From the sunset lands of the ancient, untamed west

came the Lion, the Slayer, the Champion Ulrem,

wielder of Imaahis’ Ring. He, with fierce gray eyes,

who walked the wide earth, driving the shadows before him,

and in his battles won treasures, love, and a legend above

all others.

THE SICIAN PLAIN lay naked under the molten sun. The vast arch of the unbroken sky was heavy with mountainous clouds piled perilously atop one another, threatening a salvation of rain to the desiccated fields. Men marched to the beat of booming war drums towards their doom. The clouds sailed past overhead, shriveling any hopes of an end to the bitter drought. In their wake, ten thousand heels and hoofs thundered on the dusty plain.

On all the vast, arid plain, only the ruins of ancient Targoth stood above the horizon. Its wind-blasted blocks had toppled and fallen and sunken deep into the sands long before the ancestors of the men now girding themselves for battle had first come into the area. It was known as the Cursed Place, and locals spit to ward off evil when they espied it from the distance. Their fear was well-founded for the dead city was a haunt of reivers and bandits come out of the desert, seeking eyries from which to watch for prey. Wise men claimed the ancient stones granted them strange visions of long-lost grandeur, glimpsed when the veil of time drew thin on unholy days.

Shepherds who passed too near claimed to hear the faint music of festivals emanating from the tomb of the once-great city, or caught flashes of color from triumphant banners hailing home the heroes of the distant past.

No one dwelt in Targoth, and no one would spill blood over those weary stones. Now, they fought for the crown of verdant Reth south of the Sician Plain.

Battle columns drew near to one another, and the dust clouds that had heralded their arrival mingled overhead, tinging the sky a sickly green as voices called out, horns blared, and drums beat orders out across the plain. On one side, the violet banner bearing the white rose of the Rethi crown prince fluttered from a hundred banners. Margamon, they called him, and he stood watching his forces of three thousand hillmen, legionaries, and slave soldiers assemble from the top of a huge gilded platform. The mammoth structure was pulled by four elephants draped in wreaths of roses cut fresh from the Rethi garden at the heart of the city. Golden chain mail draped their heads and shoulders, glittering in the afternoon sun. Atop the platform was a small, open-walled tent of richly embroidered fabric. Prince Margamon's advisers sat with him. Occasionally, pages would climb to the top, bowing at each step, to deliver or take orders.

Opposing the Rethi Prince was a rebel force of peasants. They hard marched from the north of the country, following Margamon’s bastard brother, Prince Namokun. The young man stood amongst his officers wearing a violet half-cape pinned over one shoulder, discussing strategy openly. He saw not the lines between men, but only one people, united by the crown. His crown. To aid his yeomen, Namokun had bought the services of the Company of the Golden Helm: a mixed fighting force of mercenaries from neighboring Corvair, and a hundred Troichish dwarves, exiles of their mountain homes in the west. They stood in orderly rank and file apart from the rebels.

The mercenaries wore black tunics and greaves of scuffed bronze to guard their legs. On their heads, they wore conical caps with scalloped flaps to guard their cheeks and necks. Many of them wore vests of shingled bronze. The men who stood at the fore of their lines bore square shields in the style of the Yimidi legions in the east, for their commander was an exiled general of the Imidian Empire, driven out by rivals at court. Behind the ranks of men stood the Troichs, half as tall as the men, but wider at the shoulders and broader of chest. Their beards were tucked into tightened belts, and they wore no armor, save simple skullcaps of polished steel. Such a display of wealth, even for the common soldiery, was outrageous. But their chiefs had kept the secret of steel through long centuries, and every trueborn dwarf earned his steel in service to the Mountain Gardens. Each of them held a flatbow: a Troichish invention famed and feared across the lands for its accuracy and range.

Elsewhere amongst the rebel prince's lines, men shoved their muzzles into alehorns or sat haphazardly eating, or fought. A few men wept for fear of the coming battle. A stark contrast to the Prince Namokun’s country mob, the Company men waited in grim silence, eager to earn their pay, but sober enough to avoid the excitement and emotion that brewed before a battle. Each man knew he might meet his end, or discover his fortune. They brooded amongst themselves, awaiting their commander's word.

Orders came after a long wait. Men were beginning to grumble, pining to quit the field as the enemy ranks piled up opposite them. The crown prince’s forces outnumbered his younger brother’s by almost double. Yet, the thing would be decided here, today. Namokun and his rebels could retreat no further, for north of the Sician plain lay the lands of the neighboring Mekdi, and they were no allies of the rebels. Losing one battle after the next, they had fallen back during the spring campaign, forcing Margamon to extend himself across many miles. They had hoped to overextend him, but the Rethi crown’s purse was deep. In the end, Prince Namokun picked this dead place to see the job done, one way or another.

The officers around the rebel prince broke with a braw cheer, and the rebels' drums beat out directives. The patrician commander of the mercenaries and his four captains swaggered up to their ranks. In his graveled, straining voice, General Kaerios, the company’s founder and commander, ordered his mercenaries into two wings: the men would form a line eight ranks deep to hold the right flank and resist the inevitable charge of the crown prince's light infantry. Behind them, on a slight rise, the Troichs would shower bolts onto the charging enemy. With practiced precision, the Company broke out and began to move as sergeants directed their squads into formation.

"Finally, some action, eh?" said Iolus, the black-skinned undersergeant of the Third Shield.

The man at his side bore fierce gray eyes and straight black hair pinned at his temples by a thick cord. His blunt features marked him as an outlander even among the motley crew of the Golden Lion. He was scarce past his twentieth year, but already he was among the tallest and broadest of the Company men. His frame was heavy with muscle earned in hard battle and wide-ranging. His name was Ulrem, though in those days, his legend had not yet grown.

He smiled wolfishly at Iolus and answered, "Aye, but I wish we had the charge today. I could do with some wind in my face!”

The rest of the Third Shield laughed at Ulrem's joke. They tightened their belts and readied themselves. Each man bore a long spear with a wicked barb. Of all the tools of war Ulrem had learned to use in his time amongst the Company, the long spear, called a pilum, was perhaps his favorite. Able to pierce a shield at twenty paces, if it didn't kill the man charging you, the shaft weighed his arm down and rendered his shield useless. Then came the wet work.

The enemy's movement was not long coming. Great horns blared up at the retreating clouds and low-slung sun. Deep drums rumbled across the shimmering, hazy plain, and the war-cry of three thousand throats went up as they broke and raced towards the rebel line.

“Here it comes,” Iolus said.

“Wine and women after this!” said Ulrem, stepping forward to take his place at the front.

“What women?" asked Nidocus, the man to his left. “Surely not those painted boys from Theires!” Ulrem barked with laughter, and it spread, breaking the tension.

“Wine and wine then!” shouted Iolus.

“You men, hold!” Down the line, Lidtho, their sergeant, ordered spears raised. His hand hung in the air.

The Troichs unleashed three salvos in equal measure, and flatbow bolts rained down amid the horde. Screams went up but were quickly silenced as the wounded were ground underfoot. Another wave came down, but this time the Rethi loyalists were smart enough to raise their wicker shields and catch the bolts.

The enemy stampeded towards them, most of them naked but for loincloths, white paint splashed across their torsos, terrified eyes poking out behind their shields, many of which bristled with stout black shafts. Crown Prince Margamon had sent his men to die to vindicate his pride, and so they would die. The rest was up to the gods, now.

Ulrem’s nostrils flared and his eyes smoldered savagely as he felt the stirring of the ring upon his finger. That curse, forever with him, forever pushing him towards glory. Well, he’d see glory on this day. He fought with it, tried not to lose himself in the deadly thrill building in his chest. Echoes clamored for blood, for glory, for the blazing heat of the fight. The scent of fear, of oiled leather and sharpened bronze; the pumping of blood under the naked sun. He felt alive, and the ring fed on it, fueling him.

“Master yourself,” he said aloud, forcing himself to remain in line. Iolus shot him a look but said nothing.

“Throw!” the sergeant commanded, dropping his hand. A hundred spears, eight feet long, shot out from the mercenary line.

The effect was immediate. The first wave of the charge was caught unprepared, many of them impaled and killed instantly. Others shrieked in pain and terror, suddenly sprouting long pilum shafts that dragged them aside into their comrades. The shafts tripped others, toppling many of them. The charge on the right flank of the line bound up as Margmon’s peasants ground to a halt.

Elsewhere down the line, the peasant rebels fared worse. This was to be expected. Ulrem snarled and drew his sword. It was a broad blade, as long as his arm and unusually heavy for a sword. The short hilt bore a pommel of jade, shaped like a man’s defiant fist. Scuffs marred the blade’s deadly faces, but the edge was sharp. Ulrem had cut his way through many battles with it. He beat the pommel against his shield.

All around him, the men of the Third Shield took up the drumming. “Hoo!” they roared, stepping forward. The enemy was close now, storming over the dead, leaping and screaming as they raced to meet the Company’s heavy shield wall. Over their heads, another wave of pilum spears shot out, bringing down the leading edge.

Confusion rode amongst the enemy as the mercenary shield line picked up speed, drumming, roaring, rolling forward like an obsidian storm. They crashed into the foe, forcing them back and towards the left, curling around to close their flank. Spears and clubs rattled against shields as Ulrem and his men planted their feet. The rank behind them opened, and the third rank rushed forward with their spears.

These were thrust over the top of the shield wall and down into the faces and shoulders of the wretches pressed closest. The noise was animal in its wordless terror, agony, and outrage. The Crown Prince’s men were not prepared for this resistance. All their bloody fury shattered like a wave on the well-drilled cliff of General Kaerios’ Company of the Golden Helm.

But battle is a fickle thing, as unpredictable as mountain weather.

“Chariots!” screamed an officer down the line. Over the squabble of dying men and the shouting Company, Ulrem heard the warning but could do nothing. All his strength was matched against withholding the crush of bodies, but even now he was being driven back, step by step. He growled as the line around him began to bend.

There was a thunderous crash as dozens of heavily built war wagons, pulled by armored horses, smashed into the Company’s shield wall. They ran carelessly over their own men, churning them into a lagoon of blood and grime. The dried earth could not drink it fast enough. In moments, the mercenary line was broken to pieces as men went down under hoof and wheel. Nicodus, to Ulrem’s left, was crushed beneath a chariot bearing four archers and three men in harness that leaped down as soon as they had passed the line. Shouting obscenities in Rethi, they set upon Ulrem and Iolus almost as soon as they hit the ground.

Iolus hesitated, his wide eyes fixed on Nicodus’ ruined body.

One of the Rethi in plated armor leaped at him, and Iolus had only just enough time to turn aside the blow. He was sent reeling.

Ulrem grabbed the attacker by the back of his breastplate and drove his sword down into the man’s neck. There was a wet gurgle as he died.

“Death grins at us today, Iolus!” thundered Ulrem over the din of fighting.

The man blinked, coming back to himself. “We grin back!”

Spinning, Ulrem hacked at a nearly naked man who came at him with a club, lopping the arm off at the elbow. He rammed the Rethi with his shield and sent the man flying back at the forces piling in behind him. The fury of battle was upon him, blazing bright, but his fire alone was not enough. The line mingled like blood and water, but the mercenaries were losing ground. Ulrem jumped over his comrade’s corpse, trying to close up their flank.

“To me!” he shouted. “Form a circle! Swords out, lads!” The Third Shield’s formation was broken, but mercenaries were drilled to precision.

Hearing the order, Iolus and the other men around Ulrem responded instantly, forming a deadly fighting ring. They became a pincushion of death.

With Ulrem at their head, they began to fight towards the battle wagon, from where archers were shooting down at anything that drew near. The horses struggled to tow the huge thing through the vile slurry, despite the raging curses of their panicked driver.

They made it to the wagon, cutting down a score of the enemy as they went. The battle was senseless, a blind rage, men shrieking and hacking and cutting as the Company fought to regain its formation and cohesion amongst the crushing press of an endless Rethi surge.

The archers on the chariot had dropped their bows and were slashing and stabbing down with long-bladed spears. Ulrem caught one of these by the haft and tugged, ripping the man down and onto the ground. He silenced the man’s piggish wailing with a boot and leaped aboard the chariot.

The others turned to face him, pale and terrified. He grinned as he cut them down.

The driver dove overboard as Ulrem did his gruesome work. Covered in blood, sweat, and grime, Ulrem took control of the battle wagon. His men climbed up and seized bows or spears plucked from the ground. They knew what to do.

Ulrem glared out over the carnage on Sician Plain. The Company line had buckled, punctured and crumpled by the chariots that had stormed behind the infantry. Enemy foot milled like a sea of frothing violence. Here and there, large islands of black-clad mercenaries marked where fighting circles had merged. The Troichs were already retreating to higher ground, but their part was done. They could not safely engage with their flatbows. They would likely hold for the time being, but Ulrem knew they would buckle and flee. A dead master could not pay their wage.

Further down the line, as far as Ulrem could see to the left wing, the rebel infantry had entirely collapsed, unable to fend off the push. The scant rebel cavalry fought around them, but it was a losing fight, and they were going down fast. The plan had been a good one, he judged, but Margamon’s generals had employed their chariots and battlewagons to devastating effect. Using the screen of infantry to keep the more mobile rebel horsemen back had cost them a heavy toll, but, Ulrem thought, it would likely win them the day. Already, Namokun’s forces were breaking into a rout.

Near the core of the battle lines, he saw a flash of familiar purple cloaks and golden helmets.

“To the general!” he roared, turning the wagon about and charging the horses directly into a knot of enemy soldiers before him. If he could get to them, and deliver manpower, he might make a difference. Perhaps the core would stabilize, and the enemy might be divided.

Other Company boys formed up around the chariot as Ulrem drove it towards the command center where General Kaerios fought alongside Prince Namokun’s honor guard. They were nearly there when a great fireball detonated at the center of the prince’s fighting circle.

Men were blown apart in an instant, and chunks of bloody, scorched flesh rained down on the shocked battlefield.

Ulrem pulled up short and glared at the enemy army. Coming forth on elephants draped in gold mail were three figures in tall black hats, with veils over their faces and gaudy robes. They held their hands above their heads as the enemy cheered their passing. The air about their hands shimmered and began to glow.

“Down!” Ulrem roared, diving off the side of the chariot. His men scattered as it exploded, smoking wood and horse meat landing all around them.

Magi.

Ulrem hated sorcerers, and the crown prince’s magi were amongst the worst. Raised in debased pleasure houses, kept drugged and sedated, they were brought out before a battle and only allowed to return to their euphoric gardens when the battle was won.

Around him, officers in red cloaks were calling the retreat. “Head for the ruins!” they shouted.

“Help me!” Ulrem staggered to his feet, and nearly tripped over Iolus, lying in the crimson mud. The dark-skinned man held a shaking hand up to him. “Help me to my feet.”

Ulrem crouched, glowering at what he saw. There were no feet to help Iolus onto. The magi’s fire had blown them away, leaving nothing but smoking stubs.

“I can’t, Iolus,” Ulrem said. Rage at his impotence rose in his throat like a scream he could not release. On his finger, the ring he bore was beginning to glow, growing hotter by the moment.

Slay them! Let them see the Conquering Flame! raged the ring, echoing its violence across his mind. The command was louder than the battle, as undeniable as death. Awakened by battle, by his anger, it drove him to conquer, to overcome. To seize glory. The echoes writhed within him, seethed against the instinct to withdraw. But all that remained for Ulrem on the Sician Plain now was a pointless death amidst the ruins of Namokun’s rebellion. His hopes of glory evaporated.

“Help me.”

The sky was barren now of any cloud, and the golden eye of the sun glared down mercilessly. Ulrem took Iolus’ hand in his own: a firm, assuring grip. But fury boiled behind his eyes.

“You’re going back to Zol’s high halls, Iolus. Soon, now.”

Another salvo of fireballs rained down around him, and men screamed and died. Ulrem covered Iolus with his body as best he could. The heat of the blast washed over him, blistered his back and singed his hair. He cast his helmet aside, hissing at the hot metal.

The Company forces fled around him. It was an ordered retreat, but discipline was slipping as the dagger of panic slipped in. The enemy was recovering and reinforcements arriving. But Ulrem would not leave a good man to the mercy of these Rethi dogs.

“Why are they running?” Iolus asked weakly, gripping the big man’s hand bravely.

Ulrem hefted his sword. His gray eyes softened only for a moment.

“Death grins at you today, my friend. Grin back.”