Matthew 24 : 6-7
"You will hear of wars and of rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. For these things must take place, but the end is not yet."
The battlefield was a mire. Torrens of rain, laced with the faint shimmer of fallen magical energy, hammered the churned earth, turning the blood-soaked ground into a viscous crimson mire that pulsed faintly with residual magic.
Shattered remains of weapons--- warded blades twisted into grotesque shapes, splintered staffs crackling with dying embers, firm, bloodied armor imbued with fading enchantments--- lay scattered amongst the fallen, their forms barely visible beneath all the wreckage.
An ominous, chilling silence hung upon the air, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain and the mournful keening of the wind whistling through the tattered banners of the fallen armies.
The entire battlefield was thick with the metallic smell of blood. A quick sweep of the eye revealed nothing but desolation; what these brave men fought to protect was completely destroyed. People's homes were reduced to rubble, a once-magnificent castle rammed and looted by enemy soldiers.
And in the midst of it all---
"That traitorous, lying SON OF A B/TCH!"
A furious, guttural scream echoed amidst the silence.
There, stuck beneath a huge stone pile behind the castle, was the fallen army's leader and commander, the Duke of Hayles, lying helpless in the remains of his own territory.
His face was contorted in a mask of despair and furious disbelief. Mud and blood caked his torn, once-fine clothing.
His left arm had been cleanly severed, leaving a gaping hole in it's stead.
It lay a few yards away, near the remains of what was once a finely carved magical staff—now just a broken stick.
The gaping wound where his arm had been pulsed with a sickening rhythm.
His voice sounded furious and anguished, choked with the taste of blood. He was trapped beneath the crushing weight of a giant peice of broken stone, the pain a dull, throbbing counterpoint to the rage that consumed him.
The pain, however, was forgotten in the face of overwhelming defeat.
Outnumbered, hopelessly, cruelly outnumbered--- at least a few hundred thousand to his ten thousand.
'The odds have been stacked against me from the start.'
"That traitorous cur," he hissed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
'The sheer number of soldiers is impossible. He couldn't have mustered so many knights and common soldiers from his territory alone, not in such a short time. This… this was planned. He has been preparing this for years.'
The memory of his fallen comrades – his loyal knights, the brave commoners, his beloved younger brother – slammed into him, much more painful than any physical blow.
Betrayed and tossed aside by his most trusted ally. He couldn't think of anything else more shameful.
He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face hardening.
'So many needless deaths.'
The weight of it threatened to crush him entirely.
"If only reinforcements…"
The unfinished sentence hung heavy in the air, a testament to his bitter regret.
'I need to escape while that bastard is still prancing around somewhere.'
He thought, ignoring the phantom ache in his missing arm and the searing pain in his ribs. He pushed his right hand against the muddy ground he lay on, attempting to wriggle out. His right leg was wounded, trapped in place between two large peices of the castle walls. He would have died from blood loss if he hadn't been able to clot his wound with magic.
Dust filled his lungs with each ragged breath.
As he squirmed and struggled, he tried to get an idea of his surroundings. This proved to be a useless endeavor, however; the rain was still pouring--- his eyes were hazy and bloodshot; and the darkness of the night further prevented him from seeing anything. All he could make out were a few distant shadows.
'Damn it. If only I had a torch--'
"Ah, there you are, Duke Hayles. I wondered where you've run off to. So, trapped, are we?"
Shock coursed all throughout Duke Hayles's body. Being pressed down on the ground, he could only see his tormentor's muddy boots, but the voice's familiarity sent icy dread through him.
The words dripped with cruel amusement, followed by a low chuckle that grated on his nerves.
Duke Hayles's eyes flashed with rage as he attempted to lift his head, only finding out that he couldn't move at all.
"You!" he snarled, spitting out the word like venom. "You treacherous dog!!"
"Save your breath, Duke. It's hardly worth the effort," the voice, sounding bored, replied. "After all, I have far more pressing matters than listening to your impotent rage."
A heavy boot pressed down on Duke Hayles's head, the weight intensifying with malicious intent. He bit his tongue. He sensed it-- the bastard came alone.
'Not once has he been able to make light of me, not ever. Now that he's sure he's won, only then he dares to act so arrogantly.'
When the boot was lifted from his head, Duke Hayles gasped. "This…this is your victory?" he rasped. "You win by crushing me? A pathetic display of power!"
"Power?" The voice echoed, laced with amusement. "You misunderstand, Duke. This isn't about power. It's about…permanence. Silencing the incessant noise you've created."
'Incessant noise?..'
His eyes widened. His hand clenched, unable to strike out.
"Silence?" Duke Hayles laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "You think you can silence the truth? The truth will always be heard!"
"Truth?" The voice sneered. "You call your fabrications truth? Your wild accusations, your inflammatory rhetoric? You've poisoned the minds of the people, Duke. And now, by order of the King, you will be silenced."
A heavy weight pressed down on the Duke's ribs.
"Agh!!"
"Such a dramatic display," the voice said, unpleasantly cold. "Frankly, it's tiresome. I have better things to do than watch you die."
"You.. cough.. you will regret this..."
"Please, I think you've whined enough."
And with that----
Crack.
The Duke's body was sliced in half.