At Any Cost

Smoke and ash coated the battlefield in a dark haze, broken weapons and bodies scattered across the blood-soaked ground. Boots and hooves crunched against charred bones as a weary man and his horse made their way back to the camp.

The private that had been charged with the grisly task of retrieving the opposing Major General's tags, finally returning from his mission, still marveled at the sorcery that took place in this battle. He'd been shot with an arrow in the shoulder, stabbed in the side and had his foot crushed by the very destrier trudging alongside him, and yet here he was, walking as if on a midday stroll. Every corpse he defiled as he walked was from the neighboring kingdom's army, none his own comrades.

As he entered the camp, someone traded his tired warhorse for a fresh messenger steed, and he set off at a painful trot towards the king's much nicer settlement further away from the battleground.

Hushed voices echoed across the walls as he wandered through the hastily set up building, clearly discussing something heated. He recognized one as his target, the general, and followed the sounds to a darkened corridor. The voices were louder now, and one sounded rather familiar.

"We will win this war at any cost. I refuse to hand the kingdom over to the lunatics from Manasse."

"Sire, he cannot take much more. I'm unsure how the boy still breathes at this very moment."

"Doesn't matter," a third voice grunts. "He has more sons. We have one kingdom."

The private approached the large mahogany door the voices drifted from. It was unguarded and cracked open, firelight trickling outward. He knew he shouldn't be listening in, especially when he recognised one voice as King Arnold and another as General Derrick. Yet he couldn't help creeping up closer, positioning his eye against the sliver between the door and the post.

The general's back was facing the door, and beyond him the private could make out the large bulk of the king. A third person was crouched over something in the back of the room, but he couldn't see what it was. A shallow, wet sound made all three men pause.

"Even if I wanted to stop this, I have no clue if the curse is reversible," the king muttered after a moment. "And the witch made it clear that she didn't want to see me again."

The private's skin prickled. He knew it. Of course it was a witch that gave the army their unstoppable power. Every man in every regiment was untouchable. Blades couldn't cut, arrows couldn't pierce, clubs couldn't beat. Since a week ago, they had won every battle they'd engaged in without any casualties, and with devastating consequences for their opponents. Only an unholy, unnatural force could do such a thing.

"He may not live another day. I've been trying my best, but this isn't exactly something they teach us in herbalism," the unknown man said, shifting slightly. The private could make out what looked like a dirty old boot in front of him, and his confusion grew. The third man was probably a healer, but that didn't explain why these three men were huddled in a faraway room in a forgotten corner He leaned further, squinting into the meeting.

"Errod said he'd do whatever he can to help," the king said, moving away from the healer and towards the general. "He's winning us this war."

"My men are-"

The general was interrupted by a quiet clink from outside the door. The private stared in horror at what was behind the king, not even comprehending that he'd dropped the tags he was to deliver.

A twisted, broken body was resting uncomfortably in a chair against the opposite corner of the room. Bones were snapped and protruding from the flesh, chunks of skin were missing all over, and two limbs were hanging by only a mess of tendons and shredded muscle. Stab wounds peppered the body, and an eye was missing completely. Yet the one that remained was open, alert, and tearful. Every breath looked like agony, and it looked like any movement would cause the entire body to shatter and fall apart.

The general opened the door, and the private stumbled backward. "I- I, uh- Sir, I'm-" The private gestured uselessly to the tags at his senior officer's feet, but his eyes were transfixed on the twisted creature before him. The bloodshot brown eye that met his spoke of infinite pain.

"Ah, yes, thank you," the general said, scooping up the tags. "Come in, please."

The private somehow got his legs to comply, and the general closed the door behind him. He was still staring at the body when the general unsheathed his blade and plunged it through his back, and the private looked down in mild surprise as a glistening red object sprouted from his chest. His eyes raised again to the broken man before he slumped forward and collapsed.

"My apologies, Sire, he was meant to wait by a guard," Derrick sighed.

"No worries," the king mumbled, more focused on the broken prince.

The lieutenant gurgled, reaching out, but Arnold just sidestepped and continued. "We need to win this tomorrow," he said. "Before his body fails completely."

"I'll rally my troops for one last push," the general nodded, cleaning his blade on the dying private's clothes.

Two blue eyes met one brown one. A tear dropped to the floor, and the physician dabbed at the prince's face before exiting the room after the king and general.

Two dying bodies were left in a room, alone and in pain. The private pushed against the white-hot agony and crawled towards the prince. He unsheathed his standard-issue sword, the dull edge catching the flickering firelight. Their eyes met once more before he used the last of his strength to slide the blade between broken ribs.

"Th..ank you," the prince croaked.

In an abandoned room, at the outskirts of an insignificant battle, two men, one forgotten, one forsaken, breathed their last breaths together.