History

They say history is written by the victors. It's not. History is written by the scared little men who never fought in the fields.

They want you to forget the causes, forget the atrocities. It is enough that we fought evil, and triumphed.

Songs are still sung of the battle at the ford. How the Stormriders carried the day.

They lie. I was there.

I remember seeing the massed enemy, like a boiling gray cloud. We fired our lances, but they marched onward. I knew something was wrong, but didn't realize what until they were a dozen spearlengths away.

Like the wind out of the void, the army of the dead struck our position. Feeling no pain, knowing no fear, animated by nanotech, the corpses of the fallen armies returned. I impaled one with my pike, and its soulless eyes transfixed me. Its skin had been peeled back from part of its face, revealing the decay within. It swung its blade, and I knew no more. Days later, I awoke in a field hospital, missing both my legs.

They want you to remember that we fought evil. But ask yourselves this. What would make a proud, spiritual people defile the corpses of their honored dead, for one last desperate battle?

And ask yourself this. Whatever happened to our enemy?

History is written by the Evil.

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