A Tale Told in Blood

My father was a great man and it was his only regret. Great men, he had told me, never lived peaceful lives. They lived lives of strife and misery, forced to fight odds that were overwhelming for the average man, overcoming the kind of adversity that made them considered one of the greats. They called him the Ash Lord, the bringer of the pyre, my old man was only dad to me but even when I was young I knew without needing to be told that where ever he walked the flames of ruin followed in his wake. In my youth I was desperate to prove myself worthy of the same title, to be a lord as he was, to hold the dragon’s flame in my hands and master its heat. My father warned me, telling me he had wished for me only to be a good man, for a good man knows peace, and not to be a great man. I did not listen of course; I was young and my blood was aflame with the same passion that only the inexperienced and reckless can have.

To that end my father sent me at the young age of fifteen to begin my training as a warrior. He did not, much to the criticism of a number of family members, friends, and even his fellow lords, have me train within the empire’s vaunted ranks. No, he sent me alone to the Steel Legion to be trained under a particularly ruthless and vicious gnoll lord named Jacklyn the Undying. Perhaps because of my inexperience I expected a brutal training regime that would teach me the ways of combat and the structure of command, the core essentials that a warrior and leader must know. That is not what I got, not at first, Jacklyn beat the absolute shit out of me upon meeting her. She beat me until I my bones were broken, my horns snapped off, and my jaw ruined so badly I could not even weep. I was then taken to the weavers and fixed up, bones righted and wounds healed. The next day Jacklyn beat me to a pulp again, wary this time I tried fighting but she was three times my age and a hundred times my experience. I lost, badly, she beat me worse this time as if my piss poor attempt at fighting was enough to offend her.

Two months passed, every single day began with meeting Jacklyn after breakfast and being beaten. At the end of each day the weavers and healers put me back together. I am no fool. I understood the purpose was twofold. She wished to humble me and give me a trial by fire in combat. That and she was just a plain old sadist. It took two months before I started to put up enough of a fight that Jacklyn started coming with me to be healed, her hide raked by my claws and scorched by my flames. She began to act kindlier after that, perhaps the old bitch had finally respected me enough to offer a common courtesy or two. To this day I am not really sure. But from then on, my training began to branch out from merely combat.

It was six years of this before I returned home, changed by my time among the Steel Legion. When I had met with my father then we spoke at length for days, catching up on what had been missed and telling him what I had learned. He approved and shortly after it was arranged that I would join him on the front lines of the Sapphire Bulwark as his second in command and advisor. Though I had been humbled by my experience, I felt pride and a swelling of ego to be considered worthy of being called an advisor to a legend like my father, even if I knew it was because of nepotism. Before we set out, I joined my father at his forge and together we forged the hammer and armor that would later become apart of my own legend on my path to be a lord. I still remember it as one of the happiest days of my life, working together to shape our tools of war.

My optimism did not last. The front lines of the conflict known far and wide as the War of Thorns was a brutal hellscape. Before the first encounter with the elves total war was not a concept in the memories of anyone except the ogres and few remaining dwarves. Warfare within the Steel Legion and Onokrin Empire was an ordered affair. Disputes over land, fiefdom ownership, or honor were done with regimental conflicts far from civilian centers. Men met on battlefields seeking to kill in the name of glory and honor for their lords. To cause needless, vicious, or unnecessary death was seen as a failure of character and often punished by the emperor or shogun. This had been the status quo for centuries, as it let even the bloody or martially minded exercise a form of restraint and honor. It allowed the kingdom to flourish without civil war.

Elves did not adhere to these concepts.

When the first elven diplomat arrived within federation borders, escorted by only a small bodyguard of the equally strange plant-like entities, the council of the Warren Federation convened to see what this stranger wished. Perhaps some faint notion of trade or diplomacy, even posturing was possible. Yet the story goes that the elven diplomat demanded complete and total surrender, that the federation was to dismantle itself and accept elven rule. All industry, policing, and government was to be disbanded or face complete annihilation. The sheer absurdity of the situation would have made anyone, and some of the council did, laugh. A complete stranger, an unknown, arriving with such ridiculous demands that they were thought mad. By what can only be the providence of Baitaal, two of the council members were adept psions, one a lord who specialized in mind reading. Small probes into the elven diplomat’s mind revealed the ugly truth and the utterly monstrous mind hidden between those pointed ears.

The council dismissed the diplomat and within hours began to organize for an attack at the urging of the two psionic lords who did not dismiss this new threat, the mountain burrows and holds prepared for siege and sent out their forces to intercept what they knew was going to be a vicious group of marauders coming for them. The council’s probing into the elven diplomat’s mind had revealed a blackened hateful thing, pure and utter contempt that desired nothing more than subjugation and raw murder of anything not enslaved by it or its kinsmen. Yet even armed with this foreknowledge, nobody could predict what was about to happen. As expected, the vanguard forces of the elven armies, known as the Blood Rose Concordant, came across the open fields of the far south to engage the surface defenses the federation emplaced.

Unknown to anyone at the time, these berserk elves were reinforced by plant-like and fungal soldiers, hideous growths that threw themselves in a mindless throng of massive numbers towards federation gun lines and psionic legions. They cared not for how many were mowed down by rifle lines or blown apart by psionic blasts hitting their lines. These beast-like elven monsters screamed and ran into their own deaths just for the chance of sating their blood lusts. Shocking as it was to the field commanders at the time, the line held, and these forces were repelled. This attacking vanguard, however, was a distraction. The main forces of the Blood Rose had used the cover of the forest and primitive magics to disguise themselves, bypassing the fortified positions of the federation.

This is where the fundamental difference in mentality caused the death of thousands, a mistake later considered by historians an unavoidable one. War had always been an ordered and honorable affair. Peace from the three great powers had lulled them into a forgetting the savagery that once gripped the world. They had forgotten what black hatred and a complete disregard for honor would make a man do. The federation prepared for an honorable fight, expecting the elves to engage soldiers in the open, that the goal would be to defeat federation legions and try to seize territory. Instead, the elves distracted the federation soldiers so they could get to the true goal, the civilian population. It flew in face of everything the three great empires had stood for, it forgot honor and discipline or even sense of what could be gained by conflict. The elven forces slaughtered the paltry defenses garrisoned at the outer holds before unleashing themselves upon the civilians.

No prisoners, no slaves, no quarter. The death toll grew so great that it was said that psions who were quickly rerouted to saving the dying populations had to be quarantined upon their return, their psychic emanations at witnessing wanton genocide blackening their aura and spreading fear among the psionic legionaries. It set the tone of the ongoing conflict for the centuries to come. The Onokrin Empire and Steel Legion, upon hearing of the slaughter from panicked lagus diplomats, sent detachments of supplies, soldiers, and reinforcements immediately. In many ways more pragmatic lords saw that this was the single greatest unifying event in the history of the world, meeting an enemy that was to its very core inescapably evil beyond comprehension.

It was in these conflicts that I cut my teeth and learned more than Jacklyn could have ever taught me. The fields south of the federation had been converted into killing fields, blackened and destroyed landscapes where vegetation was burned, holes were blasted out of earth, and entrenched positions dotted the hills and mountain sides to repel constant and repeated invasions by the Blood Rose. I was dispatched to serve among multiple different legions, learning of all the different forms of war and strategy, of how different commanders employed different soldiers and utilized there many abilities to their most effective methods. I served with the Hawkeye battalion first, the renown mercenary company with the most acclaimed snipers in the world. I learned to shoot, to control my breathing, to lead a target and where to aim to ensure one bullet was the last thing my target never heard.

Three months of this before I was moved to an ogre battalion of battle mages, serving on the back lines where the ogres employed their great strength and magical abilities to provide arcane artillery fire, shelling the densely populated charges of elven berserkers before the stragglers could be picked off by the very same snipers I now knew. I learned about the importance of artillery, that the slow and difficult to move emplacements were the key to holding the line and many mages were employed to power magi-tech generators that shielded them from counter barrages. My time with the ogres was the shortest before I was moved to a federation psychic legion. I was no psion and unlike the ogres who inherent rune lanterns were empowered by working together and in large numbers the psions were different. They each had various disciplines, working independently and yet as a greater whole. If the ogres could be likened to a wolf pack, coordinating and functioning as a singular mind to take down their targets the psychic legions were more like bears, each one far more lethal individually and yet working together by convenience instead of a sense of brotherhood.

I got my first taste of real action and blood shortly after, when my father arranged for me to be placed on the bulwark of the gatling core. Artillery and skilled snipers could thin the monthly attacks by the Blood Rose, but the core line that allowed both not to fear being engaged in close range was the gatling line. This is where emplacements of cumbersome and heavy crank guns were employed, able to unload entire boxes of munitions into a line with no more than a trio of often goblin or rodentfolk gun teams. Protecting them were soldiers like myself, legionaries who wore heavy armor and formed lines of steel, magic, and psychic power to strike down the thinned ranks of those who were lucky enough to make it past arcane artillery, ruthless sniper fire, and rattling gatling guns only to be cut down by the strength of men. The fighting here was ruthless and bloody, no honor, no glory to it. Blood and animalistic violence. I grew numb to my work within days, the killing of these… things, brought no satisfaction nor pride. There was no honor to this, it was putting down vermin and I did it as my brothers did. Clinical and without passion, I only felt anything when our own died. I left many friends behind, their bodies burned alongside the elves we killed. There was not enough ground left to bury them and the elves were not above using the foul perversion of necromancy to bolster their numbers.

I served for nearly two years on the front lines, my heart, body, and mind hardened by the struggles and the things we had done. Yet I never forgot the virtues I stood for, I met with my father often during that time and it was through him that I was reminded what I was fighting for. Not his approval, not an misguided ideal to become a lord, nor to surpass him. I was fighting because if I did not then sadistic monsters like Jacklyn would come to rule our world. I became the leader of men, the rally point of our line because if I did not then lesser men would. I earned the title of lord at my father’s side. When we took the field together we became an unstoppable force, a wall of flames and fire that reminded others why we salamanders are the scions of dragons. I earned the title of lord fighting at my father’s side, the battle cries of our family rallying the combined empire forces time and again.

Over the years I met many lords, I saw new lords rise after defying the odds and growing their legends. Of all I saw only two remained in memory, that of Kraxxis the Bloody Hand and Sad King Briareus. Kraxxis was a new lord, one whose legend rose when his line was overwhelmed during a particularly brutal offensive by the elves. Through luck, skill, or fate, Kraxxis went berserk and succumbed to a rage so deep that his axe cut down enough elves to bathe him in blood. He disappeared into the encroaching enemy lines, vanishing under the smoke and fire of artillery to be presumed dead as the throng of bodies became corpses. Days later he returned, coated in gore and carrying the heads of several known elven commanders. He fell into a coma then and after a week awoke as a lord, his legend was shared across the front and his victory bolstered the resolve of the rank and file. I saw him after he had awoken on the field, Kraxxis was a butcher, his axe cutting elf and beast apart like a living blender.

Older lords I saw infrequently, many being spread out to keep multiple fronts secured, but the only other lord to leave an impression was the last king of the ogres. Sad King Briareus was known as the most powerful mage to have ever existed, a bearer of the rune lantern and master of ancient magic. His morose portly form could be seen walking through the field of battle, lacking armor and protected by only a single shimmering magical shell surrounding him. He looked bored, above it all, walking along the lines and with chanted words of power brought lightning and thunder down upon any enemy that dared get close enough. His spells beheld a raw destruction, a singular man that was equal to entire teams of ogre battle mages empowering a magi-tech artillery cannon. His awesome might though, was not what burned his presence into my memory, nor was it anything approaching a miracle like that of Kraxxis. It was how bored and above it all his expression always was, as if using the power of the gods to shatter the enemies of the empire was of no more interest to him than the flavor of his afternoon tea. This attitude was unique amongs lords deployed on the front lines. I had met other lords in my time on the front, some on the battlefield, some in the commander’s tent, others introduced to me by my father. I was not popular among them. In our battle plans my methods were considered unorthodox and adaptable but lacking in the hammer and anvil approach people wanted. Some called me craven, saying that my methods were effective but cowardly. My training with the Steel Legion taught me to prioritize results, to use whatever method worked best. That was not a popular stance, but nobody denied my effectiveness when I was promoted to the ranks of field commanders.

In my last year on the front lines my father died. He was killed in action during a particularly brutal charge by the Blood Rose, the elves employing a new type of behemoth monster called an ent to try and break our position. I was not there when my father was killed, I was not at his side, I was deployed elsewhere. I did not grieve for his death; I buried my old man some weeks later. Lords never died easily, and his body was recovered surrounded by multiple charred behemoths, he was not burned with the rest. We had both come to terms that we would die in service, and we took solace in that. I became the next Ash Lord; his death awakened my flames fully and in my following battles I became the pyre of many elves. My legend grew, many saying that I was preserving my father’s flame. I was content with this and it was only when that foul necromancer Magnus arrived on the front lines that I finally quit my service.

The employment of our and the elven dead as cannon fodder, as undying mindless soldiers controlled by these new practitioners of arts once condemned by the followers of Xaal was more than I could stand. When the dead legions joined our ranks I petitioned the emperor for relief and a fiefdom of my own. To my surprise he accepted it. Few lords quit the front lines, but I had served for the better part of two decades now and my legend was known far and wide as the Ash Lord. I was given a small parcel of land to the north, bordering the remnants of the now destroyed ogre kingdoms after the war of the rune. A fledgling frontier town whose recent lord had passed from old age. It was a cold and desolate place kept alive by its mining operations.

What I came to learn later was the fiefdom was promised to a different lord before it was given to me, an unofficial agreement between the emperor and the lord known as Line-breaker Toragg had been broken to give me my just due. Compounding this issue was the nature of the fiefdoms position. It was the last stop on a long trade route from the empire proper, the caravans largely bringing in food that could not be grown or easily hunted in the devastated and cold realm. Being the last in line in a long route meant the caravans had the worst selection for us and they charged unreasonably high prices. Stacks upon stacks of ore and forge wrought ingots for a single loaf of half molded bread and hard tack.

The caravan was controlled by a ruthless syndicate and even my legend as the Ash Lord could not intimidate them into a fairer price or better wares. Toragg, still enraged by losing what he saw as an expansion to his land, had bribed this caravan to ensure the people I was now called to protect were given the worst and barest of rations, losing money hand over fist to corruption. It was here that my council and I could not find a way to fix this problem. My closest advisor was a troll named Thornspeaker, a quiet-spoken and strange man with an obsession with cats. Thornspeaker was someone I had met in my first days on the front line, a reliable and diligent fighter whose soft spoken and emotionless attitude had made us a good team and better friends. Where I could be subject to the flames in my blood, Thornspeaker could temper me.

I had come to rely on Thornspeaker heavily, in particular for managing my fiefdom. He was not a people person, nor did he have the authoritative nature or force of personality to lead, but he was far older than me and excellent with numbers. Barring a few mistakes, he was an expert at organizing and handling the basic logistics of keeping us above water. He was a man I greatly respected and considered my closest friend. In battle, he never left my side, he fought alongside me and my father and always I could rely on him to have my back before, during, and after battles. It was the time between skirmishes that solidified who we were as friends, over drinks and food, telling stories and jokes and boasts of our next fights. I always thought he had the makings of a lord, if we had met when he was a younger man. My reliance and care for him is why he was the first person I turned to when the caravan dispute happened.

I do not know for sure, nor do I have an accurate account of what really happened but during a routine arrival of our supply caravan the caravan master demanded double the amount of the standard pay after arriving several weeks late, stating that harsh weather required a tax to recoup the loss on time. My merchant at the time declared this ridiculous and an argument ensued. I have heard multiple different accounts of what happened and the only thing I know for sure is by the end of it guns had been drawn and the caravan master was killed. The caravan guards, enraged by this, tried to fight and were swiftly put down. When the smoke cleared none of my men were dead, but the entire caravan was. Seeing little alternative, I sent a messenger to report what happened to the other holds and seized the remainder of the caravans’ goods. I ordered only the food be taken, as without it my people would starve. With hindsight, perhaps it would have been better to let my people starve, as the death of the caravan and the seizing of supplies was declared a direct attack by Toragg and another neighboring lord known as Wolf King Ranick. They petitioned the emperor, saying that they had planned to buy the remaining supplies from the caravan on its return trip and by seizing its supplies I had directly harmed their fiefdoms. Leaving out the fact that they had already brought the lion’s share of the caravans supplies and that Toragg had bribed the caravan in the first place, the emperor was left with no other choice but to declare casus belli. Among lords, when the emperor is petitioned by one to address grievance the right of casus belli may be declared, the right for one lord to wage conflict with another to allow for force to resolve issues if diplomatic or economic solutions cannot be found.

This rite has the advantage of allowing lesser, weaker, or corrupt lords to be challenged and removed cleanly from their positions over fiefdoms that might suffer under their rule. This rite can only be invoked by the emperor, who remains the arbiter of if it is justified or not. Yet, being the aggressor is also the unfavorable position, as the rite includes that the accused or defender dictates the terms of resolution. This takes shape in two ways, a personal duel between lords with their soldiers as witness or a declared battle at a neutral location between forces. As the defender, I was given my choice when the emperor’s messenger arrived. I convened with Thornspeaker first, along with my more trusted advisors and noteworthy men within my realm. Ultimately, we decided on a duel between lords, myself and Thornspeaker against Toragg and Ranick. Those two were not allies, nor did they have the decades of experience fighting side by side that I and one of my closest friend did. Thornspeaker was no lord, but I knew I could rely on him to stand by me.

We met at the border of my fiefdom in a wide field parting the pine trees, the barest hint of winter snow left upon the cold ground in the untamed wild. My small force of soldiers opposing the combined legions of those I would face in battle. As was custom, the rite was to be performed right away before either side could be accused of misdeed or change their mind. I went to Thornspeaker’s tent to retrieve him after my own preparations were done. I took my war hammer and my suit of full plate armor, blackened steel that had seen me through two decades of service into the empire, still as pristine as the day my father helped me forge it. I left my helmet behind as a foot note in my plans, yet when I reached my friend’s tent, Thornspeaker was nowhere to be found. I searched the camp and could not find him. In that moment I understood that I had been betrayed. I did not know if Thornspeaker had merely feared facing two lords in battle or somehow he had been bribed but he was gone. I stood there in silence, knowing that I was now alone and that one of my closest advisors, one of my friends, had chosen to let me fight this battle alone rather than stand by my side.

I felt despair.

I readied my war hammer and cleared my mind. I could not back out of this fight and I would go it alone. My men fell in step behind me as I marched out onto the field where I saw Toragg and Ranick leading their better equipped and far more numerous forces. In that moment I reminded myself of the peace I had already made with death. In that moment I let my emotions bleed into me. I felt hate. Black hate rising in my heart as I walked towards my fellow lords. I felt my hammer catching fire, burning with my boiling blood that only grew as I saw Toragg’s grin. He knew. He somehow knew that Thornspeaker was not going to be by my side. My hate only grew. Toragg was an ugly creature, a squat fat troll whose hunched back and wide body made him look more like an overly large tree stump than a person. He was vicious, even for a lord known for war, his legend that of a charging juggernaut who ran into lines of soldiers and broke them upon his strength. He fought with his claws, supernaturally fast and strong and with a regeneration that made normal trolls look as though they healed like regular humans. He wore a set of agile plate armor, enchanted to protect him against magical fire and bullets, yet it was exposed at the limbs and shins and lacked a helmet. The armor only needed to protect his core, his enhanced regeneration would protect everything else. His lack of helmet was for ego, a way to intimidate his enemies, so that they would see his leering tusked face as he ripped them apart.

Toragg was an ugly thing, less a man and more of beast, the kind of lord my father had always despised. It was men like Toragg that drove my father to have me train within the lands of the Steel Legion rather than the Onokrin. That was my only edge. On the other end was Ranick the Wolf King, a man who I had only heard the legend of a few times. The terror of the north, the caller of the wolves and beasts, he was human but was deviant in body. A foot taller than a normal human, his long hair a mane of gray that framed his long-fanged maw and battle-scarred skin. A long beard like a hermit trailed down his chest to rest of the hide of his leather armor. He wore the skin of a great white wolf, one that had been known as the eater of ogres. It was killing this massive beast in his youth that made him the battle-scarred lord that he was today. Yet, his bestial nature was tempered by wisdom of age and his humanity. How perverse it was, that the beast caller and proclaimed king of wolves was more of a civilized man than the squat troll before me. More so, when one noticed Ranick’s overlay large fangs and clawed fingers.

“Where is your second?” Ranick asked, his tone sounding puzzled. The man was too blunt, too direct for deception, he did not know of why Thornspeaker was missing. I remained silent for a moment before I spoke, unable to hide the building anger in my voice. “Gone. I will fight you both alone.” No bravado or false confidence, these men were a match for me even one on one, against two I would surlily die but I did not care, not in that moment. Toragg bellowed a guttural laugh, “I knew this wos’ gonna be easy.” He said confidently. “Come on Ranick, les’ kill this pup and be done with it.” He spoke in orc slang, another insult. But the wolf king merely continued to frown, unlike Toragg the wolf king’s weapon of choice was a large battle axe that he made no motion to draw. “Two against one isn’t honorable.” He said, sounding almost angry himself. “Fight’em yourself, line breaker.” The two lords glared at each other for a moment. Infighting. Perhaps I was not the only one betrayed. If Toragg was killed by me then his land would be taken by me unless Ranick killed me. Then the wolf king would add both our fiefdoms to his own. “Rules of honor dictate a duel. That you would ask of me such a dishonorable move as to gang up on a fellow lord is an insult. Fight him yourself.” Ranick repeated, more forcefully now, his clawed hand coming to the hilt of his axe.

Toragg grunted, choosing bravado now. “Fine, didn’t need yer help anyways.” He said, stomping forward. I readied my war hammer as the crowds of soldiers around us spread out, encircling to watch the battle of titans. We circled each other now, the familiar comfortable sense of coming battle taking us both now as we sized each other up. Toragg was huge, easily two feet taller than me and nearly twice as wide, but his size did not slow him. He was deceptively fast, more so his iron-like claws gave him more flexibility than my hammer. He would have to charge me, get in close and force me on the back foot to stop me from calling my fire. My hammer could break his bones but he would heal through it, to win this I had to use my magic to overwhelm his armors protection and burn through his regeneration faster than he would heal. I took a deep breath now as we both stopped. He no doubt had made the same assumptions I did. Now it was time to fight.

All lords of battle had what was called their war cry. A set of words that were shouted to rally their troops and inspire fear in their enemies. A lord’s clarion call was always bellowed at the beginning of battle. Some lords had a shout to represent their families, their lineage, others had signature battle cries. Now, in the middle of some nameless field at the borders to the cold north, I shouted my families war cry as Toragg bellowed his. If he did not kill me, Ranick would. I did not care. I thought of Thornspeaker, I thought of my friend who was not there to help me. I thought of everything I had done in the service to the empire was now going to end here. Dying in some nameless field, cast aside and forgotten. My lungs filled with cold air and I bellowed the same war cry my father once did before this ugly squat troll answered with his own. “Upon my pyre you shall burn!” “Ruin has come to you!” Toragg charged, thundering forwarding like a freight train, too huge and strong to withstand with his pillar like arms and claws outstretched to cut me down. I readied my war hammer, the head ablaze with dragon fire before I dodged left, rolling out of the way and springing to my feet just before his claws slashed across my breast plate. He counted on my dodge, following with my movement, but his rending digits found little purchase. This plate was forged with my father and withstood far worse than this. Toragg would see his claws barely make a mark, I swung my hammer knowing it would hit the troll dead center in his chest. His own breast plate dented, my dragon’s fire scorching the enchanted plate before Toragg swung his arm and swatted my hammer away. We split apart, his mind was working as mine. His claws could not break my armor but my hammer would whittle his own away and the flames would claim him. He was too fast and tall for me to get a decisive blow to his unprotected head and his limbs could regenerate. But my head? I had no helmet and was within easy reach.

Toragg moved swiftly now, feinting a strike with his right arm before trying to follow up with an uppercut to my jaw. I saw it coming, side stepping the upper cut before swinging my hammer down. He was ready for me this time, slamming his shoulder into the weapon’s flaming head and sending me stumbling. He followed up with a claw swipe, going for the back of my neck. That strike would have killed me, but I tucked my head in and fell forward, forcing him to strike my armored back hard enough to send me off my feet. I flew forward, landing heavily before spinning in place, my war hammer flying in an arc as I sensed rather than heard Toragg charging at my back. The flaming head collided with his side hard enough to break the breast plate, the shattered steel fracturing into a warped spike that drove into Toragg’s side. His strike faltered, slowing just enough for me to duck under it before I backed off to regain my balance.

Toragg chuckled, reaching down to his bleeding side, a semi-burnt and bloody wound that would have been fatal to any ordinary man rendered to little more than an annoyance to this troll lord. His claws pried the warped metal from his flesh, ripping it free in a bloody display that earned winces and gasps from the soldiers that watched. I saw his wounds already closing, healing before my eyes and only the burns remaining. They were surface scorching at best. “That the best you got, pup?” Toragg said lazily, looking down at me with a grin. He was enjoying himself. “You git that fancy hammer from that bitch Jacklynn then? Steel Legion, bunch o’ cowards them.” He was baiting me, trying to get a rise out of me by first going for my mentor. Predictable. “Won’t even send there lords to fight on the front lines, never leavin’ that shitty little island. No surprise…” Here it was. Almost there. If there was one thing that Jacklynn had taught me that nobody with the empire or federation would, it was about to be shown to Toragg and everyone watching. “They’d have died like your failure of a father.”

I moved forward, charging with a snarl of rage, flames issuing from my mouth. I swung wildly and in a frenzy, just as Toragg was wanting. He back stepped my first swing before his clawed hand shot out, hitting my arm hard enough to send my hammer from my grasp, the flames dying out as it hit the cold ground. I called the fire to my hand, going to punch Toragg with my flame infused fist before he caught it in his huge mitt. He began to crush me, my gauntlet warping under his strength but still holding. His other hand shot out, seizing me by the neck and lifting me from the ground. A man two decades my senior, a veteran of the same front line I cut my teeth in, laughed cruelly. He had me, now that I was pinned and without my hammer, a let a look of panic appear on my face. Even if I tried to savage him with my other hand he could rip off my head before I could do any real damage. To everyone else, this battle was over. “Useless, useless. This wot they taught you in the legion?” The troll crooned with a sadistic grin, his rancid breath in my face. “They taught me only victory matters.” I managed through the choking grasp, my voice carrying in the cold air before my other hand finally reached my belt, to the small gap hidden beneath my breastplate.

I pulled the sawn down double barrel from beneath my armor, jamming it upwards to Toragg’s surprised maw. I did not bother with gloating, with even satisfying myself with his surprised face, I pulled both triggers and with a massive bang the line breakers head disappeared in a flash of red mist. His huge body slumped, falling forward atop me before I could scramble out of the way. The weight came down hard on my leg, the muscle and bone twisting painfully before I could force his corpse up and off me. I pushed it over before scrambling to my feet and looking around. All who watched stood in stunned silence, even the chirping birds surrounding the field fell to quiet at the gunfire. The silence stretched until it was finally broken by the wolf king’s laughter “A shotgun. You brought a shotgun to a duel?” He said, his bellowing laughter making some of the stunned men chuckle as well. “Well done, Tarkus, well done indeed.” He said as I struggled to remain standing, kneeling to pick up my war hammer. My ankle had been twisted badly by Toragg’s collapsing corpse. I was crippled and Ranick no doubt took note of my weakened state. “If it had been anyone else, I’d have called that move dishonorable, but Toragg wasn’t worth the air he wasted. Killing him did everyone a favor.” The wolf king growled, advancing now as his axe slid from its holster. I readied my war hammer and dropped my shotgun; I had no time to reload. “Out of respect for your father, I will make this quick.” He said more solemnly, the laughter disappearing from his voice. “An honorable death.” I murmured, flames once more alighting my hammer.

If this was death I would have preferred Xaal just obliterate me. It was dark and I felt only pain, agony infusing every bit of my form that was made worse by the nauseating feeling of motion that made me want to vomit. It was only when I tried to move that I understood I was not dead. Banded steel cuffs were locking my hands together at my waist. I struggled against them before opening one of my eyes, the other had swollen shut. I was in the passenger compartment on a train that was empty except for one lone jailer sitting across from me. When I was sure my cuffs could not be broken I forced myself to sit up, grunting from the pain. Ranick had beaten me badly, enough to nearly kill me. I had put up enough of a fight to at least earn the respect to be spared. Yet, now I wondered why he would let me live even then.

The wolf king sat across from me with a watchful eye, the side of his face still freshly scorched from the flames of our duel. He was relaxed and in far better shape than me and he must have read my expression. “I owed your father.” He spoke with a half shrug. So that is why he spared me. I nodded in return before grunting in pain, my neck was stiff, I took more careful stock of my bindings, jingling the steel chains that were no doubt enchanted to resist even my innate magic. My eyes then drifted to the train carriage, the empty transport was speeding along its tracks and out the window I saw an untamed wilderness of trees and clearings. The carriage was plain with wooden benches along either side. This was definitely a prisoner transport but my mind was too sluggish from just awakening to piece together what was going on. I looked back to Ranick, the old wolf king emitting a sigh. “Your father did me a favor long ago, never repaid him, now that he is dead, I see this as a way to make us even. Plus, that waste of meat Toragg is finally in the ground.” He gave me a half smile that I did not return.

We sat in silence for a moment as I collected my thoughts. I lived only by chance, that the cunning wolf king had outwitted the brutish Toragg and claimed both our fiefdoms. That I still live I have my father to thank, but now the more pressing question needed to be answered. “Where are you taking me?” I grunted, making a vague gesture around the prison carriage we sat in. The wolf king only shrugged, “Where all disgraced lords go.” He answered vaguely. Realization slowly set in. I was on my way to Hammer’s Fall, the empire’s enigmatic prison where criminals, madmen, and even failed or disgraced lords were cast into. The realm from which none returned. I would be cast into a pit of death. A part of me took comfort in that.

We did not speak for the rest of the ride, I fell in and out of consciousness until we arrived at the small garrison that served as an outpost to the mountain of Hammer’s Fall. Rough looking soldiers came to retrieve me, the wolf king giving me only a single nod before I was dragged away. For a moment, I respected Ranick. He could have easily killed me, he could have forgotten his debt to my father, he could have ganged up on me after Thornspeaker’s betrayal. He did none of those things. Instead, he rode with me to my doom and for that I respected him. I walked in silence as the soldier’s dragged me past the garrison and towards the mountain, several of them watching me like a hawk. They must have been worried that I might fight, as my status of a lord made these men wary even in my beaten state. One them had my hammer but I did not see my armor. Part of me wondered what happened to it even as I was dragged limping to the summit.

At the top of the mountain of Hammer’s Fall was a yawning black pit, the entrance to this mountain dungeon that was rumored to have a dragon’s horde. Where prisoners, adventurers, and madmen dived down into in the search of riches and glory. My jailers undid my shackles, their own weapons drawn, as I was stripped and given an ugly set of linen clothes. I paid them little attention, I stared into the pit even as the one who carried my hammer offered it to me. I took up my weapon while the worried soldiers raised theirs. They did not need to force me. I looked into the pit a moment longer and then I dove in. I should have died a hundred times over and I felt no fear. I leaped into darkness and felt sorcery overtake my body. I felt weightless, consumed by darkness and carried down to where I would meet fate, weapon in hand.