Ashes Of the Führer

"General Elisabeth!" a soldier shouted, jolting her awake.

"It's morning. We're awaiting your command."

She rose quickly — no grogginess, no hesitation. Only resolve.

Confidence was written across her face like armor.

"How many cavalry arrived?" she asked, already pulling on her coat.

"Around fifty, ma'am."

"Perfect," she replied, a spark flashing in her eyes.

"Get them in formation. The cavalry will strike first — swift and hard. Once they scatter the enemy, have the infantry move in with sword and bow. No hesitation."

The soldier saluted — but not with a casual hand over heart.

He gave the salute of the Reich.

"Yes, General. Right away."

She stepped out of the tent, tightening the strap of her hat as she did. The flap of stitched cloth—serving as a makeshift door—fluttered behind her, caught by the restless breeze.

The morning greeted her not with warmth, but with that strange contradiction only war could birth — a chilly heat beneath a rising blood-orange sun.

She stood on a hilltop, wind tugging at the hem of her coat, boots planted firmly in the dew-kissed grass. From this vantage, the valley stretched wide below — endless fields carved into patches of gold and brown, dotted with barns, silos, and sheds.

But the beauty was a lie.

Down there, humans worked in silence. Bent backs. Calloused hands. Chains glinting faintly in the early light. They harvested wheat, hauled water, drove plows — all under the watchful eyes of armed demi-humans slouched in towers and leaning against fences with whips and spears in hand.

It was farmland, yes.

But not theirs.

Not yet.

Commander Bruno Hartmann led the charge.

The morning sun had just begun to burn through the veil of mist curling along the hills, casting a pale gold light across the valley below. From atop the ridge, the farmland stretched endlessly — rows of grain tall and ripe, vineyards crawling with late-season fruit, and pastures dotted with livestock. It was a vision of plenty… stolen.

The beasts had claimed it all. But not for long.

Bruno sat atop his warhorse — a black-coated stallion named Vandal, its breath steaming in the morning chill. Armor clinked and creaked as his men adjusted their grips, checked their saddles, tightened bowstrings. The cavalry's silhouettes shimmered like ghosts through the rising heat of dawn, their horses restless, stomping the earth as if they, too, were eager for blood.

"Commander, the farmland's just ahead!" a scout shouted, his voice barely audible above the rising rhythm of hooves.

Bruno didn't need to look. He could already smell it — hay, wet earth, smoke from the morning cookfires down below. He stood in his stirrups, surveying the target. Wooden fences bordered the fields. Thatched-roof barns nestled between silos. Demi-humans wandered lazily, some armed, most not — their arrogance bred from years of unchallenged dominance. They weren't ready.

"Get ready, men!" Bruno roared. "Fast and hard! No stopping!"

He unsheathed his saber, the steel gleaming in the morning light. "We take this land — then another, and another. We don't stop until every last one of these beasts is wiped out!"

The cavalry stirred. Tension snapped. Muscles tightened.

Then—

"UUUWHHAAA!!"

A thunderous cry erupted from the line. Hooves pounded the earth as over fifty riders surged down the slope, dust and grass flying in their wake. The horses moved as one — not like a mob, but like a spear tip thrusting straight into the heart of the farmland. Bows were slung across backs, swords glinting at their hips, cloaks flaring behind them like wings of war.

Down in the fields, a horned beast-kin blinked in confusion — his plow still in hand.

By the time he turned his head, it was too late.

The first rider reached him in a blur of hooves and steel. With a single, fluid motion, the soldier drew his sword and sliced. The beast's head flew clean from his shoulders, spinning once in the air before hitting the dirt with a wet thud. Blood sprayed the crops like cursed rain.

Screams followed. Not from the humans — from the beasts.

Barn doors slammed. Some tried to run, others to fight — grabbing pitchforks, crude spears, clubs. It didn't matter.

The cavalry didn't break formation. They split like wind through wheat, horses weaving expertly between crop rows as archers loosed arrows into the barns and windows, each bolt finding its mark. Fires sparked where torches were thrown. Grain silos became tombs. Corrals ran red.

And still, Bruno pressed forward.

His horse trampled a demi-human guard as if he were nothing more than a mound of straw. He leaned low, slicing at another who had barely lifted a blade in defense. Bone cracked. Limbs tumbled. His men followed without hesitation, their movements precise, brutal, trained.

In the distance, Elisabeth Ritter stood on the hilltop, her newly made coat fluttering in the wind. She watched through a spyglass as smoke began to rise from the buildings below, the screams and fire reflecting in her calm eyes.

This was her plan in motion.

And it was working.

Behind her, more infantry readied themselves — archers checking fletching, swordsmen tightening their grips. They'd descend next. To finish what the cavalry began.

In the fields below, the cries of the dying were drowned out by the sound of horses, steel, and fire.

The farmlands had been reclaimed.

And the age of man had taken its first bite.

The last of the cavalry thundered past the burning grain silos, vanishing into the smoke and screams below.

High atop the hill, Elisabeth Ritter lowered her spyglass.

She didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

She simply raised her arm — straight, unwavering.

A single gesture.

A command.

The infantry behind her — hundreds strong — roared in response.

"FOR OUR BROTHERS FOR OUR SISTERS!!"

The cry split the sky. It came not from discipline, but from conviction — from the fire kindled two weeks ago. From the speech that broke chains and made men believe.

Swords were unsheathed in unison, steel catching the sunlight in a blinding flare.

Bows snapped into place.

Shields thudded against armor.

And then — they moved.

A tide of men surged down the hill like a living avalanche, boots pounding the soil, war-cries rising higher with every step. Faces set. Hearts ablaze. Every one of them ready to die — or make the enemy do so in their place.

The farmland would not be taken.

It would be cleansed.

Meanwhile…

Commander Bruno Hartmann's sword was already red.

The blade trembled with the gallop of his horse as he rode, face grim and blood-flecked, eyes scanning ahead for the next target. His coat flared behind him like a banner of death.

The first farm had been reduced to cinders. Half-buried beast corpses sprawled through the wheat. Smoke painted the horizon in black strokes.

But Bruno didn't stop.

The next settlement came into view — low wooden huts, clustered around a fenced orchard. Children ran. Shouts echoed. But it was too late.

"Cut them down!" Bruno barked. "No mercy!"

He didn't slow.

His cavalry swept forward, tearing through the thin wooden fence like parchment. One beast-kin tried to raise a hunting bow — Bruno's sword struck first, impaling the mutt through the chest and slamming him into a fruit tree so hard the branches snapped.

More beasts emerged — clawed, horned, fanged.

Didn't matter.

A flurry of arrows rained down from his flanks. Another rider vaulted off his horse mid-gallop, landing sword-first into the back of a fleeing beast's neck.

Blood hit the orchard leaves like morning dew.

Bruno's warpath was relentless.

Every farmhouse he reached was left in ruin — doors kicked in, flames ignited, survivors executed in the dirt.

Human slaves — gaunt, bruised, starved — watched from cages and pens. Bruno barely spared them a glance.

"Open their cages," he ordered coldly. "If they can walk, give them a weapon. If they can't — feed them and send them to the rear lines."

And then he was gone again.

No victory speeches. No banners. Just thunder.

Farm after farm.

Blood after blood.

The ground behind him was soaked. The land ahead — still screaming.

But Commander Bruno Hartmann would not stop.

Not until every single beast had been erased from Larrak's soil.

Commander Bruno Hartmann sat sideways in the saddle of his dust-covered warhorse, one gloved hand resting lazily on the pommel of his saber. His coat flapped gently in the breeze, the buttons half-undone, revealing sweat-stained linen beneath. Around him, cavalrymen caught their breath — some pouring canteens over their heads, others sharpening blades already red with dried blood.

The last farmhouse smoked gently below. The final horned corpse twitched in the dirt, eyes wide in the stillness.

Bruno scanned the horizon — no more movement. No more screams. No more targets.

"Reinforcements inbound," muttered a young soldier behind him, barely older than twenty. He was lean, his helmet pushed up on his brow, revealing a soot-smeared face. "That dust cloud — gotta be infantry."

Bruno glanced down the dirt road where a sluggish trail of black boots and spears made its way through the wreckage.

He spat.

"They're slower than feces through tar," he said, squinting. "We're gonna be back in our beds before they even reach the damn treeline."

One of the older riders chuckled, leaning over his saddle. "I swear, Commander, if we gave those bastards brooms, they'd sweep their way here."

Another joined in. "They march like they're carrying their mothers on their backs."

Bruno snorted and leaned back in the saddle, scratching the stubble on his jaw.

"Hell, if they go any slower, the crops will grow back before they finish clearing the field."

The men laughed, dry and raspy — the kind of laugh only tired soldiers could give.

A grizzled sergeant trotted up beside Bruno. His horse looked half-dead, and the man himself wasn't much better — helmet dented, one shoulder bleeding through the leather.

"Sir," he said, wiping his brow. "Last homestead's clear. Five more corpses inside. Two of 'em still had tools in their hands."

"Any survivors?" Bruno asked.

"One. Human girl. Locked in a cellar. Looked about thirteen, skinny as a twig."

Bruno nodded. "Get her water and keep her there. Infantry can figure out what to do with her."

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. "And if they ask what happened to the rest?"

Bruno's eyes narrowed. "Tell them we didn't come to ask questions. We came to finish a job."

He turned his gaze back toward the infantry lines, which now reached the edge of the field, dragging behind carts and supplies, their formations loose, unbothered.

"They're gonna be here all night," said the young soldier again. "Cleaning up what we did in an hour."

Bruno grinned without humor. "Good. Let them see the mess. Let them smell it. Remind them this is war — not parade drills and neat maps."

The sergeant chuckled. "You think they'll even thank us?"

Bruno tilted his head thoughtfully, then gave a cold smirk. "Doubt it. They'll probably complain we left too much blood in the dirt."

More chuckles followed.

Bruno finally straightened in the saddle, pulling down his coat and adjusting the strap of his scabbard.

"Well, boys," he said, raising his voice over the sound of restless horses. "We did our job. Fast, brutal, clean."

He pointed his sword toward the path back home.

"Let the infantry mop it up. We've earned our break."

"Back to the village!" one of the men called, and a cheer followed.

The horses began to turn, one by one, into formation.

But just before Bruno led them forward, he gave one last look over his shoulder — at the charred farmland, the broken fences, the corpses still twitching in the heat haze.

"You see that?" he muttered to no one in particular. "That's what it looks like when humans fight like devils."

The young soldier beside him nodded grimly.

"And we ain't even gotten started."

Bruno kicked his heels gently into his horse's side.

"Let's ride."

And with that, the cavalry thundered off, hooves pounding the earth, leaving behind smoke, silence, and the slow march of the clean-up crew.