The sky was an ominous ashen red–its brilliance clouded by the tendrils of black mist which was covering the battlefield like fog. The mist emanated up from the ground like wraiths and drifted into the nearly unbreathable air, perforating confusion and manipulative thoughts of deception and corruptible desires. The people of Windem stood nearly eight thousand strong behind Akar and his loyal warriors, brainwashed by the Rot and the stench of Basidin’s power. They had convinced themselves that their line of thinking was noble. They ought to fight for a power that would provide for them, and Basidin had been that. He had promised them food and water amidst a dying land. The Denderrikan army stood before them, looming in the distance like tiny gray specks with blackened war spears and large destriers of war. The catapults were as big as towers, lining the rear of the Denderrikan lines where Saphira and High Lord Maltor sat and gazed upon the scene with great interest.

In the middle of the clearing between the two armies stood Basidin with Tristan kneeling before him. His head was bowed and his hands bound behind him. His hair was wet and greasy, falling over his eyes and paling in comparison to the stark black ground, that had formerly been luscious and thriving green grasses.

Saphira shifted in her seat, then descended it as graceful as one can imagine, her flowing black dress dragging behind her as she strutted her way to the front of the battle lines.

“What are you doing, m’lady?” called Xenotho.

“Waaaaiiiittt!” shouted Maltor, squirming like an anxious child. “Come back!”

Saphira ignored them. She smiled, her eyes glistening brightly amidst the dark magic that pulsated through her like a glowing jewel.

“Dalko–you’re with me,” said Saphira with hardly a glance.

Dalko started, pointing at himself and exchanging a confused look with Asherin and Kenton, who only shrugged. Kenton frowned as his warlord and good friend followed after Saphira. They walked beyond the Denderrikan ranks and made the long walk toward the center of the clearing where both armies watched on as Basidin held Tristan like an executioner preparing to commit the final act. His glowing sword of white power was the only light that could combat the black mists, creating an aura of dim white light within a neat twenty foot radius.

“You will prove your loyalty to me with one final act,” said Saphira, walking beside Dalko.

“One final act?” asked Dalko. “We are about to go into battle, m’lady.”

“There will be no battle,” said Saphira smugly. “But I am a woman of my word. You must do one thing for me to prove your devotion to me.”

“What would you have of me?” asked Dalko, his voice even and keel.

“You are going to slay the last Blackthorn, ending his family line.”

“And go against your prophecy? What of the words from your mouth that proclaimed him Ruler of Windem? Was that mere vanity?” said Dalko.

“The words were true prophecy, but that is why you must change his destiny.”

“Destiny?” asked Dalko. “Is destiny not but the same as prophecy? Call it destiny, call it fate, call it prophecy, the future is etched by powers greater than us. We cannot change it.”

“Do you want your freedom, Dalko Rivien, or not?” Saphira paused, facing Dalko with a dark look spread over her face. “I am sparing you from years of slavery. You will be free to go once you have taken the life of Tristan Blackthorn.”

“Can Basidin not commit this act, in his own terrible and mighty power?” asked Dalko.

“You will be an example of almighty devotion,” said Saphira. “Others will see what they can become if they succumb to myself and to Basidin.”

“You are siding with Basidin?” asked Dalko. They were walking again, and getting close.

“I was with Basidin in the Old Days, and after a thousand years we are to be united again. We must dispose of the one man in all the realm whose bloodline is responsible for Basidin’s thousand year solitude in Northrock,” said Saphira sneeringly.

“And what of the Denderrikans, whom we have dragged here through blood and sacrifice? This war that has been waged in the name of Denderrika and the High Lord Maltor?”

“It was not for nothing,” said Saphira. “The Denderrikans are here with good reason. They will be enslaved but they will feel as though they are free. They will be the army of the New Windem. Basidin and I shall rule together, and the citizens of Windem who stand at the other end of the battle field shall be the true slaves–tending to our crops, performing labor, keeping this nation healthy and strong.”

“This land is rot now,” said Dalko, subduing his anger. “There will be no crop to tend and no land to till.”

“You don’t know a thing, Ascendian,” spat Saphira seethingly. “Don’t test my patience–not now. Your moment is near. Do not waste your chance at freedom with insolence.”

“It’s not fair to my army,” said Dalko, stopping. “It’s not fair to anyone. Stop this madness now before it’s too late.”

But Saphira kept walking, and Dalko was left with no chance but to follow.

Dalko and Saphira arrived at the spot where Basidin stood waiting with Tristan, who was trembling. Basidin’s presence was burdening. Tristan’s head pounded in waves and his body ached. The fight with Elric had taken all of him. He had nothing left but his resolve.

“My bride,” said Basidin crudely. He smiled a terrible smile, his teeth long and sharp.

“Basidin,” said Saphira softly, admiring his form. “You are strong again.”

Basidin’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather creaking under his firm grip. “It is by this sword that I was freed from the Orc-eel, and it is by this sword that all of Windem will serve me…us.”

“I have brought an executioner,” said Saphira. She gestured to Dalko, who stood poised with a look of no expression on his face. The mist tried to wrap itself around him but recoiled at his strength. It would take more than the mists of Basidin to warp Dalko’s mind.

“An executioner?” questioned Basidin.

“He will be an example,” said Saphira. “Mighty acts of loyalty warrant big rewards. All of Windem will see. Our Denderrikan army will see.” Saphira swept a hand across the horizon of Denderrikans, “I brought my own gift. An entire army. They will serve us in our reign and extend our campaign across the realm. You won’t find better warriors anywhere.”

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Basidin swept his eyeless gaze across the battlefield as though noticing the Denderrikans for the first time. Black bats the size of a hawk came screeching through the sky, concealed by the black mists and shrieking like an eagle. Their wings fluttered loudly like the wings of a dragon–flying towards Rarington and then settling themselves along the parapets of the castle walls.

Basidin raised his sword before bringing it down in a harsh stroke, inserting the sword point first into the dirt. A ripple ran across the battlefield, churning up dirt and grass as it advanced towards the Denderrikan army and then behind them toward Akar’s men and Windem’s army behind them. Tendrils of black mist formed into strong ropes of black tar, coiling up from the ground and seizing both armies. The ambient mist of tar wrapped around their ankles and their wrists, binding them in place and causing groans and shouts of panic to ring out across the battlefield. Basidin laughed. Saphira smirked, drawing pleasure from the looks of betrayal from the Denderrikans.

Dalko bit his tongue, knowing it was useless to make an argument here. He glanced at Tristan, who kept his head hung and his back hunched.

“Do it now,” said Saphira. Dalko looked at the Sorceress, his eyes glimmering with distrust. “Slay him.”

Dalko withdrew his sword slowly, his blade singing as it rattled from its scabbard. A chill ran down Dalko’s spine followed by a sharp rush of heat. His brain registered a faint memory–like an undeniable bout of deja vu–in which Dalko remembered an old vision Saphira had implanted in him long before he’d ever known Tristan. The vision had shown him executing a young man in a clearing before a battle. The memory had faded, slipping his mind with the turning gears of time. Saphira had seen this moment coming–and had programmed Dalko for this moment, knowing that it could go against prophecy, and against fate.

Tristan lifted his head slowly, his eyes rising to meet Dalko’s. An unspoken treaty. Both men knew that it was helpless. Dalko had come for his freedom, and he was going to get it. He had suffered since birth under the demanding teachings of living like an Ascendian, and now he had a chance to start his life all over as a free man.

Dalko circled Tristan, coming behind him and spitting on the ground. He whirled his sword a few times, testing its weight as if it were a new sword. He kicked Tristan in the back, sending him sprawling to the ground with his hands still bound behind him.

“For freedom” whispered Dalko.

He freed Tristan’s hands in a flash, his blade snipping the bound rope like it were some dainty string. Tristan leaped to his feet with blinding speed, his body surging with adrenaline and a newfound purpose, yanking Basidin’s sword from the ground where its blade was still buried and wielding it with a great shout of pain.

Dalko slashed his sword across Saphira’s neck–cutting the Sorceress deeply. Dalko slashed again with a second stroke that sent her head toppling from her shoulders. Her body sagged, then collapsed.

Basidin, horrified by the death of his long lost bride, bellowed with grief, momentarily distracted and failing to notice that Tristan now wielded his sword. Tristan cried out in agony as white-hot pain seared through his body, jolting him like a shot of electricity. He grunted, straightening his body, before driving the blade through Basidin’s midriff, twisting the blade in Basidin’ stomach. Smoke drifted from the sword, hissing as it met the black mists which had dispersed into a thousand tiny droplets from the revulsion of Basidin’s body. Basidin’s hideous form rejected the sword, shaking and shrieking as his spirit departed from Elric’s body and swirled up like a tornado into the blackened sky. The large bats flew from the parapets of Rarington, crying like screeching eagles and following Basidin’s wraith form through the eastern sky and off into the distance–searching for something to inhabit to save itself.

Tristan dropped the sword. His hand was charred and the skin flayed from grasping such a sword of such power. But Basidin’s spirit had now left the blade and the hilt detached from the blade with a popping sound. Tristan grabbed the hilt of the sword, knowing its power was his to claim now. Myroniad was inside Castle Rarington somewhere–the sword blade tethered to its end with thick leather. Tristan frowned, surveying the battlefield. The tendrils of black misted tar now longer bound the two armies. Akar was standing perplexed, ushering his men away from the army of Windem who were no longer disillusioned and loyal to Basidin’s cause. The Rot had lost its luster and their thinking was clear again.

Tristan and Dalko exchanged glances, uncertain as to the other’s loyalty.

“You’re free,” said Tristan, comprehension dawning.

“I am free,” agreed Dalko. “But my army won’t turn back now. We’ve come too far.”

“We can avoid this,” said Tristan. “This war can end now.”

“It’s not my war,” said Dalko. “I had my reasons for leading the campaign, but there others in my camp who want Windem. High Lord Maltor still leads. My Ascendian friends, Xenotho and Enfallio, have ambition that cannot be tamed.”

“But you are their commander…their warlord,” said Tristan, insistence in his tone. “Have your army stand down. Let us draw up a peace treaty between our nations and end this.”

Dalko dropped his gaze, his heart heavy.

“Your emotions are real now,” said Tristan. Dalko was no longer under a curse and had free will over his emotions. “You should listen to them.” Tristan grabbed the hilt of the sword with no blade, turning to run toward Akar and his men who were fleeing as they realized their fate. A few men in the Windem army pursued them, but they quickly retreated and rejoined their ranks, realizing that the Denderrikan army was the real threat now. Akar and his men rode their horses off into the distance, disappearing from sight into the eastern woodland where Tristan and Salafar had first emerged less than a day prior with the Knights of Windem.

Basidin’s Servants had lost all their power at the fleeing of Basidin. Their pendants around their necks lost their red glow and their whispering enchantments went from ethereal magic to useless mutterings. Festal Crowe had been slain instantly by Nothelm, who then pushed past two Knights of Windem to hack down Breen Slate–who had still been muttering his enchantments in desperate hope that he could place a curse on Nothelm before he got to him. Fed Moltec and Marsh Geral ran after Akar’s men but fell hopelessly behind. They were hacked down by a handful of Salafar’s best men–Knights of Windem. Their swords swooped down on them like a hawk snagging trout from a pond, and then turned to rejoin the army which was being organized by a myriad of various men which was creating mass confusion.

Tristan rushed past the assembly of Windem’s remaining contingent. Nothelm stared at Tristan as he ran by, confused.

“Tristan!” he shouted, scowling as Tristan scampered past the Knights of Windem and past the free peoples of Windem. He crossed the moat and then ran through both gates to Rarington before turning a corner and disappearing out of sight into the depths of Rarington.

Outside the castle the air was beginning to clear and the black mist began to vanish. The low humming noise and the foul smell was diffusing as the Denderrikans readied their ranks for battle. Maltor had finished crying over Saphira’s beheading but had quickly taken to barking orders that went unheard by all but Xenotho and Enfallio, who needed no second telling to get their ranks readied for battle.

Dalko returned to his army, re-saddling his horse and mounting himself with a sour look over his face.

“Are you leading us into battle, lord?” asked Kenton.

Xenotho and Enfallio paused, curious themselves as to whether Dalko would desert them or join them.

Dalko paused a while, then nodded slowly. “I am a Denderrikan, after all. We’ve come this far…we may as well finish the job.”

“What about Tristan?” asked Asherin. “And Nothelm?”

Dalko shrugged, “What about them? They can make their own choice. This war isn’t about them. I will make a decision for the whole of a kingdom on the basis of two men.” Dalko reared his horse, trotting along the front lines of the Denderrikan army. The front line was a row of splendid war horses and men in black and gray plated armor. Their black war spears were angled forward, preparing to charge as a stampede.

“The forces of this realm’s great enemy has been defeated,” began Dalko. “We have all seen it. What now…stands in our way? Who can stand before us, denying us the final spoil of this war?” Dalko’s reached the end of the row of horses and spurred his horse back across the front line. “Now is the time that we take Windem’s capital. We take Stormhold, we take Windem. You fight not only for each other, but this kingdom. For your families–who await your return home!” Dalko uttered a few more battle words before turning his horse to face Windem’s ranks, which were under a mile away in front of Rarington’s gates. Enfallio and Xenotho pulled rank beside him, followed by Asherin and Kenton–Dalko’s two most trusted warriors.

“Sound the horn,” shouted Dalko. “This war ends today.”

Dalko spurred his horse, charging across the flat clearing with his sword raised, Xenotho and Enfallio at his side.

The War for Windem had begun.