One restless night later

Ash, with the skill of a seasoned burglar, removed himself from the arms of a buxom lady with delicate, slender arms that beckoned for him to return into their embrace. Looking closer, Ash realized that he had spent the night with the marquis’s sister.

“Interesting,” he thought, smelling elusive, but the rather familiar smell coming from the lady’s gentle skin. “Very interesting... And where the hell are my pants?!”

31st of Gremi, 318 A.D., Somewhere on the eastern border of the Middle Kingdom

Ash stood on a platform, watching the parade grounds. Today, the last batch of future legionaries was to be brought to this godforsaken dump. Many would oppose calling his men soldiers, but Ash didn’t care that the barracks were filled with ex-prisoners and convicts. To him, they were his men. He kept calling them his Legion.

The streets were deserted; the sun hadn’t yet risen over the Helma Mountains, so the people were still lost in their valleys of dreams. Some would say that this was bad leadership, as having everyone be asleep meant that no one was guarding the outpost, but they’d be wrong.

Upon joining the Seventh Legion, new members were given black, spiked collars. If one dared so much as to think about starting a riot or escaping, or, God forbid, attacking the lieutenant, their heads would pop like ripe grapes, leaving behind nothing other than a charred neck. This was the solution proposed by the court Enchanters to make sure that the convicts behaved, which was unanimously accepted.

Little did they know that this would be the least of their problems.

When they arrived here, there had been only eight barracks with the capacity of two hundred people each. Now, his Legion counted four thousand men and one didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that something wasn’t right here. The construction began once the most rebellious and zealous of convicts were subdued by activating their collars, thus demonstrating to the rest that the command wasn’t fooling around. Having no time or material to build more barracks, the Legion opted for making simple tents and shelters. In the end, all four thousand men had a roof over their head, be that canopy or wood, it didn’t matter. Anything was better than the damp coldness of a cell.

And now, a month of training later, they were sending them another batch of prisoners that’d join the Legion. Ash was told that they were being sent from a copper mine that had undergone budget cuts and had to let some people go.

“Waiting for the newcomers?” Racker asked, stretching as he climbed onto the platform.

Turning, Ash saw the familiar gleam in his friend’s eyes. Racker, although he was well passed his twenty-seventh winter, was still much like a rebellious boy, ready to fight anyone and everything. Sometimes even without a reason.

“I am,” he replied.

Giving Ash a sneer, Racker summoned a chair. Like a wild horse, it burst out of the small shack that served as their headquarters, leaped across the parade grounds, and settled itself under the esteemed rear of the Lieutenant of the Seventh Legion.

“Want me to teach you?” he snickered, seeing Ash observing the chair. His face looked somehow swollen as if he had been drinking too much booze or had been stung by a bee. And even though Racker had a physique any sculptor would wish to immortalize in a statue, he had problems courting beauties he so much desired. His face caused much distress among the fearer sex, and even the brothels often wouldn’t accept his coin although he was willing to part with quite a large sum of it.

From the outpost of the Seventh Legion to the nearest town were seven miles, which didn’t take too long to cover on a good steed. So Racker went there every few days to satisfy his needs. Unfortunately, as Ash came to learn later, his lieutenant wasn’t a savage only on the battlefield but in bed, too. Because of this, he had been summoned to Gness several times, a city near the border in order to get Racker out of prison. He had to pay the owner of the brothel, the servicemen, who had beaten Racker black and blue, and the corporal in order to keep this case from never reaching the court.

The coin Ash had taken from the palace was enough to cover these expenses. In his opinion, Racker was worth it, as he was a powerful mage, a reliable person, and quite a humorous companion. It didn’t matter to the commander that his friend’s humor was blacker than coal, he enjoyed it.

Ash nodded. “Sure, teach me.”

Racker had just begun to explain to Ash the Word for “talking” to chairs and stools when several black dots appeared on the horizon, raising clouds of dust. Soon, the “fresh blood” arrived. That was how Racker called all the newcomers.

About a hundred and twenty armored spearmen arrived with a cargo of cages, each of which held within itself forty to fifty convicts. Ash counted about three hundred newcomers as he approached the corporal, a short man with an unpleasant face that was glistening with sweat. Around his shoulders was a coat of thick fur to keep him warm during these cold, winter nights. The Seventh Legion could only dream of such luxury. They were so poorly equipped that they slept in their gear and covered themselves with rags.

“Are you in charge here?” the corporal asked.

Ash opened his mouth to reply, but the corporal suddenly bent over, coughing horribly and spitting blood.

“You pig!” Racker spat, hitting his staff adorned with engravings of soaring ravens against the ground. “Don’t you dare talk to him in that tone! Do you know who you’re talking to, huh?! You have the honor of being in the presence of my lord, the general of the Seventh Legion!”

“I-I apologize.” The corporal kept coughing. None of his subordinates dared to move, afraid of angering the two mages.

Ash nodded to Racker, who, swearing profusely, freed the corporal of his spell. And although it wasn’t visible, Ash knew that his friend had lost a lot of Strength doing this. Heretics had no issues with casting these “Blood Words” but ordinary mages couldn’t perform these spells without ending up with a headache that’d leave them feeling weak for days.

“Corporal,” Ash said, voice cold as the snow surrounding them, “do what you’ve come here to do and leave. Unless you want to meet the rest of the legion? They just love wardens.”

Feeling a chill run down his spine, the corporal nodded and ordered his men to release the prisoners. The soldiers rushed to unlock the cages and get out of here as soon as possible.

Locks clicked and rusted iron creaked. Dressed in smelly rags and barefoot, the convicts huddled together, shivering with cold.

Ash shook his head and sighed. The last thing they needed was people losing limbs to frostbite and dying from hypothermia.

“You’re still here?” Racker sneered. “That eager to meet the rest of the squad, huh?”

The corporal turned both green and white at the same time and spurred his horse. His men hurried after him, not wishing to spend a moment longer in this cursed place, making the convicts and Racker burst out laughing. Ash didn’t get what was so funny in people running away. His teachers at the palace must’ve forgotten to teach him something.

Sighing, he turned to the new recruits and nodded. “Follow me. Whoever lags behind will feed the dogs.”

“Come on, get moving!” Racker barked.

Ash, leaning onto the staff that Garangan had given him, climbed onto the platform, oblivious to what was happening behind him. Racker was jabbing the convicts in the ribs and shouting curses as he directed them toward their new homes. At some point, he approached the platform and rang the bell, hurrying them like a shepherd shooing his herd into its pin.

Standing on the platform, Ash observed his new soldiers swarm beneath his feet like ants. They were a pitiful sight. Malnourished, sleep-deprived, and tattered, they tore the bundles of clothes from the hands of the other soldiers, eager to put on something warm and clean. Thick pants lined with cotton, a coat made of sheepskin, coupled with woolen socks and decent footwear was the most comfortable attire they had worn in years. Some even in decades. All this gear was obtained through bribes, but neither Ash nor Racker cared.

“Line up, you sons of bitches!” Racker snarled, hitting the convicts so hard that even the druids wouldn’t be able to help them. Such deeply black bruises could only be removed by a proper healer. “What? Spit a little blood, did you?! Good, it’ll keep you warm! Spit some more! Come on!” His blows were precise, painful, and insanely strong. One “smack” to the chest was enough to topple anyone over. One of the unfortunate victims of his abuse dropped to their knees, making Racker kick them in the ribs with the iron toe of his boot. Seeing this, the other convicts tried their best not to stumble or fall. They didn’t want to end up on a cart on a one-way trip to Gness. Here, they’d never see the bloom of spring again, but in Gness... In Gness they’d be thrown into a ring and forced to fight rabid dogs, naked and helpless as the day they were born.

It was of little consolation that the dogs almost always won.

In a matter of minutes, four thousand men were standing lined up on the parade grounds. Today was the last day that they’d stand like that. Tomorrow, the Legion would cross the border and go to Arabist. But they wouldn’t fight. No, they’d pillage, burn, and rape, but not fight. The Seventh Legion was to become Arabist’s worst nightmare; such was the king’s will. Anyone could kill, but not everyone could make someone’s blood run cold with terror.

As Ash observed the frenzied looks on the faces of his men, he wondered just how many of such people he had killed. “Three? Four dozen? Probably more.” But the convicts didn’t seem afraid of their leader even though he was looking at them with a cold, indifferent stare.

“They’re not even fazed...” Ash grimaced.

“Come on!” Racker barked. Another convict fell and stained the snow crimson. Ash saw apprehension in the man’s eyes as he stared at his lieutenant with a mixture of anger and dread.

“What am I doing wrong?!”

Ash observed the man with amusement. Blowing their heads off didn’t seem to be as effective anymore. The people were becoming restless. Lack of fear toward their leaders meant that the hour of mutiny was just around the corner. No collars would help them then. He couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t seem scared of him but did of Racker.

And then he realized.

Unlike him, Racker was easy to understand. If you insulted him or did anything to make him angry, he’d beat the living daylights out of you. Or kill you. Either way, one knew what to expect.

But with Ash… Ash they feared because he was as unpredictable as the fire he wielded. Him, they didn’t understand. Which is why they feared him

“Men!” Ash shouted at the top of his lungs. His voice, echoing like thunder, attracted everyone’s attention. Even Racker froze. “Get on your knees!”

The men stared at him in confusion, not moving.

Jumping off the platform, Ash marched toward them.

“I! Said! To! Get! On! Your! Knees!” With each shout, he’d tear out the heart of the convict closest to him, turning it into a pile of ash and soot. There were six silent thuds, followed by the sound of almost four thousand men falling to their knees.

“On all fours now!” he snarled. “On! All! Fours! Now!”

Four more fell, burying their faces into the white blanket. The snow creaked silently as four thousand more got down on all fours.

“Now listen to me!” Ash’s voice no longer sounded human. Even Racker, who had done and seen a lot of horrible things, did his best to stay out of Ash’s line of sight. Not a flicker of emotion could be seen on the young man’s face as his hand sank into the chest of another convict. “From now on, you’re no longer humans! Forget your family and your friends! Scum has no family! Scum doesn’t talk unless it’s spoken to! Scum doesn’t move unless allowed! Remember this pose you’re in because it’ll become more comfortable for you than laying down!”

Passing through the rows of prostrated convicts, he’d occasionally pierce one of them with his staff, sending their soul to join its relatives in Heaven.

Or, more likely, in Hell.

Not that he cared much about the difference between the two.

“You!” he barked. “Stand up!”

A boy of about sixteen jumped to his feet. There were many children like him in the legion. Ash didn’t know why, but they were oftentimes worse off than the rest. They’d have more bruises on them with each new day, their eyes were always empty, and their gait very odd. It was like all of them had hemorrhoids or something.

“Why did they put you in jail, scum?”

“I—“

“I told you not to talk unless spoken to!”

The young man joined others on the stained snow.

Turning the boy’s heart into a lump of soot, Ash continued his walk. No one dared move their eyes off the snow, as they struggled to keep their hearts from jumping out of their chests.

“You, get up!”

A man of about forty got to his feet. He was two heads taller than Ash and half as wide in the shoulders.

“Why did they put you in jail, scum?”

The man was silent, staring at his feet. He was like a bear afraid of a fox.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

The man remained silent. It was the first time Ash had hit someone. He put all his strength into the strike. Holding his stomach, the man doubled over and coughed, but remained silent. Racker stared at Ash in surprise. He had not expected such a scrawny young man to pack such a punch.

“Still silent, huh?” He sneered and rained blow upon blow on the man, making him curl up in a ball. Silence hung in the air; the man didn’t even dare groan in pain. When Ash got tired of waving his hands, he motioned to the man to get up.

“Stand up.”

Nodding, the man did as he was told. He staggered as he rose to his feet, face swollen and left arm broken. Several teeth were lying scattered in the snow. It was amazing that the man could still stand after the beating he had received. That is, it was amazing to everyone else, but not to Ash. He felt nothing still. He didn’t know if he was supposed to feel anything.

“You can speak, beast. What were you convicted for?”

“I killed a man who tried to steal money from me.”

“As far as I know, that’s not a crime.”

“The local judge didn’t like me, you see,” the man responded, flashing a bloody, wry smile. “As a child, I often broke his nose.”

Ash nodded and kept walking. The man was about to sigh with relief when he cried out in pain. Looking down, he saw Ash’s hand sticking out of his chest, squeezing his still-beating heart.

Shaking off ash and blood from his hand, the young man carried on. He began to feel the same feeling that the Archmage had felt on the day they met one another: fear.

“You! Get up!”

Another convict leaped to his feet. He was a bland-looking man of about twenty-six, with a pointy chin and sharp eyes.

“You’ve my permission to speak, beast. What were you convicted for?”

“Sir, I’m innocent—”

He, too, joined his friends on the snow. Innocent until proven guilty, he heard people say. He wasn’t buying it.

One by one, convicts got up and told their stories only to fall dead the moment they finished them. It made no difference to Ash whether his victims were young men defending their lady’s honor, hardened murderers, thieves, hunters trying to feed their families after years of famine by hunting on the king’s lands, rapists, or unlucky gamblers. He chose at random. They were all the same in his eyes.

No one understood the logic or meaning (if there were any at all) behind the general’s actions. Their ignorance turned into fear with each new corpse, and it wasn’t until twenty of them had lost their lives that the rest finally felt horror grip at their chests.

Ash motioned another convict to get up. Tears in his eyes, the man confessed to burning eight children alive and got ready to repent for his sins by being murdered... but the general left him alive.

What Ash cared about was making his men’s blood run cold with terror. Their crimes didn’t interest him at all.

“Listen to me, scum!” he roared while climbing onto the platform. “Tomorrow, we’re going to Arabist! We have no weapons, armor, food, or mounts! Nothing! Do you know what this means?!”

Silence.

“You’ve permission to speak, scum! Do you know what this means?!”

Murmurs and discordant grunts passed through the crowd.

“Wrong! It means that we must get these things on our own! We’ll burn, plunder and rape! It doesn’t matter who finds themselves on our path! Child, elder, peasant, or merchant, hell, even if God himself descends from the Heavens, we’ll kill him too! That’s your only mission, scum, to kill!”

Many of the future legionnaires grinned, feeling their hearts beat faster as fear intertwined with animalistic urges, madness, and lust for bloodshed.

“What are we going to do, scum?!”

“Kill!”

“Pillage!”

“Burn!”

“I don’t hear you, scum! What are we going to do?!”

“Kill!” they shouted.

“Kill!” he shouted back.

“Kill!” the legion echoed.

The battle chant continued until Ash gave a new command.

“And now, drop down and give me twenty!”

The Legion obeyed at once.

“Twenty push-ups, you motherfuckers!” he snarled, imitating Racker’s tone. “Those who stumble will be exiled. We have no need for weak members!”

Laughing joyfully, Racker went up to Ash and watched the convicts do pushups. There was something hilarious about four thousand grown men taking orders from a child with a big stick. Threats, whips, and shouts have become outdated — all they needed was a stare of Ash’s cold, empty eyes.

“You have my respect,” Racker said, sitting down.

“So, will you teach me the Word?” Ash asked calmly like he hadn’t just killed about two dozen people and made the most notorious scoundrels of the Middle Kingdom piss their pants in fear.

Racker shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

By nightfall, the legion was three hundred members short. Some say that their corpses still lie under the parade grounds, which had long been overgrown with weeds.