He loved the rout of battle where most men die.

The men of his company scrabble in the dust and some almost lose their footing in their haste to pursue, seized with lust and their spears searching for death. When previously the lines had faced and each side had pushed to and fro and dared the other, each had been equal and stood in equality, and in one moment the men would hold the enemy in contempt and in the next they would fear the enemy’s supremacy and doubt their own power. Then they would see the same uncertainty in those they stood against, the uncertainty of the battle’s outcome and of their lives. They would rattle their steel tipped spears and feint in the hopes that the opposing force break, knowing that the fear they suppressed in their hearts was alike in the other.

But when the enemy turned and fled all this changed at once. When they threw down in their fear their shields and weapons, giving up their right to the battle, they became then as slaves were, withdrawn of all social state. The men of his company saw suddenly they were greater and beheld the enemy with hardhearted contempt. Then joy filled their coarse souls and strength filled their limbs, these veterans of the spurned company, and they hurried to the work of war.

His spear first finds purchase in the groin of a man running ahead and the man falls in the dust, shocked as all men are when their limbs that had ever obeyed them before refuse and lie unyielding to the will. The Ashen frees his steel and goes on, leaving the wounded for others behind him. Soon he finds the next. A man running with a limp, having taken injury already. The foe turns to defend as the Ashen comes closer, but a shield finds the man across the chest. He loses his balance and falls in the dust and he lays on the ground and waves his dagger stubbornly refusing death, though his hope is already lost. And Linhe the Ashen pierces through his layers with a strong strike, bearing his weight into the point. The man’s arm descends under the weight of its own substance, the panic has left him and as he lies in the dust he looks around as though he had no part in the fighting or the world.

And the Ashen sees a massing of bodies ahead where the rout is cut short. He runs toward these defenseless men, his lungs sweet with exertion, and hurls his spear whose steel finds purchase in the back of a man who does not yet fall. His sword cuts at the legs of the group ahead, the limbs blurred and fumbling like kittens bunched to nurse. The Ashen sees blood black and new running down the length of the limb and at the cruel sight he feels the desire to hurt all enemies of their just cause. The mass of fleeing bodies become each a prison, suffering under his hard blade. He no longer has to run or hustle after the enemy. He walks forward steadily, his arm throbbing with healthy work. He does not know who they are or see their faces but his sword finds the opposition of living bodies and he is satisfied in his labor.

A man falls and he is wearing plate and Linhe the Ashen is glad. He bends and wrestles the weaker man’s arm, gripping his wrist tightly, and he takes the fastenings of the man’s helmet with his other arm, and he shows the man’s face. He regards the man’s exhausted fear, the face painted with sweat, and the weakness of the man’s arm in his own.

He does not pursue the fleeing enemy. He has had a taste of the rout. He wants now the happiness of possession. And there is treasure beneath him.

He strips the exhausted man of his armor, this man who had been distinguished on the battlefield by show of magnificence, but now lies for the usage of the victors. The Ashen gives thanks to the gods as they have blessed the day. He sees that his blade had cut by chance through a weakness in the joint and as he tears the fastenings impatiently away he sees the dark slick cloth beneath the iron. The Ashen throws away the belts holding their daggers and he presses his chest against the man’s back feeling the soft flesh and with his free arm he guides himself into the man. And like a chisel being struck on the same spot, he finally enters the man and takes the pleasure that he had long postponed in the days leading to battle. The resistance gives way like the routing of battle played out in miniature, and the Ashen steals the brief interlude of sweetness as the labor of war goes on around him, planting kisses on the damp neck of the enemy. He senses above the soft chaos of men yielding to defeat, and feels faceless joy and faceless despair joined as one. Then with his seed sown he notices for the first time that a dagger had fallen in the dust near their heads, near the hand of the man he pinned below. The Ashen takes it and gives the man their death, breaking through the nape where he had moments before lain his cheek.

Then he gathers the spoils and returns to the labor of war, free of thought and shame.

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The commander of the host holds conference and a man from each of the five companies is brought to the pavilion of command. The spurned company though hated by all is nonetheless due the like honor and the Ashen is chosen as their representative for he is the only one who can read and sign for them and their leader had taken ill with injury.

There the commander is waiting for the group by a basin of a black liquid and the fires of several braziers. Before the gathered delegates a prisoner of war is made to come near and place their hands in the basin. The spectators draw instinctively closer. They see the black liquid slough away repulsed by the touch. They see the miracle. A blue rectangle forms before them like a perfectly hewn piece of stone and upon it are words and numbers written in light. A vision shared by all, yet shorn of substance as the private dream.

The commander speaks as the prisoner is taken away. “These are the levels I have spoken of, engineered by their mage. They give a holy assistance to those that are by it blessed, a strength that daily grows and gives advantage. We have speeded through the country and forced battle but there is a limit to what we can achieve with this alone... The lands we have gained cannot be held. Our successes will only turn to ash, unable to be exploited. Each day their army grows stronger by the life of these enchantments. Half a year ago they were at 2 and 3 and now they are at 9. Their levels increase as they gather the powers embedded in the world, drawing them like plants of the soil. Each day that passes our chances grow smaller.”

The Ashen listens to the words of this great leader half-comprehending just as he had read the text of the status screen half-comprehending.

“Where is the vyer?” one of the delegates demands angrily. “It is he who presumed upon the war and rallied us under his mage’s right. It is he who must reply, his magic against theirs. Give us this same enchantment and we will master these foreign dogs as we have ever done.”

“If he does not show himself the host will soon lose faith in the cause.” The adjunct stands nearest to the commander, and looks toward the leader pleadingly. “It has been a year since we rescued him and we have seen him not once. Is he still recovering from his wounds?”

“We have not. We have not seen him once.”

The commander holds up his hands and he looks over at the men and his gaze lingers for a moment on the Ashen, who is the stranger in their midst. Then he places his hand in the basin, the liquid engulfing his hand and hardly moving in their displacement. “Among the spoils the vyer has found indication of its magic.”

In the morning the delegates venture once more to the pavilion on the hill. The trade winds blow in from the east and the smell of the battlefield has been swept away.

Inside the tent there is the commander and and the mage whom they call the vyer. The commander is tall, towering over the common soldier, and when he stands next to the mage the latter seems more animal than human. All had heard how the vyer had been tortured. But all had heard how the powers of mages were as mysterious as they were great. All had assumed he would soon heal. Yet they came now upon a broken body bearing the marks of the torturer and stinking of corruption. Once long ago the mage had been known as the Giant of Angduen. Nothing of that name remained in the atrophied form. The hair of the skull was white and withered. Silken wisps fell over a lipless mouth. A dry translucent film covered the eyes.

“Are you certain it…he understands?” asks the adjunct.

“He will not reply but he does understand what we have enjoined of him.”

As all true enmages require an altar, the commander had one set one up in the tent. The braziers no longer light the interior. A beam of sunshine floods through the smokehole and onto the stone table. The commander places the food and bows his head and utters the words “House Oeval”. The mage raises their head almost imperceptibly. The commander whispers rhythmically, his head bowed toward the table. After a time he stops whispering and gestures with a hand, the other taking hold of the altar.

At this signal the Ashen approaches the altar. When he comes close the commander seizes his neck. The Ashen does not have time to react, for the strength begins to drain from his muscles and all within him falls limp. His heartbeat and his breathing barely sustain him, his organs soften and fail. But something in his soul keeps the darkness at bay, though it threatens to flood his eyes.

A strong hand holds his hip, another holds him under his shoulder, another holds his wrist. His eyes are too weak to look other than straight ahead. A circle of black liquid, a sloughing away, the pale ceramic below his palm.

The next man who enters the pavilion is a spurned brother. When his neck is seized his body seems to wilt and the commander lets go, gritting his teeth in pain. The man screams for half a second, the sound coming as likely from his suffering as from a madness to breathe. The fingers of one hand spread outward so violently that they break and splay like the legs of a broken spider. The teeth shatter and redden his slightly parted lips. A joint breaks from spasm. The delegates watch. The man has long been dead but it is a while yet before his body rests.

With the next man they do not wait. The Ashen throws the corpse to the side before the body settles. Each of the spurned brothers enters. One by one they are brought there by the Ashen. And when they have all been brought to the altar there are half of the number left.