Inexorable Chaos

The air roars with heat and the earth shudders and rumbles as Dragkenoss sprints into the rear of the enemy army. He hears the enemies scream as they are set aflame by his passing, the crackling and sizzling of burning bolts and melting arrowheads, even the soft cries of spells as even they are consumed in conflagration. He rampages with his cavalry, embracing his [General]’s skill to become a rushing inferno, to trample and incinerate.

But he is not lost to the violence. No, he stays aware of himself and his position The [General]’s aura directs the cavalry through swarms of panicking [Soldiers], leading them to their destination. Leading them here. Without slowing, Dragkenoss raises his halberd, the blade trailing meters of rapidly rising brilliant white flames. He swings the weapon, and a dozen carts packed to the brim with supplies are turned to ash.

His cavalry copy him, burning to cinders more and more carts, their passing so violent and quick that the [Soldiers] have little to no time to react.

Eventually, as the [Flamewreath Stampede] starts to weaken and the final cart is set aflame, Dragkenoss turns his cavalry around for a hasty retreat. Another day, another slaughter.

But as he makes to leave, a moving shape within the fire catches his eye, stepping over the freshly paved glass.

_______

The way to defeat an army while at a disadvantage is to avoid fighting them at all. This is the mantra that Rathos leads all of his armies with, as is the mantra that many competent [Generals] follow. Fighting an enemy that has a substantial advantage, whether it be levels, equipment, or in this case, numbers, is what is colliquially referred to as “fucking stupid.”

To solve this problem, a good [General] attempts to choose when and where to engage that fight. If the enemy is primarily cavalry, lead them into marshlands where they are less able. If the enemy can easily see your army and your positioning, then find a treeline to conceal them. If the enemy has an overwhelming advantage in numbers… thin the herd.

So now Rathos must defeat an enemy with ten times as many men as his own. Doable, but difficult. Very, very difficult.

He’d restricted the enemy's ability to use their cavalry as well as the full numbers of their [Soldiers] by leading them into a pass. He’d distracted the enemy commander with his presence, and even went so far as to sow chaos with a dust cloud and an earthquake. All of this so that Dragkenoss could have an opening to destroy the enemy's supply lines at the rear.

Even so, the best laid plans can fail. Luck is a fickle mistress, and even a small pebble can cause the landslide that burries your troops. If things go wrong here, things will become unfavorable.

The plan today is not complicated: Send out Dragkenoss to destroy the enemy supplies and then retreat right after while they are still distracted and panicked. This would allow him to starve the enemy and begin depleting their numbers. This far south, they won’t be able to source enough food from the occasional village they’ll find. If the enemy’s leader foolishly keeps marching towards Sanavil, their army would be a shadow of itself once it reached the gates.

Rathos smirks. Imagining a starving army trying to siege Sanavil is almost funny.

The planned retreat for his army was to begin when he starts to notice the enemy army regaining their wits. He expects it to happen as soon as Doreson’s skill ends and the enemy [Air Mages] are able to blow away the sand blinding the entire army.

But that never happened, even after Doreson’s skill ended. Sand continues to churn around the enemy army to allow the wyverns to release attacks without reprisal. So he continues to wait and watch. He can sense the enemy army in turmoil, but he can't see anything with the sandcloud blocking the way. All he can do is wait.

_______

And wait he does. An entire hour passes of waiting, and Rathos’ confusion has grown further. Within the storm of dust, he can hear the clanging of steel and the roar of skills as though a violent battle rages. He can hear the dying screams of [Soldiers], but he doesn’t sense a decrease in his forces.

He expects a trap, or a decoy of some kind. Maybe the army is routing and fighting amongst themselves? He’s not sure, so all he can do is continue to wait and prepare to react.

His patience is rewarded soon enough. A lone rider atop a horse rushes out of the storm with a poor excuse for a white flag. Right behind the rider is a swarm of several dozen undead [Soldiers] stumbling right behind.

“We surrender! Call off your fucking undead you cunt-sucking demon!” The rider, none other than the enemy commander, screams while waving a broken spear with a dirty white piece of linen attached to the end.

As Jade rushes towards his army, the corpses near her start to move and rise, as though they were waiting for her. One corpse further in front of the rider, rises up like a spring and jumps the horse as it passes by, latching onto a single hoof. The horse trips and both ride and rider tumble to the ground. Jade drops her spear and violently rolls free of the saddle in the fall. Cursing audibly, the woman quickly attempts to stand, but falls again, revealing a twisted leg. Increasingly alarmed, she turns to the undead rapidly catching up.

“Call them off!” she cries out. “Fucking call them off! I surrender! I give up!”

The first undead reaches her, a former [Soldier] clad in leather and mail, weilding a chipped broadsword. A savage cut across his stomach is what did him in, spilling his guts across the ground. Stumbling forward, dragging his entrails and sword behind him, he moves with only one focus: Jade. The [Undead Soldier] raises his sword with palsied motion. Jade raises her hands towards the undead as though to block the metal weapon readied to penetrate her body.

“PLEASE!” she screams.

Under his helmet, Rathos frowns in confusion. The undead aren’t his doing, but they are presumably fighting for his side. On a whim, he raises his hand and extends his aura of authority from not just his troops, but also to the undead.

“Halt,” he orders with the full strength of his will behind it.

And to his surprise, the undead do.

The battlefield quiets abruptly as the fighting comes to a standstill. Through his aura, Rathos feels a connection formed with thousands of undead, all spread out throughout the enemy army. A connection more than doubling the size of his army and authority.

He doesn’t understand what's happening, or how this has happened. He looks to his living army, trying to get some hint, but he can feel the mass of confusion from here. They stare at him silently, watching his every move, unable to see the frown beneath his helmet.

A silence which ends when Darrow raises his sword into the air and begins chanting–

“Rathos! Rathos!”

–the words spread like wildfire as his army joins in. They chant his name, roaring it to the heavens…

“Rathos! Rathos! Rathos!”

Rathos tilts his head back to look up at the sky. Yes. Fluffy white clouds and final swirls of the sandstorm coming to the ground. The view is lovely. Maybe if he keeps ignoring the army, the idiotic adoration will go away.

It doesn’t matter, he needs to focus. He needs to plan! Victory had been secured, albeit earlier than expected, and now they must transport the surrendered army back to Sanavil.

The army several sizes his own.

The army which he just torched the supplies of.

The army which he was expecting would be starving by the time they reached Sanavil.

Rathos breathes deep and slow. Of all the contingencies against which he’d prepared, he’d never contemplated overwhelming success. Then again, how in the world was he supposed to predict undead?

_______

The veil of day slowly drops below the horizon, uncovering the starry, moonless sky. Bonfires dot the forest north of the pass, each one providing a pittance of warmth to a group of weary prisoners of war. With the ratio of internees to their captors, one should have expected at least one riot to have broken out by now. Alas, the taste of defeat still lingers on their tongues, poisoning their thoughts and clouding their minds.

Oh, and the gruesome sight of their once comrades in arms serving as their guards really twists the knife. And that’s not even getting into the wyverns circling above, waiting to pick off any dunces who can’t read the writing on the wall.

Granted, Rathos knows a revolt may still come, and there are too many of them to keep in check if anything too organized occurs.

“Again, sorry that I can't take you with me, but it seems only a [General] can command these undead.” Rathos explains.

“It's fine, sir, I understand,” Doreson waves him off. ”The prisoners need to be transported back to Sanavil, and you need to press the advantage.”

Rathos nods. “If I can get to Skalag before word spreads, I should be able to take the city with little loss.”

“I’ll make sure the prisoners get where they need to be. I’ve already got [Captain] Abdel working on it as we speak.”

Rathos perks up. “Abdel? Wasn’t he in charge of training the new troops back at Sanavil?”

“Yes sir, but when you asked for an army to rush to the front lines, he came with them since we were running low on [Captains].”

“Really now?” Rathos taps his chin in thought. “Are you sure he’ll be up to the task? We’re talking about a sizable army here.”

Doreson shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not sure, but Darrow speaks highly of Abdel, and it already looks like the [Captain] has plans.”

Rathos raises an eyebrow. “What plans?”

The centaur points to the distant prisoners in the midst of eating a weird, green stew favored by the gejan. The [General] frowns. He was under the impression that the stew was inedible to humans since the human members of Sanavil’s army refused to eat it. Maybe it just doesn't taste good? he muses.

“Not exactly sure, but he called it solidarity through suffering. I think his idea is to forge a sense of belonging and group identity by overcoming a shared trial.”

“Hmm. I’m familiar with the concept, though I’m not sure how it applies to feeding a potentially dangerous army of prisoners food.”

Before Doreson can explain, the rumble of hooves and wagons arrives behind him.

“[General], all preparations are complete,” Dragkenoss rumbles as he single-handedly pulls the throne wagon at the head of the army.

Rathos breathes, and nods. “Looks like I’m off.”

Doreson salutes and Rathos returns the gesture. Rathos dons his helmet, climbs aboard the wagon, and sits on the throne. He releases his aura and commands:

“FORWARD MARCH.”

________________________________________

Dead armies stalk Orbis once more. The old plague has been reborn in the modern age, led by a demonic [General] razing the poor city states of the south. And yet, he isn’t even the worst! Whispers speak of monsters and men both paying tribute to a new tyrant, nay, an [Emperor] conquering those barren lands.

This is what the few spies who keep tabs on the south will be sending back to their masters. Not that it will matter; gods and [Kings] have been preoccupied with more pressing concerns, such as the Olympian-Aesir war. Now that, that just continues to be an ever-escalating slaughter for all involved.

It’s an utterly worthless mess that Flavion is glad to be away from. Let the rabble fight as they may, so long as it shan’t reach the great capital city, Amphigeneia, home of the Amphitheater: The greatest coliseum in all of Orbis. Though packed with people at all hours, Flavion notes that the fanfare is not what it used to be. The thrill of glory and violence is lessened without their greatest [Gladiators], all of whom were sent off to fight on the front.

An annoyance, but one he will tolerate so as to win the war and push the Aesir back. After all, Flavion thinks to himself as he rests upon his chaise lounge, all men must make sacrifices in the name of victory.

Flavion lets his eyes drift to the door. He can feel his [Spymaster] is approaching. He dismisses the [Royal Guards] with a wave, leaving himself alone with a single deaf [Courtesan]. As the [Guards] open doors to leave, the [Spymaster] slips in, unseen. He reveals himself in a kneel before the [Emperor].

“Your eminence, I come with an urgent report.”

“You may speak, Destro.”

Destro begins. “The [Pirate ArchQueen] has stopped blockading our eastern ports. She and her fleet have left our waters.”

Flavion opens his mouth to allow a [Courtesan] to feed him a grape. He chews slowly and swallows.

“What is the reason?”

“Information is scarce, but I have heard whispers that [Merchant Lord Admiral] Testudo, one of the top ten ship captains in the world, had declared war on [Grand Admiral] Aegir. I believe Aegir has called the [Pirate Queen] back to him to help deal with Testudo.”

Flavion frowns. “Isn’t Testudo the [Lord] of that ship island?”

“He is.”

Flavion smirks. “I remember when he parked his island in our waters. I heard our port cities profited, though they did claim the man would incessantly try to sell a drink known as coffee, which the Merchants’ Guild convinced me to outlaw.”

Flavion opens his mouth and consumes another grape. “Well, if he somehow kills Aegir, inform him that his precious coffee will no longer be illegal… Actually, if he wins, I won’t even tax him on the coffee.”

“It will be done,” Destro promises.

“Good. Let it be known that [Emperor] Flavion pays his dues. Now then, is there anything more to report? How is the war raging?”

“With the Amazons joining the war, the fighting has grown more violent and chaotic, but the Aesir advance is firmly halted.”

“Halted, sure, but are we winning?”

“Our advantage is slight,” Destro says, choosing his words wisely.

Flavion frowns at the answer. The Amazons are powerful, dangerously so. Their elders have even been known to rival the Named and [Heroes]. “Explain,” he orders.

“The Aesir have developed a way to repeatedly summon [Archangels] in nearly every major battle. Seven summons of [Archangel] Raphael, twelve summons of [Archangel] Uriel, and eight summons of [Archangel] Gabriel. At each instance, they were defeated by the Amazons, but at cost.”

“No Michael? Are they not able to summon the strongest of the [Archangels]?”

“There are rumors that Michael was indeed summoned, but nothing was confirmed. It is fully possible that they lack the means to actually summon, or even control Michael.”

The [Emperor] tilts his head in thought. “And if they were to be able to summon and control him, would we still be slightly winning?”

“That is not something I can predict. It would be better to ask the [Hero] leading our armies.”

Flavion perks up in interest, “Ah, yes. [Surreptitious Strategist] Abba, if I remember his recent class upgrade. How is he doing? Has the demon summoning been working? Have the Aesir figured it out?”

“The infernal-net, as he calls it, has indeed been found out, but the Aesir have no ability to counter it. Shadowravens have attempted sabotage, but fortunately, Abba made the network large and redundant enough that all attempts to disrupt information transfers have failed. Still, we cannot rule out the possibility of messages being intercepted, and Abba recommended we encrypt all sensitive communications with a one-time code. Abba himself is leveling extremely fast, and may obtain a third tier class if this war lasts long enough.”

Another grape pops into Flavion’s mouth as he stares at his [Spymaster], and senses that the man has more to say about the situation.

“Something is troubling you. Speak freely.”

“That Abba,” Destro hesitates, but continues. “He speaks of everything being a game. He talks about the gods as though they are mortals with powers. He cares not for the deaths of his armies and is willing to sacrifice our [Generals] so long as it fuels an agenda. He makes a mockery of our armies and [Slaves].” Destro shakes his head. “He ordered an entire army to free all the [Slaves], and then forced the former [Slaves] to become [Priests] and [Priesteses] of Eir just to create more of those psychotic healers.”

Flavion grimaces for the first time in weeks. Ordering the deaths of his armies, treating them like pawns? That can be overlooked easily enough during a major war. But ordering the freedom of so many [Slaves]? To what, create more people that could cast [Heal]?

“Why did he choose an expelled Aesir goddess for healing instead of Asclepius?” Flavion asks.

“Asclepius is picky about who he chooses, so he would never grant his grace to a former [Slave], of which we have plenty. Eir, on the other hand, accepts nearly everyone. At this point, Eir has more followers than Asclepius by a factor of thirty seven, and I believe this number will grow larger as the war rages.”

Flavion tisks in annoyance. He looks through the thick, enchanted glass of the left wall of his throne room, where the pit of the coliseum is surrounded by carved stone statues of the Olympian gods. Honestly, he cares little for the gods and their games. They are useful when needed, but annoying when not. The gods make demands and he grudgingly accedes them because they can make his life miserable if he does not.

But Eir, she is a Goddess he can get behind. She doesn’t ask for anything and graciously accepts even the tiniest scraps of devotion. Eir’s an easy goddess, especially compared to Asclepius and his followers, who demand high prices and fancy offerings. No, it is clearly better to have more Eir than Asclepius, Flavion decides, but freeing an army of [Slaves] with just an order? That is unacceptable power to hand over to a mere [Strategist], even if he is managing all his armies.

“Destro, tell Abba that if he wants to free [Slaves] en masse, then he must seek approval first. I will inform my [Secretaries] to automatically accept such proposals so that the documents have my seal of approval. It would not do for the [Nobles] to think that a mere [Strategist] has more authority than an [Emperor],” Flavion orders smugly.

Flavion senses a bit of confusion from his [Spymaster], but ignores it as a [Messenger] rushes into the throne room and kneels next to Destro.

“Urgent message for your Eminence.”

“Speak quickly,” he orders icily. Flavion does not like to be interrupted when he is already conversing with someone.

The [Messenger] audibly gulps but speaks. “[Strategist] Abba requests reinforcements be sent north. He says that [Slave General] Kael has been assasinated by a team of Shadowravens. Kael’s army was quickly destroyed and the [Jarls] are now advancing directly towards Amphi.”

The [Messenger] pauses for a moment before delivering the next part.

“He says that he doesn't have any army close enough to intercept.”