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.
