Lux Tenebris: In the Long Grass

            Ssorn crouched in the long grass, his senses alert for any sign of danger. At his back was the forest, but on all other sides was open grassland.  A rough dirt tract cut through the tall grass ahead of him and to the right.  It wound along, dusty and red, like a line of dried blood.

            The dragonborn scout flattened himself in the tall grass and muttered a quiet prayer to Ikilli. He did not know if the Wild Huntress would hear him or help him, but at this point, Ssorn decided prayer would not hurt.

            He lay where he was for a few moments, letting the warmth of the sun sink into his body. Ssorn was lean and wiry for a dragonborn, most of whom were known for their bulk. In the legion, his comrades had good-naturedly goaded him about his small size, suggesting he was actually one of the lizardfolk pretending to be dragonborn. 

            Lying in the grass, Ssorn snorted. His comrades were dead now, their corpses left to rot in the forest behind him and along the road from Moontree.  Their greater size and hardiness had not saved their lives.  What use was strength or armor against foes who struck from the shadows with poisoned weapons? Who never showed their faces and vanished into the forest on silent feet?

            Oh, how General Korkiri had raged at these tactics! His rage had done him no good. Ssorn remembered the morning the legion had discovered Korkiri's corpse.  The general had been stabbed through both eyes in his own tent. His guards had heard nothing.

            After that, things had only gotten worse. They had lost their wizard and then their clerics. Although, in all fairness, the clerics had been of little use since the sack of Moontree. The gods had made their displeasure of that city's butchery obvious by withholding their divine favors. 

            Morale sunk among the legion as they marched east, heading back to Calhorne. With each quiet death the soldiers grew grimmer.  Someone had started a pool, taking bets on who would get back to Calhorne alive.  Ssorn thought the officers should have stopped it, but they didn't care. The legion continued to lose soldiers, and heart, every day they continued east.

            And now I am the only one left, thought Ssorn, lying in the long grass.

            They had abandoned their spoils days ago, to make better time. The commander had spread them out in a line, weapons at the ready, marched them through the forest.

            When darkness enveloped Ssorn's part of the line, when he had heard his comrades roar in fury and pain, he had acted instinctively. He had dropped to the ground and fled like a craven cur.

            But better a live cur, the dragonborn now thought, than a dead hero.

            He still didn't know who, or what, had been harrying them.  Elves? Humans? Forest gnomes? Ssorn had heard the rumors that the western nations were moving to a war footing, gathering their armies in preparation for an assault on Calhorne. 

            Ssorn thought it unlikely that elves or humans would have resorted to such ambush tactics.  He could see forest gnomes attacking in such a fashion, but not for such a protracted time. And how would such military forces even know where they were? Or remain hidden from the legion's scouts?

            There would have been some sign of an organized military force, thought Ssorn.

            But there had been none. Just knives in the dark. Poisoned arrows shot with uncanny accuracy, penetrating weak spots in armor.

            Korkiri's legion had not been defeated by soldiers, but by assassins.

            And I have lived to tell the tale, thought Ssorn.

            A cloud passed over the sun and the dragonborn shivered.

            So far, he thought.

            Ssorn lay in the long grass for some time, breathing in the smell of green growing things and rich dark earth. He listened for anything out of the ordinary, but heard nothing but the twitter of birds, the buzz of bees. The sun marched across the sky.  Shadows lengthened. 

            The dragonborn remained still, tensing and relaxing his muscles.  His mouth was dry but he did not reach for his canteen. Better to go thirsty than to risk discovery.

            He waited, quietly, occasionally praying to Ikilli or the shades of his ancestors.

            Let me live, prayed Ssorn. Let me return home, to walk the streets of Kargoth-Denn and pray for forgiveness in the Temple of Meleh for my cowardice. Let me return home, to offer wine and blood to my ancestors in the Field of Bones. Let me live.

            The sun set.  Ssorn watched the sky darken. The first stars appeared, pale and shimmering. He did not move.

            The moon appeared, a sliver of dark yellow, casting little light. Nightbirds sang to one another in the forest.  Crickets began to chirp.

            Ssorn took a breath and slowly rose. He made no noise. Drawing a deep breath, he regarded the heavens for a moment and oriented himself toward the east.

            I'll follow the tract, thought Ssorn. It must lead somewhere. A village or a farm. Somewhere I can find food and. . . .

            The breath was knocked out of him and he fell to his knees. He looked down, tasting blood in his mouth, and stared at the crossbow bolt erupting from his chest.

            He tried to speak, but he had no breath.  His vision began to darken, as he pitched forward, into the long grass. It smelt wet and green.

            Ancestors, thought Ssorn. I'm sorry.

            Then he was gone.

* * * * *

            "Cyric's truth! I thought he was never going to move!"

            "He was patient," said Iliana. "And smart." She lowered the crossbow and walked toward the fallen dragonborn.

            "Are you sure he's dead?" asked Dero.

            "Yes."

            "He's small for a dragonborn," said Dero, as they stood over the corpse.  "How old do you think he was?"

            "He was old enough to be a soldier," said Iliana. She drew her knife, knelt on the dragonborn's back and jammed the blade into the base of the corpse's skull.

            "What are you doing?"

            "Making sure he's dead," said the woman.

            "I'm pretty sure you already killed him."

            She wiped her blade clean on the grass and slid it back into its sheath. "You can never be too sure."

            "We should get back to the others. They're probably worried."

            "I doubt it," said Iliana.

            "Shouldn't we bury him or something? Say some words at least?"

            "Why? Are you worried he'll come back as an angry spirit?"

            "Well, I wasn't until you just said it."

            "Let the grass and the worms have him," said Iliana.

            Hefting her crossbow, she began to walk back toward the forest. Dero hesitated, glancing at the dead dragonborn. With a sigh he clasped his hands and muttered a quick prayer to Halab, asking the God of Mercies to look after the dead soldier's spirit. Then he hurried after Iliana.