion.

After the Battle of Lissana's peak, he expected to be discharged. Booted. Forgotten. Maybe even punished for disobeying an order. Discharged he was, but not for the reason he expected.

War is never nice.

War takes.

And takes. And takes. Takes and takes.

Lissana's peak is the highest plateau on a small mountain range on the west, enclosing their continent from Salazar's Pass, a thin stretch of land that curves through the Lichenball's Ocean and connects it to the other land mass.

Theaze invaded almost ten years ago, with magnificent battleships and powerful spells. They are craftsmen and mages and such was expected after decades of cold relations.

Of course, they couldn't use Salazar's Pass for being too conspicuous, this wasn't the first intercontinental war where they came from the sea.

So when the intel said they were moving some troupes on foot, the Empire decided to show Theaze some hospitality. Soldier units waited to sweep them away when they cross the peak as it was the only way in to the continent through the land.

Wystan's platoon was among them.

The order came one muggy morning, march to western steppes and combine with squadrons 10 and 8. Wystan, then young and much too optimistic, gathered his men and they rode out. He expected to be summoned. Magic specialists were needed to spring a trap at Lissana's peak.

Out of thirty in Wystan's platoon, twenty five survived the seven-day journey through the evergreen woods.

There was a leak. A traitor. Or infiltrator. The result was the same. All of the Empire's magic-specializing units were attacked on the same day. Some would say that his platoon was lucky to lose only five, but he'd digress. Several were injured enough not to participate in the Empire's trap.

Wystan sat alone in the medical area reserved for the highest ranking. Let the medics tend to the deep cut that spanned his right leg from knee to ankle and hoped for the best.

Word of the massacre came. The hunters had become hunted. The Empire was the one who walked into a trap. A hundred still stood strong. But they were surrounded, cut off from the path back. They could only continue a senseless struggle until swallowed into the jaws of the conflict.

When Wystan had asked why no relief was deployed, why was no one saving them, he was told to keep quiet. That the Empire wouldn't lose more on a fool's errand, but wait for the Theaze's warriors to come to them. Even when more units had arrived, even if they had doubled the original number to spring the trap, some people were forgotten.

Wystan didn't forget.

He eyed the familiar steel, forged years before his time, his trusted sword vibrated with intent. Of course, he thought, the blade cried for action. It didn't care what it cut, just that it cut. And at that moment, he knew what to do.