The Broken General

I gingerly wrapped a fresh bandage around the wound in my calf. That damned creature had caused more damage than I initially thought, and now my leg burned with pain whenever I took a step. It had been bearable, at first, but as the days and the miles dragged on it had become worse, the agony growing by multitudes with every step and stumble. Eventually I’d had to call the company, what remained of it, to halt and make camp early.

Suspicious looks were thrown my way after I made the call. I knew that they were whispering behind my back, saying that I had grown weak since the Demonlord’s death. Now they would be speaking of how I could not finish a single day’s march, and there would be other things, ideas thought but as of yet unsaid, that lingered in the darkest corners of my mind. If I had my strength, I would have quelled the whispers myself and made an example of the dissenters, but for the moment my injury hampered those plans.

I could take a small bit of solace in the fact that none dared question me to my face. They still feared me, even in my wounded state, and that was all that mattered. Discipline was built on fear, as was loyalty. Still, it was in my best interest to remind the troops why they followed me, why they feared me. I pulled the bandage tight, gritting my teeth against the sting. I would have to swallow my pain tonight.

I strode out into the center of my encampment, doing my best to hide the limp I’d begun to develop. I called the troops to attention and inspected their formation. I checked their weapons, looked over their war paint to ensure it was uniform, all the while keeping a tally of personnel in the back of my mind. There were pitifully few of them remaining as it was, we didn’t need deserters.

“Captain Verwyx.” I called. The captain ran up before me, snapping to attention.

“Reporting, general!” He said.

“It was your force that allowed the Demonslayer and his men to break through the lines, was it not?” I demanded.

“Yes, general.” He responded, beady eyes narrowing.

“And why would you allow them to accomplish such a dangerous maneuver?" I asked, bending down to stare directly into his eyes.

The captain flinched slightly, not by much, but enough to let me know that his confidence was shaken. Good. Let him sweat. I couldn’t kill him, we couldn’t afford to lose any more of our soldiers, but there were other ways to punish incompetence in command.

“I believed they would easily be defeated by the rearguard. They’d left their flanks exposed, I thought it more advantageous to press the advance.” Verwyx responded.

“An error.” I said, “Because of your incompetence, the Demonslayer was allowed to retrieve his weapon while his guards and his beast assaulted your command element. Had you been commanded by another general, that would have meant the loss of your entire battalion.”

I tore the sash off his chest and threw it to the ground.

“You are hereby relieved of your command.” My eyes scanned the lines of demons, searching for a suitable replacement. “You, Reimer, is it?”

“Yes, general.” The trooper responded.

“Up here.” The demon rushed forward, sharply snapping to attention in front of me.

“You are the new captain of First Platoon.” I said, “See that trooper Verwyx is given appropriate punishment.”

“Of course, general.” Responded the newly made Captain Reimer.

“Fall in, the both of you. One of the other captains will get you a sash.” The two demons fell back in with their platoon. Verwyx was now sweating profusely. That was good, but a simple demotion would not suffice to scare them into line. I needed a show of strength, something to prove to the troops that I was still worthy of being feared.

I drew my sword. It was a ceremonial blade, forged from the crimson hellsteel of Kyptrul. It had never before drawn blood. That was about to change.

“Recently, I have been hearing whispers among the ranks.” I said. The troops looked on. I could see silent confusion rippling through them. Clearly, some suspected I was speaking about their condemnations of weakness. “Rumors of weakness among the ranks.”

I slowly passed my gaze over the assembled troops. Certain faces bore barely suppressed concern. Good. Very good. They thought that I was about to expose their treason in front of their comrades.

“Weakness is an infection.” I said, allowing my voice to grow louder as I spoke. I ripped the bandages off my leg, revealing the festering wound beneath. “And like any infection, it must be cut out.”

I held my breath. My conviction had to be absolute. I swung the blade, severing my leg just above the ankle. The flesh hissed as the blade withdrew, the infected foot falling away. I pressed the flat of the blade into the stump, allowing the burning metal to cauterize the wound. I silently grit my teeth and forced my expression into a mask of calm, staring into the eyes of the watching demons.

I did not flinch, I could not afford to, though the pain was excruciating. Every one of my base instincts told me to stop, to fall to the ground, to find a way to stop the pain, but I had resolved to maintain command over my being. I had contended with this weakness for far too long. The infection must be cut.

I removed the flat of the blade from the wound and wiped it clean on my arm. The metal stung, though it was far from the searing heat that coursed through the stump that had once been my foot. I stuck the blade of the sword into the earth and leaned my weight against it to keep from falling.

“I will not tolerate weakness in this battalion.” I said, glancing over the ranks. The troops looked uneasy, unnerved. A few even looked close to breaking down, their eyes wide, mouths slightly agape. “If I sense it, I will not hesitate to remove it. Am I understood?”

“Yes, general!” The troops responded in unison.

“Good.” I said, “You are dismissed.” The troops scattered away, relief plain on their faces. Not one spared me a second look.

Later, inside my tent, I attached the prosthetic, a crude stump of iron roughly carved in the mockery of a foot. It was ungainly to walk on, and forced me to limp slightly as I moved. It mattered not. The pain had faded, and the next day I marched with more fervor than I ever had in my life. The troops looked at me fearfully when I addressed them, and from then on I heard no more dissenting whispers. They thought I was insane. I chuckled to myself. I probably was.

We reached the Unthelk Mountains shortly thereafter. This was where the Demonfather had made his fortress following the defeat of the Demonlord. He had sat behind his walls, refusing to answer my calls for aid, refusing to engage in the war entirely. I thought it time to pay him a visit.

The grand doors to the Terrormount creaked open as I made my entrance. Lines of soldiers marked with the crossed tusks of the Demonfather stood in ranks, spears held at the ready. No bugles marked the fanfare that was customary for the arrival of an officer of higher rank. I sneered. So the old man thought he could ignore customs, eh? I’d show him.

“Marnothier!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the high hall. It was great disrespect to refer to a demon of such high status by his true name, and I fully intended it to be interpreted as such. He had disrespected me by not heralding my arrival honourably, he had not even sent one of his lieutenants to greet me in his stead.

A shadow moved amid the darkness. A figure emerged, though it was not the form of the Demonfather. The Scourge of Carcinex stood at a stout nine feet, though he was well built besides, his muscles rippling beneath his armor, which was little more than dusky sheets of solid steel four inches thick. He hefted a warhammer in one hand, its head a massive block of stone carved from the heart of a meteorite.

“You were not expected, Spineripper.” Scourge said, eyes sweeping my haggard battalion with impunity, “We’d heard rumors that you were killed by the Demonslayer the humans call Dale.”

“Defeated, I am loath to admit, though not dead.” I said, “He wields a powerful weapon the likes of which this world has never seen. He calls it the Truck, and its power is truly immense.”

“So it is true.” Scourge inquired, “This Dale is the one who defeated the Demonlord?”

“The one and only.” I responded. “It is for that reason that I seek the Demonfather. We must combine our forces if we are to have any hope of defeating him.”

“And why should we do that?” Asked another voice, a deeper, hoarser tone. The Demonfather emerged from the shadows, his hunched posture and gaunt, lanky form did little to mask the imposing nature of his twenty-four foot stature. He wore the skull of a mammoth over his head, causing all of his words to ring in a vacant, hollow tone. “The war is lost. It was the will of the Demonlord that we conquer this realm. We no longer possess his strength. We do not have the power to conquer.”

“You mistake my intentions.” I said, “I may have been the Demonlord’s right hand, but I never wanted this conquest. I desire the same thing you do. A return home.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” The Demonfather asked.

“That weapon. The truck. It bears the Demonlord’s horns. If we retrieved them…”

“We could return home.” The Demonfather finished. He reached a thin hand up beneath his mammoth’s skull to scratch his chin. Of all the other generals, the Demonfather was by far the most outspoken against the idea of the conquest. We all were, but he was the only one to challenge the Demonlord directly. He thought for a long minute. “Perhaps.”

“All we’d have to do is defeat this single demonslayer.” I said, “I came close by myself. His forces are in ruins. With you and your force, we could acquire the horns. We could finally leave this wretched plane behind us.”

The Demonfather sighed. It seemed to me that four thousand years were encompassed in that sigh, the weight of a hundred wars and a thousand defeats. At last he nodded.

“Our scouts report that the humans have devolved into war amongst themselves. Your demonslayer appears to be caught up in the middle of it.” The Demonfather said, rising up to his full height, “When the time comes, you may count myself and my troops in your service. We follow your commands, Demonlord.”

The Scourge of Carsinex kneeled, followed by his captains, and then the troops.

“Demonlord!” They chanted. “Demonlord! Demonlord! Demonlord!”