Chapter 47: The Splitting Fang of War
The sun bled orange across the horizon, its dying light casting a hellish glow over the scorched hills of Var'Sek. Dust rose in columns behind the march of thousands—steel-clad boots pounding ancient dirt, war banners flapping in the wind like screaming spirits. The army of the Scarlet Ring had arrived, no longer whispers in taverns or names on maps, but a living, breathing beast with many heads. And now, it began to move.
At the heart of the camp, towering above all others, stood the command pavillion—its black fabric stitched from the hides of sand beasts and draped in blood-red markings of conquest. Inside, warlords and generals from all four enemy towns—Blackbarrow, Mireholt, Fendrel's Rock, and Ashkorr's End—surrounded a colossal map spread over a table of polished obsidian. Candles burned low, flickering against faces both ancient and cruel.
Lord Varnic the Chainbreaker stood at the helm, muscles coiled like steel cables beneath his armor. His voice was thunder.
"Today, we divide."
Four warpaths emerged from his booming declaration, each carved with strategy and venom.
Formation One – The Iron Tide (Led by Varnic, Blackbarrow)
Ten thousand strong, the Iron Tide was the anvil of the Scarlet Ring's war machine. Composed mostly of heavy infantry and siege engineers, their armor gleamed like molten coal—black steel infused with obsidian dust. Varnic stood at their head like a god of war, his crimson cape streaked with blood from past conquests.
Their weapons were brutal—warhammers capable of shattering shields in a single blow, tower shields as tall as men, and massive ballistae mounted onto siege carts dragged by six-legged drak-beasts. Their goal: break through Kael's fortified gates and shatter his front lines with overwhelming force.
"The Iron Tide will strike from the west," Varnic growled. "We'll tear down his gates and pave a path through his blood."
Formation Two – The Veilfang Host (Led by Lady Nethira, Mireholt)
Moving like shadows beneath moonlight, Nethira's forces numbered only four thousand—but each soldier was worth five of any normal man. Clad in midnight silks, draped in veils soaked in venom, these were assassins, illusionists, and serpent-kin. They would strike from the southeast, weaving confusion and death through the rear ranks of Kael's army.
Nethira's magic-casters, known as the Whispered Fangs, were specialists in mental warfare—causing hallucinations, panic, and the slow erosion of morale. Their weapons were curved daggers, throwing needles dipped in paralytic venom, and bolas enchanted with binding spells.
"We will not roar like Varnic," she whispered, her voice slithering like a curse. "We will whisper into Kael's ear, and his empire will rot from within."
Formation Three – The Shardborn (Led by Thorek Ironjaw, Fendrel's Rock)
Thorek's battalion came from the highlands, their weapons forged in the lava pits of the mountains. They were mountain-breakers, clad in layered granite-scale armor and wielding greatswords as tall as trees. Eight thousand strong, they marched under the symbol of the broken anvil and brought with them a line of siege wyrms—scaled beasts trained to tunnel beneath enemy walls and release flames from below.
Their approach would be from the north, through a ravine system that would allow them to breach Kael's rear fortress wall, should the other divisions distract his gaze long enough.
"Let the others soften his hide," Thorek snarled. "We'll crack his bones."
Formation Four – The Silent Ash (Led by Velsor the Pale, Ashkorr's End)
Velsor's troops were unlike any conventional army. Comprised of necromancers, hexblades, and death-mages, they rode no steeds but glided on shadow-carved platforms. Their soldiers were not born of flesh—but raised from it. Skeleton knights, ghoul reavers, and mist wraiths formed the bulk of this 6,000-strong horror host.
They would come from the east—through the deadlands, where no scouts would dare venture. Their purpose was not to conquer but to curse—drenching Kael's land in necrotic energy and summoning storms of undeath that would plague his territory for generations.
Velsor spoke only once. "We are not soldiers. We are the end of things."
The Master Strategy
The map quivered beneath their fingers as arcane markers lit up with each formation's movement path. Kael's town was at the center of a tightening circle—four armies converging like the jaws of a beast. Varnic would crash the front, Thorek would cleave from behind, Nethira would infiltrate, and Velsor would corrode. A perfect storm of steel, shadow, and death.
"There is no fortress that can withstand four kings of war," Nethira smirked.
But Varnic raised a cautionary hand. "Do not mistake him for a king. Kael was born in chains. That kind of man doesn't die easy."
Meanwhile… Within Kael's Territory
High atop the watchtower of Kael's Bastion, the central keep that rose from the heart of his growing empire, the winds howled in warning. The moon was half-buried in clouds, and the guards on night patrol tensed as distant drums echoed faintly—so far, yet so deliberate.
Kael stood alone before his war map, his eyes glowing faintly with the system interface only he could see. Alerts flickered:
[DANGER LEVEL: EXTREME]
[ENEMY TROOP FORMATIONS DETECTED]
[MULTIPLE COMMANDER-LEVEL SIGNATURES APPROACHING FROM ALL SIDES]
His lips curled into a grim smile.
"Finally," he muttered. "You come bearing the weight of your arrogance. Let's see how long it carries you."