Dawn of Swords

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Today, thought Clovis, is a perfect day for bloodshed.

The air was hot, the wind dead, and the tall grass still. The flags his bannermen carried hung limp on their shanks. To Clovis Crestwell’s right was a vast open plain, empty of settlements for miles. To his left were the tightly packed trees that formed the edge of the Ghostwood. The soft, insect-like whispers that oozed from the haunted forest carried without any apparent need for wind. The whispers caused a collective shudder to work through the battalion that marched on the Gods’ Road, intermixing with the sound of marching feet.

Clovis sat tall in his saddle, his shoulders pulled back and his long silver hair swept from his face. While on the outside he exuded calm indifference, his insides shuddered with anticipation. It was on this day-this bright and windless day-that his years of planning would finally be set in motion. Today was the day he paved the way for his god to rule the world.

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