Sleet fell, cast bloodred by the last throes of a dying sun. The ground beneath the terrible host churned like long-soured milk in the kirn. Horse breath and the stench of man rose from the ground like a fetid curse, oozed from the lips of a decaying world. Among the great army trotting along the road, there was not one pure thing. All have been corrupted, all turned to darkness.
Hemastier smiled. Not a single man unburdened by darkness, nor beast unchained. All was enslaved, after its own fashion. It had taken so long to subjugate mankind, to bind them into eternal servitude, but today the great endeavors of his Society would finally come to fruition. It had been so long since he had joined the society and he had worked so hard. From unimportant murders in dark alleyways to the toppling of nations he rose. First, he was a servant, then a commander of men, and now onto Master.
Now there were no free men left, save the Sons of Liberty. All but they had been crushed under the Master's boot. Today they would feel the same. Hemastier had planned it perfectly. Many of his men were already on the fields of Warileih, fighting a losing battle. He had sent his brightest, strongest, and most rebellious lieutenants to go before him and die, bloodying the noses of the last free men. The route of Hemastier's vanguard will give the Sons of Liberty their last taste of hope, a single drop of water to quench their bleeding throats. Then he will tip the bottle back and spill the sand of his innumerable host into their mouths. He will crush the pitiful hope they will have mustered into the dust, savoring every minute of their terror.
"You look happy, Master." Rasped an obese man to his right. "Do you see the fight going well for us?"
Hemastier didn't bother to even glance at the man. "Do you doubt my judgments, Othel?"
The man quickly bowed his head. "No, Master. It is just that it seems a risky maneuver to let the vanguard fight the bulk of the battle alone. Would it not be wise to commit more men to the fight? I fear we may have divided ourselves into two weaker forces that the rebels may defeat in turn."
"Hmm." Hemastier ground his teeth and thought for a moment. "Very well. You shall ride ahead, Othel, and join the melee at the front. I can trust that your presence will change the tides?"
Othel paled, seeing the fate sealed upon him, realizing the damnation to follow if he disobeyed. "Very good, Master. I will go and win the day for you, or I shall die in thy service."
"Return victorious, or within a casket." Hemastier laughed. "That way you can spare yourself the pains that are sure to follow any failure."
Othel said nothing and spurred his warhorse forward, his black, mail glinting embers in the dying light.
As Othel faded from sight, the army marched. Hundreds of thousands of legs and hooves beat to the drums of war. Mile after mile passed behind them and many more sprang before. Hemastier said nothing more, for there was no one else brave enough to voice their mind. Today would be HIS day, HIS glory! The Society had made him the Master and he would command! All knew his voice, his will, his power. None could face his presence, conquer his sword, or slay his spirit. Hemastier would sit above all else in this world as a god-king, his reign imort....
"Pardon, Master." A terrified scouting captain squeaked as he rode up beside Hemastier. "But none of our forward scouts have returned from their sorties within the past hour."
Hemastier graced the lad with a look, his bloodred eyes piercing his soul. "Thank you, captain. Ride ahead to see where they have gone, then double back to me with a report."
The lad blinked, dumbfounded that no reprimand had come over him, then spurred his horse onwards.
Hours passed, and the lad did not return, nor did the fleeting rays of sunlight. In the sky were but a few sickly rays, almost overshadowed by the sleet. In the road ahead, Hemastier could see a figure sitting on the ground, too far away to see. He ground his teeth and cursed all of the dead gods. If that was Othel or that captain, he would rip the veins from their pitiful hides and hang them from them.
As Hemastier drew closer, the distant man stood, allowing Hemastier to see him more clearly. It was neither Othel nor the captain, for he stood with an undefeated spirit, a burning resolve only found within the hearts of those who still live free.
"Hemastier, son of sorrows." The man's voice rang, strong and true. "I warn you to turn back, or be destroyed."
Hemastier said nothing as he advanced the army, allowing his rage at the peon's insolence to fuel his heart.
"I am no great hero or Hope's champion." The man said, picking up a quarterstaff and casting off his cloak. "But I am free and I shall be your demise, as I have slain those you sent."
Hemastier held up his hand, clenching it in a fist. At once his great army stopped, breath held, waiting.
"What is your name, brave slave." The tyrant laughed. "I would wish to blot it from this world once it is under my complete dominion."
"You have taken my family from me, my home, and my brethren." The stranger laughs. "You have robbed my name of any meaning, for there is no one left who knows it. All I have left to me is hope. Hope that my death will mean something to those who survive us."
Hemastier slid from his saddle, lithe as a leopard. As he touched the ground, the last light of day, of life, left the decrepit world. With no further words, he slid his sword from its scabbard and advanced upon the stranger.
The stranger smiled, seeing the bloodied moon appear through the storm, then braced himself as Hemastier advanced within range. Hemastier swung his sword with great strength, and the stranger stepped to the side, jamming the but of his staff into the general's breastplate.
Hemastier rounded on the man, lunging forward with a thrust. The stranger again dodged, though the blade pierced the very edge of his side. Without thought or pain, the man wheeled around his staff and struck Hemastier across the back of the knee. The Tyrant stumbled, allowing the man to withdraw a pace.
Hemastier righted himself, face red with embarrassment, and pressed the stranger once more. Again, the stranger slipped from his grasp, this time lightly tapping the tip of Hemastier's sword in mockery. Hemastier redoubled his efforts, swinging, lunging, thrusting, stabbing. Every push was met with a pull. One man always pressing forward, the other always slipping away.
Soon it was a dance of sorts, a macabre ballet that could only end one way. As Hemastier tired, the stranger bled, cut in many places, time and time again. The bloody moon rose higher and as it did, the scarlet tint upon its face lost its luster. Sleet became rain and rain became mist. Mist became dew and dew became the greying of the blackened sky. Greys became subtle shades of blue and the blues grew stronger with every passing strike.
Back and forth the dance swung, burning through the dawn until it was a rising sun. For a moment, the stranger looked into the sun, sighing deeply as he felt his body flag. Hemastier heeded not the beauty of the day, forcing one final, weary thrust from his body. The stranger tried to parry one last time but found cold death between his breast.
Saying nothing, Hemastier returned to his horse and the march resumed. With the sun high, he found himself overlooking the field of Warileih, his vanguard slaughtered and the last free men advancing with courageous hearts, bolstered by the noonday sun.