The screams of the dying rang in the Red Lady’s mind. A fury possessed her, a fury like she had never felt before. All around on the battlefield were remnants of the anguish that had been dealt to her.
Her soldiers were her arms.
Her archers were her legs.
The cowardly attack of the Sack Swords had left her body ravaged. The battle would have been lost if the shadow had not come: the shadow and the unnatural strength that it had imparted. As the darkness had ensued, the Red Lady felt as if she had been submerged in a replenishing pool. Her warriors had felt it too, and the surge in their brutality had turned the tide in the Red Army’s favor. Yet too many had fallen, and even the exhilaration of this new strength was not sufficient to ebb the Red Lady’s sense of loss.
Blood spattered the Red Lady’s body. Her arms looked as though she had dipped them to the elbow in crimson paint. Her face was criss-crossed with blood spatters, and the sword she held had lost its edge through the repeated wear it had taken from being drawn across flesh and bone.
The horse was gone, long since killed by an errant swing from a tribal barbarian who had succumbed to her sword shortly thereafter. She gazed about and panted at the ruin.
The white robes of her daughters were in plain view. Both standing and slashing as inhuman wraiths, and littering the ground as corpses that would never rise again.
The Red Lady felt their loss keenly. The rage burning within her elevated in intensity and hardened to a razor’s edge.
She would kill them all, and not with honor. She resolved to slaughter her opponents to the last man. The leader she would kill slowly, cherishing each agonizing scream as he was carved to ash. Then, when his soul had finally left his body, she would scatter his remains to every filth or pestilence ravaged reeking corner that she encountered on this or any other world she might travel.
In that moment, on the field, she bonded with her anger and made it a permanent part of herself.
To release her fury would be to dishonor her fallen daughters, and that was not acceptable.
A gust of cool wind caught the Red Lady in the face, sending her hair behind her like a palace banner. She stared down into the gully in the center of the field where the last of the opposing force resisted.
The once proud force was like a horse wobbling on a broken leg. She took pleasure in watching them squirm as her troops pressed in. The enemy was exhausted, and when their weapons were not lifted in defense, they were dragged in the mud like limp, lifeless appendages.
The Red Lady’s eyes narrowed as she studied them, and after a moment she identified the leader. He stood proudly in the center still trying to rally his charges, though by now he must know escape was impossible.
The Red Lady relished in the strength that surged through her, then she hefted her sword and strode forward.