CHAPTER 33: The Bloodied Sweep
The Blackwood Forest – Vanguard of the Black Legates
The order was simple: sweep the Blackwood. Eradicate. Purify. Leave nothing but ash and bone. But the forest itself seemed to fight back. Cold, biting wind whipped through the skeletal branches, carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant, sickening tang of burnt human flesh. Major Theron of the Black Legates, a man whose scorched-black plate armor bore the marks of a dozen campaigns, felt the forest closing in around his company. Unlike the lighter-armed legions, his men were built for this: grim, silent, moving with the heavy, unyielding purpose of executioners. Their banner, a featureless iron skull, was a promise of finality.
They found the first village easily enough, or what was left of it. Oakhaven, the scouts had called it. Now, it was a pyre of collapsed timbers, stone chimneys standing like broken fingers against the bruised sky. No inhabitants, no livestock, not even a mouse. Just the pervasive, acrid smell of burnt pine and a hundred lost lives. They poured what remained of their foul water into the well, only to see it bubble with a noxious froth. A grim chuckle escaped Theron. Kael was denying them sustenance, turning the land into a weapon.
Sergeant Livius, leading a squad of regular legionaries attached to the sweep, felt his gut clench. They'd seen burnt earth before, but this was different. Meticulous. Complete. "Ghost villages," Private Kella whispered, her eyes darting nervously. "They're all gone. Where do they go?"
From the rear, the Purifiers' advance was marked by the zealous chanting of Archlector Malgrad's acolytes. Father Joric, a stern-faced priest with a staff topped by a burning brazer, led his detachment of Purifiers. They did not carry swords, but flails wrapped in barbed wire and hooks for dragging "heretics" from hiding. For them, every empty village was a sign of profanity, every silent forest path a breeding ground for doubt. They found the discarded carcasses of livestock, deliberately left to rot, and condemned them as ritualistic defilement.
Deep in the Blackwood – The Phantom War
The further they pushed into the Blackwood, the worse it became. The trees grew denser, their black bark seemed to absorb the light, even at midday. The fog, a constant companion, muffled all sound, transforming every snapping twig into a potential ambush.
Corporal Titus, part of Livius's squad, stumbled, his leg cramping from the endless march through soft earth. He felt eyes on him. He spun, weapon raised, but saw only the shifting grey curtain of mist. "Anyone else hear that?" he hissed.
Livius merely grunted. He'd heard it too. The rustle of leaves where there was no wind. A faint, almost melodic hum that seemed to come from the very air. These weren't skirmishers. These were phantoms.
They found the second patrol at dusk. Not vanished, as so many others had. Displayed. Four men from the Silver Banner, their bodies meticulously arranged, not in a circle of death, but in a grotesque mockery of a prayer, facing Duskwatch. Their eyes were wide, empty, and their tongues had been removed, replaced by small, charred bone charms. The black-fletched arrows were surgically placed, one in the throat, one in the eye, one in the groin. There was no struggle visible, only the absolute finality of a predator's strike.
Major Theron stood over the scene, his face a grim mask. "The Red Veil," he rumbled, recognizing the signature. "They seek to break us with dread, not steel. They want us to believe they are everywhere, yet nowhere." He understood the tactic. It was efficient. Brutal. And it was working. He could feel the unease seeping into his own hardened men.
Father Joric arrived, his voice a low, furious growl. "This is heresy! A defilement of the sacred human form! They mock the Flame's judgment!" He ordered his Purifiers to cleanse the bodies with fire, the flames licking at the trees, casting grotesque dancing shadows. The acrid smell of burning flesh mingled with the damp forest air, filling the soldiers with nausea.
The Villages of Cinders – A Path of Despair
Daegarn's orders were unequivocal: if they found any locals, they were to be questioned. If they had withheld supplies, or spread dissent, they were to be made an example of. The Black Legates and Purifiers executed these orders with grim efficiency.
They found isolated homesteads, tiny clusters of houses, and lone cabins hidden in the deeper valleys. None yielded food. The villagers, when found, were starving, their eyes hollow with fear, refusing to speak more than a desperate whisper about the "fire that cleansed the north" and the "Sovereign who stole their hunger."
One farmer, a man with calloused hands and eyes that had seen too much, was found trying to hide a single sack of dried beans. He was dragged before Major Theron.
"Where is the rest of your harvest, peasant?" Theron demanded.
The farmer shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "Gone, ser. The rebel. He took it. He said… live, but don't feed them. He said it was our blood in the soil if we nourished the lions."
Theron's face hardened. "You lie. You follow the heretic. Make an example."
The Purifiers were quick. The farmer was strung up from a gnarled oak, his dying screams echoing through the valley as Father Joric preached about loyalty and heresy. His home, then, was set ablaze. It became a pattern. Village after village, homestead after homestead. If they were empty, they burned. If they contained people who resisted, the people burned first.
Command Frustration – A Grinding Advance
Days turned into weeks. The Imperial host, a leviathan of steel and hunger, lumbered through a land that fought it with emptiness. The logistical nightmare was immense. Wagons became stuck in mud. Horses began to sicken from tainted feed. The constant, gnawing hunger in the bellies of the soldiers was matched only by the chilling fear in their hearts.
Lord Tervan was nearing a breakdown, his reports filled with increasingly dire statistics. "We are losing twenty percent of our supplies to spoilage and 'disappearance' each week! We are losing ten percent of our men to sickness and desertion!"
Lady Edraya's face was etched with exhaustion, her pride wounded. "The reports from the populace are damning, Lord Marshal. They hate us. This 'Sovereign' has turned their own suffering into a weapon against us. They call us the monsters."
Daegarn stood at his command tent, staring at a new map covered not in strategic markings, but in hundreds of burnt symbols. Every skull, every stylized flame, every blank space where a village should have been, was a testament to Kael's terrifying genius. He had predicted this. He had warned them.
The grand army, designed to crush nations, was being slowly, agonizingly consumed by a phantom war. They were proving Kael's prophecy with every desperate, brutal step.
"We are not defeating them," Daegarn growled, his voice raw. "We are becoming them. This is the price of his defiance. And we will pay it in blood and ash, until there is nothing left for him to defend."
The bells of Velvrahn, meant to herald a glorious judgment, now seemed a distant, hollow clang, lost in the vast, empty terror of the haunted north.