25th day of Tamir, 311 A.D., Kingdom of Arabist, the walls of Zadastra

Ash watched as his men rode through the gates and into the field, heavy armor glittering in the moonlight. Mingled among them were magicians whose staffs glowed with magical lights. The battle would begin soon. The battle would be the culmination of their entire military campaign. Victory would mean freedom for his men and defeat death. All the cards had been laid on the table and all bets closed. It was the turn to see did the house always win or not.

A month ago, when they had reached the impenetrable fortress, victory seemed but a wishful dream. Little did the Foul Legion know that their general had the ability to make dreams come true.

They had been ordered to build two catapults. No one knew what the general needed them for but he got what he had asked for in a day and a half. He then ordered them to dismember the corpses of the defeated and bombard Zadastra with the bodies of their own. Heads, arms, legs, and torsos filled the air, leaving bloody prints on the walls of the fortress and fear in the hearts of its defenders.

Day and night, the soldiers of Zadastra took turns trying to stop the legion’s march. Ash, going against the laws of war, poisoned the local wells and rivers, leaving the city without water. He also hired necromancers and warlocks to send plagues and diseases at his enemies and sent scouts to catch those who had failed to hide in the fortress. Unfortunately for them, they’d oftentimes meet a fate worse than death. Laughing manically, the soldiers raped and tortured, leaving their victims to die in agony. They showed no mercy.

Ash had released all possible horrors on Zadastra. He used everything he could come up with. His soldiers looked at him with both awe and horror, but also with respect. To them, Ash was the most daring and ruthless leader to have ever walked the roads of the thirteen kingdoms.

But with each new order, with each new brutality and sin done by his hand, Ash began to feel something that he did not yet understand. It was something that made him wake up in the middle of the night and stay up until dawn. It made his hands tremble and his heart race. Chest pains were common, as was nausea. Perhaps it was because of this that he didn’t let the scouts kill a young steed they had found, but instead gave it to the wolves to be raised as one of their own. Was he sick? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed to forget about it and occupy his mind with something else.

Ash rode in front of his troops. Two thousand warriors, hardened by the most terrible battles stared back at him. Ferocious, skilled, merciless, and bloodthirsty. This was the Foul Legion.

“Ernesto,” he said to one of the men in the front row. “Only the most respected and skilled men are put at the front... I remember when you broke through the enemy line at the battle of Zelts. Unarmed at that! I hope that you’ll be just as courageous today.”

“I serve the legion!” the man replied, striking his chest with his hand.

“Greb’dek, after each battle, your spear looks more like a skewer than a weapon. How many enemies will you kill today?”

“All of them, general! All but one! I left him alive for you!”

The legion burst out laughing.

Followed by Racker who held the legion’s banner adorned with a head of one of their enemies, Ash rode onward. The banner bore the picture of a demon devouring a screaming child. They couldn’t have picked better imagery to depict the Seventh Legion.

Myristal appeared in the east, heralding the beginning of the young night. The wind rushed to bring the travelers the long-awaited coolness from the Seven Seas. It would all be calm for a moment, but then everything would change. Zadastra would soon be hotter than any pit of Hell.

“Men,” Ash barked. “What do you see ahead?!”

“Nothing!”

“That’s right! Nothing! Just a whole bunch of cowards! Twenty days... For twenty days, they hid behind their walls while we watered their crops with blood! If nothing else, at least the harvest will be bountiful this year!”

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The men burst out laughing like a pack of hyenas. There was nothing human in their voices, only madness, and bloodlust.

“Today, we’ll either become immortal heroes or food for the vultures! Some of you, perhaps all of us, will never again grab the bosom of a wanton wench or see how good the local gentry is at dice! Some will return home with a couple of their limbs missing! But will any of that make us back down?!”

“No!”

“Are we afraid of these cowards?! These weaklings who hide behind their walls?! These nobodies that don’t even deserve to taste our steel?!”

“No!”

“That’s right! Tonight, men, we’ll dye the walls of Zadastra crimson. There’ll be no mercy! Kill everyone who stands in your way! Cut, burn, rip, tear, and rob! For tomorrow, you’ll be free and the law will forbid you from doing whatever you please! I have only one question left for you men... What are we going to do?!”

“Kill!” The soldiers roared.

“That’s right!” Ash nodded. “Blow the horns! Shout till your throats hurt! Today is our last feast so let’s make it a good one!!”

Horns and drums sounded in the distance. The legion’s hearts beat in time with their march. Putting on his helmet, Ash turned his horse and snapped the visor shut. Gripping the staff, he raised his hand high in the air and uttered a battle cry.

The light of torches flickered on Zadastra’s walls, ready to bring the flame to the wicks of the cannons. Steam was rising from the cauldrons filled with bubbling oil just waiting to be dropped on the heads of the assailants. Golden lights adorned the staffs and wands of the mages, casting a shimmer on the steel of muskets and arrowheads.

But the Foul Legion stood still, beating their shields with their blades to the sound of the war drums.

“General,” Racker exclaimed, adjusting his mask. “In case we die today and are reunited in Hell... This was one hell of a ride.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

“You’re in a good mood.” Racker grinned. “Good, that’s a sign of victory.”

Ash had no idea what his friend had meant by “one hell of a ride,” but it wasn’t like it mattered right now.

The young mage raised his hand. He stood in front of his men so that everyone could see him. It didn’t suit a general to sit in a tent, or a mage to fear a fight.

Clenching his hand into a fist, he yelled, “Charge!”

Spurring his horse, he rushed forward.

“Charge!” the soldiers shouted and followed their general.

Ash held his staff in front of him like a lance. The wood glew with an unbearably bright flame that soon engulfed him. His men shouted, their voices mixing with the sound of drums and horns, creating a grotesque composition that became the voice of death itself.

Zadastra’s defenders stood silent, staring at the fiery figure rushing at them. Ringing in their ears was the laughter of demons torn out of Hell itself. They nervously clutched their weapons and fearfully put their shields to their torsos. Their leader raised his hand. Some began to pray; others cursed the day they pledged their loyalty to their King.

“Attack!” their commander roared and sent his men to meet their fate.

Flames caressed the horse’s sides, reaching all the way to its hooves. Ash’s power was so great that even the staff couldn’t contain it. The flames seemed to pour out of it, greedily consuming the grass and the edges of its cloak. The horse neighed in fright as if it knew that if its rider got off it, it’d be reduced to a pile of ash.

Zadastra’s defenders formed a wedge, at the point of which stood a giant man clutching an even bigger ax. Wrapped in flames, with a cracked staff made of molten lava, Ash left decay in his wake as he rushed to meet his opponent.

The giant learned what it felt like when your heart skipped a beat. Just before the collision, he swung his ax and brought it down on his enemy’s head with an enraged shout.

Ash ignored the blade that cut through his helmet and drew a long line from his temple to his neck. Drops of scarlet fell on the obsidian cloak, but the young man raced on, eyes focused at the gates — the weak point of this impenetrable fortress. They haven’t yet been fully closed so he still had a chance to break through.

The sounds of battle echoed behind him. The two armies collided like two sea currents in a bloody maelstrom. The screams of the dying summoned the scavengers, attracting more and more crows and vultures.

The cannons thundered, but there were no cannonballs. Debris and burned bodies of the enemy mages fell off the walls. Last night, the Foul Legion’s assassins had disabled the cannons, causing them to malfunction. Battering rams and fireballs hit the thick stone. Smoke lifted into the sky, putting out the stars and obscuring the moon.

Ash raced on. Faces flickered before him, forever frozen in grimaces of horror. Dying gasps escaped their lips. The very armor that was supposed to save them turned to be their doom. Steel melted shut, boiling them alive. The horse, sensing that its life was nearing its end, raced with the speed of a bird of prey. Ash could hear Racker yelling behind him, cutting and burning through his enemies.

A terrible whistle reached the young man’s ears. The sky glittered with steel and the crows flew in fright toward the forest. Thousands of arrows and lead balls cut through the smoke. Ash outstretched his hand and sent a wave of fire at the sky, melting the lead and steel. A few stray bullets broke through the wall of flame and took a dozen lives with them. They, unlike people, didn’t distinguish between friend or foe.