The wind blew hot behind them as they marched the last league before the foothills of Aughaire. The ground was cracked and covered in ash and the branches of the dead trees that remained standing bowed in homage at their passing.
Aphar sat tall in the saddle. Nothing could stop him now. His easterling guard marched behind, and following them with silent step an army of the dead, one thousand strong and promising to be even greater yet. Never mind his champion had been taken from him, this manner of strength did not require the skills of only one man. None could stand against him, and all would hearken to his voice. He was once again the prince who ruled through fear, and it was the village of Aughaire that would fear him next.
They mounted yet another steep hill, and in the distance the outline of the huts of the hillmen shone against the reddened sky. Almost his...it was only a matter of a short space of time. Yet on the rise ahead of him stood a tall man flanked by no more than half a dozen of the villagers, armed with poor weapons and dressed only in paint and rough animal skins. A mockery...
Aphar dismounted and signalled to the Angmarim priests that the army should assume attack position. The necromancers bowed in acknowledgement and turning towards the horde of dead eyes lifted their arms in invocation. Slowly the silent warriors spread themselves across the horizon 'til death was the only thing that could be seen.
So they wished to jest with him? Very well, there was time for amusement. He turned and started to walk towards the tall man who stood on the hill, a smile tugging at his lips. So this was the hunter who had bested Yilgtig? Let him know fear...
Let him know death...
And Aphar kept walking forward.
