The Book of Warlock

The Book of Warlock 2. Desertion before dawn.

The aroma of charred meat and sweaty boots filled the air as Lieutenant Brook jabbed her dagger-tip into the dirt in front of her, troubled. The winds had changed. Literally and figuratively. A cold bite was sweeping down from the mountains, and the company was exchanging uneasy looks as the night drew in. They'd had drama before; petty squabbles and deserters and skirmishes, but never anything like this. Through all the towns, cities and citadels that they had razed they had added to their ranks, leaving behind all those unfit for war. It was becoming almost too much now; a thousand mouths to feed, soldiers to equip and arm, dozens of wagons piled high with tents and bedding... and it wasn't enough. Men were going hungry. Sleeping uncovered on filthy matted rags. Freezing. The medics were stretched beyond breaking point, using old bandages that weren't fit for purpose but without any other choice, and dosing out healing salve in pitiful amounts. If they could just stop for once, stop and stock up, maybe morale wouldn't be at rock bottom. Maybe injured fighters wouldn't mysteriously disappear just before suppertime when the meat stew was being ladled out.

But the rat was not going to stop. There was no respite. They were carving their way through the landscape, snatching and grabbing what they could before moving on to the next target. Only a handful of Nisgarant's most trusted officers knew where they were headed towards next, and the most senior of those was dead now.

General Warlock had been well liked, on the whole. He hadn't stayed within the safety and comfort of the gaily-decorated tents of the privileged few; his responsibilities actually meant something to him. He'd walked the ranks, to the humblest servant, and at least listened to them, even if he didn't actually have answers or solutions to their troubles. It had been a goodwill gesture, at least. He'd been just like them – taken from his home and pointed in an unknown direction, fighting for a bloodthirsty new master who had unclear motivations and goals.

Raised voices could be heard. Brook pricked her keen, pointed ears to try and catch snippets of what was going down in the epicentre of the travelling warband, at the luxurious temporary dwelling of the rat himself. She smiled wryly to herself; no-one wanted to be the new General. Fancy that. They were big boots to fill and being intimately close to the Warlord himself had shown itself to be a dangerous position indeed. One wrong word and it was a fatal stab for your trouble!

A bowl of brown, lumpy soup was offered to her, but she had no stomach for it, and shook her head. Someone else could have it, after all, there were so many empty bellies waiting to be filled.

She admired her artwork in the dust by her feet; a rearing horse with goblin warrior astride, long hair flowing in the breeze. Off on an adventure. Sword raised skyward.

She blinked in the haze of the campfires. What had she become? Everything that rat touched turned foul. Eager warriors had become murderers and cannibals under his banner. Fighting over scraps like wild animals. Turning on their own. The goblin in her picture would have tried to do some good. Would have been brave and noble. Certainly wouldn't have stood by idly while her most senior commander was slaughtered in view of everyone. All because he'd said 'no' to killing innocent civilians when Nisgarant had wanted them on the menu.

With a swipe, she scraped her boot over the image. It was too perfect, it was almost insulting. She was just one young officer in a vast sea of vermin. She knew, as they all knew, that she was at the mercy of the rat. To live and fight another day was all the hope they had. When your citadel walls were tumbling, and the war machines arrived, and you had a sword at your throat, you said 'yes' to joining the ranks. You put up and you shut up. If you were a genuinely skilled warrior, you made officer rank. It meant being fed first. It meant having a cover over your head at nightfall. It meant getting a horse to ride to spare your feet.

As if on cue, a soft whinny reached her ears. It was the General's horse. A beautiful black stallion, with blazing eyes and huge flaring nostrils. Hooves like dinner plates. It seemed as though it was calling to her. It wouldn't seem right, seeing another person upon its back. Having one of the Majors trotting by Nisgarant's side, leading the way, urging them into battle. Calling for the advance.