News flash. It ain't all that simple. Like most things in the world, war has layers and layers of confusion and red tape you've got to peel through before you can see it for what it really is. And once you get deep enough to see into its core, it's so black and bloody that you can't even tell what the hell it's supposed to be. So you start climbing back out, and the path back ain't never the same as the path in. When you finally get back to the surface you're never in the same place as when you started, and you're so messed up in the head that nothing makes sense. South seems north for awhile.

A few days before Luca burned us down, I went wandering through the woods surrounding the fort to clear my head. Something I always like to do before a big fight. Lots of questions present themselves once you find your happy schtick out on the battlefield. Stuff like: What am I fighting for? Is it worth dying for? Do I really wanna kill these guys? What if I get wounded? Is my weapon in good enough condition?

Of course, by the time the questions are over you're standing knee-deep in dead men and wondering how in the hell you made it out alive. Don't ask me how the it all works, it just does.

Like I was saying, I was walking through these woods. I thought a lot about Denis and the vampiress who ate him. I thought a lot about Jillia and what we were supposed to do with her during the fight. I thought a lot about Makoto and whether or not his training would drop a few Highlanders when it came down to the nitty-gritty. And, God bless her, I though a lot about Barbara and whether or not she was able to escape Blight's bloodbath.

Pohl Treybell never crossed my mind. At least, not until he shouted at me from somewhere high over my head. "Hoy, Vik! Up here!" And there he sat, squinting against the sun, plopped down in a treebranch a good fifteen feet up, spear and all. Lord only knows how he managed to heave his plump self up into that tree carrying such a bulky weapon.

"Well, well. Fancy meeting you out here. Shouldn't you be back at the fort showing the younger 'cruits how to peg a guy with that stick of yours?"

"Nah. Too nice a day to poke straw people. Not that poking straw people is much of a training excersise. Betcha there are trained apes with forks that can manage to put a hole in a straw dummy."

I chuckled to myself. "Get down here if you're going to start conversation, kid. I don't wanna strain my neck."

"Sure thing, Vik."

With all the grace of a dropped cannonball, Pohl threw his spear to the path, grabbed the branch with his hands, and swung-dropped to the ground. We continued down the path (which would have eventually led us to Radat, had we cared to walk that far) in silence for some time, drinking in the symphony of the forest. Suddenly, the number of surviving mercs in the next week was of little importance to me. Just as long as these trees survived.

"Did I ever tell you about my sister, Vik? Kiesha?"

"Nope. Didn't know you had a sister."

"She's somewhere 'bout fifteen years older than I am. When I was still a kid she married some trader and moved off to the capitol."

"She still live there?"

He shrugged. "From what I hear, her husband was drafted to fight against the Liberation. Supposedly he was killed when Mathiu attacked the Jowston checkpoint."

"Can't say I know much about that fight. Once we liberated the southwest from Neclord I came back home to tell the news to my family's grave."

"Sure, I remember. Anyway, Kiesha was so eaten up with grief that she joined the ranks herself to try and avenge the guy's death. Don't ask me why... Kiesha was always weird like that. I found out from my parents later that Kiesha was marked 'missing in action' after the raid in Gregminster."

"Sorry to hear that."

"You don't have to be. I just always thought it was ironic that Kiesha was last seen about a block away from her Gregminster house. I guess I think it's even more ironic that it was most likely one of my pals that did her in."

"'Missing in action' doesn't necessarily mean dead, kid."

"Nah, she's gone. I know it somehow, down in my gut. My parents held a little funeral for her back in Antei, and that's where her grave is now. I know the republic put up graves for all the fallen Imperial troops somwhere, and I'm sure Kiesha's got a stone there next to her husband. But just the same she's got one in Antei. Little slab of marble with her name carved in, and a little picture of a rose." Silence for a second, so we could listen to a passing songbird. Then he added, "Rose was her middle name. She used to wear one in her hair when she was a teenager. Like I said, weird like that."

"Have you been to that Imperial cemetery? Paid your respects to her stone yet?"

"Nope. Like I told ya, I haven't been back to Gregminster since we moved out when I was, like, two."

Another long silence. Not really awkward, just kind of empty. Pohl's conversations tended to hit dead-ends like that. He'd go on about something long enough to make you think he had a point, then just jump off the subject and not say another word. Weird like that.

Seemed like that's what he was doing this time, too. But he stopped walking, and leaned over on his spear like it was a walking stick. He looked up at the sky... but didn't just look... he was looking for something. The next thing he said was the most solid, solemn thing I ever heard come out of the mouth of Pohl Treybell. "Vik, if I don't make it through the fight, make sure I get a stone in Antei next to Keisha."

I forced a laugh, if for no other reason than to break the mood. "Kid, if you don't survive this upcoming battle, what makes you think I will?"

"Because you're a bear."

I smirked. "Sure I am, kid."

"Just promise me, Vik. I ain't never asked anything of you, until now. Just promise me this one thing. If I don't make it to the end of this war, no matter where I fall, make sure I get a stone in Antei. My folks don't know I'm up here in Jowston, otherwise they'd do it for me. But... I just couldn't bear the thought of not being put down there where my mom and dad are. A stone right next to Keisha's... that's where I wanna be when I die."

"Not good form for a fighter to think about his death all that much, kid. Besides, you're tough as nails. Some of these kobold punks can't even growl like you can. I say there ain't a man here who's as good at keeping their neck above the water like you."

He looked at me with his head cocked to one side, making me uncomfortable until I forced out the words: "Sure, Pohl. I promise."

Of all the promises I've made in my life, that was one of the ones I regretted making the most. And at the same time, I knew it couldn't be one of those half-shit promises you make to people when you want them off your back. This was the kind of solemn promise that, once made, had to be kept.

So let's see. A good place to start would be the last time I saw the kid alive... down in the mess hall, in fact, shovelling supper down our throats. Now that I think about it, the last words I ever said to Pohl were, "Pass the beans, kid." And his last to me were, "No beans left, Vik. Bowl full of rice, though," to which I probably grunted in response and went back to my meal, disinterested.

So let's see. Good a spot as any to pick up where I left off, I suppose. I was on my way back to what was left of the fort. I'd seen massacres before, and I'd certainly seen the primal carnage of war in its sheerest form... but I still say that Luca wins the award for most sadistic sonofabitch of all time. I can only imagine what kind of orders he gave his men before letting them loose on our fort. Something like "Go out and kill those folks, and have fun doing it," most likely. By the time I arrived at the smoldering gates of the fort, I was practically wading through an ocean of bodies. Or, more rightly, less than bodies; twisted mounds of flesh, covered in shredded crimson clothing and in consuming flames.

The sounds were just as bad. There was a symphony of people screaming... both the hideous Highland warcries, and the sickening cries of our own guys having their innards put on display. And I'll swear to God I've never heard fire crackle so loud. There were a bunch of noises, too, I couldn't quite distinguish from the rest of the mess... swords clashing, horses breying, good grief... I could even hear the throbbing pain in my leg.

Flames had almost completely gutted the entire fort. If anyone was left in there, they would either be suffocating in the choking smoke or being crushed by the weakened lumber giving way to its fiery assailant. If all had gone according to plan, I knew Flik was still out on the field. 'Course, that was a big fat hairy if.

It was tough to distinguish where the ash ended and where the ground began. You could almost feel the death lingering in the air. And not just your average run-of-the-mill death. You could smell the stuff was purposely caused by someone, and that they enjoyed the holy hell out of it. I flashbacked (promise I won't drag you through it, though) to past encounters with good ole' Neclord... and I realized that Blight was twice the vampire he was.

I've been avoiding the inevitable for about five paragraphs now. I don't think I've got the strength to write down what I discovered amongst the rubble of our fort. I don't think I really need to. Everyone whose been reading my memoirs up to this point is expecting this anyway. I'm going to put my pen down now, and lay this parchment aside for the evening. My journeys in the next few weeks are wild enough to make up for what I don't say right now.

Toran's a beautiful place. But I never wanted to go back.