Gods and Fiends

Prologue

It was a morning of exquisite beauty. A faint mist drifted lazily across the meadows, serene and tranquil. Two early larks chirped busily, their small wings fluttering with effort as their plump bodies brushed the tips of the grass. Far off, along the eastern horizon, a crimson line shimmered faintly, and at its very center, a drop of gold slowly swelled — the sun, still drowsy, was on the verge of rising.

“Recorded by later historians:”

“In the seventeenth millennium, five hundred and forty-fifth year of the Divine Era — the fifteenth millennium, three hundred and fifty-seventh year of the Age of Peace — the year 3750 of the Vantian Empire — the great Emperor Gruman met the future founding lords upon the Plains of Zephyr, winning their undying loyalty. It was under their command that the Emperor…”

The enraptured recitation was abruptly interrupted by a battered iron helmet whistling through the air and striking the orator squarely on the back of the head. A coarse voice thundered right after:

“Damn you, Gruman! Daydreaming again? Having a noble’s name doesn’t make you one! Get moving — the horses are yours to tend today. Take them to the river to drink and graze, and don’t come back until their coats gleam. If they aren’t spotless by nightfall, you’ll sleep outside with them!”

The soldier called Gruman — clad in coarse gray linen beneath a poor-quality leather cuirass — nodded and grinned obsequiously. “Y–yes, dear Captain! I’ll see to it right away. Truly, I’ve done nothing wrong! You nearly knocked me senseless — what a dreadful misunderstanding!”

The captain, wearing a light silver-steel cuirass and wielding a longsword with both hands, stomped toward him, seized Gruman by the chestplate, and growled in a low voice, “Shut up, you fool. Do your job and stop dreaming of founding empires. If you were in the capital — no, in any lord’s province — those words alone would see your whole family vanish. Enough, Gruman! I’ll no longer allow wandering minstrels near my fortress.”

Gruman forced a feeble smile. “Captain, I was merely composing a great epic, that’s all! I have no wish to be emperor, I—”

He never finished. A shout rang from the watchtower above. “Chief! A large caravan approaching — come look! They’re coming from the direction of the Smarte Empire! Hah, there are so many wagons and people! Looks like today we’ll collect enough tax to meet the whole year’s quota!”

The captain’s stern expression melted instantly into a grin. Forgetting he still held Gruman by the collar, he hauled him bodily up the five-meter wall to gaze southward. Soldiers and junior officers came running, pointing excitedly toward the distant horizon.

Far away, a long column of travelers appeared — a caravan indeed, with many laden wagons moving at a sluggish pace. Their guards had dismounted and were walking alongside, as etiquette demanded when nearing another nation’s border. The captain laughed heartily. “All right, men — prepare water! Our generous taxpayers have arrived! Gruman, I’ve got a fine job for you: wake the tax officer. The fool drank himself half to death last night — without him, we won’t know how much to charge per pound of goods!”

Gruman chuckled. “Aye, Captain — but you’ll have to let go of me first! If today’s profits are good, you’ll treat us to some wine tonight, won’t you? After all, we’ve just signed that friendly alliance with the Smarte Empire. No need to stand so stiff, eh?”

The captain stroked his bearded chin with mock gravity. “Hmm, perhaps you’re right. There should be fine wine in that caravan. Tell them twenty barrels will count toward their taxes, ha ha ha!” The soldiers cheered and scattered to prepare the water troughs and open the gates.

The caravan drew closer, until — a mile away — it suddenly halted.

The captain frowned. “Idiots! Why stop out there? Wouldn’t they rather rest inside the walls?”

A soldier murmured, “Chief, maybe our fortress can’t hold them all. Their line is huge… We’ve room for a thousand, and we already have twelve hundred soldiers packed tight.”

The captain turned, ready to bark a retort — and in that instant, a thick bolt of lightning crashed down from the heavens, striking his helmet. The current exploded through his steel armor, hurling several nearby men to the ground. As for the captain himself — his body was roasted in an instant.

The remaining soldiers froze, stunned into silence. Before they could shout a warning, the tarps on the wagons were flung aside. From within, armored riders sprang forth, mounting their horses in a flash and lowering their lances. They charged for the open gates while others — those on foot — began to rise slowly into the air, spheres of colored light forming between their hands.

The first wave of heavy cavalry thundered through the gate at the exact moment the first volley of magical fire struck the fortress. Explosions shattered stone and iron alike; in a single breath, half the stronghold crumbled. The soldiers waiting by the entryway — those eager to “welcome the merchants” — were impaled on gleaming lances and tossed skyward like broken dolls.

In less than a minute, the frontier bastion of the Vantian Empire — its outpost of defense, taxation, and law — was utterly annihilated.

A white dove burst skyward from the ruins, wings beating frantically — but a pale, slender hand was already waiting above. It closed, delicate yet merciless, crushing the creature into pulp before casting it aside.

On the ground below, Gruman stared up in horror at the black-robed figure hovering overhead — a young man marked by the insignia of a High Magus. Before Gruman could even scream, a dozen lances pierced him from behind, tearing his body into fragments.

The invaders reformed their ranks with practiced precision. The Smarte Empire’s army — or rather, its “merchant convoy” — surged forward once more, advancing across the plains at triple the pace of any ordinary caravan. Ahead of them lay their true objective: the second defensive line of the Vantian Empire, the fortress-city known across the continent as The Ironblood Bastion.

And thus, the Smarte Empire, under the pretense of peaceful trade, began its friendly visit to the ally with whom it had signed a treaty only half a year before.