The morning air in the Baros outlands reeked of soot and burnt charcoal. Fires sparked to life, illuminating clusters of tents as warriors dragged axes across whetstones with a metallic screech. An axe was the Baros' soul, their constant companion. Life was rough as an Outlander, you had to make your own way.
Before the sun fully crests the horizon, the men of the camp gather around the Stone of Naming, blackened slab scorched by past Axe Trial fires. Each warrior, before heading out, kneels and marks the stone with a smear of ash across their brow and chest, a silent invocation to Ogun, the flame guardian, to bless the hunt or battle ahead.
They murmur the same words:
"Ogun, be witness as I, strike clean, burn pure, and return whole to the fires of Volflary."
Fire, to the Baros, was more than a weapon, it was a soul's tether. It could devour or sanctify, destroy or illuminate. Ogun, god of flame, was believed to be always watching, not just in the heat of battle, but in the quiet flicker of a hearth, or the slow burn of a funeral pyre.
Children were passed over low fire as infants, not to scar but to bless. Ash was mixed into ceremonial ink. Even marriages began with a firebound promise: "As fire binds iron, so shall we endure." And should a warrior fall in combat, it was customary for a piece of their blade or their entire body to be burned by the flames, that was the only way to return their soul to Ogun.
Dhutorn, massive and already sweat-soaked, finishes his rite before returning to his tent, his face marked, his axe gleaming from the ritual oil of bear fat and cinder ash. From a large tent adorned with crude stick-figure depictions of a towering man dominating others, Dhutorn entered, clad in animal pelts from the waist down. "Well, Relmus," he boomed, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Today you prove you're a warrior, or just another soft hand." Dhutorn, a Baros of legendary size, easily stood seven or eight feet tall, his coal-dark hair streaked with white, his eyes like chips of night. Some Elders claim Dhutorn was the reincarnation of Ogun himself.
A smaller figure, barely five feet but radiating fierce resolve, stepped forward. "Leave him be, Dhutorn," Emaev snapped, her blue eyes unwavering despite her husband's bulk. "He may not have grown as quickly as you, but his time will come."
"You coddle him, Emaev," Dhutorn retorted, turning to retrieve his axe. He tested its edge, a thin line of crimson blooming on his fingertip. "He needs to learn our ways, especially if he's to lead this camp one day. When I return, I expect him to be awake and ready for the feast. Today marks a century of Baros freedom from the Infernals."
Emaev offered a wry smile, walking to the giant's side. "You speak as if I haven't shared many years in this camp." She kissed him briefly, then watched as he joined the other hunters gathering at the camp's edge. As they jogged towards the distant tree-lined, a sigh escaped her lips. "Sometimes I feel our time is fading." She pulled out the red shard, the same that every Baros held. "Fewer return from those hunts. This path… it promises little future for our families. Not to mention this curse." She whispered as she turned back to the large tent, placing the red shard back into her tunic.
Dhutorn marched at the front of the hunting party, his massive frame a silhouette against the morning haze. The trail led toward the east, near the old Ninji springs, where the last scouts had vanished just days before. Eleven men followed him. Most were seasoned warriors, bearing old scars and fresh burns with equal pride. But one lagged slightly behind: Hegar. Hegar was smaller than the rest, thinner, with a nervous edge to every step. His hands fidgeted near the hilt of his axe, though he hadn't drawn it. A poor hunter, but not a coward, only a man better suited to mending than marching.
"Why'd you come, Hegar?" one of the warriors muttered under his breath.
"My brother, he was in the scouting party that has been gone for days now." Hegar said, catching up to the rest of the group.
"He came for blood," Dhutorn answered without looking back. "Same as the rest of us."
"Blood, and to prove to my son, Bobon, that even though we may not be as strong, we can still fight." Hegar said, glazing around the group.
"You put in your part of the work, Bobon should be proud already." Dhutorn said, looking over his shoulder.
The party fell quiet. The forest ahead thickened, and with it, the air. The scent of ash mingled with something sharper, scorched sap, and skin. Dhutorn raised a fist. The group halted.
"Something's wrong," he said.
They moved carefully over the rise, then stopped, struck by silence and horror. Below, the missing Baros were found. Piked. Displayed. Their bodies had been impaled on rough wooden stakes, charred and twisted. Lightning-sigil runes, crudely drawn in blood, circled the clearing. Hegar staggered forward a few steps, eyes wide, then dropped to his knees, retching.
"My brother," he whispered. Pointing out a finger to the Baros' body that was displayed on the pikes, but missing his lower half of his body, he had been cut perfectly from shoulder to hip.
Dhutorn said nothing for a long moment. Then, grimly: "They didn't go quietly."
The signs were there, fused soil, warped trees, weapons half-melted into bone.
"They invoked it," Dhutorn said grimly. "Warming Death. The gift that kills."
"Warming Death," one of the hunters repeated. "Why, why would they do that?"
"They fought for us," Dhutorn muttered. "Bravely, yet the Zuli mock us by displaying them like trophies." He walked between the stakes, silent, studying the deliberate placement, the blood-smeared warnings.
"This wasn't just a message," he said. "It's bait."
Hegar stood slowly, hands clenched. "So what do we do?"
Dhutorn turned, fire rising behind his eyes. "We burn our people. Offer them back to Ogun. We mark their names on the Naming Stone. And we tell the others…" He paused, letting the rage settle in his chest.
"The Zuli fear us, and Ogun's fire." A low growl passed through the warriors. "They mock us, let them learn what comes next."
They had just heaved the final body onto the fire, an offering to Ogun, when the first bolt split the sky. Then another blinding arc of lightning sliced through the clearing, hitting one of the warriors square in the back. He screamed, once, and collapsed, death had taken him instantly.
"AMBUSH!" Dhutorn roared, spinning with an axe in hand.
Zuli soldiers surged from the trees, cloaked in stormlight, their blades crackling with white-blue arcs. They came with no war cry, no ceremony, only execution. Hegar raised his axe but was too slow. A Zuli blade opened his side, and he collapsed with a grunt, eyes wide in disbelief.
"No!" Dhutorn bellowed, charging forward. His axe found its mark, cleaving a soldier's torso with a spray of sparks and blood. Another Zuli leapt at him; he caught the strike, shoved him back, and then he paused, feeling fear for the first time. What he saw, his friends, his family, all warriors falling to the Zuli. One by one. Cut down. Electrocuted. Silenced.
Only Dhutorn remained, ringed by the dead of both sides, blood steaming on blackened soil. Lightning surged toward him, five Zuli closing in, blades drawn, eyes gleaming with cruel purpose. He bared his teeth, pulled a red shard from his necklace, and broke it with ease in his large hands, reducing it to pieces.
"OGUN, BE WITNESS." Flame exploded outward. The heat didn't rise, it erupted. White flames crashed around his body. The activation of Warming Death surged through Dhutorn's veins, his body engulfed in a living blaze of orange-white flame tinged with red. His skin cracked, his eyes glowed molten, but he did not fall. He moved. The first Zuli ashes, mid-lunge, their armor liquefying before the blade could even reach Dhutorn's shoulder. The second screamed, then turned to ash as fire coiled around his chest and compressed from a flame fueled punch. The third tried to run. Flame met his spine. The fourth and fifth raised their blades to the sky, electrifying their blades. They charged him, Dhutorn swung his axe with all the force he could, meeting them together, a massive explosion between the meeting of powers sent them all backwards. The Zuli were instantly killed from the blast. As Dhutorn's axe cleanly cut through both blades and their torsos, but it broke to pieces leaving only the handle in his hand. The Warming Death flames were so intense that their armor reduced to molten metal that burned to their skin or dropped to the soil.
In less than a minute, the clearing was silent again, only the sound of Dhutorn's labored, burning breath filled the air. His body swayed. Skin split. Hair turning to ember. Blood boiled beneath the surface. But he didn't let go. He dropped to one knee, pulled a small vial from the hide pouch on his belt. Ninji water, clear, shimmering with faint blue light. The whole reason for the Baros to attack the villages. Survival for his cursed people. An old cruel punishment from Ogun. For they seemed to tap into the unweathering power of Ogun, but because they were mortal, it burned them from the inside. Ninja water and the shards were the only thing keeping them from burning. With shaking hands, he uncorked it and drank. Cold rippled through him like moonlight on a dark pool. The fire dimmed. His flesh stopped splitting. The blaze around him receded like a tide obeying its master. His eyes returned to normal. And he was alive. Barely. Once again he reached back into the same hide pouch, pulling another red shard from it.
"There," he whispered. "I won't meet Ogun today." Feeling the cuts and wounds after the intense power he took on. Dhutorn fell to both knees, steam rising from his shoulders, ash clinging to his skin. His breath came in shuddering gasps. He looked around at the devastation, his men gone. Hegar, who tried to find the truth about his brother, met the same dark end as his own brother.
"Damn you," he muttered to the sky. "I am not done." He struggled to his feet and limped west. Home. To warn them.
Just beyond the ridge, Dhutorn saw them, another Zuli unit, four times the size of the ambushers. Their banners crackled faintly with lightning, the gold sigils of Zubotu fluttering above. They marched in formation, eyes sweeping the treeline. Toward the Baros camp. Dhutorn growled, reaching for his axe. It was gone. Lost in the blast. His limbs trembled. The Ninji water had spared his life, but not restored his strength. He turned to retreat, but too late. A scout spotted him. Then another. Within moments, he was surrounded, swords drawn, lightning humming at their tips.
"Alive?" one soldier spat. "He's burned."
"Doesn't matter," said the commander. "Take him. Break him."
Dhutorn fought. He crushed one throat, broke another's arm,but a stormbolt to the ribs dropped him like a felled beast. They kicked him down. Beat him bloody. Stripped him of armor and name. Then one final strike, a hilt across the back of the skull. Darkness swallowed him.
"Leave him," the commander said, wiping blood from his weapon. "The storm has no use for dying wannabe gods."
They left him there, broken among the ashes of his fallen kin. He didn't move. He didn't speak. But his chest rose. Slowly. Barely.
"Leave him," the commander said, wiping blood from his hilt. "The storm has no use for dying wannabe gods." They left him there, broken among the ashes of his fallen kin. He didn't move. He didn't speak. But his chest rose. Slowly. Barely.
Hours earlier, just after Dhutorn's hunting party left. Emaev entered the communal sleeping space that was open, dominated by a hand-carved table bearing a deerskin map of Suffering. Intricate details marked their known lands. While Baros relied on memory, this map was their most accurate guide. In the center of the map sat a bowl of bone ash, stirred each night by the camp's eldest with embers from the first fire since the Baros fled Volflary. Every major hunt or battle, a small carving of bone or stone is added to the circle, etched with the name of the fallen. To disturb the bowl is to invite a curse. Beds of feathers, hay, or pelts filled the space, many empty as the camp stirred. As leaders, Emaev and Dhutorn ensured the spoils of every hunt were shared, maintaining their family's strength to protect the camp – a protection rarely needed, for the very sight of a Baros often sent others fleeing. Though Dhutorn was immense, most Baros men stood six to seven feet, their bodies honed by a life of hunting and gathering in the harsh outlands, appearing as if carved from granite.
"Relmus, you can't still be in bed. Your father expects you ready upon his return," Emaev's voice, though not loud, held a firm edge as she nudged the pelts on a central sleeping mat.
"Mother, must this be now?" Relmus groaned, pushing the furs away, his gaze meeting his mother's. Her coal-dark hair framed piercing blue eyes. Despite her size, Emaev was every bit a Baros, a seasoned hunter even in her years. "I'd rather sleep the day away."
"Your father needs you to oversee things while he's gone. It's good practice, especially with the celebration today. Your first task is to report to the elders and learn their needs." Emaev continued, ignoring Relmus' weary expression. "Now, rise, or I will drag you."
"The morning before your father's Axe Trial," Emaev said, half to herself, "he carried three horns of bloodroot wine and ash to the elders, one for the First Hunter, one for the Anvil Mother, and one for the Dead Flame. He said little that day. And he returned a man."
Relmus grunted. "Then I'll carry ten, drink five, and still be mocked."
"Baros rites do not bend to pity, child." She handed him his red shard that appeared to have spent the night on the floor. "You have to keep this on, or the Elder's suspicions will be right."
"I think they are just jealous that after one hundred years, I am the first Baros who is uncursed. Besides, they'll want the usual: wine and dried deer meat. Consider it done. Now, may I have more sleep?" Relmus retorted, sitting up, his eyes locked with hers. "Father won't be back for hours; the last hunting party raided a Ninji camp, delaying their return."
"I think they fear more than they are jealous. Yet, this is our way. Your father wants you to handle these small duties. Next month, your Axe Trial begins." A small smirk played on Emaev's lips.
"Ah, but let's not forget his low expectations of my success. If the past four years are any indication, no eighteen-year-old has survived the trials." Relmus stood, pulling on bearskin pants. "Besides, I fully expect the Axe Trial to be my end, freeing you both from my presence. So give it three more weeks and I will be out of your hair. I see the elders now talking of how the Runt of Dhutorn met his predetermined end."
"Enough of that talk. You know your father wouldn't allow that." Emaev watched as Relmus dressed, his long, golden-yellow hair a tangled mass reaching his mid-back before he haphazardly bundled it in his hand. He pulled a small sharp knife from a nearby chest, and cut the hair. It was now just below his ears. His crystal-blue eyes mirrored hers. Seeing his bare chest, she was reminded of his frail infancy. The elders had been shocked that Dhutorn's offspring was such a runt, barely eight pounds at birth compared to the typical thirteen or fourteen. "Relmus, you must eat more. I see your bones."
"I eat plenty, Mother." Relmus grabbed his bow and quiver. "I'll fetch breakfast on my way to the elders. Any requests? Bird? Deer? Bear? Human?" His sarcasm was sharp as he headed for the tent's opening.
"Do be careful!" Emaev called after him. "Watch over him, Ogun." She murmured, turning to straighten his bed.
"Today it is, then," Relmus muttered, glancing towards the elder tents across the field, marked with stark white Baros script. The elders, having forsaken spouses, widowers, or widows, dedicated themselves to preserving Baros tradition. Entry into their circle required white hair and, Relmus suspected, a perpetual state of grumpy old age.
"Ah, Dhutorn's son, how are you, child?" a white-haired elder asked, vigorously beating dust from his tunic. "Come to see Dargos, I presume?"
"Yes, sir!" Relmus replied, sidestepping the elder. "I'm here to gather the needs of each camp before the celebration," He entered the tent and instantly recoiled. The stench was overpowering, a miasma of stale urine and unwashed bodies. His nose ran, his eyes watered. He cautiously peered inside. Most elders were immobile, their chamber pot a mere arm's reach away. Relmus retreated, asking the elder outside if Dargos could meet him in the open air.
After what felt like an eternity, Dargos emerged, settling onto a wooden stump, uncorking a leather canteen that reeked of wine and urine. "Relmus, good to see you! We expected you, your father sent word. You seem less than thrilled about his tasks." He chuckled. "Figuring you'll die in your trial too, eh?" He fixed Relmus with a direct gaze.
"You know Father doesn't expect me to pass. He probably can't even remember how to kill an Infernal," Relmus retorted, a flash of anger in his tone.
"Ah, but fathers accompany their sons on the trial. I was there for your father, a messy affair. He struggled, keeping clear of the burning skin is a feat in itself. He won through patience, observing the beast's weakness." Dargos took a swig from his foul-smelling canteen.
"Grandfather, he'd sooner watch me burn than help. I'm a runt, outsized by most warriors my age, even some women." Relmus met Dargos' gaze.
"Nonetheless, you must prove yourself. Doubt is a poison. I know a few tricks." Dargos lowered his voice, glancing around. "Enough of that. The celebration list."
"Grandfather, why the faith? I barely resemble either of you. I'll be infamous for failing the Axe Trial, the heir who couldn't." Relmus was cut off by the white-haired elder still whacking his clothes.
"Dargos, we need to discuss the Ninji camp killings. Zuli are ambushing our raiding parties, leaving no survivors, their bodies hung with warnings." The elder spoke urgently, gesturing to a young Baros scout.
"Baren, I'm no longer a leader. My son handles this." Dargos looked at Relmus. "Or better yet, my grandson is here, filling his father's boots."
"With all due respect, sir, this feels beyond a child. No offense, young leader, but this needs seasoned wisdom." Baren said as the scout approached.
"Please, sir, they kill on site. Most of my family have been lost to them. I can't even retrieve their bodies; the Zuli watch day and night." The scout, younger but twice Relmus' size, pleaded. After more entreaties, Dargos led them inside, wishing Relmus luck with the celebration list.
"Whew, dodged a Zuli arrow there. Trained warriors? I'm lucky to bring down a fawn." Relmus muttered, looking at the crudely drawn list. He hadn't noticed his grandfather slip it into his hand until his fist clenched in anger at the Zuli's brutality. "Women and children… treated the same. They wonder why we trust no outsiders. Hopefully my father and his group took care of them."
Relmus examined the list: three deer skulls, three silver-tipped spears, three gold-woven blankets. "Ironworker, hunters' tent, and the next camp should have a seamstress." He tucked the paper into his quiver.
A small figure, about eleven or twelve , trailed him. "You can join me, Bobon," Relmus said without turning, knowing the boy could hear.
"Sorry, Relmus, just wanted to see what you were doing," Bobon mumbled, eyes on the ground, scuffing the dirt with bare feet. "My father's hunting, and there's nothing else to do. Mother said I am not allowed to work on the blades father was already working on."
"Well, you're welcome to join my thrilling adult errands," Relmus replied, his heavy sarcasm eliciting a small smile from Bobon.
"Ewranzdz?" Bobon corrected himself, a gap showing where a tooth had been. "Errands, sorry. Lost a tooth last night. Talking is still tricky." They shared a small laugh as Bobon pointed to the gap.
"Wow, cool," Relmus said, feigning interest.
Relmus recognized Bobon's tattered, fur-trimmed hand-me-downs. The boy's bare upper body revealed a red anvil-shaped scar on his left shoulder, marking him as part of the ironworkers' camp. A similar red scar crossed his right eye, the mark of all Baros. Relmus remembered his own marking at four, the searing heat of the red shard forming his father's handprint, the symbol of the caretaker. He was jolted from his thoughts by Bobon's yelp as he stepped on a sharp rock. "No shoes today, Bobon?" Relmus asked, pointing towards Bobon's feet.
"No, I tore them up helping father move some of the newly made swords." He said, his face being to blossom red. Hunting for food and clothing was difficult, even though they were ironworkers, they still hunted. Hegar wasn't the greatest of hunters, yet, Bobon's family was still Baros, and Relmus' father always made sure they were at least fed. Baros were required to share half their spoils with the camp. So if you had enough luck with one kill, that kill went to the camp.
"Damn our rules," Relmus muttered, then looked at Bobon, who was now eyeing his quiver. Startling the boy slightly, Relmus said, "Remind me to give you some of my fresh furs when we get back. Enough for you, your parents."
"Oh. That's nice, Relmus, but you know my father won't like it. He already gets teased for not being a good hunter." Bobon's eyes welled up, still drawn to the quiver.
"Nonsense," Relmus declared. "I'm an acting leader. You'll take these furs as a purchase. Ten rocks for five furs." He held out his hand, open and ready for the rocks.
Bobon eagerly gathered ten stones, dropping them into Relmus' palm. "Deal, Grand Leader Relmus!" They laughed as Bobon hopped around, adding each rock.
"Looks like you're paid up." Relmus tore a piece of his grandfather's list and, using a piece of charcoal, drew a picture agreement: ten rocks under Bobon, five furs under himself. "Here you go. Take this to my mother; she'll give you the furs." Relmus pricked his finger with an arrow, pressed it to his self-portrait on the drawing, folded the paper, and gave it to Bobon.
"My mother will be so impressed!" Bobon exclaimed, heading back. "Thank you, Grand Leader Relmus! You'll be a great leader!"
"Don't say that too loud, Bobon!" Relmus laughed, turning towards the ironworker's camp.
The acrid smell of charcoal intensified as Relmus approached the ironworker, Fothon, who was hammering metal.
"Evening, sir," Relmus said.
Fothon, towering over him, his hands blackened by soot and burns, his brow beaded with sweat, glanced up. "No need for 'sir.' I'm just a fire tender. What can I do for you, Leader's son?"
"Three silver-tipped spears for the celebration," Relmus requested, trying to appear unfazed by the man's imposing presence and the soot ingrained around his eyes.
"Aye, have some started. Shaping by nightfall, silver applied after." Fothon smirked. "Been a while since I made celebration gear. Usually the leader's smith gets that honor." He gestured to partially formed spears.
"Our smith was killed on a hunt, Zuli patrols I would assume. Near the Ninji springs. Probably one of the last few raids. I am sure the scout was discussing this morning and told Grandfather that. No one can retrieve the bodies." Relmus hoped Fothon would continue working.
"Ogun must be furious. Axe Trials failing, and now hunters falling to Zuli." Fothon continued hammering knives.
"Why do you think Ogun is furious? Isn't the celebration about Ogun guiding the first Baros people to Suffering? Volflary was infested with Infernals. I feel like that would be much worse than what is going on now." Relmus said, trying to study this man he thought just knew about ironworking. "Were you taught by the elders before becoming an Ironworker?"
The ironworker stopped hammering on a piece of metal, the clang echoing in the smoky air of his workshop. He turned his gaze fully onto Relmus, his face still smudged with soot, but his eyes sharp and surprisingly thoughtful. "Ogun guides, yes. But Ogun also demands strength and respect. The Axe Trial… It used to be a true test. Now?" He shook his head, a low rumble in his chest. "Fewer and fewer return. The Infernals in Volflary… they are relentless. They don't tire, they don't feel pain as we do. To face one, especially for a youngling on their trial, is a near death sentence."
He picked up a half-finished spear, turning it slowly in his calloused hands. "And no, I wasn't taught by the elders in the way you might think. My forge is my teacher. The heat, the metal, the way they bend and break… it tells its own stories. But I have listened to the elders' tales around the fire, just like everyone else. I know the history of our people, the sacrifices made to escape Volflary and the burning touch of the Infernals."
Relmus leaned slightly against a stack of rough-hewn logs, the scent of pine mixing with the metallic tang in the air. "My grandfather, Dargos, spoke of my father's trial. Said it was a struggle, even for him. He barely survived." A knot of anxiety tightened in Relmus' stomach as he thought of his own upcoming trial.
The ironworker grunted, plunging the spear back into the fiery forge. Sparks danced and illuminated the worry etched on Relmus' face. "Your father is a strong Baros, no doubt. But the Infernals… they are creatures of pure fire. Gave Ogun troubles in the tales of the past. Their very touch can melt steel, let alone flesh and bone. And when some fall… they explode. A burst of heat that can incinerate anything nearby. Patience, observation, your grandfather said? Wisdom is a weapon stronger than any axe against such a foe."
He pulled the spear back out, now glowing orange at the tip. He began to hammer it again, the rhythmic clang filling the momentary silence. "The elders say the Infernals are a constant reminder of what we escaped. A price we continue to pay by guarding the borders of Volflary. The Axe Trial is meant to prove you are ready to face such threats, to protect our people."
Relmus could smell and feel a shift in the weather, a storm was coming. Just as Relmus was about to ask the ironworker about any specific weaknesses the Infernals might possess, a sound ripped through the air, cutting through the clang of the forge and the distant sounds of the camp. It was a long, mournful blast of a horn, quickly followed by another, and then another, each one sharper and more urgent than the last.
The ironworker froze, his hammer suspended mid-air. He exchanged a wide-eyed look with Relmus. "That's… that's the warning horn from the far camp!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with alarm.
Before either of them could react further, a thick, acrid smoke began to drift into the ironworker's camp from the southeast, carrying the unmistakable scent of burning wood and something else… something sharp and metallic, like blood. Shouts and cries echoed in the distance, growing louder with each passing moment.
"Intruders!" the ironworker roared, dropping his hammer and reaching for a crude, but effective-looking, mace that leaned against his workbench. "Someone is attacking!"
The ironworker's shout of "Intruders!" still hung in the air as the sounds of chaos erupted around them. Baros warriors, caught off guard, roared in defiance, grabbing axes and bows. The scent of smoke grew stronger, stinging Relmus' eyes and throat. He could hear the distinct crackle of lightning and the terrifying screams of those caught in the initial onslaught. "Zuli." he thought.
Instinct took over. Relmus knew his mother was in the far camp, but another thought gripped him tighter, Bobon. The smoke was coming from the far camp. He had to get back there.
He turned to the ironworker, who was already charging out of his workshop, mace raised. Without a word, Relmus grabbed his bow, drew it, and notched an arrow. He sprinted from the ironworker's camp, the world around him a blur of fire and steel. Baros hunters, returning from their morning foray, collided with those fleeing the eastern ridge. Black clouds of the storm brewing along with the smoke that curled high into the sky, black and bitter, and the screams, the booming, too many, too young, cut through the air like blades. This wasn't a storm, it was worse, maybe as bad as he thought, Zuli.
As Relmus pushed forward, a jagged bolt of lightning streaked overhead and slammed into a tent just ahead. The explosion of force sent burning fabric and splinters flying, followed by a heavy boom. A warrior caught in the edge of the blast was thrown back, his arm smoking, tunic blackened and half-burned. Another man screamed nearby, clutching his side where the flesh had been deeply seared, skin blistered and smoking from the arc's glancing hit. Then he watched as Zuli soldiers were attacking. Relmus pulled his bow up to where he could aim, but there was too much going on. If he tried to fire an arrow at one of the riders, he could possibly hurt one of his own people. Relmus ducked low, weaving through scattering Baros. As he neared the far camp, a massive Baros warrior barreled into him from the side, fleeing or charging, he couldn't tell. Relmus hit the ground hard, his bow crushed beneath him. With a disappointing Crack. The string snapped; the limbs split. A sharp sting cut across his arm from the recoil. The warrior was already gone, swallowed by smoke and screaming. Relmus pushed himself up, dazed, holding the broken remains of his bow for a breath before dropping it. Useless now. He threw down his quiver as well, it would only slow him at this point. He had to get there, he had to make sure they were alright. "Bobon, mother," he said under his breath. As he rounded a cluster of collapsed tents, the chaos seemed to fade into a low, distant hum. Lightning crackling a bit further away. His breath caught. Lying in the churned earth and trampled belongings was Bobon.
The boy's small body was curled slightly, one hand clutching at his stomach. His tunic was torn and blackened at the center, the fabric stiff with burned blood. The wound looked like a glancing lightning strike, severe, but survivable. The skin around it was blistered and raw, the scent of singed hair clinging to the air. His chest rose, barely. Each breath was shallow and painful. His eyes were closed, his face streaked with grime, soot... and tears. Beside his limp hand lay the rolled agreement, tied with string, and a few small furs. Just like they had promised. The clash of battle returned, continuing in the background, cries of pain, war horns, another pulse of stormlight, but Relmus heard none of it. He saw only the boy. The boy who had smiled, gap-toothed and proud, not long ago. A younger brother to Relmus. Who had trusted Relmus. Cold dread clawed at his gut. Had he been too late? A surge of protectiveness rose in him, hot, fast, relentless. This wasn't just another Baros. This was Bobon. He dropped to his knees beside the boy, mud soaking into his pants and boots. Relmus, a trembling hand reaching out, hovering over the scorched tunic, afraid to press down, afraid of what he'd feel. Around them, the camp burned, but for Relmus, the only fire that mattered was the one slipping away in this boy's shallow breath.