Fear's Union

Chapter Forty-Four

—The Commander—

The Commander; that is what they called him. Simply the Commander. Few dared speak to him, and that was how he liked it. Trust few and the chances of betrayal were deeply thinned. That was the mantra of his people. They had grown on the idea, expanded and flourished under the flag of isolation. He could count his acquaintances on one hand – ideal. Despite the sprawling swarm around him, he was alone.

"Shall I order the crossbows, Lord Commander?"

No, not completely alone. He growled, but the poor sap was only trying to do his work. Was it his fault that he was inferior?

He turned upon the interruption, a man he had promoted on the back of his pliable nature. He stared a long time, watching the sap's bobbling eyes. Most people couldn't look at him straight. It was the shade that drew people's eyes, always a source of amusement for those within. It was another source of authority, his cloak of fear, and he smiled. The contrast of his teeth in the shade would be just visible, and sure enough, the sap's attention switched. How satisfying that was.

After all, a veil was a tool of immaculate value. It was the master of the veil who didn't fear the other side. Just ask the Stranger: he commands the final veil. He would like to ask the Stranger just that.

But before the exotic comes the mundane. "Do I need to confirm my previous order?"

The words were frustrating, long winding monstrosities that were awkward in his mouth. He hated the language, recoiled from its ghastly artistry, and craved the company of his fellows. He craved the tongue of his people. That ancient language worked with efficiency. It was not entombed by complex grammar or needless elaboration. His people spoke what was required, and that was all. When he used these foreign words, they were spoken with a gravelly quality, and he hated it. But at least the words grated in the ears of his subordinates too, which was satisfying. Not that that's why he spoke their language. He consented to speak the ghastly words because it was offensive to think of these inferiors applying his own succinct tongue. Offensive.

The sap recoiled, contracting right down on his horse. A single broad blast was issued, and moments later there was the twang of the crossbows. It was followed by the distant thud of enemy resistance. His projectiles were making little impression, but that was no consequence. This day would not be won at long-range.

This was a strange little enemy, but all else had been swept before him, so why would he doubt? This little enemy were lined up in resplendent order, as all others had. Their highly polished steel reflected the brightening morning, but what was polished armour other than a bauble? A familiar story if ever there was one. It was a fine spectacle, the colourful flags and shiny officers adding to the pomp, but what was the need? His was an army of purpose, constructed for the simple task of smashing another. These 'Mandari' – an even more flowery word than most others – had chosen their ground wisely, but they were outnumbered almost five to one. They would crumble just as all the others had.

Except there was a difference that he could not quite grasp. It was both puzzling and grating. The man who had called himself 'Enabler' had advised caution, but why? He could not lose. He wanted to return to his people, and he needed home. He needed this done.

It would be done by the end of the day. Today was Stranger's day.

His army was stamping in precise uniformity, crying out in balanced tones. Moving forward. Always moving forward. He could smell the sea already. This was the final push, an onslaught before he earned control of the entire width of the continent. Winter was coming, a time when he could re-forge his numbers behind the protective walls of these conveniently placed mountains. It would be a tough fight, this narrow valley posing a challenge for his swarm, but numbers always ultimately succeeded. Energy coursed through him, and he cried out. His guttural roar was echoed by his fifty thousand soldiers.

They were drawing close, the twanging crossbows delivering little. The enemy had used no projectiles, which was odd. Not that it mattered. He had marched right across the entire continent, and the strung weapon had never been more than a sideshow. It was the weighted head of the axe, the spiked mass of the mace, and the deadly edge of the sword which were the victors. The two armies would meet in a frenzy of highly charged battle lines, and they would batter each other until the numbers won out. He smiled again, privately this time. He kept his teeth hidden. This would be a magnificent victory indeed.

His army cried in unison once more, a rumble of thunder against the still Stranger's morning. The beginning of the end was nigh, and he would earn his place at the summit of his people. At the summit of the world. This was his ascension. His swarm would deliver him.

A sharp whistling sound pierced his daydream.

The sun darkened all of a sudden. Funny. He had not expected an eclipse today? His people had an unparalleled understanding of the heavens, and this was definitely not the day for an event. Today was just a normal day, a morning of the Stranger. What was going on?

The whistling increased, and he looked up. A blanket had drawn itself over the sky, a delicately woven sheet spreading in their direction. What was that? It was certainly unexpected. The cloud grew closer and the whistle got louder. When it made sense, it was already too late.

The killing began, and the heavens spewed deadly steel.

The arrows came in relentless volleys, and even the Mother dulled under the weight of it. The screams of his dying army followed moments later.

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