The Forgotten Conqueror

'Looks like... this is it..."

On a small hill, a lone, tired man knelt. As if praying for forgiveness, his knees together and his head down. Anyone would have thought him to be making a prayer to his gods or deity, if not for the scene around him.

Strewn about were dead bodies as far as the eyes can see. Like rich fertilizer generously applied, vast amounts of corpses laid in the morning sun. On closer inspection, even the hill he was kneeling on top of; was a small mountain of corpses.

The man was not kneeling because he was praying; he was kneeling because he was dying.

Up close, his face could be seen with cuts and bruises. He was missing half his gauntlet on his left arm—all the way up to his elbow, and missing half his right hand—the pinky to the middle finger and most of the palm up to his wrist.

Where his tired left hand drooped, a small dagger had fallen and imbedded itself into one of the corpse elevating the hill. His right hand held a brilliantly shining beam of light that was embedded into the ground. Brilliant as the sword was, and it did not radiate any light and would not illuminate anything.

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