Two Days Earlier

Enek’Chok, The Master of War, stepped out of his tent with a satisfied smile. All was going to plan, and he was supremely confident that things would continue that way.

Supremely confident. But not over-confident. There was a difference, he knew. Over-confidence left you unprepared for the inevitable, impossible to predict events that always took place in battle. Or, in this case, an invasion. He had been more presumptuous in his youth, taking needless risks for minimal gain. But he had learned much since then, and with knowledge came wisdom.

Now, he intentionally over-estimated his opponents. Assumed that his knowledge and preparation would not be enough, or even accurate. If his scouts told him the fighters ahead were only a dozen strong, he prepared for a hundred. If the rumors said there was a barking dog protecting the gate, he prepared for a dozen monstrous, snarling, hungry hell hounds.

If he was told the Godknight’s power was waning, he prepared as if his foe were as strong as ever.

Of course, if the Godknight was at full strength, this attack would be short-lived and disastrous. In that sense, this entire campaign was a gamble. But at some point, you had to trust your intelligence and make your move, however bold that move might be. And while needless risks were a thing of the past, being bold was not.

Enek’Chok had a collection of Enigma Cages stored and ready for use in battle, one of which, more than any other, promised to be a tide-turner. He didn’t think unleashing the glowing prism orb would be enough to win the battle outright… but he also could not dismiss the possibility. It all depended on not just the Godknight’s state, but the success of their opening assaults. Either way, it was a move guaranteed to shake the Godknight’s spirit and test his will, perhaps giving Enek’Chok just the opening he was anticipating.

The sun had already ducked behind the trees of the forest, giving the camp an eerie, dusk gloom. His troops were busy preparing fires for their meals, being cautious to keep them small and under control. The encampment had been set up a few hundred yards into the forest west of Brightholme, and staying undetected was critical. For now.

He walked to the forest’s edge and focused his attention east, towards Brightholme. A long stretch of open grassland lay ahead of them, which might have presented a challenge. His army was 50,000 strong—the largest he’d ever commanded, not including the beasts—and the initial approach would require stealth. But beyond the open grass stretched grassy, rolling hills, which would provide the needed cover. Once over those hills, it would be a short trek to the river, where they’d deploy the bridges with all due haste. And once over the river, stealth would be replaced with expediency.

“Quite pretty,” he said aloud, smiling. A shame they were going to have to trample all over it two days from now. But that was how war went. Things got trampled. And a lot of things were going to get trampled in Brightholme.

Enek’Chok turned back towards the camp, impressed at his army’s level of quiet. It wasn’t easy keeping the noise of 50,000 warriors to a minimum. But they were well trained and determined, confident in the righteousness of what they were doing.

Perhaps most importantly, they were disciplined. They had to be in order to be part of his army, and part of the Order. Theirs was a long journey of Ascension, and most of them were only at the beginning.

He walked among them, hands clasped behind his back, still smiling. He was a tall man with a stout build. His jet black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the top of his head, the remaining length flowing just above his shoulders. His dark complexion was overshadowed by the sigils on his face and neck, surrounding his left eye and continuing down his body, under his robes, until it reached the tops of his foot.

The designs of the sigils that members of the Order bore were virtually infinite, limited only by the will of Malphor, the Master of All, and one’s own soul. As one progressed along the path to Ascension, new sigils were added, each granting the bearer more gifts. Perhaps an increase in physical strength or speed, or new, unpredictable abilities.

The sigil over the Master of War’s eye was black and perhaps rather dull by some standards. But its simplicity suited him and somehow spoke to his own path. His eye was the centerpiece, with two wings springing out and away from it at a diagonal angle. On his temple was the outline of a bird of prey’s skull, eyeless and colorless.

Winged sigils were rare, and a great honor. It was an honor he did not take lightly.

It would also be his final sigil. He had reached Master Ascendance, his future more certain than most.

As Enek’Chok walked, the troops all began to rise and stand at attention, their hands quickly forming the Ascension salute: arm stretched straight out, left palm showing, fingers spread. Each and every one of their palms were marked. That mark wasn’t a magical sigil like the rest, if any, that might cover their bodies. Instead, it was the common Symbol of the Ascension, burnt into their flesh when they first became an Initiate of the Holy Ascension. Everybody, without exception, bore that mark.

Different people had different reactions to the mark. Some palms were discolored. For others, the mark might heal and leave the symbol indented, or perhaps raised. But the symbol itself was the same for all: a silhouette in the center, arms outstretched and looking upward, with angelic wings spread out behind it.

Enek’Chok put his hand out, motioned for his men to sit back down. “Sit, my friends. Eat. Rest,” he said as he walked. Some couldn’t help themselves, saluting anyway. Others returned his smile and went back to what they were doing.

He reached the tent of his Mystic, Naruza. It was heavily guarded by a pair of elite soldiers who did not smile or salute. They remained at their posts, backs straight, eyes ahead. He respected their dedication, silently honoring each with a subtle nod before making his entrance.

He found her how he usually found her: sitting in the lotus position, back straight, eyes closed. She was a small, thin woman with short white hair. Her calm expression and features belied the power she held within her. Not the kind of power to destroy; she wouldn’t be doing any fighting during this campaign. But her power and role were crucial nonetheless.

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“Hello, Enek’Chok,” she said without opening her eyes.

“Naruza,” he said. “Any change?” he asked, getting right to the point.

“Very little,” she answered. “He remains unaware. His power continues to dwindle. He is vulnerable.”

“You’re sure?”

She opened her eyes. It was a perfunctory question, of course. If Enek’Chok didn’t have absolute faith in her abilities and her connection to the Godknight, they wouldn’t be here.

“I’m sure.”

“Excellent,” he said. He turned and left, everything that needed to be said having been said.

Enek’Chok continued his walk, veering away from the front line and deeper into the forest. He had no trouble finding what he was looking for, the smell alone being enough to guide him.

Here the forest had been cut down, a necessity not just due to the size of the great beasts before him, but for the assortment of tools of war that accompanied them. That process alone, clearing a path through the long, thick woods, was a mammoth undertaking, impossible by anyone outside of the Order.

The great beasts themselves—the source of the foul stench—laid on their bellies, their eyes covered by thick black shrouds. He steered well clear of their heads, their flat snouts puffing out blasts of air with each grumbling exhale. Their thick legs were curled up beneath the matted fur of their torsos, their huge round heads bowed as if in subjugation. A long row of thick, sharp horns stretched across each of their brows.

A large woman—if Enek’Chok was considered stout, she was stout and then some—approached, a surly look on her weathered face.

“Sh’Tera,” Enek’Chok greeted her, pleasantly enough.

She stopped in front of him, grunted once. A black sigil sprouted from the top of her tunic, just touching her neck. She was Master of Beasts. But that didn’t mean she was a Master Ascendant. Yet.

The Qembils, stinking up the forest next to him, were by far the most impressive beasts under her command. But there were others, each with various roles to play, most of which were currently sleeping or feeding in the stables that traveled with Sh’Tera. The stables themselves were minor marvels, as strong and sturdy as the most well-built structures anywhere, yet able to be quickly constructed or deconstructed. It had been a long journey to the edge of Brightholme, and many stops had been necessary.

None of these creatures, no matter how large or fierce, frightened Enek’Chok. Except, perhaps, the Kaleese. Vile, disgusting abominations, he thought, grateful that they were currently safely out of view.

Vile and disgusting, but, like the Mystic, crucial.

“Have they been fed?” Enek’Chok asked Sh’Tera, referring to the Qembils.

“No,” she answered.

“Good.”

“They’re resting now. But there’s only so long even I can control hungry Qembils.”

“I understand,” Enek’Chok said. “Two more days, Master.”

Her face twisted in momentary disgust. Enek’Chok knew her well enough to understand why. Calling a fellow Master, an equal, by the term “Master” was a sign of respect. Sh’Tera had no interest in such things. She was the Master of Beasts for a reason. She hated people, was always more content to be around the beasts at her command. The few Initiates under her command, a necessity for constructing the stables and caring for the beasts, were rotated out regularly. She tired of them easily, and Enek’Chok worried she might actually feed them to her beasts.

“Is that all?” she asked.

Enek’Chok nodded. She turned on her heels and hastened away.

He shrugged, unperturbed by her brusqueness. He liked getting to the point, and liked others who did as well.

He continued on his tour of the camp, smiling and repeating his call for the troops to relax and rest.

He came to a small group of men and women gathered around a fighting circle. A pair of soldiers, unarmored, moved about inside, trading feints and jabs. The crowd cheered… but softly. None forgot why they were here or the need for stealth.

A younger man, tall and handsome, approached Enek’Chok with a dour expression on his face.

“Krun, my friend,” Enek’Chok said. “What’s troubling you?”

“Troubling?” Krun Kagles looked momentarily confused. “Oh, I’m not troubled, Master. I’m fine.”

Enek’Chok shook his head. Krun, though young, was one of his generals and would lead a sizable portion of troops once the invasion began. As such, he had Enek’Chok’s complete faith and trust. The Master suspected he already knew what was bothering the man. But better to let him say it.

“Your troops are ready?” Enek’Chok asked. Krun nodded. “Your orders are clear?” Krun nodded again. “Very well.”

He began to walk off. As he expected, Krun called after him. Enek’Chok smiled a knowing smile, letting it fade away before returning to Krun.

“Master,” Krun said. “I understand what a great opportunity this is. So many of these troops came from Brightholme after being sent down that blasted river. So many more would be willing to join us, I’m sure. If we could just—”

Enek’Chok put his hand on the man’s shoulder. Krun fell silent. His look was grim but not without empathy. “Krun, we’ve been over this. This is an invasion. It is not a recruitment drive. Any doubt or hesitation threatens you, your troops, the entire mission.”

“I know, Master,” Krun said. There was no disappointment in his eyes or his tone. He knew how this conversation was going to go, but felt duty bound to his own sense of morality to ask the question anyway. Enek’Chok respected him and his views but had no doubt that, once the fighting began, Krun would hold true and do what must be done.

“Once the fighting is over,” Enek’Chok continued, “any who remain will be given the same choice we all were given once. Swear allegiance to Malphor and the Order of the Holy Ascension and be spared. And become one of us, as an Initiate. One of the Fellowship of the Faithful.”

“And the rest?” Krun asked. Enek’Chok tilted his head sideways. Now this was a question that disappointed him.

Krun caught on quick. He stepped back and put out his hand in salute, revealing his own marking. “For the Ascension.”

“For the Ascension,” Enek’Chok agreed.

They parted ways. Enek’Chok continued walking.

He had great respect for this army. These soldiers. These warriors. Perhaps he even loved them. He was the Master of War, a master strategist and tactician, a born leader, and a great warrior himself. And these were his people.

And then he came upon Savina Frost.