The mud was the worst part.
Not the constant threat of death, not the meager rations, not even the lice that made a home of every unwashed body in the camp. No, it was the mud that truly tested a soldier's resolve. The kind that sucked at your boots with each step, that worked its way into your clothes and under your fingernails, that mixed with blood and excrement and whatever else men left behind on a battlefield until it became something else entirely—a foul substance that seemed to have a malevolent will of its own.
Tomas Reed scraped another handful from his boot with the edge of his knife, flicking it away with practiced contempt.
"Still at it, Reed?" The voice belonged to Garrick, a fresh-faced boy with peach fuzz on his chin who had joined the company two months ago. "Captain says we move at dawn."
Tomas didn't look up from his task. "Dawn's when I'll be done."
"Why bother? It'll just get muddy again tomorrow."
Now Tomas did look up, fixing the boy with a level gaze. "Because wet boots blister feet. Blistered feet slow men down. Slow men die."
The boy's smile faltered. "Sure, Reed. Whatever you say."
As Garrick wandered off, Tomas returned to his methodical cleaning. Around him, the encampment bustled with activity as the Third Company of the King's Infantry prepared for tomorrow's march. The more experienced men checked their equipment, mended clothes, sharpened blades. The newer recruits gathered in nervous clusters, boasting of what they would do in the coming battle, drinking away their fear.
Tomas had seen it all before. Twenty-three years in the king's service had taught him the rhythms of war as intimately as a farmer knows the seasons. He had been sixteen when he first held a spear in formation, a frightened boy pretending at courage. Now, at thirty-nine, silver threaded through his brown hair, and a network of scars mapped his body like roads on a weathered parchment.
He finished with his boots and moved on to his sword—a plain, serviceable blade with a simple crossguard and leather-wrapped hilt. Nothing like the magnificent weaponry carried by knights or noble-born officers, but it had kept him alive longer than those who had carried more impressive steel.
"Reed." The voice was deep, authoritative.
Tomas looked up to see Captain Merrick standing over him, a tall man with a face bisected by a scar that pulled his left eye into a permanent squint.
"Captain," Tomas acknowledged, rising to his feet out of habit rather than respect.
"I need six men for a scouting party tonight. You're one of them."
It wasn't a request. Tomas nodded once, neither eager nor reluctant. "When do we leave?"
"Two hours. North gate." Merrick turned to go, then paused. "We've had reports of enemy outriders in the woods. Be ready."
"I always am," Tomas replied, though the captain had already moved on to the next man.
He returned to his sword, running a whetstone along its edge with smooth, practiced strokes. Two hours. Time enough to finish his preparations. Time enough to ready himself for what might come.
Tomas had no illusions about why Merrick had chosen him. Not for prowess or leadership, but for what the other soldiers sometimes mockingly called his "talent"—the uncanny ability to return from missions that claimed better men. As if survival were a matter of luck rather than careful preparation and ceaseless vigilance.
An hour later, Tomas had finished his rituals. Boots cleaned and oiled. Sword sharpened. Armor straps checked for wear. Waterskin filled. Three days' rations secured in his pack, though the mission should take only one night—another lesson hard-learned. He had sewn a small tear in his cloak, replaced a fraying bowstring, and even found time to shave with cold water and a dull razor.
The rest of the camp might view such fastidiousness with amusement, but Tomas knew better. Details mattered. Details kept you alive when stronger, faster men lay cooling in the mud.
As dusk gathered, he made his way toward the north gate, where five other men already waited with Captain Merrick. Tomas recognized them all: Varn, a bowman with keen eyes; the brothers Ellic and Tarn, inseparable even in battle; Corliss, a mountain of a man who spoke little; and young Garrick, looking pale but determined.
Merrick nodded at Tomas's arrival. "We're heading to the ridge overlooking Falmer Valley. Reports say the Eastmark forces are moving through the pass, but we need to confirm their numbers before committing the main force. We go quiet, we stay hidden, we return by dawn. Clear?"
Murmurs of assent rippled through the small group.
"Reed, you take rear guard. Varn, you're on point. Let's move."
As they slipped out through the gate and into the darkening forest, Tomas felt the familiar tightening in his chest—not fear exactly, but a heightened awareness. Every sound registered: the soft crunch of leaves underfoot, the distant call of a night bird, the whisper of wind through branches. His eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, picking out shapes in the growing darkness, distinguishing shadow from threat.
Garrick fell into step beside him as they moved deeper into the woods. "How many of these have you done, Reed? Scouting missions, I mean."
Tomas kept his voice low. "Too many to count."
"They say you've never lost a man under your command."
"I've never had command."
"You know what I mean. When you're on a mission, people tend to come back alive."
Tomas's mouth tightened. "People tend to listen to me when things get bad. That's all."
Garrick opened his mouth to say more, but Tomas held up a hand for silence. Ahead, Varn had stopped, one fist raised in the signal to halt. The group froze in place.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their own breathing. Then Tomas heard it—the faint metallic clink of mail, the soft nickering of a horse. Not their own sounds. Someone else was in these woods.
Captain Merrick motioned them off the path, into the denser undergrowth. Tomas tapped Garrick's shoulder and pointed to a fallen log, then to the ground beside it. The young man nodded and slipped into position as silently as he could manage.
Tomas flattened himself against the broad trunk of an oak, drawing his sword slowly to avoid any telltale scrape of metal on leather. He controlled his breathing, made himself small and still as death.
Minutes passed. The sounds grew closer—multiple riders, moving with caution but not stealth. Their confidence suggested numbers. Scouts wouldn't travel in such a large group.
As the first rider came into view in the dim moonlight, Tomas counted silently. One, two, three... By the time he reached twelve, he knew they were in trouble. These weren't scouts but a patrol, and they outnumbered Merrick's group two to one.
Across the path, barely visible in the darkness, Tomas caught the captain's eye. A decision passed between them without words: remain hidden, let them pass. Their mission was information, not confrontation.
But young Garrick hadn't learned that lesson yet.
Whether it was nerves or a misplaced sense of heroism, Tomas would never know. But as the last rider passed their position, a sudden crack split the night—the sound of a dry branch snapping under Garrick's weight as he shifted position.
The patrol leader reined in sharply, his hand going to his sword. "Who goes there? Show yourselves!"
And just like that, the simple mission became a fight for survival.
Merrick, ever the soldier, made his decision instantly. "Ambush!" he roared, breaking cover and charging the nearest rider.
The night erupted into chaos. Steel rang against steel as the rest of their group followed the captain's lead. Tomas cursed under his breath but joined the fray, coming in low and fast at the legs of a mounted soldier. Not a killing blow—he wasn't trying for glory—but enough to unseat the man and even the odds slightly.
The rider crashed to the ground with a pained grunt. Tomas didn't press the advantage, already moving on to the next threat, always keeping his back to a tree or a comrade, never exposing himself unnecessarily.
Across the clearing, Ellic went down with a cry, a spear through his shoulder. His brother Tarn roared in fury and charged the spearman, leaving himself open to a sword thrust from another enemy.
"Tarn, guard!" Tomas shouted, but it was too late—the blade caught the big man in the side, sending him stumbling to one knee.
This was going badly. Very badly.
Varn had managed to climb a tree and was loosing arrows into the melee, but in the darkness and confusion, he had to be careful not to hit his own comrades. Corliss fought like a man possessed, his huge axe keeping three soldiers at bay, but he wouldn't last long against those odds.
Captain Merrick had killed one man and wounded another, but now faced the patrol leader—a skilled swordsman who matched the captain blow for blow.
And Garrick... Tomas couldn't see Garrick.
A horseman bore down on Tomas, lance leveled at his chest. Instead of dodging sideways as the rider expected, Tomas dropped flat to the ground, letting the lance pass harmlessly overhead. As the horse thundered past, he slashed at its hind leg. Not deep enough to seriously harm the animal, but enough to make it stumble and throw its rider.
The man hit the ground hard, his helmet cracking against a stone. He didn't rise.
Tomas scrambled to his feet, assessing the situation with the cold clarity that had kept him alive for so long. Six of them against twelve had been bad odds. Now, with Ellic and Tarn down and Garrick missing, it was worse. The rational choice—the choice that favored survival—was retreat.
"Fall back!" Tomas called out, loud enough for his companions to hear but not so loud as to draw every enemy blade his way. "To the stream!"
Whether through respect or desperation, the others responded. Corliss began backing away from his opponents, his axe still swinging in great arcs to keep them at a distance. Varn loosed three more arrows in quick succession, forcing the enemy to seek cover, then dropped from his perch and melted into the darkness.
Captain Merrick parried a vicious overhand strike, riposted with a quick thrust to his opponent's thigh, then disengaged and sprinted toward the treeline where Tomas waited.
"The brothers," Merrick gasped as he reached him.
"No time," Tomas replied grimly. "Garrick?"
"Haven't seen him."
A shout from behind indicated the enemy was regrouping for pursuit. Tomas made another quick calculation. "The stream splits half a mile east. You and the others go north. I'll leave a false trail south."
Merrick hesitated only briefly before nodding. In the field, rank mattered less than survival. "Meet at the high rocks if you can."
"When I can," Tomas corrected, already turning away.
As Merrick vanished into the trees with Varn and Corliss, Tomas moved in the opposite direction, deliberately leaving signs of passage—broken twigs, disturbed undergrowth, even a scrap torn from his cloak caught on a bramble. A skilled tracker would follow these signs south, away from the captain's group.
He led this false trail for several hundred yards before doubling back, using every trick he knew to obscure his true path. Stepping on stones to leave no footprints. Moving through shallow water when possible. Backtracking and circling to confuse any pursuit.
It was well past midnight when Tomas finally approached the high rocks—a distinctive formation of three boulders perched atop a small hill. He circled the area twice before approaching, watching for any sign of an ambush.
"Reed? That you?" Corliss's low rumble came from the shadows between two of the boulders.
"It's me," Tomas confirmed, stepping into the small hollow where the survivors had gathered.
Captain Merrick sat with his back against a rock, binding a wound on his arm. Varn kept watch from the highest point, his bow at the ready. Corliss looked relatively unharmed, though blood darkened one side of his beard.
"Any sign of the others?" Tomas asked, though he already knew the answer.
Merrick shook his head grimly. "Either taken or dead."
Tomas nodded, accepting the news without visible emotion. He had seen too many men fall to be shocked by three more. "The patrol?"
"Still searching, last I saw," Varn reported from his perch. "But they're moving south, following your trail."
"For now. We should move at first light."
"The mission—" Merrick began.
"Failed," Tomas said flatly. "We return to camp with what we know."
The captain looked as if he might argue, then winced as he tightened his bandage. "You're right. We've lost half our men and gained nothing."
"Not nothing," Tomas corrected. "We know they have patrols this far west. That's valuable."
Merrick conceded the point with a nod. "Get some rest, Reed. I'll take first watch with Varn."
Tomas didn't argue. He found a relatively flat spot, placed his pack as a pillow, and wrapped his cloak tight around his body. Before closing his eyes, he methodically checked his equipment one more time. His sword had a new nick that would need attention. His water was lower than he liked. The stitching on his left boot was coming loose again.
Details. Always the details.
As he drifted toward a light, watchful sleep—the only kind a soldier ever truly knew—Tomas thought of young Garrick and the brothers Ellic and Tarn. Good men, perhaps. Brave men, certainly. But careless in ways that Tomas had learned not to be, twenty-three years and countless battles ago.
There would be new recruits to replace them. New faces around the campfires. New names to forget when they too fell.
Tomorrow they would return to camp, and the stories would begin. The camp followers and green recruits would gather around Bram the Storyteller to hear tales of the Four Heroes from the East—those strange warriors who had been summoned through a ritual five years ago, when the Demon King's resurrection plunged the realm into darkness. Tomas had seen them once, from a distance.
The Sword Saint, they called one—a young man with hair black as night who wielded a blade of impossible sharpness. They said he had cut through an entire legion of bone soldiers with a single swing, the air itself parting before his strike. He spoke little, but when he did, his strange accent marked him as foreign to this world.
The second was known as the Shield Maiden—a woman whose mystical barrier could withstand dragonfire without so much as warming. She had once protected an entire village from a rain of cursed arrows, standing alone while hundreds of projectiles shattered against her shield.
The third they called the Storm Caller—a slender youth who commanded lightning and wind with casual gestures. He had obliterated the Demon King's floating fortress with a tempest summoned from clear skies, laughing as he brought down a structure that had withstood siege engines for months.
The last and most mysterious was the Healer—a quiet girl whose hands glowed with gentle light. She had restored life to those on the brink of death, regrown severed limbs, and once cured an entire garrison of the wasting plague in a single night.
They were something else entirely, these summoned heroes from a land called "Japan." Something beyond ordinary men. In their world, Bram claimed, common folk traveled in metal carriages that moved without horses, spoke to each other across vast distances through magical devices, and lived in towers that reached the clouds. They had been chosen by ancient prophecy and brought across the veil between worlds specifically to combat the Demon King who had awakened from his thousand-year slumber.
When such beings walked the battlefields, what place was there for a man like Tomas Reed? A man who tired after an hour of swordplay, whose wounds healed slowly if at all, who had never performed a single deed worthy of a bard's tale.
The summoned heroes had turned the tide of the war against the Demon King, true enough. Villages that would have been razed still stood because the Four had intercepted the enemy forces. Thousands lived who would have died.
But they could not be everywhere at once. The Demon King's armies still marched. His lieutenants still commanded battalions of corrupted beasts and undead horrors across the realm. And ordinary soldiers like Tomas still bled and died on muddy fields far from the glorious battles where heroes and monsters clashed like figures from legend.
Yet here he was, still drawing breath when better men had fallen. Still fighting when the Four Heroes were occupied with greater threats than the simple patrols and skirmishes that claimed common soldiers every day.
And Tomas Reed, unremarkable in every way save one, would continue to survive.
Not through strength that could topple giants or magic that could part the seas.
But through patience, preparation, and the ruthless pragmatism that recognizes when to fight, when to flee, and when to simply endure.
In a world where summoned heroes fought demon lords and ancient prophecies unfolded, sometimes the greatest victory was simply to live another day.