Twisting and blackened tendrils of smoke choke the clouds as beams of light fight to make their way to the muddy ground below. Torn and unmade, the muck swallows steps whole, squelching against boots and skin, pulling all down, deeper into the soil. Roaring fires devour the land, leaving trees decimated to a husk and charred earth in their place.

  Bodies are ripped apart, left only with the cries of the dying and the silence of the already dead. Steel and iron crash as one, a thunderous cacophony of screeching before metal finds flesh and bone. Adrift in the tide of horror, they cry out in their tongues; for help, for revenge, for their mothers. None will come to aid them.

  It is impossible to think. Movement is all there is. To stay still is to greet death at someone else’s hand. You have to fight against the weight of armor weighing down every step, against the burning in your arms as you swing your blade at another target.

  It is terrifying. Sweat rolls down your back as your hands shake. The adrenaline pumps through your veins kept you only a whisper before your end.

  Orders are shouted behind you, by men not yet splattered in blood and ichor. “Move forward!” They demand. “Face them! Kill them!” It matters little when all you want is to survive one second more.

  Roars are returned all around as the masses of bodies collide into one. Waves of souls clash against one another. Friends, foes, family, lovers, all die in a heartbeat of panic and chaos.

  There is no order. There is no noble purpose. The glory of battle has been shredded by the terrible reality that only war can bring. Speeches calling for a new age, a “Red Age of Man,” now die on the lips of those who had pledged to bring it about.

  Your banner, a black sun blocking the sky on a field of garnet red; does it fly high still? Or has the white of bone ripped it apart? Has the blood of men and monsters stained it beyond repair?

  You followed him; the Godslayer, the Kingmaker. Into nightmares, he protected you; he led you.

  But now?

  You see him. Surrounded by the whole of the foe, sword in hand, malice in his eyes.

  Eyes that gazed upon you once.

  A different time, in a different life, a different man.

  And the others? What drives them?

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Beasts and mutants alike fight just as hard as the men and women who claimed they were endangered by their very existence. “Evil fills their hearts. Malice drives them into violent action against us. We are the victims. That is why you fight, for freedom, for revenge. To protect those who can’t.”

  But why do the horned ones cry when they fall? Is there not despair in their eyes when you cut down their partners? Are dreams not torn asunder when your blade renders flesh from bone? Do they not beg and plead for their lives as they bleed out? Do they not shield another like you’d protect your own? What has this creature done to harm me? When I cut down its brother, do I rectify anything? Or do the mountain kin see us as the monsters? What balance is achieved by this? Will this bring back those I’ve lost? And now, as the light fades from their eyes, does someone back home mourn their loss? Will my brother mourn me?

  You know you aren’t supposed to think like that. Empathy and mercy, they will slow your blade. You try to bury it down, remember the times you wished for relief, and it never came.

  Another dies. More sticky ichor stains your face as you swing, trying to force the anger in, pushing the doubt away. A young one matches swords with you. His face is softer than his brethren’s, lacking the facial hair of its adult stages. The talisman of his cult swings around his neck, a mere initiate.

  A mere child.

  His light green eyes stare back at you, like the leaves in the heat of the summer sun. His mouth opens wide in shock as you twist, and the blood falls from his chest.

  Your anger changes then.

  Why is he here? Who gave him a sword and made his kind march here? It is a death sentence to meet you in battle, and someone else is at fault. You didn’t want this. You were supposed to slay the beasts and terrors, not watch as one of its battle brothers cry when the young one’s body slinks off your blade and into the mud.

  The scars of grief rip across their faces. A feeling you know all too well. You try to slow. You want to reach out and comfort them, but you can’t. The young one and its protector are swallowed by the storm of violence and are gone from your sight. The terror keeps moving, and before you are afforded the opportunity, another enemy must fall. Your body acts of its own accord as a sea of emotions tears you apart inside.

  A step, a twist, and a thrust.

  Your body keeps you alive regardless of your mind.

  A block, parry, and a slash.

  Your body is a machine of war. Forged in years of despair and loss, designed to kill.

  But distraction clouds you, and mistakes are made.

  A blade pierces past your guard, and hot pain flares across your side. The doubt and anger vanish, replaced by burning and panic. You falter and step back, allowing another to rise where you’d stood.

  You stumble in the mud, tripping over bodies and armor alike. Down your body falls, beneath the weight of your allies, submerged in an uncaring mass.

  Boots crush your hands, and your cries for help are drowned out by the hell raging around you. Metal and leather swarm over you.

  The sky, once endlessly blue, now stained yellow and black, slowly falls away. The last light of regret burns in your mind, a wish for more time, for another chance.

  You would pray, but the blood of gods stains your hands, leaving only the vast darkness to hear your cries. You scream for him, for them, for someone, but the exhaustion rips at you. Your savior, your leader.

  Please, put down the blade. Please, stop the bloodshed. Ajax, please come home to me.

  He will come.

  He must…