“Dhienar’s favor rests upon us,” Jadal exclaimed, his dagger raised above a frightened goat strapped to a pillar. Unaware of its end, the animal trembled more at the thunder clapping across the skies than noticing Jadal’s fervent eye honing in where he would plunge his blade. The instant crimson splashed against his face, and Jadal raised his arms, widely embracing the blessings of the God he had faithfully worshiped. Although not the most prized of sacrifices, it would suffice for the God of Stars to bring him the prosperity he needed to increase his reach within Halimar.

“We could have sought harder for finer innocent blood, brother,” a woman’s voice uttered from the shadows, in a misty grove surrounded by flickering torches and creaky trees bellowing their displeasure of the storm’s escalating gale. Her face remained hidden beneath her cowl, but the image of her face did not escape Jadal’s mind. For he knew it well, intimately. When he turned, she came forth into the light of the torches, his half-sister, Eshel Selnith, luring him away from the carcass to embrace her lips. His hands moved perfervidly down her body, yet she clasped quickly to his hands.

“Our task is not complete,” she reminded him. “Save your passion for what lies ahead. For you shall need all of it to perform what is necessary.”

“Lokdur preserve me,” Jadal replied, removing his ceremonial garbs to reveal hardened white leather covering his whole body. “When we are through, you shall never refuse me again.”

Eshel grinned, vilely, and playfully rolled her eyes. She removed her over garbs to reveal her armor covering just the vital parts of her body, a white hardened leather like her half-brother, with a darkened tunic beneath. She favored the bow more than the blade, the opposite of Jadal, who remarkably did not know of any bladed weapon he could not masterfully handle. His hands grasped anxiously to the hilt of his saber as he strode out from the covering of trees, seeing the swarm of his troops standing in a trickling pattern of rain, a proper inception to the bloodshed about to ensue.

“Like most tyrants, he stands behind his men, upon the grassy knoll to overlook the onslaught,” Jadal spat. “He believes the ground is his due to his position. But the hills have been high all my life.”

“Uncle shall not last the night, my lord,” Eshel encouraged. “He remains there because he fears what you have become.”

“Father shall know it as well,” Jadal insisted to her, then stepped forward and raised his voice to address his army. “I go to the top of the knoll—I shall take the head of their commander, and send it in a piss barrel back to my father! Come with me if you seek glory! For I am one, and one is all I need. But should you seek glory, then fight and stand with me!”

He was not wrong. The legends of Jadal’s immortal prominence had spread wide across the land, even in the far corners of Halimar—of a white armored warrior undefeated in battle, unbeatable in combat. To impede his steps brought a swift demise. The front lines that stood before him would be no different. The many who stood with him were not great in stature, nor were they monumental in the ways of war. They were nothing more than an army of farmers, carpenters, merchants, and tradesmen. Though outmatched in weaponry and armor, they were not in tenacity, strength of heart, and numbers. Jadal held their hearts in a dream of a new way of life without the cruelty of an overlord.

Jadal’s father remained the last in the line of generals who fought to gain control of Halimar. The beatings he received as a boy nurtured rebellion in his soul, with no mother to comfort him. Yet in his father taking up another wife, Eshel befriended him quickly, as he often hid her from the promiscuous desires of his father. Eshel’s mother did not survive the cruelty of the general either, strangling her one night while in a raging, drunken stupor. It was the night Jadal grasped Esthel’s hand and they fled away into the night.

Promptly, muscles began sticking to his bones just as he reached adolescence, and his face chiseled into the form of a hardened warrior, feared by men, and desired by women. Yet only one woman kept him spellbound to her, growing in beauty almost as quickly as he grew in stature. She stood next to him now on the battlefield, drawing his attention up the knoll toward the enemy. There, next to their uncle, the one they hated more stood glaring at the uprising spread across the valley.

“No need to send our uncle's head,” Eshel motioned. “Father has finally come out to meet us face-to-face at last.”

“I shall hand him our uncle’s head regardless,” Jadal grinned, his breathing intensifying till he burst into a boisterous battle cry that set forth a trumpeting stampede of enraged villagers—armed with wooden tools honed to spears or clubs, axes, wooden shields, and other weapons acquired from previous skirmishes. With the amount of combatants present, the engagement appeared to hold the potential of being the last.

The front line rushed beyond Jadal, facing instant ruin as they splattered against spiked shields of heavy armored infantry. Seeing their advantage, they were ordered to march forward, a tactic Jadal counted on. In making it appear as if they were in retreat, Jadal lured the heavy infantry into the muddy soil to slow their pace, and where they held no knowledge that it was laced with oil. Archers lit their arrows, and stepped out from the treeline, firing into the heavy infantry. With Jadal’s forces cleared away, they now surrounded hundreds of heavily armored corpses, burning brightly in the downpour of the night skies.

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As the chaos ensued, Jadal’s father ordered more reserves to charge, many of which found themselves outmatched three-to-one. And despite them not being soldiers, Jadal’s forces did not fight like amateurs. Soon, their stout ferocity tore apart their enemy’s lines, reaching the bottom of the knoll. Yet the climb would not be so easy.

Tower shields formed like a robust fortress, protruding a spear wall with archers shooting down upon Jadal and his troops. Eshel brought up archers to assist but were forced to seek refuge among trees and rocks. Their father’s archers were precious in their aim, outmatching Eshel’s bows, and then persisted in returning focus to the main body climbing the hill. Jadal remained unphased, patiently waiting behind cover with his shield.

Behind his father’s forces came another multitude of warriors, clans from the southeast, paid with stolen gold and trinkets. They were of a different faith, but none believed in his father’s rule. Painted for war in a harsh hue of red, they carried shields of their own, axes, and short swords, but more so, the majority were adolescent boys brined with battle in their souls. When he heard their horns resound, Jadal charged up the knoll and sliced the ankles of an enemy fatigued from the onslaught. Feetless, the soldier tumbled down in agony, his screams plaguing his comrades with fear. From the one, the line of tower shields broke—their heavy armor slaying their balance. And they slid and tumbled to meet their end with Jadal’s warriors swarming over them like ants picking apart their prey.

Jadal’s father awaited him, his uncle already strewn in a bloody mess upon the ground. The battle had all but come to a halt, where cheers of victory began to arise. However, all went silent, except the storm howling. His father’s eyes remained locked on his, and Jadal’s arm tensed.

“Do not touch him!” Jadal exclaimed to soldiers approaching him. “Do not interfere. Less you wish to join his fate.”

An adamant circle opened, surrounding Jadal and his father, next to the lone tree atop the knoll. Jadal peered slightly upward. It was surely dead, but the branches appeared firm.

“I have imagined this moment many times, father,” Jadal huffed, his tone serene as if the outcome would be what he fathomed. “The thought of killing you has driven my soul in pleasure for many years. Now it comes to it, and I know just what I’ll do.”

“What is that, silly boy?” his father retorted.

“You shall see,” Jadal replied with a wicked grin.

No more words—the clash of sabers rang out. Eshel had made her way to the front of the circle, dawning an arrow, just in case. Yet as the skirmish played out, she could see Jadal’s confidence was not found in vanity nor the desire for glory. His skill outmatched his father’s because for years he remained dedicated to honing his body for the very cause of simply ending his father’s life. Jadal’s parries kept his father on his heels, not to toy with him, but to shame his father, to show him the son he deemed worthless had now grown to destroy his legacy. One stab, piercing his father’s weapon arm—forced him to switch hands. Another slice, through his father’s forearm—disarmed his bite. Next, quick footwork around his father’s defense, slicing the shoulder of his father’s shield arm—fully helpless. He tried to run but was thrown violently back toward Jadal, savoring the moment.

“You often called my mother a cow,” Jadal sighed. “In her last moments, you bled her out like one. It’s only fitting I give you the same.”

He commanded someone to bring him a rope as he laid his foot into his father’s chest. He stripped his father to his skin and then bound his feet. The branches of the dead wood were indeed strong enough to keep the bulky mass of a man aloft, as Jadal had him hoisted by his feet. And from there, Jadal gradually laid open his belly and stepped back to watch gravity rip out his entrails.

“Lokdur curse you for your cowardice, father,” Jadal uttered as Eshel came to stand by his side. “Your name shall never be remembered, yet your shame will be, forever.”

Ithuvell, a prominent young warrior from the southeast stepped into Jadal’s view. Covered in the blood of his enemies, he scarcely appeared human, though his face held a gentle countenance, something that drew Jadal to calm and trust.

“What say you Ithuvell?” Jadal asked.

“It appears we are victorious,” Ithuvell replied. “My people have not eaten in days to remain undiscovered for your strategy to succeed. If there is nothing further you wish to ask of us, then we will eat.”

Jadal smiled and nodded. As that was Ithuvell—a simple mind looking to the present, a man of a simple way of life. It made Jadal remember his envy of the young man, one he wouldn’t disdain to call his brother.

Four years before he campaigned against his father, he had met Ithuvell in his search for more allies. The clans to the southeast had fortunately fully united and were seeking to go to war with his father already. It was no feat to strike up a bargain. And they had fulfilled their end, following Jadal’s leadership into war. Now their realm had become their own, as was Jadal’s oath to them in assisting him to defeat his enemy.

In taking his father’s place, Jadal assisted the region to the southeast in choosing a mighty warrior to lead them. He advocated for Ithuvell, which was met with praise as in a year’s time, Ithuvell’s bravery in the war had spread to his kin. He was of athletic build, with a cheerful persona. Though tenderhearted and demure off the battlefield, his brutality and courage outshined his meekness when bloodshed was needed. His kin dawned him the sobriquet Dual-Edge for his renown as both mercy and ruthless, peace and war, life and death.