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Description
The warriors came into view of Goldpine, figures of beasts spread across the horizon. Villagers began to gather at the road reaching out to the oncoming large group. The dark haired man who rode ahead of them slightly was wearing studded leather armor that exposed most of his upper body. He directed his horse toward a young man. The boy looked up at the daunting Murdan who sat firm in the saddle, grasping the hoe he held in his hands tighter. The man on the horse peered at the boy through cold grey eyes. “Who is your king?” His voice was deep and harsh. The confused boy’s eyes darted across the men behind the warrior. A shriveled man came from behind the boy, limped over a molding cane. He looked undaunted, “We have no king here! We do not worship a man who ignores his people’s words!”  His voice cracked as he continued. “Who does he send to this forgotten city?”
The man on the horse gave a grim smile, “I’m Sarithe, commander of the Murdan warriors.” He grasped at the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist, “And you will respect your king, old man.” The skeletal man seemed startled, but stood his ground. “How can I respect a king who has forgotten the meaning of leadership?”
Sarithe got down from his horse and stood looking at the old man.  He could tell that the man was feeble in stature, but stubborn in spirit.  Yet spirit can only carry you but so far as this old man was about to find out.  “You can start by getting on your knees!”  With that he drew his sword and slashed the man’s legs off at the knees.  The old man let out a short raspy yell and fell flat on his face in the dirt with blood pooling up behind what remained of his legs.
“Would anyone else like to be reminded how to respect their rightful king?”
As he gazed around at the crowd that had gathered, he realized there would be trouble from a few who were too afraid to speak up in the daylight.  Cowards such as these do not deserve a great king. he thought to himself.  I have ways of dealing with such pitiful fools.
He peered across the village, a pensive look on his face. “Bring me all the men in the village over the age of 15.” The crowd stood as it confused by this request. Sarithe gave them a moment to consider it.  After a few moments he let out a yell, “Now!” and with that, thrust his sword through the chest of the boy-child he had first encountered upon entering the village. The boy let out a cry and his eyes glassed over as his life’s blood ran down the blade of Sarithe’s sword, to the hilt, and then finally down his leather glove.
With a shove, he threw the boy’s body off his blade and onto the hard dirt.  It hit with a sickening thud and a small crunch as the child’s now limp right arm was crushed under the weight of his corpse.  This action awakened the town from its stupor and neighbors turned on one another very quickly. Mothers shouting out as their sons were pulled from their grasping claws, being dragged toward the Murdans.  Sarithe looked to one of his lieutenants and motioned at the throng.  The lieutenant quickly began organizing the crowd that gathered and led them to a dead field out of view of the village.

Sarithe looked at the mass gathered before him in disgust.  How can true men allow themselves to degenerate this way physically?  He supposed it was due to his warrior training as a young Murdan that made him more aware of the body’s physical ability.  No matter, I shall be done with them soon enough. Sarithe had instructed his men to draw out a combat circle, in the dirt, so that he may test these men to determine if any were suitable enough to be conscripted into their army.  He told his men this, but in reality, he was craving bloodlust. He wanted to kill as many of these wastes of flesh as he possibly could.  Not that he needed the combat circle as justification for the slaughtering of mass innocents, but he might happen to discover one of the many gathered before him that was not a complete incompetent.
“Men of Goldpine, what you see before you is a combat circle.  You will notice it is more than adequate enough to hold several men comfortably.  You will be given simple weapons at random and enter this circle to fight for your very lives.  If one of you manages to survive and show a modicum of skill, you will be given the honor of joining the King’s army. If enough of you pitiful souls manage to show potential as warriors, I shall spare your village. If none of you are competent enough to survive your own neighbor, my men shall turn you to maggot grub.” The men gathered before him muttered to one another. “Without further fanfare, let the trial begin!”
The weapons were distributed to the chosen villagers and they were pushed into the combat circle, forcing them to begin their trials.  First a young man, about the age of 16 it looked, was pushed in with an old man around what must have been 50. The young man seemed hesitant at first, not wanting to hurt the crippled man.  This will not do. Sarithe thought. This would provide no entertainment and no quenching of his bloodlust.
“Throw another one in!” He shouted.  Another was added to the fighting circle, still no one fought. This process continued with much the same result until there were 8 men in the circle, angering Sarithe more. Then, as if inspiration came to him, Sarithe stood up and unsheathed his sword from his scabbard.
“If you will not kill each other, then allow me to give you scum another demonstration of how it is done!”
With that, Sarithe leapt into the midst of them.  The men looked startled for a moment, but soon realized this was their chance to kill this man. The man who was set on destroying their village, their families- the very things they had built for themselves through years of hardship.
The young man came at Sarithe first, running with sword held in his filthy hands above him.  Sarithe studied his movements, waiting until the very last minute, and then sidestepping his clumsy downward slice. The sword flung from the man’s grasp and the force pushed him past the warrior. Sarithe whirled around, sending out a downward slash with his blade.  He felt the blade hit and slice through the thin skin about the man’s calf.  The man let out a yelp and fell to his knees, and screamed in pain as the weight of his body on his legs caused blood to gush from the splitting wound.  Sarithe did not allow him to even attempt getting back up.  With one deft leap, he was on the kneeling man and driving his sword through the man’s back through to his heart.  He stepped on his victim’s back and with a quick shove removed his sword from the man’s back. He turned to face the rest of his attackers who seemed uncertain as to what to do next.
Unorganized and panicked, they charged him, and one by one they fell before his blade. He was a blur of motion and the cut portions of these men began to stack around him, bathing him in warm gore; an arm here, a leg there. The screams of his victims became a welcome song in his head. It resonated in his temples, both beautiful and refreshing.  Sarithe was beginning to enjoy the bloodshed. His men, sensing this, began pushing more men into the circle to face him.
He finished them all off, excluding one.  This one had managed to parry a few of his attacks so far, and was clearly schooled in at least the basics of swordplay.
“Who are you?” Sarithe questioned.
“My name is Garus” replied the man. He appeared to be in his early twenties. “My father was once a knight in the service of your king Malvarius. He died bravely, defending what he believed was right.  My mother was so stricken with grief at his death that we left Linbourne and came here to Goldpine, to start our life anew.  Before his death, my father had told me tales of the heroic Sarithe he fought beside on the battlefield, and how he let nothing discourage him.  I now see that that warrior does not exist, and his so called ‘greatness’ is really nothing more than callousness.”
Sarithe looked at the man, apathetic. “Do not consider lack of pity for a pathetic village a downfall, young Garus. My king would not, and I only do what he asks of me. You would do well to realize that loyalty is the greatest way to live in this world. Remember that in the afterlife.”
With that, Sarithe feinted left, pivoted on his right foot and swung his blade around to strike at the man.  Garus was unprepared for the oncoming attack, and the blade sunk deep into his chest.  He fell to the ground with a groan and lay there gasping for what he knew to be his last.
“What was your father’s name boy?” Sarithe leaned down, his head hovering close above the man’s face.
“Lucan, his name was Lucan.” The man gurgled, blood pouring from his mouth.
A devious smile crept across the face of Sarithe, “Well Garus, I’ll make sure to have your mother cry out his name, as I pleasure her over and over.” With that, he jammed his sword through the boy’s chest, ending his physical suffering.
“What now sir?” asked one of his men. “All the men folk we brought out here lay dead at your feet.”
“Now,” Sarithe stood again, looking up to feel the suns caress against his blood spattered face. “We return to Goldpine. When we leave, nothing shall stand behind us.”

The women and children of Goldpine gathered as they saw the army return over the ridge.  They had arrived in the morning and now it was near dusk.  What had they been doing this whole time? Where were the husbands and sons they had taken with them?  They knew the answers to these questions, but refused to believe them to be true.  This man may be cruel, but would he really kill all the men in the village without mercy? Then they noticed the pillar of smoke coming from behind the Murdans path.
Sarithe slowed his horse to a halt and climbed down, looking over the crowd for a certain woman.  “Which of you is the mother of Garus, widow of Lucan?”  A rather plain looking woman was pushed out of the crowd to stand before him. She began to squirm and darted her eyes across the scene before her, never looking at him directly. He began fiddling with her dress, opening it to reveal her pitifully small breasts resting against a sickly thin body. He returned his gaze to the crowd, trying to decide if she was the best he would find. He was satisfied that she was and spoke to his men loudly.
“Kill the children, and claim your women.” With that, his men descended upon the town.  Children were slashed and choked while the women were held down, their clothes were ripped from them with claws caked of blood from their families.  Their breasts spilling out of their tops, their undergarments stripped of them along with their dignity. The groans and wails of rape all around him did not disturb Sarithe. He turned his gaze to the woman he had claimed, “What is your name my dear?”
“Felety, my lord.” she sobbed, hiding her face from the man. He was undressing, but held her arm firmly so she could not run. His face turned into a grim smile, the same she had seen him wear when he first announced himself to the village. “Well, Felety, tonight you will call me Lucan.”
By dawn, the town was in ruins.  The men had slaughtered every child as they were found hiding during the night and, when the sun began to grown on the horizon, they had finished the job. The women they had raped were locked into their homes with the bodies of the remaining and doused the houses with liquors and flaming dry grass, setting the village in flames.  Sarithe himself had taken a liking to Felety’s screams of Lucan as he ravaged her over and over throughout the night.  He remembered how much she had screamed as he took her from the back, teasing her with the fingers he had taken from her son’s dead body, and it brought a smile to his face.  Enough of that though, he thought, I have more pressing matters to attend to now.

Description
The warriors came into view of Goldpine, figures of beasts spread across the horizon. Villagers began to gather at the road reaching out to the oncoming large group. The dark haired man who rode ahead of them slightly was wearing studded leather armor that exposed most of his upper body. He directed his horse toward a young man. The boy looked up at the daunting Murdan who sat firm in the saddle, grasping the hoe he held in his hands tighter. The man on the horse peered at the boy through cold grey eyes. “Who is your king?” His voice was deep and harsh. The confused boy’s eyes darted across the men behind the warrior. A shriveled man came from behind the boy, limped over a molding cane. He looked undaunted, “We have no king here! We do not worship a man who ignores his people’s words!”  His voice cracked as he continued. “Who does he send to this forgotten city?”
The man on the horse gave a grim smile, “I’m Sarithe, commander of the Murdan warriors.” He grasped at the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist, “And you will respect your king, old man.” The skeletal man seemed startled, but stood his ground. “How can I respect a king who has forgotten the meaning of leadership?”
Sarithe got down from his horse and stood looking at the old man.  He could tell that the man was feeble in stature, but stubborn in spirit.  Yet spirit can only carry you but so far as this old man was about to find out.  “You can start by getting on your knees!”  With that he drew his sword and slashed the man’s legs off at the knees.  The old man let out a short raspy yell and fell flat on his face in the dirt with blood pooling up behind what remained of his legs.
“Would anyone else like to be reminded how to respect their rightful king?”
As he gazed around at the crowd that had gathered, he realized there would be trouble from a few who were too afraid to speak up in the daylight.  Cowards such as these do not deserve a great king. he thought to himself.  I have ways of dealing with such pitiful fools.
He peered across the village, a pensive look on his face. “Bring me all the men in the village over the age of 15.” The crowd stood as it confused by this request. Sarithe gave them a moment to consider it.  After a few moments he let out a yell, “Now!” and with that, thrust his sword through the chest of the boy-child he had first encountered upon entering the village. The boy let out a cry and his eyes glassed over as his life’s blood ran down the blade of Sarithe’s sword, to the hilt, and then finally down his leather glove.
With a shove, he threw the boy’s body off his blade and onto the hard dirt.  It hit with a sickening thud and a small crunch as the child’s now limp right arm was crushed under the weight of his corpse.  This action awakened the town from its stupor and neighbors turned on one another very quickly. Mothers shouting out as their sons were pulled from their grasping claws, being dragged toward the Murdans.  Sarithe looked to one of his lieutenants and motioned at the throng.  The lieutenant quickly began organizing the crowd that gathered and led them to a dead field out of view of the village.

Sarithe looked at the mass gathered before him in disgust.  How can true men allow themselves to degenerate this way physically?  He supposed it was due to his warrior training as a young Murdan that made him more aware of the body’s physical ability.  No matter, I shall be done with them soon enough. Sarithe had instructed his men to draw out a combat circle, in the dirt, so that he may test these men to determine if any were suitable enough to be conscripted into their army.  He told his men this, but in reality, he was craving bloodlust. He wanted to kill as many of these wastes of flesh as he possibly could.  Not that he needed the combat circle as justification for the slaughtering of mass innocents, but he might happen to discover one of the many gathered before him that was not a complete incompetent.
“Men of Goldpine, what you see before you is a combat circle.  You will notice it is more than adequate enough to hold several men comfortably.  You will be given simple weapons at random and enter this circle to fight for your very lives.  If one of you manages to survive and show a modicum of skill, you will be given the honor of joining the King’s army. If enough of you pitiful souls manage to show potential as warriors, I shall spare your village. If none of you are competent enough to survive your own neighbor, my men shall turn you to maggot grub.” The men gathered before him muttered to one another. “Without further fanfare, let the trial begin!”
The weapons were distributed to the chosen villagers and they were pushed into the combat circle, forcing them to begin their trials.  First a young man, about the age of 16 it looked, was pushed in with an old man around what must have been 50. The young man seemed hesitant at first, not wanting to hurt the crippled man.  This will not do. Sarithe thought. This would provide no entertainment and no quenching of his bloodlust.
“Throw another one in!” He shouted.  Another was added to the fighting circle, still no one fought. This process continued with much the same result until there were 8 men in the circle, angering Sarithe more. Then, as if inspiration came to him, Sarithe stood up and unsheathed his sword from his scabbard.
“If you will not kill each other, then allow me to give you scum another demonstration of how it is done!”
With that, Sarithe leapt into the midst of them.  The men looked startled for a moment, but soon realized this was their chance to kill this man. The man who was set on destroying their village, their families- the very things they had built for themselves through years of hardship.
The young man came at Sarithe first, running with sword held in his filthy hands above him.  Sarithe studied his movements, waiting until the very last minute, and then sidestepping his clumsy downward slice. The sword flung from the man’s grasp and the force pushed him past the warrior. Sarithe whirled around, sending out a downward slash with his blade.  He felt the blade hit and slice through the thin skin about the man’s calf.  The man let out a yelp and fell to his knees, and screamed in pain as the weight of his body on his legs caused blood to gush from the splitting wound.  Sarithe did not allow him to even attempt getting back up.  With one deft leap, he was on the kneeling man and driving his sword through the man’s back through to his heart.  He stepped on his victim’s back and with a quick shove removed his sword from the man’s back. He turned to face the rest of his attackers who seemed uncertain as to what to do next.
Unorganized and panicked, they charged him, and one by one they fell before his blade. He was a blur of motion and the cut portions of these men began to stack around him, bathing him in warm gore; an arm here, a leg there. The screams of his victims became a welcome song in his head. It resonated in his temples, both beautiful and refreshing.  Sarithe was beginning to enjoy the bloodshed. His men, sensing this, began pushing more men into the circle to face him.
He finished them all off, excluding one.  This one had managed to parry a few of his attacks so far, and was clearly schooled in at least the basics of swordplay.
“Who are you?” Sarithe questioned.
“My name is Garus” replied the man. He appeared to be in his early twenties. “My father was once a knight in the service of your king Malvarius. He died bravely, defending what he believed was right.  My mother was so stricken with grief at his death that we left Linbourne and came here to Goldpine, to start our life anew.  Before his death, my father had told me tales of the heroic Sarithe he fought beside on the battlefield, and how he let nothing discourage him.  I now see that that warrior does not exist, and his so called ‘greatness’ is really nothing more than callousness.”
Sarithe looked at the man, apathetic. “Do not consider lack of pity for a pathetic village a downfall, young Garus. My king would not, and I only do what he asks of me. You would do well to realize that loyalty is the greatest way to live in this world. Remember that in the afterlife.”
With that, Sarithe feinted left, pivoted on his right foot and swung his blade around to strike at the man.  Garus was unprepared for the oncoming attack, and the blade sunk deep into his chest.  He fell to the ground with a groan and lay there gasping for what he knew to be his last.
“What was your father’s name boy?” Sarithe leaned down, his head hovering close above the man’s face.
“Lucan, his name was Lucan.” The man gurgled, blood pouring from his mouth.
A devious smile crept across the face of Sarithe, “Well Garus, I’ll make sure to have your mother cry out his name, as I pleasure her over and over.” With that, he jammed his sword through the boy’s chest, ending his physical suffering.
“What now sir?” asked one of his men. “All the men folk we brought out here lay dead at your feet.”
“Now,” Sarithe stood again, looking up to feel the suns caress against his blood spattered face. “We return to Goldpine. When we leave, nothing shall stand behind us.”

The women and children of Goldpine gathered as they saw the army return over the ridge.  They had arrived in the morning and now it was near dusk.  What had they been doing this whole time? Where were the husbands and sons they had taken with them?  They knew the answers to these questions, but refused to believe them to be true.  This man may be cruel, but would he really kill all the men in the village without mercy? Then they noticed the pillar of smoke coming from behind the Murdans path.
Sarithe slowed his horse to a halt and climbed down, looking over the crowd for a certain woman.  “Which of you is the mother of Garus, widow of Lucan?”  A rather plain looking woman was pushed out of the crowd to stand before him. She began to squirm and darted her eyes across the scene before her, never looking at him directly. He began fiddling with her dress, opening it to reveal her pitifully small breasts resting against a sickly thin body. He returned his gaze to the crowd, trying to decide if she was the best he would find. He was satisfied that she was and spoke to his men loudly.
“Kill the children, and claim your women.” With that, his men descended upon the town.  Children were slashed and choked while the women were held down, their clothes were ripped from them with claws caked of blood from their families.  Their breasts spilling out of their tops, their undergarments stripped of them along with their dignity. The groans and wails of rape all around him did not disturb Sarithe. He turned his gaze to the woman he had claimed, “What is your name my dear?”
“Felety, my lord.” she sobbed, hiding her face from the man. He was undressing, but held her arm firmly so she could not run. His face turned into a grim smile, the same she had seen him wear when he first announced himself to the village. “Well, Felety, tonight you will call me Lucan.”
By dawn, the town was in ruins.  The men had slaughtered every child as they were found hiding during the night and, when the sun began to grown on the horizon, they had finished the job. The women they had raped were locked into their homes with the bodies of the remaining and doused the houses with liquors and flaming dry grass, setting the village in flames.  Sarithe himself had taken a liking to Felety’s screams of Lucan as he ravaged her over and over throughout the night.  He remembered how much she had screamed as he took her from the back, teasing her with the fingers he had taken from her son’s dead body, and it brought a smile to his face.  Enough of that though, he thought, I have more pressing matters to attend to now.