Few failures are worth the lessons they leave, and few victories come without cost. To engage in war is to gamble always. That is its deadly attraction.

  -Proverbs, from the tome of Kadish

  The army spends the rest of the day camped not a hundred paces away from one of the collapsed entrances leading into the western hive. Those with the energy left to do so range out a ways, picking fights with the termites roaming from the final remaining hive, adapting to their combat style ahead of the order to invade. I don’t have the energy.

  A few hours of lying on a woolen blanket provided by Dovik and all of my magical resources are healthy once more, but my soul is wrung out. Hard to believe we didn’t even spend a full day beneath the earth.

  Tension runs through the makeshift camp as night falls on the valley, but nothing comes of it. We make a fire and sit around it. The boys try to keep things lively, but I can’t bring myself to join them. My mind returns again and again to the termite king, thinking about how deadly that creature had been. It doesn’t seem as if we should have won, no matter how many times I go over it in my head.

  Everything I have been told about adventurers and powerful groups has impressed upon me that a large enough group should be able to take down a superior enemy. It is expected that a group of rank two adventurers can defeat a rank three monster; that is the expectation. But if we had been alone, if it had just been me and my three friends, we would have died.

  I remember the story Arabella told me, the story of her first meeting my brother. The monster that had trapped her team, the one that had nearly killed the strongest woman I have ever met, had been a rank three monster as well. The inevitable conclusion that some monsters are far stronger than others, no matter the level, rears its head. It shouldn’t be that novel of a revelation. That is how magicians are after all; I don’t know if I have ever met someone who would be able to take down Jor’Mari or Dovik at the same level as them. Monsters are likely the same. So, why should it surprise me that something called a “king” would show power far greater than some random creature of a similar level? It really shouldn’t.

  Still, I can’t shake the hollow feeling in my bones. My imagination returns time and time again to the feeling of boiling skin. What if I didn’t have a barrier to protect me from that eruption of acidic magic? Would I now be another charred corpse among the pile of meat?

  Sleep helps, a brief period free of my thoughts, free of dreams. The army leaves at dawn, following orders left behind by Illigar to head back toward Maidenlake. There is plenty of complaining at that, calls that we should attack the western hive, finish things. Iona puts a cart at the head of the train, a cart carrying three bodies covered by sheets, the only bodies we were able to recover from the main chamber. Marching behind that cart, not being able to look away from it as it rattles up the rise of the valley in front of us, shuts up the complaints.

  By mid-morning, we pass the destroyed village on the edge of the valley, the people there evacuated some days ago to somewhere still standing. The smell of dead bugs lingers in the town, and I take a moment to clean up the place, turning the murderous monsters into something useful. For the days that we spend on the march back to Maidenlake, I fight the itch to go on ahead with either my ship or by my own power.

  Three days and nights pass with little rest. The army brought plenty of carts and horses along with it when we started our assault on the hives to allow for a constant march. No one in the trains winding down the dirt roads toward Maidenlake is so weak that they can’t handle a full day of the exercise. We continue through the night, those with suitable abilities keeping the entire train illuminated with magical lights, just enough for the horses not to twist an ankle in the dark.

  The constant stamp of boots on the gravel marks every inch of our progress. Meals are taken in rotations, people climbing into the back of the carts to find a bite to eat. A lottery is drawn up for those allowed to scout ahead and to the sides of the column; the competition to get away from the dull trudging is intense.

  I find my mind wandering. At night, I float above the head of the column, orbs of fire lighting the way as others with similar abilities do the same. One by one, they fall away, their mana exhausted, retiring to the backs of the carts to recuperate until it is only me left. I can only make it eight hours before I too find myself straining to stay aloft. A tinge of disgust roils in my belly as I watch “mages” give out one after another, spending most of the march back toward the city in the beds of carts while everyone else has to walk. After the first day, the horses aren’t even the ones pulling the carts anymore. That job is given over to the stronger members of the army, making the scene of people napping in the back of carts while burly men and women drag them forward all the more stomach-churning.

  Over the last few weeks, I have lost a lot of respect for mages. Throughout this operation, I have visited the battlefields, and I have seen how all of the fighting went. Those calling themselves mages wield some incredible magic, but they burn out quickly, becoming a liability to the force after just a few minutes. At the end of everything, it is those who have matched what magic they have with weapons and martial power that have claimed the lives of most monsters. It isn’t as if I think I am different. When facing the termites as a part of an army, I was essentially useless, only managing to accomplish anything when launching near-suicidal attacks using my bare hands.

  A sigh escapes my lips as I sit in the back of one of the carts, focusing on the pathways of energy running through my body, trying to speed up the recovery of my mana. I can’t focus, my mind sticks on how utterly useless my fire had been against the monsters. I have to find a way past, and the ruins of villages and towns we pass every few hours do nothing to help me keep my thoughts focused. My mind is betraying me; maybe I need some real sleep.

  It is on the fourth day that we encounter them. The marching column comes to a full stop as one of those we sent to scout ahead returns with news. She found a termite dead on the road, one bigger than those we fought several days ago.

  I don’t have to wait long to see the monsters for myself. Over the rest of the day, more than six reports of finding the large termites come in. No longer are people allowed to scout on their own, picking off the occasional monster they come across, and the column slows as groups of three and four are sent out to make certain the path is clear. In the later part of the day, I find enough energy to join my team in our mission to look ahead.

  We only make it three miles away from the column before we come upon two massive termites, their carapace the color of oxidized iron. It’s fitting, as my eye identifies them as Iron Termites. The weight of the monsters is immense, the swipes of their blunted claws powerful enough to shatter boulders. Of our entire team, only Jor’Mari manages to trade blows with the monsters; Jess and Dovik are forced to dodge the attacks or be crushed.

  It is only here, in the march back to Maidenlake, that I find my magic as having any kind of effect. The Eye of Volaash names these monsters well. As I pour fire onto them, no damage seemingly penetrates, but after three or four bolts, a slow and burning orange begins to appear. The more fire I pour on, the faster the change happens, until the heated shells eventually cook the monsters alive. While they stumble about, it does make them far more dangerous for my party, but after ten minutes of fighting, I finally kill a termite with my magic.

  The discovery doesn’t bring any relief to my exhausted body and mind. If anything, knowing that I could have been effective in taking down the largest hive is sour grapes. The army doesn’t encounter many groups of these termites, just small bunches of three or four, as we continue to approach Maidenlake, nothing that significantly challenges the silver and gold rank adventurers. Then, on the fifth day of the march, just past noon, the plateau of Maidenlake comes into view.

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  The first three around the bend call out the city as soon as they see it, and the front of the column begins to slow to a crawl. An excited murmur ripples back through the line of carts. At last, our march can end. At last, we can find some respite. The burgeoning excitement turns to silence as the city comes fully into view.

  The eastern wall of the plateau lies in ruin. The powerful dirt and stone that made the sheer cliff face has crumbled away to a ramp of pebbles, upon which are scattered a countless number of iron termites. At the foot of the plateau on the eastern side, the largest monster I have ever seen lies dead halfway out of a massive tunnel. What my eye identifies as the Iron Termite Hive Queen looks more like a worm than anything, a long, bulbous body of overlapping scales of dull iron as big as a whale that becomes the lower half of an insect completely dwarfed by its lower half. There isn’t much left of the upper body to describe, just a corpse cut into bloody ribbons.

  Not much of our ascent up the western ramparts leaves an impression on my mind. When I look back on it later, all I can remember is the sound of metal instruments clinking against each other in rhythm with our footfalls and the whine of a wagon wheel.

  The devastation to Maidenlake goes beyond words. I have seen it before, dirty faces looking out with bright eyes from beneath tarps and tents. I have heard the calls through the makeshift camps, the shouts for food or succor, the faint sobbing, and always some child somewhere crying. I won’t mention the smell, something in it takes the dignity away from people. I have witnessed all of these things multiple times when journeying through the Duchy, but I have never seen so many. Tens of thousands of people watch as our army makes a slow circuit of the lake, the eastern side of the city far too choked with refugees for us to easily pass through.

  We can see everything from the far side of the lake. The placid water stretching out ahead of me makes a mockery of the devastation. There they are again, the hulking forms of monsters lying dead in the streets. There are no bodies of people, not that I can easily see anyway. For once, my low investment in perception does me a good turn.

  The buildings show damage, gradually turning to rubble as we near the other end of the city. The true battlefield spreads out, the corpses of hundreds of iron termites scattered among the softly swaying grass. The destruction here is absolute.

  Iona aims the column for a tent set out on a hill outside the city that bears Illigar’s mark. I feel like I almost float toward it, wading through a sea of monster bodies like they were ghosts. Emotion settles over the grassy field strewn with death like a sheet; the whisper of the wind sounds like the screams of those fleeing the alien invasion. It is only when we top the hill that I can see it, the end of the battle.

  Below, the grass dies, felled and pressed brown into the dirt in a wave heading for the city. It moves for half a mile before spreading into the city proper, buildings tumbling in the wake of the blast. Not even a single brick for hundreds of feet is spared. All except for a single wedge, a sharp point in the aftermath of the blast where a flagpole stands, three ribbons of black waving weakly in the wind. Behind the flag, a narrow slice of grass still breathes, moving in time with the ribbons of the flag, six buildings in the town spared annihilation for the good fortune of being behind that flag.

  Two bodies lay against the flag, wrestling for control of it. Claws clutching the bottom of the pole, the body of a familiar monster stretches. It is the iron termite king, and its lower half lies obliterated in a trail of gore behind it. Holding tight to the pole, a smile painting his face, is a statue that is a perfect image of Tacit the Grim, the third rank-three dispatched to the 4th army, a man I met only once. I know the iron statue to truly be the body of the man at a glance, it still wears his clothes. Looking at the dying face of the man, I don’t think that he saw the world as blood and sadness in the end.

  Illigar shows no hesitation in relieving the army, setting us up with accommodations so that we might rest from the long march. A few are pulled out of the ranks to speak with him while the others head back, myself among them.

  “Iona tells me that the western hive fell. You managed to procure what you could from it?” he asks me when it is my turn to stand before him.

  “I did what I could,” I say.

  The book he is always writing in sits open in front of him on the desk, but his hand never moves to take note. His eyes keep flicking past me, looking out on the destruction of Maidenlake. Only a tithe of the city sits ruined; just the bare edge of the eastern side is demolished, but that perspective is difficult to keep in the face of it.

  “Good. Before you are dispatched back to Danfalla, I need you to clean up this battlefield as well. I have no storage devices to give you for this task; all the ones I have procured will be used to retrieve what we have stored. I trust you will not try to shortchange the army?”

  “We can’t go back to Danfalla now,” I protest. “There is still another hive out there. Who will protect the people here?”

  “Not all will return. The Duke wishes to have his son returned to him, and I am assuming that you will want to stay with your team. I will assign you to carry the materials we have harvested here on this field to store in the warehouses we have procured in Danfalla. Those materials will be instrumental in the further prosecution of this operation.”

  “You don’t want me to harvest the last hive when the army moves to strike it?” I ask.

  “I don’t plan to leave a hive behind for you to harvest,” he says. “Most of the army will leave behind you; I don’t expect you to wait for it.”

  “So, that’s it then. Mission accomplished here, so we return to the city and celebrate.”

  The hardness in the man’s eyes as he turns his full attention on me is difficult to withstand. He does not shout or rage, but merely stands from his seat and walks around his table, looming in front of me. “I understand that you might be feeling affected right now, so I will not hold this attitude against you. We did not accomplish our mission. Look. Look out there.” He points toward Maidenlake.

  “Sixty-seven people died in the attack on the city. The damage to the city itself will take decades to rebuild, and the fallout from the destruction will ruin lives for generations. This is what adventurers are supposed to stop from happening. One man, a man whom I greatly respected, gave his life to stop as much as he could. He will be remembered for that; I will make certain of it.

  “We failed. As the one in command of this army, I failed the hardest of all of us. We were outmaneuvered here, and the one thing that I hoped to stop came to pass. You walk through that field of death, let it impress its sights on your soul. We magicians don’t forget, we never forget, but what I want you to remember is not the stink of death. That feeling deep in your heart, like a cord being wound tight, like your body is trying to squeeze your lungs closed in your chest, that is what I want you to be able to recall from now until the day you meet the end. Walk away with that pain. Carry it, and let it do good by one day stopping this from happening again.

  “While you do that, I will busy myself crushing the home of these monsters, the thing that I should have done in the first place if I wasn’t so fucking cautious. Then, you will rest, and when the time comes, you will be redeployed to another part of the Duchy. Until then, keep your snide remarks to yourself. Dismissed.”

  It is impossible to do anything else than what he commanded. Flying over the ruins of the battlefield feels somehow like a violation. The scattered bodies of insects sit still like tombstones as I pass them by, my fingers occasionally grazing a shell and turning it into pink mist.

  I stop for a moment in front of the body of Tacit. How could that man smile when everything must have been falling apart around him? My aura spreads out behind me, the bodies of monsters crumbling to glittering motes as the wave of red passes over them. Then, it is done, and my feet continue carrying me on.

  Broken stones crackle beneath my feet, and I am suddenly in the city. The time between the field and now is gone from my hazy mind. The streets are mere suggestions now, more littered debris than proper thoroughfares. Continuing toward the inns allocated for our use, I pause, finding a man sitting on a broken stoop, holding a metal sign in his hands.

  The man is Verneaus, and the sign he holds bears his name. He sits inside a broken archway, a brick-littered courtyard stretching out behind him, a ruined home collapsed into a pile of misery. He looks up at me as I stop for a moment, his eyes red.

  He doesn’t try to say anything, and I can’t find any words either. I drop a pouch filled with singing gold coins between his feet before trudging on, not even knowing how much is inside. I am a numb nerve drifting through the city. At some point, my head meets a pillow, and blessed darkness consumes me.

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