The Power of Ten

There was no sound but breathing like soft flames as They entered the thousand-meter Court, those present listening to Their steps shaking the earth and sky despite the complete grace with which They moved... and They were covering the ground at least three times as fast as They seemed to be pacing, Garar noticed alertly, sensing that slow avalanche of Presence could become a terrifying eruption in but a heartbeat.

Glancing around at his spellbound kin, he could see that some of them had realized just how powerful this titan was, too... including his ancestor, the Pasha of the Azzar, Vinazzar: white-bearded, old, and wise, yet strong and vital as the efreet had to be to retain his seat of power. The Pasha was an accomplished Fire Sorcerer, a true master of Fire, and could tell that this Titan was also Of Fire... and Of Earth, Water, Cold, Air, Heaven, The Pits, Dragons, and Hell, among other things!

They’d never heard of a titan like this! The combination of light and dark beauty and layers of primal power was just overwhelming, like they were standing before one of the great elders of the ancient progenitors of the titans... but she was obviously no Elder Titan, who were as Elemental in their own ways as the Primordials themselves.

The titan stopped precisely at the proper place for decorum, where the dais of the Pasha was exactly level with Their own gazes. Watching closely, Garar could see Pasha Vinazzar flinch ever so slightly as the titan slowly bowed, inclining Their head to the proper angle and not one inch further, all of Their tails rising up in a lethal fan glowing crimson at the tips, and repeating the gesture at the same time in grand fashion.

“We greet the Pasha of the Azzar in Their place of power.”

It was like being addressed by a great army all at once, very different from the primal power of some Elementals. Like a thousand infinitely sharp and seductive swords were aimed at you, instead of one large and mighty one...

Still, the absolute neutrality of the greeting was somewhat reassuring. Garar was fairly certain that if all the power of the Azzar in their home here was brought to bear, at most they might have a pyrrhic victory over this visitor.

“We thank you for the courtesy of your visit, Titan Legion,” Pasha Vinazzar responded levelly, shooting his voice through with endless fires, but unable to replicate the serene appeal or wonder of that Voice, and like all the many descendants and servants present, scarcely able to take his eyes from the titan before him. Even his three wives, themselves a great display of his power, were staring at Them in much the same way as the males. “How may we be of help to you?”

“We came merely to deliver to the Bey Garar of the Azzar his belongings, as requested by Our Lady.” And that many-eyed, yet eyeless face turned on said Bey, along with many still-disbelieving others.

And as everyone else in the Divan gaped, she went down on one knee directly to him. “Grandmaster Legion pays Their respects to The Ashbringer, Warlord Garar of the Azzar!”

Everyone’s hearts went right into their throats as they stared at that bent knee, processed that gesture, and then that Title, ringing in the air with the ominous tones of Burning worlds.

A great armoire descended to the tiles of the Divan, and creaked open.

“Your Helm, Warlord,” the titan went on, and a battered eshbronze helm sitting atop the magnificent set of efreet-sized plate armor there floated over to his waiting hands as he instinctively stepped forth to receive it.

He stared at the scored Helm before all the disbelieving eyes of his kin, feeling it trembling with potent magic in his hands, and knew his past was about to be returned to him. He felt a great and ferocious weight upon the Helm, the shadows of death and war and ash circling around it, a thousand past blows deflected from the Energized metal, as the visor stared back at him in anticipation.

Slowly, before the eyes of his family, he fit his Helm back on, and he Remembered.

Worlds Burned at his feet as they must, and the bodies of the dead and undead piled into mountainous pyres of fire and vivus. Cities were wiped away, shriveled forests and plains raged to the skies, and the clouds and winds blazed and burned as white ash drove before his armies. The rot upon stilled seas even flamed and covered them in fire...

And it was Good.

The Divan of the Azzar vibrated as the silent power he could not touch returned to him, swelled, and burst out of him as his chi roared forth once more, and the Volcano returned to him.

Like molten rock ready to explode, fires blazed around the molten heart of his power, ready to erupt, anchored in physical power that shattered the hardened and fire-immune stone for thirty feet around him as his Crystal heavyfoot grabbed it. Seething power of Earth and Fire hung about him, his horns blazing with white-hot flames hotter than lava, his skin like cracked lava now, nearly black and split by white-hot lines of fire, quite dominating everyone and everything else in the hall... save the titan who was bowing to him.

He held out his flaming hand, and his Tulwar cut a single burning circle that flamed the edges of space itself as it returned eagerly to his grasp.

The Runes on it lit up with a terrible, somber sapphire light, harsh and sharp and able to cut and burn like nothing the assembled efreet had ever seen, even his ancestor. The workmanship of the adamantine sang of skill beyond anything any of them possessed, and the fires upon it could burn souls away.

They could all read the Runes upon it. Indeed, its Name seemed to impress itself into their minds as they gazed upon it, so drenched was that Blade in the deaths of whole worlds.

To Ashes.

“I thank you for coming, Legion,” he greeted the Warlock Grandmaster, bowing deeply back to Them in turn, and only then did They rise once more weightlessly and gracefully back to Their full towering height.

“A minor service to an Ashbringer, Warlord Garar.”

It was true. He had asked for leave from The Shrouded Lady, to return to his clan, and see if he was truly content with his place and duty. She had agreed without question, and had also agreed to send his belongings along after him in two mortal years.

He did not belong here.

He looked about at his kin, who were still caught up in the Eternal Game, the striving for rank and position, glory and twisted honor; to have their mouths in the tales of the minstrels and set down in the prominent scrolls of the family.

How many millions of the efreet had lived and died in pursuit of the merest acknowledgement from the Great Sultan of their existence and worth?

Effete, ephemeral, pointless.

“Young Garar.”

As he turned to his ancestor of generations past, Garar’s Armor flew out from the armoire it resided in. It was blue-black adamantine now, in a style not of the Azzar, but plainly made for him and him alone.

It hissed as it clamped shut about him, and heat simmered about him and it, hinting at truly incredible levels of Fire, making the eshbronze of his Helm start to glow with white-hot Runes of burning power, and his horns re-ignited like torches of star-hot plasma, forcing the nearest of his kin back away from the burning image of annihilation he presented to them.

“Elder,” he replied, his thoughts already elsewhere, back to where worlds Burned. As he turned, his Tulwar left a stream of burning flames that settled upon the cracked fireproof tiles of the Divan... and began to devour them with hungry crackles.

It was a breach of protocol, replying to the Pasha of his clan that way, but also a warning. Power gathered about him, a different Fire from that which his ancestor commanded, but no less deadly and ferocious, wrought up in a martial strength of such deadliness the elder efreet could not fail to take note of it.

The weight of Burning worlds was upon this distant descendant of his. He was an Ashbringer! One who Burned mortal worlds!

“How did you come by this grand Title and position?” the Pasha asked, carefully respectful. Ominous fires burned in the heart and eyes of the younger efreet in front of him, and a martial air that smoked of blood and fire... and endless ash.

It was no thought at all that this greatchild of his could challenge him for his seat, and had a fair chance of winning enough support to take it!

“I have accepted the Duty of Fire from Heaven.” The flaming steel of the words made the denizens of the hall gasp in shock at the very idea, as did the Words themselves, said with such comprehension. Garar reached carefully over his shoulder, and touched his Tulwar to his backplate, where it hung naked as he lowered his hand, its edge dripping pattering flames upon the broken obsidian and basalt tiles with little snaps and crackles as they ate away at them. “I trod fallen worlds lost to darkness and reduced them and all upon them to ash, that they may be reforged and born anew.

“Thirty-six such worlds have I trod under my boots, and those of my armies. A burning army of cleansing flames faces that which does not live under a dead sky, and purges them in battles of millions.” His arms folded across his chest. “I will return with Legion to my Shrouded Lady, and continue my Duty of Fire. I do not belong here.”

He did not miss the relief in his Pasha’s eyes at that statement, and at the same time, he saw a new cunning light, and knew what was coming. “An Ashbringer is a great merit, Warlord Garar!” the Pasha spoke up, acknowledging his status. Certainly there was nobody in the whole Clan who would willingly face their kinsman, girt in fire and metal as he was now!

The Sultan Himself would acknowledge an Ashbringer, let alone one who had Burned multiple worlds clear! That one had done so in the service of Heaven was a momentous Event, and the acclaim of their Clan would only rise further!

He might even rise to the rank of Shah with such an illustrious son of the Clan! Efreet of lesser families would flock to such a Warlord, and with such power, Garar was fairly guaranteed a powerful position in the Sultan’s forces if he but asked for it!

“I have already pledged the Duty of Fire, and my task is not yet done,” Garar replied, every word biting with finality, making his elder flinch ever-so-slightly at the refusal of his subtle hint.

“I see. And how many worlds does the Duty of Fire bid you send to ash?” the Pasha asked, burning eyes flickering when he could not say the Words properly. He had time, and, yes, even if it meant he must give up his own position and become a vizier to this great-child, it would be worth it for the Clan!

“Tens of thousands.”

The Pasha stared, almost certain he’d misheard that.

Heaven... had called for the Duty of Fire on tens of thousands of mortal worlds?!

Bey Garar slowly turned to address the whole of the Divan as his elder gaped. “I command a mortal host greater than any Azzar has ever claimed, or dreamed of claiming. We have walked across worlds together, and reduced them to ash.

“We are but one army, and there are many worlds, and the number of worlds who need the Duty of Fireonly grows.

“If you would be willing to accept the Duty of Fire, if you dare to think you might become an Ashbringer, then come with me.

“Worlds await us to be Burned. Mighty foes await to be cast down. Empires will fall, those who think they are masters of worlds will burn on a pyre of the defiled and corrupted, and those heroes who were not allowed to stay dead will be rendered unto ash, as is their duty and right.

“Come with me now, if you would be more than you have imagined. Leave your wealth behind, the spoils of worlds entire wait for you... and you will need them all.”

His gaze raked them all, grand and imposing, a Warlord baptized in the flames of Burning worlds.

Was there a greater thing a Warlord could aspire to for themselves? Battle to serve the Sultan, probably dying at the hands of rivals for those positions... or becoming a Warlord and Ashbringer themselves?

Efreet who never dared indulge their hot-bloodedness in this ruthlessly competitive realm suddenly found themselves looking at a new burning road in front of them, beckoning them with martial accomplishment, glory, power, influence, and a place in legend.

Ashbringers for Heaven itself...!

----------

Ashbringer Garar floated out of the Divan of the Azzar at the side of Legion. Behind him flew dozens of young efreet with dreams of their own, mostly young males, but even a few of the scarce females of the clan, eager flames in their eyes to raise their status beyond being protected on the arm of a male.

When they exited the Saray Azzar, Legion simply swept her hand forth, and a pulse of energy pushed back the Interdiction effect of the City of Brass for a moment. A Rift was sliced open in midair to somewhere in the mortal plane.

Ashbringer, Grandmaster Warlock, and dozens of new efreet and their closest servants hurried after them, and the Rift closed tracelessly behind them as those behind them looked on.

------

It would be a very long time before those children of Azzar returned, and when they did, there would indeed be far more than one Ashbringer among their grim numbers. The rise of the Clan Azzar, Ashbringers for Heaven, was in the future, and in time all of the City of Brass, and many Realms beyond, would know the name of this efreet House...

==============

Saray = Palace

Divan = Court

Atargold is Fire-Energized Gold.

===========

The Black Crusade

See now that blue sky, and the golden orb shining there?

Aye now, a gift it is, earned us in toil fair.

Blood, sweat, and tears, and nights of fear, souls wrapped in a great grand lie,

Still they call, and only all of mortals can hear them cry.

Yer grandfather is in torment there, and the gods, they cannot hear.

Yer grandmother twists in agony, aye, that’s truth now, pure and clear.

A billion souls each ten thousand worlds, sacrificed to Death,

Never forget! And never permit those who let go of breath

To steal the innocent and damn them all, only we can hear them wail,

Lost in Doom, lost to Pain, lost to madness beyond the pale.

Rise up!

Rise up!

Ye’ve Weapons in hand what kill the Dead, and save them from the Shroud.

Realm after Realm, green and fair ‘tis said, where Life grows wild and proud.

Be saved they can, by the ready hand of mortal steel and grim hard will.

Set boots on the soil and be ready to toil where the Dead walk about still.

A Black Crusade, we declare!

Against the Shroud!

For the souls of the bound!

For the lives of the worlds!

For Life, and For Creation!

If there be a Holy War, then Black and Grim this Crusade truly be,

For Heaven and Hell come not with thee,

Only Endless Mortal Will!

Rise UP!

Ye battle Death itself!

Ye Walk the Road to the Eternal!

Ye kill in the name of Life!

The Black Crusade calls,

Voices ring in the Halls,

Rise up, and free the Damned!