The younger man looks down from the tower at the mass of zombies marching — or, more accurately, shambling — toward the valley he has called home all his life. "They're creepy beyond words?" he asks. Janni answers with one sharp shake of her head. A few strands of brown hair tumble loose from her braid. She ignores them. "No. It's the way they do their thing and raise the zombies, then they sit in their towers with their silks and silver and think they're gods." "You blame them, Captain? Would you get down in the blood and the muck if you could stay at home and still be a hero?" She stares at him until he meets her eyes, sees the burn scars on her face, watches the wyrden fire dance behind her colorless eyes. "Yeah," he whispers. "Stupid question." --- She soars over the valley on the back of the tulpi that has been her loyal companion since she earned the spear that rides securely at her knee. He glides like a falcon along the thermal updraft, though his wings are the featherless bat-wings of a mammal and his gaping beak points inwards. Unlike the men fighting far below, he eats nothing more dangerous than pollen drifting on the breeze. Janni watches the battle with senses stronger than the blind eyes she no longer needs. Human eyes were useless at such heights as she achieves, and she does not regret their loss. Power dances up from the ground, shaped like lightning but fueled by forces that burn her senses like nothing natural ever could. She does not fear it, but it shatters the discipline of the cadre it targets. Blackness, shadowy energy visible only because of the wyrd that dictates her place in the world, rises up from the killing field as it is forced from the bodies it animated only moments ago. The valley's tattered militia slides around them as though the pile of rotted, burned flesh is but a boulder in a stream. Janni ignores the power and the pain and observes. The invaders shatter the bonds that direct the zombies, forcing dark power from their decaying forms with the brighter energy of eastern magic. They do it by the cadre; cadre after cadre of undead soldiers falls, putrefying flesh sliding from bones as the decomposition that has been staved off with magic comes rushing back, nature's wrath replying tenfold to the intrusion of mages into her domain. It is not enough, for the dead cannot be broken with a blow to a morale they do not have, and the minds behind the advance sense the potential for more corpses to fuel the defense of their home. The invaders fall before the onslaught of dark power as they turn to retreat, abandoning the leagues of land they thought to claim from the towers of the west. The decision came too late, and as fresh blood splashes on the torn grass of the battlefield, Janni knees her mount into his descent. She ducks low to avoid the worst of the ripping wind, but the motion is reflexive. Her focus is on the sour scent of fear and the autumn smell of death. It surrounds her, despite the wind, for her mind is miles below, scouring the killing field for the face that haunts her dreams. The tulpi lands among the broken corpses, a handful of yards from the shouts and screams of human war. She dismounts and wields her spear, though it is not a weapon for battle. Its handle is bone, though the length is unusual for such a material, and it is too thin to support anything of the size it suggests. The pointed head is translucent, like glass, but its colors change like a prism as she moves toward the line of battle. This, despite its smooth, unfaceted shape. The zombies part before her as the forces that ride them sense her approach. The enemy senses the break in the line and surges, ignoring their orders to retreat — until they see the woman that they are rushing toward, with her moonstone eyes and windblown hair. The men in front turn and are trampled by their fellows, who do not understand that the tide has once again changed direction. The confusion is enough that the zombies lunge like sharks, punching through the enemy line like it is a paper door and they, an oak battering ram. The eastern mages cannot risk their lightning, lest they strike their own men and shatter their army's feeble morale. They know that destroying her is worth the risk, but they cannot face the gallows that will await them in the castles of their patrons if the blame for their defeat falls upon their shoulders. Their loyalty is to themselves. She can sense one man pulling power for a strike, now that she walks upon the ground. She smiles as she wades through the battle line, a target too far, too fast for him to focus on. She cloaks herself in the shadows that her kind claimed long ago for the mystery of their power, and follows her nose to the only living man within a day's march who has merited the attention of the wyrd. The magic he holds distorts his senses, and he does not notice the flicker to his side. The crystal blade of her spear slides easily through his vulnerable side and pierces his heart. The motion is practiced and smooth. Lightning flows up her arms, shattering the shadow that clothes her into a million hard, obsidian fragments. They fly in all directions, jagged knives of power made solid by the violence done to the magic that wrought it. Even her wyrden senses are overwhelmed, but the explosion projects her back against an unfriendly sword. She collapses. Her target pulls the spearblade from his side. It burns his hand, leaving a coldfire scar as he drops it. The wound feels old, though he knows it is not. The one in his side is already healed, for his people hold sway over life, much as their enemy knows the ways of darkness and death. Grimly, he assesses the battlefield. Half his fellows have been cut down by the shadow blades. The rest attempt to cover the army's retreat, but his trained eye knows that it is a losing proposition. He lifts the woman, throwing her unceremoniously over his shoulder. The spear, he almost leaves, but he hesitates. Though he knows not why, he reaches down and breaks the shaft. He is already kneeling. He grasps it with his shirttail and tucks the blade into the pouch at his hip. He straightens to a crouch and then explodes into a run. The weight of the woman should slow him, but it does not. He moves along the line of battle, just behind it, separate from the retreat but using it as cover. The zombies let him, cowed by the unconscious power he holds. --- He ties her to the tiny orange tree, for the fruits are the color of the sun. He believes in symbolism. The moat he summons because the water of life will mask their presence from the tulpi who trailed the woman like a hound. He prefers not to make an escape any easier than it already is, for he has learned that stone walls and shadowy prisons cannot hold her kind. Janni wakes. "I can see," she whispers. Her eyes are blue. She cries. They are not happy tears. ## AFTERWORD I don't like to write about war. I don't even particularly like to talk about wars, be they ancient or modern. I don't dispute the value of military history or the importance of being able to defend one's territory militarily, but the glorification of battle makes me uncomfortable. I wrote the first draft of _Wyrden Eyes_ nearly a decade ago. I struggled to complete it because, to be perfectly honest, the story always felt a little tangled. Like it needed to be longer in order to be clearer. I felt like I should explain Janni's backstory. Expand it so that Cal has a chance to return at the end, and maybe save her, to tie up the narrative arc in a neat little bow. Maybe Janni would learn some critical lesson and embark upon a new path to evolve as a person right around the end of the first quarter of the book, like you see in a blockbuster movie — or is recommended by every "how to write a book" book I've ever read. There's supposed to be a pattern to these kinds of stories, and _Wyrden Eyes_ defies those norms. It's not a good story the way good stories are usually defined; I'm not even sure it's a good story the way _I_ define it, in that it's enjoyable or at least resonates with readers. It's hard to get a firm handle on exactly what side Janni is on. Her goals — and the goals of her target — are murky. The prose is more "elevated" than is my usual norm, and I'm not sure how to feel about that. As I was deciding which flash fiction piece to publish this month, I was also keeping  up with the headlines — and rumors — coming out of Ukraine, and Russia... and Switzerland, and the United Kingdom, and the United Arab Emirates. I've always known that war isn't like what we read in the books. But maybe this thing I wrote ten years ago — with all its confusing, messy motivations, "glorious" prose and disappointing ending — is a bit more honest than some other examples of the military fantasy genre, and maybe this week is the right time to share it. ## Further Reading - For a compelling example of a story that pulls no punches about the nature of war while still being suitable for children, I _highly_ recommend the Animorphs. I'm sending you to [a review](https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2019/01/23/what-was-it-about-animorphs/) instead of a blurb because the blurbs and cover genuinely don't do the series justice. It's one of the few series I've ever read where the ending came as a gut-punch without feeling contrived. Like the author of that excellent "review," every time I think about it, I appreciate it more.