Three groups marched in different directions. There should have been fifteen in each, but several recruits panicked and tried to desert during the night. Their bodies now stood impaled on stakes outside the Black Mage’s tent. The company was a family, and that family did not forgive betrayal. The Brothers had gouged out their eyes, cut off their tongues, and branded their foreheads before delivering them to the Mage, who finished the job and displayed them for all to see—officially as a warning, but unofficially as a twisted trophy.

  “Idiots,” Mustang muttered, glancing at what remained of those young men.

  Maybe it was for the best, Bore thought. At least they’d never become like us.

  “How long?” Stump asked.

  “To where?” Mustang snapped. “The enemy? Far as fuck, obviously. The first exploding shit? Hell if I know. Because it's probably buried in the fucking ground.”

  Stump snorted. “Too many rocks here. They’d have to dig into the ground, and we’d notice. The only place they could’ve rigged something overnight is beyond the next hill.”

  “Then why the fuck are you asking me?”

  Bore wasn’t sure why he’d volunteered to join Mustang, knowing full well that he, Stump, and Cripple Leg were the last sappers left in their unit.

  “Unless they have a mage,” Stump continued. “Could’ve launched those black orbs that explode when something steps on them.”

  “The Enemy's Death, or whatever they call it?” Mustang asked.

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Those things are expensive,” Stump said doubtfully. “I doubt they’d splurge on that. That’s endgame shit—stuff you use when you want to win the whole damn war. Against the really big fish”

  “And do you know a bigger fish than our Commander?” Cripple Leg chimed in.

  “Fair point,” Stump conceded, before shouting to the others, “Keep an eye out for ground depressions and don’t step on any black orbs!”

  Everyone started nervously scanning the ground. The knee-high grass didn’t make things any easier.

  The orders were simple: march forward, and retreat immediately when the Black Mage made her move. Nothing complicated—except that they were about to walk straight into enemy blades, and the Mage still hadn’t acted.

  “B-b-b-black orb!” one of the recruits shouted.

  Mustang, Cripple Leg, Stump, and Bore dropped to their knees, shielding their heads as best they could. Someone—probably Mustang—yelled for everyone to stay put. Of course, they didn’t listen. Someone ran, triggering the orb. The explosion wasn’t massive, but it was enough to kill the three closest to it. Stump took a rock to the head and collapsed. Mustang cautiously approached him, then stood, shaking his head.

  Four down. Nine left.

  “Nobody move,” Cripple Leg growled, only to drop dead as an arrow pierced the back of his skull.

  Mustang howled in fury. Instinct screamed to run, but orders were orders. He drew his sword, and Bore followed suit. The recruits scattered, sealing their fates. More traps went off, thinning their numbers. The survivors froze, looking at the older soldiers in disbelief

  “Forward,” Mustang hissed through clenched teeth.

  They marched. The enemy archers didn’t bother aiming precisely—why waste arrows when you can wait? After all, what kind of threat could seven dumb soldiers really pose? Even if they’re good, they’ll get tired eventually, won’t they?

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Bore muttered under his breath.

  He never doubted the Commander’s plan. The bastard always knew what he was doing. The trouble was, his victories often came too late for some.

  “Kasel, if your cloak must embrace me today, I shall greet you with prayer and offer my soul to your care...” Bore quietly recited his mother’s prayer.

  “RETREAT!” Mustang roared.

  Bore looked up to see an enormous weave of black threads forming in the air. The Black Mage had entered the fray. A hysterical laugh of relief bubbled out of him as he ran, paying no mind to the scattered orbs—until another explosion sounded behind him. He glanced back praying it was not Mustang.

  “Shit,” he whispered and let out a groan as he saw the falling chunks of flesh and recognized the uniform..

  All the sappers were gone. The Commander wouldn’t be pleased. But that wasn’t his biggest concern. His concern was that Mustang still owed him a hefty sum. He knew the son of a whore would weasel out of paying in the end.

  “What’s happening?!” A recruit, somehow still alive, suddenly shouted.

  Bore lifted his head to see a massive gate forming. Oh, now things will get really interesting. Reinforcements, he thought with cold satisfaction. But before he could revel in it, a fireball destroyed the portal.

  “What?” he whispered in disbelief almost stopping.

  No one had ever undone the Black Mage’s work. The bastards brought a master mage from the Atolls, he thought bitterly, picking up his pace once more. When he stumbled back into camp, only about fifteen soldiers remained.

  “This is bad,”

  “You have no idea just how much,” replied Louse from behind him.

  Bore glanced back at his companion and noticed that one of Louse’s eyes was missing. Before he could say anything, the chilling laughter of the Black Mage echoed through the air. Well, at least someone was having a good time here.

  Something in this strange scene struck Bore. It wasn’t the fact that only a handful of them had survived, nor was it the destruction of the Black Mage’s masterpiece. No, it was something entirely different. The Commander and Skin stood right behind the Black Mage, fully armored. Bore had never—absolutely never—seen them standing like that. And when the Brothers joined them, clad in their white garb and fox-like masks, the realization hit him. He was about to witness one of the legendary battles of the Nameless Company. Something that would undoubtedly go down in history. And, by all the gods, he did not like that thought one bit.

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

  “We’ve got him,” growled the Black Mage.

  Her teeth were bared. No one needed to see it; you could hear it in her voice. Some even thought that just a little more, and she’d be snarling like a wild beast, but before that could happen, the sky lit up with the glow of immense fire.

  “What’s happening?” asked the Commander calmly.

  “He’s summoning a sphere of fire. He’ll try to burn us with it.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “I don’t bother myself with the names of corpses,” she snapped, then hissed, “Silence. I need to concentrate.”

  The Commander gave her a cold stare but said nothing. The Black Mage was their greatest asset. She was also a deranged, bloodthirsty, twisted freak—but as long as she kept them alive, no one voiced that openly.

  Skin glanced at the Brothers. They looked back at her. When the Commander nodded, one of them spoke softly:

  “A mage from Atol. Supposedly a graduate of the Supreme Academy of Magic. Last year, he earned the title of Master of Fire Magic. One of the strongest in his field. A contender for the title of Master of Power himself.”

  A cold sweat ran down Bore’s back. The Mage from Atol. A Master of Fire Magic, and a contender for one of the highest titles awarded to the most powerful of the powerful. They couldn’t have drawn a worse opponent.

  “Don’t give me that look,” growled Louse, standing beside him. “That poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance against her. Instead of worrying about the outcome, fear that she doesn’t turn us into those threads of hers.”

  Bore looked at his half-blinded comrade in disbelief but said nothing. Maybe he wanted to believe Louse’s words. Maybe he didn’t want to argue at that moment. Or maybe he simply knew that it was all true. The correct answer didn’t matter. Only the Wind Listener knew their fate and what was written for them.

  The massive sphere of fire began to materialize halfway between them and the enemy mage.

  “Just a little more,” said the Mage, her gaze filled with fascination at the accumulation of such immense power.

  The Commander raised his right hand. His index and middle fingers were extended, the rest loosely curled. He aimed at the sky, but that was about to change.

  “Now,” the Black Mage hissed.

  The hand with the raised fingers dropped, partially pointing the way. The Brothers sprang into action immediately.

  “The last surviving soldiers and recruits have reached the camp,” Skin informed the others.

  The Commander looked at the small, bloodied, and barely moving group stumbling toward them.

  “You can begin,” he said calmly.

  The Mage gave a mocking salute, then, with a wild cry of joy, did what the legends spoke of—she set her threads in motion.

  For Bore, everything happened at once—though, of course, that was impossible. He simply didn’t have a keen enough eye to discern the proper sequence, or maybe fear distorted his perception of reality. He thought that time would dull the terror he’d felt that day and that his mind would eventually arrange events in the right order. But it never happened. Even in his old age, the dreams returned, always the same: everything happened at once. Everything.

  The sky ignited with living fire, pulsating and powerful. But that fire was cut through by the swirling mass of black threads flowing from the hands of the Black Mage. The moment the threads touched the fire, it began to consume them, while they, in turn, absorbed the flames. For a brief moment, the battle seemed balanced. Then, the threads multiplied, and the fire diminished. One blink later, the fire was gone, replaced by blinding light. It looked as if a massive implosion was drawing everything inward, but the threads remained unaffected by that destructive force. They flowed straight to the center, slicing mercilessly, absorbing everything in their path. Yes. Bore would come to understand that much over the years. The Black Mage wasn’t just extinguishing the enemy’s power—she was absorbing it. The light died, and with it, the other mage. It wasn’t the clash with the Black Mage that killed him, but a treacherous dagger strike. The Brothers were fast and silent. That was all it took. The implosion shifted to an explosion, hurling everything that had been sucked in moments earlier back outward. Charred debris flew in every direction. A scorched piece of cow hurtled toward the Black Mage, but one of her threads cut the carcass mid-air, slicing it into pieces that flew harmlessly past her petite figure. Others weren’t so lucky—especially Stake.

  When the mage fell, the Black Mage turned her attention to what she had sought all along. The enemy forces advancing slowly were too large to retreat from quickly or efficiently. Panic only slowed them further. As the threads began slicing through the poor fools’ bodies, their screams filled Bore’s ears, robbing him of sleep for years to come. Suddenly, Igor’s words made sense. She truly allowed her threads to be born from suffering, pain, and death. As some threads faded, more appeared in their place, endlessly multiplying. There were so many now that the sky disappeared, replaced by nothing but darkness, the screams of the dying, and the whistling of those deadly, spinning instruments wielded by the twisted creature known as the Black Mage. How long did it last? An eternity. An eternity during which Bore couldn’t exhale or take another breath. When the last enemy soldier died, when the final monstrous thread was born, the Black Mage summoned her tools back to her, somehow gathering them into a small ball, which she tucked away between the folds of her strange robe.

  “Fuck all the gods of all the faiths,” wheezed Boil quietly.

  Bore blinked, struggling to believe his own eyes. Before them, there was nothing but corpses. No, not even corpses—just butchered meat. Nothing more. Just meat, he thought, falling to his knees and retching again and again until there was nothing left to vomit. Barely conscious, he collapsed to the ground, still shaking violently. Someone nudged him lightly with a boot.

  “Wasn’t so bad, girlie,” said the Black Mage, grinning broadly.

  From his position, he could see her face clearly beneath the hood. She was pretty, in a rough, simple way. A country girl, like so many others. She reminded him of his mother—or maybe his second sister? Suddenly, another spasm wracked his stomach. The face belonged to the girl who had sold him cheese a few days earlier when they’d stopped at a village.

  “So sensitive…” the Black Mage mocked, closing her eyes halfway like a cat basking in the sun.

  He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see how grotesquely that expression clashed with the face that monster adorned.

  Someone else approached, stopping beside him. The Black Mage fell silent, bored with his suffering. Moments later, she walked away, saying something to someone, but he neither heard what she said nor to whom she spoke. Probably to Boil, telling him to go with her to the tent to get a new eye.

  “Get up, soldier,” a quiet voice ordered suddenly.

  A simple command, spoken by the voice he secretly loved. He groaned. Of all the people, why did it have to be her? Breathing heavily, he forced himself to kneel and look her in the eyes. Skin stood patiently. That wasn’t what she expected. Groaning again, he started to rise. When he met her indifferent, bored, perhaps even slightly disappointed gaze, for once in his life, he was quick and perceptive enough. He wanted to say something, but he wouldn’t have had time, so he just opened his eyes wide—it was enough for her. His expression and the fact that he wasn’t looking at her but at something just behind… She spun on her heel instantly. He never saw her draw her knives or how she managed to slash, but the assassin who had appeared out of nowhere behind her dropped dead. Perfect silence fell over the camp. The Commander, who had just been entering his tent, glanced indifferently at the intruder, then turned back. The Commander rarely changed direction. He walked slowly toward the corpse, looked at Skin, and she looked back at him. He didn’t ask anything, and she didn’t explain anything. Yet her gaze shifted to Bore, and moments later, so did the Commander’s. Bore instantly forgot his nausea. Hell, he forgot how to breathe.

  “Thank you,” said the Commander.

  Not trusting his voice, Bore offered a weak salute.

  The Black Mage emerged from the tent, saw the body, and frowned slightly. Hearing the Commander’s words, she glanced at Bore.

  “Well, well,” she said, walking back over and patting him on the shoulder. She turned to Skin and asked, “Want me to patch you up?”

  “Do it,” the Commander answered.

  Only then did Bore notice the blood running from Skin’s left arm. She had instinctively shielded herself from the blow. The wound wasn’t deep, but if the blade had been poisoned… He retched again, thankfully avoiding anyone’s boots.

  “What a funny idiot,” the Black Mage chuckled softly, nudging Bore with her foot once more. “When you’re done puking, crawl over to me, you moron.”

  He didn’t respond. Moments later, he lost consciousness.