FREE USE in Primitive World

It was a victory, certainly, but it was hollow... for even if these beings were alien, the visceral reality of war and the finality of death hung heavy in the humid air, tempering any urge to gloat.

She remained silent for a long while, a revered acknowledgement that death, regardless of whom, was a burden that only grew heavier with each battle won.

”Thauren,” She finally commanded, her voice ringing out clearly across the silent settlement. ”Disarm every single survivor. Gather all the weapons. Secure the granaries, seize their venom vats, and inventory their cured hides.

Separate those who fought from those who did not. I want a full count before full dark.”

”Yes, Warchief!” Thauren saluted sharply and immediately began barking orders.

Squads who had quite experience in this regard moved with practiced efficiency, binding the wrists of the surviving fighters, corralling the wider population into controlled groups along the wider walkways, and beginning the systematic collection of every blade, spear, and bow that had been thrown down.

Sol walked up the steps of the platform, coming to a stop beside Veylara.

He wiped a stray drop of dark blood from the sapphire edge of the Dreadwing Blade with the hem of his tunic before sliding the massive weapon smoothly back into its leather scabbard.

Kira and Zeyra joined them a moment later. Kira was unstringing her bow, a look of grim satisfaction on her face, while Zeyra wiped her twin daggers clean against her leather trousers.

”That was messier than the Zharun,” Zeyra remarked, looking down at the bloody walkways and floating corpses in the canal. ”These swamp rats had more bite in them than I expected.”

”Desperation makes even cornered grass eaters kick,” Sol rasped, his crimson eyes gleaming with cold calm as he looked out over the subdued marsh. ”Too bad kicking doesn’t stop a spear.”

Kira glanced once toward a group of kneeling Zerith being bound by two Veynar warriors, then back to the platform.

”They held longer than they should have, given what was left of them. But it still ended the same way.”

Veylara looked toward the western sky.

The sun had begun to sink beneath the horizon, casting a deep, fiery orange and bruised-purple glow over the steaming swamps of the Great Orrath.

Smoke from the few remaining fires drifted in thin, dark ribbons across that light. The settlement below them was no longer a defensive position.

It was a captured asset... damaged, bloodied, but still standing, still populated, and now under Veynar control.

”Two territories down in a single day,” Veylara said. A faint, proud smile touched her features as she looked at Sol and the warriors assembling in the yard below. ”The Zharun are pacified. The Zerith are broken. And we still have not lost a single warrior.”

The statement carried no boast. It was simply the reality of the day, and it was accurate.

The Veynar vanguard had taken wounds... cuts, bruises, a handful of more serious injuries from spears and venomous daggers... but the force that had marched into the marsh would march out of it with the same number of living fighters it had brought.

In the brutal Great Orrath, that fact alone was a declaration of dominance.

Veylara turned her gaze toward the southern horizon. There, beyond the last stretch of lowland mist and darkening forest, the jagged, foreboding peaks of the Gray Marauder highlands rose against the sky like a wall of black iron.

The final piece of the old Coalition’s holdings still waited.

”We will rest the vanguard here in the Zerith lodges tonight,” she declared. Her sovereign resolve burned as clearly as the fading light.

”We will rest, eat what rations and seized stores we need, sleep under their roofs, and at first light tomorrow we will march on the Gray Marauders. One more push, and the conquest will be finally complete.”

No one on the platform disagreed.

...

The humid twilight settled quickly over the sunken marsh, wrapping the conquered Zerith settlement in thick, cool mists that smelled of sulfur, peat smoke, and cooling blood.

The hundred Veynar elites moved through the maze of wooden boardwalks with the mechanical, unhurried discipline of seasoned conquerors.

Torches carved from fat-soaked reeds were jammed into the ironwood railing posts, casting long, wavering orange reflections across the dark drainage canals.

By the time the full blackness of night swallowed the swamp, the Zerith Great Lodge had been cleared and secured as the Veynar command post.

The lodge was a squat, sprawling structure built from massive, water-resistant ironwood logs and roofed with thick layers of dried marsh reeds.

Inside, woven reed mats covered the raised timber floors, and several clay braziers burned with fragrant dried swamp mint, driving away the damp chill and the foul bog stench.

A simple meal of roasted swamp fowl, smoked fish, and boiled marsh tubers... plundered directly from the chief’s private stores... was set out across a low, wide wooden slab in the center of the hall.

Sol sat on a thick pile of cured otter pelts, leaning his broad shoulders against a sturdy ironwood pillar. He had removed his dented black armor, placing them beside the Dreadwing blade resting within arm’s reach.

The leather pouch containing the Mountain-Marrow Stone still rested securely against his thigh, its deep, slate-grey rhythm humming steadily against his senses.

Beside him, Kira sat close, her shoulder gently resting against his arm as she peeled the charred skin from a roasted tuber, handing half to him with a soft, quiet smile.

”Eat,” Kira murmured, her voice warm in the firelight. ”You’ve barely touched any food since we left the Zharun compound.”

Sol took the steaming root, taking a bite as its earthy, slightly sweet flavor filled his mouth. ”Marching through two swamps in one afternoon does work up an appetite.”

Zeyra sat on his other side, cross-legged, methodically running an oily whetstone along the edge of her left silver dagger. The rhythmic shhh-shhh of steel on stone was the only sound competing with the crackle of the braziers.

”Two tribes conquered in less than twelve hours,” Zeyra muttered, testing the edge with her thumb before sliding the blade into its sheath.

”If someone told me three days ago that we would break the entire coalition, wipe out four Layer 4 warlords, and take the Zharun and Zerith without losing a single man... I would have slit their throat for talking mad nonsense.”

”Madness is just history before it happens,” Sol rasped, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Across the low table, Warchief Veylara and High Shaman Zephyra sat reviewing a set of scratched leather charts brought up from the Zerith chieftain’s private quarters. Veylara had unfastened her armor, wearing a simple, dark-red linen tunic that showed the strong, graceful lines of her body.

Her deep blue eyes were calm, but the fire of a sovereign ruler burned brightly within them.

”The Zerith stores are richer in raw materials than we anticipated,” Veylara said, taking a sip of warm herbal broth from a wooden bowl. ”Their cured reptile hides alone will provide armor for two hundred fresh recruits, and their medicinal moss will keep our healing halls stocked through the winter.”

Zephyra set down a rough charcoal map, her milky-white eyes reflecting the amber glow of the braziers.

”The Zerith are broken and docile,” Zephyra said softly. ”A detachment of twenty warriors left behind tomorrow will be more than enough to maintain order.

But tomorrow’s target... is entirely different.”