The Fear of Battle
By Tiger Luo
First Place Winner, Bow & Chariot 2026 Fantasy Fiction Story Challenge
The following excerpt is from the memoir of a soldier from the 52nd Francian regiment during the Profane War, circa 1923, translated from Francian.
- Ajax Taylor, The History of Heresy, 1991.
This next story I shall tell may seem strange in a book filled with tales of war and glory, but know that of everything that transpired in the war, this was the time that I came closest to death.
Following our previous loss at Andorra against Iberia, our regiment retreated further North into the Pyrenees. The two-pronged battle that Francia fought against the Romans and Iberians left us low on supplies, manpower, and victories. Barbe was close to death, with his left leg frostbitten, and electric burns on the right side of his face taking one of his eyes. Low on medicine, I had to use the handkerchief my wife gave me to bandage his bullet wounds. As squad leader, I lamented that one of our spellmarches would no longer be able to cast as well,[1] and as his friend, I only hoped he would be discharged due to injuries and could retire to Paris for the remainder of the war.
I set him down in a hospital tent, where a bespectacled surgeon came by to begin treating Barbe. As I explained the injuries, I noticed in my periphery a small shrine in the corner of the room. Set upon a table was an ornate bowl filled with a gold-coloured ash, a small thin stick jutting upwards from it, burning slowly like a wick, and a bronze statue of a man sitting cross-legged. While we were a part of the Secular Alliance, us Francians never turned away from our faith in the Lord like the Prussians did.
[1] 20th century militaries had fewer and less potent spell implements available for use, thus only around 2-3 soldiers in a squad would be trained in implement usage and were known as a spellmarch.
We simply didn’t wish to stand with the fanatics and zealots. Though all of Francia was technically excommunicated, we were still exilé en dignité.[2]
In short, I couldn’t let such an open and brazen display of apostasy stand. I confronted the surgeon about his strange shrine, and I got a stranger response in return.
“I’m not an apostate, chef,[3] I don’t believe in any god other than our Lord. However, I do follow the practices of Siddharthism, while not holding faith.”
Even now, I can’t completely understand the surgeon’s mind. To not follow the same faith but still following their practices. It would be like participating in the Eucharist while not believing in the Lord! An absurd and pointless act, yet the surgeon still insisted upon it.
“What practices are so important that you would put up a faithless shrine?”
“Many things, but the short of it is this: asceticism, altruism, and pacifism.”
“Pacifism?” I scoffed. I believed that to be a pacifist in these times, when enemies sought to destroy the spirit of Francia itself, was an excuse for cowardice. “Are you a défaitiste,[4] then? Do you believe that we should simply lay down and let their tanks and miracles turn us to dust?”
The surgeon sighed. “I’ve had this conversation a thousand times, but yes, we shouldn’t fight. Conversation is the only humane and dignified means of resolving conflict. Violence is inhumane, even when defending oneself, but I can’t try to convince you of it, and I won’t try to.”
The surgeon turned around to return to Barbe’s wounds. Back then, I firmly rejected his words. Countless encounters with zealots had shown they weren’t an enemy to be negotiated with. They were obsessed with judgement of perceived sinners, possessing a lethal, self-righteous fury with a disregard for all life and humanity, including their own. I believed the surgeon's words to be those of a man that never witnessed the horrors of the frontline. Watching as bullets and magic rained down upon your comrades. The haunting, incessant chanting of liturgy from dogmatic battlepriests casting miracles to smite us down, twisting the teachings of the Lord for their own heretic beliefs and wanton bloodshed. It was enough to make us hate them with an animosity equal to their religious zeal. We believed them to be bloodthirsty animals, incapable of negotiation.
[2] During the Profane War, many Francians still considered themselves staunch institutionalists, following the Roman Church. However, they believed that the sitting Pontiff was insane and refused his demands for the vassalization of Francia. Thus the term, exilé en dignité, was their way of expressing loyalty and faith to the Roman Church while fighting against their forces.
[3] Chef: A professional term used among the Francian military to refer to a soldier of rank.
[4] Défaitiste: A term in Francia associated with draft dodgers and those wishing to capitulate to the Roman Pontiff.
“I know that our Lord even teaches us to never seek the path of violence, but we have no choice. If we don’t fight to defend our people and our land, then it doesn’t matter what we believe in, we’ll all be dead.” I reprimanded the surgeon.
“There are options beyond mutual destruction, chef, but these days no one seems to be interested in searching for them.”
“Because they’re monsters. Des bêtes sauvages! They cannot be negotiated with in the first place, because they aren’t willing to do so anyways! I’ve seen what they’re willing to do for their misguided faith.”
“You’ve seen what some of them are willing to do for their beliefs. Do you not think that some of us would do the same for our beliefs?” The surgeon finally turned around to look at me. I saw in his eyes, shielded behind his glasses, a fury and will that somehow matched those of a soldier in battle. “Humans are not animals, we’re better than our base instincts and desires.”
I sighed. “Doctor, while it’s admirable to feel this way, it’s unrealistic and impractical. This war we fight isn’t one of pride, but a matter of ethics, liberty, and humanity. It was inevitable.”
“And can you say that we truly tried our best to avoid violence? Can you say that we exhausted every possible avenue of negotiation?”
I don’t remember my response to the question, but I imagine my past self would’ve said that such avenues would be fruitless.
A few days later, Barbe awoke after several tense and fitful nights of recovery, and I once more visited him and the surgeon. A healthy pink tone returned to Barbe’s skin, though he was noticeably more emaciated from the recovery magic. The surgeon informed me his leg would also be healed in a week, and while it was good he wasn’t lame, I was secretly disappointed he wouldn’t be discharged for his injuries.
I asked the surgeon for my handkerchief back, as our squad was leaving camp tomorrow for an assignment. It was one of my most prized possessions, being the same handkerchief from my wife, given over 20 years ago. More importantly, the handkerchief was made of fine silk and was nearly as expensive as our refrigerator! If I returned alive without it, Marie would kill me anyways. However, the surgeon explained that a handkerchief was rather low on the laundry priority, and was still being washed of blood.
“Here, you may borrow this.” The surgeon said, proffering me his own handkerchief. I gave it a strange look, as I was still leery of his pagan shrine and pacifist beliefs. More importantly though, a man offering a handkerchief was seen as… unusual. Though I think we would be more understanding of it today.
Seeing this, the surgeon explained, “It’s from my sister. There wouldn’t be any problem with that, yes?”
I accepted the handkerchief. The doctor’s handkerchief was much rougher than mine, and unlike the silky, satin feel of my wife’s handkerchief, this one felt rough, made instead of linen. But it was better to go into war with any handkerchief rather than none.
After my visit to the surgeon, I went to see the quartermaster. With Barbe bound to his bed, that left Pinard, a habitual drunkard, and I as our squad’s only spellmarches. We needed better spell implements to make up for our missing man, as was commonly said, a single good spell has a headcount of a hundred. Stingy as all quartermasters are, he only gave me two 3rd grade implements, flashfire and warding dome.[5] I took the warding dome implement with me and gave Pinard the flashfire, as I didn’t want our squad’s drunkard to handle the defensive spells. Pinard always liked the more explosive spells anyways, and being drunk didn’t matter when the spell’s area of attack was large enough to cover the entire Palais Garnier.[6]
We set out for our assignment the next day, guarding a forested passage through the mountains on the East. It was nothing more than a small footpath, too narrow for a platoon and too unstable for a tank, but the major was worried about possible saboteurs coming through and set our squad to intercept any of them. We found a rocky ledge that gave us a good view of the path, set up a small camp, and took turns watching. However, none of us expected any Iberians to come through here, as they weren’t known for such tactics.
That was, until about ten days in, when Pinard began shouting at the mountain.
At first our squad was confused. There was no one on the footpath at all, and to a normal person it would’ve seemed like a drunkard was going mad. But fighting such a long war gave us a constant sense of paranoia and caution. Soon, the entire squad shored up on the ledge aiming guns down the path.
[5] During the 20th century, most implements within the military were graded on an ascending scale of 1-5, with spellmarches only authorized to use up to grade three.
[6] An opera theatre in Paris.
“Pinard.” I gave him a rough shake to stop him from shouting. “Pinard! What is it?”
Pinard, red-faced from either the shouting or being drunk - I wasn’t sure - insisted that there was someone there, though he didn’t know where. I wasn’t able to spot anyone, nor was anyone else, meaning Pinard either finally went mad, or someone was using an invisibility spell. I hoped it was the first, because then I might’ve been able to replace him in our squad.
“Come out! Reveal yourselves now, or we will light this entire mountain on fire! Our army will swarm the place after seeing the mountain ablaze!”
Pinard had the flashfire implement pointed down the path, and I was ready to cast the warding dome at any moment. My threat was a bluff though, setting the entire forest on fire because of Pinard’s potential madness was a terrible idea. It was unlikely for there to be someone using invisibility, as it was a difficult spell to maintain for even a few minutes and often unreliable when moving.
But as it was, a group of men revealed themselves on the footpath.
In an instant, all chaos broke out. There were seven of them, all gathered under a simple shield spell, one that could easily break under a flurry of bullets, never mind the flashfire or other implements we had. They were armed and aiming back at us, with one spellmarch and five regular infantrymen. My men yelled at them to lower their weapons and identify themselves, but as quickly as the shouting began, it was soon extinguished.
There was an Inquisitor among them.
The sight was unmistakable, a bronze mask and black coif, loose robes and metal gauntlets. It was a true and genuine Inquisitor, paragon of the church’s forces.[7] Any devout believer would fear them second only to the Lord himself, even before the war. My blood went cold, pricks of sweat began igniting my back, and my heart began to beat as if it would be my last moments alive.
[7] There were only 54 recorded active inquisitors during the Profane War. Inquisitors acted as direct agents of the Pontiff in both military and religious matters, and were capable of casting the penultimate miracles.
As I looked between my men, all of us were captured by the same terror. Pinard, for once, looked completely sober, his knuckles having turned white from a death grip on his implements. None of us moved, afraid to provoke the Inquisitor’s wrath, but at the same time with each passing moment, I felt more and more the urge to attack, to kill it while it stood there vulnerable.[8] My heart told me it couldn’t be done. My mind rationalized that it could. I wanted that thing to disappear from my sight. To kill it before it killed me. Out of fear, I nearly called the order to fire.
My hand touched my breast pocket to feel my wife’s handkerchief, only to realize it wasn’t there. I always held it before going into battle, but this time, instead of smooth silk, I felt rough linen.
“Arretêz! Ne tirez pas!” Though I’m sure all our men had the same urge to shoot, they obeyed my order.
I breathed in and out, each breath more shaky than the last, and stared at the Inquisitor. I felt my throat constrict and struggle to swallow the bile coming up. The Inquisitor’s gaze met mine, and I couldn’t see anything of the person beyond the harsh metal mask. They seemed soulless, inhuman, a monster eyeing its prey. I wished no more than to avert my eyes and tell Pinard to blow them all to hell.
The Inquisitor stepped forward. A slow, purposeful walk towards us. I felt the air turn to steel as every one of us gripped our weapons doubly, but I held a hand up, forcing them to stay their arms.
[8] In this era of magecraft, casting spells and miracles were far slower compared to modern implements. The author likely believed he could kill the inquisitor before it created any defenses. Whether or not this can be done is up for historical debate, as no inquisitors exist today.
Without another word, I left the ledge and jumped down, walking to match the Inquisitor’s pace. We met midway between our groups, and as best as I tried to appear calm, I’m sure it could see the torrent of sweat pouring down my face as I tried to meet its eyes. The mask still offered no glimpse of the person beneath, no hint of humanity. I could feel death settle on my shoulder as I was placed directly into the devil’s hand.
I made the first move. With a trembling hand, I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. I held it up towards the Inquisitor.
“Armistice?”
The Inquisitor judged the handkerchief, its head turning ever so slightly to look at it. The possibility that it would kill me never left my mind. In fact, logic told me this was the stupidest possible decision, as the Inquisitor was more likely to kill me than entertain whatever the hell I was doing. However, I wasn’t thinking any longer, nor was I following my heart. Both were far too impaired by fear to make any decision. If I had to say what I was acting upon, it would be the third realm of all men’s souls, where priests’ divine faith, artists glean inspiration, and where men dream.
I awaited the Inquisitor’s answer.
It raised a hand. I nearly flinched, thinking it was about to kill me.
“Armistice,” The voice spoke. It sounded like a woman’s.
She took the handkerchief and left with her men to go back down south, toward Iberia.
I ordered everyone in our squad to stay silent about the entire event. Letting the enemy go freely would’ve been grounds for insubordination. Though, it was unlikely anyone would believe us.
Still, no one was eager to talk about the entire affair, and I have told none of this story until now. With one exception.
I returned to the surgeon and explained how I lost his handkerchief. If it was anything like mine, it was of great sentimental value. I was sure he wouldn’t believe my story, but when he heard how it was lost, he said with a slight grin, “Is that so? Well, I think my friend would’ve been fine with the way it was lost.”
I still don’t believe pacifism has any practical value. I could only negotiate with the Inquisitor because she was willing to. If the Inquisitor wanted to, she could’ve torn us apart with her bare hands. I can see that with hindsight. Nothing Pinard and I could’ve done would ever hurt her. Yet in fear, my first response was violence. It was easy to attack something you hate, something you’re afraid of. I think that’s part of why we were in this war in the first place, and why no matter what, pacifism will never work.
However, there is something to be said about the courage of a pacifist.
“Doctor, if someone told you they were going to kill you, would you be afraid?” I had asked him.
The surgeon, slightly confused, adjusted his glasses. “Of course I would. Who wouldn’t?”
“Let’s say then that you can’t stop them in any way from trying to kill you. What would you do?”
The surgeon gave a slight smirk, knowing this question was coming. He declared, with an undeniable conviction,
“I would die.”
