The Hand of War

Swords and axes rose and fell inside the swirling press of armored bodies straining against each other. The clash of weapons and the cries of the injured and fallen echoed off the snow-capped mountains surrounding the wide valley that the two armies had claimed for their contest with one another. The two armies had been fighting since dawn. Hours in which neither side had given an inch. For the great army of the Sumerian Empire the battle was a matter of honor; the mixture of professional and conscripted soldiers of Sumeria were taught to stand and hold against all foes.

For the smaller, ragtag forces defending Kaladors’ rugged border, it was merely a question of survival. Losing this battle would leave Avalon; the great capitol city of the Kingdom of Kalador almost completely undefended.

The invaders had been stopped cold. For the moment. Nevertheless, the Empires forces still held an advantage in sheer numbers over their better skilled and equipped foes. Given enough time, the 3rd would be crushed, leaving the entire southern border of the kingdom wide open to the Sumerian Empires armies.

And it looked like Sumer just might have the time.

General Ian Carmichael raised his broadsword, parrying a slash aimed at his throat. The blades rang as they slammed together briefly before the soldiers pressing against both men pushed them apart again. For a brief moment the commander of the Kaladorian troops found himself alone and ignored. The momentary respite allowed the giant of a man to take a deep shuddering breath and look out over the sea of bodies. A grimace of irritated frustration flickered across his bearded face as he quickly realized just how few of his men were still fighting. Absently, he drew the heavy matchlock snugged to his belt and fired, the one-ounce ball of lead blasted a charging soldier, sending him tumbling to the ground.

His command had fought extremely well, taking down more than twice their numbers, but that wouldn’t be enough with odds of ten to one.

Unless reinforcements appeared soon, Kaladors southern border was lost. And when it did fall, the rest of the Kingdom wouldn't be far behind. "Davros, get over here!" The general gave vent to an ear-splitting shout that all but deafened everyone within twenty feet of the huge warrior.

In response, a giant stomped into view, swinging the short-handled axe he held in one of his immense fists in tight vicious arcs. The razor-edged blades cut through steel and flesh with equal ease, felling people by the dozen. Well over seven feet in height and equally massively muscled, Stephan Davros towered over the men he cut down without compunction. The huge man quickly cut a path to his commanders’ side. "What can I do for you General?" Without changing expression, he whirled and sent his weapon crashing down on the armored head of an enemy soldier. The heavy blade split the soldiers’ head like an overripe melon, splattering bone and grayish bits of brain on the trampled, blood sodden grass.

General Carmichael smiled at the big man with easy familiarity. "I need a scan of our men, quick like, Sergeant." He parried the thrusting blades of two attackers briefly, before the battle pulled one of them away. "I need to know how many I have left." A thick-soled boot lashed out, shattering the soldiers’ knee. The mans' piercing scream was cut short as the generals magically energized sword punched through his chest.

The giants’ eyes narrowed in concentration. "Watch my back for me, sir." The massively built warrior took a deep breath then let it out explosively. "This might take a minute or two." In addition to being one of Kaladors more formidable soldiers, Stephan Davros was also a Psion; a class of magus specifically trained to reach out with his mind to "see".