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The aroma of charred meat and sweaty boots filled the air as Lieutenant Brook jabbed her dagger-tip into the dirt in front of her, troubled. The winds had changed. Literally and figuratively. A cold bite was sweeping down from the mountains, and the company was exchanging uneasy looks as the night drew in. They'd had drama before; petty squabbles and deserters and skirmishes, but never anything like this. Through all the towns, cities and citadels that they had razed they had added to their ranks, leaving behind all those unfit for war. It was becoming almost too much now; a thousand mouths to feed, soldiers to equip and arm, dozens of wagons piled high with tents and bedding... and it wasn't enough. Men were going hungry. Sleeping uncovered on filthy matted rags. Freezing. The medics were stretched beyond breaking point, using old bandages that weren't fit for purpose but without any other choice, and dosing out healing salve in pitiful amounts. If they could just stop for once, stop and stock up, maybe morale wouldn't be at rock bottom. Maybe injured fighters wouldn't mysteriously disappear just before suppertime when the meat stew was being ladled out.

But the rat was not going to stop. There was no respite. They were carving their way through the landscape, snatching and grabbing what they could before moving on to the next target. Only a handful of Nisgarant's most trusted officers knew where they were headed to next, and the most senior of those was dead now.

General Warlock had been well liked, on the whole. He hadn't stayed within the safety and comfort of the gaily-decorated tents of the privileged few; his responsibilities actually meant something to him. He'd walked the ranks, to the humblest servant, and at least listened to them, even if he didn't actually have answers or solutions to their troubles. It had been a goodwill gesture, at least. He'd been just like them - taken from his home and pointed in an unknown direction, fighting for a bloodthirsty new master who had unclear motivations and goals.

Raised voices could be heard. Brook pricked her keen, pointed ears to try and catch snippets of what was going down in the epicentre of the travelling warband, at the luxurious temporary dwelling of the rat himself. She smiled wryly to herself; no-one wanted to be the new General. Fancy that. They were big boots to fill and being intimately close to the Warlord himself had shown itself to be a dangerous position indeed. One wrong word and it was a fatal stab for your trouble!

A bowl of brown, lumpy soup was offered to her, but she had no stomach for it, and shook her head. Someone else could have it, after all, there were so many empty bellies waiting to be filled.

She admired her artwork in the dust by her feet; a rearing horse with goblin warrior astride, long hair flowing in the breeze. Off on an adventure. Sword raised skyward.

She blinked in the haze of the campfires. What had she become? Everything that rat touched turned foul. Eager warriors had become murderers and cannibals under his banner. Fighting over scraps like wild animals. Turning on their own. The goblin in her picture would have tried to do some good. Would have been brave and noble. Certainly wouldn't have stood by idly while her most senior commander was slaughtered in view of everyone. All because he'd said 'no' to killing innocent civilians when Nisgarant had wanted them on the menu.

With a swipe, she scraped her boot over the image. It was too perfect, it was almost insulting. She was just one young officer in a vast sea of vermin. She knew, as they all knew, that she was at the mercy of the rat. To live and fight another day was all the hope they had. When your citadel walls were tumbling, and the war machines arrived, and you had a sword at your throat, you said 'yes' to joining the ranks. You put up and you shut up. If you were a genuinely skilled warrior, you made officer rank. It meant being fed first. It meant having a cover over your head at nightfall. It meant getting a horse to ride to spare your feet.

As if on cue, a soft whinny reached her ears. It was the General's horse. A beautiful black stallion, with blazing eyes and huge flaring nostrils. Hooves like dinner plates. It seemed as though it was calling to her. It wouldn't seem right, seeing another person upon its back. Having one of the Majors trotting by Nisgarant's side, leading the way, urging them into battle. Calling for the advance.

In a moment, she was on her feet, and winding her way through her group until she reached the tethered beast. His flanks were still steaming, even in the cold of the night. Her small green hand cupped his muzzle, feeling the warm velvet, letting him push into her palm.

He blinked.

In that eye she could see sadness, and it caught her throat. He'd been a loyal steed, coming with the General from his home; and now he was just a spare, an extra, a trophy really. He'd have a stranger digging their heels in, pulling at his bit roughly. Treating him unkindly.

He whinnied again, but she shushed him, swiftly. He seemed to understand. He knew Brook, she'd fed him apples before, and had therefore earned his trust completely.

Deserters were as good as dead from the moment they stepped beyond the boundaries of camp. No warrior, no matter how seasoned, could travel far enough or fast enough to outrun the rat's scouts. They were caught, dragged back, executed, and the lacerated cadavers put on display as a warning for other would-be fleeing soldiers.

But wasn't death waiting at the end, no matter which path you took, when all was said and done? And anyway, those others hadn't had a fast horse! Brook's own pony, Sparky, was woefully slow compared to this fine specimen. He was a horse fit for an emperor.

Or a gutsy goblin girl.

With an unspoken agreement, Bromor allowed her to untie his rope without a sound. No huffing or stamping, just silence.

Brook worked quickly, taking advantage of the collective drowsiness that the evening meal brought with it. No one approached their army from outside. Far from it, the travelling warband was given a wide berth by everything, wildlife included. With this in mind, the soldiers had no need to stay alert, nor keep sentry at the edges of the tent lines.

That wasn't to say no-one would notice General Warlock's horse was missing in the morning, when the newly appointed General, (poor sod), stepped outside to mount it. Of course not. But Bromor could cover a lot of ground in one night, and they were starting right now.

Creeping into the treeline, Brook's heart was thumping loudly in her ears. If spotted, the whole thing would be over before it had even begun. She could desperately lie to cover her intentions, though that would mean even if she was convincing, she would be under intense constant scrutiny henceforth, and stripped of her rank for her trouble.

Making sure her blades were secure on her belt, she grappled for a hold upon the mighty stallion's stirrup and heaved herself up. It was a long way when you were a goblin! Bromor needed no urging, as soon as she had taken her seat he was flying, galloping across the turf, seemingly in his own desired direction. Brook had no will to argue, any way that was in the opposite direction of Nisgarant was the correct one.

This was it! The start of her adventure! She could be just like the goblin from her dirt sketch - free and wild, noble and brave! She would fight terrors, not be one. A lone mercenary, a sword for hire, talk of the tavern, a fierce and righteous warrior.

Her head was full of exciting thoughts, daring rescues and pouches stuffed full of gold as she and her magnificent stallion travelled back into the cities they'd once helped destroy, to clear them of bandits and scavengers. Seeing the residents happy to see her, and not afraid for their lives. Brook and Bromor. They'd be legends!

They broke cover, and the stars twinkled in a graceful arc across the sky. The twin pale moons barely glowing in the distance. Still the hooves churned the silty ground beneath them, Bromor's pace relentless, his strong neck radiating heat as Brook bunched her hands in the reigns, crouching forwards, letting the animal go where he wished. The wind whistled. Her own breath was loud in her ears. Her eyes streamed from the chill. Her toes had gone numb.

In the distance a familiar hillside town's remains appeared. Bromor was backtracking. He was headed back to the last known whereabouts of his master. Brook's heart sunk. She did not want to go back to that battlefield. Back to that scene of carnage. Back to the scattered remains of fighters from both sides, and the lifeless corpse of her senior commander.

She thought about pulling on the reigns, but Bromor was pure muscle and determination, and she was barely four foot of green-skinned girl. Maybe this could be her first Good Deed, her turning point. Nisgarant had threatened death to anyone who had attempted to give General Warlock a burial, had screamed at all to stay back and not give his body any attention or due dignity. That had been the first time that the lower ranks had seen their betters give Nisgarant glares and side-eye. That had been when the realisation had dawned that there would be no glory in store for them, they were servants of death, and they had only death to look forward to. They were all cattle for the slaughter.

The town drew nearer, Bromor's speed somehow increasing as he raced to the scene of the rat's latest battle. Sure enough, eerie lumps and bumps were dotted on the landscape, arrows stuck fast in the soil, broken swords and spears strewn uselessly about around their deceased owners. The rich metallic tang of blood was thick in Brook's nostrils as they approached, and the great horse's pace finally slowed. She didn't want to look, didn't want to take in the scene, to see familiar faces as they crossed the pitted terrain. The horse picked his way carefully, displaying unnatural respect for the fallen, continuing to lead himself with no help from Brook. It seemed to take an age to cross to the other side and reach the gates to the town.

This was where the General had made his stand. He'd turned to them and ordered them to lower their weapons. They'd took the townsfolk warriors who'd surrendered and added them to the ranks. They'd done what they'd come to do. There was no need to slaughter the innocent civilians, they'd never done that before, and he wasn't about to give the command to start now. Nisgarant had foamed at the mouth that his army needed feeding, and they were fresh meat. General Warlock had turned to him and simply said, 'no.'

The shriek that the rat had cried as he brought down his cursed Tri-Corn sceptre to stab his most senior commander fatally was one that Brook never wished to hear again. It was piercing, and haunting, and traumatising. It could not have come from a sane mind. It was the sound of madness in its purest form.

The spot was empty. A simple patch of bare earth, with a hundred faint scuffed marks around it. Bromor groaned. Brook patted his shoulder in commiseration. Perhaps someone had bravely defied the rat's awful order, and taken the General's body to be interred?

There was nothing here.

A cloud overhead drifted off to let the moons' faint glow shine upon a wooded copse, and a thin, rising smoke trail that was spiralling from within.

Bromor's ears flicked and he almost jumped into a canter, skirting the field with thundering strides as Brook scrambled to stay on his back, taken by surprise at his action. It didn't seem smart to go looking for other people, when they were here only yesterday waging battle, and they still had Nisgarant's emblem on their clothing and tack! What was the horse even trying to achieve, anyway? His master was dead. Brook would look after him now, or try to. Honestly it seemed as though he was capable of taking care of himself, he was like no other horse she had ever met. He was making decisions!

The glow of a fire appeared as he slowed to a walk, curious blue flames that licked and crackled giving the surrounding foliage a mystical hue.

Brook couldn't quite believe her goblin eyes as she saw before her, sat on an old crate, a dragon, gently dozing. It had its wings folded, and its head rested on its chest with scaled, thin hands upon its knees. Thanks to the colour of the campfire, it was a bright blue, but in the shadowed portions the scales were as rust. The long head rose up and down, like it was nodding to an unheard question, as it breathed.

The night was still. The only sounds were logs popping in the flames, and their soft breathing. Brook blinked and contemplated her next move. Or Bromor's next move, if he decided that he was going to go galloping off again! Should she disturb the dragon? That seemed folly. Should she get some rest in front of the fire, and hope when it woke from its slumber, it was a friendly dragon? Didn't seem wise to stop, but she was at the mercy of the horse, clearly. She was daring and kicked her heel in Bromor's flank. He swung his head and bared teeth, eyes glowing from in between strands of forelock. Well ok, then.

Shrugging, she dismounted, with less grace than desired. A tree stump had been generously placed on the other side of the campfire, across from the sleeping creature, and she took a perch there. It would all kick off in the morning, when dawn broke and they were one General's horse and goblin Lieutenant down, but until then she was a weary traveller in need of a short rest. A yawn crept in.

Bromor was drifting off, too, his head hanging low, reins on the ground. Whatever he was searching for, he seemed to have found it.

Maybe, it was adventure?