To his credit, Rostam is quicker than any of the undead or the army following him. He sees that there’s not one in the bunch of undead fighters above a Threat Level 2. Before the undead scourge can overtake him, he’s sent orders to all his men that they are under attack and if they don’t fight for their lives, they will fall before the mission truly began. So they brandish their swords, axes, and bows, and wage a war the likes of which hasn’t been seen in decades. They fight for the fate of Elysium and for Rostam and for their lives. As his band of warriors slashes and shoots its way through the oncoming waves of undead, Rostam takes out his Amulet of Sphere and uses it to control the undead scum.

  With merriment and an overwhelming bloodlust, Rostam uses the charm to send droves of the undead into the body of water near them or holds them still as his fighters cut them to pieces. Nothing can stop him. Or so he thinks before a wayward bow slices across his vision and sends him to the ground. Ironclad feet and rancid bones fall over top of him. In the mess of bodies, the Amulet of Sphere falls from his grasp to go tumbling through the fray. With a battle call, Rostam flings the mess of fighters off him without any care for enemy or friend. The Amulet is not his to lose but a part of his clan. It mustn’t get lost, especially not here in the Damned Land. He stabs through the crowd of undead, searching with his eyes for where the amulet has gone.

  Unfortunately for him and due to all the blood, guts, and sweat in his eyes, he does not see the undead wretch that picks up and flees with the amulet away from the skirmish and slaughter. Continuing in hopes that he will find it and regain control of the battle, Rostam pays no mind to the dwindling numbers of his army or the beheaded Bahadur that lies in the middle of the battlefield, his armor dinged and covered in blood.

  His royal and supreme army falls around him while he does all he can to find what he has lost. Dirty and bruised, Rostam gazes around him at his fellow warriors and sees that they are losing. Taking hold of Crissaegrim, Rostam commands it into a mace and begins to fight to save those who are left standing but is taken down at the legs by a swift hit to the back of his shine. The moon sees Rostam alone battling on his knees against the horde of undead in between the water and the looming mountains that grow across the land.

  The battlefield is littered with the dead, dying, and already dead. Rostam is lying unconscious, but alive and uninjured, at the bottom of what can only be described as a meat stack. Pushing the bodies from off him, he emerges naked. His dragon panoply and Crissaegrim have been lost along with the Amulet of Sphere. Everyone, every last one of his soldiers, is gone or dead. The great army he once had is no more. His failure weighs heavy upon his head as he walks across the battlefield, surveying what has come of his men.

  A popup suddenly appears in front of his vision: Restart Mission? He chooses No immediately, without a second thought. Hades might be willing to grant him another army and new weaponry, but how could he take advantage of the benevolence of our master twice? This is his mistake alone and he plans to pay it off by himself. Another popup appears, informing him that the difficulty level increased to Hardcore. He dismisses it as well, while biting his lips to the point they bleed.

  It is just the two of us now, but I am still quite hidden from our hero, who reflects momentarily on the fallen before gathering some clothing and marching silently out of Lycaonia, the wind blowing his blond locks away from his determined face. Each step he takes is accompanied with flashes in his mind of his fallen soldiers. Their deaths are on his head. Beneath his ruined garments, invisible to everyone but him, blood coats his flesh.

  CHAPTER 3

  For days, we walk—hell, maybe even weeks—in wild circles around Lycaonia. The determination and anger in Rostam’s soul is intoxicating. He survives off what he can catch and wring dead with his strong dark hands. Some of the meat he eats is raw and wet with blood. During dark nights, he builds a raging fire that reminds him of home, of where he came from, and where he so longs to return as a hero once more. Though defeat clouds his past, he swears by every crackling ember of the fire that he will not die until he overtakes the Damned Land of Lycaonia and its mighty enslaver of the undead, Sarpedon.

  A popup appears: Take Oath of Vengeance? Rostam thinks for a bit, then decides Yes. His oath now binds him to the Tenets of Vengeance to Fight the Greater Evil, to Show No Mercy for the Wicked and achieve his goals By Any Means Necessary.

  A new popup notification informs him that a new set of spells have been added into his arsenal: Bane, Hunter’s Mark, Hold Person, Misty Step, Haste, Protection from Energy, Banishment, Dimension door. Good! At least something came from his comrades’ demise and now he is stronger than ever before.

  In our travels, we pass by merchant caravans selling wares to whoever happens to find themselves on that damned stretch of land. Wagons pass, offer their items to Rostam, then move on before weeks later returning with different items and sometimes different guards. After a while, Rostam becomes friendly with some. The mercenaries are always filled with stories from their travels that they want to share with Rostam upon seeing his strong build and instinctual warrior nature. Overhearing one night that a caravan is in need of a mercenary, Rostam agrees to offer his services, knowing that by joining up with a group it’ll help him gain information about the area.

  In the morning, while washing the night before off his rugged and tan body, Rostam learns from one of the other guards on the caravan that his new boss’s name is Parviz.

  “He’s a good man and pays well, at least well for the journeys we take.” The guard, Damianos, is a strange and friendly man, Threat Level 5, with a thick accent from the north and a smelly beard. It isn’t a foul smell, but one that overpowers the senses with the essence of spring flowers. Despite his aroma, Rostam listens dutifully to all the information that the man shares and feels good about his decision to join this band of travelers and sellers.

  “Though he’s a man of considerable knowledge and skill from his days traveling along the roads that pass through the Damned Land, I’d make sure that you are prepared for the roads he will assuredly lead us down,” Macione says as the two load up the caravan.

  There isn’t much time for breakfast before Parviz is clapping them along to hurry up and move out, though I don’t mind, seeing as I can’t eat or savor the salty taste of meat. “Alright, we’ve got a hard road ahead of us and miles to across before we reach safe land. Let us not wait for the sun to meet midday.” With his long beard and hair, Parviz resembles an aged man who has seen many days in the desert and less in the washrooms. He has a Threat Level of 6, setting him level-headed for mortal standards.

  Chuckling, a beautiful woman, Threat Level 5, with sharp, dazzling eyes steps into their camp. “Is this the new guard you’ve hired to accompany us on our next trek?” She eyes him hungrily, moving her dark irises up and down his body.

  “I’m sure we’ll all be lucky to have each other once we get going. You may call me Rostam. What is your name? Or do they call you Beauty for the crown you wear?”

  “Charming and large.” She smiles and steps closer. “You can call me Sanaz.”

  Intrigued by the woman, Rostam watches her walk around the camp while he readies himself for travel. As they gather their supplies and strap on their gear, Rostam moves closer to Sanaz, taking in every inch with his eyes and dreaming of when he’ll be able to overcome her with every inch of his avatar’s manhood. Thinking about it arouses him beneath his garments.

  “What brings you along for the ride, Sanaz?” Rostam asks, his hardness swaying in her direction.

  “My last guards were all slaughtered on my most recent voyage through Lycaonia, and it’s cheaper and quicker to hitch along with another caravan than buying a new set of guards.” Tossing her hair to the side to look at him over her shoulder, Sanaz winks. “Plus, I heard that Parviz had hired a new mercenary that was supposed to be a sight to see.”

  “Do I hold up to what you have heard?” Rostam asks, presenting himself with his arms outstretched.

  But Sanaz adds, goading him into combat, “I haven’t seen you fight yet, but you are great and mighty in many other ways, Rostam, some of which I am excited to learn firsthand for myself.”

  Shaking away the small insult, Rostam smiles at Sanaz. “I am not the type to fight for the pleasure of an audience, but I am sure that before the day’s end, you will see me in battle.”

  Damianos struts up and cuts in between Sanaz and Rostam, dumping a bucket of water on the fire and hopping up on one of the horses. “We leave now if we have any hope of making it to our first safe spot by night’s dawning.”

  Rostam helps Sanaz onto her horse and climbs onto the one Parviz provides for him. It’s a tall, black horse with a red saddle that Rostam adjusts himself on before kicking the horse into a trot and heading off with the rest of the caravan. As they journey to their destination, Rostam leads the mercenaries against one undead fleet after the next. No one complains because he guides them with a swift mind for battle and a hard body geared toward justice and righting the wrongs that have been brought to rest on this land.

  With a couple of nights left before they reach their destination, Rostam still has not fully shown Sanaz what he can do with his body. She has seen the bloodshed, the fighting, the hunting, and what lies beneath his clothes, but she is still a virgin to the force that he bears when it comes to the bare-naked pink of a woman. Whenever they camp, Rostam invites Sanaz out with him to gather food and talk among the wooded areas they find for shelter.

  Tonight, Sanaz clings to Rostam’s back as I cling to his spirit. Hares and a boar are gripped securely in his large hands as he casually strolls through the undergrowth, commenting here and there on the subtle smells of sex rolling from her. Each time she ignores his words with a giggle and squeeze of his body with her toned, athletic thighs. By the time they return, the fire is in full swing and a camp is waiting invitingly for them.

  The meat cooks quick and loudly over the heat of the fire. They all eat quietly, listening to the sounds of the forest. Rostam uses Sense Undead along with his human senses and keeps an ear open for any growling sounds of the undead or snaps in the trees from thieves lurking. It’s better not to rely exclusively on his class skills. He has become cautious and wary since his defeat. I have already scoured the surrounding dark woods for any threat and know that we are safe. Maybe some of that security trickles its way into Rostam, because after he is finished eating and before he sets into his first bottle of wine, he begins to speak, letting his voice carry into the night. He tells of adventures had in his youth—though he hides the fact that his youth was centuries ago and in another form—and of the hordes he’s conquered and women he’s bedded.

  His stories get the others relaxed and in the mood to share their travel tales and misadventures.

  “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve come across as I’ve traveled across this cursed land. Armies and swarms of the undead as wide as the ocean overtook my homeland and scattered me to the wind. In all of that time, I’ve seen everything there could ever be seen under the sun and moon.” Parviz waxes on about his age and dark history, sharing stories from his time as a merchant.

  Damianos acts out the passionate love sessions that he’s had with random women in dark caves. A woman mercenary lends her body to make the theatrics of Damianos’s stories come to life. “Then I’d get them from behind like this...”

  They laugh and howl at Damianos and his partner’s actions. Soon their joy outshines the sounds of the woods and sky about them. By the time the moon is above them, casting a white glow around them, they are all properly drunk and settled in among themselves when Sanaz begins her story.

  Rostam pulls her closer under his arm as she starts. “Has anyone been to the city of Ikonion hidden somewhere in the Damned Land? I’m guessing not even Parviz has stepped into such a holy city with his dirty feet and secondhand wares.” Sanaz gives him a joking smile that Parviz returns with a solemn wink and nod of his head. “This is a city that is able to triumph over the undead and live in peace without fear of being overrun and slaughtered.”

  “How so?” Rostam asks, considering her seriously. “What gives this holy city the ability to be so untouched in such a cursed place?”

  Placing her hand on his chest, she says, “I will tell you the story if you will listen.”

  Without speaking, Rostam nods and listens intently to Sanaz as she continues her story of the protected city. At the same time, he casts Zone of Truth, a 2nd-level enchantment spell that lasts for ten minutes and creates a magical zone that guards against deception in a fifteen-foot-radius sphere. As long as the spell is active, neither Sanaz nor anyone else will be able to speak a deliberate lie.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I myself have never been there or laid eyes on its holy sanctuary, but I trust those who have gone and come back, speaking of the safety the city provides. The tale goes that there exists within this city a monastery that holds in its possession a magical relic that keeps the undead from entering the city. The monks in the monastery use this relic to protect the city and themselves from harm.” Sanaz recites the tale while watching the fire play off Rostam’s dark skin. “Soon, I will voyage there and see for myself this supposed sacred land.”

  “Is that all?” he asks, gazing down upon her.

  “No,” she admits. “The relic is said to also make the owner invincible.”

  Rostam’s spirit stirs, and I with it. If what Sanaz says is true, then the relic could help him defeat Sarpedon and return to Hades once more as a victor and champion while claiming his rightful position on the Isles of the Blessed.

  “I’ll be heading there after we reach Derbe, alone or with a crew. I must see the city for myself before my last days are upon me. You are all welcome to come, but I assure you that the way won’t be as easy as the one we are taking now. The road to Ikonion is a harsh one, but with you all as company, it wouldn’t be half bad,” Sanaz says, pressing into Rostam’s chest emphasizing her desire for him to come along on her journey to the sacred city.

  For once, Rostam leaves a wanting woman by the fire and goes to his tent to contemplate everything she had said. The truth of her words rings true in him. It is as though somewhere inside him he knows that the object she spoke of is real and the only way he has of defeating Sarpedon. Could his chance at fulfilling Hades’s wishes be so close at hand that it lies with the very land that he wishes to conquer? What a wicked twist of the knife.

  The next morning, Rostam and the rest pack up camp and move on toward their destination. Throughout the journey, Rostam stays close to Sanaz, but is too busy thinking over what he must do. There is always the option of abandoning the party and searching for the city on his own. With his skills and prowess, he has no doubt that he can find a guide to take him to the city in no time. And with the lack of the others holding him back, he’d be able to avoid major roads and stay hidden. But the more he thinks about that option, the more he considers the party members themselves.

  It is true that they are not the hundreds of warriors he had been bestowed with by the Supreme Administrator, but this crew of guards, merchants, and those that hang around them are of a good stock and perfect company. Without them, he would never have known about Ikonion, so in the end, it is better to stay with these wayward dealers in hopes that he can come upon more information that will lead him toward what he is sure is his destiny.

  The journey continues as it began, with tiny battles against Threat Level 1 undead zombies who seem to come in ever increasing waves the further into Lycaonia they go. With the help of the other guards, Rostam is able to defeat these batches just like the rest while contemplating a tactful way of sucking more information out of Sanaz without her learning his true identity or intent. After several more nights, we finally come upon the city of Derbe. Parviz and Sanaz sell their goods before the end of the day, leaving them free to wander the city before packing up and moving on. So is the way of the merchant caravan and its people.

  Rostam takes this opportunity to steal Sanaz away from the others. Taking her by the hand, he leads her down the cobblestone city streets toward the quiet houses nestled along the edges. Beneath the watchful gaze of the moon, the two talk openly.

  “What has been keeping you preoccupied these last several days? It is as if you are no longer interested in what my body offers you. Sweet release and a place to rest what weighs you down. Speak to me, Rostam, and tell me of the things holding your tongue,” she says softly, her sandals making the sand whisper beneath her feet. “You can trust me.”

  Fool’s words, Rostam thinks. He releases her hand to run his through his long hair. Strands of blond drift away from him to disappear into the black cold night where dragons hunt and soar.

  “I do not believe that you could ease what troubles me,” he says, tying his hair into a bun atop his head. “Though I will let you offer your sweet release to me when the time comes, and I am ready. For now, I want you to tell me more of Ikonion and the magical item that protects it. That would do me and my heavy mind good on this beautiful night where you outshine the moon and make the nightshades bloom.”

  Blushing, she swats at his large bicep.

  To him, it feels like a caress, and he pulls her hot body closer. “Tell me of Ikonion.” His voice is strong and commanding. Beneath his hand and muscles, Rostam can feel her tremble with desire.

  “If you insist,” she says, easing into his body and allowing him to guide her throughout the city. “From what I have heard, they call it the Horn of Fulad-Zereh.”

  “Who are they?” he asks, his voice deeper and closer to her ear like a whisper.

  “The monks who live in the monastery that guard the horn. They oversee its keep and protection. They are the ones who call it that and from them, its name is known.”

 

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