***

  “Bring me a chair!” Ahshean barked harshly at a servant girl in a sheer teal silk garment. Among the servants, Ahshean was known to be on the kinder side when compared to the callousness of other nobles. Maybe it was because he was the only son in his family, and being raised around two sisters and a mother doting on him soften him. But now he was frustrated being stuck atop the hill in their encampment and did not even bother to moderate his tone. The source of this frustration, both his uncle and cousin. All he could do was enviously watch his uncle and cousin ride into battle, fighting for the chance to claim glory. Two men carried a chair to him, and he plop down in it, kicking his boots against the dirt, sending a small puff of dust near the chair legs.

  In Sukkan, war and bloody conflict were just below their faith in the gods. Battle and blood were preached to them from such young ages, a harsh philosophy for people living in the sun-scorched harsh deserts. Sanctioned duels monitored by the Dueling Guild were often fought and at least twice the number of unsanctioned duels because not everyone could afford the fees the guild charged.

  Ahshean looked at the battlefield, seeing his cousin at the front with his detachment of two hundred cavalrymen. Uthman pressed the middle of Loudas’ lines, carving off sections of soldiers with each push he and the cavalry under his command. They crashed into the lines, fighting like rabid dogs chasing down small fowl before retreating, only for the infantry to march into the gaps they made, bullying the already bloody Loudasian soldiers. Seeing his cousin’s success dampened Ahshean’s mood even more.

  In another part of the battlefield, Ahshean spotted his uncle. Meckus preferred to fight on foot and was with the infantry. No doubt hunting for the heads of nobles, Ahshean grunted frustratedly. “Wine!” Another servant girl shook as if struck by the tone of his words and hastily brought a golden goblet with the scorpion of House Sukkan on it. She tilted the decanter of red berry wine, filling the cup.

  “Give it to me!” Ahshean said taking the decanter from her hands, sending the serving girl away with the goblet. He lifted the decanter and drank several gulps of wine down. Stopping when he heard a loud sound. A sound loud enough to drown out the screams and clash of metal spilling up the hill from the heated battle below. It was like a giant tree falling in a forest. No, it was a hundred trees screaming in unison as they toppled over, kicking up dust and crushing rock where they impacted. Instantaneously Ahshean heard a massive call of “Family!” being shouted. It came from the bottom of the cliff. He moved carefully to the edge. Before getting to the cliff’s edge, he saw two men riding away. One of the men carried a black war glaive. He looked at the man with his glaive pointing towards the flanks of the Sukkanian army. The Magus! Ahshean’s heart sped up at the sight of Clyden.

  Then the ground rumbled as if the earth was going to break apart. Bits of rocks loosen from the rumbling, dislodge from the cliff face, tumbling down into crashing into the ground, thudding into soft ground or cracking apart if striking another rock. Steadying himself, Ahshean leaned to look over the edge of the cliff, and he could not believe his eyes. The Magus turned the cliffs of the Kimmer Sea Plains into warriors. They appeared from the face of the cliff fifty at a time, row after row. He backed away from the edge of the cliff, afraid they might ride straight up it to get to him. “There is at least seven thousand!” he spoke aloud. Black smoke billowed up; Ahshean leaned back over and saw flames spewing from the rock face. He could feel the intense heat licking up the sides of the cliff. Ahshean stood there dumbfounded, peering down the side of the cliff. He wondered what horror would emerge next. Does he plan to bring demons next!? Ahshean’s paralyzed and fear-infused mind drifted to imagined horrors.

  It wasn’t until a guardsman shook Ahshean by the shoulders, shouting at him, that he recovered adequately. Ahshean could only recognize some words the guard was saying, “Your Excellency…Last Messenger.”

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  “That’s right, I am the last Messenger,” Ahshean said, repeating back in a shocked tone. Ahshean watched the sea of summoned cavalry waves break over the rear of the Sukkan army, washing them away like loose sands on a beach. He saw his uncle trampled to death, drowned in the bloody ocean. “I am the last messenger. ‘It was our vic-victory,’ they said. Even uncle said it was true. We never do anything without uncle’s approval.”

  Ahshean saw the magus dismount about 50 feet from his cousin’s horse. The Prince General spurred his horse to charge, intending to trample Clyden. But the magus sidestepped Prince Uthman’s horse at the last possible moment. Witch Devil dug into the horse’s side tearing muscles and sending blood spraying in the air. The glaive crossed over Prince Uthman’s right leg. If it was not for the prince’s saddle offering resistance, he would have lost the leg. Instead, Witch Devil left a deep gash before slamming into Uthman’s thigh bone, cracking it. Prince Uthman’s horse reeled up, and its painful screams mingled with all the other death on the field before falling over. The Sukkan guards with Prince Uthman grabbed him, dragging him back deeper into the ranks of their infantry. The right flank of the Loudas army infantry swung out and started to push inward on the Sukkan army. At the same time, the Loudas Calvary mercilessly devoured the infantry from the rear.

  “It’s over,” Ahshean said, the horrid realization setting in. His eyes follow the Magus.

  Clyden did not want to let his prey go. Any other time he might show mercy, but not today. Even if momentarily, he needed to release his anguish, his wraith, he need to mourn for what he lost today and the only way he knew how was to bring anguish and blood to those who caused it. Sukkan would pay dearly for the loss of his magic. Clyden followed Prince Uthman through the mass of men rushing to protect their Prince. Ahshean breathed a sigh of relief once he saw the magus in his foolish pursuit of Prince Uthman had put himself in peril. If we can just kill him.

  Clyden was surrounded by at least fifty Sukkanian infantry with no hope of escape for him. The relief Ahshean felt moments earlier turned to despair as he witnessed the impossible fury of the magus. Anyone who stood near him died in a beautiful dance. Ahshean could not comprehend how a solitary person who fought surrounded by enemies was not at a disadvantage. His partner Witch Devil entrance the men who came to dance, and the men died one, sometimes three at a time. The weapons of Clyden’s enemies shattered when Witch Devil embraced them with her wicked dance, limbs flew from bodies, heads cleaved floated in the air before falling to the ground, and blood sprayed like rain around the storm of the magus, baptizing him in blood. “He is not human! It is Golduvan! The God of death walks the field!” Ahshean watched as Clyden finished off the last of Prince General Uthman’s guards, splitting the man from sternum to hip. His cousin crawled away, digging at the torn ground with his fingers in desperation. Any noble semblance of the prince had vanished, replaced by a man trying to steal a few more seconds from the clutches of death. Clyden stalked behind him like a dire wolf hunting a young ewe without the protection of its shepherd, the outcome already as inevitable as the sunrise in their desert lands.

  “I am the last messenger,” Ahshean slumped into his chair. He saw his cousin raise his hand in a pleading motion before Clyden swung his glaive, passing through Uthman’s wrist, severing it before reaching his cousin’s neck. Prince Uthman’s head flew into the air. Not pausing, Clyden turned and dove back into the mass of battle, claiming more dance partners for his beautiful and terrible dance of death.

  Ahshean looked at the left flank of the Loudas army. They moved into position, and the vise closed on the Sukkan army. He looked back at the tent they all sat in the night before feasting and toasting to their easy victory today.

  “My Lord, we have to leave now!” It was the same guard who pulled at him earlier.

  “Leave? Why?” Ahshean asked, confused as to why he had to leave.

  “My Lord, the battle is lost! You are the last messenger!” the guard said.

  “I am the last messenger,” Ahshean said. Looking around, noticing the servants were already fleeing. Any other person put in his position on reporting about such a debacle of a battle would feel undeniable fear. But at this moment, a peaceful calmness filled Ahshean. In his life, Ahshean feared only one thing. Not even the giant Kaz-Scorpions of the heated sands of his homeland could force his heart to palpitate in fear. That was not to say Ahshean did not know fear. The only thing he feared was his uncle, the King. However, today he found something that scared him more. It was the magus, Clyden. He got up from his chair, mounted his horse, and rode away, saying, “I am the last messenger,” one more time.

  ***