Barca had seen it many times as a general and more so during his wartime days as a field officer—frightened civilians, fleeing before the promise of death at the hands of invaders. Then, the so-called "invaders" had been the Unseelie, merciless fae from the far north bent on bringing the Arcanarium to its knees. Now, a deadlier enemy was approaching from the Faelands, driving a crowd of nearly two hundred refugees south from the city of Vyrai.

"I see it!" a woman called at the head of the shifting throng. "I see the river!"

Barca ran along the outskirts of the group, watching for an attack on their flank as they navigated the corridor of a muddy, forested ravine. Good, he thought. He didn't want to admit it, but he was already tired.

"The ferry! It's still there!" someone else shouted. After breaking the tree line, Barca saw it for himself. The Vyraians cried out in relief as they clambered onto the path leading to the dock.

"Hold!" Barca shouted over the mayhem. The ex-prisoners loyal to him stopped in their tracks and relayed the command up the line. Turning to his second—Finley—Barca said, "Pull back and regroup. It's going to take more than one trip to get everyone across." Nodding, the younger man cupped his hands to his mouth and blew, signaling the stragglers with a low, drawn-out whistle.

Barca surveyed the terrain as his followers gathered on the dock. Sheer cliff faces flanked both sides of the ravine, painting a picture of the landscape he'd previously ignored. He suppressed a surge of shame and guilt. It's a river runoff. We've trapped ourselves.

Despite his clandestine efforts to unify most of Vyrai's prisoner population during his twenty-year incarceration for treason, current circumstances indicated he'd still lost his edge as a once-celebrated tactician. There's supposed to be at least four ferries here—two on each side of the river. Where are the other three?

He climbed up a stack of nearby wooden shipping crates, grateful they were packed with enough of gods-know-what to support his bulk. From his new vantage, he could see the other side of the river clearly. Only one ferry was there, fettered uselessly to the dock. Your information is out-of-date, old man. They probably reallocated the other two upriver after the war. Didn't need them to ship supplies to the front anymore.

"Not any chance we can swim across, is there?" Finley asked over the din.

Barca grunted. "Not likely. Current's strong."

Finley signaled once more while Barca weighed their options.

A high-pitched screech filled the air, followed by many, many more—and the refugees' cries of despair followed. Fighting broke out as they tried to cast off while others attempted to keep the ferry from drifting away.

Ten, fifteen minutes at most, Barca surmised, gazing into the shadowed tree line at the mouth of the ravine. Not enough time for two trips.

"Hey! Hey, they're leaving without us!" one of Barca's followers announced.

"Orders?" Finley asked, calm despite a hint of fear in his voice.

If we all try to board, the ferry could capsize, and most of us will be stranded on this side of the river. Worst-case scenario, we never leave the dock, and the Deathless kill us all. Either way, everyone dies.

"Barca! Finley!" another desperate ex-prisoner shouted. "What're we doing? We have to go!"

The Deathless pursuing us are a splinter group. Rest of the horde is wreaking havoc in Vyrai. Even if half of us outnumber the Deathless five to one, we have no mages to hold them back.

Recalling how they'd all escaped prison in the first place—when magic across the city inexplicably began to dispel and caused the imprisoning wards to fail—he reasoned it wasn't safe to assume magic was present anywhere else, meaning any nearby defensive fortifications were likely compromised. The only plausible hope for survival was to scatter and hide until the Arcanarium could organize and retake the region.

But first, the refugees needed to cross the river and pray the Deathless didn't know how to swim.

Another shrill, inhuman screech filled the air, mingling with human shouts.

For the second time in his life, Barca faced an impossible choice. The irony wasn't lost on him, as both circumstances involved a choice to defend innocents. His first choice to defy orders and defend civilians against the Unseelie had resulted in a court martial and what essentially amounted to a life sentence. This time, the choice would cost him his life and the lives of any who chose to follow him.

Always hated poetry...

"Sir?" Finley asked.

"Is everyone here?"

"I think so. Hard to tell."

"No time to fetch stragglers. This will have to be enough."

Finley paled. "Enough? Enough for what?"

Though Finley was less than half Barca's age, he admired the young man's quick mind and natural charisma. He'd been essential in convincing several—though not all—gangs to stop tearing each other apart during their shared incarceration. In fact, he credited Finley more for fostering fellowship among the inmates, not to mention how he'd inspired many to find new meaning in their lives under a unified banner by building a culture of respect, fair treatment, and accountability through a hierarchal pecking order. That's why he needed Finley more than ever. Don't lose your nerve now, lad. We've come this far.

"Get their attention," Barca ordered. "All eyes on me."

Cupping his hands to his mouth, Finley's voice boomed, cutting through the commotion, "Eyes up!"

At first, it started as a small tremor, but as Finley continued to get everyone's attention, Barca noted the pebbles rattling on the dock and along the shoreline. Enemy's close. Better make this quick before anyone notices.

He swallowed his fear and raised his hand above his head, tightening it into a fist. Coupled with Finley's efforts, the motion had the desired effect as the crowd settled long enough to focus on Barca. Behind the group of ex-prisoners, the Vyraian civilians had stopped fighting each other long enough to unmoor the ferry, though they were still struggling to operate it after realizing the absence of magic had left it without a source of power for the engine.

Still standing atop a crate, Barca stole a moment to gauge the fearful eyes of nearly a hundred criminals—his most steadfast supporters. His family. "Hear me! Hear me, all! I know what it is you see! On the right and left, two cliffs enclose you! The river behind you hems you in, with no ship for escape! And ahead...ahead, there is only death..."

"What would you have us do?" a man called out.

"We're wasting time! We have to get aboard!" someone said.

"What're we waiting for?" a third person demanded.

Barca pointed at the ferry. "Look for yourselves! Do you not see the good you've done already? There's no room for us, but those aboard will live to see another day—children and their parents. They will survive! Because of you! Because of each and every one of you! Because of what we do here today!"

Cries of dismay rose, but Barca hushed them with a wave of his hand. He was grateful to see at least a few among them nodding in approval, though it was far fewer than he'd hoped. He needed to rally them all.

"We can't fight them!" someone in the back yelled. "Only magic can kill those monsters!" More voices joined in, railing against the folly of Barca's insinuation.

Finley, who stood nearby at the forefront of the crowd, briefly caught Barca's attention. He looked terrified. Eyes on me, lad. They can't see you falter.

"There's a reason our kind defeated Erenyx!" he continued, raising his voice to new heights. "There's a reason we could defeat that terrible god of death and destruction! Only we alone understand true sacrifice! Only humanity understands what it is to be powerless in the face of enemies we cannot kill! Famine! Disease! The immortals themselves! Through all this, we have endured. Through fire and ruin, we have beaten the odds time and time again—down through the centuries!

"Hope itself is born from despair! In times like these, more than ever, we're given a chance to make meaning of our lives! Would you have it that we all die, here and now, for no other reason than to gain only what we're already guaranteed to lose?

"We are—all of us—doomed to die! Today, tomorrow, years from now—but we alone know what it's like to choose the manner of our passing! So, I ask you all: What will you choose? To die screaming, scrambling for safety, only to have the innocent die with you? Or will you give something back?"

Barca buried the part of himself that hoped to save Finley and glanced again at him, speaking more to him than the crowd. "How will you end your story? In redemption? Or damnation?"

He'd hoped Finley wouldn't answer. Barca wanted him to turn and run. Finley was as close as he'd ever had to a son, but he needed someone to be the first to step forward so that more would follow.

And he needed that someone to be Finley.

A tortured mix of fear, grief, and a surge of courage distorted Finley's bleary-eyed expression as he climbed up beside Barca.

Though he hadn't ever made a habit of praying to the gods, Barca found himself grateful for not only Finley's bravery but also the timing of his decision to stand before the crowd. The intensity of the tremors was increasing, yet if anyone had noticed, they'd thankfully chosen to remain silent.

All eyes were on Finley.

The young man raised his fist in the semblance of an oath, addressing his fellow outcasts. "For the lives we've taken!" he shouted. "For the debts we owe! This is our penance! This is the culmination of our choices! This is our hell! Now let's show the Deathless what hell looks like!"

At first, it seemed the effort had been in vain.

Then, a solitary clenched fist rose from the group—followed by a second, a third, and a fourth until a few became dozens—emboldening others to do the same until nearly everyone stood poised to accept their fate.

Barca seized the moment. "Find anything you can use as a weapon! Tear down the docks and use the planks as clubs if you must! Then we make for the ravine!" A unified hoo-rah! greeted the command, drowning out another disembodied cry from the approaching Deathless.

Stepping down alongside Barca, Finley asked, "That's your plan then? Fending off immortal monsters with rocks and sticks?"

"That's the plan," Barca replied. "I need you here to keep the momentum going. Send some others to help cast off the ferry and keep the peace. I'll head to the tree line at the mouth of the ravine to oversee the defense. Meet me there."

"Barca!" called a woman from a nearby crate she and three others had managed to open.

Heart leaping at the sight of what the crate contained, Barca said, "Raise them into the air and spread the word. Then break open the rest and take what you can. You have five minutes."

Finley was the first to raise a sword. "Break open the crates! We have weapons! The gods are on our side! There's weapons in the crates! To arms!"

Of all things... Barca marveled. But how? And why? What had the Arcanarium been planning? Curiosity would have to wait indefinitely, he decided. He grabbed a sword for himself and rallied those nearest. "With me!"

The run to the mouth of the ravine took little time, but he didn't let a moment go to waste. "Form a line! Weapons raised!"

As the would-be soldiers trickled in from the dock, Barca ran up and down the growing formation, checking for gaps and giving quick tips on how to wield various weaponry. It seemed more than just swords had been left behind—polearms, hand axes, morning stars, daggers, and flails were also among the armaments.

By the time Finley led the remaining convicts to the line, resolve began to waver.

"Steady on!" Barca called, taking his place among the others. "Trust those beside you, and the dawn will come!"

The collective trill of frightened birds taking flight left the woods eerily quiet—so much so Barca could hear the person next to him panting in fear. Further down the line, someone started praying.

"So, what's the rally point?" Finley asked when he arrived.

"I hear Arcadia is nice this time of year."

Finley chuckled. "Isn't that a little far north?"

"It's as good a place as any," Barca replied. And likely overrun by now.

The thought must've entered Finley's mind as well. His tone soured, "We're not going to make it out of this, are we?"

Barca gave him a knowing look but otherwise remained silent.

Glancing back at the river, Finley said, "Looks like they're rowing away. Slowly, but they're doing it."

Instead of following Finley's gaze, Barca watched him—this time opening himself up to the guilt he felt stirring just beneath the surface. It was the last time, he was sure, either of them would feel anything at all aside from fear and pain.

"I know why you did it, but wasn't that all a waste of time?" Finley asked, still eyeing the departing ferry. "For all the good it will do, we might as well fight the Deathless bare-handed. We could've kept running—swam for it or looked for another crossing."

Barca saw it in a blink—the life he was willing to sacrifice for the sake of those who would never know Finley's name. And not just his, but the names of everyone who stood with him. Not even I know them all, he realized. That guilt he was able to bury, but not so for what he felt for Finley. "Don't underestimate the power of morale. Ours is a will even gods and fae have learned to fear."

Finley turned to face the woods. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Exhaling, Finley reaffirmed his grip on his sword hilt.

The silence that followed consumed another round of vespers, but otherwise, no one spoke, even when the trees seemed to jump from the ground, and the low rumble grew louder—loosened leaves floating onto the waiting defenders below the canopy.

This is it.

The man beside Finley whimpered.

"Nothing gets past this point!" Barca bellowed. "Our job is to buy enough time for the ferry to cross! We are a wall! Each of us a stone! Shift, and the wall crumbles! Hold! Your! Positions!"

Finley roared into the black, and Barca released a war cry of his own. The entire line followed suit, erupting into a joint battle cry that echoed into nothingness.

And the Deathless answered.

The first emerged—an immense mass of shadow, quadrupedal and mantis-like—attacking the left side of the forward line. The creature spun, stabbing with wicked precision, and tossed aside defenders from the tips of its pointed appendages before moving on to its next batch of victims.

"Run for your lives!" someone quailed. A second Deathless rammed into the right side, felling deserters and defenders alike in rapid succession.

All we have to do is keep them occupied!

A cat-like Deathless with ram horns burst into his view, knocking him from his feet as it simultaneously ripped out a man's throat with its shadowy maw and cleanly decapitated another with a scythe-shaped tail.

Breathless, Barca stood to retake his position on the line. Ahead, an elephantine Deathless with four jagged tusks and a scorpion tail sought to crush Finley. The youth nimbly dodged each blow, keen to take an opening as soon as he saw it. Sword flashing in the waning light, he jabbed at the towering monstrosity and slashed wide with a back-handed swing, severing the bottom half of the creature's foot from its leg.

Barca threw his sword. The blade soared end over end, slicing through the beast's chest.

But it wasn't enough.

The elephantine Deathless dispersed into a formless shadow, only to reform almost instantly into what appeared to be a giant, wingless bat. It lashed out with a hooked limb and sliced Finley in two at the navel. What remained of him crumpled the ground in a heap of viscera as Barca charged forward, screaming like a man possessed, but he never made it to the line.

The feline Deathless attacked from Barca's left, catching his outstretched arm in its jaws. It dragged him down the front line as he flailed helplessly from the creature's mouth. In the time it took for the Deathless to gnaw his left arm to mincemeat and sever it from his torso, dozens of his companions fell to horn, tail, and claw before he was flung away from the slaughter.

When he came to, Barca propped himself against what he thought was a tree, only to dazedly realize he was leaning against a signpost near the shore.

The scene before him was chaos.

More defenders were dead than alive, their struggles for survival barely visible beyond the tree line. The Deathless—still pouring out from the ravine—outnumbered the living at least three to one as they massacred the remaining fighters.

Pain rushed to meet him, and Barca swooned, catching a glimpse at his shredded tunic and mangled stub of an arm, head bobbing.

The Deathless shrieked as if to revel in their perfect victory, and the screams of Barca's followers dwindled one by one into silence.

The...ferry...

Sitting more at death's door than he was against a signpost, he fell helplessly to his side. Rolling, he turned his head, savoring the taste of dirt and sand in contrast to the sour tang of blood and bile.

The ferry was adrift, heading for the opposite shore. He told himself it was far enough out. It had to be, he hoped, for all it had cost.

Standing on the ferry's stern was a woman, beautiful and dressed resplendently in black in the height of Vyraian fashion. Even from a poor angle and distance, Barca felt otherwise content she would be the last person he'd ever see. A tired, gleeful laugh—expressed by a forceful huff—escaped his lips.

A young girl buried her face in the woman's breast—sparking a thought to cross Barca's fading mind. Should...probably move. Child... shouldn't...see...me...like this.

Light danced at the edges of his vision, obscuring his view of the woman as she made a slow and deliberate motion with one hand, moving it from her chin in a downward swoop toward him.

It was the sign for "Thank you".

He smiled.

The sunlight scattered, his vision faded, and Barca died with the light of something else in his eyes.

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

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