Pyrus pulled back his visor, allowing the sunlight to bask upon his face. He drew in a deep, calming breath, as he always did once the battle was complete, soothing his mind that for the past few hours had teetered between the possibility of death and life. The sun shone brightly, temporarily blinding him and instantly warming his skin, yet all he inhaled was the stench of death—decay and rotting iron, as a thousand bodies pooled their entrails into the swamp of blood. Every step he took through the grass caused him to sink while bubbling blood boiled in his wake. He held out his sword in preparation, wary that, as he trenched through a sea of death, some of its inhabitants might be lying in wait.

'Lord Commander Pyrus!' came a young shout.

He lifted his chin to better see through his raised visor. A fine, dewy mist had begun to roll down from the mountains, coating the dead in a translucent shroud. A gauntleted hand waved at him from across broken spears, upturned carts, and fragmented shields. Its owner called him again.

'Here I am, Captain,' he replied, as he plunged his sword into the chest of a man crumpled in the mud before him. As he had walked through the marsh, the man’s twitching eyes and fluttering hands had alerted Pyrus that he was still alive, and so it had fallen to Pyrus to dispatch him. It was hard to tell, through the grime of battle, which side this wretch had been on, but it mattered little. There was no life left for him—whether Pyrus dispatched him quickly or allowed him to bleed out, the end would be the same.

'Lord Commander, we have gathered the survivors,' Rycard informed him breathlessly, having dashed through the battlefield.

'Survivors?' Pyrus removed the sword and gave it a quick flick of his wrist. The blood-soaked edges glowed a vivid blue, then cooled to a clean silver, gently simmering as the aetheric current pulsated along the blade. 'Why did they not run? Hmm? Too slow...?' He glanced up to see a row of men in the distance, kneeling in the mud, their hands tied behind their backs. 'Too stupid?'

Captain Rycard’s eyes remained transfixed on the body, while his mouth twinged with disgust. 'Uh... One is a Magi, Lord Commander.'

Pyrus lowered his head to study the captain’s expression for signs of sincerity. The young man, no older than twenty, wore armour that still looked impeccably smooth. 'A knight?' Pyrus inquired.

The captain shook his head, still transfixed by the sight of a man, no older than himself, lying in the mud with hands reaching up to the sky, stiffened by sudden death. 'Uh... no... no... He’s dressed as a peasant, Lord Commander, but he wears the colours of Montpensier.'

Pyrus placed a heavy hand upon Rycard's shoulder, causing the young man’s eyes to lock with his own. 'Captain, what is a knight but a magi who is armed? We should know, for we are that. If he's dressed as a peasant, then he is a liar or a spy.'

'You think he's a spy, Lord Commander?'

Pyrus continued his trudge across the battlefield with renewed determination, leaving Captain Rycard running in his wake as mud squelched and flecked his gleaming armour. As he reached the line of sorry men, their faces streaked with the blood of friends and enemies, he needed no further hint as to who the magi was. Just as anyone can recognise their countrymen by sight, a magi could always identify one of their kind.

'What is your name?' he asked.

Some of the peasants looked up in curiosity, wondering if, in their final moments, a magi would lower himself to speak to them. But the captured magi paid him no attention. Pyrus raised his sword, the blade flashing blue with the movement, and swung it down to a quivering stop by the magi's cheek. Dark brown eyes rolled to study the edge laconically before the man sighed, twisting his face from one side to the other as though this was a minor but otherwise expected inconvenience.

'Answer him, sir,' Captain Rycard ordered, appearing beside Pyrus’s arm.

'You would know my name if you were to look upon my face and see what lies within,' the magi replied.

Pyrus turned his blade to the next man in line. 'You, peasant—do you know this man?'

'No, not I, me Lord. As sure as the sun doth-'

'Shut up.' Pyrus redirected his sword back to the magi. 'Your rank at least,' he demanded.

'I have no rank... but,' he raised his head and smiled at the knight, 'I would speak to you. I have a great story to tell, and you would seem the man to tell it to.'

Pyrus’ lips tightened. 'Captain!' he shouted brusquely. 'Prepare this one for interrogation. Execute the rest.'

This was the first battle he had fought alongside Captain Rycard, yet he already knew the face Rycard would pull: that desperation to resist, mixed with a determination not to undermine his commander’s orders. Rycard would twist and turn, grappling with the notion, internally wrestling with his morals, before inevitably asking the same question, over the din of the bawling men.

'They have surrendered. Do they deserve death? Surely we could put them to better use, Lord Commander.'

Having never asked this question himself as a young captain, Pyrus found this educational moment always rather trying. 'Do they deserve death? Come here, Captain.' He beckoned Captain Rycard closer, then pointed at three of his soldiers standing nearby. They had come from his village, all peasants of his land, hardened by earth and time. They wore no armour and held weapons inherited from their ancestors. Blood dribbled down their chins, unwashed from battle, while their dark eyes looked at their master steadily. They needed no further instruction from their lord, and with cool efficiency, they silenced the row of screaming men, systematically cutting their throats and spilling their blood onto the hungry earth.

The strange magi watched his compatriots slaughtered beside him with an unsettling air of indifference. If it had not been for the grim setting, Pyrus might have believed the man was simply sitting on a beach, watching a sunset after a long day. His expression was unchanged. Captain Rycard, on the other hand, had turned deathly pale.

'Captain,' Pyrus snapped his fingers through his gauntlet. He called again until Rycard’s eyes gradually came into focus. 'These men entered the battlefield knowing perfectly well that they might die today. They support a traitor to the crown. They lost, so they died today. And if that is not a clear enough reason for you to always follow my orders—well, you are a magi, a leader. Your ancestors were blessed by the angels. If you cannot muster the strength to fulfil duties that my field hands can do without a thought, then may Steffen have mercy upon you. Now take this man, strip him, and string him up.'

The rope groaned and creaked as the body it held up slowly twisted in the tent. Dappled sunlight trickled through the tent opening, illuminating the man’s body, as pale as his hair. Pyrus had allowed the man to grow accustomed to this position as he undressed from battle with the assistance of his squire. He hadn’t questioned him but simply watched, looking closely for those micro-movements in the face. The twinges of pain. The forming of sweat. The squinting eyes. The dry lips. In all these years, Pyrus had learned that it did not matter if someone was human or Magi, they still bled and felt pain and fear. He knew many at court, who lived lives away from the battlefield, shielded from this life, who would be shocked by this notion, shocked even that this would not be the first Magi that Pyrus had interrogated. To him, the only distinction was that one was poor, and one was not, and judging by the soft, almost feminine body of this man, poverty was not something he had known.

His squire brought in for him some food of meat, cheese, and fruit, with a large goblet of wine. He picked at it for a moment, enjoying the sensation of food. Last night, as they had feasted before the battle, he had looked down at his plate, and questioned, as always, would this be my last meal? He sank his teeth into the pork with relief. He too had entered the battlefield with the knowledge that he might die. But he did not, and this was always of great relief. He wondered, as he watched that soft pale body spin before him, if this man knew of his impending doom. There was no other result to be had from these activities. Pyrus had never released a man, saying 'thank you for your information, and I hope you have a pleasant day.'

His squire knew. He glanced briefly at the young boy's face that had grown very quickly accustomed to his master's methods. Unlike Rycard, there was no discernable sense of fear or disgust. His eyes studied the prisoner with the same clear analysis that he had learnt from his master.

'Will you keep him long?' the boy asked.

'That's entirely up to him,' Pyrus replied. He licked his fingers and took a long sip of his wine. 'Mmm. So,' he said eventually, wiping the last of his food from his lips. 'Shall we start with your name?'

Night had trickled down from the mountains, blackening the compound and causing haste to bring lamps. Their living soldiers had been treated in the hospital, their dead were burning on the pyre, and a gentle hum of music was slowly beginning to brew. The food and drink was now meagre in the midst of their campaign, but it mattered little, for they had made it through, this time, and that was enough to be celebrated.

Lord Commander Pyrus had left his prisoner strung to the main post at the centre of the tent. He never claimed to be a revelled, but he understood its importance enough to take a drink from his men and praise with them the efforts of the day. As he walked through the crowd, toasting, shaking hands, and clapping backs, he could not help but mull over what he had learnt

'He calls himself Merinosis, and claims that he is a monk and part of a sect known as the brothers. Apparently, they live inside Mount Steffen where they look after an immortal woman, and feed her Ananans. Merinosis says he does not work for the Bishop or Montpelier. He works for the crown, and was in Asbeet to complete an audit when he was press-ganged and ended up on the field.'

Prince Aegar leant forward to pour himself some more wine. 'You don't believe him,' he noted.

'I don't believe anyone I interrogate.'

'I have heard of this myth of the mountain woman. Could it be her? She is said to never die or age, but her skin burns in the sun, and she feasts on the flesh of man.'

Pyrus leant back in his chair, arms crossed, and his face enshadowed by the dim candlelight. 'I think, the operative word here, Your Highness, is myth.'

'But there are some truths in myths. That a woman lives in the mountains could be very probable. Would you like some more wine and food, Pyrus?'

'No, thank you.'

Prince Aegar reached out for the chicken leg on Pyrus' plate and began to eat as if he had never eaten before. 'Think about it,' he continued between bites as he waved the bone around. 'There's power in myths as well. People don't enter The Stiriphese for fear of being gobbled up by the mountain woman. Imagine if we say that the mountain woman is with us. The gates of Asbeet will open up and the siege and the war will be over.'

'She could also be a crazy old woman that some passerby made a story up about and has been dead for two hundred years. The monk could be lying, and be a servant of the Bishop. That does not negate that a siege is about to begin in Asbeet. We can not waste our time and energy on this.'

Aegar's shoulders slumped downwards as he ripped the last of the chicken off the bone and tossed the rest to his wolfhound resting behind him. Outside, music and revelry filled the air as a hundred feet tapped the ground and banged their cups, pleased that they could live and do so another day.

'I hate how well you know me sometimes,' Aegar said. 'I do not need to say 'I wish to pursue this'. I do not have to say. You know already.'

'Then we should know each other so well we do not even need to speak.'

Aegar grinned. 'I want to take him with us.'

'To Asbeet?' Pyrus asked, even though he already knew the answer.

'We'll give him back to his brothers, and take the mountain woman.'