The seventh day of the twelfth month of Imperial Year 1026
Two sel from Fort Caputo, in the central territories
Corpses littered the ground as far as the eye could see. The dead were so many that they outnumbered the living. The rays of the setting sun filtered over the horizon, painting the plain a deeper scarlet.
The human and monstrous forces had merged into one confused melee. Relying on sheer force of numbers to carry the day, a host of monsters crashed into the allied forces’ shield wall, forging ahead even as spears pierced their flesh. They held mighty clubs in their colossal fists, sending clumps of men flying with every swing of their arm. The human forces hurried to repair the breach, but more monsters poured in, forcing the hole wider. Similar scenes played out all across the battlefield. It was impossible to tell who had the upper hand.
The Demiurgos, one of the deities of Aletia known as the Five Lords of Heaven, looked on in silence from afar. The ruler of the zlosta, the father of monsters, and the god of the Wild Races, he sat in a command center built from human material. Around the perimeter, human corpses stood skewered on great spikes, their eyes plucked out and their skin peeled away so that blood dripped from their legs. The skin had been stitched together into a tent canopy, while their bones had been used for chairs and desks. Their flesh and viscera had been given to the horde. Every part of a man was good for something, monsters often liked to say. Human lands were a veritable treasure trove of resources.
The Demiurgos sat with one elbow on his armrest and his chin resting on the back of his hand. He glanced at Ceryneia, who was waiting at his shoulder. “How fares the battle?”
The primozlosta took the implicit order and stepped forward to report. “Well enough, my Lord. We have successfully worn down their numbers. We expect the battle to conclude before the day’s end.”
“I count less than an hour before the sun sets.”
“More than enough time, my Lord. Their front line is in tatters. The only choice yet to make is how to deliver their ends. Before nightfall, I shall bring you Mars’s head on a platter.”
“Will you indeed.” The Demiurgos sounded more disappointed than delighted. “What a pity that first day was all he had to offer.”
How his heart had danced to watch Surtr’s schemes thwart peril after peril. He had never been more entertained. Yet now that his forces had dug in for a battle of attrition, his enemy had adopted an equally passive position. If anything, the monsters had suffered greater losses than the humans. Even accounting for reinforcements trickling down from the north, they only had one hundred twenty thousand remaining. A full hundred thousand had died on the field—most during the initial engagement, but still, those were crippling losses for any army. By comparison, the human forces had lost forty thousand soldiers, leaving them twenty thousand strong.
“The Mars of one thousand years ago would have put on a far better showing,” the Demiurgos mused. “Has he finally exhausted his bag of tricks?”
“Surely it must be,” Ceryneia said. “Why else would he have taken to the fray himself?”
The Demiurgos felt less confident. Something was amiss. One of the most basic principles of warfare was that the odds lay with the greater numbers. No one would be foolish enough to face a larger force without a plan to balance the scales.
“What if he is waiting for something? Reinforcements, perhaps.”
“If I may, my Lord, what reinforcements? Surely the sixth princess is too preoccupied with the Vanir Triumvirate. It does appear that House Scharm and House Brommel have made peace, but they must reorganize their forces before they can march.”
“And what of Lebering?”
“Our agents report that Queen Claudia has satisfied herself with the black soil of the north. She has commandeered a strategically located fort and appears content to stay there.”
One thousand years ago, the zlosta had worshipped the Demiurgos as a god, setting out to conquer Soleil under the auspices of their deity and the twelve primozlosta who ruled as their kings. The old loyalties held strong to this day in Lebering. The Demiurgos had never wanted for information from the northern kingdom.
“Then we must wonder what Surtr is waiting for,” he said to himself.
“If waiting was his intention, would he not retreat inside the fort?”
Mars would do no such thing, the Demiurgos knew. True, settling in for a siege might buy him time, but that was a dangerous tactic when he was so heavily outnumbered. If the walls failed anywhere, his stronghold would become a tomb, and the ramshackle Fort Caputo would not last for long against the army that had breached Friedhof. Mars would be signing his own death warrant. If he intended to hold up anywhere, he would have fallen back to the capital. The fact that he was here suggested he was scheming something—taking his time, luring the Demiurgos and his forces into a false sense of security. And if he was ever going to spring his trap, he would do it when it would have the greatest effect: today.
“If he is trying to draw our attention to the fore...” The Demiurgos brought a hand to his forehead and sighed. A small smile appeared on his lips. “Ceryneia, when did you last make contact with our agents in Lebering?”
“Perhaps two weeks ago, my Lord? I do not recall precisely.”
“They are upon us.”
“My Lord?”
The drumming of hooves resounded from the rear. Bells rang from the watchtowers. As the camp erupted into chaos, the Demiurgos sat back in his chair.
“The faithless children of my zlosta.”
Ceryneia paled. “You cannot mean...”
Battle cries broke out behind them. From the rear of the camp came sounds of havoc and the clashing of steel. They grow louder until the zlosta, the former tyrants of Soleil, burst into view, skillfully maneuvering their horses around the lumbering monsters. A rider broke from the pack and bore down on the Demiurgos with spear in hand.
“Why, Queen Claudia.”
He shifted his head just in time to avoid the spear. It tore through where his skull had been and sank deep into his chair, sending white dust scattering as the human rib backrest fractured.
“My Lord!”
Ceryneia dove between Claudia and the Demiurgos, but the latter kicked him in the back, knocking him sprawling. He looked back up at his master in dismay, but the Demiurgos did not so much as glance at him. The Lord lifted his hand to Claudia and crooked a goading finger.
“Come, child. Prove you are worthy to take my head.”
Claudia snarled. “With pleasure.”
She swung Hauteclair, the treasured blade of Lebering’s founder and in truth the Fellblade Asura. The temperature plummeted as ice raced across the ground. It aimed squarely for the Demiurgos, only to part around his chair like a wave just before it struck.
“I expected better.” The Demiurgos stood up and summoned Epetam to his hand. “Come. Entertain me if you can.”
Claudia did not engage him. She brought her horse to a halt, turned about, and galloped away. The rest of the zlosta followed behind her. As the thunder of their hoofbeats faded away, the Demiurgos sat back down with a disappointed sigh.
Ceryneia approached, looking flustered. “Are you hurt, my Lord?”
“No. And it is the battlefield you should be watching, Ceryneia, not me. The tide has turned.”
Ceryneia spun to look at the field. A host of zlosta was sweeping across the field, butchering all the monsters in their path.
“It appears we have fallen for a ruse.”
Ceryneia’s mouth fell open. Even as he watched, the human forces reformed their shattered vanguard and rallied, driving into the monsters from the front as the zlosta carved through them from behind. Their fatigue of minutes prior was nowhere to be seen. They looked more ready to fight than ever.
“I would expect nothing less from you. Mars, my enemy. Held, my rival. Surtr, my nemesis!”
The Demiurgos gazed in delight at the vanguard where Hiro fought, clapping his hands in unreserved praise. His laughter echoed behind Ceryneia as, with a howl of rage, the primozlosta kicked a fallen monster in the head.