The dust settled down on the ground and the smoke was swept away by the early winds. The land spoke only of death.

Deep blue clouds billowed in the sky and chased all sunlight from this field that had seen droves of men of high esteem and honor die shamelessly a few minutes earlier. The stench of fire was still rather strong, though no more of these fallen knights struggled to kill the flames that ate at their bodies. Breezes left wavy patterns in the sand among the rocks and debris and corpses. The sea of corpses sprawled across the battlefield so thick the ground was not visible.

Those men who had stood tall and proud now litter the terrain with an ubiquitous aura of horror masking their faces: each with jaw agape and limbs tossed akimbo. Each with his back arched in pain.

As Xevres marched over the horizon, Nabbar looked to the east to greet his commander. For a brief instant Xevres eclipsed the sun, casting all but his sturdy frame in a solid mass of protean white.

A worried look painted across Nabbar's face when he realized that Xevres was in an angry bout. Nabbar had seen Xevres grow angered. It was never a pretty sight.

And worse than that was the fact that Xevres was never reasonable in his punishment toward those who disappointed him.

Descending the hill, he was no longer hidden by the flooding glare of the sun.

His armor was black. The black that swallowed the light around it. The black that stood out like wicked death even against the deepest darkness. The black that chilled the soul.

And his eyes were no different. They were lifeless brown, not black like his armor, but these endless pits of emotionless hatred radiated no less ill-intent.

Xevres approached Nabbar at a brisk pace, each footstep landing with a great thud and tossing more dust into the air. Nabbar winced, expecting Xevres to slam into him without ever slowing, judging by Xevres' unfaltering gait. Xevres halted right before him, shifting his weight to one leg as he usually did when he grew impatient.

"Give me your unit's status report," Xevres commanded in an agitated, monotone voice.

"Y-yes sir! The first squad suffered no casualties. They successfully killed approximately fifty men, sir." Xevres gave an impressed snort, the closest to a compliment he will ever give.

"H-however...."

"Yes?" Xevres began to sound even more agitated. He despised failure from any of his subordinates.

"There is a small group to the north that managed to ambush our recon teams with xawols.... Four to be exact. Uh, four xawols that is. The number of troops is unconfirmed." Nabbar began to trail off.

"How in the hell could my soldiers be ambushed by a damn group of xawols!?" Xevres exploded in an outraged frustration. " Are they all f'king blind!? The damn things are at least four stories tall apiece! Where they paying more attention to twiddling their thumbs?" His eyebrow twitched as he screamed. His resounding voice shook Nabbar.

Xawols are bipedal tanks that had initially been designed to quickly and effectively demolish buildings and clear paths after a skirmish. A xawol stands at a range of anywhere from twenty feet high to twice that size, with all sorts of shapes in between.

The most common model stands 37 feet from tip of the head to soles of the feet, weighs 3.6 tons, and totes approximately one megaton of explosive devices.

The historic Battle at Millo was the turning point in the use of xawols. Thought to be too slow for actual combat, xawols were always deployed after the fight was clearly over. But at Millo, that changed.

Unit 51, Blue Flames, had come through the battle like a cat in a laundry machine, exhausted and battered. During their general recovery and rehabilitation, though, a tiny group not in the habit of dying made a final suicide-run assault. Immediately they began firing their B6 Type-A's main cannon at a pack of supposedly defenseless xawols.

The miracle of all miracles was Deloith, a veteran of the First War, matching each attack with an equally devastating counter. And considering he was operating with a computer not used to tracking moving targets, he did rather well.

Realizing he was winning, his stupefied companions joined in the carnage. The brawl ended in a record 11.5 seconds. Thus, with a new-found advantage came the development of improved armor, bigger weapons and quicker processors.

Nabbar bowed his head, afraid to meet the stone cold glare that humiliated him. Mumbling in a sheepish voice, he continued to inform Xevres of the plight. "Apparently, the xawols had been buried underground-."

He was cut short by Xevres, who began to lecture him on military manners. "Are you not proud to be a soldier? Then act like it! Hold your head high with pride! Speak so that others can hear you clearly! Show me that you are damn proud to speak about matters that may change the course of history!"

Heartened by his commanders recent positive attitude, Nabbar shouted out his report as if giving commands to eager cadets, Xevres smiling and nodding his head as he received the communication. " The xawols had been buried underground in case of an emergency or a surprise attack, Sir!"

"That's more like it!" Xevres praised his officer. "Now, what should we do about it?"

The spontaneousness of this threw Nabbar off guard, and Xevres laughed as Nabbar responded with a quizzical, "Huh?"

"People can 'think about it' for years, but somebody has to do it!"

The clouds broke apart, flooding in the sun's rays, washing away the grim darkness that coiled around Xevres. Red streaks flowed over the twisted bodies, now being shoved to the side to clear trails, vessels, for the organism named War to pump blood through its body; each blood cell scurrying about, worrying whether they will live to see tomorrow and preparing to breath life into this monster again.

Gunshots rang through the air like a running river, and bullets screamed by. Each rebel hid behind any large rock or mound of dirt in dire need of an aegis. Cries echoed off of every surface as War clamped his jaws and tore a heap of flesh from his long hated rivals, Love and Peace. This chimera fell upon many a hearty soul, denying them the freedom they threw their own lives to the fire for.

Gerbald, an especially young rebel who fought despite his will, called over the roaring feast of War to a fellow terrified child. "Hold on just a bit longer! The xawols should be able to save us as long as we help out! Okay?!"

The seven-year-old tyrant rebel Gerbald had been comforting was huddled in a small dune drowning himself in tears. The only thing less audible than Gerbald's heart pounding was that wimp bawling in fear.

Though lightning is often that which is thought to streak through the sky swift as the imagination, any who might have survived this meal would reminisce Gerbald streaking across the field; head bowed and shoulders slumped in a full-bodied sprint.

Slamming down on the ground next to his new companion, he continued trying to prevent him from crying. After all, if he had to go through this too, why could some other little kid ignore his responsibilities by whining in a hole?

Speaking in an irritated tone, "Where's your mommy and daddy?"

"They're gone! They're dead! They're dead!" The little baby began to choke on his own tears.

"How do you know? Did you see them get shot?" Memories of his own parents' murders flooded his mind like the great river Acheron itself.

"I just know they got killed!" he cried as more tears rolled down his pale cheeks.

"Do you have a gun with you?"

The child shook his head as even more tears welled up in his eyes. Gerbald grew more impatient.

"Then take mine! My dad left me an energy rod! Do you know how to use one?"

Their conversation halted as a mortar shell exploded nearby, War had seized more victims to add to his repulsive stew.

Xevres meandered through the onslaught as both rebels and his own faithful soldiers fell to the ground like great oak trees bested by the folly of man. The roots of family and friendship were being cleared by the consuming fires of War to prepare a wasteland, much like the wasteland that lived in Xevres's heart.

Thunder erupted from underneath the foot of a xawol as it stamped over a crop of rocks and appeared above Xevres, poised to unleash its payload on that demon of a man.

A sadistic smile curled around Xevres's face. With the Reaper's grace he retrieved a small metallic stick from his belt. Clenching it so firmly that the metal plates creaked under the pressure, Xevres brought the rod to his side with a great swing, unleashing this hound from its' cage.

A bright sun-ray of death grew out of his hand, the brilliance of justice tainted by power. A hum emanated from this blade of light, this neon sword.

Inside the cockpit of the Bantu Bantau, the pilot steadied his aim. Beads of sweat soaked his face and arms. Must of old sweat amplified the crushing heat of this impenetrable mobile sepulcher.

Sunlight cascaded from the polished armor of the xawol, softening the sharp edges in a warm phosphorescence. The shoulders stacked up high around the head, whose only purpose was to glare at the world with its one cycloptic eye, always watching. The head was no more than a lump protruding from the torso, only the eye mattered. The chest puffed out like a great barrel, giving this unholy heap of metal a proud appearance. Leafs of metal hung in a skirt around the waist, protecting the rounded legs. The feet were tear-shaped, exactly like Xevres's, with a single point pronouncing the toes. Giant hands wrapped around the handles of a D2-660, the fresh paint and wax abraded from the surface by sand.

Swinging the neon sword in a large arc and bringing it overhead, Xevres drifted into the air, a mighty archangel passing judgment. From inside the cockpit, only the shadow of this demon was visible. The pilot heaving out puffs of air to keep stale sweat off of his lips. Colors splashed across his face from the numerous control panels that adorned his surroundings. His hands fumbled over the targeting device, sending the cross-hair bumbling about like a swarm of gnats. A mournful tear meshed in among the sweat as he silently pleaded to live. Somewhere in the back of his head, the pilot could hear a feeble beeping, a warning that some hostile target would attack.

Xevres hovered above the xawol, preparing a fine masterpiece for War to dine on. Black swept of him in waves of miasma. Hatred welled up in his eyes, weighing them back in his skull.

A roar erupted from the sky as Xevres plunged like a hawk upon his prey, sword aimed forward like the talons that would snatch this meal and serve it raw to the feet of its' master, War.

A feral cry erupted from the throat of War as Xevres thudded on the ground behind the Bantu Bantau with a posture indicative of his heartless act, one leg thrown forward and the other backward for balance, body lurched over, arms brandishing the sword.

A molten line ran along the xawol from its zenith to its metal skirt; the left forearm severed, still clasping the support handle of the weapon.

Sheathing his foul blade, Xevres turned to face his felled opponent. The smirk still wrapped across his lips as he whispered in the softest breath, "Timber."

Creaking like the rust-flecked door that must have confined Hades to the Underworld, with limbs falling limp, the Bantu Bantau tipped backward on its' right foot. Before it had the opportunity to crash upon the ground, however, the fury of the Inferno blasted from the inside of the xawol, sending flames outward.

The fighting ceased, the wind resounded a mournful rumble, and the of blood of War was spilled upon the land, free to do as they wished while the beast slept.

Again the fields were piled high with scraps from War's meal, heads thrown back in an agony unparalleled, jaws locked open in torture, eyes wide with fear, rocks built up around the mounds of dead.

Xevres wandered the area, inwardly smiling at the destruction he could produce. He was proud of his artwork. After some time he encountered an energy rod jammed into yet another lifeless frame, buzzing a fatal hum. It glowed a pulsing sick green.

Laughing at the sight, he stepped on the corpse and wrenched the bolt of energy from what was unmistakably a fallen comrade. Lifting it to the sky, admiring its pure weightlessness, he swished it about. From far away the buzz of this cocky little sword could be heard threatening any who drew near. Flashy swipes and swooping arcs brought Xevres in large circles traveling in no general direction. Intangible foes fell under his might in every direction.

Returning to the stony frame from which he claimed the energy rod, he noticed a heap of rocks tumbling downhill as if something underneath was disturbing them. A hand emerged with desperate force, a scowl to extinguish the sun fell upon Xevres.

"What tidings bring you to my front door?" mocked the darkness grasping the pillar of light.

Despite groaning from the strain of heaving rubble, and refraining himself from cursing until his jaw fell off, Gerbald remained silent. Only his glare of hatred spoke.

"What's the matter? Are you shy?" A laughter colder than a mountain breeze rolled past his lips.

"You killed my mom. You killed my dad. You killed my friends. You killed the people I barely knew. How can fate allow such a bastard to live! How can he kill me? Why did this happen!?" Gerbald raged in a hulk of emotions. Tears flowed down his cheeks in a fury cold as an Arctic burg.

The power of a Guila welled up inside him. He would have battered that horrible demon asunder if he truly realized he held the potential.

Icy thoughts of the instant when he drove the bright light through that soldier in the name of survival, something as meager as survival, haunted him. Every last detail abhorred Gerbald, the fog spreading through his eyes, blood dribbling from his mouth in a warm stream, the cough and sputter, and the final forfeiting sigh before he subdued to the false light. Shudders coursed through his travailed little universe.

Looking up to find the demon Darkness swallowing any sunlight that might sooth him, he heard soft words penetrate his raucous weeping.

"You may have been one of the few to understand my desire. You could have shared the throne of immortality with me."

As his babble continued, Xevres began to sound increasingly desperate, as if time were running short. " We could have been gods! But you shall die now! You shall never steal my destiny! You shall never steal my glory! Never!"

Gerbald huddled in the corner of his mind, spittle spattering his face. His weeping had stilled, now he only stared on blankly.

Xevres pulled back his great arm over his left shoulder, flexed his massive muscles, then snapped this extension of death toward Gerbald, feeling the surge of chi currents amass. An ominous globule sparked to life in his palm, a star born only to annihilate. Vibrating hums emanated from this cobalt evil, waves of miasma floated about this handful of hatred.

"We could have been famous...."

War screeched gleefully, he would have one last morsel. The ether squealed as it shot from the hand of Darkness.

Nabbar wearily approached his master, but as he walked he caught the slightest whisper in the breeze, "At last, I'm free. No more pain."

"The Council requests that you resign from the UGF. Effective tomorrow, you are charged with treason and would hereby sentenced to death by the Chamber were it not for your outstanding record."

The air escaped Nabbar's lungs as Xevres flashed in front of him and gripped his collar. Their noses pressed together. Xevres noticed for the first time what a weasel Nabbar resembled. The beady eyes, the thin hooked nose that curled down to his lips, the crooked teeth pointing outward.

"Do you, too, desert me!?"

"I had nothing to do with this! Let me go! I want you to be free, too!" He gasped for oxygen as the vice released his throat.

Even his whiny voice hinted a weasel.

"We're going to bury all who have died here first."

"Shouldn't you report to the Main Offices? Your punishment may worsen if you insubordinate the Council!" Nabbar pleaded with Xevres.

"Hmph. Treason!" He turned about to face his suspicious informant, a minor scowl worn on his face. Nabbar had also been secretly venting his anger behind Xevres, but seeing that Xevres noticed, he straightened up.

Xevres's reply was not much unlike a metal chair, cold and hard. "Bury everyone who had the balls to die over some ideal they would never live to see. These men, these fools, fought for a future for what? Children? Land? Rights...? It doesn't matter. I respect each individual. Even the child." Nabbar bowed his head in shame. "Each life is precious to someone, somewhere. Or else that existence would hold no meaning. Since the ones who would have buried them are also dead, we shall do the honorable task."

The weasel turned and left. Good, all Xevres saw in his actions were insincerity and the pitiful hope to escape pain. He again faced the horizon that now seemed so bright, mocking his own degenerated existence.

His vision dimmed as his eyes looked inward, staring at only his hate. "Do they really think they can stop me? How dare they! Do they not know I have already attained the power of a Guila? That's right, they are too late!" He gave a rustled cackle, felling triumph over the Council of Guilavants. " I'll crush the crusty old geezers myself! Then I will be immortal! But I must act with haste! I can't have him find out. He's the only one that may be able to contend with me. Except maybe, maybe..." He again cackled, looking to the blue sky.

Flexing his body as before, ether gathered inside his chest, under his soles, around his whole embodiment of darkness. That same cold miasma of blue hovered around him. A tremendous flash masked all light around him with the menacing blue. As he concentrated on the collection of ether, the physical stress he endured forced frightening screams from deep within.

Swelling up these gargantuan waves of energy, Xevres forced off from the ground as darted through the air, off on his own vendetta.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, this is the first chapter of my novel-in-progress, titled "The Swordsman Chronicles." I'm serious, I do plan on publishing this after I edit it a little. Any and every comment is unbelievably and inconceivably important to me, so tell me what you think.