The blue raven raised its wings.
For a moment, it perched motionless on the new general's arm its feathers shimmering, its eyes bright and knowing. Then, with a single, powerful beat, it launched into the sky.
Upward.
Higher.
Faster.
It soared across the grey expanse of Valhalla, a speck of blue against the endless clouds, carrying with it the message of death and renewal.
The new general watched it go, his bald head gleaming in the pale light, his face a mask of cold calculation. He touched the metal plate around his neck GENERAL TITUS and smiled.
Not a warm smile. Not a mocking smile.
A smile of understanding.
"Love," he said, his voice carrying to the twelve cloaked soldiers who knelt behind him. "Is a complex emotion. Sometimes... those who feel this love do not understand what it means."
He turned to face them.
"Tell me what do you love Caesar as?" He spread his hands. "What type of love do you show?"
He began to pace before them, his boots echoing on the stone.
"Is it the love of absolute loyalty? Or the love of fatherhood? Or is it the love of a saviour?"
He stopped.
"This is what he filled his mind with. The fallen general. The one who failed." He shook his head slowly. "Unable to understand any of it. This is one of the reasons for his failure."
His hand tightened into a fist.
"I will not make that same mistake." His voice hardened. "For I understand the love he felt. I understand the love."
He pressed his fist against his chest against the metal plate, against his heart.
"I have filtered it all. I am able to discern."
He looked at the kneeling soldiers at their bowed heads, their still bodies, their waiting.
"I truthfully hope it is the same for all of you." His voice was almost gentle. "So that all of you may not meet the same end as him."
He turned away, looking out at the battlefield below.
"His body will not be recovered." The words were flat, final. "He did not bring any glory to Caesar."
He paused.
"But once the war is over..." His voice sharpened. "Recover the bodies of everyone else. All our soldiers. All our high-ranking soldiers. Even if they may be in pieces..."
He looked back at them.
"They must return to glory. If not in soul... then it must be in body."
The twelve soldiers remained kneeling, their heads still bowed. Not one of them moved. Not one of them spoke.
The new general nodded.
"Let us now descend."
He turned to face the mountain path the steep, winding trail that led down to the battlefield below.
"The horses are they ready?"
One of the kneeling soldiers answered.
"Yes." The voice was muffled by the cloak, but clear. "They are ready."
The new general bowed his head.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Let's go."
They ran.
Twelve cloaked soldiers and their new commander thirteen figures in black, moving down the mountain with a speed that should have been impossible. The stones crunched beneath their boots. The wind whistled past their ears. The grey sky watched them descend.
Behind them, a wave of dust rose.
It flowed like water, like fog, like a living thing pouring down the mountain path, spreading across the rocks, following them as they ran. It was thick and heavy, a veil that marked their passage.
They reached the bottom.
The dust settled around them, revealing the terrain at the mountain's base rocky, barren, empty. But not completely empty.
Horses.
Eighteen of them.
They stood in a loose formation dark steeds, bred for war, their coats gleaming with sweat and anticipation. Their breath steamed in the cold air. Their eyes were wild, fierce, ready.
The new general approached them.
His hand went to his side to the sword sheathed at his hip. The hilt was black, wrapped in leather, unadorned. He drew the blade.
It was different from the standard Roman sword.
Longer. Heavier. The base was straight, like any other long sword but as it reached the tip, it curved. A crescent of black steel, sharp as a scream.
The entire blade was black.
Not painted. Not darkened by age. Forged that way from metal that had been pulled from the depths of the earth, from ore that had never seen the sun.
He raised it.
And in a flash faster than the eye could follow, faster than the horses could react he moved.
SHLIK. SHLIK. SHLIK.
Three strokes. Three horses fell.
Their bodies crumpled to the ground, dark blood spraying from their throats, their legs kicking once, twice then still.
SHLIK. SHLIK. SHLIK.
Three more.
SHLIK. SHLIK.
Two more.
Eight horses dead. Their bodies lay in a heap, blood pooling around them, mixing with the dust.
The remaining horses ten of them stood frozen. Not from fear. From training. They had been bred for this. Raised for this. Prepared for this.
The new general wiped his blade on the flank of a dead horse and sheathed it.
"These will do," he said. "The ones we will use."
He gestured at the remaining horses.
"Mount up."
The twelve cloaked soldiers moved. They rose from their kneeling positions and approached the horses silent, efficient, deadly. Each soldier mounted a steed, settling into the saddle with practiced ease.
The new general mounted the largest horse a black stallion with eyes like burning coals.
He turned to face the battlefield.
"Let us finish what the fool could not," he said.
Ten horses.
Thirteen riders.
And a black blade that had not yet tasted enough blood.