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Tarren shifted and opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, above him he could see stars and the moon, as well as smoke lit from below by fires somewhere nearby. Where was the smoke from? He couldn’t remember, everything was a blur and it was so hard to think. All he really wanted was to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but no, he was Paladin of the Blue Blade, and he had been separated from his legion. They likely thought him dead in the battle.

The battle! That was where the smoke came from, the battle that day against the dark wizards of Cael’roth’s Serpent Order. Tarren concentrated harder still. Why was he in this field if there’d been a battle? He supposed this was near where the fighting had happened. He shifted one arm around but felt nothing but pristine grass. No bodies, no weapons, nothing to suggest that this had been the battlefield.

“Think Tarren, think. How did you get here?” His voice sounded dry and raspy, he supposed he had been breathing the smoke for most of the day, passed out in the field. He tried to channel the power of Uxta and revitalize himself somewhat but a horrible stabbing pain lanced through his chest. A wound, too great to heal himself, he’d have to have one of the clerics tend to him when he got back to camp.

Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, his head swimming with every movement. His thoughts were still sluggish, but he concluded he must have lost much blood. He still wore most of his armor, though his helmet and shield had been lost somewhere along the way. He saw a glint in the grass not far from himself and reached for it. His hand came up from the lush green foliage holding his blade. The mystical runes glimmered in the starlight and pulsed with their familiar blue glow. It seemed heavier than before, as though it was trying to drop from his hand back into the grass. Tarren wasn’t surprised, as weakened as he was he was amazed he could lift it at all.

Sheathing the weapon Tarren slowly craned his neck skyward, trying to get his bearings from the stars. It was difficult, so far north of his home. He smiled as he thought back to the tiny village he’d grown up in on the southern shores of Bandor. Technically part of the Elven settlement of Torr’Sal’Oce, the village was quite a ways away. A dozen families had called it home, fishing, hunting, farming, the simple things needed to live one’s life. Though Tarren had heard the call of the god and joined the Paladins he’d never forgotten his childhood, helping with the cattle, mending nets, learning to shoot a bow.

A bow… why was a bow important? He knew there was something he should remember, the bow seemed important.

Not the bow, the arrow. He remembered the arrow he’d been struck with. He ran his hand over his breastplate, finding a hole in the metal. Yes, he’d been struck not far below the heart. The wizards didn’t use barbed arrows though, and he’d pulled it out. He remembered the smell, a dark odor, like freshly turned soil. He’d called on Uxta’s power to purge the toxin from his system but it had been only partially successful. He remembered a haze coming over him, he’d turned to return to the clerics for proper healing but the poison confused him and he’d turned the wrong way. He must have wandered into the field and collapsed.

Perhaps the poison was still with him. He tried again to summon his god’s power and clear his head but the pain returned to his chest. Too severe a wound, the bleeding had stopped but there must be damage under the surface.

Slowly the pain passed and he turned his attention back to the stars. There, the purple star. Lillac, the Flower Queen, Floreeas to the elves, and the blue star of Uxta passing the dark red of Carlis’ star. He was north of the campsite, north of the battle; his venom hazed mind had apparently led him in the completely wrong direction.

He began to walk and found his legs sluggish, one not bending as much as it should. Feeling his armor he found more rends, tears in the mail that guarded his less vital areas, several deep dents in the plates on his arms and legs. Hazy images of battle came to him as he traveled. He remembered trying to fight his way through the battle, believing he was returning to his own lines. He shook his head at the wounds. Obviously he’d had the presence of mind to heal himself while he ran or else he wouldn’t be alive now. He couldn’t examine the wounds with his gauntlets on, and he doubted he’d be able to work the complex catches that attached them to his suit’s bracers in his current condition.

The light grew brighter as he neared the fires, their glow reflecting of the low hanging smoke. He came into their full brilliance as he broke through a small tree stand and on to the battlefield proper. The dead were burning on the bonfires. Their bodies destroyed to let their spirits flee to whatever god or goddess they found solace in. He saw a mound at the southern edge of the field. The Dwarves would be buried there, their bodies to return to the stone from whence they came, to be reformed for the great Final Battle by their mysterious Earth Lord if their legends were to be believed. One fire burned with the dull blue flame of Uxta. The Elves would all be in that blaze, the children of the Life God accorded special reverence in death.

Tarren shambled across the field towards the southern end of it and the camps beyond. The locals moving about the field collecting bodies to be burned and scavenging what armor and weapons they could from the dead gave him a wide berth, some outright fled before him. Not that he could truly blame them, the apocalypse that he and his fellows had visited on their farm fields today would leave anyone terrified of a stranger with a sword.

He crossed from the light of the fires back into the darkness of the underbrush. He recognized the trail he had found, it was well trodden from the men and gorses that had stamped along it to and from battle. In the distance of the woods he saw the small flickering of fire. Smaller and much more inviting than the funeral pyres that blazed behind him. He continued his wounded march through the wilderness, the camp fires growing closer and closer. The scent of roasting boar drifted to his nose as he grew closer, and the sound of his fellow paladins and warriors celebrating the day’s victory slowly filled his ears. A warm smile grew on his face as he came within sight of these revelers. He was home now, safe. He took the final step from the darkness of the woods into the brightness of the camp fire and the gaze of the sentries.

They screamed.

Tarren froze, unsure of why the cry had sounded so horrified. A number of the warriors drew their weapons and rushed towards him. Tarren barely had time to draw his own weapon before Captain Balun’s blade came slicing down towards him.

“Stop!” He cried, his voice still hoarse from the smoke, “Please stop, I am Tarren, of the Blue Blade, I need help.” He parried blows from two other warriors who descended on him. Behind the warriors he could see the sentries cocking their crossbows. Balun bellowed with rage as Tarren barely deflected another savage blow.

“Do ye think we’re blind beast!” The dwarf’s voice held contempt like nothing Tarren had ever heard before. “We’ll destroy you and reclaim that which rightfully belongs to the god.” With every blow Tarren’s blade seemed to grow heavier, weighing him down and slowing his responses. Balun threw his of hand up and blinding white light assaulted Tarren. He had never had the god’s power turned on him before, it burned, searing his skin and driving spikes of pure fire trough his skull. One of the warriors knocked his sword out of Tarren’s grasp, it sailed through the air, planting itself in the turf. Desperate, in agony, unable to think instinct took over and Tarren fled the clearing, back into the woods.

Tarren didn’t know if the soldiers had pursued him. If they had he’d lost them in the wilderness during his flight. He sat in a small hollow now, he could see the campfires burning in the distance but the hollow was in deep shadow, even an elf would be hard pressed to see him from the camp.

The young man’s mind boggled at the reaction of his comrades. Captain Balun had been his commander for almost a decade, since Tarren was nothing but a squire. How horrendous must his wounds be if his own friends didn’t recognize him? His addled brain couldn’t even begin to imagine. Perhaps he was just dirty, that may be it. There was a small bathing pond east of the camp. He and Clarrisa had spent the night before the battle there. Despite himself he smiled at the thought of the strong warrior woman, his entire life for almost three years now.

He shook his head to try and clear it, again his attempts to heal himself left him clenching his chest in pain. When it passed he climbed from his hollow and made his way around the brightness that should have signified shelter from the horrors of the world. He found the small stream that fed the pond and began to make his way towards its soothing waters. The pond was the answer, he would somehow get out of his armor, or just wade in still sheathed in steel, and cleanse himself of the dirt and debris of the day, then return to the camp to be treated for his wounds. At the least, it was the only answer he could find in this nightmare he’d awaken to.

As he approached the clearing formed by the pond he saw a body beside the pool, fair skin and shoulder length brown hair were just hints of the beauty concealed by the thick leather tunic and skirt.

“Clarrisa?” His voice sounded too harsh, an insult to the goddess that stood before him facing into the darkness. He saw her tense for a moment before turning around.

“Tarren?” The young man realized he was still shrouded by the darkness of the trees and stepped forward into the moonlight of the tiny glade. Clarrisa recoiled slightly a look nearing pain entering her eyes. “Oh Tarren, it is you.” Tarren ran as best he could into the woman’s waiting arms, burying his face in her shoulder, his scent intoxicating. “They said you had come back, and that you’d been changed into… this. I didn’t want to believe them but…” Tarren pulled back and wiped a tear from her eye with a steel covered finger.

“What do you mean Clarrisa, they didn’t even recognize me. I walked into camp seeking a cleric for my wounds and they attacked me, drove me off, turned the power of the god on me. Even when I told them who I was they continued their assault. I don’t know how bad my wounds are, and the poison the wizards coat their arrows with is still clouding my thoughts, but still, they were not at all acting as they should have towards a wounded man. They seemed more interested in recovering my weapon and armor than helping me.
Horror etched Clarrisa’s features, but it was tempered with something: sympathy, pity? Tarren couldn’t really tell.

“My God, you can’t tell can you?” Tarren took on a puzzled look and Clarissa motioned him towards the reflecting surface of the pool. Slowly the young man pulled out of her embrace and moved towards the pool. As his image came into view Tarren felt his own horrow surge up. His skin was pale and grey. His eyes were milky white and sunken into his head, and a bold red slice cut across his throat. He fell to his knees as the memory came pouring back.

He’d run the wrong way in the battle, towards the enemy lines, killing as he went. Then he’d found his way into the field and the poison began to overcome him. One of the wizards had been there. Tarren had fallen to his knees, shaking to keep from collapsing completely. The wizard had pulled off Tarren’s helmet, casting it aside. Then the dagger and the strange chant. Then the wizard had lifted Tarren’s head and cut his throat with a single vicious blow.

Clarrisa came up behind him and took him in her arms again, holding his head against her breast. Tarren sobbed helplessly, no tears came. No tears would even come. He finally realized why he’d felt odd his entire march: he wasn’t breathing, his heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t even blinking. He was a zombie, undead. Somehow he’d retained his mind, his soul, but he didn’t know how long that would last. Soon, no doubt, even these would leave him and he’d become the mindless beast the warriors at the camp had believed him to be.
Slowly Clarrisa drew her dagger and slid the cold metal between her body and her lover’s throat. Tarren looked up into her eyes, and even though she was holding a blade to his throat he could see nothing but love in her eyes. Bringing his sobs under control the warrior withdrew from her grasp and bowed his head, saying a silent prayer to Uxta. Then he looked back into her eyes. He wondered for a moment if his lifeless eyes could convey the love he felt for her. Even if they couldn’t he could see in her eyes that she knew. He nodded once and Clarrisa’s blade dug into the flesh of his throat.

And Tarren’s march ended.

Description
Tarren shifted and opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, above him he could see stars and the moon, as well as smoke lit from below by fires somewhere nearby. Where was the smoke from? He couldn’t remember, everything was a blur and it was so hard to think. All he really wanted was to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but no, he was Paladin of the Blue Blade, and he had been separated from his legion. They likely thought him dead in the battle.

The battle! That was where the smoke came from, the battle that day against the dark wizards of Cael’roth’s Serpent Order. Tarren concentrated harder still. Why was he in this field if there’d been a battle? He supposed this was near where the fighting had happened. He shifted one arm around but felt nothing but pristine grass. No bodies, no weapons, nothing to suggest that this had been the battlefield.

“Think Tarren, think. How did you get here?” His voice sounded dry and raspy, he supposed he had been breathing the smoke for most of the day, passed out in the field. He tried to channel the power of Uxta and revitalize himself somewhat but a horrible stabbing pain lanced through his chest. A wound, too great to heal himself, he’d have to have one of the clerics tend to him when he got back to camp.

Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, his head swimming with every movement. His thoughts were still sluggish, but he concluded he must have lost much blood. He still wore most of his armor, though his helmet and shield had been lost somewhere along the way. He saw a glint in the grass not far from himself and reached for it. His hand came up from the lush green foliage holding his blade. The mystical runes glimmered in the starlight and pulsed with their familiar blue glow. It seemed heavier than before, as though it was trying to drop from his hand back into the grass. Tarren wasn’t surprised, as weakened as he was he was amazed he could lift it at all.

Sheathing the weapon Tarren slowly craned his neck skyward, trying to get his bearings from the stars. It was difficult, so far north of his home. He smiled as he thought back to the tiny village he’d grown up in on the southern shores of Bandor. Technically part of the Elven settlement of Torr’Sal’Oce, the village was quite a ways away. A dozen families had called it home, fishing, hunting, farming, the simple things needed to live one’s life. Though Tarren had heard the call of the god and joined the Paladins he’d never forgotten his childhood, helping with the cattle, mending nets, learning to shoot a bow.

A bow… why was a bow important? He knew there was something he should remember, the bow seemed important.

Not the bow, the arrow. He remembered the arrow he’d been struck with. He ran his hand over his breastplate, finding a hole in the metal. Yes, he’d been struck not far below the heart. The wizards didn’t use barbed arrows though, and he’d pulled it out. He remembered the smell, a dark odor, like freshly turned soil. He’d called on Uxta’s power to purge the toxin from his system but it had been only partially successful. He remembered a haze coming over him, he’d turned to return to the clerics for proper healing but the poison confused him and he’d turned the wrong way. He must have wandered into the field and collapsed.

Perhaps the poison was still with him. He tried again to summon his god’s power and clear his head but the pain returned to his chest. Too severe a wound, the bleeding had stopped but there must be damage under the surface.

Slowly the pain passed and he turned his attention back to the stars. There, the purple star. Lillac, the Flower Queen, Floreeas to the elves, and the blue star of Uxta passing the dark red of Carlis’ star. He was north of the campsite, north of the battle; his venom hazed mind had apparently led him in the completely wrong direction.

He began to walk and found his legs sluggish, one not bending as much as it should. Feeling his armor he found more rends, tears in the mail that guarded his less vital areas, several deep dents in the plates on his arms and legs. Hazy images of battle came to him as he traveled. He remembered trying to fight his way through the battle, believing he was returning to his own lines. He shook his head at the wounds. Obviously he’d had the presence of mind to heal himself while he ran or else he wouldn’t be alive now. He couldn’t examine the wounds with his gauntlets on, and he doubted he’d be able to work the complex catches that attached them to his suit’s bracers in his current condition.

The light grew brighter as he neared the fires, their glow reflecting of the low hanging smoke. He came into their full brilliance as he broke through a small tree stand and on to the battlefield proper. The dead were burning on the bonfires. Their bodies destroyed to let their spirits flee to whatever god or goddess they found solace in. He saw a mound at the southern edge of the field. The Dwarves would be buried there, their bodies to return to the stone from whence they came, to be reformed for the great Final Battle by their mysterious Earth Lord if their legends were to be believed. One fire burned with the dull blue flame of Uxta. The Elves would all be in that blaze, the children of the Life God accorded special reverence in death.

Tarren shambled across the field towards the southern end of it and the camps beyond. The locals moving about the field collecting bodies to be burned and scavenging what armor and weapons they could from the dead gave him a wide berth, some outright fled before him. Not that he could truly blame them, the apocalypse that he and his fellows had visited on their farm fields today would leave anyone terrified of a stranger with a sword.

He crossed from the light of the fires back into the darkness of the underbrush. He recognized the trail he had found, it was well trodden from the men and gorses that had stamped along it to and from battle. In the distance of the woods he saw the small flickering of fire. Smaller and much more inviting than the funeral pyres that blazed behind him. He continued his wounded march through the wilderness, the camp fires growing closer and closer. The scent of roasting boar drifted to his nose as he grew closer, and the sound of his fellow paladins and warriors celebrating the day’s victory slowly filled his ears. A warm smile grew on his face as he came within sight of these revelers. He was home now, safe. He took the final step from the darkness of the woods into the brightness of the camp fire and the gaze of the sentries.

They screamed.

Tarren froze, unsure of why the cry had sounded so horrified. A number of the warriors drew their weapons and rushed towards him. Tarren barely had time to draw his own weapon before Captain Balun’s blade came slicing down towards him.

“Stop!” He cried, his voice still hoarse from the smoke, “Please stop, I am Tarren, of the Blue Blade, I need help.” He parried blows from two other warriors who descended on him. Behind the warriors he could see the sentries cocking their crossbows. Balun bellowed with rage as Tarren barely deflected another savage blow.

“Do ye think we’re blind beast!” The dwarf’s voice held contempt like nothing Tarren had ever heard before. “We’ll destroy you and reclaim that which rightfully belongs to the god.” With every blow Tarren’s blade seemed to grow heavier, weighing him down and slowing his responses. Balun threw his of hand up and blinding white light assaulted Tarren. He had never had the god’s power turned on him before, it burned, searing his skin and driving spikes of pure fire trough his skull. One of the warriors knocked his sword out of Tarren’s grasp, it sailed through the air, planting itself in the turf. Desperate, in agony, unable to think instinct took over and Tarren fled the clearing, back into the woods.

Tarren didn’t know if the soldiers had pursued him. If they had he’d lost them in the wilderness during his flight. He sat in a small hollow now, he could see the campfires burning in the distance but the hollow was in deep shadow, even an elf would be hard pressed to see him from the camp.

The young man’s mind boggled at the reaction of his comrades. Captain Balun had been his commander for almost a decade, since Tarren was nothing but a squire. How horrendous must his wounds be if his own friends didn’t recognize him? His addled brain couldn’t even begin to imagine. Perhaps he was just dirty, that may be it. There was a small bathing pond east of the camp. He and Clarrisa had spent the night before the battle there. Despite himself he smiled at the thought of the strong warrior woman, his entire life for almost three years now.

He shook his head to try and clear it, again his attempts to heal himself left him clenching his chest in pain. When it passed he climbed from his hollow and made his way around the brightness that should have signified shelter from the horrors of the world. He found the small stream that fed the pond and began to make his way towards its soothing waters. The pond was the answer, he would somehow get out of his armor, or just wade in still sheathed in steel, and cleanse himself of the dirt and debris of the day, then return to the camp to be treated for his wounds. At the least, it was the only answer he could find in this nightmare he’d awaken to.

As he approached the clearing formed by the pond he saw a body beside the pool, fair skin and shoulder length brown hair were just hints of the beauty concealed by the thick leather tunic and skirt.

“Clarrisa?” His voice sounded too harsh, an insult to the goddess that stood before him facing into the darkness. He saw her tense for a moment before turning around.

“Tarren?” The young man realized he was still shrouded by the darkness of the trees and stepped forward into the moonlight of the tiny glade. Clarrisa recoiled slightly a look nearing pain entering her eyes. “Oh Tarren, it is you.” Tarren ran as best he could into the woman’s waiting arms, burying his face in her shoulder, his scent intoxicating. “They said you had come back, and that you’d been changed into… this. I didn’t want to believe them but…” Tarren pulled back and wiped a tear from her eye with a steel covered finger.

“What do you mean Clarrisa, they didn’t even recognize me. I walked into camp seeking a cleric for my wounds and they attacked me, drove me off, turned the power of the god on me. Even when I told them who I was they continued their assault. I don’t know how bad my wounds are, and the poison the wizards coat their arrows with is still clouding my thoughts, but still, they were not at all acting as they should have towards a wounded man. They seemed more interested in recovering my weapon and armor than helping me.
Horror etched Clarrisa’s features, but it was tempered with something: sympathy, pity? Tarren couldn’t really tell.

“My God, you can’t tell can you?” Tarren took on a puzzled look and Clarissa motioned him towards the reflecting surface of the pool. Slowly the young man pulled out of her embrace and moved towards the pool. As his image came into view Tarren felt his own horrow surge up. His skin was pale and grey. His eyes were milky white and sunken into his head, and a bold red slice cut across his throat. He fell to his knees as the memory came pouring back.

He’d run the wrong way in the battle, towards the enemy lines, killing as he went. Then he’d found his way into the field and the poison began to overcome him. One of the wizards had been there. Tarren had fallen to his knees, shaking to keep from collapsing completely. The wizard had pulled off Tarren’s helmet, casting it aside. Then the dagger and the strange chant. Then the wizard had lifted Tarren’s head and cut his throat with a single vicious blow.

Clarrisa came up behind him and took him in her arms again, holding his head against her breast. Tarren sobbed helplessly, no tears came. No tears would even come. He finally realized why he’d felt odd his entire march: he wasn’t breathing, his heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t even blinking. He was a zombie, undead. Somehow he’d retained his mind, his soul, but he didn’t know how long that would last. Soon, no doubt, even these would leave him and he’d become the mindless beast the warriors at the camp had believed him to be.
Slowly Clarrisa drew her dagger and slid the cold metal between her body and her lover’s throat. Tarren looked up into her eyes, and even though she was holding a blade to his throat he could see nothing but love in her eyes. Bringing his sobs under control the warrior withdrew from her grasp and bowed his head, saying a silent prayer to Uxta. Then he looked back into her eyes. He wondered for a moment if his lifeless eyes could convey the love he felt for her. Even if they couldn’t he could see in her eyes that she knew. He nodded once and Clarrisa’s blade dug into the flesh of his throat.

And Tarren’s march ended.