While Kevin and his poor, unfortunate subordinates were busy attacking the first fort on the way out of Ititlis and into Darksol, Kain was somewhere else. The general plan that was put in place for the war, a plan that would have been implemented even if the Luminas Confederacy had not been the first to strike, called for a ‘divide and conquer’ approach to the war.

Darksol and its semi-autonomous satellite states had more than enough in the numbers department to pose a threat to the forces of the Holy Crusade, but despite what some may say, wars cannot be won cleanly by numbers alone. Simply throwing bodies at the problem would certainly make it go away, but the effort and resources required for such a strategy was simply unacceptable to the high command.

Kain had no intention of letting the force he was about to face pull their usual shenanigans and get away with it. The Ruskian forces that his armies faced actually had done what most deemed was impossible and outnumbered the undead and other troops under Darksol’s command. It was almost as if the People’s Union of Rusk had seen the massive numerical advantage held by the undead and said “Undead wave tactics are cool! What would happen if we did the same and cranked it up to eleven?”

There were several thousand undead and mortal auxiliary that were opposing the oncoming tide, and said tide was at the very least two or three times the numbers of the undead. This was why Kain was here, on this part of the front. On this particular front it would no longer be a battle where the two sides could smash into each other and the generic undead would emerge as the undisputed victor 7 times out of ten. Oh no; this time it was the elites of Darksol would have to prove their worth and help the heavily outnumbered undead hold back the flood.

…

Kain exited the dungeon entrance closest to the front he was headed to and flew the rest of the way, breaking the sound barrier with a thunderous crack. He was still quite peeved that the Luminas Confederacy had moved faster than he expected. If he had been able to prepare for another month or so, even the Ruskian forces that his forces were now facing would have been no match in a battle of numbers. His only solace was that the Ruskian forces were not trained at all. They were nothing more than simple civilians who had been drafted and made to bring their own weapons.

The Ruskian military therefore had no set formations of spearmen, swordsmen, pikemen, archers, etc. and instead had barely controlled mobs of undisciplined men, women and even sometimes children that were equipped with whatever they could grab before they left for the front and bring with them. There were a few spears and improvised halberds, but the vast bulk of the Ruskian military was just people with farming or hand tools and kitchen knives, which were less than ideal when facing a disciplined force like the one they were facing.

Still, enough grasping bodies could certainly tear a formation of skeletons limb from limb, even if the casualties that would result from such an action would be severe. Kain did not even have the luxury of hoping that fear would force the Ruskian forces to break. The People’s Union of Rusk had a special brew that turned any who drank enough of it into men without fear or sense of pain, and against a force that would not break and had the strength of a human with their muscles still attached the undead would have a more difficult time.

Kain touched down near where the Darksol forces had assembled alongside those of the Greater Teutonian Union State. Kain could not sense Erwin Krueger amongst the living, and at first was under the assumption that Krueger had acted in a cowardly fashion. However, his suspicions were ceased when he remembered something.

Krueger was not a frontline commander anymore and was instead the political head of the GTUS, and that was a position that would never allow him to risk his own head out near the front lines of a dangerous warzone. He could almost hear Krueger writhing in agony, knowing that he would not be allowed to go and lead the troops himself. Such a post was hell for a man whose whole existence up till that point was to lead his men from the front, through thick and thin.

As Kain strolled through the camp, the Teutonians tried to bow numerous times, but Kain bid them to stand up straight. Little did he know that of the major religions that existed in Darksol and its satellite states, Kain was the chief god of all of them. He did not really want to involve himself in matters of faith and due to his non-interference (aside from acting to separate church and state) several major religions emerged, each dedicated to a different aspect of Darksol’s culture.

The biggest faith by far put all of Darksol’s heavy hitters, Kain, Alexis, their twin children, the Vampire House Founders, Zalga, C’thylla, Piotr Alistaira Crowley, Erwin Krueger, Zero Noir and several others together as a divine pantheon with Kain as the supreme deity. Kain had no idea that the reason that the people around him tried to bow and scrape was due to their worship of him; worship he would have been both pleased and irritated to learn about.

Finally reaching the main tent, Kain met up with the necromancers that controlled the undead and the Field Marshal in charge of the GTUS forces on this front along with those just beneath him on the chain of command. Everyone there saluted Kain as he entered, and the planning began.

…

He had marched on the damp and soggy ground for what felt like an eternity. He had seen so many of his comrades be unable to keep moving and simply fall down, sinking into the muddy ground and being trampled by those that came after. After enough people had stepped in the bodies, they would be forever lost to the dirt. Sometimes, someone was looted after they fell, with the biggest prize often being shoes. Still, he kept marching towards the ancient enemy.

“Halt!”

One of the nobles that rode alongside the column let out a cry that everyone was overjoyed to hear. Finally, they could take a break and try to get some much-needed rest. Everyone simply fell to the ground, too exhausted to move much more. Half an hour passed and finally everyone, including himself, was rested enough to stagger to their feet and try and make camp. Unlike the nobles, the common folk did not have the luxury of tents of good food. All they had to make do with were burlap rolled over the ground and soup that was more lukewarm water than anything else. Still, a meal was a meal, and no one save the nobles had eaten anything since the march began more than ten hours ago.

He slurped his ‘beef soup’ and let the warmth wash away the bitter chill that hung in the air. The winter had yet to truly strike. In fact, it was unseasonably warm for the area they were in. He looked to the heavens and thanked General Winter for not arriving. Despite the horribly damp and spongy ground being a nuisance, a deep chill like that which usually occurred at this time would be most unwelcome. He had packed his winter gear, so at least if the snows did start falling, he would have some protection at least.

As he finished his bowl and placed it back where it came from, he felt a slight chilly breeze wash over him. The skies were heavily cloudy but did not look like they carried snow or rain. But to him it was better to be safe than sorry, so he picked up his bag and removed the shovel, wooden supports and burlap from it and started to make a place where he could spend the night. Sure, he was already extremely fatigued, but what was the harm in preparing a better place to sleep in the event of heavy rains or snow? If such weather did occur, he would be one of those who prepared for it and therefore would not freeze. Probably.

He started his work and slowly his shelter was formed. As he worked, he and the others failed to notice that the air got colder, sinking slowly by degrees. Only after he had finished his refuge did he notice the first snow of what would become the worst winter in a very, very long time. It would be a winter that would be as natural as it was unnatural.

…

General Winter’s personification had come and was walking towards the Ruskians at a slow and steady pace. His eye sockets glowed with a sinister light and his massive great sword was rested against his shoulder. Piotr, the warrior formerly known as the Living Ice Age, was preparing to intercept, and the blizzard that surrounded him seemed to howl in anticipation of the slaughter to come. Having moved without instruction as soon as the war began, one might assume that Piotr was AWOL, but this was not the case.

He just had been given more leeway to move than most others due to his uncontrollable and unwanted ‘Heroic Gift’ causing no end of trouble for those close to him, let alone more than thirty miles away at the very edge of the tempest. No one nearby was safe, and even at the edge the sub-zero winds howled and bit at any who drew too near. He changed the weather no matter where he was, and even lands many miles away from the swirling mass of cold and doom felt their temperatures plummet and saw snow fall in normally unheard-of quantities.

He walked onwards, knowing that he was heading towards those whose lands were so very similar to his homeland in its not so distant past. But that didn’t matter to him, as he just wanted to fight and kill and destroy; anything to take his mind off of the knowledge that he now not only could never go back to Earth but also that even if he could, his family was long since dead and he would be nothing more than a uncontrollable undead abomination.

Inside the swirling, hurricane-like tempest of ice, snow and freezing rain, Piotr gazed ever onwards, his eyes locked on a place far beyond his current position. He locked his thousand-yard stare at a place that still to this day held the ones whose grip firmly held the Ruskian people in squalor and in living standards that could only be called sub-human.

“Moscow… I will purge you of the ones who force your people to be as livestock…”

Those words he uttered were never heard by anyone as the roaring blizzard banished all sounds save its own. Piotr marched on, slowly moving towards the northern-most force that was approaching the Greater Teutonian Union State. After they were dealt with, he would cut the head off the snake. He had all the time in the world to move at whatever pace he saw fit. He was undead, after all, and as he had no limits imposed by stamina, he could simply keep walking endlessly. He would reach his target; all he had to do was keep moving.

The hurricane of white death slowly creeped east, and all in its path was consumed by a blizzard unlike any had seen in an age. At its center, in the impossibly small eye of the storm, Piotr hummed a tune that was swallowed by the thunderous volume of the tempest that his mere existence created. Death was coming, and it would freeze all who came too close with a chill so deep that nothing could survive it. Bones would shatter, liquids would flash freeze, and all in Piotr’s path would fall to the winds and cold.

If not, then his sword would finish the job; but what were the odds of him needing to use that?