The Hill

I found myself standing on top of the hill, bloodied, battered, and utterly exhausted, but alive. Bodies littered the path below me, vanquished foes whose lives I had cut short.

I didn't feel bad about that.

My sword seemed to be a part of me as I used it as my instrument of death. I stand here in victory still grasping it, barely realizing it was a separate object any more. Instinct guided it from one attacker to the other, cutting into vital areas which drained the life from each body. Every single one had that look in his eyes, that look of smug determination that he will be the one who brings me down, who will be seen as a hero, the one who defeated the madman who terrorized Westrose, who murdered its king, who brutally killed women and children, who destroyed so much for seemingly no reason.

But I had a reason. I knew that Westrose wasn't what it seemed -- the sleepy little city of normal human beings. I knew the secret Westrose was hiding.

I heard screaming behind me. A single young man, armed with a battle axe at least as large as he was, charged up the hill, axe ready to strike. I wasn't done purifying this town by any means. So many hid away as I started my rampage and path of death, and destruction, and now I began to see the desperate ones come out to play.

So let's play, kid.

I let him have the first swing. Why not? It wasn't like this kid had any chance against me. I doubted his ability to even give his enormous weapon a proper swing, let alone have it find its mark.

He swung the axe awkwardly, missing to my left, seemingly confirming my suspicions. As the axe fell towards the dirt to my side, I moved my sword outward, aiming for his arm, just to teach him a lesson before it would eventually find its way into his heart. But the axe never met the dirt, as the entire movement was a ruse: he redirected and swung the axe outward, spun around, and planted the axe firmly in my exposed side.

So many dead and yet this young axe-master had hid away until now. Why? The young boy grinned, and to my surprise answered my question in a thick, deep voice:

"The more you kill, the sloppier you become. Acceptable losses for the Master."

The Master. He had spoken its name aloud. A dark being from another world, controlling this seemingly peaceful and innocent town, stealing away people from across the countryside to add to its growing city and its increasing evil aura.

I had to do something, but the pain was unbearable. I could barely move, and my sword, so attached to me before, suddenly clattered to the ground, abandoning its former master to his fate. My eyes grew wide as I fell to my knees. I knew it was over.

And yet, it wasn't. He put his hand underneath my chin and muttered dark, unknowable words -- Dv'mor si chi'qul amargi -- unpronounceable by most humans. I felt a pressure suddenly building inside my mind, pressing against my consciousness and turning me into a mindless drone to serve The Master.

Qzel'bvot, I heard myself say in the language of the ancient being known as Q'ov and referred to as The Master.

Domination.