The God of Death

To the North of the Southern Kingdoms lies the Valley of Sand, the only place to separate the South from the Northern Empire and the Guardians of these Sands are trained for death.

 

They marched as one.

A hundred thousand soldiers marched side by side through the windswept valley, their bronze armour turning a soft grey through the blowing sand, cracked were their skin and lips. Hundred thousand men it seemed, as if a horrific mirage. But he knew it was real, and he knew what had to happen.

Quad Bask could feel the sun beating down on his tanned back, but he was wrapped in a white cloth, looking like one of the dead, and he planned to use this. The Palm bow wrapped beneath his cloth was slightly uncomfortable, but after a while, he forgot about the pain of it digging into his stomach, for he had worse pain in his time. His blond hair was cropped short and barely one hair poked through the thin cloth, as the same was true for his whole body. He looked like a woman when he got up, but this cloth was as good as armour, lightweight, easy enough to remove and distract enemies, and he could have more room to fight without the burden of armour.

His arrows were lying in the sand beside him, a quiver with a dozen arrows, mixed in with the sand so as to fly straighter. The Gods had blessed them, the God of Sand, the God of War and the God of Wind. He waited in silence, not even fidgeting. They had been here three days, waiting for this army. To protect their home from the invaders, they must stop them in the Valley of Sand. These paths lead through the last desert into the Green Lands, and the glorious Empire. The other two have been blocked by forts but here, the fort of sand has crumbled to dust, a tumbled down section eaten away by erosion and battered by storms and rain. The forts of Stone or wood are scarce here, and Lord Karsh Ural of the Great Desert Lands cannot afford such a lot of money to bring in supplies from the Green Lands, so they must do what has to be done; destroy the army in the Valley of Sand.

Indeed it was the Valley of Sand, for the entire Valley held was sand for a hundred of miles and a worst nightmare for the armies, as the only way to cross relatively unharmed by enemies was this broken and deserted passage, under the protection of a meagre Lord such as the Urals, five sons of the Late Lady Fyfe and Lord Karsh. Five holds under his protection of the nine that was his father’s thirty years ago, two that were completely destroyed, and one that rebelled against the Urals rule and the last one was deserted completely.

They were marching, a general at the front of the endless stream of soldiers, one of the only horses left. In the Valley of Sand, only the toughest and the ones with the trained eye can survive the desert, so probably a quarter of the host at the most had been claimed by it.

The time had almost come. Quad shifted his position slightly to access his bow. The General and the Lieutenants had to die first.

Become a Mirage, a vision in the Heat, a gust of wind.

He got slowly to his knees, shifting into a comfortable position. He was at one of the tallest points of the valley, the Watchtower of Pikas behind him, or a pitiful excuse for one, as long ago it fell to one of the many invasions, and the rubble had almost all been taken by the sand.

He got into position and unslung his palm bow, putting an arrow and drawing it. One breath, deep in the belly, another through the mouth, he had to control and slow his breath. If he breathed through the nose, he learned long ago the consequences of it, and never wanted to have sand there again.

He arched his bow up high, checking the wind that fluttered the banners atop the Generals horse.

A poor mistake, one the General Red Hand will pay for dearly.

This legion was from the other side of the Waste, a vast Empire under the rule of the Newborn, the Golden Empire of the North of the Waste. Over there, valleys of fruit and Green flourished everywhere, harvests never seen before. Their prime mission was to end the three hundred year War that has been raging, but whether through peace or war, he knew the North was going to try and end it.

The War of the South, the Historians of long past has called it. A thousand armies over those years have marched to war, and most have not come back.

It started on the year of the Golden Flower, the celebration of the Millennium the Empire of the North. The Southern States, the States of Sand, broke away and struck at the Golden Empire, nine of the fifteen Southern Lords acclaiming themselves a new title to replace the Lordships, so they chose a King; King Pasay of the Fold Keep, a castle to the south of the Valley, in the Green Lands, the now capital of the South Kingdoms. But now Hazelheim has come back, what used to be the Middle of the Kingdoms, now turned to the Southern-most province of the Northern Empire.

 Quad had been ordered to end this. The Lord of Hazelheim himself was riding at the front of the Host, his body wrapped in bronze shielding, a thick armour, and well loose to suit his expertise of Hit and Run, as what warfare style he fights, which is the only way to survive a Forest invasion. The only way to give evidence that he was actually the Lord and not a squire or one of his subjects, was the double edged broadsword axe, an ugly looking piece of silver that was forged long ago. The hilt of it was as long as Basks forearm, and the blade as long as he was, and thicker than a tree trunk, the edge itself was made of Ice metal, a metal from before the Dawn of the Empire of the North, when Hazelheim was a small forest camp of savages. Half way up the actual blade was melted in there by skill and mastery still unknown to even the best forges today, a giant broad axe blade adorning it, something quite similar to what a lumber man would wield but it was made out of Fire Metal, a type of stone that could be sharper than metal and sported blood red fissures and cracks over it. The other side of the blade was something like a pick, a curved and gnarled blade made from Death Metal from the Shadow forests, a black star metal that fell from the heavens long ago. It was a symbol of the Ancient Times, when Oaksage himself lead the barbarians out of the Province of Hazelheim to conquer the world, and the metal showing the places he went, but now a thousand years later Lord Oakwood Hazel himself, Ancester to Oaksage, carried it to war in the South into the Desert Lands.

It must not reach the Green Lands.

Bask arched up his bow, his shoulders loose and his arms tight, and breathed again, feeling the strain. He breathed low and slowly and loosed the arrow with a thunk of his bow. He traced his eyes to the sky, praying to the God of Sky to guide his arrow to the place. He grabbed another one out of the ground and aimed just below, stretching the bow backwards again and without aiming shot it.

No time to think, move! He grabbed his arrows and moved inside the cover of the tower, climbing up to the top to hear the first scream, but a second didn’t join. His arrow was almost onto the ground but not quite.

But it hit the sandy floor of the desert in a puff of dust, precisely where he wanted it to land.

He grabbed another three arrows from his quiver; he armed his bow and fired.

The skies turned black as if a cloud had joined the deathly arid sky. He looked on with grim eyes as the army of Hazelheim looked up in horror as the black cloud landed towards them.

A dozen fell before they knew what to do, and many more ending up with Sand glass arrows slicing through their boiled leather and silver armour. The weary army of the North had now joined battle with the ghosts of the Valley.

Quad loosed another arrow into the air and jumped down to the bottom level just as a Basilisk bolt smashed through the broken tower, sending debris flying everywhere.

Bask shielded himself and moved into the open, the tower now not safe. He moved into the open, sliding in another arrow into his bow, arching high and firing. He could hear the screams of the dying as Medics ran through the field.

The dust settled around his first arrow, and the real war began.

Once corpses of skeleton and bone, corpses long dried and hungry, stumbled to life, a hundred more ghosts amid the sands of time, wrapped in cloth and sun dried flesh. Their Varxen, a curved hooked blade with a whip on the other side of the hilt, uncoiled and slashed forward, cutting a dozen men down before the real threat was realised.

Three arrows left. Quad grabbed the last of his quiver, leaving the quiver behind, ran down the sand, quiet, a mirage, a ghost amid the sands. Every other Ghost of his small army did the same.

He was picking up speed quickly, grabbing his three arrows and notching them in his bow. He arched the bow as he ran, picking up right, and fired into the air, and he dropped the string from the bow, letting it fly into the wind.

His bow was really a double edged throwing spear which he turned into a makeshift bow, as did the rest of his company.

Bask picked up his pace downhill and twisted, jumping just as he hit the bottom of the sands. The valley below was half rock, half of the grain itself. His feet touched the baking hot sand, but his gnarled resistance to it just let him shrug off the pain. He sprinted, his heart pumping wildly, his stomach empty and rumbling, and his cloth unwrapping itself on him.

He threw off the cloth, showing tanned Reptile skin covering him, armour which was common amongst the Ghosts, as everyone had them. As hard as plated shielding that the Northerners and Greenlanders used, but as light-weight as leather itself.

He sprinted near the edge of the middle valley, where the most sand in the middle was, a deep, dug out area worn with erosion and the Gods, to see the swirling melee. The Lord of Hazelheim was no fool, peeling off one of his silver kin to fight with the Ghosts in the melee, and his force pushed forward, charging the cliffs in the great distance before the Greenland. The final stop before the armies invade and with the war down south of the Greenland, they were a last hope, or the North will climb.

The Ghosts were starting to get cut down, one by one they were going down, half the Valley’s army.

He was posted before the cliffs, probably a hundred and fifty steps off. He flipped the spear in his grip, testing the weight as if for the first time. A body landed next to Bask, he glanced over calmly to nod to one of his men, a small reedy boy of the age of seventeen, but a good ghost nonetheless. He nodded and the kid nodded back, fear in his eyes. The last of the army lined the valley, almost five hundred souls all up.

The other ghosts had been slaughtered, but they knew what was going to happen, and took it with honour. The old, the dishonoured and worse of the army, even the least trained, had just been killed. There were nine left against maybe thirty out of the regiment that went to face them. Re-enforcements came from the enemy, knights without horses, lances and throwing spears along with crude, pointed things from the North beared down on them, the blood and the gore seeping into the sand and rock itself as they smashed Vaehls Khajjhall, the leader of the Ghosts down and speared him through the heart where a dozen arrows sticking out of him had failed.

The North was almost at the Gates to the South, but had one more obstacle before they could.

Bask aimed the spear, testing the weight once again just to make sure, keeping his calm in the face of the enemy. He was bred to die after all; not dying is a punishment he didn’t want to face. He thought about Hermix, with her golden flowing locks and sandy brown eyes, the way they cuddled in bed, huddling together naked in an embrace of passionate love. How she always used to taunt him.

But if one single soldier came back before the seven years of service had passed, the punishment was death and rape of the woman they love, and he didn’t want to face that. He just had one more full rotation before going home, and he really didn’t want to miss it because of the North.

He flipped the spear in his grip when the time was ripe and jumped out of the relative cover of the rocks, chucking the spear with all his strength.

It flew through the air, sailing elegantly and on target, blood thirsty for the kill of a king.

“LOOK OUT SIR!” With that, he knew he had failed. A sense of anger and resentment filled inside of him, and with a silent roar, he grabbed the Pkashks, a hooked blade with a spear attached to the end of the shaft, and stepped off the rock, descending with a fury only he knew inside of him. More took up the cry as they chucked their spears or flung their knives, and descended, running on a slight downwards slope, which was lined with sand.

Bask slammed into one of the Silver men and bowled the Iron Giant over and opened his throat with his spear, the point driving through armour and into the flesh and bone of the reeling man. He twisted the blade out and twirled the blade in his hand, twisting around a blade, before he sliced the man’s arm open, the muscle and sinew broken and pumping blood, and he got behind the man, opening his throat with  the blade.

The Battle fury was on him, as he lunged into a bloody melee with three of the Northmen. One of them, dressed in white plate, thrust his shield with a spike through the middle of it at Bask, but it hit only thin air as Bask twisted out of the way and grabbed onto the shield, wrenching it forward before he stabbed down with his sword, feeling the sharp metal slide through the chink in the Iron Mans armour just at the elbow, and the blade pierced through bone and flesh, spraying the Red Life force all over the green scale and white metal. Bask wrenched the blade out, before kicking the Knight away.

The Knight screamed in his armour as red liquid started to stain his gauntlet and upper plating, but rose nonetheless. They were tough, he would give them that, but foolish.

Bask ducked under the knights pitiful blow and got under his defence, before he opened the visor and stabbed down through the stunned knights face, the long edge puncturing and spraying liquid everywhere. The knight fell like a sack of potatoes with the small spear through his face.

Four men-at-arms charged him, Northerners with long metal shields and chainmail with an Oak Tree emblazoned on their helms and their shields. Bask tried to wrench out his weapon from the fallen knight but the blade was twisted through the back helm he guessed, or maybe it was the bone. It didn’t matter; all that did was that he was going to die if he didn’t get his blade out. The knight was too heavy in the Iron and steel of his armour.

Bask started to panic, No this can’t be happening, he thought desperately. They were almost on him, shouting and making too much noise for his liking, their pale skin reddening against the beat of the sun. Bask left the blade in the knight’s head and picked up the closest thing to him. It was a wooden spear from the North, left by a man in boiled leather and chainmail from the North lying just two meters away, well the body anyway.

Calm yourself, just focus on the man in front and behind you and to the side of you, he thought, remembering the agonising training when he was recruited into the Dead Army of the Sands. An outrider they thought, one for the desert, so had put him here with Bandits, thieves, boys and girls not yet reaching maturity, prostitutes, murderers, rapists, and old men to die in the Valley of Sand. He was a farmer before the recruitment, harvesting and driving herds of animals from the Northern Sands to sell in the Greenland’s. But when the call to arms went up, he was seized running Reptiles to one of the holds, vile creatures from the Red Lands. They brought him here to the Borderlands of the Valley of Sand to protect the realm against the Northern Lands and the Core.

He thrust the spear forwards and the men-at-arms stumbled back before they were impaled on the slightly dulled edge. He brought the spear over his head and spun it over his head and smashed it into the nearest shield. It caught the edge of the shield and Bask wrenched the stunned Northman’s shield away from his body and barrelled into him.

They went stumbling in the sand, wrestling against each other on the sand slick with blood, sticking into his plated scales. He landed on top but the knight got the first blow, his mailed fist crashing into Basks face, sending him reeling and landing by the legs of the mailed man.

Bask began to crawl slowly, feeling a huge pain in his chest, Rib’s broken, he thought.

He felt cold metal take hold of his leg, an iron grip that strangled his leg and pulled him back, sliding him from his target.

He finally grabbed hold of a metal edged shield, and on the wooden part of the shield it sported a golden oak and on the middle was a flaring sun. He grabbed hold of the edge, biting back tears of pain as the cold metal dug into his almond coloured hand and drew blood, another drop to add to the searing Sand that was cooking him slowly inside of his armour. He twisted in the Northman’s grip and battered the dagger away with the shield and stabbed down onto the man’s elbow, biting through the mail and into flesh and then it reached the bone. The man screamed and howled as Bask grabbed back the shield and with a savage strength, Bask smashed the sharpened edge of the shield into the nose of the man, cutting through his flesh and bone, and slid almost gracefully into the man’s head and with that blood and brain spurted all over him and into the sand.

He jumped over to face the two enemies, staring at him and almost hesitant to approach. He snatched up the dagger by the side and slid the surprisingly light shield into his grip and rose, feeling his rib ache dully.

He almost stumbled into first man-at-arms grip, grabbing the top of the rectangle shield and savagely pulled it down, making the soldier stumble. He then precisely delivered a dagger blow to the eye of the gasping soldier, and red sprayed everywhere onto him, coating his dagger and some of his chest.

The third man threw down his short sword, and put up his hands, going down to his knees. “I surrender, please! I submit to be your prisoner!” He pleaded, and Bask could see a darkening patch in his breeches. He almost felt sorry for the soldier. He walked up to the soldier and grabbed his locks of black hair roughly. Sorry, he wanted to say.

He slashed at the man’s throat, opening and cutting through the throat of the soldier and let the man tumble from his grip. The law of the Empire was to never take prisoners, to never show mercy. It was shown to him by his commanders when he was trained, by his mother when he was birthed at her bosom, and by all the people he had ever known. To yield or accept someone was to accept that you were weak, and you should rather die than accept surrender to either your enemies or your friends.

He twirled the dagger in his hands, before picking up his spear lying on the ground. He aimed, judging the wind speed and the weight of the weapon in his hands in a second, before arching his arm up high and with motion sent the spear flying, whistling through the air almost gracefully before it planted itself into a cheering Northman’s chest, sending the corpse tumbling. His sister on the floor, Freya Polkaed leapt to her feet as he reached the small group around her, preparing to rape her and give her a red smile. One of them, a giant of muscle and fat with a bald head with tattoos around the side of the head, ran head first into him, roaring with glee. Bask twirled the dagger in his hand as he leapt into the air to meet the charge of the barbarian.

The giant stepped back a few feet, stunned by the sudden impact of a small man gripping onto his broad shoulders. Bask drove the shield into the giants face and it granted the perfect opportunity. The barbarians neck soon filled with the red substance as stabbed down into behind his collar bone. It sprayed all over him as the barbarian fell to the floor, dead before he smashed into the soft sand. Bask creaked his neck and sprinted from the corpse, running towards the bloodshed not ten meters from him. He raised his shield as arrows thrummed past him from one of the few surviving Northmen archers left. He leapt into the air, landing on the balls of his feet and ignoring the sudden searing pain in his right arm.

He landed in front of the archer and blocked the flurry of clumsy blows made by the now desperate archer as he tried to land a blow with his wooden bow. He grabbed hold of the bow with his callused hands and wrenched forward and the stumbling archer with it. The blade sunk through the chainmail and pierced through the flesh and bone of the ribcage to the heart. Bask twisted the blade and pulled it out and grabbed the bow, pulling out another arrow from the depleted quiver of nine arrows. He hissed internally at the pain as he tightened the bow with his right hand. A poorly kept bow, with brittle and barely worth wood, with little flexibility, but it would do.

He drew the bow string as he drew a breath to become slimmer and pulled the bow string to his cheek and without waiting or aiming, fired.

His shot landed exactly where he wanted it to go and an Iron Man fell down, blood coating that polished armour of his. He drew another arrow and fired, and with a thrum it caught a Northman through the belly, right where the chainmail was broken by a weapon, though which and by whose side he couldn’t say.

Dusk was almost upon them, thirty more minutes more and the battlefield will be theirs to rule, but also it would be harder to pull away.

Focus on the real mission; he wanted to yell to himself. He nodded to the sister he saved and with her a pile of broken bodies and a small force consisting of nine of them. He jumped over to them and armed the bow once more for battle. They had to end this battle and send them running. Their plan was in motion from now.

It had been the plan to fall upon them at the break of night, with fires blazing it would be easy to fall upon the camp and slaughter the army, but they force marched here, so the men were tired, but it was daybreak, and they were armed and ready for war. The entire group of archers on the hills like him were the ones who were ready and willing to die, the old who were half blind, cripples, rapists and murderers, ones who could barely wield a sword. The ones he was among were the more elite infantry; those who could shoot, fight and throw as well as they could make war. Three brothers and six sisters stood before him, two of which were among the few good soldiers who lied in the sand.

He arched the bow up wide and without a hesitation in the world; he loosed the arrow, the one surviving arrow from his original quiver and ran with the others in the middle of the small pack.

The survivors, who still survived, a few more than expected, joined them in their dash to the front of the column, interlocking their shields. He lost his a few days before the battle, fighting a Cobra Corpse, one of the dangers in this part of the world, along with half a quiver of arrows and two brothers.

He jumped from the small shield wall and loosed his arrow and it struck true to one of the Iron Men with a visor open. He took the folly with an arrow through the mouth as he was trying to rally his battered men-at-arms. In his glimpse he could see that five, maybe eight dozen, had survived the ordeal, and doing the same as them, interlocking shields and advancing forwards, and with only arrows and hand weapons to try and destroy them, the Northmen were falling back or falling to the lines. Some tried to charge and ended up with swords through their guts.

He heard a whinny. He jumped up to fire and instead of seeing a few men-at-arms saw a straight line of shield walls in front of him, with around a dozen lustrous black horses facing him. He quickly loosed his arrow and jumped up again with another three.

Three knights’ on the horses had fallen off and been claimed by the Sands, but more reared into battle. He touched sister Ayleen on the shoulder twice. She nodded gravely and tapped onwards.

The knights charged, breaking off into teams of three to attack each of the walls. They were the last hope of the Hazelheim forces he realised as he jumped up again. He aimed not for the horses and their riders, but for the knight marching his soldiers downwards. He drew the bow and loosed as the man had his head turned towards the slow moving wall of steel behind him. It dug right in his neck and he toppled from his horse into the sand. He jumped up again and this time shot one of the horses riding towards his host. The arrow shot right into the eye of the Northern horse and with one final buck it toppled off the Iron man in the saddle, sending him sprawling into the sands. The iron man rose slowly and unsteadily and with a few stumbles he charged the wall and ended up with half a dozen bloody holes through his armour that was meant to be protecting him.

Bask knelt down, becoming a small man he used to be. Brother Hlastr was the first to fall. A huge spear punctured through his shield and then through his Scaled Helm made of Rams Hide. He fell but yet was a man true to his word, he didn’t scream or beg or plead like a coward or a weakling, and he just stood there mute, watching with eyes of defeat as he was left behind. He was dead by the time he was out of the shield wall.

A huge lumbering behemoth rumbled forward, one of the few that escaped the initial slaughter. It made a creak and a whistle as the arm of the God Machine of the North launched into the air a grey stone the size of a man’s head. It smashed into sand behind Bask. The second one was luckier. It smashed into one of the shield walls, smashing it apart and killing half a dozen before the enemy launched a hail of arrows into the air, blocking out the sun for a second before falling among the shattered brothers and sisters. Four fell before they could get their shields up and others joined them in their folly.

Basks shield wall was almost among the Iron Men, the horsemen leaving them alone for the time, harrying the smaller and not as defended shield walls. The sun was starting to set, sending shadows flying in every direction.

The archers were starting to run low on bolts, and the men-at-arms were weary and bloodied, but so to were his troops. Even without the talking, the whole strength of the army could barely be a Centurion left compared to still the thousand that still lived. But he knew his soldiers would fight and that was all he cared about. These Northmen were easy; pieces of meat and flesh that is easily chopped down by a sword. Compared to the other horrors Bask had seen and the things stirring up this moon cycle, he was surprised to see the army in one piece.

They were almost upon the single line shield wall. Five of them had fallen already to the arrows and Bask had to become part of the wall to just keep the arrows out, but still they came like an endless rain. Sister Tolasse fell from the shield wall, an arrow through her throat. Bask slid half way between his and her position. A couple of meters until the wall Bask had lost seven… No make those eight soldiers to the arrows.

Bask tapped hit the shield into the floor and sprinted as fast as he could, the Northman dagger and the half metal shield in his hands and with the shield held up high he charged the wall.

He kicked the nearest shield, causing the northerner to stumble, in which he flipped around the shield and managed to get behind the man and slit his throat, spraying a fresh load of blood into everyone around him and just like that, the wall of the North fell.

Bask battered a spear away and thrust with his dagger, but only met metal and wood. He parried an axe blow with his shoulder armour, feeling a strain in his shoulders and the searing pain. Bask smashed the man away with his shield before swinging it towards the man. The edge of the shield caught a mailed fist, but not the one he was attacking. Bask brought his dagger around as the man lowered his shield to scream in pain. The point of the dagger found a point in his visor and he fell forward onto Bask. Bask internally grunted and grabbed the man’s shoulders and flung him forward into the soldier. The soldier toppled with the corpse, getting himself pinned underneath the corpse.

Bask grabbed with both hands and sprinted forwards, kicking up dust and sand with each footstep. An archer appeared, arming his bow with the string that had partially snapped, replacing it with a new one. Bask grabbed a handful of sand, his only best friend in these times, and held it there. No wind was present, the area calm and a peaceful sunset ensured, setting the land in shades of orange and purple. It was the most beautiful sunset Bask had ever known; to live on the peak of sunset in the midst of a battle.

He chucked the soft but grainy sand forward just as the bowman was putting a bolt into the bow. It hit his eyes and he stumbled back a little bit, but still armed the bow. Bask kicked the sand up, sending a spray of it into the bowman who with his desperate and frightened eyes, who now was partially blind. The bolt arched a little and fell uselessly back into the sand. Bask rammed into the man, sending his arm screaming in agony and they went sprawling into the sand. They tumbled on the sun baked rock, bouncing and tumbling. The archer tried to stab him with a bolt but Bask smashed the man in the face with a hand sized rock and pushed the unconscious man off him, bringing down the rock onto his temple, breaking the skin and causing blood to swim out of the wound.

Bask puffed violently, but pushed himself to his feet. His shield was gone, the straps had come loose. His dagger was behind the shield wall and the fighting was almost deserted here. Where was he?

A north man gaped at him, but edged with his five troops around him and held up their shields. Bask grabbed the bow and strung it with an arrow. He pulled the bow until the string was taught and let go, sending the arrow whistling. The leader raised his shield and the bolt stuck right in the middle of the shield, where his heart was.

They all started to roar and with a fury Bask hadn’t seen, charged. Bask started backing away, he couldn’t face them alone with the bow, they were chain mailed heavily and one of them had a pike in hands, another with a maul, two with swords and the last one with a flail. He had no chance against them.

Bask turned around and started running but he had already had a plan in his head. A huge edge appeared before him, a scar from a thousand years ago when the last necromancer attacked the South men before their society rose. The darkness was creeping around this hole as if it was a swirling darkness wanting to swallow the world whole.

Bask dropped without a hesitation.

 

Bask squeezed his bow, breathing through his nose. The night was upon them, past midnight. He was on top of the cliff, with nine arrows left in the quiver. The crack where he fell was the middle of what was left. Barely a third of the northerners had survived, but that third was enough to destroy the small army that defended the Green lands. Lord Hazelheim was still with the tattered Northmen, a holy figure that clove nine of his brothers and sisters in half with that terror hybrid of a blade. His tent was pitched, a marvellous tent glowing gold and orange from the heart in the middle. Campfire smoke was everywhere, burning the bodies of both the dead. Tents and other shelters were erected everywhere hastily; some made from dead or dying animals, some scavenged and some even sought shelter in the crumbling towers of sandstone.

Bask scanned around to try and find the patrols. The north men were getting slack and not one single walking torch illuminated through the camp site.

Perfect, he thought. We will feast on their bones and make them wish they had never crossed into the Valley of Sand.

He had already sent some of his brothers and sisters into the towers and outlying areas to kill the Northerners there, but the main advance was going to the heart of the camp.

He drew back his bow and rolled his neck. Now or the dawn will come. It was five hours til dawn, but the battle in the sun will mean heavy losses on his side. He placed an arrow into the strings and drew back the bowstring to his cheek and arched high. He was balancing on top of the ridge of the crack where he hid after the battle. Barely a fifth of his force remained from the battle. His brothers and sisters had taken a heavy toll on the enemy but even so the enemy had killed almost all of them. They were a shadow of what was once the army of thousands that stood in these sands to say their vows the ghosts of the Valley.

Some of his brothers and sisters had been captured, hidden in cages in one of the only tents that didn’t have a fire before it. Some of his brothers were sharing mead and meat with the Northerners and some of his sisters bedding the men of the North.

He let the arrow fly and watched with dark eyes the arrow find its mark. The fire blanketed the arrow swiftly as it caught the nearest tent and turned the dry shelter into a fireball and the laughing into screams that were music to his ears.

He twisted his head and nodded to the nineteen of his small company. They nodded back and as one jumped over the lip and soundlessly slipped into the camp. The screams echoed everywhere as soldiers of the North quit what they were doing and ran over with buckets of water and other things, distracted by the tent.

Fools.

Hazelheim himself barrelled out of the tent and ran towards the fires. No, don’t, just hide in your tent and leave it alone. But the Northerner disregarded the mental plea and kept striding towards the camp.

They got to the first campsite. It was three men-at-arms cheering and babbling in some foreign language and laughing, though Bask didn’t need words to figure out what they were saying. They think they’ve won the war and now are getting out of the desert alive.

They were too drunk, with one of the men-at-arms with a hand down Sister Okras’ battle dress as she kept kissing him.

Bask aimed at the first man-at-arms in range and without a moment’s hesitation let the arrow fly, catching the soldier in the throat. He spattered blood and fell into the fire, his face going up into flames. The second one caught one in the belly and another one in the heart. The third was a pulped mess by the time Bask lead the men there, the woman nodding to him as she twisted the gnarled northern blade out of the belly of the Northman.

One came blustering out of the tent and fell onto the floor without a head. More heard the noise, but they must’ve been thirty meters away and so didn’t see the men fell. Bask grabbed one of the thin palm logs and let it fly from bow randomly. He grabbed a quiver with twenty arrows and surprisingly a Duskblade; a straight ebony sword and common in the Greenland’s. They sprinted onto the next camp and set the oak shelter on fire and sending the Northerners fleeing, hunting them mercilessly.

He sent another five arrows flying, feeling the thrill of battle in his veins. He grabbed three arrows and acting without another thought sent them straight through the hide skinned tent and heard a scream as it went up. He threw away the bow, no longer needing it in the wake of the tent raid.

He ducked into a tent where a Northerner was drowsing off and sent him into a wakeless sleep with a swing of the Duskblade. He found one of his sisters beside him, curled into sleep. She has failed her duty. He touched her lightly on the shoulder and woke her. Her drowsy eyes blinked as they lifted towards his and fear overtook them. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her naked from the sheets. She tried to struggle but he still pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, naked and tripping over to try and defend herself.

“Please Brother Bask, no, no. Please don’t kill me, I did as you…” She tried to force her mouth close but it wasn’t working. Sister Bellel she was named. She tried to stammer it out, trying to back away and find an opening. She had been trained beside him since training and they loved many times, but she just broke her vow and fell asleep at her post. She also showed her true colours, the voice to only be used among allies. Lords give her the rest she needs in the Stars.

She ran at him, trying to barrel past him. He held up his blade and stabbed forwards and she slid right onto the blade. Her eyes widened as her body went limp. He lowered her to the floor, discarding the ebony sword. He kissed her lightly on the lips and laid her in her final resting place but couldn’t cry. She and he had always fantasised about life after the service ended, moving into a house by the Rainy Shores, with a small holdfast and some lands and she giving him many sons and daughters as they would live out their days.

He grabbed his sword from the floor and exited to behold a beautifully terrible thing. Arrows rained down upon the many campers as his soldiers set on fire the tents and slaughtered the inhabitants.

Three others stood with him. He nodded to Sister Uki with her twenty sided flail, Brother Adak with his spinning twin eight sided blades and Sister Iowa and her northern hand axe and round metal shield and a half helm.

The Slayers of Grimm’s Reach. Five weeks ago, twenty five of them including him and his band had set out to kill a hooded necromancer who claimed himself death. Of the twenty five, eight trudged back, of which were said to have a curse to die the most gruesome deaths ever imagined. One died by a Red Scorpion sting, clinging onto life for three days and dying in tremendous pain. Two were captured and stripped and flayed by a necromancer by the name of Handler. One was captured by sellswords and raped, mutilated and tortured to death. Only four were left surprisingly, where the others were better in their skills and arms than our surviving companions.

He nodded to them and pointed with a bloodied finger over to the Lord of Hazelheim as he was trying to assemble some form of order as their brothers and sisters ran rampart, killing and maiming from the inside and the outside of the camp, slitting slumbering throats and being locked in combat.

Hazelheim was a spectre amongst the small crowd, a glowing man with his hybrid weapon and his white cloaked guardsmen and small force of leather clad men and ironmen around him rallying into his presence. Bask had to end this.

Bask held his blade so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He took one breath and seized his strength. Be the Bones in the Sand, the Whistle in the Wind, and the Silence in the Brushes, for we are death and the line of defence of all that is evil. ‘As the original stones say, and by these and the Gods of the Sands and the Lands, we will become Death’s hand on the world.’ The vow of the Sands Bask had kept all his life but now was his test. It is said also on the stones that each brother and sister is tested in their faith and courage to the stones. This was Basks time. He will become the legend he always dreamed, the mighty Quad Bask, Bringer of Death and Herald of the Gods.

Nkafj God of the Sands and Time give me strength for my arm to slay the foes of the South; Ghasl, God of the Spear and Sun I pledge my sword to the blood as I placed my life before I was reborn, give me the fury to destroy the enemies of the South. Pjasd, Goddess of Death and Defence I pledge the ultimate sacrifice in your name in order to protect the Greenland’s.

Bask drew the blade and leapt into the air, somersaulting over the small rank and file of the leather men. He landed straight on the shield of one and kicked the thin sheet of metal downwards, sending the man stumbling. He flipped over the surprised man and quickly flicked the blade into the man’s back. He screamed in agony and pulled the blade down with him. Bask tried to grab the blade, but it wouldn’t budge.

Bask drew the knife at the man’s waist band and with a grace of learning, flung the knife into the soldier next to him. It stuck straight into the temple.

Bask grabbed the man’s short sword and shoved himself forward. His sword flashed as he ducked under a spear blow, cutting through the hide armour and straight into the man’s flesh. The blood sprayed into his face as he pushed the dying Northman away. He wiped his eyes clean and seized the spear.

Bask pushed into the air and drove the spear shaft through the next Northerner’s head, through the eyeball. The men fell and bask with him, landing nimbly onto the balls of his feet.

Bask reached down and grabbed a rock just over the size of his hand, with a small edge to it. He was barely twenty feet away now.

Bask threw the rock into the nearest North men’s head but the shield blocked it just in time. The man went staggering and a Sister finished him off with a quick dispatch.

Bask looked up with determination flaming in his eyes as Hazelheim stood his ground as his guards cut down Brother Jaie, a good friend of his before his re-birth.

Bask supported by Sister Ksdif charged uphill towards the commander, cutting left and right. But slowly they were getting bogged down by the supporters and the tide was turning. The Northmen cowered behind their shields in ranks and pressed forward, cutting down the Chosen Brothers and Sisters of his people.

This was Quads last chance of redemption. He pointed through the fires of the tents and the screams of the dying at Hazelheim and he met the gaze steadily. In there was only merciless vengeance. Pjasd was on his side. But the God of Time Nkafj was on his and night was the domain of his kind. He grabbed the spear offered to him by his sister. It was a small palm one common to the foot soldiers of the Greenland’s.

Bask jumped and charged, pointing to his Brothers and Sisters and then to the marching ordered fashion of the armed metal men. There were dozens of them lined up and ready to defend their leader. Too bad, he thought. Hazelheim was going to die tonight.

He jumped into the air and two footed kicked the nearest metal man. He stumbled a bit and grunted. Bask landed on his feet and spun around, coiling the spear around the metal square and then with all the might he had, wrenched the shield out of the way. The Metal man forward parried savagely, but Bask simply ducked under and delivered an upwards blow into the man. He gasped as black blood frothed in his mouth and he collapsed. Quad kicked him out of the way and ran forward.

He was now in the middle of the fray.

He slipped upwards and dashed as Hazelheim brought his stallion to bear. That will be trouble, he thought. The horse was the bane of the Sands existence. It was fast, resilient and especially in this case it was heavily armoured. Hazelheim has every advantage now.

Bask jumped forwards as the Metal Man and his metal horse charged in, roaring in unison. Bask was silent, grim, despairing.

As they were about to meet Bask leapt to the ground on his knees and leant backwards, driving the spear through the Stallions rump. The horse whinnied in pain and tumbled over, its heart no more.

Bask leapt up as Hazelheim was quickly thrown off his horse.

Quad hurriedly sprinting and landed nimbly upon the prone form of the leader, landing an upper cut straight into Hazelheim’s pale face. Hazelheim’s head snapped back and his armoured form twisted backwards.

Bask grabbed his hair again and wrenched him up. Suddenly a searing pain slashed through his right chest. He tensed and fell, feeling the arrow burying it just above the ribcage. Bask wrenched around and felt another searing pain in his leg, and had to swallow the howl of pain edging itself into his lungs.

In front of him was a man with no head, a bow and arrow in his hands. The body collapsed right in front of his eyes as the Brother Kafka was cut in half by one of the metal men.

Quad turned back. The war was going badly and this was the only way to win.

Bask felt his head snap forward and stars danced before his eyes.

“You will die you demon!” Hazelheim roared as he grabbed Bask once more and drove a mailed glove into his cheek, snapping his head sideways and smashing a few teeth.

He grabbed a hold of the dagger at his belt and grabbed Bask by his neck, holding him down. He hammered the dagger downwards.

Stars danced in front of Basks eyes as he grabbed a hold of the blade with his hands, slicing the entire palm open. He struggled for air as he slowly saw black and blue and red and yellow slowly start to eat away at his vision. The hold on the dagger was slipping and was arching towards his heart.

Basks hand flung out and caught a hold of a small piece of baked stone or wood. It was getting so hard for bask to breathe. Dying would be the end of his eternal suffering.

Bask felt the hold on his dagger slip and desperately put his shoulder out into the way of the arching death. It broke straight into the collarbone and sent a huge wave of pain, but Bask couldn’t do anything but choke on the pain, tears flooding his eyes. No noise could be heard apart from the beating of his heart that was slowly slowing down.

Bask clutched the log and slammed it quickly into Hazelheim’s blood stained face. It smashed upon impact and sent him sideways.

The stars that had filled his vision slowly crept back out of the way and sound returned to his eardrums.

Bask rolled up and gulped greedily at the hot crisp night of the desert as it filled his lungs. He felt the pain, but ignored it. He grabbed the dagger and with a grunt slid it out of his flesh, quickly rubbing sand over his wound so he wouldn’t bleed out.

He cautiously got to his feet, checking his thigh. It killed and he could barely move, but it would be fine for now.

He grabbed the knife with one hand shakily gripped it. Hazelheim was already getting to his feet at the same time, grunting. He stood on a limped right leg, as it looked bent and out of shape, probably happened during the fall. Two broken things, in the swirling war on opposite sides. Both are grim in their duty and unflinching against one another, striving not to give nor looking to gain ground against the other.

Bask slowly hobbled over to him as Hazelheim got to his full height. Hazelheim spat out blood and tooth and roared.

“You die now you m**********r!” Hazelheim roared as he took a right hook with his mailed fist. Bask ducked under the blow but followed his head as Hazelheim delivered a deadly uppercut. Bask scrambled to his feet and dodged sideways as Hazelheim slammed the fist into the ground. He slid left as the fist tried clumsily to follow his deft movements. Hazelheim tried to sucker punch Bask, but he caught the fist with his good hand and sent the dagger straight into the hand of Hazelheim. He screamed in pain and Bask barrelled into him, sliding under his arm and undoing the straps to his metal suit. It collapsed in a heap at his feet as Bask elbowed him in the spine. Hazelheim collapsed but still threw out his good fist, smashing Bask in the stomach.

Bask collapsed and heaved. The only chance he was going to get. He bit down onto his tongue as he slid out the arrow stuck in his other armpit. It came out with the arrowhead attached and Bask quickly stabbed it into Hazelheim’s back and it caused another wave of screams to be heard. He then grabbed a rock lying beside him and collapsed in front of Hazelheim. He grabbed the hair and smashed the rock into his chest and the wind blew out of him like a beaches breeze.

He smashed him again in the back, sending spasms into him. Hazelheim grabbed Basks head and head-butted it, sending stars flying through his brain.

Bask grabbed the rock and with renewed fury smashed it once again into the face of Hazelheim, causing a new wound to spurt blood.

Hazelheim collapsed backwards and it silenced his cries. The bone had weakened in his skull. Still with baring pain, Bask smashed the rock into his face again and straddled the big form, smashing the rock into his face, causing a bloody mess of his once chiselled face.

The skull caved in at once and sent brains and blood flying all over Bask.

He stood there, panting. They had won. Hazelheim is dead. The Northmen will be leaderless and will die.

Bask slowly stood up on shaky knees, raising the rock in his hands. Everyone stood and watched, grim. The Northmen started dying as they stood there, his brothers and sisters taking advantage over the situation.

Pjasd had come to the Northern host of Hazelheim; the Goddess of Death whirled her deadly nineteen arms through them and had cut down one of the most feared leaders in the North.

Then Bask started falling.

He landed with a soft thud on the cracked and dried ground next to the bloody ruin of Hazelheim.

He watched as a headless standing body flopped sidewards. It was scary how much of the same it looked like his body.

Pjasd had decided to reap his life and he would accept it with open arms.

It was just so easy to fall asleep.

Black clouded his vision.

So peaceful…