Hope Sundered

“Report,” Zordecai demanded, eyeing the returning scout with impatience. The general stood before a small table within his tent, hovering over a crude map of the area with Varzeth and six other officers.

“The villagers have begun building fortifications, General,” the scout replied. The man trembled as he spoke, aware of Zordecai’s reputation for losing his temper upon receiving bad news.

“They knew we were coming,” Varzeth mused. “I wonder how.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Zordecai said with a dismissive wave. “Their pitiful efforts won’t stop me.”

“What if the capital’s been alerted?” Varzeth asked.

“Who cares? Our spies are already in place. They’ll do their job when the time comes.” To the scout he asked, “How many of these inbred simpletons must we endure?”

“A few hundred, including women and children,” the scout answered.

Zordecai cackled. “Child’s play! I’ll take two hundred volunteers. We’ll strike tomorrow night.”

Varzeth leaned in close to whisper in Zordecai’s ear. “I recommend caution, General.”

Having been robbed of his mirth yet again, Zordecai turned a hateful eye on Varzeth. “This little spit of a village isn’t worth my time, but since I decided to suffer your council, we are here.”

“I’m trying to point out the folly of underestimating a force prepared for combat.”

“So now you’re an expert on warfare?” Zordecai replied through clenched teeth.

“I suggest doubling your troops to guarantee a decisive victory.”

“That’s insane!” Zordecai roared. “One Azrahteran is worth twenty Avelirians in combat! Mark my words: this farce of a battle will take less than an hour, and when I’m finished, I’ll wipe their stain from my map! If even one of my men is careless enough to fall to the hands of these toothless, backwater peasants, then I hope it’s a slow and painful death!”

“Inferior as these ‘peasants’ may be, you should leave nothing to chance.”

“No one but the emperor commands me, and he’s not here. Two hundred will march on Chastin. This discussion is over!” Zordecai’s voice rose with each statement as he stood to tower over Varzeth.

“As you wish, General.” Varzeth offered a short bow, slow and smooth before he turned and left the tent.

Zordecai watched him go, his stare a lance of pure malice. Every fiber in his being desired nothing more than to seize Varzeth by the throat and squeeze until his head rolled free, but with the other officers present he couldn’t risk such a brutal gesture without proof of treason. Unfavorable reports to Aguliss were not tolerated.

Zordecai held no doubts Varzeth was plotting against him, but the clever lieutenant would need to be baited, or dealt with another way. Glaring at each of his other officers, Zordecai reiterated his call for volunteers and his expected departure. Mute with fear for their own lives, the officers made haste for their various regiments.

As the murderous red haze engulfing his mind dissipated, Zordecai stepped forth from his tent to survey his army. He drew in a deep breath of confident satisfaction. Chastin would serve as the first testament to Azrahteran dominance in this new land.

He pictured the battle in his mind—if such a hapless skirmish could be so labeled. The fires blazing, the blood flowing, the screams of agony filling the air like music. It would be no different here than his march across Ilwar’s northern kingdoms.

One by one they fell with ease until Azrahtera’s banner flew above them all. The entire campaign took less than two years, elevating Zordecai to unparalleled fame. Once he conquered Aveliria, his reputation would be etched into the indelible granite face of history forever.

Emperor Aguliss would claim the credit for expanding Azrahtera’s reach, but everyone would know Zordecai had forged it into being. His name would become synonymous with victory and glory.

Varzeth would spearhead the charge, he decided. With any luck, the arrogant upstart would become a casualty, sparing Zordecai the effort of orchestrating his execution. Zordecai hated waiting. He needed everyone else to understand the heavy price of betrayal before the confidence to voice opposing opinions infected the rest of his officers.

He turned his attention to the forest. Aveliria’s resources were his for the taking, and its inhabitants would surrender or die. The smart ones would join their ranks, helping Azrahtera become the greatest force the continent of Ilwar had ever seen. No one would stop The Butcher from achieving his legacy, because no one could.

Least of all Varzeth.