“We’ll be at the base camp soon,” said Kol, “Thousands of orcs, men, and horses.”

“Thousands?”

“Yes, it’ll be chaos and short rations until the war begins.”

“When will that be?”

“I’m not privy to the king’s plans. Soon enough, I suppose. But not before you’re sick of base camp.”

Dar took another swallow from the bottle. “What’s war like?”

“It’s flesh meeting metal—a hard game. A man’s game.”

“And the women?” said Dar. “What about them?”

“The smart ones get by. Some handsomely.”

“War must be more than a game.”

“All life’s a game, and winning and losing are what matters.” Kol gave Dar a meaningful look. “That, and whose side you're on.”

“What did you see?” asked Yaun in a hushed voice.

“Many crowd the Dark Path. There’s much confusion.”

“What of our comrades?”

“Some of their shades still journey with us, but not the one I seek,” replied Honus. He gazed at Yaun and added, “Alaric is nearby.”

The blood drained from Yaun’s face, and he glanced anxiously about the twilit forest. “Did... did he speak with you?”

“I cannot speak with the dead. I can only sense their memories.”

“What’s on his mind?” asked Yaun.

“He’s troubled by regret; the newly slain usually are.”

“Anything else? Does he think of the battle?”

“He yearns for a child with golden hair, nothing more.”

“That’s all?” asked Yaun, sounding relieved.

“The girl was dear to him.”

“I would have thought he’d dwell upon his glory.”

“Glory?” said Honus, his voice hard with incredulity. “The dead care not for glory. The Dark Path doesn’t ring with song.”

By the time Yim returned with her third load of wood, Honus had a blaze going. The hares, skinned and dressed, lay on a rock. Yim shredded the herbs she had gathered and rubbed them on the raw meat. “Your sword would make a good spit,” she said.

“I’d sooner use my hands.”

“Men and their weapons!”

“You think we prize them overmuch?”

“What kind of sword could you buy for ten coppers?”

Honus smiled. “I can see where this is going. Yes, the Balance is askew. There once were times when a Sarf might be a builder or an artist. Now, the only art we learn is that of killing.”

“Killing an art?”

“Call it a trade, if it makes you feel better.” Honus picked up the knife with which he had skinned the hares. “I’ve seen men do terrible things with these—cruel, inhuman things. Still, a knife can be used to prepare a meal or whittle a child’s toy.”

“Yet, you’re not a knife,” said Yim. “You’re a sword.”

Honus saw that Yim was watching him intently, and he became aware that she was probing him much as he had attempted to probe her. Despite that gaze, or perhaps because of it, he felt compelled to answer truthfully. “Yes,” he said at last. “I’m a sword, best fit for killing. I take no pride in that. I don’t believe Karm delights in death, but I think she’s sometimes served by it.”

“How can killing serve the goddess?”

“In the same way a great fire may be stopped by a small one in its path. Good people may be protected. Good laws may be upheld.”

“And what has all that killing done to you?”

Honus looked away so suddenly it appeared that Yim had struck him. Yet when he gazed at her again, his features were composed. Speaking in a voice that was calm but cold, he said, “It’s not your place to ask.”

“My satisfaction lies solely in your safe return,” said Edmun. “It’s true I advised against your leaving. War is gruesome and perilous. You know that now. I feared Alaric had turned your head with his grandiose tales.”

“I wanted glory. Shouldn’t I have ambition?”

“A warrior’s glory is but a trinket—one for which many trade their real treasure. I think Alaric would forsake all his renown to once more feel a spring breeze. Be glad to enjoy what he cannot.”

Honus’s face tightened. He was silent for a moment before he took a deep breath and continued his story. “When Lord Bahl finally invaded Lurwic, he used a force that was more like a mob than an army. Most were the duke’s own people, turned against him. They came like ants and fought like them also. They were ill armed and unskilled, but they overcame every obstacle with their numbers and recklessness. It’s hard to fight men who don’t fear death, who’ll let you cleave their heads if they can wound you first.”

“They sound like monsters.”

“They were. Yet they were also ordinary men. Men who kissed their wives and children before they went to slay their neighbors and throw weeping babes into fires.”

It might have been dusk; Hendric couldn’t tell. To his eyes, the days had grown darker until they blended with the nights. On those increasingly rare occasions when he was capable of thought, he wondered if he was marching on the Dark Path. It wasn’t the lack of light that gave him that impression; it was his distance from life. He had stopped tasting food, longing for his family, or feeling pain. His severed fingers made his right hand useless, but he noticed only because it forced him to grip his sword with his left. That made killing more difficult, but he managed.

The horrific things that Hendric did no longer troubled him. He was detached from those he slaughtered. Men, women, and children had no more hold on him than the weeds he had plucked from his field in his former life. Their voices didn’t reach him, and their suffering washed over him without leaving a trace. Hendric had become an empty vessel that only Bahl could fill, and the only brew he poured was hate.

Mountains loomed ahead. They were marching into a place called Averen, though the name no longer possessed meaning for Hendric. He was aware of only one thing: The end was drawing near. He didn’t know what would end—the war, his life, the world, or perhaps all three. But with what vestige of desire that Hendric still possessed, he wanted the end to come. And come soon.

“Did he visit my son today? Telk came home this eve covered with red marks and spouting some tale ’bout falling from a tree.”

“Most like, our sons were together,” said Yim, “for I met Froan on the way here. He seemed coming from your hite.”

“What do ya think they were doing?”

Yim’s face darkened. “Playing war, I fear.”

“They’re nearly men. They should be seeking wives, not playing.”

“Men often never forsake that game, though their play becomes more deadly.” Yim shook her head sadly. “I’d hoped it’d be different here.”

“Love binds tighter than chains. We married, and soon after, you were conceived. We were so happy.”

“And then the soldiers came,” said Froan. “I know the rest.”

“War’s not valor and glory,” said Yim. “It’s butchery and cruelty. Don’t mistake it for a game.”