Entry 14

I needed to make a choice. Either I could intervene in this massacre, or I could turn around and return to a land that may not want me around much longer.

Reaching down to pick up a somewhat unused sword from a body, I noticed an insignia emblazoned along the front of the corpse's leather chestplate. It resembled a sword pointed down, with a half-sun shining above it. A memory rushed to the forefront of my mind: a page in some book in the Academy's library, showing that exact insignia as the mark of Triton. Of course there would be Tritonian soldiers in the pass; if was a major border trail between their land and that of the Kyrlund. 

Yet, the Freehold Confederacy had worked with Triton to trick Bovica during the final stages of the rebellion. Bovica's rival nation obviously desired the Kyrlund for themselves, but an outright conflict between a group who allied with them only a short time prior would be seen by many as dishonorable. And if there was one thing the leaders of Triton prided themselves on, it was their honor.

Wiping the slick blood and melting snow off the sword's handle, I continued to rummage through bloody and gutless bodies for any clue as to who all the players were in this deadly game. I flipped one face-down soldier over, catching sight of a long, jagged gash across his cheek that caused his jaw to fall further down than any human jaw should.

Quickly flipping the poor soul back over, the sounds of savagery seemed to get louder. I glanced up every now and then, watching as bodies began to pile up beneath the feet of those survivors until they seemed to be warring atop a mountain of crimson flesh; rivers of red poured down like runoff, coalescing into blood lakes on the snowy ground. I needed to move quickly.

After the third or fourth body had been examined for any identifying sigils, one finally provided an additional side to this conflict. His leather pauldrons had been haphazardly painted with the crest of the Kyrlund's new ruling state: the Freehold Confederacy. A billhook and scythe crossed over a star, chosen from two of the tools commonly used by the largest population within the Kyrlund: farmers. So, the Confederacy and Triton were both involved. Those two at odds didn't seem horribly out of place, for reasons listed above, but also not the way that the Tritonian  government usually works issues out. There had to be more to this.

The answer found me almost as soon as the question entered my mind. Beneath the Confederate soldier, another man lay dead; or so I thought. As I prepared to throw the Confederate corpse back over the man, his weak moan for help caught my attention. Swiftly tossing the dead soldier aside and clearing space around the other man, who still remained very much alive, the issue became apparent: a large slash in his stomach, as well as a shattered kneecap and a caved-in left lung. He would die, certainly, but not before telling me what he knew. 

"Who do you fight for?" I asked, gently lifting his torso up to a better leaning angle against the rotting corpses.

"Hold," he coughed, spitting up blood as he hacked. "Hold the - the pass. Don't let them take it." His voice weakened by the second, making my window of opportunity shorter with each passing breath.

"Hold the pass from who? Who are you trying to keep out?" I asked quickly. Life faded from him faster.

"All of th -"

He never finished, but I knew enough. All of them. Along with Triton and the Confederacy, there was a third party involved. The dead man could tell me no more, but this fight seemed more complex than I knew how to handle. Picking up the sword I'd dropped when helping the man, I turned around and made haste back to the Kyrlund. I had almost escaped the area without being noticed, until a horn sounded from an unseen location beyond the ridge. Turning once more to face the carnage, multiple fighters broke off from their opponents and rushed down various side paths. Some didn't get away from their assailants in time, and joined the number of corpses covering the pass. Within moments, the number of combatants had been halved.

Those who remained, comprised of the Confederates and the Tritonians, went through an array of different reactions: most sheathed their weapons and eased up, finally having been granted a reprieve. Some continued sluggishly swinging at anything that moved, not yet realizing that the skirmish had, for the most part, concluded. Time passed, and eventually the two bands of survivors regrouped with those of their own number. Tritonians and Confederates stood facing each other, both sides silently agreeing to return to their own sides of the pass to reassess the situation.

As the Confederates trekked back to their own section of the pass, a minor issue became apparent.

The survivors were headed directly for me.