by Andrew Day
To Die in the Spring
A famous warrior was once reputed to have said, “If I had a choice, I would rather die in the spring.”
At the time he had heard this, Altian thought it was a rather idiotic saying. Something that would-be warriors quoted to sound tough. But as he stood on the hill, his back to the vast encampment of the Lok’Chang in the valley below him, he reflected grimly that he too would have preferred death in the spring. Or the winter. Any season at all.
But not here.
There were no seasons in the Hae’Darak. No warmth of summer, nor chill of winter came to pass in the wastelands of the Otherworld. Altian was told it was physically impossible. The world itself was in a state of lifelessness, where nothing moved. The world did not turn, the sun did not orbit. There was no day, and no night. Just the blood red sky overhead, for every second of every waking moment. Time was meaningless, and some of the men were going crazy from it.
Altian stared across the vast empty landscape. The whole world was nothing but darkened ash as far as the eye could see. An empty plain stretched before him. To his right, was the barren land that led to equally barren mountains. To his left, the land rose sharply to the cone of an all too active volcano.
But there was no life. No plants, no insects, definitely no animals. When the army passed into the Otherworld they had needed to bring all of their food and water supplies with them. There no such things in the Hae’Darak. Supplies were now running out, though. And once gone, the army was all but dead.
It was small consolation that after so much hardship, the men were almost upon their destination. Perhaps there would be food and supplies to scavenge after the ensuing battle. But somehow Altian doubted it. He knew deep down that there was little to look forward to. He had long since abandoned any hope of living to see the blue sky again. A few others shared his sentiments, but most still clung to what little hope there was.
There were footsteps behind him. Altian turned to see Likon running up the hill to him. The man was Altian’s age, with the same red mark on his face. A single red streak that ran from his left temple to his cheek. Everyone in the army had it. It was the mark of the damned.
“Altian,” Likon panted. “The generals wish to hold another meeting.”
“I will be there,” Altian replied.
He waited for Likon to turn around and go, but the other man stayed, clearly intent on making sure Altian did not just ignore him as he usually did. Altian sighed, and followed Likon back to camp.
The smell of the camp was bad, as any camp of several thousand unwashed men would be. But at the same time it was comforting, reminding Altian of the prisons back home. He missed his small enclosed cell.
The men around him were in fairly high spirits. None of the elected guards bothered to keep check on their posts. What was the point? All around there was fighting, gambling, and other far more unwholesome activities. In the very least, the men were giving the illusion of hope, rather than fear of what lay ahead.
Likon led Altian into a tent, identical to any other tent in the camp. Ten men stood around a small table, upon which lay a cloth map. The General, as the leader of the rag tag army was called, looked up and nodded at Altian’s arrival.
“Thank you, Likon,” he told the other man. “You may go.” When Likon lingered for just a single moment too long, the General turned and snarled, “Piss off, runt.”
Likon fled like a chastised child, much to the amusement of the other men. Altian did not share their laughter. He looked at the map and sighed.
“What now?” he asked.
“We just want to go over the plan one last time,” the General said.
“What’s there to go over?” asked another officer in irritation. “We just go to the castle and bang on the doors until they let us in.”
No one laughed at that.
“That sort of smartarse reply is why we need to go over the plan,” replied the General angrily.
The officer sulked, but remained silent. He remembered what happened to the twelfth member of their group.
The General explained the strategy they were planning for the battle the next day, pointing to the map and illustrating the finer points of every action that each man would have to take with his division. Charges, pincer movements, everything was planned out meticulously by the General. Altian absorbed it all, particularly his own part commanding the division on the right wing. He had an important part to play in driving a wedge though their enemy’s ranks, and cutting off any support they might have. The Lok’Chang itself had no reinforcements or support planned. Every force was being deployed. There was no plan in case of retreat. That would have been pointless. If the army failed tomorrow, they were dead anyway. Better to die in battle than to slowly rot in the endless wastes of the Hae’Darak.
Which brought another question to Altian’s mind.
“What of our enemy? Have they made any move?”
“Our scouts have returned,” one of the officers replied. “They say the fortress is still lifeless. No sign of any armies. Not even any guards.”
“Could it be that the fortress has been abandoned?” ventured another hopefully.
“Do not think for a moment that it would be that easy,” snapped the General. “They will not allow us to simply walk up to the ramparts and take what is not rightfully ours.”
“It is rightfully ours,” whispered one man. “The Emperor demands it. And his will is the will of the heavens.”
No one replied this. Then the General snorted.
“And do not think for a moment that God is going to come down here and save us,” he said. “We are on our own. Either we succeed or we perish. No divine intervention will save us, and certainly not the Emperor.”
“Do you doubt the validity of our charge?” asked the true believer with absolute disdain.
The officer in charge of the infantry shook his head in disbelief. “Do you believe this fool?” he asked the others. “He still believes we are here for a good reason, to do God’s will. What utter bullshit! Face it, Alchung, we were sent here to die!”
“Shut up, the pair of you!” the General snapped. He did not want any talk of that. Not now when the end was so near.
“What good is this...” the commander of the archer division said anyway. “One way or another we are all going to die...”
“Every man dies. If it’s our time, so be it. But if there is even the remotest chance that we can get out of this godforsaken place then I will take it. Even if I have to storm that bloody castle myself, I will fight to the end to go home.”
“Home to what?” the archer commander asked despairingly. “You really believe the Emperor will hold up his end of the bargain? We are worth nothing to him. If by some remote chance we live past tomorrow, do you really believe we will be exonerated?”
“What would you have us do? Stay here? Run off into the wastelands? Already our food and water are running low. We will survive another two, maybe three days. Then what? Our only chance is that tomorrow, after we have stormed that fortress and taken the Shen-Xin, that the portal will again open.”
“And if it does not?”
“Then it does not.”
There was silence. To change the subject, Altian asked another question.
“What of the bridge? Is it as bad as we thought?”
The General looked to him, and nodded solemnly. “It is narrow. Barely ten men could probably stand abreast if our scouts are right. It’s a bottleneck. We need to get through, and we need to get through fast. We cannot get caught on it. If the chance arises, your division will be in the best position,” he nodded to the Believer. “Altian, can you drive a gap large enough to let his section through?”
“I can, if that is what I must do,” replied Altian.
The General opened his mouth to say more, but what else was there to say that he had not already said many times before.
“We know what must be done,” he told the others. “There is no po
int talking all night. Go. Enjoy yourselves. Have your men save enough rations for tomorrow, the rest... Well, we may as well feast as little as we can tonight.”
The officers nodded, and one by one left. Altian waited behind, taking the chance to look over the map one last time.
“You may as well go,” the General told him.
“I do not want to celebrate my upcoming death,” Altian replied.
“Suit yourself.” With that the General left Altian alone.
Altian stared at the map, trying to visualise the area it depicted, but he thought it foolish to trust the map at all. It had been made by men who had died before his grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather had been born.
The area itself was a terrible battlefield. They would be undoubtedly outnumbered by a force none alive or dead had ever seen. A force that would not be even remotely human.
Altian studied the map for as long as he could. In his mind he formulated his actions, visualising his men charging through the ranks of his enemy, cutting a swathe through which another division could pass and enter the castle.
But what of the fortress itself? None could tell what was inside it, of what evil waited for them within. That was if they did not get lost in its sprawling ruin first. All they knew was that inside the forgotten place in this inhuman realm there was something the Emperor wanted. Something he was willing to sacrifice thousands of men for.
The Shen-Xin. The God’s Heart.
Altian had doubted that the thing had even existed. But when he had seen the