“I need more energy!”

He channeled the life force with as much strength as he had. “Dammit, I'm giving you everything I've got!”

The fortress door caved in a bit more. Wood splintered threateningly. The men holding the door closed were failing miserably. “They're breaking through, sir!”

“Torrin! I need more energy now!”

He forced the speed of the channeling to increase. The energy wracked his body, being swiftly changed and sent. He thought he felt a rib crack. “H-Here!”

The captain manipulated the channeled energy masterfully, already used to using his energy as a quick, harmless shot of adrenaline. It was he who fired the cannon up into the air to fall onto the men trying to bash down the door. With a push of energy to the cannonball as it fell, the casualties were instant. The screams were cut off quickly when the second cannonball struck.

“We did it!” someone shouted. “They're retreating!”

Torrin stopped sending the energy, but couldn't stop channeling the energy. It rose from the sources around him and whirled madly within him. He struggled to stop, to push the energy back, but things that aren't living can't accept energy. It was trapped inside of him. He felt another rib crack and hissed in pain.

“Man, I'm still a little high here. Holy shit.”

The captain turned to him, but he couldn't see much. His body couldn't accept all of the energy. It left him weak, like the highest adrenaline rush would once it left. He felt his limbs shake mutinously. The captain was turned towards him, and he was smiling with triumph. “Good job, Torrin!” The smile suddenly disappeared. “Torrin?”

The captain rushed towards him as he crumpled to the ground.

((((((^))))))

Soft blue eyes fluttered open. Sensitive ears heard moans and screams of pain all around.

He snapped up from the cot, fears of capture making his blood run hot. He finally recognized the medic center and calmed allowing himself to lie back down. He tested his magic. Weak.

He held his hand in front of his face, finger outstretched. The digits shook.

He covered his face in his hands, trying to bury the memories, as well. The last battle had been intense. Bodies had littered the ground, many from falling from the rafters to their deaths. Outside, there were probably many, many more. The screams had been unbearable and very, very numerous. How to explain the horror of a battle? Many men, allies, had died at his feet.

He had felt sick when he'd stolen their energy.

It was a powerful gift, what he could do. And it was damn helpful in the war effort against the Coran, the country west of the border that threatened to take over and enslave his home country of Stravius. His family had lived in the village beyond this fortress in peace, but all that had changed when they'd all suddenly been attacked. Soon after, he found himself in the military. After that day, he had sworn to do all he could to prevent the Coran from succeeding.

But his gift, more often then not, was more like a curse. He was forced to use the bodies of his allies as the energy drives, since the energy of an enemy could hold a level of malice that could hurt either him or the persons that he sent the energy to. That energy would hurt the person to a possible point of death. To use his power, he had no choice but to desecrate the bodies of those who died.

A nurse came in to check on him, and he let her plump his pillows and worry over him. He knew Morina well; she had saved him the day that the Coran had attacked his village. She was the one who had gotten him to join the military.

“Kid, I understand how ya need to win, but your strength shouldn't become your weakness, ya know?” She checked his chart and made the necessary changes, then yelled out for food to be brought out. A young assistant nodded and left.

Morina turned to him, planting her hard hands on her plump hips. She glared at him from beneath graying bangs. “Well? Do you?”

He nodded dumbly. “I know. But we would have lost if I hadn't pushed myself.”

She harrumphed, not pleased with his assessment, even if it was accurate. “Well, you got three cracked ribs and Lord knows what else due to that strange power ya got there. The captain was worried, 'course; thought he was gonna lose ya.”

He only worries because I'm the reason we're able to hold this fort down. He didn't say he had these thoughts, only nodded and closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about the battles, the fighting, or his gruesome part in all of it. He wanted to fall back into the oblivion of unconsciousness.

He heard the soft pad of footsteps and struggled valiantly against the fear that it would be the captain. He'd been in this bed before, only to be taken back to the field. Even Morina had seemed tempted to argue against the captain once, when he'd had an acute wound on his arm from an enemy he hadn't been able to avoid. He couldn't fight very well, after all, since he'd never had any formal training. His father had worked for the press as an editor, and his mother had stayed home to care of him and his two younger sisters. He had been expected to follow in his father's footsteps, which he would have had no complaints with.

Besides, it's not like he could fight while he channeled energy.

“C'mon, now, son, get up so you can eat this.”

He turned his head and stared at Morina and the retreating assistant, eternally grateful that it had been no one else. He struggled to sit up, but choked on the pain his movements elicited. Slowly, he reached an arm to his rib cage, which was well-bandaged. Morin a had said that he had broken three ribs. A small part of his mind remembered feeling things shift and hearing things snap. The memory made him vaguely sick to his stomach.

He managed to push himself into a sitting position despite the pain and got a gratified nod from Morina. She handed him the tray and told him only to not spill the broth everywhere.

He knew very well what this tough love indicated. He managed to pick up the spoon. His ribs protested against even that small movement. He winced. This was probably the worst injury he'd ever had, which was saying something. In the three months since he'd joined the military, he'd gained enough injuries to pay back his healthy childhood twice over. Breaking a bone was never a pain he'd been familiarized to before the Coran had attacked.

He only managed to eat half the broth, which frustrated Morina enough for her to lecture him for a full fifteen minutes. Her words may have continued after that, but exhaustion made him slip into sleep in the middle of her sermon.

((((((^))))))

“What do you mean, we were held off?” The prince of Corath growled, pacing the small interior of his tent. His bed took up a fair amount of space all on its own. A dresser took up even more of the remaining space, and the rest was eaten up by a desk and chair. His strides were cut off abruptly, which only frustrated him more. He turned and glared at his chief commander.

“My lord, there was no help for it,” the commander said, ignoring the glare because he'd already seen his share of them. “The enemy was about to fall one minute, and the next they're divebombing us.”

This caught the prince's attention. He and another troop had been waiting for a signal to surround the city when when he'd suddenly heard the whistle for retreat. He had no reckoning of what had occurred on this particular battlefield. “'Divebombing'?” he parroted.

“Yes, my lord. It has occurred twice before. Both were, of course, before you arrived.”

He cursed. “And what exactly is this 'divebombing'?”

“The enemy fires a cannon into the air and crashes it into our forces, my lord.” The captain grimaced. “The damage incurred is phenomenal. It shouldn't be quite that bad.”

Darian stopped pacing and stood still, thinking. “It would only cause a central amount of damage, really. Have they created new weapons?”

“We don't know, sir.”

Prince Darian Ameel-de Coras sat in his plush chair – something that was far too fancy on a battlefield – and stared at his leading commander. “All right. I need a minute account of every battle since the destruction of Levant.” The destruction of the town surrounding Fort Shiro was reason he'd agreed to get involved. Unlike his father, he did not see the need to slaughter civilians.

He ignored the rage he felt for Corath's most esteemed Highness and focused on his commander. He had been sent out by his father to strategize a victory, and he damn well would. And would consequently be one step closer to gaining the power to change the country, if only his damnable father died.

He listened to his commander's detailed accounts and began formulating a plan.

((((((^))))))

Torrin was allowed two blissful days of recuperation, in which he managed to gain about twenty percent of the magical energy he'd lost in the last battle. The amount may have defeated a herd of bunnies, but certainly no military force.

Morina hovered over him, of course, clucking her tongue and complaining about how quickly he was being placed back on the battlefield. His ribs no longer spiked at him when he breathed, but hadn't healed much beyond that. He dreaded to think that the enemy may be advancing. Fort Shiro, it seemed, was destined to fall.

No. He refused to let that happen. The townspeople would be avenged.

He walked along the edge of the fort, using the wall as leverage, testing out his limits. The pain from his ribs was excruciating, but tolerable.

He halted for a moment to catch his breath and looked around. The fort was not a massive structure, but was well-fortified nonetheless. The walls were solid stone and thick. The inner bailey held garrets at the top of the fort, where lookouts were spaced evenly across. Soldiers moved around on the ground with a single-mindedness that proved their dedication to the military. Some carried supplies, some cleaned the grounds. One man walked an injured horse which had served outside the fort. The stables were practically empty, and even lame horses were being kept to enter another battle.

We're desperate, he realized, not for the first time. As sturdy as the fortress was, it was slowly crumbling under the constant enemy assault. The stone walls sported cracks, dents, and outright holes. Men not only carted supplies, but also pieces of bodies. The energy in the limbs was minimal – the life force had stilled days ago. Torrin looked away from the sight.

Recovery was a slow thing for him. His body was that of a scholar. More than a fighter and proved to be brittle and vulnerable. His lithe figure and pale skin were easily recognizable amongst all the strong, muscled, tanned forms of the soldiers. He was easily distinguished as the resident outcast. Some called him a necromancer. More often than not, actually, that was what he was referred to.

He hated it.

He gamely forced himself to walk ten more yards, then was forced to stop and catch his breath. In ten minutes, he was due in the captain's tent, and he certainly didn't want to be late. He was given no special privileges – was even scorned for his power, despite its usefulness to the military. It labeled him as different, and those that are different are shunned.

In halting, painful steps he managed to get to his destination. The guards waited until he regained his breath before they allowed him entrance. The captain, a broad, bald man of advancing age, turned to him and smiled. “Ah, Torrin, good to see you.”

Torrin attempted a salute, which garnered him sharp retaliation from his bandaged ribs. He let his hand drop. “You called me, sir?” he asked. He tried valiantly to keep his pain off of his face, knowing that it would do no good to show anyone that he was in pain. Such would be an excuse for a lecture and a strong poke in the ribs to get his moving.

“Yes, I did. I understand that you are injured, and so I cannot place you on full duty.” This surprised Torrin. His injuries had never stopped the captain from sending him back on the active list far too early before. “I have been informed that your assistance at the medic tents is needed if we are to get our men back on the field. Your job is to heal them using that power of yours.”

Torrin's brow furrowed. “But, sir, to be able to use my powers, I need...” Torrin's hands gestured futilely. He forced the word out of his mouth. “Corpses.”

The captain waved his hand dismissively. “The medics have been ordered to keep the bodies of those who died in the tents nearby. You can use the energy from those.”

The thought made Torrin's stomach turn disagreeably. He nodded at the captain and kept his broth inside him with only a small twinge of discomfort from his wounds. “Anything else, sir?”

“No. You are dismissed.”

Torrin saluted slowly and turned, managing to get five yards out of the captain's tent before he grabbed his poor ribs and hobbled as quickly as he could to the medic tent. Morina, waiting for him, held out a bucket, which he promptly grabbed and proceeded to lose the small amount of food in his stomach. Morina tenderly held his sides, trying futilely to ease the pain his wracking caused. His vision tunneled funnily, until all he could see were the blurred contents of the bucket. Somehow, this made him think of the dead once more, and he vomited until he passed out.

(((((^)))))

Darian Ameel-de Coras nodded contemplatively as his commander concluded his extensive report. With the prince's questions, said report has lasted through two nights, interrupted by the prince's other responsibilities. “I see. It seems our enemy is very good at comebacks.”

“Yes, sir. Whenever we believe we have taken them down, they manage to push us back once more.”

Darian nodded, then thought for a few minutes longer. “Does anyone have a map of the enemy base?”

“Yes, my lord. Garridon is our mapmaker.”

“Have him come here with his maps.”

“Right away, my lord.”

Darian thought some more as he watched his commander give his order to one of his guards. The enemy seemed to have a weapon that was unknown to the Coran. The country of Stravius was known for its odd inventions, and a new one would not be unheard of. But what kind of machine would have dying men charge into a battle as if they had no injury? What machine could create such destruction with a cannonball with no force pushing it but gravity? He couldn't imagine it.

The commander entered again, this time with a fumbling young man with a large spectacles. The youth tried to hold all the papers in his hands, but many of them continued to fall to the ground.

The boy was skinny enough to be a ten-year-old, but his eyes were an interesting gray and his hair so blond it could be white. As a fuck partner, he would only be interesting a few times.

“You Majesty, this is our mapmaker, Garridon. The boy is useless as a soldier, but is brilliant as a mapmaker.”

Darian nodded and waved the boy closer. He saw the kid gulp and fix his spectacles more exactly upon his face. “Yes, sir. I've made maps of the fort, Levant, and the surrounding areas.” The boy tried to place his papers neatly down upon the prince's lap and failed miserably. Darian's mouth quirked up for a second as papers fell onto the ground, strewing them all over. Garridon bent onto his hands and knees to try to get the papers, giving Darian an entertaining view of his wiggling butt. Darian's mouth quirked once more.

He turned back to his commander. “You may leave. I will converse with the mapmaker and shall have you return tomorrow. By then, I shall have a plan.”

The commander placed a fist on his chest and bowed. When he was gone, Darian turned to Garridon and let the boy pick up his papers on his own. The view was too good to lose to pick up maps.

Garridon leaned under his chair to pick up the last paper. The ass, small and bony, fit itself in-between his legs. He growled.

Garridon jumped, banging his head on the top of Darian's cushioned chair, then wiggled himself out from under it. His face, when it reappeared, was blushing. His glasses were askew. His face was in-between Darian's legs.

Darian kept his mind on battle strategies with little problem despite the mapmaker's position. “Let me see the maps of the surrounding areas.”

Garridon nodded and stood. Looking through his maps and dropping most back onto the floor. “Of course. The fort is, of course, surrounded by Levant and forest and agricultural plains. I have some maps-” here he pulled out three papers, which made fifteen more plop to the ground “-of the forest here.” Garridon handed the prince the three papers, then continued digging through the rest in his hand. He would most likely have to get onto all fours again to get all the maps the prince wanted.

Darian looked at the maps and his eyes widened inperceptively at the minute detailing of the papers. It seemed that every single tree was drawn in complete detail, even the size and width of each individual tree.

Garridon stopped searching for other maps and leaned over to look at the map that held Darian's attention. He pushed his spectacles up before he spoke. “The trees nearest the edge were mostly spruce and yew, the ones further in changing to a mix pf spruce, maple, oak, pine, and an unknown plant named the coddle, since it seems to shelter the other trees around it due to its enormous height and limbs.”

Darian nodded thoughtfully. “Have men inspected these trees?”

Garridon shrugged, pulling back to again look through his maps. “I don't know, sir. I only make the maps.”

“And very well,” Darian noted, impressed. He looked up to see Garridon's blush. “Where are the other maps?”

Garridon bit his lip. “I'm sorry, sir, I can't find – oh! Here we go; this is it right here. The maps of the fields and a map of Levant before we attacked it.”

Darian accepted the maps wordlessly. The fact that these maps were in such detail proved that the man had scouted the area personally. Still, it took a monumental amount of memory to create the maps before him. The fields were widely and carefully spaced. The Stravians were no fools when it came to any sort of architecture, and the intricate details placed into the placement of the fields proved that. Levant, too, looked perfectly proportioned. A pretty little town. It was now demolished ruins.

Still, the maps of the town showed a picturesque tranquility. People there had probably lived quiet, quaint, peaceful lives. He almost felt pity for the townspeople, but quickly squashed it. He was there to take over the fort so that the army could continue trying to conquer the Stravians. There was no room for pity, despite the cruelty his father's army showed.

As expected, Garridon bent over to search the ground for his other maps of Levant. “Uh, sir, the, ah, normal crops were wheat and corn, but there was a barley plantation, too. The city of Levant didn't have a lot of technology to relied mostly – ah, from what I could see – on their crops and a couple, ah, companies.”

“Companies?” Darian asked, mulling over something completely different.

“Yes, sir. There, ah, there seemed to be a few places where books are created – editing companies and such.”

Darian grunted and spoke of what he thought. “Are you certain that there was not much technology?”

Garridon looked up from his search, and again his mouth was a mere foot from his dick. “What? Oh, yes, of course. They were more agricultural than anything else.” Garridon maneuvered himself into a sitting position on the floor. Once comfortable, he pushed his glasses up. His hand inadvertently rubbed Darian's thigh. Garridon was completely oblivious to it. “The only real technology they had was plumbing for the richer farmers. A couple of editors, writers, and publishers had plumbing, too. That's about it, sir.”

Darian's brows furrowed. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. From what I could tell, cannons are the only weapons of mass destruction the enemy has. We, of course, have the same, so I don't understand what is taking so long to destroy Fort Shiro. They certainly don't have an indestructible fortress or superior swords or swordsmen.”

“Yes.” Darian stared down at Garridon, trying not to growl again. “Where are the maps of the destroyed Levant?”

“I haven't yet found them,” Garridon admitted.

Darian huffed in annoyance. “Then hurry up. I need to know the exact locations of the ruins. After that, my plan will be complete.”

(((((^)))))

The corpses performed beautifully. His body did not.

By the end of the day, his magic had again been completely sapped. He was empty again, which slowed the healing of his ribs down and, apparently, according to Morina, opened him up once again to infection. He suffered through Morina;s care, ate some more broth, and went straight to sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, his magic was still less than five percent, he felt a bit feverish, and his ribs protested horribly. He groaned miserably as he sat up.

Morina bustled in, broth and medicine in hand. She set the food to the side and shoved the medicine down him, clucking and cooing at different turns. She rebandaged his with ribs with a gentle touch even as she muttered darkly about his duties.

“If it was me,” she kept saying, “You wouldn't be allowed to move for a week.”

Silently, he agreed. With the little amount of magic he had, continuing to assist the medics here was asking for trouble. He just didn't have the guts to tell the captain. Despite his usefulness, his presence wasn't really accepted.

So he wordlessly stood and dressed, wincing as he did. Then he left Morina's tent to go to those more injured. Even if he hadn't been ordered to do this, he thought he would still do all he could. Yesterday, he'd tried to help a man who had lose an arm and had stopped the bleeding. The man was beginning to heal now.

He was welcomed by the medics by a quick hello. He was then ushered to a sick man who suffered from a stab wound in his side and a fever in his blood. He felt the energy of three more corpses and began to draw from them.

He stopped at the familiarity of one of the energies and gasped. He quickly energized the man's immune ststem and ran over to the nearest medic, who was attempting to save a man's leg.

“The man from yesterday, the one who lost his arm,” he demanded without bothering with hello. “Where is he?”

The medic didn't even look up from his work. “He committed suicide late last night.”

Torrin was floored. “But... why?” The man had been healing!

“His life was useless without his arm,” the medic told him. “He realized that and made certain he would not live his life like that.”

Torrin's heart sank. “But no life is worthless,” he whispered.

Finally, the medic turned to him. “Do you truly believe that? Can you think that way about the enemy when you're on the battlefield?”

Torrin said nothing, but his heart sank still further.

“When you kill an enemy on the battlefield, you continue to believe that life, and every life, is precious? It's not that simple, kid.” The medic stood and walked to the next patient. Torrin did not follow.

Instead, he numbly walked out of the medic tent and looked at the fortress' gate, which was being hastily rebuilt for the next attack.

He knew that outside that gate, corpses piled the ground. Stravian bodies were being buried, Coran bodies were being left for the birds.

Could he say that the Coran were men just like him? If he had been in the army and had been ordered to slaughter the villagers, would he?

He wanted to believe that they were monsters, criminals, thieves, and knaves. He wanted to hate them all and blame each face as the murderers of his mother and father. He wanted to hate each and every one of them.

But he couldn't. Not now. Had he been judging them and deciding their fates? Had he been choosing which life was precious?

But his parents had been mercilessly slaughtered. He had seen their corpses. To save his own life, he had found himself stealing their energy. Had stumbled through the town, sucking energy from the friends he'd known, the neighbors he'd had. His memory after that was dim. There were soldiers coming towards him, still more heading towards the fort, and then things got too fuzzy for him to remember too well. The next thing he knew was being tended as he lie lifelessly on the wrecked streets of Levant, magic gone and body too weak to move.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't realize that he was standing stupidly in the middle of the path until someone bumped his side. He gasped in pain and doubled over in pain. He saw spots dance before his eyes.

Morina hurried over to his side and helped him back to his feet. She led him to her tent. When he tried to protest, she snapped at him. “I don't want to hear it, kid, ya understand? No more outta you. You're gonna sleep in that bed an' recover an' if the captain has a problem with it, he can take it up with me.”

“That's not...” Torrin tried to argue, but he was too tired. He had no energy, either physical or magical, and his broken ribs had seemed to shift a bit. He allowed Morina to drag him to the bed and ate the broth an assistant brought him while Morina argued with the captain in his office. She came back with an authoritative huff and let him know that he wouldn't be moving for another week. Gratefully, he allowed her to tuck him in and went to sleep.

(((((^)))))

“We shall position ourselves tonight,” Prince Darian Ameel-de Coras announced to his commander and two other generals.” There, we will wait until noon. Take out any patrols, and remember to watch those coddle trees. Now get your troops in order and ready to move out by sunset.”

The men bowed and left. Darian turned to the bed, where Garridon was sprawled bonelessly, passed out. The boy's usefulness was past, but he had been a good outlet for the battle-rush of adrenaline that would have kept him from getting a good rest.

Darian left him there and made sure he was completely prepared, then left to see to his horse. They had a good ride ahead of them and a battle that may prove to finally be the downfall of Fort Shiro.

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Every story unless otherwise claimed is Kayura's, and is copyrighted 2006 under her name.