Tears of God: Chapters 1-part of 3

“It is with great conviction that I utter these words to you, my people. There are many who have said that the time of our greatness has reached its end. That the Benevolent Imperial Empire has seen its last sunrise, that our people are all but ready to fade into legend. I stand before you now, with a plea for the same faith you have shown before. We have not seen our last sunrise, but the first of a new age. An age of truly aggressive expansion, imperialism at any cost. We will lash out at those responsible for our strife with a vengeance never before seen by this universe. Their rivers will run with blood, and their sun shall cry out in unending anguish. But the ferocity will not be stymied; the waves of righteousness will not break upon the rocks of our enemies, but break through! It will wash the infidels back unto the abyss from whence they came, and they shall rue the day they thought to challenge our might. To you, our enemies-While you “expanded” your domain, while you increased trade, you neglected to watch us. While you sat on your cushions and lived in the lap of luxury, you neglected to watch us. While you looked to the sky, believing in the greatness of your culture, you remained oblivious to that which lay beneath; the rotting foundation of your government, and the decay of your Republic. I say now, and let it be remembered in the greatest books of history unwritten, total war has been declared upon you and your constituents, and we shall not rest until the suns and their stars have been scourged of your diseased ideals.”



                                                           ***

         The screams of gutted, dying, men pierced the air like the swords which caused them. The battlefield was rank with fear, men breathing their last breaths of the sickly warm air, feeling the mist bead on their face as they lay bleeding. There were cries for their lovers, for their mothers, for their friends. And then there would be silence. The core of the battle moved swiftly towards the gates of the white city of Vyetrin, a gleaming gem in the midst of a rocky sea of turmoil. It was a three tiered city, built to withstand siege and assault alike. The white marble would never be soiled, not in a thousand years of weather, nor in the last hundred of blood and tears. Every soul in the city was dead, but they would be the last to realize it. The invading army created an enormous slug, pulling itself, unrelenting, towards the walls where it would feast. Their black armor did not reflect any light from the setting sun. It consumed every ray that struck it, making the soldiers flit in and out of focus, their position identifiable not by where they were, but where they were not. The army of Vyetrin collapsed before them. Men barely raised their shields to parry a strike, hardly lifted their swords to deliver one back. There was no hope left in them. They had seen their friends die, skulls cloven, chests crushed, blood spraying into the air and misting onto the faces of his brothers with every stroke of the enemy’s sword. In the remaining sunlight it looked like the tears of God, or whatever Devil reigned on this field of carnage. The slug drew nearer to the wall, ever nearer, and was nearly within range of the archers on the parapets when the drums began to sound. The army slowed its advance, Vyetrin’s men still falling backwards in their attempts to slow what was unstoppable. All through the midnight body, men tore their helmets from their faces, wiped their blades and slid them into their scabbards.

         “Make camp! With haste, men, with haste!” The voice of the lieutenants rang over the length of the invaders. Carts were rolled up, tents beaten into the baked earth, only the most obtrusive corpses carried to rot at a more convenient distance. As men removed armor and pieced together the whetstone stations, one man stood at the back of the company, his fist still raised in the ‘Halt’ signal. Slowly, as he observed the efficiency and attitudes of the men before him, he relinquished his grip and let it fall to his side. His First Sergeant stood next to him, watching his master’s eyes scan the entire battlefield.

         “My lord, the men are not yet tired. They are fighting well, courageously and viciously. Every man that falls takes ten of the enemy with him. We have the advantage. We should press; give them no time to ready the walls of Vyetrin.”

         “We should do as I command, Pleidis. And we will do just that. The men have fought well today, but they will need more vigor tomorrow. Anything we have seen so far will pale in comparison to the defenses that await us when the sun rises. Tonight we rest.”

      The First Sergeant, a grizzled veteran of forty-five years bowed his head and headed towards the middle of the burgeoning camp. It was a striking disparity that existed between the two. One was old and a veteran of more battles than most men in the army. The other, his superior, was young, having seen only twenty-eight winters. Yet his reputation eclipsed his subordinate by miles. Many men knew the name Pleidis Stroikus, but every man feared Antares Constantium. While Pleidis’ face grew increasingly weathered, Antares’ was young and vital. Short, dark hair, cropped close to his scalp, connected to the beard running along his jawbone, meeting at the point of his chin and finishing with well-groomed finality at the bottom of his lip. His face was sculpted in the image of the gods of Before; high cheekbones, sharp lines, and eyes professing cold intentions and radiating menace. They were green, two sharp emeralds glaring from a face crafted from stone. His armor was the same black as the men he commanded, though decidedly less polished than theirs. Nicks and scratches split the midnight black, dents reflected modicums of light, creating an ugly glare from his shoulders and his chest. Under the armor he wore no shirt, each piece strapped directly to his body, leather straps pressed into tanned flesh, the borders of skin from cow to man were undistinguishable. His powerful legs were barely armored, only two pieces sheathing his thighs. To the men spread out before him, he was divine. His missions-at least the ones the public was permitted to know-were things of legend. One of five deep cover assassins in the Empire, he was a master of deception, combat, and ultimately death. Antares grimaced as he stepped over the bodies of the Vyetrin Guard. Cut to pieces, the blood congealing quickly on the hot earth, Antares had little taste for such senseless massacre. But it was being asked of him, and failure was a pill he had never swallowed. Slowly, and with great care, he picked his way into the middle of camp, nodding at the soldiers he would command to die tomorrow. Silence followed him as a lamb follows its shepherd, tentative and uncomfortable. The men didn’t salute anymore. He had beaten that habit out of them within a week of his being instated as the Lord General. Use your arms to swing your swords and raise your shields. I don’t need to be reminded I command you. Rows upon rows stretched out before him, each with an accompanying fire at its front. The flickering flames began to grow in intensity, their light reflecting off the gradually settling fog. Tent after tent flashed by as he walked, men barely looked up, too busy cleaning their armor and repairing their shields. What thoughts were truly flashing around in their minds he didn’t know, but based on his measure of them he believed they were steeling themselves to die in fire tomorrow. There were twelve thousand men under his command, and he expected one of every four to survive. He didn’t feel remorse, only a quaint feeling of sadness and waste. Antares strode in a cloud of light, the deepening fog sprayed with the light of fire and sparks alike. Towards the center he moved, through the wagon wheel that was the common shape of Imperial camps. At the core of the encircled tents stood a gold pergola, towering above the regular infantry’s sleeping quarters. It was into this tent he sauntered, not with arrogance, but a powerful sense of complete confidence. The sheltered area was empty, save for a single bed and a table with seven chairs placed around it. Over the scarred, wooden table was spread a map, detailing the position of the camp and the various strengths and weaknesses Vyetrin boasted. Pleidis, poring over the map, his nose only a couple inches from the surface, spoke without looking up.

         “Lord General, camp has been made and the men will be ordered to bed in one half hour. Siege weapons are being appraised and readied, and will be operational before midnight. The army rests.”

         “Thank you, Pleidis.” Antares pulled a chair from the table and lowered himself onto it. “Casualty report?”

         “Three hundred and fifty-five dead, eight hundred wounded. A siege force of eleven thousand six hundred and ninety-eight is available. The lieutenants report morale is high.” Pleidis tugged a chair from its place at the other end of the table and sat in it. “What are you thinking of for tomorrow?” Antares lowered his gaze to the map and pointed at two red marks on the outer wall of Vyetrin.

         “These drainage canals, here and here,” his finger stabbed the marks, “are structural detriments. They know of this weakness and will prepare accordingly. I expect a staunch defense on these areas.” His finger moved towards four green arrows, denoting guard towers. “While it goes against common military knowledge, I suggest we begin with a full frontal assault following heavy bombardment. Roll the siege towers in slightly ahead of the main contingent so if, when, they are brought down they land free of our men. The wall supporting the guard towers and around the main gate is most likely the sturdiest section, and therefore the most understaffed. Nine thousand men will make up this main force. However, this large faction will operate as a smokescreen. As the Vyetrin Guard hastens to solidify the guard tower section, the remaining two thousand men will assault the drainage canals. Our magi must have the canals open by the time they arrive. Once the walls have been breached, the siege engines will begin to raze the second level. We will not be deterred tomorrow. We will fight until we have the city.” Antares leaned back in his chair. “What say you, Pleidis? What does a true military man say to that?”

         “Lord General, the plan is sound. It will require bravery and determination on the part of our soldiers, but for that they do not want. Taking the city will be brutal, but I worry for what will come after. You know what transpires when frustrated men take a city. The women…” Pleidis trailed off, his blue eyes fraught with anxiety.

         “I understand your concerns, Sergeant. I will not allow such actions to take place under my command, I assure you. But now is not the time for such worries. Gather the lieutenants and bring them here. I have much explaining to do.”

                   

                                                           CHAPTER 2

         The Abatjour, a tall spire on the highest tier of Vyetrin, reached towards the darkening sky, its white surface piercing the night. The Duke of Vyetrin, Nostros Fentre, stood in the courtyard before the entrance. The fog was heavy now, but he could make out the fires of his enemy’s camp. So many fires. There would be many killed tomorrow, and he would certainly be among them. There was one person in the city he would not allow to die, however. A young girl of only twenty winters, an emissary from the capital of the Domain, straight from the chambers of Asari Cyklone himself. She had visited bringing news of Asari’s most trusted advisors success. Volat Viltry, the Shadow of the Domain, was a former infantry soldier who turned to the Celestial Arts in the waning days of his military career. At age thirty-eight, he was the first man to hunt down and kill a Bastion, the most feared member of the Benevolent Imperial Empire. There were only five Bastions active at any given time. Others would be trained and held until they became too old to serve or a death required their activation. Only three Bastions had been killed in the history of their service. The first two were accidental deaths, when a magi misdirected his Energie into the building they were surveying. The third, and most recent, died at the hands of Viltry. It had taken him seven months to locate and track the Bastion, finally intercepting him during his return Empire lands.

Bastions were usually men, trained in the Arts, well-versed in many fighting styles. Their true power lay in their mind. Each had a propensity for absorbing incredible amounts of information in an extremely short period. Once catalogued in their cerebral cortex, it would stay, preserved perfectly, until it was devolved from their minds.

Viltry slaughtered him and laid the head at Asari’s feet upon his return to Klore. From that day forward, Viltry was given the nickname “Bastion Huntsman”. When Fentre heard the news from the young courier, he knew retaliation was due, and it was a simple step of logic to assume that Vyetrin would be the first city under attack. The nearest to the border between the two great nations, it made the perfect candidate. The Empire moved faster than he had estimated, and the first night he had seen them in the distance had left him shaking. Immediately he sent one of his own horsemen to stop the reinforcements travelling from Klore. They would arrive late, and be forced to battle an already entrenched and victorious army. Vyetrin would fall, and he would die. Hope remained, however small, that the citizens would be spared. Fentre had no desire to see them cut down, see his failure painted with the blood of the innocent. But the girl had to make it out. He would not allow an emissary to die within his walls, on loan from Cyklone himself. Fentre was still deep in thought when footsteps clanged on the white stone behind him, disturbing his reverie and bringing him back to the present. He turned and watched as his bodyguard, a hulking, dark-skinned Easterner strode to his side.

“Duke, the trebuchets and boiling oil vats are being readied. We don’t have the supplies or the men to survive what will come.” He spoke softly, the tone of his voice contrasting his size in a way that never ceased to surprise Fentre.

“I will die tomorrow, Dervish. My soldiers will die. My people will die. The emissary must survive, however. You know the importance of her life to Our Great Lord. She must survive.” The whites of his bodyguard’s eyes gleamed against his black skin.

“I will send the Abatjour Guard with her. They will get her out.” Fentre smiled sadly, looking out at the fires that spelled his doom.

“No, Dervish. You will take her, and you alone. I trust no other men such as I trust you.” The muscles in the bodyguard’s face tightened.

“I won’t, Duke. I will die by your side. I have long made peace with giving my last breath to stave off yours.”

“No, friend. My fate is mine alone, and I won’t burden you to share it. This is my final command to you. Get her out safely, and you as well. You have served me well, Dervish. In the catacombs, on the farthest southern wall, where the foundations meet the mountain, there is an area of thinner rock, designed specifically for this purpose. Take twenty of the Palace Guard and cut your way out. By the time the city falls, you will be able to escape. Go now, friend.” Dervish hesitated a moment longer before bowing his head and striding away. “My fate is mine alone.”

                                                 

                                                 ***

The table at which the men of war sat was covered in food, and every chair around it was filled. At the head sat Antares, slouched to the side, leaning heavily on his arm, feet outstretched. From his free hand dangled a goblet, still dry, a fact he would never let his lieutenants discover. They were loud around him and more than once his eyes caught Pleidis’, the two of them sharing moments of derision. These men were not soldiers. The five lieutenants before them stumbled upon their positions after sizable donations to the Empire. They would never draw a sword, save perhaps during the final rallying cries before the onslaught. Immediately to the left hand of Antares sat his least favorite; a heavy, bearded man who ate repulsively and was notorious for his dalliances with prostitutes. As Antares watched him, he began to spout his plans upon entering the city.

“And we’ll burst through the wall and kill these murderin’ degenerates. Every man! And when we’re done,” he took a pause to slurp from his laden goblet, wine running down into his scraggly beard, “we’ll take these women and show every last one of them how a real man governs the bedroom. Maybe in the chicken coop if she puts up a fight!” Antares looked to Pleidis and observed his left hand creeping towards his calf. In a small sheath, disguised in the leather binding of his armor, was a small ornate dagger. Pleidis jolted when his eyes met Antares. A barely imperceptible shake of the head from Antares was enough to send his hand back to the bread bowl on the table. Placing his goblet on the floor by his feet, Antares stood, and conversation ceased immediately.

“There will be none of that, Sever. And if I get so much of a whiff of any man, any man, doing anything of the sort, I will punish him personally.”

“Surely you wouldn’t deny the glorious conquerors the enjoyment of the fruits of their labor.” Antares paced slowly, coming to a halt behind Sever Drumas.

“I would, Sever. I really would. Do not presume to know what I would and would not do. I am…unpredictable. You, lieutenant, are toeing a painfully thin line. Do you understand this?” The heavy man swallowed, sweat beading along his brow. Antares watched as a single droplet slithered down the bridge of his nose. Its trail was that of a snake’s, the single rivulet bending around the multitude of imperfections on his skin. Antares could tell it caused the fat man a great deal of discomfort, but Drumas could not take his eyes from him.

“I understand, My Lord General.” His voice cracked. “Nothing of the sort.” An uncomfortable silence descended into their presence. Like a wet sponge it dangled, full to bursting with all things left unsaid. Slowly, as he walked back to his chair at the head of the table, he locked gazes with Pleidis. A succinct nod spurred the sergeant to speak.

“The assault for tomorrow is planned. The idea is this…” As Pleidis repeated Antares’ orders, the Lord General watched the lieutenants receive it. Drumas, whose men would comprise the spearhead directly assaulting the guard towers, nodded with his head down. On the fat idiot’s left sat the youngest of the lieutenants, the twenty-four year old son of the Grand Cealot of Vyetrin, a bureaucrat with little less influence than the Emperor, Xerxes, himself. The son was small, standing well under six feet and as diminutive in girth as in height. Balfour something. Or something Balfour. Whatever his name, he had even less right to be a lieutenant than the others. At the Battle of the Edge, only two months prior, he had missed his mark on the battlefield by several hundred yards, resulting in the deaths of nearly a quarter of his company. Inexperience was acceptable. Idiocy was not. Since then, Antares had been sure to place him as a support force only.

Across from Balfour sat, if possible, Antares’ favorite of the lieutenants. A soft spoken Midlander from across the sea, he studied the art of war despite his lack of aptitude for partaking in it. Ayji Vrun, Antares recalled, was his name. He had been watching the long-haired, pale man ever since he had been given control of the army. Rarely would the Midlander speak, but when he did, what he said was almost always of quality. Not a brilliant strategist by any means, nor an effective soldier. Antares had witnessed him sparring many a time during exercises. His saber skills were well below par, but at least he tried. The other lieutenants spent evenings in their tents stuffing their faces or polishing the armor that was never subject to the grime or gore the real soldiers experienced. Vrun would sit at the table, hunched over a rectangle of paper, jotting diagrams and notes furiously.

On Vrun’s right was Slake Broy and across from Broy slouched an Easterner, dark-skinned and eternally gloomy. The Midlander was large and impressive looking, bright white eyes standing out against his midnight skin. As soon as he opened his mouth which, thankfully, was rare, all pretenses of power and ability evaporated. Slashed across the throat in a bar fight, his voice was higher than the local milkmaid. Antares struggled not to laugh whenever that situation arose. As for Broy, nondescript was a wild overstatement. Average height, average weight, average looks, and average intelligence. Antares gave the order and promptly stopped caring about him. For upwards of an hour Antares sat silent, watching each man as they spoke, watching them closer while they didn’t. Again and again Pleidis drilled the plan into the men, reciting it consistently until each man knew his role and when that role would begin and end. After the first twenty minutes, Antares gazed off, looking at the gold linen of which the tent was made, but seeing the city of Vyetrin laid out before him. He saw advances and retreats of troops, watched the ebb and flow of the battle as his men stretched the defenses to their breaking point while the magi worked to bring down the wall. It would be a magnificent battle, the palate of war sated with the ripe fruit of blood and pain. After a few minutes, (or was it an hour?), Antares was nudged from his reverie and back into the world that comprised his current reality. The Easterner shouldered Broy out of his way and exited the tent first, closely followed by the other three, so Broy was last. With a look of forlorn supplication at Antares, he ducked from the tent and disappeared into the night. Pleidis rolled the map and sealed it before tucking it into his tunic.

“The lieutenants know their roles, my Lord.” Without moving his eyes from the patch of darkness loitering at the opening of the pergola, Antares answered in a low drone.

“And to whom did you assign what, Sergeant?”

“Balfour, Broy, Drumas, and the Easterner will command a total of ninety seven hundred soldiers. Vrun will carry the final one thousand nine hundred and ninety eight in the assault on the drainage canals, assisted by our four magi. I have made it mandatory for the lieutenants to ride in the first forty rows of soldiers. I told Drumas, since he is leading the frontal assault; he must ride in the first ten. Goddamn, I hope these Vyetrin archers are good.” Antares chuckled at Pleidis’ open hostility.

“There is nothing quite as thrilling as ordering someone you hate to the frontlines, is there? Your selections are superb. You will ride with me in Vrun’s company, yes? This is a good plan, Stroikus. Although the surest way of inviting defeat is announcing your faith in best-laid plans. Order the men to sleep. We have a conquest to complete tomorrow.” Stroikus lowered his head and backed from the tent. Finally, at the very end of a tumultuous day, Antares shed his armor. First the gauntlets, tough grey gloves covered in black fish-scale armor. Next were the vambraces, hard leather and woven steel. Once they were laid out similar to the way he wore them, he shrugged his breastplate and torso-weave over his head. Slightly dented, as were all the pieces of his armor, he placed it carefully on the colossal Bestra rug his servants laid down over the bloody dirt. Finally his boots and thigh armor took their places just beneath his chest-piece, and on the rug lay his entire set of armor, top to bottom, save for the helm which rested on the cabinet beside his chair at the head of the table. The boots were pulled off and shaken clear of sand. Finally, Antares shed the black leather trim he kept around his waist and tossed it to the side. Completely naked now, he ambled to the very back of the pergola where, on a small stand, sat a basin of cold water and the varying cloths and liquids to shine his armor. Beginning at his head, Antares soaked himself in the water, feeling each individual rivulet course over his skin until reaching the floor. For a long period he stood, eyes closed, wiping the ever-present and ubiquitous grime of war from his body. The cloth found its way back into the bowl and the Lord General hauled the heavy set of cleaning agents to the empty suit of armor on the floor.

Taking a seat next to it, he lifted each individual piece, appraising it with long looks and gentle touch. And so every joint and facet of his second body came to be cleaned, and every dent deemed repairable was set right. His formerly beaten shell slowly began to gleam in the dying torchlight, and he saw his reflection in the depths of its frigid blackness. Death and destruction, carnage and cruelty waited on the other side of night. As the Lord General made his last loving sweeps over the steel composite helm, he saw a most disturbing sight. There, fixed on his lips, either oblivious to the circumstances or directly caused by them, was a smile. Not one of grim fixation on the task to come, but one of unbridled joy.

                                                 

                                                 CHAPTER 3

Dervish swung the pickaxe doggedly, keeping rhythm with the men beside him. Now early in the morning, the attack would begin shortly. The rock wall denying exit to him and his precious cargo remained resolute, even under the massive force delivered by his will and muscle through the vessel of tempered steel. They had made headway, working in shifts for the last few hours, and he sensed the end was not far. But even when they finally saw sky on the other side and starlight-or sunlight, depending on the hour- began to filter into the massive cavern at the rear of the city, they would need to widen it to allow Dervish, the emissary, and the horse that carried them passage. Through this slim area in the rock they would cut into a narrow walkway, wide enough for a single horse and rider to pass through. This snaking trail would lead out of the stone cliffs and onto the plateau into with the city was built. From there, he and the girl would descend via an extremely graded trail etched into the grey stone of the plateau. And then it would be a sprint on horseback in the opposite direction of the Empire’s army, straight to the Domain capital, Klore. First things first, Dervish reminded himself, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. His sleeve was already drenched in it, similar to the rest of his clothing, he discovered. But still he raised his tool and sent it into the heavy stone with a certain personal affront attached to it. Clang! Is the girl all that important? Emissaries are a kruge a dozen. What makes her special? Clang! Perhaps she carries the child of my master. The thought drew a snort from him. That’s not it. Though Fentre did enjoy workouts in the bedchambers. Clang! Dervish banished the thought from his mind. It was not his duty to question the motives of his lord, and to do so would be tantamount to disrespecting the sanctity of his final wish. Clang! I will miss you, friend.



                                                 ***

The white chambers of Asari Cyklone glimmered as the first light of dawn crept timidly into the massive hall, as a young page slinks in and out of his master’s presence. Light, and all the elements really, seemed to behave similarly whenever the God of the Domain was witnessed. Standing well over six feet, he was easily the most intimidating man in the kingdom, even disregarding his status. Rarely did he wear a shirt, which left the muscles of his torso and back rippling clearly during every movement. There was not an ounce of fat on him, each line of his body was perfectly defined, sharp and pale in every light. Hanging from his waist was a long kilt made of gold spun cloth, though designed to reveal his powerful thighs with every step he took. The dragon woven into the outfit seemed to open his mouth whenever Cyklone sat; a dozen rubies arrayed in concentric circles lent the beast a single eye above the black maw of its oral cavity. Few advisors or guests saw this work of art, as he preferred to stand when conversing and giving orders to use his significant size as a factor of supreme intimidation. Cyklone’s face was not sharply defined; there was neither a square jaw nor maturely sunken cheeks. He looked like a young man in this regard, full of vim and good cheer. But all thoughts of such joviality were lost upon seeing his eyes. They were large, often covered by his long eyelashes whenever he was consumed by thought. But more often, he kept them wide open so every man and woman in his presence could see the black pupils gleaming out from irises of the palest grey, nearly translucent. Around these eyes cascaded his hair, which reached the middle of his back. A pale yellow, Cyklone made sure to let it fall around his shoulders, as the color and shade were rare in his country. The silver throne sat in the rear of the great hall, on a raised dais which loomed over the white marble floor. As one entered the chamber, high vaulted windows directed the sunlight against similarly white walls, making the veins of silver metal in them sparkle. In any other place, it would feel like paradise. But in this atmosphere of superiority it transcended something closer to the underworld.

Currently, the hall had a tenancy of one. A thin man, standing just below six feet and with pale skin, the trademark of a typical Domain citizen, waited for the God of the Domain to appear from his bedchamber. Slouched against one of the forty pillars in the hall, he wore a sword on his right side, a falchion on his left, and several small knives stuck in their miniature sheaths in the stem of his boots. A door opened in the left rear of the hall and Asari Cyklone strode out, wearing a plain white kilt with a golden scarf draped over his powerful shoulders. As the heavy oaken door swung shut, the man caught a glimpse of at least two pairs of female legs stretched out on the bed, still intertwined after the early morning festivities.

“Viltry, you do call early. I had to hurry to be dressed to receive you.” The Huntsman lowered himself to a knee, but never took his eyes from the King. Cyklone waved the lukewarm gesture of respect aside and summoned him nearer to the dais as he leaned against his throne. Viltry took several steps forward, bringing him within a couple paces of the platform. Cyklone looked positively enormous. “What news do you bring?”

“The First Glorious Fist of the Empire is poised to assault Vyetrin. The last report, which I believe is completely accurate, is that they will move on the city today, and I assume it will be in the next few hours.” Viltry’s voice was high and cold, each sentence beginning at its peak and then plunging to a low baritone. Cyklone flicked the hair out of his eyes with a hand the size of a serving dish.

“And our reinforcements?” The king’s voice rumbled like a cart rolling over stony earth. “Will they turn the tide?” Viltry shook his head.

“No, my lord. Their scouts received word from Duke Fentre saying the city would not hold the enemy long enough for our reserve armies to make a difference. He turned them down. They’re on their way back.” Cyklone showed no emotion regarding the doom of one of his cities. His eyes moved around the chamber, sweeping from one side to the other before settling directly on Viltry.

“Who commands the First Glorious Fist?” Cyklone asked his assassin, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer and didn’t like it one bit.

“One Antares Omnelius Constantium; the golden boy of the Empire. He has a storied history in his country, and a dreaded one in ours. At the age of 18 he was inducted into the Empire’s assassin program, nicknamed Calamity Company and-“

“Calamity Company…that’s the equivalent of our Kruel Regiment, correct?” Cyklone interrupted. In a measured tone, careful to hide his annoyance, the thin man answered.

“Yes, the equivalent of Kruel Regiment. Carrying on-’’ he let a modicum of it seep through, “Constantium went on to kill seven of our diplomats, all behind our lines. Those are confirmed. We know twelve other high ranking government and military officials died during the time he was believed to be in operation, but those are unsubstantiated. At the age of 23 he reappeared in the Empire only to vanish again before he turned 25. There are no reports of his whereabouts during this time, but I personally believe he was introduced as the fifth Imperial Bastion. This period lasted for two years, and upon his return he was given the Lord Generalship of the First Glorious Fist of the Empire. And that brings us to today.”

Cyklone tilted his head towards the vaulted ceiling, frescoes of past Gods and their loyal subjects defeating the evil hordes of the Empire adorned every inch of it. Viltry watched the wheels begin to turn in his king’s mind.

“So Vyetrin will be lost, yes? My emissary will likely die within the walls which is…regrettable.” He stood and strolled past his assassin. “Where will he strike next?” Viltry answered without turning.

“Likely the farming city of Bearmont, my lord.”

“Do you suggest we redirect the reserve armies to shore up their defenses and stall the invasion?”

As Viltry turned, his falchion grazed the white stone pillar, loosing a shrill screech in the quiet hall. Cyklone didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t care.

“Bearmont is not worth the loss of men, lord. Their fields lie well outside a defendable perimeter. Antares’ first move will be to burn those, as that will give us less reason to send more soldiers to fight him. He will sack Bearmont and then turn his eye upon us here.” Asari wheeled on him, and the two men faced each other down the length of the hall.

“Can he be stopped? The man is a ghost! He will sack Vyetrin in a matter of hours. It hasn’t been done since the War of the Fates, over a thousand years ago! His army is-“

“But that’s precisely the point, Lord Cyklone. You are confusing him with his army. They are not one and the same. His army, by sheer force of ability and will, cannot be readily stopped. But he is just a man. Talented, yes, but still just a man. Were he to die, the army would still pose an incredible threat. But it would become stoppable.” Cyklone made for his throne, growing nearer to Viltry.

“Do you want the order, Viltry? Say the word and you may have the hunt.” The king stopped at the assassin’s shoulder and looked at him. The two men, facing different directions, locked eyes. Slowly, with a hint of a smile dipped in the coldest malice, Viltry nodded his head. Cyklone patted his shoulder and began walking back towards his bedchambers.

“Let them enjoy this victory, then. And then bring me his body. I have ideas for its life after death.”

                                                 CHAPTER 4

Antares nodded to Stroikus, who raised a fist in the air. The signal was repeated swiftly by other infantrymen. In response, hundreds of banners began to unfurl along the front line of the army, moving like a wave down the entire length. Like a great black void they swallowed all the virgin light on the field in front of Vyetrin. The slug had reformed itself, now a perfect rectangular grid. Every hundred meters the faultless line was interrupted by a trebuchet with its dedicated crew of fifteen. Upon seeing the red banners rise, they set to work priming the tension and release mechanisms, checking the counterweight and its braces, locking the wheels in place with chunks of timber and stone. After each engine was deemed operational, the red banners fell and green standards were raised in their place. The Lord General and his sergeant observed as the trebuchets were loaded with their vicious ordnance. Giant pieces of stone masonry were levered into the firing wrap and secured. When the trebuchet reached its apex, the wrap would unfurl and fling its wares toward the targets designated the night before. The entire army was lined up perfectly with the guard towers, the strongest and most heavily manned section of the wall. The smaller force destined for the drainage canals would break off when the main assault had begun, therefore tying the hands of the Vyetrin Guard. They would be torn between defending against the more threatening force, or stabilizing the weakest point. With frightening efficiency, each trebuchet was seen through its preparation and the green standards soon lowered. In their place rose midnight blue banners, stretched to their full length by the wind that began to whip through the battlefield, gnashing its teeth at the grievances of man. Stroikus waited until every banner visible to the naked eye had been raised, and then looked to Antares. Standing alongside his black charger, one hand stroking the impressive beast’s mane, the Lord General looked back at Pleidis. There is something strange in his eyes, Pleidis thought. Regret? The joy of the night before had dissipated and Antares grimly set himself to the task at hand. Then, with his left hand, Antares tugged his helm onto his head. There was no face shield; the metal was cut back to leave his eyes, nose, and jaw exposed. On the very top of the helmet was a razor thin piece of steel, standing straight up. From the front it was barely visible, but when viewed from the side the solid plume crested sharply near the back of the head before diving back into the actual helmet. There were two more of these plumes, one affixed at a 45 degree angle on the left side of his head, and a matching one on the right. Both of the secondary spines extended to the edges of his eyes. The end result was a fearsome sight, two emerald orbs gazing out into the world from their cold cocoon of unforgiving steel. It was into these eyes that Pleidis looked and felt the cold presence of precision and dominance beginning to radiate from them. An imperceptible nod of the head was followed by Stroikus plunging his fist towards his side. After an infinitesimal delay, the sound of bolts snapping out of place and the creaking of wood and twisting of steel filled the morning silence.

Trebuchets, one after another after another, all the way down the line, dropped their counterweights and sent the arms hurling forward, firing wraps unraveling quickly at the apex. The masonry was flung from the area with a swish and Antares turned his eyes to the walls of the city. The first missile to strike the wall was a bit below target. Instead of slamming directly into the parapets, wiping them clear of the Guard, it impacted just below the ramparts, shredding itself against the wall. Razor sharp splinters cut through the air. In the cloud of confusion and agony, Vyetrin Guards collapsed, some nearly sawed in half, others with arms and legs torn from their body. All in the area were covered with blood, either their own or that of their brothers. Screams erupted in the wake of the explosion of stone and viscera. Several men staggered, eyes ruined and faces soaked in blood, straight off the edge of the wall, plunging to the ground where they slammed into the hard earth, broken limbs awry at grotesque angles. And that was only the first. Other missiles began to pound at the wall, most of them on target. Men were crushed into red smears of bone and organ or swept off the wall altogether, plunging backwards to break their spines against the buildings below. The stone of the wall would break apart, but true to the Celestial Arts under which it was shrouded, it would not be soiled. The copious amounts of blood and urine that drenched the parapets streamed over the rock but did not stain it. But the beauty of their city was little consolation to the men dying on the wall. Many turned from the parapets and cowered at the base of the wall, waiting for the barrage to end. Antares could see the guards on the parapets begin to be thinned out, and raised his left fist over his shoulder. From several ranks back, enormous rolling platforms were pushed forward. Strapped down the middle composing the entire length of the machine, was a ladder. Twenty of these scaling engines were pushed forward, forty men to each, shielded by metal spines meant to offer protection. Once they were against the wall, however, the men would be left open to attack from archers on the wall. The trebuchets slowly began to reduce the ferocity of their assault, and the entire army swelled around the backs of the ladders.

In the city, ears still ringing from the power and concussion of the missiles, members of the Vyetrin Guard uncovered their heads. Screams still cut through the air, but behind them was the hellish metronome of eleven thousand marching demons, intent on causing the deaths of every man who opposed them.  As men, the Guard nearly shit themselves. As professional soldiers, they gathered their bows and quivers, checked their scabbards and trudged to the top of the wall. Slowly, resignedly, they lined themselves along what was left of the ramparts and drew arrows, tails of black eagle feather, and notched them to their bows. A hundred creaks signaled their readiness. Here, ready to plunge every weapon and every life into the black maw of their doom, they waited until the men were in range.

Antares nudged his charger forward, allowing foot soldiers to swell around him and move forward faster. The horse chomped at the bit, calm in the midst of the noise, ready for exertion. At five hundred paces from the wall, the ladder squads sped up. The wheels began to churn and each man put every ounce of muscle and will into reaching the wall alive. At three hundred paces the foot soldiers began to sprint, swords drawn. Still, the archers held. Two hundred paces. A single arrow spit through the air, burying itself in a soldier’s neck. He went down without a sound. Antares looked to the wall. The test shot. A single man would fire a single arrow to test range and kill power. The archers saw exactly what they wanted. Spurring his horse on, now overtaking the men who had passed him before, the Lord General looked to the sky in time to see it turn black. Arrows, he thought. Many, many arrows. And then, in a hurricane of steel, wood, and rent flesh, they were upon them. A cacophony of a million whistles greeted his ears, and he saw the first five lines of his men crash to the ground, momentum rolling them forward, limbs twisting in the loose dirt. Two of the ladder squads were halted, men collapsing out of the cover of the spines, though it hardly mattered. Arrows sticking from shoulders, necks, and faces, they were pushed aside to be replaced by men who would meet the same fate. The press of humanity seemed to will the ladders forward until they crushed into the wall. Pieces of timber were placed behind the wheels and the great ladders loosened. On the backside of the ladder carriers were numerous cranks. Men immediately knelt in the congealing blood and began to wind them as quickly as possible. Slowly the ladders snapped free of their bindings and were lifted towards the wall. The inside of the engines were surprisingly advanced for such crude purposes. When the cranks were turned, gears at the pivot point of the ladder, nearly up against the wall, began to turn. This spun cogs in the middle of the machine, which worked belts and crankshafts back down the length until the ladder broke the static impediment and began to rise towards the wall. At the top of the ladders were heavy metal hooks which were designed to dig into the stone ramparts. Since much of the wall had been torn away, they became useless weight, and many of the tardier ladder engines removed them before raising the ladders. Still the black steel rained down on the First Glorious Fist, and still they pressed on, soon scaling the ladders. Men halfway up would be unprotected from the masterful archers, unable to defend against the arrows slung directly into their eyes and face. If the soldiers below were lucky, their dead comrade would fall to the side and into the press of bodies at the base of the ladder. More than once, however, he would drop straight back down, clearing the rungs.

Slowly, the incessant storm of arrows began to cease, like the rain on the tail end of a lightning storm. The hammering of the steel tipped arrowheads against armor began to slow, and the soldiers clad in midnight black hurtled up the wall. Stroikus shouted something to Antares, who was nearly deaf in the chorus of screams and clamor of combat.

“The lard is flowing over! THE LARD!”

“What the fuck?! What?!” Antares pointed to his ears, unable to understand, and in a sudden moment of clarity, Stroikus directed his horse nearer to his general.

“The guards are coming over. The canals are left weak!” Antares’ head snapped around and saw for himself the subject of his sergeant’s shouting. A great body of men were sprinting along the wall towards the ladders. Away from the drainage area.

“Sound the drums. NOW!” shouted Antares, already moving his horse through the crowds of men towards the edge of their ranks. Almost immediately, the low rumble of the leather skin drums beat through the air, and Antares watched as Vrun’s company, placed at the back of the force, peeled away smoothly and made straight for the canals. Well done, lieutenant. Scattered amongst the regular soldiers were the four magi, clad in light grey tunics. Each had a horse, but they rode well displaced from one another, so if one would go down the others would stand a chance. Antares, Stroikus, and their small accompaniment merged with Vrun’s regiment three hundred yards from the canal. Looking back, he saw the magi slow their horses to a trot, bowing their heads and raising their hands, palms up, towards the sky. They were within range of archers, they had to be, but the defenders had their hands full with the main assault force.