I stood in the open with five others, spread out and pointing at the army facing us down. My heart was racing, but not because I was scared. I was practically holding myself back. A surge of emotions jolted from my chest out into my body.

We'd have to speak in a language they'd understand. Now, what language do two armies have in common? Was it strength, or was it skill? Tactics? Strategy? Fucking chess?

No, there's one thing all armies have to face. I'd have to show them bloodshed.

There are two ways a man can carry himself when he's seen too much. The first, most unimpressive of the two, is a depressive gait. Empty eyes, a slight slouch, sluggish walking, grunting at things that seem too much of a pain to do, a desire to lose oneself in something. Sometimes it's subtle, but it's there. If you see one, know that he's lost his fight.

The other, more impressive form, is determination. A sheen of will and hope won't glitter in these eyes, they blind you in an intense ray. Seeing the raw form of humanity, sometimes quite literally, becomes an impetus for one to trudge on. These would be the heroes of humanity. The saviours we all know and love.

Sometimes, these men delve so deeply into these ways that they turn into something else entirely. That, or they just put on a mask. I'll have you decide which end I was on as things progress.

But in my heart, I knew the soldiers we were facing were of the former.

They would witness a new kind of bloodshed.

A silence took the flats as the sound of shuffling feet echoed across from us. I walked further in, waving my men aside to stand down. They scampered towards the camp. I pressed the push-to-talk.

"Mortars, land your shots between me and the fuckers. Crowd-molesting rounds, please. Fire on my shot."

"Copy," came a reply.

I slung my gun across the front of my chest and stood about a hundred meters away from them. They parted, and out came a man on a horse, dressed the same as all the others. He stepped down and walked toward me.

I checked my watch. Grin.

I glanced over to the man approaching me, sword drawn. He moved closer, fifty paces away. Now forty. Thirty. Twenty. No further.

"Halt," I muttered. The wind carried my voice like I was in a grand hall, and it made its way to the one headed to me. He stopped and spoke.

"You are the men of prophecy?" He said, not an interrogative, more of a declaration.

"Maybe we are." They can speak English, neat. "I'd like to show you what we can do."

He eyed me suspiciously, unsure of my next actions. His eyes were on my rifle.

"You'd like to see what this can do?"

He simply stared at me, confused. I could only imagine what was going through this man's head. Why would one lone soldier confront an entire army? Why would he ask to demonstrate his men's abilities? So many questions, so few answers. So wary, so little confidence. He sheathed his sword.

I waved him towards me. "Come along."

Odda found himself on the ugly end of the kingdom generator. His empire, handed to him as a child whilst under duress, was under threat of an invasion from a barbaric race. They faced a famine their coffers couldn't buy their way out of, and all he had was his massive army and his trained soldiers. Their ways weren't against conquest, why shy away from it?

He knew his people would fall from such an endeavour. One war, they could win. But what about the war after that war? The one after that? They needed more, soon. They needed more, now.

He found himself facing a man who seemed to be of little import to the green men across the plains. Why send one man over when they could fire their arrows from the hill? Why risk one man, when they had so few? He had his questions, but never the answers.

He was given a choice by fate itself, to recruit these strange men into his servitude and leverage them against the world, or take their powers by force. Either way, he bet his kingdom on a prophecy.

The man before him offered to give him a glimpse of what they could do. If he was to make these men his servants, it would be wise to see the wonders they may be capable of, no?

The man told him to come along.

This could very well be a trap, but if he played his cards right, he'd be safe. He had riders, they could come with him. His earlier bloodlust had disappeared entirely and was now a puddle of confusion and query.

He got back on his steed and motioned to his knights to come with, and they followed.

Holy shit. It worked. Hah!

Now all I had to do was take out the riders behind him. What exactly was the plan here? There wasn't one, I was winging it.

But I did know I wanted to take this one hostage. Seemed important, some commander under some sort of pressure to do something about something. Worth kidnapping.

Once we'd made it to the centre of the field, myself in the lead, I stopped and turned around. Ten riders, all trailing quite some distance behind him. If I could just get the main man in my grasp, I could turn the tables on them.

"I believe an introduction is warranted. I am Major Naird of the Fatherland's Expeditionary Corps. I command this very small group of soldiers, about a platoon's worth. You?"

He hesitated and spoke concisely. "Obba. The Obba of Mitfheld. My army," he held his hand out to show his mass of infantry. Show-off.

What the fuck was an Obba?

Obba hopped off his horse and started walking towards me. Slowly, I might add. He was cautious, and so were the riders behind him, swords half-drawn.

Great, one step closer to getting my hostage.

This was very clearly something they'd never done before. I'd have to guess they were betting everything on this one encounter. Something must have tipped them off on us being here, and told them whatever they found would be of some importance. So I bet on that.

"If you wish to live, you must show me what you can do." Grumbled Obba, still apprehensive with his tone. "I shall decide if you're worth fighting with or against."

Bingo, leverage. He seemed a rookie at this, probably a young king fighting to see his country survive through something. Makes the job easier.

"If you wish to see what we can do, take your helmet off and toss it up into the air."

Silence. Obba simply stared, dumbfounded. I could see the gears in his head turning, weighing his options. He stood a few paces from me and took off his helm.

Surprisingly, he was quite young. Seemed to be in his early twenties, so not a sage king by any means. No experience-rich leader would take a compromise like this unless they were desperate. They were, and this young man needed me.

He looked at me with a questioning glare and motioned to the air beside him. Do I uh, throw it here? In the air?

I nodded.

He crouched down slightly, winding himself up for his throw. He hurled the helmet into the air, moving with such speed and force, it almost blocked out the sun.

I drew my sidearm and fired.

A loud thunderclap roared across the plains, followed by a softer thunk of something hitting the helmet with great force. The sound almost ruptured the eardrums of those listening with helmets on. Those without clutched their ears and winced in pain. The entire army collectively staggered, those in the rear not knowing what had happened.

The knights drew their swords but were knocked about by their fearful horses. They bucked and kicked about, frothing and neighing in panic.

They dismounted and drew their swords, readying themselves for a battle against a magus. Once on their feet, they turned to their Obba and saw him knelt before this strange man, with a black device pointed at his forehead.

The black device resembled a hilt with only one end of the crossguard on it. No blade, either.

The end of the device smoked, and a faint smell of burnt something mixed with sulphur filled the air. The helmet dropped to the ground with a thunk, revealing a small pebble-sized hole coming right through it. That black device did this.

Before they could even attempt to save their Obba, he was hostage to the black device.

Was this the power of the Prophesized?

Not even close.

Three thumps followed the thunderous voice of this black device. This was followed by white fog, lingering in the air in front of the massive army. They charged and dropped to their knees when they entered the fog.

Coughing and wheezing, their innards seemed to desire freedom. Drooling and frothing at the mouth, they held their throats and coughed away. The charge was broken before it could hit.

Then, a storm of thunder racked the army. Invisible forces thrashed each man about, sending blood through holes on their bodies, some splattering and others gushing where the piercing sabres could not cut through. The air roared around them in distinct bursts of thunder, screaming at them like croaking lizards magnified a hundred-fold.

The men recognized the scene. These were arrows.

Man after man fell in deep pools of blood, enveloped in the spray of blood around them. Pieces of man were flung about, chunks of red meat flowing freely in a river of gore and minced man. Men laid flat on the ground, missing a chunk of his head, his left eye nestled upon a heap of his brain, spilling out onto the tinted grass beneath. Others had rivers flowing out of severed limbs, not by a sword, but as if they were ripped off with no care.

Screams could be heard everywhere you turned. Pleas for help, for their mothers, lovers, friends. Grunts of pain and moans of despair filled the disparaged charge. Then the plains erupted.

Loud explosions racked those who were left standing. The plains erupted in outrageous fury, throwing men off their feet. Dust and earth were kicked up into the air as each blast reached out in innumerable spikes of debris. Left and right, men would be running about, wincing at every crack in the air. At every piercing roar, every blast of air. Men were dying, and their shields wouldn't be of use.

Those who were unfortunate enough to be standing at the site of one of these eruptions simply evaporated and their blood became one with the flung debris. Where there were men on these eruptions, a spray of blood and dust covered those around them.

The fog cleared. Only those who had been unfortunate enough to be caught in the fog had been mutilated, but those who were spared had borne witness to a special kind of hell, never before seen in the history of Mitfheld.

The thunderous roars halted, but the voices struggled on.

It hurts. Help me, please!

M-mother...

Bethel...

Agh... H-hah... Urgh...

Ugh... Not yet... Not now...

Voices filled the air, sweeping the sombre air aside. Choked gurgles of pain, writhing bodies, limping men disfigured beyond repair. Pleas for help, for life, for death. Grunts of pain, of hopelessness, of despair, of dead morale. Those who lived found themselves kneeled, some with their heads planted firmly into their clasped hands, others finding themselves without them.

The voices wouldn't stop.

Now they knew what bloodshed was.