Order and Chaos

you're milton
and you vote for yourself

Official Cat of the Royal Family.

Naturally, you pick the one who's still aroudn to feed you

You were the village idiot. And you decided to make yourself king, as being the village idiot precludes you from any quandaries about royalty.

They needed a fall guy anyway.

you're milton

"Why don't we ask Milton to pick between Milton and Mary?" said the Duke of Ledmit.

The ever-aspirational Duchess of Duke, age 85, voice shrill but weak, piped up, having stabbed the Duke of Ledmit to death: "He'll just vote for himself, fool! Thank you." She accepted and chugged the chalice full of wine from the Doge of Trevsahl, which, unbeknownst to her, was poisoned.

"Well, no," said Lady Germaldine, "Milton is a playboy layabout. A playabout. He's surely chewed all our ears off with his stories of reveling in his lack of responsibility, and —" She was interrupted by the Grand Piano of Damocles dropping on her head.

The new Duke of Ledmit breathed into his hands, to cool the ropeburn. "We can't trust a playabout when the queen's gone murder crazy! I think the best solution is to make sure the court has an odd number of members when we take the vote. I've got just the medicine," he said, using the rope to lift the grand piano back up into the air, then stepping into the noose he had fashioned out of the end piece.

The Doge of Trevsahl, who had been hovering behind the Duke of Ledmit with a garrote improvised from the piano wire, stumbled forward eye-first into a shard of glass readied by his immediate successor when the Duke raced up into the air, breaking his neck. (And this time, the shard DID get into the brainhole.) The new Doge of Trevsahl unwrapped their handkerchief from the shard of glass and placed it back in their pocket. "I didn't have anything to say, that was just good luck while I was polishing my shard of glass."

The court, driven to rage by his apathy, dug up some of the bricks that made up the castle floors and walls and stoned him to death. One Lord Pablo Montoya spoke up above the fray: "People, regardless of who we pick, we need to organize a search effort for the princess Mary Lee Invictus!"

"Why not one for Mary Lee VINDICTUS too while we're at it? Numbnuts!" said the Duke of Hiwenge. The court erupted into a fit of effete tittering. The Duke of Hiwenge's razor-sharp tongue had slit One Lord Pablo Montoya's throat, and he bled to death atop the pile of rubble covering the old new Doge of Trevsahl. Unfortunately, the Duke of Hiwenge accidentally cut open his own esophagus with that same tongue and met the same fate.

"We need an outside tiebreaker to decide on an outside tiebreaker!" shouted the Duchess of Groken, before a raging bull gored her through from behind.

Two Lord Pablo Montoya waved his red cape around, redirecting the bull head-first into a wall, where it stubbornly bludgeoned itself to death. The Duchess of Remilt followed. She was very dumb. "I agree. But who?!"

A pregnant silence settled in. Everyone was pointing a loaded gun at everyone else.

Everyone turned to the gigantic double-doors of the court as they slowly, but loudly, creaked open. This was it. They could all tell they were witnessing the dilation of the cervix of the pregnant silence.

Official Cat of the Royal Family.

Naturally, you pick the one who's still aroudn to feed you

Though the court doors came none other than the Royal Cat Milton (no relation), strutting along flanked by two be-platemail'd knights acting as bodyguard, his metaphorical placenta.

"Meow," said the Royal Cat. All knelt.

Very soon, the court sketch artist had fashioned crude Milton and Mary scarecrows out of the rubble and bits of One Lord Pablo Montoya. Two Lord Pablo Montoya, who was acknowledged by all to have the best touch with animals, placed Milton (no relation) between the two and let it pick.

Milton (no relation) instead, left the court entirely, and all followed him, uncomfortably crouching in deference. He wound his way through the castle corridors, through the hedge maze and up and down stairs for hours. Finally though, he came to the hallway housing the rooms of both the Prince and Princess.

He mewled and scraped on the other Milton's door. Big Milton opened his door, two scantily-dressed ladies on either of his arms. Nobody could see in his room, due to the copious amounts of smoke. They could hear at least 6 drummers pounding away on their instruments in his room, though.

"Hey buddy," said Big Milton bending over and picking up Little Milton by the scruff and rubbing his belly like he liked. "Is it feeding time already?" The Royal Cat purred. Big Milton frowned and turned to his lady companions: "Wait back in my room, I'll be back soon and we can finish with that crossword puzzle."

"I'm still mad — what kind of word is 'syzygy'?!" said one of the ladies

"I know, I know!" Milton said, and closed the door. He went to the window at the end of the hallway, cat in tow. "Feeding time!" he hollered and tossed Little Milton out to the mermaids in the moat. He turned around, and saw the entire court bowing. "Oh," he said. "Why are you here?"

"We needed the cat to select one of the royal heirs so that you could make a decision about the queen," explained the Duchess of Qumalt, nervously.

"So..." said Milton, "it WASN'T feeding time? Oh shit!" Milton disrobed of the platemail covering his forearms and shins and dived out of the window into the moat.

How was Milton Wolfgang Vindictus going to save Milton (no relation) the royal cat from the clutches of the moat mermaids?

he wasn't, instead he just gonna drown. whoops. :(
should've gotten better at swimming

eat the cat before anyone else can

he wasn't, instead he just gonna drown. whoops. :(
should've gotten better at swimming

Milton was soon overwhelmed by the current. Oh, he'd taken a few swimming lessons, but the moat was more intense than any pool in the castle, and the few seconds of disorientation after his dive were more than enough to leave him helpless against the might of the tide. The waters washed over him, pushing him down deeper and deeper...

...until the merfolk decided that was enough toying with the King's stepson and pulled him to the surface.

Still weak from his ordeal, Milton stared ahead. Unlike his half-sister, he was barely affected by the sight of the mermaids; if he were alert, he'd simply say he'd seen better.

As he slowly regained some of his senses, the first thing Milton was aware of was the mermaid holding the royal cat, the cat he'd been so desperate to save. Frantically, he lunged forward to grab the other Milton...

eat the cat before anyone else can

...and, for reasons that surely made sense to him at the time, stuffed the cat right in his mouth.

As the cat in question, needless to say I was rather upset about this turn of events. I could only guess at his alcohol-addled thought process.

It was probably something along these lines.

Oh, I have to feed the cat. What do they like? Fish, right? There's probably fish in the moat. I'll send him there.

And then someone probably explained to him that no, this wasn't about feeding me.

Wait, it's not feeding time? Oh no, then the fish will eat him! I'd better save him!

And then after his near-death experience, presumably his thoughts went in this direction.

They're going to eat the cat! But they can't if I eat him first!

Yes, that was most likely it. Fortunately for us both, the mermaids pulled me out of his mouth before either Milton suffered serious damage, and then dropped us on the riverbank, where the human Milton promptly began coughing up water.

It was good to be safe, of course, but I knew it wouldn't matter. The apocalypse was coming, and these self-absorbed humans had long ago stopped listening to their natural instincts that should have informed them of it by now.

So that left it to me to find some way of issuing a warning; not that they deserved it, but they had a better chance of finding a way to withstand it than I did on my own. I had hoped I might be able to get through to Milton, as we shared a rapport; but even if that were still true, he was in no state to pass any information along.

How was I to warn the humans of their impending doom?

the best way to warn the humans of their impending doom is to cause said impending doom

signal flare

scratch a message

signal flare

This was too much for me to handle alone. I needed help. I scrambled into camp and searched through the nearest tent for a signal flare and firestarter. I was trying to be quiet, but I was all sweaty and clumsy dropped my sword into the dirt. For a second, I thought I had gotten away with it and returned to my furious searching.

"...Commun?" said the man awoke by the loud clang of the dropped sword. Fuck. "What are you doing in here?"

"I, I, I, I needed a signal flare and firestarter so I came in here sorry," I stammered at a million miles a second.

"Okay, okay, slow down Marx. Why did you need a signal flare? What went wrong? Why are you naked, did you burn up your loincloth?"

"No, no, sorry, uh, I put it on the sword so it wouldn't fall out of my hands from the sweat but well you see where that got me I'm very sweaty and besides if I had a burning loincloth then I wouldn't need the firestarter now would I sorry that was rude of me anyway uh it's all gone to hell in a handbasket they killed Malcolm and Malcolm killed like a billion fucking gods and now they're all pissed at us and I thought we could maybe like impersonate Malcolm but he died in his armor so that's off the table and apparently the world's ending and we're dead, we're dead, we're dead, we're worse than dead, oh gods," I said. (I might not be PRONE to panic per se, but give me a break here.)

"Holy shit," he said. "I can kinda see why you're panicking here, but you should still calm down. It does us no favors." I nodded. He was basically parroting me from better days. "The signal flare thing is... who were you trying to signal? Our enemies?"

"We had to... warn... people... I don't know! I'm not thinking straight." I collapsed onto an empty bed. This dude had the whole tent to himself.

"Okay," he said, "I know you're technically first-in-command right now, but can I have permission to warn everyone, then plan and execute a retreat? I think I know enough languages."

I nodded. "Go ahead..." I passed him my sword. "...general."

He grabbed the sword, nodded, and rushed out. He ducked back in through the flap a split-second later, with a disgusted look on his face.

"You can keep the loincloth," he said, and then dropped the incredibly sweat-damp garment onto the dirt floor. Ew! At least laundry was a much more manageable goal, especially for me, Commun Marx, the economist. I started searching for his washboard and bucket and soap and a wire to dry and his canteen for the water...

About a half-hour later, I had finally assembled my materials and plunged my loincloth into the bucket when my new general popped back into the tent with a salute. "Sir, the troops are assembled and the camp is broken down," he said. I would have been impressed with the speed if I wasn't so frustrated.

"Ugh!" I threw down the washboard and stood up. "It's almost winter, I'm gonna freeze to death without a clean loincloth," I grumbled as I left the tent.

I stood on a crate in front of the troops, who were in a large, disciplined, rectangular formation with all their gear. "Um," I said. "...March?"

Nobody moved. Was it the language barrier? My general whispered past my shoulder: "They need to know if you want to go over the mountain pass or back down the road we came. You're gonna have to point."

Oh. I coughed and nervously pointed to...

The mountain pass!!!

Your crotch.

The mountain pass!!!

I decided that, if the world was ending, our war with the gods barely mattered. Whatever tactical advantage we might gain from a pretense that Malcolm lived was useless. We were better off focusing on survival, and that meant the path that would make it harder for our pursuers to follow.

I pointed to the mountain pass, and we began our long march through it.

At first it seemed like a terrible decision. The ground trembled beneath our feet with every step, likely another curse from the defeated gods. But as the fiery rains grew in intensity, only to strike the peaks around us, murmurs passed through the ranks as everyone was grateful not to be on the open road without any shelter at all.

We kept as close as we could to the high stone walls around us, even as we feared they might collapse on our heads. There was nothing to do except press forward, our best hope being that the vanquished gods wanted to see us suffer more than they wanted to see us die.

Many other curses came our way. A swarm of scorpions. Freezing winds, even as the flames still fell from the sky. Apparitions of our fallen kinsmen calling us worthless cowards.

But after hours of marching, we finally made it through with few casualties, with no sign of the enemy behind us. Perhaps they hadn't even bothered pursuing us, expecting the trail and the curses to finish us off.

I could see Castle Vendet in the distance - you never forgot the shape of its towers. But there was still one great obstacle standing between us and home - and whatever trials we would face once we returned there.

What was it?

Snorlax

Your crotch.

the moat

the moat

Of course, the moat! I leapt into the waters, warm as usual, and swam to the wall, which I began to scale with ease. My troops followed behind me in a line.

That's when I realized something was off. Surely, the mermaids would have stopped me before I got to the wall... I looked down. The water level was rising back up to meet me! I climbed as fast as my economist's arms would carry me, but I was not quick enough, and soon enough I was deep under. The water grew frigid around me as I swam like a madman towards the surface.

I broke through the placid top of the body of water, gasping for air and grasping for land. It was only then that I realized my folly. I myself had outlined that it would take at least two years to journey back to Vendet, and here I was, running headfirst into it uncritically after only two hours. I would be lucky to survive two more hours in the icy pond I had inadvertently led the troops into!

I finally managed to grope my way back to dry land. One of my men lent me his loincloth, which was more than enough to stave off and reverse the effects of hypothermia and frostbite I had been suffering from. Most of the people I had lead into the illusory "moat" I never even saw surface. I gathered myself and re-surveyed the area.

I had no idea by where we had come in, nor in which direction we were to head, partially due to the dupe stupor we had been entranced within, but mostly, I reckoned, due to the reduced visibility from the near-blizzard that raged around us. Furthermore, I had no real way of knowing whether I was still operating in a undead-divine-induced hallucination; the fact that we were not currently being constantly tormented by curses at the moment did not support the theory that I was not, frankly.

Nevertheless, I figured, illusion or no, sleep was sleep, and it was as good a place to any to set up camp for the night. Maybe visibility would clear up tomorrow morning.

My bunk was cold and lonely that night when I fell asleep.

-----

In my dream, I was in a void, on fire, safe.

"Gods' apocalypse soon," said De.

"How?" said I.

"Cats go."

"Then?"

"That's it."

"...Really?"

"If people went..."

"Fair."

"King'll kill gods today."

"You?"

"Either first or not." Typical. "You're safe always. Go west. Be good." De hugged me. "Wake."

-----

I woke with a start and a gasp like I had been drowning. It was quite the opposite, actually: all around me bodies were suffering from various degrees of burns, attended to by efficient nuns who were quickly trotting out the dead and bringing in the live to treat. I turned my gaze to the vaulted ceiling of this large, large room, and to a wooden sign above the gigantic door that most everyone was hustling through which read:

OUR LADY BREVITY
Sin is bad.
Quiet is gold.

Mysteriously, though, I was almost completely unharmed as far as my own inspection could reveal. There were no burns to speak of, although my fingerpaint had peeled off entirely from the flames and, as I ran those very same fingers through where my glorious mane of white hair should have been, I discovered I had been burnt bald, down to the eyebrows. I had no idea where my clothes had gone off to, but I could take a guess. (They were dreadful rags anyway.)

The charred skeleton next to me, on the other hand, was unrecognizable but for a mysteriously-flame-retardant sash that identified it as the corpse of none other than my shotgun husband, the mayor. (To be frank, I was relieved of the burden. I guess you could say I made the decision... in the heat of the moment! Get it? Because I was already suffering from the deleterious effects of smoke inhalation from the wildfire at the time! I guess what I'm saying is I don't mourn his death at all.)

That's when a nun surprised me. "You OK?" she said.

"Uh, yeah," I said.

"Out," she said, and snapped. She was startlingly curt, but not exactly impolite or unfriendly.

I clambered out of the bedroll, nervously protecting my decency with my hands. Immediately, two more nuns scraped a body off a stretcher and into my ex-bed. It was Alexis. She was asleep, and looked healthy, because her armor had protected her, at the cost of melting to fit her body and face exactly. I wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to take it off again. The nuns carrying the stretcher collected the Mayor on-board and trotted out of the room.

The first nun, struggling to lift Alexis' face-shaped face-plate, said to me: "You're blessed."

"Thanks?" I said.

She nodded and pointed to the entrance/exit. I walked over there, past rows and rows of the dead and injured, and thought about how culpable for their deaths I could be considered for just providing the matches. I knew Smokey the God Bear of Forest Fire Prevention would disapprove, but he always places the blame for any given forest fire on "only" whoever he is currently speaking to or about, and besides, would probably be dead at my father's hand by sunset. (I also thought about how naked I still felt without my nose paint, and also literally being naked.)

By the time I got to the exit, I had freed myself of all second-hand guilt.

"Stop," said the nun at a desk set up before the exit. She gestured for me to take a seat on a stool, which I did, then she grabbed my arm and started painting my fingernails yellow.

"Uh," I said, pulling my arm back into place where it could act as a cover.

"Decency," she gently chastised me, yanking my hand back into place.

"Clothes?" I said. She stopped, looked at me, shrugged with her eyebrows, and got briefly up to search under the desk. She returned with a pair of — what else? Briefs, which she brusquely tossed over the desk and returned to her painting. I slunk into them. Now my second hand was free.

After my nails were yellowed, she gave me a pen and had me sign a guest book (as "Mary Lee Invictus") and then practically shoved me out. A short line had formed behind me.

I left the monastery to see I had been taken almost all the way over the mountains, and into the desert. I could see the black smoke of the fire hovering in the sky over the mountaintops to the east, and to the west, the sun, and a road winding through the rocky clay to a small city with massive walls. I had no real choice but to go west, for De — not even my mom had hugged me.

It would take me two hours to arrive at its gigantic double-doors, walking. What kind of city laid behind that gate? And more pressingly, what in the world was I going to do when my bare feet started to get painfully hot from being on the baking ground?

behind the gates, a city of cat worshippers

as for the feet... You'll just have to dance

It's a city of foot-healing carpets!

as for the feet... You'll just have to dance

As I stared at the grueling sands before me, a voice called out in my mind.

"Dance."

It sounded like De. Had she survived Father's assault, or was this her final word to me, passed on even after her death?

There was no way to tell, and no use dwelling on it. I had spent years learning to dance, and years learning to move swiftly on a battlefield. It was time to put both skills to the test.

I grabbed some spare rags to use as a cloak, both for modesty and for protection from the searing sun. Then I leapt as far forward onto the scorching clay as I could, landing on the very tip of my toes for but a moment, and continued the brisk-yet-dignified dance towards the city.

Two hours of dancing with no chance for a break was no easy task for most. But I had danced twice as long at the height of my training. Even so, the ground was unforgiving, and I had no chance to soothe my toes. I was forced halfway through to land on my heels instead as my toes could no longer take the pressure. Yet my heels lacked the stamina; a half hour later, I had to resort to landing on the sides of my feet, then the soles, then awkwardly on the tops, and finally for the last five minutes I stood on my hands and scrambled for the gates as fast as I could.

By then, I had no strength left to knock. But it seemed someone was watching for me, as the gates swung open and I saw the glorious, if tiny, city that lay before me.

behind the gates, a city of cat worshippers

It's a city of foot-healing carpets!

This was a city dedicated to Felus, the Cat-God of Comfort. As I stepped forward onto the softly carpeted road, I felt a cool sensation fill my feet. I couldn't help but kneel down and press my hands against it as well. The aches and pains seemed to vanish.

Of course, from my religious studies, I knew enough to realize that this was essentially an illusion. Felus could not heal; he could only ease your pain, and once you were outside of his influence, it would all come back. Still, even an illusory relief was welcome at this point. And if I could find some ointment for the burns, I could be genuinely refreshed when it was time to leave.

It soon become apparent, however, that I was not here to relax. Not when the procession of Felus' disciples was marching towards me, carrying a very catlike suit of armor and a glowing sword. I had a feeling I was in for more than I had expected.

"Mary Lee Vindictus!"

The voice came from an ornately-dressed woman who had walked up beside me while I was distracted by the spectacle. Judging by the impressive cat-ear miter, I could only conclude this was the High Priestess.

The fact that she already knew my true name was ominous. I said nothing, not wanting to confirm or deny my identity until I knew more.

"You have come to us, as Felus spoke, to bring vengeance upon the mortal world! Your father has raised arms against the gods, and all mortals are to pay the price! And you, Mary Lee Vindictus, are to be the instrument of this vengeance! With this blessed armor and blade, you will march across this sinful world and herald its end!"

This was not where I had expected De's guidance to lead me, but here I was all the same. For reasons I could not even begin to understand, I had been chosen to usher in the apocalypse.

What could I even say? Was I to take up this role that had been thrust upon me? Or would I fight it, fight to save a world I barely knew outside the castle walls? Faced with such a grave choice, what would I do? What could I do?

Take the armor and sword but use it to save the world!

Take the armor and sword but use it to save the world!

I rubbed my throat as I felt the false hydration returning my vocal faculties. "Okay," I said, hoarsely. I crawled under the top half of the suit, rolled over on my back, and stood up into it as they slid it down onto me. I looked around as much as my limited mobility was allowed. There was no bottom half. Ridiculous. I hadn't seen a single whole suit of armor since I left the castle. Now I was just walking around in a pair of tidy-whities and an inordinately ornate platemail breastplate with arms and a kitty-cat-ear helmet like a total idiot who looks like a jackass. At least it was comfortable.

"Would you join us for lunch?" said the high priestess, tossing a ball of yarn up and down in the air. "It would give you time to recuperate." She accidentally dropped the ball of yarn and went chasing it under a building. She was stuck.

I coughed. "Okay."

Their dining hall was large, and it attempted to be impressive, but it was nothing compared to the one back home. I tucked into my salmon and saucer of milk, using my sword as a knife, while two citizens massaged and applied lotion to my feet. I was seated at one thin end of the table, the spot for the privileged guest. Literally every citizen of the town ate simultaneously at this one, long table, which was quite a noisy commotion — but I could see the corresponding spot at the opposite end of the table was empty.

Then, one at a time, the citizens finished their salmon, then ceased their conversations and their lapping of milk and their clanking of silverware. When they were all finished you could hear a pin drop. Or, in my case, the fork clank against the edge of my plate.

The god himself entered, arms raised. He had taken the form of a humanoid calico and was wearing a fancy get-up complete with cape. His followers began to creepily mewl. He took the seat at the other end of the table, and suddenly the hundreds of citizens flocked to him and began grooming him with their tongues, climbing over themselves in their fervor.

"It's nice to meet you in person, Mary," he said. He was on the other side of the hall, but his voice rang out as clearly as if he were at my side.

"Shouldn't you be at the battle with my father?" I shouted.

"Why would I put myself out on a limb like that?" he said. "What would I do? Hang in there? Honestly, these other gods are just kamikaze if you ask me... Mm. Friends, could I have some private time with our special guest?"

The citizens filtered out quickly. The lights dimmed.

"I take it you've already heard an earful from De?" he said.

"How did you know?"

"You just left from that monastery of hers and you're wearing briefs," Felus said, digging in to his own salmon now. "How much did she fill you in?"

"Not much," I said, coldly. "She said the gods were going to cause an apocalypse, but that only the cats would go. Then she said to come here."

"Here?" said Felus. "This place didn't exist until a couple hours ago."

"Uh, she just said west."

"Purrfect," said Felus, who was suddenly right beside me. "Her and I, we're... sort of accomplices."

"Sort of?" I said.

"Well... she sold me down the river. Neither of us WANTED the apocalypse to happen, then she went and talked the rest of the gods down to just ridding the world of cats as a compromise! You know how she is, she can just blab, blab, blab, talk your ears off, run verbal circles around you until you think black is white and up is down."

"Uh..."

"Now that's awful, isn't it?" he said. "Killing cats, honestly... it's just cruel. The only way, as I see it, to save all of catdom is to convince the other gods to direct their wrath at another target. A weakened one..."

My sword began to glow. I wrapped both my hands around it.

"If anyone can do this, it's someone with the blood of the Vindictus," said Felus. "Mary, kill all humans."

I lunged at Felus and chopped off his head in seconds flat, just like I had been trained. God blood stained my briefs and sword.

"Like father like daughter," he laughed and coughed out as he expired, out of his head a good yard away from his body. He wasn't the brightest of gods.

The dining hall, the city, and all of its citizens disappeared, leaving only my armor, my sword, and Felus' body. I fell onto the clay on my hands and knees, once more exhausted and oh-so-hot. Bastard didn't even use real lotion or milk!

I discarded the telltale cat-ears helmet, fashioned my old rags into makeshift shoes, and re-embarked on my trek through the desert. There was a lot of time to think. I had never directly killed anyone before, and now I had fell a god. Was I really becoming my father? I could no longer see behind me the mountains and the monastery. I required a goodly amount of chapstick. The white suit of armor covering my top half was like an oven. I wished I could leave it behind, but even a disguised princess could not turn her nose up at decency like that. At least I left the helmet behind, leaving a place for the heat to escape upwards through, and I was rid of armpit hair and, for that matter, hair on my head. Sweat flopped off my brow at astonishing speeds when I didn't have eyebrows there to slow it. I tried to wipe my forehead with my forearm and accidentally burnt myself on my platemail arms. If I stood in one place for long enough, it would surely turn into a mud puddle. I wish I could put my nosepaint back on without everyone knowing I was royalty.

Eventually, the clay gave way to dunes of sand from which no road could be seen. I began to question the wisdom of going west. I began to question how I even knew if I was going west. Sand kept getting in my eyes and clothes, so I turned around and walked backwards. That worked well for a while, until I stumbled over the peak of a dune and rolled down the rest of the way. Now I had sand all over myself. My sword grew heavy, as did my eyelids. I had, of course, had desert survivalist training for long marches, but that assumed I had supplies and even underlings. I had no way of obtaining water without the materials for a solar still, not even an illusory oasis presented itself.

Finally, after a full day, sunrise to sunset, of wandering through the desert, I passed out from heat stroke. Once again, I had to rely on the kindness of strangers to drag my unconscious, delirious ass to safety.

I woke up when my new second-in-command opened the flap to my tent, letting all the cold air in.

"Sir," he said, shaking my shoulder. "Sir, the sun's up and there's something I think you should see."

"I'm up, I'm up!" I said.

My hunch about visibility clearing up was right. The winds and snow and fog had let up completely over night, though now all our tents and corpses were covered with snow. I could see for miles. The bad news is that one of those things I could see was the faithful army, just... milling about, a few miles away. It looked like they were getting ready to strike, and watching us.

"What should we do?" said the general.

I sighed and took another look around. I had to assume that the opposition was blocking from the way we came in, because due to the illusion I certainly couldn't piece it together... The only other walkable exit was an extremely narrow pass we would have to go through single-file.

"We have two choices. We retreat further, through that pass, or stand and fight," I said. I sighed. "Retreat. Wake the men. I won't make the mistake of attempting my laundry again this time."

"Yes, sir," he said. I went to go break down my tent.

Before we were truly ready, the faithful let out their terrifying cries and began to charge us. We picked up what we could and ran in a disorganized mess through the pass, packed shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines for lack of forming an orderly, single-file line. At that point, for all the panicked soldiers piling in the back and gridlock, we wouldn't be able to turn around if we wanted to. And we would soon want to.

My general pointed up the cliffs which formed the walls of the pass. A few soldiers of the faithful army had been crouching and now emerged, volleying arrows at our sitting-duck troops. (One almost hit me in the shoulder, but luckily my loincloth protected me and it bounced right off.) More soldiers poured in from the "exit" end of the pass. It was a trap. They knew we would retreat, because they knew Malcolm was dead and I was in charge. When they ran out of arrows they took to rocks, first the big, then the small, then they threw babies at us which was quite gruesome. Then they started throwing themselves into the fray from high above.

By then of course, with our army pinched on both ends and from above, the grey rock was painted red with the blood of thousands. The battle would last for hours, all punching and slicing. But somehow, through the chaos, we emerged victorious. Totally. Not one soldier from their entire army was left alive. (After all, we were still 20,000 elite soldiers!)

We did not leave that pass unscathed, however. I made a quick headcount. Our numbers had thinned to only 4,965, most of those badly injured. We left those who couldn't walk behind, leaving us with only 4,793. My general had passed away.

We continued our march through the mountains for several days, in complete silence. Nobody smiled. Some of the remaining soldiers, who hadn't even loincloths, caught nasty colds, which progressed into pneumonia, and they eventually collapsed, either dead or close to it, and were, too, left behind without even an acknowledgment.

After eight days of this, after we were working our way down the mountain finally, I was woken by the feel of a cold steel blade on my throat. A woman, one of my soldiers, was holding their sword to my throat.

"This is a mutiny," she said through her thick accent. "You can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

Sure, I made a mistake in leading us into that trap, and I never thought I was a GOOD leader, but I couldn't help but feel this was a bit rash. Their main complaint was with the weather, not me and not something I could even effect! What was I to do?

>Ask which way is the one in which you survive

>Ask which way is the one in which you survive

"Does one of those ways not involve my death, because honestly I'm in favor of that one."

She gave me a harsh glare.

"Look, if you want to lead us out of this mess, you're welcome to it! I'm only in charge because someone had to be. If you think you, or whoever you're threatening me on behalf of, is going to be a better leader, I am all for giving them the chance. You didn't even have to threaten me, you could have just made a no-confidence motion - I realize nobody remembers that law because who would dare issue one against Malcolm Vindictus, but it does exist..."

She tossed me down to the ground.

"Pathetic. I was planning to offer you as a sacrifice to the gods to ease our journey, but now I think they'd just take that as an insult."

"I'm not sure if that would even work," I said awkwardly. "The gods throwing all these obstacles in our way are the dead ones. Can you even sacrifice to a dead god?"

"I was figuring I'd ask the living ones for protection. Work out the details later. Look, what does this matter to you?"

I was about to answer when a very angry Malcolm Vindictus marched into sight from nowhere.

"YOU WOULD SURRENDER TO THE GODS, AFTER ALL THE WORK I PUT INTO VANQUISHING THEM?"

It was a surprising sight, and for the first time I was able to get a good view of the camp. Turned out half of them had swords on the other half, but every sword dropped when Malcolm materialized to chew out their leader.

"I... I..."

"You call Kommun a coward, and not without reason. But does he run from our very cause? Does he beg the enemy for mercy? Does he turn his blade against his own comrades?"

Everyone else was even more shocked than I was - of course, I'd seen this happen before, and I knew Malcolm better than anyone here. Even so, as I saw him yell at my would-be-usurper, I felt myself growing angry.

"Now just a minute here," I said to him. "You can just manifest whenever you please? But you won't lend your men a hand? Can't even tell us if we're headed in the right direction? You want us to just stumble around and lose thousands of soldiers to the weather and the curses. Why?"

"My soldiers should be able to handle anything!" Malcolm shouted back. "I don't expect you to need me to hold your hand every step of the way!"

"Well guess what? I messed up. I can't handle leading an army! I need your goddamn help, and if you don't give it to me you won't have any army at all. Assuming you even still do after this mutiny."

Malcolm glared at me, but I could tell the troops were impressed. No one dared to stand up to Malcolm Vindictus, yet here I was, talking to him as if he were an unruly subordinate.

My heart, however, was sinking with every word I spoke. It grew worse in the uncomfortable pause before Malcolm spoke again.

"If you want my help, earn it," he said. "Single combat. I'll become physical enough for you to hit me, and if you can defeat me, I'll grant you one favor."

Of course, I couldn't refuse his challenge in front of the troops. But I also knew just how powerful Malcolm Vindictus was. And I knew he wasn't going to give me an easy win.

How would I fight him? And, if I somehow prevailed, what would I ask him for?