Certainty Something bothered Tlazgar as he looked across tomorrow's battlefield. Slowly the sun set as the enemy's colourful camp was easily seen in the distance. Tomorrow hell would be unleashed, but tonight both sides slept easy, happily basking in the righteousness of their gods. He spat on the ground, as he did as the crisp air produced a small mist. It wasn't that long ago these humans with their glorious cavalry were their allies, joining forces against the rats that had arrived from the ground. But then things had changed, now these humans had to die. Tlazgar wondered what their sin was. He would never find out. Slann didn't need to justify their actions, even to the Oldblood who led their army. Soon enough his troops would plunge into battle. Many would die. He knew he would win tomorrow, as he had faced far worse odds before. He estimated loses to be a quarter of his force. A quarter of his troops, dead. A quarter of his friends. A quarter of his responsibility. Gone. He closed his eyes and remembered back, many centuries ago, when he first cut his teeth on the battlefield. It was amazing. He fought the most foul and despicable beings the chaos gods could create. He never wavered, he never tired. He had personally cut down seven daemons in one battle. By the end of the campaign he led his own unit. And that was just the beginning of his life dedicated to war. When he opened his eyes again he could still see the humans making camp. It was only a few seasons ago that he would have been in the camp with them. They were valuable allies and a most interesting people. He got to know their ways very well. Their generals were very proud of the interest he showed in their military endeavours, that a warrior like him would seek to learn their ways. He found them interesting, but that wasn’t why he did it. You live long enough and all things change. He knew eventually, his allies would be his enemies. It was the way the world worked. But he had thought it would take centuries, not seasons. But then the humans aged like animals. They would die soon anyway, so killing his former comrades didn't bother him. His most glorious campaign was against the Tomb Kings and their mighty army of the walking dead. He wondered if history would remember their epic march into the Ogre Kingdoms, or who it really was who repelled them. The Slann had used their magic to send the entire army there. The campaign had been long and bloody. His mentor, Oldblood Dax'id had been cut down. Tlazgar had taken the reigns of the army, and it had been the turning point in the war. He knew luck was part of it, but that wasn't the way his troops saw it. They worshipped him as a warrior and a leader, he alone was the reason they won battle after battle, terribly outnumbered, victory after victory. Soon the campaign was won, and the once mighty undead were vanquished. What came next was a bitter winter in a foreign land, with no word from the Slann and no way home. For the first time it had made him curious about the decisions they made. He had thought about it a great deal, like trying to understand them would make him wiser. The extremely long march and sail back home had taken more seasons than he could count. Yes, a quarter of all his troops would soon be dead. And he hated the fact that he didn't really care. He couldn't. If he did, he would jeopardise the lives of the rest. He had to separate himself from them, and perform his role as best he could. Cold and calculating – it was what was best for his troops. He made the decisions and they lived with it. And his troops wouldn't have it any other way. He sighed and spat again. He was so good at justifying his own actions. It was probably true, that being indifferent to losses made him better as a general. But the truth was he didn't care about loss because he loved war. He thrived on the competition, the mayhem. Being close to death also meant you were close to life. The feeling you had an hour after a victorious battle was like nothing else. Really, the losses didn't bother him. He took one last survey of the terrain before the light escaped him. He would make his last moves at nightfall, moving some blocks of infantry around, to make it harder for enemy archers to get into position at first light. This was a move he got into a habit of when the High Elves first came to Lustria. They had arrived to wage war against an amassing force of Khaine. The Slann had ordered him to cut the High Elves down to a man before they could engage the forces of Khaine. He had taken heavy losses, yet immediately after the battle he was ordered to turn his army against the Dark Elf force. It had made no sense to him. And it wasn't the strangest order he had ever received. He turned turned his mind back to tomorrow's battle. The humans would die, and his force would march on. The light had gone, so he started to walk back to camp. He didn't really know what bothered him. But he missed his certainty.
Excellent work. I can't identify what you cut, but this is much tighter. That makes me think you cut the right things If your computer is fixed, maybe you could write a little more?
Sorry @spawning of Bob - I didn't cut anything. It is copy and pasted. Perhaps reading it afresh (instead of the middle of lots of great stories) made a difference?
I've often wondered whether or not readers have a contest filter. Any event I'll be dropping a non-contest short story on the forum, we'll see how that goes. I do periodically go back and read individual stories from past contests to revisit my favorites. Or at least consider stealing ideas drawing inspiration from stories that are compatible with my own narrative.