The Red Horseman

West of the Nguk River, General War surveyed the aftermath of the battle where once again his forces were victorious. This victory, like so many in the last twenty years, was in large part won due to his personal involvement and that of his bodyguards.

Dust puffed out and away from the heavy steps of his armored boots as he strode through the stench of smoke from fires littering the large battlefield and piles of scorched and rotting corpses that lay about in every direction. His boot soles were wearing thin, his armor dented and cracked throughout his frame, and his once enchanted red cloak magicked to protect him from fire was in tatters.

At his back, his bodyguards were similarly inflicted with the exhaustion they could see, but never speak of, in their famed Red General. In the swirling black smoke and darkening of the red sun’s rays filtering through it, they could tell, even through their leader’s impressive albeit failing armor, that his shoulders were stooped.

They understood. The constant battles they’d been involved in since the end of the civil war, wherein Lucifer secured his position as king after the downfall of Satan, were beyond taxing. Even for the kingdom’s most successful general to have ever supported whatever king sat upon the throne in the capital of Armathain.

The bodies of demons, spread out as far as War could see, were a stark reminder just how many of his soldiers had sacrificed themselves in the name of duty and allegiance to him, more so than loyalty to the angel king. More blood had been spilt in the last twenty years than the previous thousand along the banks of Nguk River. All to save what remained of the kingdom after Satan was supplanted by the Morningstar, the angel of fire, now turned demon king.

With the deaths of his soldiers weighing heavy on his mind, War turned back to the river. There, what remained of his soldiers, which had once more successfully defended Sipait Bridge from King Vine’s forces, hailed their weapons high as they continued to cheer their victory. Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed their cheering until he refocused on them.

Losses aside, the soldiers bearing his sigil and hoisting up his banners had much to celebrate for this was more than another successful defense of their camp based on the eastern shore of the Nguk. Amidst his troops, they held the traitorous General Durroz.

To end the civil war, War defeated Generals Durroz and Kostrech in the first successful defense of Sipait Bridge. During that battle, Kostrech had been slain by War’s own hand. This gave Durroz pause. Instead of continuing the fight, he retreated then swore his allegiance and his army to King Vine. Since that time, they’d been successfully defending the line against Durroz and the new line of support he had from the north.

At last, the fight with Durroz was over. War whistled and raised his right hand out to his side. His fiery red stallion, standing not too distant, responded and hurried to his master’s side.

Larger than any nightmare War had ever heard of his mount was also the most feared nightmare in all the land. Fighting with or away from him, enemy soldiers knew to give the beast a wide berth.

Standing ten feet in height himself, the top of his helmeted head barely crested the top of his nightmare’s shoulder blades. The stallion was a wonder to behold. One War cared greatly for. To add to his worries, he fretted over having to pull three arrows out of his nightmare’s hide before he went to climb into the saddle.

“Easy boy.” He whispered as he pulled the first arrow out of his left front shoulder. His nightmare barely twitched in response but still it pained him to inflict any pain to him whatsoever. The next two in his flank thankfully came out even easier.

Deed done, he knew he didn’t even need bother bandaging him or tending to the wounds any further. The caretakers back at the stables would see to him but irrespective, he would heal quite quickly now that the arrows were removed. Such were the healing powers of the nightmare species. He took the saddle and started back towards the river.

His bodyguards, a dozen incredibly well-trained brute demon fighters which were heavily armored, began to follow on foot. Personally, War never wanted bodyguards of any kind and didn’t have any until Lucifer became king. However, when the new king ultimately took control of what was now his kingdom, he insisted. There were many threats to those in power, even from beyond Hell.

Assassination attempts by Heaven’s opportunists were a well-known threat. He and Lucifer knew this beyond all others. Regardless of the fact that in the last twenty years none had tried, War found his bodyguards incredibly useful. With them at his side, they’d become the tip of the spear in many battles. In returning to the rest of his soldiers, he hoped that time would be changing to some degree but also knew this was Hell. There was always going to be another battle right around the corner from the last.

Through the throng of soldiers on the western bank of the river, War and his bodyguards continued across Sipait Bridge. All of the soldiers were boisterous despite the fact that they were covered in filth, undernourished, and many were injured. Some badly so.

Into their encampment, War found one of the reasons his soldiers’ morale was so high. Bound by chains and gagged, the captured enemy general lay face down in the dirt in the center of the main thoroughfare. Beyond being bound, Durroz was badly injured, yet his soldiers were wise not to take any chances.

Dismounting before the head of his decades’ long enemy, War waved off his nightmare. He left towards the stables and his caretakers that would tend further to his wounds and feed him the blood he favored above all other meals; that of human origin.

To the guards watching over their prisoner, War ordered, “Pick him up.”

Two of the archdemon enforcers that took part in the capturing of Durroz during the thick of the battle hoisted him to his knees after hooking under his armpits.

Looking into his eyes, bereft of fight, War motioned towards his gag. The enforcer on his right roughly yanked the gag out of the mouth of the once proud general. Working the soreness out of his jaw, Durroz straightened as much as his sore muscles and injuries would allow. He tried to show some dignity.

Having none of it, War uncharacteristically stepped towards him and cracked him in the face with a gauntleted balled up fist. Durroz went straight to his back.

His soldiers hefted a cheer which he quickly silenced with a motion of his left arm slicing through the air, signaling to them to be quiet. He then told the enforcers to pick him up once more.

With blood now pouring out of Durroz’ mouth, barely able to hold up his heavy horned head, War echoed out of his helm, “The last of the great traitorous generals. Any last words before I pass sentence?”

Durroz coughed up and spat a big gob of his own blood then weakly said, “It is you who is the traitor.”

A ‘demon’ of few words and in no mood to banter with the likes of Durroz, War stepped up and bashed him in the face again.

Once more upon his back, War pointed down to Durroz and spoke to his enforcers, “Crucify him on the other side of the bridge. Let his corpse forever look upon the death he wrought upon demons once of our kingdom.”

With that done, War left. He moved towards his command tent for some much-needed respite.

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Crucifixion is both torment and symbolic for one of the greatest humiliations cast upon those once of a high station within Hell’s societies. War demanded no less for Durroz for the loss of life he’d caused the kingdom to endure.

At the height of his power, Durroz had an army of a hundred thousand strong. As did Kostrech. After his death, those that didn’t die in the battle wherein they’d lost their general became part of Durroz’ army. Over the next two decades, those combined forces were now completely obliterated. For War, it was a shame. Especially since he’d lost, including reinforcements from the capital, at least another hundred thousand in the defense against Durroz and other forces belonging to King Vine.

Those thoughts weighed heavily upon his mind as he crossed Sipait Bridge the morning after he’d sentenced Durroz. Once more atop his nightmare, he rode out to the position his soldiers had placed him.

The cross bearing him was huge. It had to be in order to hold up the large archdemon. It must have been a chore to get him propped up correctly, he thought as he rounded the hill which was his final resting place.

Awake but gagged, War caught his eyes staring hard at him. Looking him over, he knew he had to be in tremendous pain. To secure one so large, iron spikes two inches in diameter were punctured through each wrist, all the way through the lumber. It was the same for the ankles, but they were crossed over one another and a single spike was used to secure him to the base of the cross.

Durroz would have a long wait until death caught up with him. Archdemons were more or less immune to the heat. Even the heat of the desert in the second month of summer would not be enough to roast his dark red skin. Nor would he starve. One such as he can go weeks without proper food. No, it would be dehydration that eventually took him, however, being an archdemon, he could also go longer than most without water. In order to prolong his suffering, water was also forced down his gullet before he was hoisted up.

War had no words for Durroz. He just wanted to make sure he had a clear view of his last battlefield. One where tens of thousands of demons lay dead. From the hill he was on, he had a good view. He was satisfied with the placement.

Content, he slowly kept up his circle of Durroz then kicked his stallion into a trot in order to head back into camp. His bodyguards and a host of others were travelling back north to Baerth Fortress now that the battle was won. He needed to take stock of what remained of his army from his current position all the way back to the fortress, a hundred or so miles away.

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From a distant hilltop, shrouded in concealment magic, two sets of blue eyes and one brown intently watched General War as he headed back to his encampment on the opposite shore of Nguk River. These were no ordinary sets of eyes for the likes of Hell.

The three angels assigned to observe the outcome of this most recent battle between the forces defending Lucifer’s kingdom and those belonging to King Vine lamented not having authorization to engage War right then and there.

Zarall, spoke of disobeying. “We will not get a better chance. We should kill him now.”

Shaking his head ‘no’, the leader of the three, Abraxos by name, reminded, “Mind your place. Those are not our orders.”

“Not yet, you mean.” The quick-witted Ephemera spoke up in defense of Zarall. Like her brother, she was growing weary of the never-ending watch bestowed upon them. Of the warrior class of angels, she longed to engage in conflict.

Abraxos understood their frustration. He felt the same. But orders were orders, and he wasn’t one to disobey. Especially not orders from Michael. They would return and report the unfortunate news that once more, War was triumphant.

However, Abraxos was optimistic about one thing. Michael and the other archangels were growing tired of Lucifer’s generals winning. He had no doubt that they were about to become more involved. Their patience would soon be rewarded. Hopefully with War’s head as their trophy.