Beneath The Devil's Horns

Daren Vos

The ground burned. Not from fire, at least not at first, but from the clash of steel and the screams of soldiers around everywhere. Daron sat straight on his saddle, the wind snapping his crimson cape, the head of a commander rolling next to the hooves of his horse. “Retreat now, and you shall live to see another day.” His voice was calm and steady, for he did not need to shout. But the Lucian soldiers answered not with words, only a furious scream as they charged forward.

He sighed and put back his helmet before giving a loud roar and charging forward, his men surging behind him. Both the Zadalyn infantry and cavalry followed with renewed vigor, their morale ignited by his bold advance. He dragged his halberd across the ground, sparks flying from the steel. Then, with a sudden surge, he raised it high and charged at the next foe. Then the next. And the next. Each strike was precise and swift, and one after another fell before him like wheat before a scythe. He knew this battle was already won.

Yet the Lucian line held firm with discipline. They remained stubborn and honorable to the point of futility. He could admire that, in a way. But admiration wouldn't keep them breathing. He raised his arm as a barrage of burning arrows was fired from behind him. Some hit the Lucian army, others burned the dry grass. The smoke started rising, and the fire spread. He could hear a scream.

Yet he did not blink. This was only war. He held nothing against these villagers or any of the soldiers he killed, but if Lucians chose to die for a line drawn in dirt, they would do so today beneath his heel.

It was soon when the enemy's numbers started to diminish did they retreated. Daren extended his arm sideways in front of his men, bringing them to a halt.

"Let them run," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "We have no reason to kill them if they choose to retreat." He drove the blade of his halberd into the ground with a heavy thud. This weapon -his halberd - was unlike the standard make of such a weapon. It had a brutal, elegant outlier. The blade was forged from jet-black steel that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. At the rear end, a strip of crimson cloth was tied, fluttering faintly with every motion. This cloth wasn’t decorative but functional, used to secure the halberd to his back when not in use. It was a weapon that bore both symbolism and practicality, unmistakably marking him as the military general of Zadale.

He dismounted his horse. "Loot the village. Take any who remain as prisoners and harm them only if they resist. This land belongs to Zadale now." He looked over the battlefield, eyes scanning the smoldering ground. "Set up a camp to the east of the village. Send a carriage back with the spoils and a message of our victory. Extinguish the remaining flames and start burying the dead."

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Daren reached for the heavy oak door, fingers curling around the iron handle. He swung the door open and entered the building as a wave of warmth, firelight, and the scent of spiced ale and smoke washed over him. On one side of the building was a counter with a sign hanging on top. The words "The Ember Cask" were carved on the dark wood. The edges were scorched slightly, either by design or by age. This was an old tavern and one of Daren's favorites; for him, this place had a comforting weight to it. At the heart of the room was the tavern’s namesake: a fire that never died. It flickered within a sunken pit ringed by smooth stone, its flames a soft, ember-orange. The flames were said to be magically imbued long ago to burn forever without spreading or dying. It was a sort of "hearth" with a low railing of fitted stone that surrounded it for safety.

The floor was a patchwork of dark wooden planks worn smooth by decades of boots and spilled ale. Lanterns dangled from the thick ceiling beams, and the walls were lined with mismatched chairs and benches, their cushions faded and stained.

Behind the counter stood "Old" Bramli, the dwarven tavern keeper. He was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a grey beard in braids. His hair was pulled back into a tight knot, and a leather apron hung over his belly. His sharp eyes, one of them milky with age, squinted toward the Daren as he moved closer.

“Well, if it ain't the general himself,” Bramli rumbled, his voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. “I was wonderin’ if those boots of yours would find their way back here.”

Daren gave a tired half-smile as he stepped in, brushing dust from his cloak. “You still pouring that disgusting ale, Bramli?”

The dwarf chuckled, reaching for the shelves behind the counter. “The one you keep complainin’ about and keep comin’ back for? Aye. Got a fresh barrel this morning.”

Daren gently slid out his flyssa from his belt loop and placed it on the counter. Unlike his halberd, which now rested in his quarters, this blade was personal. Its worn grip and carefully maintained edge spoke of years by his side. It had been a gift from an old friend, long gone, and though Daren rarely spoke of it, the blade had never left his side since.

He took off his helmet and placed it next to the blade. The blackened iron had two openings at the top. They were fashioned not for decoration, but to accommodate the twisting horns of an infernatus, a species of fiendish ancestry. He tugged loose the thread that held his hair in a bun. The strands tumbled over his shoulders, in an unkempt mess of black waves that fell to his waist. With one hand, he slicked the hair back, revealing the base of his horns where they merged with his forehead. A few stubborn locks slipped free, falling back over his brow.

He watched as Bramli climbed onto a stout wooden stool, grumbling softly to himself, and reached for a small container perched high on the shelf. Daren recognized it immediately as crushed flame-berries. The powdered red substance was imported, like most of Bramli's supplies, from Port Roselyn - the famed city of breweries. Bramli had first introduced it to Daren after one of his trips to Roselyn, joking about how it would "put fire back in his fiendish blood.”

Bramli poured the ale into a thick wooden mug, the foam rising just enough to kiss the rim. He grabbed a pinch of the crushed flame-berries between his stubby fingers and sprinkled them across the top. The red powder hissed faintly as it touched the liquid, fizzing into a soft swirl. With a grunt and a smirk, Bramli placed the mug on the counter and slid it across to Daren with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. "Just the way you like it," the dwarf muttered, wiping his hands on his apron.

Daren brought the rim of the mug to his face as he took a long, steady sip. First came the familiar sweetness of everyday ale, followed by a sharp stinging sensation on the tongue as if his tongue was on fire. It was gone just as quickly as it came, only to return with the next sip. It was as if the cold ale and the hot flame-berries were locked in a battle. They both mixed quite well. It was unconscious, but with each stinging sensation, Daren's pointy ears gave a faint twitch. Something Bramli had noticed and found entertaining. When Bramli first introduced this to Daren, he didn't like the burning tingle it left on his tongue, but now, he found it oddly comforting.

It was maybe his fifth sip when Daren heard a voice next to him. “Flameberries again? And here I thought you'd acquired taste.” There was a playful hint to the voice.

He glanced towards the direction of the voice, only to see a familiar face. An elven woman, her silver-blonde hair, clung slightly to the curve of her cheek. The corner of her mouth tugged into a sort of playful smile. She sat beside him and removed her gloves with delicate precision, revealing her pale skin underneath them. She had pointed ears that extended outward, an unmistakable trait mainly of elves. Two small golden hoops adorned each ear. She wore a flowing garb of white and grey, with a black traveling cloak draped over her shoulders.

"I remember when he couldn’t stand the stuff," came a deeper voice as a wiry man slid onto the seat beside Daren. He had short brown hair and a pair of goggles perched on his forehead. A black coat hung loosely over a blue tunic, unbuckled and open as he sat next to Daren.

"I still can’t," Daren muttered, taking another sip of his drink. The familiar burn curled on his tongue.He gave them each a nod. "Silene. Evander. What do I owe the pleasure?"

"Heard you just got back," said Evander, resting his arms on the counter. "Figured you'd be here. Ran into Silene on the way, and she insisted on tagging along."

"If you're here and breathing, I take it we won at Branwick?" Silene asked, her voice carrying that unmistakable elven grace, even as she teased.

Daren gave a tired smirk. "If you’re here, that means Brindlewood’s still ours."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"They fought hard," she admitted, "but nothing my men couldn’t handle."

Daren raised a hand and gestured to Bramli behind the bar. “Two more. Put it on my tab.” He glanced at his friends. “For our victories.”

"I’ll pass on your burning ale," Silene said, wrinkling her nose. "Just a glass of absinthe, Bramli."

"Nothing strong for me, got a long day ahead," added Evander. Bramli grunted before working his hands on the shelves of alcohol behind the counter.

"You know," Evander said, leaning back on his stool, "you’re the military general now, and have been for a while. We’ve got plenty of capable senior officers out there." He paused, then added, "Like Silene." She gave him a slight smile at the compliment. "You don’t need to be charging into the frontlines anymore."

Daren shrugged, taking another slow sip. "It lifts my men's spirits. And when the enemy sees me at the front lines, it shakes theirs. I do it to guarantee victory."

Evander frowned. "And it'll have the opposite effect if your head rolls one day? Not to mention the political mess you'd leave behind."

Daren met his friend's gaze. His voice was quiet, firm. "Then I’ll just have to make sure this head doesn't fall." Call it pride or arrogance, Daren didn't care. He considered it his duty to secure victory for his city. And though he rarely admitted it, he considered himself a warrior who truly flourishes on the battlefield, not behind a map or a table in the war room.

Daren took another sip of his ale and let the familiar sting settle before speaking again. "You both make it sound like I’m eager to die."

"You’re not eager," Evander said. "You’re just stubborn. There’s a difference. One kills you slower."

Silene leaned her elbow on the counter. "At least you'll make a good story before you go out."

Daren chuckled, eyes still on his drink. "Let the bards write what they will when I'm gone."

Evander shook his head. “You sound like an old man.”

“I feel like one,” Daren muttered. “You try wearing a full plate every day, leading a charge, and coming home to a mountain of paperwork. Really tires you out.”

“I’m just saying,” Evander replied, a note of dry concern in his voice, “we already lost Kalev. We can’t afford to lose you, too.”

There was a short silence before Bramli returned, wiping his hands on a cloth and placing Silene’s absinthe and Evander’s drink on the counter. 'Something not strong,' Evander had said. Daren couldn't tell what it was, but it had a fruity aroma, almost citrus-like. “You can drink and complain about war in here like everyone else,” Bramli said, stepping down from his stool behind the bar. “But if any of you bleed or vomit on my floor again, I’m charging extra.”

“Relax,” Daren said, before turning to Silene with a more serious expression on his face. "How bad was Brindlewood?"

"Not bad, but not good either. We lost more men than expected. They came with a mage, Lucian, old school. Evocation magic, maybe? Used ice spells, froze our men cold."

Evander swore under his breath.

“He’s dead?” Daren asked.

“He’s ashes,” she replied coldly. “But it took a lot more magic than I’d have liked.”

“Then it wasn’t a clean victory,” Daren said.

“No,” Silene replied. “But we pushed them back, and all the villagers at Brindlewood live so no civilian casualties.”

Evander tapped his mug thoughtfully. “We keep pushing like this, sooner or later, Zadale’s going to run thin. Men. Supplies. Generals.” He glanced at Daren pointedly.

“Despite what you say, we held them back at Brindlewood and took Branwick,” Silene replied, swirling her drink. “We’re not the only ones running thin. Sooner or later, one of us will break.”

“Then we make sure it’s not us,” Daren said, voice firm.

Silene raised her glass in a silent toast. Evander followed, though his expression remained grim. “To not breaking,” he said.

After a moment, Bramli’s voice called out from behind the counter. “And to paying your damn tabs before you get yourselves killed.”

Daren finished the last of his ale and stood, grabbing his blade off the counter and strapping it back onto his belt. He picked up his helmet, tucking it under one arm. “I’ll be in my office. Silene, I want a comprehensive report on the mage and the Brindlewood front by midnight.”

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In the westernmost district of Zadale, also known as the military ward, stood a building called The Crucible. It was the heart of Zadale’s military might and also where Daren’s office resided. The structure resembled a monolithic fortress of stone and steel, cladded in polished basalt. The massive gates, crafted from oak and stone and reinforced with steel, groaned like some ancient beast each time they opened. But these days, the gates rarely closed, with soldiers, scouts, and messengers constantly rushing in and out.

As Daren passed through them, he caught the familiar scent of oil, ash, and iron, an odors he had long since grown used to. A cobblestone path stretched ahead, leading into the building. On either side, carefully maintained gardens flourished, a rare contrast of life and color against the stern gray of the fortress walls.

As he made his way to his office, he could see soldiers running about the corridors. Most of them stopped in their path upon seeing him, gently bowing down in respect, before continuing upon their duties. Daren’s office was the first room one encountered after ascending the spiral staircase to the second floor. It hadn’t always been there. Originally, the general’s quarters had occupied the highest level of the building, an airy chamber with commanding views of the city. But Daren had it moved down despite the upper room’s size and prestige. He preferred to be closer to the flow of activity, within earshot of the war room and just a short walk from the command floor. Proximity, not grandeur, was what mattered to him.

The door to his office was made of polished wood, imported from the north, though which tree it was he couldn't tell. Upon entering, he saw a familiar sight. The walls are a charcoal grey stone, with a single window behind his desk, with sunlight flickering in. The place is lit using a single brass chandelier, flickering with everburning flame, in the center of the room. Underneath the chandelier lies a wooden table surrounded by sofas with cushions made of red silk.

His desk is massive, carved from a single slab of dark hardwood, covered in knife marks. Papers, missives, and deployment orders lie in precise stacks, organized with meticulous care. A small lockbox sits in one corner, its contents unknown to all but him, and a shallow burn scar runs along one edge of the desk where an arcane scroll once misfired. He notices a neatly placed file on his desk that wasn't there before he left. He sighed at the news of more paperwork.

Mounted on one side of the room is a war map of Zadale’s contested borders, framed in black iron. Colored pins and etched notes marking movements and known enemy positions. Tucked beside it hangs a ceremonial glaive, not for show, but a real weapon Daren used in his early career. The shaft is nicked, the blade still faintly stained. A shelf lies on the opposite side of the map, containing a small number of books and field journals. Most are practical, containing knowledge of battle tactics, geography, battle histories, world history, the gods, and even one about the nine circles of hell, but one is a worn leather volume of poetry, its spine cracked. A small, lidded jar of flame-berries sits next to it, along with a bottle of whiskey and a few rock glasses placed upside down.

On the stone wall next to the Shelf was a painting, Silene's gift to him after he became a general. It was the only piece of decoration in the otherwise austere room. The painting captured a battlefield at dusk, where the sky bled orange and crimson, casting long shadows across torn earth and broken banners. In the foreground stood a lone figure, a silhouette of a soldier with a halberd planted in the ground and head bowed. Around him, the battlefield lay empty: no fire, no movement, just stillness. The details were precise: the curve of the horns, the way the cloak clung to his back in the wind. There was no doubt who it was meant to depict.

It showed not just a general, but a man shouldering the weight of his victories. Daren never asked for it, but he had it framed and hung where he could see it every day. When the room was quiet and his thoughts were heavy, his eyes would drift toward it.

And yet sometimes, the painting made him feel sad. The empty battlefield in the painting looked less like a place of victory and more like ruins forgotten by time. Silent. Abandoned. He held nothing against those he killed; it was his duty, and he did it for his people's safety. It was hard to explain, but in a way, Daren didn't enjoy the war, not the politics, not the strategies spread across ink-stained maps, not the endless negotiations and fragile alliances held together by thin promises, and not the endless, meaningless bloodshed. War was slow, filled with compromises, hesitation, and bureaucracy. It was fought behind tables and sealed with signatures. It left too much room for pride, for mistakes made by men far from the front lines.

But the battlefield. Now that was something different.

The battle was honest. It didn’t lie. On the field, everything made sense: strike or fall. There was no room for mistake. No masks. No drawn-out speeches. Just movement, instinct, steel. It was there, in the chaos of clashing blades and the rhythm of combat, that Daren felt more alive than anywhere else, because in the noise and fury, he found clarity.

And this painting made Daren feel… exposed.

Not in the way of vulnerability or shame, but in the way that someone had seen him, truly seen him, and captured it on canvas without asking permission. Silene hadn’t painted the general in shining armor or the triumphant war hero. She had painted him as he was in the quiet aftermath: tired, burdened, resolute. The way his shoulders slumped slightly. His halberd, not raised in victory but resting, as if even it had grown tired of cleaving through flesh. The silence around him screamed louder than any war horn. Yet it also showed a man standing tall and ready. A man waiting for the next shadow to crawl out of the mist. The way his grip on the halberd wasn't proud, yet it remained firm as if waiting for the next prey to approach. So that he could live again.

Every time he looked at the painting, he was reminded of what came after the battle: the counting of the dead, the sending of letters, the weight of lives carried forward by command. It was a strange comfort and a quiet condemnation all at once. He respected Silene for painting it. Maybe even admired her for it. But it unsettled him. Because, despite it being Silene's intention or not, no matter how many men saluted him or how many victories he secured, that painting reminded him of the truth:

That, despite his hate for war, he only found purpose on the battlefield.