“So many believe in the lie, instead of believing in the light,” the Warlord Damian said while trying to suppress his anger. He stared at the half-naked man bound before him. The unfortunate wretch had been beaten by his officers only moments earlier. He now sat bleeding and tied to a chair.
Damian felt no pity towards the man, observing his bruises. “I’ve always believed in the power of words,” Damian continued. “Words can be the difference between life and death. Therefore, I’ve always chosen my words carefully. For years, I’ve crafted my message to our people. But with one missing or misplaced word, the meaning of my message can be skewed. With one word out of agreement with the others—with one soldier not in agreement with the others—my message can be lost! And at this critical point in my campaign for conquest, any form of dissention from my message must be rectified.”
Sweat streamed from the prisoner’s spiked hair, running in liquid lines from his temples, along his long chiseled jaw. He blinked against the sweat intermingling with the blood beneath his cut lids.
Damian caressed the Legionarie’s face with the slightest touch of his hand, gently wiping the perspiration. The man trembled beneath Damian’s hand, yet the Warlord couldn’t determine if he shivered out of fear, or from the coldness of the field tent.
The Warlord’s tent had become a portable home away from home. Although many times larger than the standard tent issued to his infantry, it was devoid of any luxuries. There were none of the creature comforts that normally might remind soldiers of their lives beyond battle. Damian didn’t need such things.
“You’d tell me if you were chilly, wouldn’t you?” Damian asked. Despite his obvious brutality, he liked to convey cordiality to his prisoners. It played with their minds, giving them hope where none existed.
The man’s fear was apparent by his silence.
“Did you not hear the Warlord?” an officer asked as he raised an open hand to strike the bound man.
Damian stepped forward to block the blow before it could land upon the Legionarie’s face.
“No, no, General Thane. That would be unnecessary,” Damian said.
He turned back towards the prisoner. “Had only I known of your arrest earlier, I assure you the punishment you’ve endured wouldn’t have occurred,” Damian said in a conciliatory tone. “I don’t believe that answers can be coerced from men. The truth can only be recognized and spoken upon one’s own volition. Would you agree, comrade?”
“Y-Yes,” the prisoner replied.
“Would you also agree that I do all within my power to protect and provide for each of you within our Legion?”
The man nodded, his chin trembling.
“Would you also agree that our fight against the Realmsic Kingdom is justified by the continued suffering of our people? That only we have thus far proven to be their equal, and only by eliminating their threat of magic can we free the known world of endless tyranny?”
“I-I agree…”
“Then why would you tell our fellow comrades anything other than this?” Damian’s look became stern. The Legionarie submissively lowered his eyes, staring at some invisible spot on the floor.
“Comrade, I need you to answer me,” Damian demanded.
“My Lordship,” the man began, “please, I meant no offense to you or your righteous cause. I only asked that if our purpose is to eliminate magic, why do we use it in battle?”
“And who else did you ask that question of?” Damian asked.
The man hesitated slightly. “O-Only to my m-mates Tam and Reeze.”
“Are Tam and Reeze officers in my guard?”
“No, my Lord.”
“Then how would they know the answer to your question? When you carelessly speak out of turn, comrade, you cause dissention amongst our ranks!”
The man’s eyes became teary in response to the Warlord’s tone. Seeing this, Damian tempered his emotions. He disliked publicly displaying anger.
Calmly, he continued. “When an enemy has an advantage, we should use it against them. We’re able to face our enemy as equals by utilizing the same weapons they seek to destroy us with. That’s why I sometimes practice magic, and that’s why we use magic in battle.”
Tears rolled down the man’s cheeks, mixing with the blood and sweat that was just beginning to dry. He flinched at Damian’s fingers reaching towards him.
The Warlord laid a hand on the prisoner’s neck and smiled. “You don’t like my ring?” he asked facetiously. “It belonged to my father. He wore it always.”
Down the prisoner’s neck to his shoulder, Damian gently slid the cool surface of the ring. Its point was so razor sharp, the Legionarie didn’t realize his throat had just been sliced open. As the blood pooled into his mouth and poured down his bare chest, horror filled his eyes. He twitched and struggled. He could no longer breathe. His body shook violently as Damian applied pressure, forcing the ring’s one-inch point deeper into flesh.
Blood raced across the Warlord’s knuckles, down his forearm, and dripped from his elbow. For this reason alone, Damian often wore sleeveless armor. After several more violent jerks, the body was still.
Damian reached for a cloth from a nearby officer and wiped the blood from his hands and ring. After a kill, he never rinsed with water. He enjoyed the smear of blood across his palms and fingers. Damian looked at the man’s body now slumped in the chair.
“Remove this traitor from my tent,” he ordered. Giving the damp cloth to General Thane, he paused. “Also, Tam and Reeze ... eliminate them as well.”
“Anything else, my Lord?” Thane asked.
“Yes, General. See that this never happens again.”
With a snap of Thane’s fingers, two officers grabbed the body. Without untying the deceased prisoner, one grabbed the back of the chair, the other grabbed the man’s legs. They carried him out of the tent, leaving Thane and Damian to themselves.
The Warlord walked towards his desk. A flickering lantern illuminated a large map of the Realm spread across its surface. Several handwritten notes and directional arrows outlined the progress of his campaign. Additional documents were stacked neatly on the edge of the desk, evidence of Damian’s meticulous nature.
He held his hands above the lantern, letting the warmth soothe him through to his bones. The flame felt good, as his tent was always entirely too cold. He knew additional bulk on his frame would stave off the cold. He was wiry but powerful. His true strength had always been his mind. People praised his handsome facial features and long silver hair as appearing angelic. Yet, those who feared him found those same features to be ghostly.
General Thane joined Damian at the table and stood quietly by his side. Standing a massive six-foot-three inches tall, Thane towered over most people. Unlike Damian, who was relatively thin and impeccably groomed, Thane was a grizzly bear of a man, possessing its girth, unkempt whiskers, and violent temperament.
The two men analyzed the Realmsic map, though Thane’s proximity annoyed Damian. He could feel Thane’s shoulder pressed against his own. He could feel the warmth of his massive body, and could hear his nostrils wheeze with the heaving of his oversized chest. Perhaps the ogre had never learned about personal space? Nonetheless, Damian tolerated the encroachment, as Thane was the Legion’s most ambitious General.
The Warlord had hand selected him to join his personal detail. It was an obvious choice. The man’s natural size and ability had thus far allowed him to accelerate through the Legionarie chain of command. Time and time again, Thane had proven himself worthy of his position. He possessed an uncanny sense of resourcefulness that Damian had never before encountered. Of all his military officers, Thane had never failed a task. Therefore, only the most significant missions were assigned to him.
Finally, Damian broke the silence. “Tomorrow, you and I will lead the military procession to the region known as Centre Pointe.” He pointed to a location on the map. “It’s the capital of the Realm, and what many consider to be the actual kingdom. It’s also
the location of the Realmsic Castle, which is our target. After crossing into the Realm, I don’t believe we’ll encounter much resistance until we actually arrive at the castle.”
Thane grunted his agreement. “Indeed. The entire territory is covered with sentries, but the bulk of their force will likely be guarding the capital. If the Legion approaches upward from the Hellish South Plains, I believe we’ll be largely undetected. Many think the southern terrain is too rugged for a military force of our size. So no one would be expecting us from that direction. Our men could easily cut through the forest, so I think this is our best angle for assault.”
“Absolutely not!” Damian exclaimed. “We have no need for such sneaky tactics. Aside from our sheer numbers, our advantage is our ferocity; our blunt power. Even if I had the magic to cloak our entire force, I would not. I want them to see us coming from the west, and I want them to fear us.”
Thane smiled, “Yes, my Lordship.”
Damian clapped his hand on the General’s back. “Rest now, Thane. Tomorrow, we begin our march into history.”
• • • • •
After weeks of conquests, Damian settled his forces within the western city of Amden, only two days from the Realmsic border. His forces needed the respite to regroup and resupply. With satisfaction, Damian listened to the reports of scouts and spies who relayed how fear of the invading Warlord stretched across the land. He witnessed the fear himself in the flight and defeat of the lands he trespassed. Those Western Nations who once doubted him were surely believers now.
The sunrise drenched his face as he stepped onto an elevated platform overlooking his men. Behind him, the dark horizon gave way to a new day. The heavens shined a spotlight upon his body. His metallic armor sparkled. Although modest in appearance, such a suit of metal sent a statement of stature and authority, as only people of wealth could afford its like.
Standing before an ocean of faces, Damian felt exhilarated. The ranks of his men stretched across the darkened landscape. They had concluded morning chow, packed up camp, and now awaited his word. Birds fluttering in the autumn-colored trees serenaded the first rays of dawn. Damian enjoyed the crisp air. Mornings in Amden usually began with a chill, but the combined body temperatures of a Legion seemed to single-handedly raise the surrounding climate.
A sense of pride overwhelmed his soul. This was his accomplishment. He had assembled a Legion of loyal followers who would fight to end Realmsic tyranny; who would fight for him. Upon their chosen field of battle, he and his men breathed as one and existed totally in one accord. Briefly, he thought of his mother, taken from him too soon. He then thought of his father, the man he never knew but competed against most of his life, and would soon surpass.
“Behold greatness!” Damian said to General Thane, who stood beside him on the platform.
With other officers also at his side, the Warlord drew in the morning air. His men, who’d been waiting for hours in anticipation, listened as if their souls would be fed by his words.
“The King has wronged us,” Damian began. “I repeat,” he proclaimed with more force, “the King has wronged us!” A roar of approval rose from the field.
“For centuries, his kingdom has subjected the non-magical Western Nations—and Laymen throughout the Realm—to lives of misery and despair. Repeatedly, they’ve claimed their laws prevent the misuse of magic against us. They’ve even claimed that their magical devices are only used for practical purposes. But Realmsic history is filled with examples contrary to their claims.
“Because we choose a life separate from magic, separate from them, we are considered villains! Therefore, we fight to defend ourselves from their magic. Their very existence threatens our non-magical way of life. But today, you and I have become a force powerful enough to liberate Laymen everywhere.
“When we first began our conquest, many within our own non-magical nations doubted us. For that, they were given a full demonstration of our might! The militaries of the disbelievers now swell our ranks. And our fellow Laymen, who chose to live within the kingdom and who would raise their arms against us, will find their arms severed by our blades and hung against the merchant stands of the capital’s avenues.
“We are now a Legion without fear! And we will march shoulder to shoulder into Centre Pointe. We will capture the source of their magic, and we will destroy it. The Realmsic Kingdom will fall. And those who support us will be safe from magic once and for all!”
With pride, Damian consumed the screams and cheers of his soldiers. The ground vibrated from their voices, which echoed into the heavens.
The Legionaries brandished their weapons high above their heads and chanted war cries like frenzied mantras.
“Officers ... the time has come. Take command of your ranks!” Damian ordered above the commotion.
The officers bellowed commands into the crowd, and the assembled mass instantly fell silent. Such a display of discipline made the Warlord smile.
“Forward march!” commanded General Thane from the platform.
“To victory!” Damian shouted to his men as they stomped towards the rising sun.
Chapter Five