CHAPTER 20: The Coming Storm
The Fields of Judgment – Plains of Central Edyrium
The plains had been fallow for a generation, a land of grass and wind. Now, they were a sea of iron and men.
From his vantage point on the command hill, Lord Marshal Daegarn watched the heart of the Empire bleed its strength onto the field. This was not an army; it was a migration of steel. Five legions, their standards snapping in the wind—the Silver Banner of the south, the mailed fist of the western garrisons, the golden lions of Vellgaard itself. Between them marched the retinues of a hundred lesser houses, a river of polished helms and resentful loyalty flowing north.
Every hour, another banner arrived. Every day, the campfires spread further, until they mirrored the stars in the night sky. The rumble of supply wagons and siege engines was a constant, low thunder that never ceased.
A young optio, his face pale with awe, approached Daegarn with a water skin. "Lord Marshal," he stammered. "The Black Legates have arrived."
Daegarn turned his gaze east. They moved like a stain on the horizon—a column of men clad in scorched-black plate, their banner a featureless iron skull. The Black Legates of Varnhold. They did not march with the cadence of soldiers; they moved with the grim purpose of executioners. They made no camp beside the others, instead raising their black pavilions in silence, a pocket of death amidst the living army.
"Let the men keep their distance," Daegarn ordered, his voice flat. "Their work is for the end, not the journey."
He felt no glory in this. He had warned the council of Kael's fire when it was but a spark. Now, they were sending a flood to quench it, heedless of what else would be washed away.
Later, as dusk painted the sky in bruised colors, another procession arrived. These men wore no house sigils. Their armor was marked only with the single, stylized flame of the Church. The Purifiers. At their head rode Archlector Malgrad himself, his crimson robes a slash of blood against the dying light. He did not approach the command tent. Instead, his followers began erecting a great iron pulpit in the center of their camp.
From it, their sermons would carry on the wind each night, reminding every soldier that this was not a war for land, but a crusade for the soul of the Empire. This was judgment.
The Minister of War, Lady Edraya, joined Daegarn on the hill. Her armor was practical, her face a mask of grim resolve.
"One hundred thousand souls," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "More than we sent against the Sunken Kingdom."
"The Sunken Kingdom had walls," Daegarn replied. "We march against a belief. It is a harder thing to kill."
Edraya pointed north with a gauntleted fist. "Beliefs die when the believers do. Let Malgrad have his sermons. Let the Black Legates sharpen their blades. Our task is simple: grind them to dust. Leave nothing behind but a story to frighten children."
As the first horns of the morning muster sounded—a low, mournful call that echoed for miles—the great beast began to stir. The standards were raised. The legions formed their columns. The ground itself seemed to tremble.
Daegarn mounted his warhorse, the cold leather of the reins a familiar weight in his hand. He looked at the endless river of men, a force that could shatter nations, now aimed at a single man who had refused to kneel.
He thought of the name on the Church's kill list. He thought of the whispers from his spies about the quiet assassin, Nalen, who had turned his cloak. He thought of the falcon, Virelle, playing her own game.
The storm had not just come.
It was unleashed. And it marched north.