Warning: This article is not for the feint of heart...

It seems another theme week is upon us, and, having been handed this topic so graciously, it would be rude to turn it down. So I’ve decided to make a tradition of stepping aside from my “normal” articles in favor of a bit of fiction for your reading – and my writing – pleasure (at least so long as Streetz deems it ok) for these theme weeks.

But don’t worry; I’ll pick up where I left off soon enough, and hopefully continue more frequently from then on. For now, let us shift gears to that which is most underestimated, and not nearly enough feared: Land!

* * * * * * * * *

It was midnight at the Lost Spirits Pub when a shady man slipped through the doorway, with no sound but that of a breeze. At this time of night, many a shady person entered; either lost spirits themselves, ever searching for a reason to their torturous lives, or in search of the spirits the bartender served up. Not the type that comes from a person, mind you, but the kind that makes you forget about the pains of life.

It was here that the strongest drinks were served in all of Apellixa, and it attracted those with the worst problems – necromancers and liches from the area and simple pilgrims from afar alike. Not a single person made conversation, and only the pouring of drinks, clinking of glass, and the occasional breeze of another lost soul entering was heard.

The latest soul sat himself on a stool in front of the bar, taking a long gulp of the first of many drinks. Heaving a long, heavy sigh, he took in the dark silence of the pub, trying to ease his stiff nerves. The utter stillness felt eerie to the man, but the others seemed too wasted to even notice. After one more swig, he spoke to the elderly man seated to his left without turning his head. “What’re you here for, mate?”

His low, rumbling voice barely broke the silence, but hearing it soothed him a little.

“You don’ wanna know,” the old man replied, emptying his own glass. “I lived nightmares you won’t never dream.”

A little more silence followed before the man persisted, “We’ve all had our share of nightmares. That’s why were here. So what’re yours?”

A visible shudder went through the old man as his long, drowned-out memories started to claw their way back into his mind. “Don’ feel right tellin’ the story to a stranger. What’s yer name, boy?”

“Jack Spilehof—”

“Wait, Spilehof? I know that name somewhere…”

“You sure? My family line is thin and frail. We do what we can to survive, and don’t have many friends.”

“Ah, must be the spirits settling in.”

“Yes, it must be. Anyway, you haven’t told me your name yet.”

“General Vrax Villin.”

“General?” Jack squirmed. He had a problem with the military of the lich lords. They were what made his family line thin and frail long ago, but he didn’t say anything.

“Yes, retired. I quit after that battle, and started comin’ here. I’ll tell ya, son, I’ve seen some nasty things in my life – soldiers blown into pieces but alive enough to stare right at you and plead for their lives, entire villages burned and their people gutted – but nothin’ compares to that battle. Nothin’, I say.”

Another pause followed until Jack pressed again, “What battle was that?”

The general bought a couple drinks for each of them, and said, “If you wanna hear it right, we’re gonna be here for a little while.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “The campaign was a simple one, but one so huge it’s never been tried before. First, we were to take a hoard of undead to the Nivi Plains and capture as many battle-capable as we could, and slay the rest. Then we were to march to the Pomata Forests with them and two scores of necromancers and decimate as much of the land as possible, taking it for the Swamp. After that initial strike, we would spread like a cancer and take over it all. The forest dwellers wouldn’t stand a chance,” Vrax snorted. “Then the swamp would have more power than the rest of the plane, and what Kvyak planned to do with it was anyone’s nightmare.”

Jack nodded slightly, now turned towards the retired general. He had heard of this campaign. Most all of the swamp’s inhabitants had. Plotted and formed 14 years ago by the powerful Lich Lord Kvyak, the plan itself was magnificent, but something went awry and no one heard about it since. The swamp lost, but no one knew why. Kvyak also disappeared. It was said that none returned from the battle, either.

“I have heard of this battle, but they say no one returned.”

“You don’ know any of it, boy, but yer right that no one returned. I lost myself in that battle, and I’m no longer the general I once was. A few others came back too, but most were so traumatized they killed themselves. The rest, I assume, come here every night.”

Both men paused to quaff more of their drinks, recalling long lost memories. Vrax, of the battle, and Jack, of his own. As they sat in silence, another man swung open the door to the pub, hobbling his way over to the bar, every other step making a loud thump as if he had a wooden leg. He glared at Jack suspiciously for a moment, and turned to the bartender. Jack briefly wondered who the man was when General Vrax began his story.

“Fourteen years ago, middle o’ the year. Lich Lord Kvyak had given the order to take the city of Nivilon – capital of the Nivi Plains – and I was dispatched with Division One of four, the largest of ‘em. The whole legion was undead, ‘cept myself and one Manipulator from the Seas, as were the rest.

“We outnumbered them 3 to 1. With those sorta numbers, you’d think we could just take the forest with undead. But that damn fungus of theirs is everywhere, and it eats the dead, so we needed live ones. Besides, the twice dead can’t be raised by the ‘mancers.

“Anyway, it all went as planned to start – it was a slaughterhouse.”

* * * * * * * * *

“Warriors of Nivilon, I bid you, rise! Today is the day of your doom!” General Vrax Villin called out to the still sleeping city. Ever vigilant against the forces of evil, every soldier of Nivilon, and some others, armed him or herself and set out to the challenge. There were many soldiers – almost as many as there were people – and on any other day they easily could have defeated Vrax’s army, despite the odds against them.

However, it was not any other day. Vrax ordered his division to first capture the guards silently (or slay them, whichever was easier), and then surround every single home, and as soon as anyone strode out to face their threat, the zombies leapt from the shadows and captured them, covering their mouths and noses to prevent alarm. The entire city was captured without a sound, and without a drop of blood. Vrax smirked from his perch on the tower at the center of the city. From here, he could see to the edge of the capital all around, and he could see every captured soldier in it.

Another man stood next to the general, two heads taller than him but twice as thin. He was an ally from the Seas – a Manipulator. Thee Manipulator: Archai Omne. With a single spell, he could brainwash every living person in the city, and with another, rewrite his or her memories to that of his wanting. Dressed in ornate, flowing robes, decorated in gold lace signifying his status, he looked out at the city just as Vrax did, but with much less humor.

These people were his allies as well, but no longer. The Seas shifted alliances to whoever had the upper hand, and right now that was with Kvyak. In times of stalemate, they would disappear, working for both sides secretively. It had been the latter for decades, before Archai was born. The semi-peace was all he knew, and this war made him uncomfortable. Nevertheless, his master assured him that it would work in the Seas’s favor. Kvyak would grow immensely powerful, and the Seas would take part of that power to do their own bidding.

And Kvyak knew none of their biddings, of course.

Archai began to weave his first spell, engulfing each captured soldier in a bright azure light, which was sucked into each of their minds. One by one he erased each soldier’s memory with but a thought. Next, he rewrote them, and the blue light that entered their minds became a part of it, forever chaining them to their master. By the time dawn broke hours later, he had gained an army. As all of this went on, the remainder of Vrax’s force slaughtered all still in their beds.

“It is done,” Archai said in his soft, stern voice, worn with exhaustion.

“Outstanding. Let us tell Kvyak of this victory at once.”

Archai warily drew a circle in the air with one finger, and a small portal appeared, crackling with energy. The lich lord’s face appeared. Rather, it would have if he had one. The lord’s “face” was nothing but a black void with three, dark glowing eyes. That face haunted nearly every being across the plane of Apellixa, not only for fear of the powerful lich, but also for the sheer disturbing evilness that one felt when looking into the void. Archai turned his head, unable to look at him.

“Villin, Omne,” the lich said in his dark, almost beastly growling voice, “the deed is done?”

“It is,” Vrax replied proudly.”

“Excellent. Now, Omne, would you be so kind as to hand the reigns over to my general?”

“Reigns, sir?”Archai asked, confused and still looking away.

“Yes, the reigns. It is only appropriate that my general becomes the master of these forces, yes?”

“You are correct, sir, but I cannot—”

“Now now, Omne, we both know you can. No games,” Kvyak said, his tone instantly becoming ten times more sinister.

“But—”

“Do it.”

Archai hesitated, and suddenly his confidence in his master’s words diminished to nothing.

“Look at me, Omne.”

“I—I cannot—”

“Now.”

The Manipulator forced himself to look at Kvyak, but he didn’t see the void of a face that he expected. In its place was a convoluted mass of razor sharp teeth and claws, grinding against each other like the gears of some twisted machine – with him at its center. He saw himself there, in the Lich’s Tomb, as many referred to it.

According to the stories, the Lich’s Tomb is a place – a prison, rather – where you are forever dying, but never dead. It was upon the disappearance of many powerful warriors and sorcerers who have defied Kvyak that these stories began, but there was, of course, no evidence. So it was accepted merely as a myth, but now Archai knew it to be frighteningly real.

“It would be a shame to have a sorcerer as prestigious as yourself become my captive,” Kvyak growled, his “face” returned.

Sullenly, Archai cast the spell that would make Vrax the master of all the soldiers. “It is done,” he mumbled, only moments later.

“Splendid,” Kvyak said, and Archai slumped to the ground, dead.

Turning his attention back to his general, whose smirk had only grown wider, he said, “I have received word from the others. They all are successful as well, and will join you shortly. You will lead the four armies to surround the Southwestern corner of Pomata and proceed with your mission.”

“Hail Kvyak!” Vrax replied with a salute, and the portal disappeared. From the corner of his vision, he saw the ex-Manipulator Archai Omne rise to his feet, the life gone from his eyes, awaiting his command.

* * * * * * * * *

“It was a shame we had to kill ‘em, but Kvyak knew those Manipulators were up to somethin’. He knew they wouldn’t help us out for nothin’, and bein’ as tricky as they are, they were better off in the ranks.”

Jack nodded, staring down into his full mug. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but now he realized just how mad Kvyak was. Commanding the slaughter of thousands, the capture of more thousands, only to lay waste to millions – each and every one of them innocent? It was insane! And apparently, none of it bothered Vrax in the slightest. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it.

However, with that realization came the feeling of pride for his own family, who stood up to madmen like Kvyak, no matter the cost or affiliation. Anyway, he might as well hear the story through. He’d especially like to hear how Vrax and his army got their rear ends handed to them.

“So what went wrong?”

“I’m gettin’ to it! You wanted to hear the whole thing, didn’t ya? Well yer gonna hafta wait now, I drank too much.”

As the ex-general got up and went to the rest room, Jack noticed for the first time that he had no left arm. Briefly he wondered how many other serious injuries he had. “Serves him right.” Back when the campaign had begun, his family was one of the few who protested it. Not only was it just absurd, but also they figured it would only hurt them more in the end. What chance did the swamps have against the plains and the forest?

But Kvyak was a tyrant. He sent soldiers to each of those families’ homes and attacked them to “prevent rebellion”. His family fought back, and ended up losing everything in a fire. Everything except his life.

Jack took a draught of his drink when the harsh voice of another man nearly caused him to spill it all over himself.

“You Spilehof?”

“What?”

“You said your name was Spilehof.”

Jack looked to the man who addressed him; it was the same one who had been staring at him earlier, and seemed to have a wooden leg.

“What’s it to you?”

“The Spilehofs—”

“Alright, boy, where were we?” Vrax interrupted, taking his seat once more.

“You just conquered Nivilon,” Jack answered numbly. He had no idea who the stranger was, but apparently he knew him – and didn’t like him either. He didn’t say another word after Vrax returned.

“A great victory! Sadly, the last of them, though.”

The entire time Vrax continued his tale, the stranger’s eyes bored into Jack, who took a long drink and tried to keep his mind on the story.

* * * * * * * * *

“Ah, I love the smell of charred corpses in the morning,” General Vrax Villin said, taking in a deep breath of the sweet aroma from atop his newly stolen steed. All around, the remains of the city were burning with the already slain elderly, women, and children. The arson was unnecessary, but Vrax decided there was time for a little celebration while they waited for the other forces to arrive. “Nothing better to get the blood flowing and heads rolling.”

“General!” One of his pitiful new brainwashed soldiers came running from his post at the border. Upon approaching his steed, he clumsily saluted Vrax, and continued, “The armies have entered the city!”

Vrax smiled and unsheathed his great axe with a flourish, taking off the soldier’s head in the process. As he watched his head roll across the ground, he smiled wider and said, “Thank you, soldier.” Vrax took a moment to admire the dark glimmer of his enchanted blade. It gave off an unholy aura of power, and would spread death through whatever it struck. Already, the soldier’s body was rotting away. It would come in handy once they got to Pomata. One great slice would down a tree and kill it, making it easier to burn, and he wasn’t the only one equipped with such a weapon. As Vrax made his way to the border to take order of his troops, he slew a few more of the plains folk on the way for fun, watching them slowly rot away. They were expendable.

Only seeing the army could one have known how truly massive it was. From Vrax’s point of view atop his horse, it stretched all the way to the horizon, and still more were coming. Only a small amount of them were of his land, most were brainwashed soldiers from the great cities of the Nivi Plains. Each army resembled a city taken, and each would aid Vrax greatly in taking the forest as well – turning allies against allies. “Beautiful.”

The general’s assertion to his armies was brief – the brainwashed needed no speeches to boost morale, and his own were driven by bloodlust and adrenaline already. A long speech would only soften them. So with a raised fist and a battle cry gushing with madness and furor, they were on their way.

The march was horrible, or at least it would have been for anyone else. On the great plains of Apellixa, there was no shelter from the glaring sun, not even a rock. There was absolutely nothing for miles upon miles but the land itself, and the heat was nearly unbearable. Conditions such as these would have made any other army miserable and weak, but not Vrax Villin’s. They hooted and hollered all the way, eager to let their swords taste blood, and, in some cases, taste it themselves.

In no time, the edge of Pomata forest appeared on the horizon. Vrax licked his lips in anticipation. Victory was so near he could taste it. The sweet, bitter taste of blood. The weakling elves and druids stood no chance against his forces, nor did the forest itself. Vrax pulled an unlit torch from his back, set it afire, and held it to the sky, bellowing his fury. Others behind him did the same. They would kill every living thing in the forest, and that included the vegetation. The forest would burn this day, and it would become his.

The army charged at their general’s cry – thousands of feet and hooves stampeding across the plains for a single, brutal purpose. They did not tire, as if they were an army of zombies. In a way, they were. When one loses their own mind, what else are they? Alive but not living, following only the orders of their masters, and thinking only what they were bade to think, they might as well be undead. Except these soldiers could be raised again. That was the crucial part of the plan: renewable warriors. With it, the army was effectively doubled in size, and already it was large. Pomata didn’t stand a chance. Vrax smiled.

The general stormed through the brush, torch held high and sword raking out at offending branches, and he ordered his troops, “Cut down the trees! Kill them and set them aflame! Not a twig will remain when we’re done here!”

They obeyed all-too-diligently. The army crashed into the forest, and it came down from the force of it. Fires were lit along the way, marking their destructive path in flame. The dead debris on the ground caught easily and spread quickly, threatening to take Vrax and his soldiers with it. They, however, did not halt to give it the chance. They charged, spreading the ruin. Nothing could stop this reckless force, but the defenders of the forest were sworn to protect it, and would fight valiantly. Vrax knew this, and he knew it would not be enough.

Already, elves shot arrows through intruders, hiding themselves within the foliage high in the trees. One arrow whizzed by Vrax’s head, taking the skin of his cheek with it. His steed was not so lucky. Two arrows impaled it, and it panicked in pain, rising up on its hind legs and throwing Vrax from its saddle before running on, blinded by pain, and collapsing to the ground moments later. Vrax glared in the direction of the arrow that nearly killed him, searching for the elf with the death wish.

“Fools! Cowards! They hide in the trees! Chop them all down!” he shouted, burying his enchanted axe halfway through an especially large one. He saw the glint of metal from above him and dived to the side instinctively, an arrow piercing the ground where his head had been. “Gotcha,” he growled, and stalked around the tree. When he caught sight of the elf, he hurled his torch at it’s back, and it fell screaming and burning onto the ground, where it was trampled by his army. Vrax let loose a cry of victory, which his army took up enthusiastically as he finished off the tree and buried his axe into another, taking it down in one swing.

In mere moments, a new clearing was made where there had been dense growth, and Vrax could see the entire path of destruction through the forest – a wide, clear swath of burnt and burning woodland, growing larger all the time. No more arrows fell from above. It was a pathetic attempt to stop him; the force of destruction is not something to be trifled with. “Forward!” he commanded. The army was a juggernaut – fierce and unstoppable, powerful and unrelenting.

The forest seemed to realize its defeat, and gave up all hopes of victory. It made the going that much easier for Vrax and his warriors. They began to let their guard up, singing jollily as they took the forest down, one tree at a time. It was all so easy – swing an axe, chop a tree, burn the wood. After that, the fire spread itself while Vrax gave it more fuel, laying down tree after tree in its path. Then, about a quarter of the way through, a dozen soldiers fell instantly. Dead. Arrows were sticking from their chests and faces. “Ambush!” someone shouted in horror.

Ten more fell in the next moment, and then sixteen. They kept falling. Vrax’s troops were huddled together in one great mass, an easy target. “Spread out!” he ordered. However, the forest’s defenders had planned for this. They apparently had been watching. But why let them get so far through? Pomata was no small woodland.

His answer came in the form of a new attack. Apes and tigers and tree-monkeys and wolves pounced on the fleeing soldiers from all around, tearing them apart like play dolls. Growling, Vrax sliced one ape in half, and then another. “Slain by monkeys and elves!” she shouted angrily, chopping a wolf’s skull down the middle, the two halves falling away as another leaped to the same fate. There were hundreds of them. Thousands. Maybe more. Now he knew why they didn’t attack until now. The forest mustered all of its defenses in this one attack. Every last guardian of the forest was drawn to this point to face this juggernaut, and stomp it flat before desecrating any more of the forest.

“This is it!” Vrax shouted to his troops, “This is all they have! Beat them, and we win this war!” Sinister recognition shown in his troops’ faces – they would not give up now, not ever, not with victory so close at hand. With that in mind, they fought even more ruthlessly. But even so, their viciousness could not match that of the forest’s creatures.

The beasts had already torn through much of the army, leaving dead bodies in their wake. It was a slaughter. Nearly half the army killed in only moments by these defenders. It was only a matter of time until Vrax’s soldiers were completely overrun….

But, little known to them, the slain intruders were not quite done fighting yet. Corpses rose from the ground, arrows sticking out from them and limbs bent at grotesque angles. Now the creatures were surrounded, having charged to the heart of Vrax’s forces. More arrows pelted mercilessly at the zombies, but to no effect. They swarmed the beasts and began cleaving into them ruthlessly. Those that lost their weapons used their bare hands. Those that lost their hands used the broken shards of their bone. Some were flung away by the creatures, but not enough. They died as quickly as they had slain, death taking command over life.

Then, the unimaginable: Once-dead tigers rose up on their paws, wolves with eyes, lungs, and hearts missing now turned on their allies – all of the dead creatures of the forest were raised to do Vrax’s bidding. Even undead elves dug their hands in the backs of their brothers, ripping flesh from muscle and muscle from bone, without one ounce of passion. Love and hate gone, these zombies only did the work they were told, and that work was to destroy their race and their home.

Wearing a bloody grin, Vrax clove down a tree with a pair of archers in it, who tried to leap away but were crushed by the thick boughs, splattering blood all over him and his soldiers. It stoked the flames of his fury and he chopped a leaping wolf across the face, slicing its lower jaw from its face and then bringing the axe around and down upon its spine to finish it off. From behind him, and ape brought down its mighty fists to squash the general – but he was to fast. He took half the creature’s arm off, leaving it with only a bloody stump, and struck it in the throat before it could cry out. Then, there were no more enemies.

Glancing around the battlefield, he didn’t see one living defender left. There were many undead, however. Victory. Even a planned ambush wasn’t enough to stop them. In fact, it made his force stronger.

Meanwhile, the rear of Vrax’s army that was too far from the battle had spread out and laid waste to the forest far and wide. Covered in blood, Vrax howled like a wolf. Victory was sweet. He watched the trees fall and burn, the fires spreading ceaselessly, ever hungry, as he was. He made it to the center of the forest with no more resistance – the defenses exhausted.

He had expected it to be a little more glamorous. The center was merely a round clearing. No structures or gardens or anything. And it wasn’t even that large, perhaps a hundred feet across. The canopy above had a hole in it, a few thousand feet in the air, where the light shone through to the center of the clearing. It seemed a spiritual area, cleansed of all but the purity of light – that which nourishes the forest itself. “Hmph,” Vrax grunted, then shrugged. “It’ll burn all the same.” He briefly wondered if the defenders were foolish enough to try another ambush, but there was none. At least, not from the defenders.

Just as the general’s axe was about to take another tree at the edge of the clearing down, it stopped cold in mid-air. Looking at the weapon, Vrax saw that vines had entangled it. He yanked with all his might, but the axe was pulled from his hands and flung into the brush. Growling, Vrax tore through the bushes and weeds in search of his axe. A piercing scream from behind him alarmed him and he turned around – seeing nothing. “What is this?” he wondered aloud. The answer nearly killed him.

A corpse dropped from high in the canopy, directly above him. He barely dodged it in time and it fell with a solid thud on the ground. It was a lich. There were no wounds on the body, nothing except for red lines around the neck that hinted at a death by strangulation. Suddenly, another lich was dragged into the air by vines around his neck; kicking and screaming with what breath he had left. Soon after, he fell atop another unsuspecting sorcerer, flattening him into a bloody pulp. They had figured out Vrax’s tactics and were going for the liches first. But who were they?

Realization came with the blunt force of a tree branch smacking him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. Vrax fell. He gasped, his vision fading and blurring as the wrath of the forest showed itself. When he finally caught his breath, he got to his feet and bellowed, “The forest is alive! Kill every last one of these damned trees!” and he took the axe from the fallen soldier and swung for a tree. Again, the blade never hit. It was yanked from his grasp by more vines, dragging him along with it until he gave it up, and now soldiers were steadily raining from the sky, flung around like puppets. How could he fight an enemy such as this? And without a weapon? “Arrggh!!”

Vrax kicked a tree in frustration, and as if in answer a vine wrapped tightly around his ankle, and then his neck. He grabbed the one around his neck and tore it free, just as another took hold of his wrist, and then his other wrist, hauling him into the air. He gnawed through it, desperately trying to free himself as more and more wrapped around him. Directly above him, a great bough grew foot-long spikes. The vines dragged him to it. Getting one arm free, he pulled the vines from his other arm and his legs and fell to the ground. It might have killed him were there not a pile of corpses under him. He searched for cover, but there was none. Not in this forest. The same bush he would use for cover one moment would suffocate him the next.

At least the ex-defenders were having more luck. They had natural weapons that couldn’t be taken away, claws and fangs and brute strength greater than that of any human. They may have a chance yet. Suddenly, the air within the clearing grew hot and muggy, and everything began glowing emerald with the power of life. The forest was drawing mana. It swirled slowly at first, then faster as it rose to the canopy, forming a whirlpool of energy. The sun burned brighter and hotter through the hole in the canopy, pulsing with energy, until a beam of light shot down and engulfed every creature, blinding them all.

It lasted only a few moments, but didn’t seem to affect Vrax at all. The light faded, and he blinked away the last of the spots from his vision. When it fully returned, Vrax fell to his knees at the sight before him. Every of the forest’s ex-defenders were dead. Not only that, but all the other zombies were dead too. That flash had killed every undead creature in the clearing – perhaps the entire forest. The power of death was nothing compared to the power of life. Not only that, but it imbued more life into the forest itself. The grass grew waist deep, trees swelled ferociously, the sound of bark cracking to accommodate the growth mixing with that of bones cracking. The vines that even now strangled more soldiers grew thorns along their lengths and grew new extensions, multiplying, piercing their victims and countless more in dozens of places at once.

With only a score of warriors left, there was only one option now, if any of them wanted to live. Kvyak would not be pleased.

“Retreat!” Vrax commanded. The word was sour on his tongue, but the best generals know when they’ve been beaten. Now the entire forest was alive, smashing and flinging, strangling and impaling. It was all Vrax could do to beat away grasping vines and dodge swinging branches as he tried to flee. But as if the forest had taken on Vrax’s philosophy of war, the ground itself seemed to come alive. The dirt swelled and grew upward with a vengeance, the few soldiers who stood atop it rolling off to crash into trees. It grew and grew, forming a head and limbs all the while. Once it was as tall as the canopy, its head just poking through the hole in the center, it lifted one leg up high and stomped, crushing and flinging bodies in its wake.

There will be no survivors.

The monstrosity had no features, and looked like merely a man of putty. In fact, it was not much more than a huge pile of dirt. And it was massacring his army. Not only that, but it was burying them at the same time. The beast’s gigantic leg rose in the air again, right above Vrax’s head, and he took a couple unsteady steps backward, tripping over a corpse. It came down.

Lucky, it just missed Vrax. But the force of the impact sent a wave of dirt crashing down on him, burying him alive. He struggled to free himself, but could feel more piling on constantly. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. He could hardly move. But he wasn’t dead yet.

Vrax clawed through the earth ferociously, animal instincts taking over as he felt the air in his lungs growing hot and beginning to sting. If he didn’t break through soon, he would die, buried alive by a giant clod of dirt. It would not be his demise today. Clawing and tearing, he was running out of breath. To take a breath of that dirt, even one, would most likely kill him. Pulling. Scratching. Light shines through a couple holes above him, giving hope that quickly fades as more dirt piles on top of him. The lack of air is making him weak, his mind blurry, but he will not give up. He must not. In a final surge of strength, Vrax pushes the dirt off him in huge armfuls and took a deep, gasping breath of air. It stank with death. A few more breaths and his vision cleared. What he saw then would be etching into his mind forever.

Bodies. Dead bodies. Everywhere. Some half-buried, their heads and arms poking out, mouths open wide in silent screams and hands clawing uselessly at the air. Others lay crumpled or in pieces atop the ground or other corpses. The entire clearing was covered with them. And the blood, the gore; it was a sea. The dirt in the whole area was stained red, including what he crawled out from. Not only that, but they hung from the trees. Corpses dangled limply by their necks from boughs all around the center of the forest, as high as he could see. Others were tangled in the branches, nothing but broken piles and pieces of what they used to be.

Eyes gouged out of bleeding sockets, faces torn away to reveal the muscle and bone beneath, arms and legs twisted at impossible angles, heads squashed flat, limbs missing altogether; it was slaughter. Slaughter the likes of which he could never have imagined – he, who had slaughtered many in his days. Another deep breath nearly knocked him out, the stench of death and blood was so strong. Vrax felt a light trickle on his forehead, and looked up. There, staring at him upside down, hanging in the boughs, was the grinning, gray corpse of Archai Omne, mocking him. He had a wide cut straight down the middle of his head in between his eyes, through the skull and baring the brain, dripping blood down onto Vrax. It was too much. General Vrax vomited and fainted.

* * * * * * * * *

A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Jack asked, pretending astonishment, “How did you get out alive?”

The old man let out a ragged sigh, and said, “I don’t know. I woke in darkness. I thought I was blind, but it was only nighttime. I was just outside the forest, and… it looked like new. Like it had never been harmed. It could have been a different part of it, but it felt the same. I was alone.” Vrax was silent for some time before he continued, “It was as if the forest wanted me alive, the sole survivor, to prevent other attacks from happening. A symbol to what would happen.

“I’d be seen as a coward, despite my reputation as general, though I barely was alive. My vision split in three and four, I felt like I’d pass out any second. I couldn’t think about anything except that sight. Everything was lost, so I made my way to the swamp. I don’t know how long it took, or how far I went, but I ended up here, and tried to drink the vision away. But you can’t make something like that disappear.”

“No, I guess not,” Jack replied, finishing his drink. Vrax only stared blankly into his half-empty mug. “Well, cheer up, you’re still alive.” He was answered only with silence. Shrugging, he paid the bartender and turned to leave, hearing Vrax mumbling.

“…it was no man’s land. Not a single person. Not one. Killed us all. Dirt and trees. Not one person. Slaughter…”

Jack ignored him. He cared not for the army, and was glad how it turned out. He had problems of his own, too. A man was blocking his way. It was the cripple, the one who had been glaring at him earlier, and he looked ready to rip someone’s head off. Jack had an uneasy feeling of whose head that might be. “Um, hi.”

“Spilehof,” he growled, his eyes boring into Jack’s.

“Look, get out of my—”

The cripple shoved Jack to the ground, knocking over a chair and a table with two full mugs on it to the ground, and glass shattered around him. The man advanced on him slowly, and Jack crawled backwards.

“You. You did this to me,” the man spoke in slurred words, though it wasn’t from drinking – the man had not a single drink all night. His eyes burned with a fire that threatened to set the entire bar aflame.

“Did what?” It was obvious, but Jack was trying to buy some time.

“THIS!” The man yelled, kicking the fallen chair out of his way. Jack only now noticed that the man’s face was horribly burned. “You ruined me.”

“I didn’t do anything—”

“LIES! You, the Spilehofs, you did this!”

Now Jack understood, and it only made him more fearful as he kept trying to back away from the crazed ex-soldier.

“You were supposed to die. That was Kvyak’s orders. ‘Kill the Spilehofs. Don’t let one get away. We can’t have rebellious fanatics among us.’ But you… you got away. You set fire to your home, burned away your past, and me with it!

“You hid away, but I never forgot. I never forgot who did this to me. You might’ve thought yourself safe, warded off from everyone in your little dirt home,” the crippled man said, hobbling closer to Jack all the while. A malicious grin broke out across his ruined face as he continued, “but this here’s no man’s land, and you’re mine now.”

Eyes pleading for help, Jack looked about the room frantically as he scrambled backwards into a corner. All he saw, though, were smirking, drunken faces watching the scene without a care in the world. They all had their own problems to worry about. Most were too drunk to stand up. Vrax continued staring into his glass, ignoring all around him, lost in painful memories. Even the bartender paid no heed, merely washing a glass with his head down, oblivious to the whole thing. Jack was utterly alone. The stranger snapped the leg from a chair he knocked over, raised it over his head, and brought it down.

Jack only saw his eyes. Those fierce, glowing things, untempered by reason or doubt. A force of nature. A force to be feared. A force no man stands a chance against. All went black around him.

Well, that's it!  I hope you enjoyed it - and I hope you enjoy the rest of Land Week here on Magic Deck Vortex!

~Maleficent~

Maleficent, author of The Dungeon of Malefict, is Praetor of The [Order] of Phyrexia, and speaks for Yawgmoth himself. He hopes to spread the word of The Ineffable and all his greatness far and wide, so that more may learn of his wisdom and be accepted into his good graces.
He also likes to spend his free time slaying the unworthy in a variety of gruesome and agonizing ways, recurring the corpses, and doing it all over again.

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