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The Games that Gods Play	By : Ristul Category: DC Verse Comics > Wonder Woman Views: 16896 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Wonder Woman,nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Soldiering, my dear madam, is the coward's art of attacking mercilessly when you are strong, and keeping out of harm's way when you are weak. That is the whole secret of successful fighting. Get your enemy at a disadvantage; and never, on any account, fight him on equal terms.
-Arms and the Man, George Bernard Shaw
The middle of the battlefield was a morass of fighting, men struggling for the slimmest of advantage against their enemy. The Nepherian army had been weakened by bombardment and the ordeal of a long march from their cantonment, but they still outnumbered their enemies, and they had two of Clea’s powerful champions with them. There was no way they were going to lose.
Or so Lamvor thought. He used his prodigious strength, granted by Clea herself, to fling several enemy men away, his sword swiping through their bodies like butter. He laughed. He was better than any of these pathetic warriors. None of them were his match. Even the so-called champion of the Amazons, the useless harlot who called herself Wonder Woman, had fallen to him and his fellows. It was only a matter of time. He smacked his lips, already looking forward to violating more of those delectable Amazon women back in the Nexopar.
The space around him rapidly vacated of opponents, afraid of his sheer power and might. Lamvor roared in challenge, “Who among you pathetic fools wishes to fight me? I will destroy you all!”
A figure appeared before him, moving swiftly, a sword held out in a reverse grip in his right hand and another sword in a normal grip in his left. The man’s face was blank, expressionless, his eyes devoid of any emotion. Lamvor smiled, using another of Clea’s gift, heightened reflexes, to move forward to confront the man. There was no way the other man was going to hit him…
They passed each other, and then all Lamvor was aware of was the burning sensation on his throat. His hands flew to his neck in shock, before he fell to the ground.

Mayse stared in disbelief as he saw Phillip Delacroix charge towards General Lamvor, feint once with his left, flicking his sword free from his right hand in and around Lamvor’s neck, the hilt somehow returning to his hand after rotating the blade. Blood erupted from all around Lamvor’s neck. The champion was dead before he even hit the ground. Phillip never lost a step in his attack.
A cold, frightening chill came over Mayse, and he suddenly realized they were in trouble. He had learnt of what was happening in the capital, and he had no doubt the escaped Amazons had told Delacroix of the demeaning acts they had been forced to endure, notably at the hands of Clea’s champions.
He didn’t think Delacroix would be inclined to be merciful, and the ease with which he had dispatched Lamvor was terrifying.
Theron, the other champion leading the force, stepped forward with his huge glowing scimitar, which he wielded with ease due to his enormous strength. Phillip Delacroix did not back away, instead stabbing at Theron with his swords. Theron blocked the attacks with contemptuous ease with the flat of his scimitar, then stepped forward to deal a killing blow. His scimitar fell apart in mid-swing, the metal broken by Phillip’s brilliant move of weakening the blade with his own enchanted blades first. Theron died with a look of horror on his face as Phillip chopped off his head.
Mayse could feel the panic overcome the men, and two men broke and started running away from the forbidding form of the deadly killer who killed their leaders so easily. Another three joined them, then a squad, a platoon, and suddenly their whole force was turning away in a rout.
“Hold your ground!” Mayse shouted to no avail. The pain in his chest, the wound which had yet to fully heal, decided to act up again, but Mayse forced himself to draw his sword, wincing against the pain. One enemy soldier charged at him, and Mayse parried the attack and rammed his sword through the man’s belly. He stepped back, just in time to engage two more men. For the moment, he was almost single-handedly holding back the enemy advance. All around him, most of the army were running away, and only the group of men who had been with him since the first battle with Delacroix stuck by him, doggedly covering their comrades.
It was useless. Mayse could see Delacroix’s men making end runs around his tiny blocking force, turning the rout into a massacre. He did not hesitate, and made a decision.

“We meet again, Lieutenant.” Delacroix said, standing before an exhausted Mayse. The Nepherian officer leaned hard on his sword, panting with fatigue. Phillip could see that he had not recovered completely from the wounds suffered in the ambush. All around them, Nepherian soldiers were laying down their swords in front of carefully polite but wary soldiers.
Mayse groaned, and lifted his sword, offering it hilt first to Phillip. “General, it seems I am your prisoner. Again.”
Phillip shook his head. “Keep your sword. You’re on parole. You’ve earned the right.”
Mayse winced, then sheathed his weapon. “Any other officers who survived?”
“They all ran. Or died.” Phillip gave Mayse a grim smile. Dejected Nepherian soldiers were being rounded up by his troops, while the bodies of the dead were collected for burial. For all of its brevity, the battle had been hard fought. Only the steadiness of the island men in the face of a strong enemy advance had bought them the time for them to identify the leaders, and allow Phillip to headhunt them. “You’re the highest ranking soldier present.” Again, went unspoken.
Mayse rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I ask fair treatment.”
“Done. Gather them once they have been processed. I don’t want any trouble.”
“You won’t have it.” Mayse said. He seethed inwardly at the goddess, and then at Lamvor and Theron who had blithely disregarded his advice, leading to the defeat. He told them the enemy would likely be waiting for them in defensive positions, and that any frontal assault would be bogged down. He suggested a series of flanking movements through admittedly difficult terrain that nevertheless would have provided cover from the enemy artillery, but would they listen? No!
Secure in their arrogance and their power, they thought the enemy troops would simply break at the first sight of blood. Mayse knew better. Even worse, he and his men were ordered back into battle when many of them were still hurt, and he had learnt that the orders had come straight from Clea. That made him angry, that good men had died because of poor leadership.
The two men stood together to watch the post battle operations, before Phillip said, oddly polite. “I’ve things to do. See you around, Lieutenant.”
Mayse nodded, and then shouted for one of his own sergeants to gather the survivors for their orders. He had things to do too. He kept in mind, however, that how Delacroix treated him and his men were far better than if their situations were reversed.
He was beginning to have a healthy respect for Phillip.

Clea shuddered, feeling the deaths of two of her champions in rapid succession. For a moment, her mind went blank with terror. Her handpicked warriors and generals were supposed to be invincible, undefeatable. But the sudden severing of her magic that provided them with their powers could have no cause other than death.
Closing her eyes, she quickly assessed the situation. Three more of her champions were marching towards the border, along with thirty thousand men. From what her own almost omniscient powers within her own territory could tell her, they barely had more than ten thousand men, and her own diplomatic efforts to keep the other free states from interfering prevented them from benefiting from the strength of those nations still unwilling to stake their militaries on Delacroix’s audacious gamble.
Her armies would crush that damnable Phillip Delacroix. She shivered when she recalled the image of him she had seized from Wonder Woman. Diana might have been exaggerating, and the image might even be a false one, but the loss of her army told her that the man was dangerous. Anybody courted by the Ares, the unbalanced god of war, to work for him must be of no ordinary stature and ability.
She took consolation in the fact that even if her second army failed to defeat him, the final army surely will. Eighty thousand veterans, not the raw recruits or lazy garrison troops in the first and second armies, but battle-hardened warriors who had done their fair share in ensuring Clea’s dominion over much of the known world.
She turned her attention from the events far away to the immediate area. Two Amazons wept softly in agony, tears staining their cheeks, while a helpless Wonder Woman squirmed futilely against her bonds, held in an upright whipping rack, whipped mercilessly by two of Clea’s champions, who did not hold back at all with their powerful slashes at her back. The two Amazons were stretched out on torture racks, whimpering as two grinning torturers applied even more force to the levers pulling the racks apart.
“Ugh!” Both women cried out in pain, while their princess shied away in shame.
The sight warmed Clea’s heart.
“This is just the beginning, Wonder Woman. I can make it worse. Much, much worse.” Clea grabbed the chain linked to the collar around the Amazing Amazon’s slim neck, and pulled it up, forcing an agonized groan from the helpless heroine. “All you need to do is to just order your Amazons to submit.”
“ Never.”
“What about you, dear ladies?” Clea cackled to the two suffering Amazons. Both of them seemed ready to break, but they managed the slightest of shakes of their heads.
“Oh goodie,” Clea said. She waved her hands, and two objects appeared in her hand. Neither Amazon on the stretching rack could see it, but their Princess could. Her whimpers became even more frantic.
Clea signaled for the tension on the stretching racks to be released slightly. The Amazons groaned in relief, but only for a moment, when they saw what Clea held in her painted hands.
“NO! Clea, please!” Diana screamed out, terrified. The two amazons were too exhausted and in pain to speak, but their eyes indicated their horror and revulsion at what was about to happen to them.
Clea clamped the barbed wire bras around their firm, full breasts, enjoying their horrified shrieks of sheer agony as the metal spikes pierced into the smooth skin of their tits. They writhed helplessly on the racks, their hands tied up and unable to dislodge the bras from where they dug into their soft flesh. Tears flowed down the strong cheeks of the Amazons, as they realized that all of their power, training, and pride was no shield against the tortures that Clea could inflict upon them.
“ARRRGGGHHHH!” Both Amazons bucked shamelessly on the racks, turning and twisting desperately to try to stop the fire on their chests.
“STOP IT! STOP IT AT ONCE!” Wonder Woman screamed in vain, unable to bear the anguish of her sisters. She had never imagined that such evil on women was possible, and what made it even worse was that it was inflicted by another woman.
“I do as I please, and whatever makes me happy…” Clea hummed along as she placed both hands on the bra of one amazon, pushing down on it with her full weight. The Amazon howled, and her howls became more intense, more pleading as the rack started pulling her apart again.
Assailed with unbearable pain from all directions, the Amazon broke at last. She screeched for mercy, offering her body to Clea in almost unintelligible words. Clea grinned in triumph, then gestured to the torturer, who pushed the lever in the opposite direction, releasing the stricken Amazon from her bondage.
To Diana’s horror, her fellow Amazon, sworn to Athena, Aphrodite and Artemis, the wise, beautiful, and chaste goddesses, once proud and unconquerable, sank to her knees before the exultant goddess, kissing her feet brokenly and weeping in shame and desperate relief at her submission to the evil woman.
Wonder Woman turned her head away, trying to shut out the image, deny the reality before her. Amazons could break, Clea knew it already. What did she hope to accomplish by doing this?
Clea looked at the other weeping Amazon, and she surrendered as well, kissing Clea’s feet when she was released from the rack.
“This is the truth facing you, Wonder Woman.” Clea spread out her arms to her side, while the two Amazons groveled at her feet. “Your fall is inevitable. I just want to see you suffer, slowly and painfully. Whip her again!”
The torture continued.

Queen Hippolyta cringed as she heard the cries of her Amazons as they slowly broke, wishing that she could do something, anything, to stop the defilement of her people. The chains on her arms and legs held her from doing anything, and only the strained faces of the few Amazons in the cell opposite hers gave her any hope at all.
A guard prowled along the corridor outside their cells, his heavy footsteps pounding the stone floor of the dungeon ominously. Another guard sat at a table about twenty meters away, picking at his bowl of fruit.
Hippolyta knew as well as anybody about the breakout several weeks ago, but since then they had no news of Phillipus’ fate. The guards had been ordered by Clea to keep their mouths shut, and no amount of banter by the Amazons could get them to reveal even the smallest morsel of information.
Chained in the darkness, alone in her cell, facing the despondent Amazons in the cell opposite, Hippolyta tried to find some, any glimmer of hope.

Phillip Delacroix released Mayse and his men two days before the second army was to arrive. Without their weapons, of course, and without any food. Mayse had no choice but to head straight back, and it was only much later that he realized Phillip’s insidious plan.
First, his demoralized men would tell the members of the new army of their defeat, a significant psychological loss even before the first blow was struck. Second, the second army did not bring much in the way of reserve supplies, and most of his men were placed on short rations, further straining morale. Heck, not even everybody was armed with weapons, because they had insisted that Mayse and his battered survivors join up, in order to ‘redeem’ themselves..
They had marched to the site of the first battle, only to find it abandoned. They sent out scouts, and embarked on a determined pursuit of the enemy force into Eckian lands. They caught the tail of Phillip’s army after two days of hard marching, only for them to slip away. Their supplies grew short, and foraging was poor in the harsh highlands, eventually placing everybody on short rations. The weather got progressively worse too, rain followed by intense heat, and the men were falling sick from the rapidly alternating temperatures.
To make things worse, Mayse found himself and his few sergeants assigned to the very front, again on Clea’s orders. His continued survival seemed to be a mistake the Divine Empress wanted to rectify. And to top it all off, his advice of driving for the Eckian capital was brusquely ignored by the arrogant champions, who wanted to destroy the enemy force in the field, treating it as a leisurely hunt instead of the deadly serious campaign it actually was.
The commanders and top leaders were well fed and feted, feasting on rare game hunted down by their servants. In contrast, Mayse and his men were subsisting on a meager loaf of bread and a handful of spoilt butter a day, and they were all tightening their belts several notches.
Mayse was getting really pissed off.

“Why should we leave?” Lord Tesin glowered at Phillip while their men made preparations for their retreat. “This is our land! Ground that my ancestors died for, land that we grew up on!”
Phillip squatted on the ground, looking up at the Eckian lord, who was on horseback. Angry Eckian soldiers surrounded him, jaws set stubbornly. It was obvious they did not want to pull back closer to the capital. Long lines of civilians trudged along the road, heading for safety, while the men of the island went round ensuring that nothing valuable, especially food, was left behind in the myriad villages on the slopes of the highlands.
Phillip sighed, then used his fingers to dig deep into the ground, grabbing a handful of soil. He asked them, “What is this?”
One man replied, “Soil. Our soil.”
Phillip nodded. “What’s it worth to you?”
“Everything.”
“You know what?” Phillip stood up, still holding the handful of soil. “This is nothing.” He let the soil slip between his fingers, a trickle of grey clumps trailing to the ground. “Nothing!”
The men looked aghast, but he plowed on, pointing to the man who had spoken. “But you, you are everything, not this soil. Your hand is the hand that tills the land, grows crops on it, makes it worth something greater. Without you, it is worthless. It is nothing.”
He turned his keen gaze on them. “We’re pulling back because they are hungry for battle. By staying away, making them chase us, they will tire and lose their fire. Every step they take into your lands also means a step further away from their own lands and supplies. The time will come soon. Just another two days.”
Tesin shook his head, refusing to accept Phillip’s decision. The former assassin walked up to the Eckian general. “No victory comes without a price to pay, and the greater the victory, the higher the price. The victory in store for us demands this cost. If you still cannot accept that, then you may lead your troops to battle to stop them. Right now.”
Tesin blanched, then backed away from Phillip’s cool gaze. “Without your men, as well as the troops from the other nations pledged to you? We won’t have a chance.” Since the first battle, some of the other nations have sent small troops of men, altogether two thousand men, insignificant compared to what was descending on them, but welcome all the same.
And there was the implicit promise of more men, as the other nations mustered their remaining strength for a do-or-die final showdown with Nepheria. But it would take time, time that Phillip was going to buy for them, with land and lives.
Tesin finally nodded in resignation, and cantered away. The other Eckians moved off on their own duties, leaving Phillip staring out in the rough direction of the Nepherian army.
Soon, he thought. Soon.

“Hey, what’s this?” Kexus exclaimed as he picked up Ramon’s battered copy of the Book of Paths. The islander flipped through the pages of the book, then arched an eyebrow. “I doubt your sanity, Ramon. Most of it is empty!”
“Gimme that back!” Ramon reached out for the book, but Kexus leaned away, flipping the pages until he came to the first few pages, which had words on them, at least, even if the last few paragraphs were sheer gibberish.
Ramon, of course, could read quite a bit more than that nowadays. Phillip and Gawain’s occasional hints helped, but he was making his way through the Byzantine reasoning and wisdom of the Path mostly on his own.
“Kexus…” He reached out with one hand, and pulled with his mind. The book flew out of a surprised Kexus’s hand and to Ramon’s own. “If you aren’t going to return it to me, I have ways to take it back.”
“How did you do that?”
Ramon shrugged. The other islanders gaped at him. They were the twenty men who had accompanied him, Stan, and Lance’s Rangers, and were the elite of the men of the island. Lance sat in a nearby corner of the small campsite they had set up, observing the happenings with interest.
“Spill, man.” Another of the men, a brown haired, lanky soldier by the name of Giresias said. “We’re frikkin bored, and there’s jack to do around here while we wait for the Nephs to catch up.”
Ramon winced slightly. He didn’t realize his use of colloquial English had rubbed off so much on them.
“ Okay, okay. Here’s the short version.” He held up the book. “It’s this book.”
“It’s a blank book.” Lance commented dryly.
Ramon started to explain, “It’s not. At least to me. Anybody can read the first few pages, but…”
They talked deep into the night.

“Fire!” Artemis roared out, her men shooting off their slings, pummeling the opposite line with small bags of oil that splattered the black liquid onto the advancing enemy. She could see behind her more ranks of archers, hidden behind several palisades, prepared with burning arrows stuck in bales of burning hay. The smoke, not just from their spot, helped to obscure their position, giving them precious seconds to launch more slings into the air.
Phillip had adopted an extremely risky plan this time, placing their ranged fighters in the front and center of their force, flanked by their infantry. The cavalry were held several hundred meters behind their infantry. All their men had been drilled incessantly on movement, and it would take all their training to pull off Phillip’s outrageous and elaborate scheme.
The enemy force, knowing the rough location of their foes, came on. Three figures floated in the sky, Clea’s champions surveying the field before entering the battle. Phillip had accounted for their presence; one of Lance’s Rangers was armed with the latest in long range laser weaponry, a deadly laser rifle that was virtually silent and could punch through two square feet of solid steel. Morgan and Jake held the sniper in reserve, and this was the battle for him to make his mark.
The three figures in the air seemed imperious, until the sniper fired. The laser beam streaked through the air, an invisible beam of deadly intent, punching through the unwary champion’s forehead, which promptly exploded as the laser overheated the liquid inside the skull of the man.
The red spray of Clea’s champion’s blood showered down onto the shocked Nepherian throngs below.
They surged forward, and Artemis yelled at her troops to fall back. They fired off their arrows first, the fire lighting up many of the Nepherian soldiers, setting them ablaze. Numb from the shock of the death of their general, and furious at the cowardice of Phillip’s army, they paid no heed to their losses, crashing into the flimsy barricades meant to slow them, not stop them.
Artemis and her archers fell back in good order, the infantry on both flanks closing up, anchored by the elite Islanders acting as the linking groups, anchoring the entire frontline. The enemy wave broke on the solid rock of the men, and their undisciplined rush was repelled viciously, the first men to hit Phillip’s new line reeling in dismay at the new enemies.
“Jake!” Artemis yelled as she saw the big man in the midst of the left wing, his eyes scanning the field for an opportunity and hidden danger. Morgan commanded the right wing, while the Amazon general Phillipus commanded the cavalry. The Lion of Ares himself was nowhere to be found. “Where’s the Lion?”
Jake waved his hand in the direction of the fierce battle taking place. “Somewhere in there, biding his time.”
Two Nepherians broke past the line, and prepared to disrupt the islanders from the rear. Artemis dropped them with two quick shots from her bow. She shouted to her archers as more men broke the Islander line with sheer numbers.
The cavalry held back, while the enemy’s own cavalry romped around their flanks, engaging the skirmishers, also meant more to frustrate than to actually stop them.
As she fired arrow after arrow into the men who managed to break through the frontline, Artemis couldn’t help but be worried for Vanessa, who was with the left wing skirmishers.

“Here they come!” Ramon shouted, his voice trembling slightly as the enormity of his responsibility threatened to crush him. The left wing skirmishers were under his command, and he had been incredulous when Phillip had given him command.
“Did I hear that correctly? Are you nuts?” He had asked his erstwhile master during the planning session. He stammered, “You… want… me to be… be… be in charge of the far left?”
“Lord Tesin is taking the far right wing, and we have nobody else.”
Ramon glanced about desperately. “What about Io?”
“She’s in charge of the reserves.”
“Joshua?”
“Not a fighter.”
“Lance?”
“I’ve sent him on a special mission.”
Ramon blanched.
The King of Pain smiled slightly. “When he was 18, Alexander the Great already commanded cavalry, and he fought, and won at Chaeronea.”
“I’m not even 18 yet!” Ramon threw up his hands. “I don’t know the first shit from what to do or where to go! The only command training I have is on computer games, and real life is totally different!”
“So?”
Ramon shook in fear. “And last of all, I’m not Alexander the friggin Great. I’m just a dumb boy on a minimum wage!”
“Are you scared?” Phillip asked softly.
“Hell yeah! If it was just my life on the line, no problem! But you’re telling me that a hundred…”
Jake cut in, sounding amused. “Two hundred.”
“ Okay. Two hundred men under my command, and I’m fucking responsible for their lives?”
Morgan smacked Ramon up the back of his head. “Watch your language!”
“Come on, chief.” Ramon pleaded, one hand rubbing the sore spot.
Phillip remained stone-faced. “Everybody has to start somewhere.”
So Ramon found himself reluctantly leading two hundred fighters of various nationalities in the delaying action. Twenty Islanders, Kexus and Giresias among them, had volunteered to join Ramon, which he was infinitely grateful for. Giresias, despite his coarse manner, was a solid leader of men with his steady presence, and the other Islanders often deferred to him.
The enemy cavalry seemed very scary to him as they thundered forward, kicking up a huge cloud of dust from the galloping hooves of the horses. And there seemed far too many of them charging straight at his small force.
They’ll be trying to envelope our positions, Phillip had told him. Hold them for five minutes, Ramon. Just five minutes.
With what? Spit? That’s almost a thousand cavalry against two hundred and fifty of us!
Phillip shot him a nasty glare. Don’t be stupid. But feel free to try anything you can think of.
Ramon had his troops dig small pits into the ground, small enough not to be spotted easily and yet one foot deep in order to trip horses and hopefully break their legs. The holes covered almost the entire area in front of them, shielding the flank and providing some level of defense against the fast moving Nepherians. It would not stop them completely though, not if they slowed their horses to a trot.
Yet luckily for Ramon, the first few ranks of cavalry were indeed charging straight at them at a full gallop. He shouted at his men to get ready, and they formed up into several blocks of infantry, leveling long pikes modeled after the Greek phalanx sarissa. Each block of men consisted of ten men in five ranks each, for a total of five blocks, all spaced out evenly. In between them were more pits and punji traps.
It was the simplest plan Ramon trusted to himself not to foul up. But he knew as well as anybody else that no plan survives contact with the enemy.
The first few horses stumbled as they stepped onto the pits, tumbling forward in shrieks of terror, their riders pitching forward into the ground violently. More horses tumbled down, but the following cavalry slowed down, carefully picking their way past their struggling comrades.
“Ready!” Ramon shouted, hoping that the others could hear his command. The enemy cavalry began to move at a steady and slightly slow canter, and his hands on the long spear started to shake with fear. There were so many of them…

Jake studied the developing battle with a practiced eye, his sharp gaze, his keen hearing, and above all, his instinctive feel for the ebb and flow of the fighting enabling him to dispatch men to trouble spots almost before they became real threats.
He was impatient, however. He was born and bred for war, honed and trained to almost unimaginable standards in order to qualify as a warrior. Every instinct told him he should be in the thick of the action, not sitting and surveying the situation from a distance, even if his few aides were silently urging him to pull further back, only to be waved off.
Two banners near Phillip were suddenly lowered, and the Islanders responded almost immediately, scattering as though breaking under the sheer weight of numbers of their enemy. Artemis’s archers fired off more arrows into the midst of the enemy infantry to delay their advance, allowing the Islanders to move back quickly. However, it still opened up the middle of the field for the enemy to advance into, which they did.
And true to Phillip’s predictions, the two remaining champions, who had gone to ground following the shocking loss of their compatriot, advanced together with their troops. They were distinctive in their heavy armor, standing out from the rest. The enemy soldiers seemed tired and exhausted, but the retreat of their enemies had given them renewed vigor.
That was the perfect opportunity for the King of Pain to strike. Give the enemy a glimmer of victory, then snatch it away, making the drop in morale even more precipitous. It was a favorite ploy of one of the generals who had once commanded Phillip.
Jake saw his men on the wing were beginning to panic for real. He hefted the halberd in his hands, then started to stride resolutely forward. The men before him parted like the Red Sea, intimidated by the sight of a eight feet tall giant wielding a similarly gigantic halberd with ease.
He was getting tired of watching anyway.

Phillipus had lived for thousands of years as an Amazon, and in the beginning, many of those years had been spent in battle safeguarding her fellow Amazons and trying to spread their ideals to the rest of the world, often to no avail. She considered herself an experienced wager of war, and if not the most brilliant of strategists, at least one that could hold her own.
As such, she was able to recognize the hand of a true master at work. Phillip Delacroix had a stunning grasp of the capabilities of his allies and enemies, and an expert in deception and subterfuge. And he had never lost a battle yet, even if he and Jake had dropped hints about their past failures.
A sudden flood of fear ran through the enemy ranks about half a minute after they plunged forward, initially with so much delirious joy at the impending victory. A red banner was raised, the Lion’s final signal, indicating the death of Clea’s champions. She spurred the horse she rode forward, followed by her cavalry. They picked up speed as they charged forward, and she savored the look of shock and fear in the eyes of the Nepherian soldiers as they realized that the prior retreat of their enemies had just been meant to clear the field for the cavalry, while their own were trying to overrun the flanks.
Her cavalry slammed into the Nepherian ranks with bone-crushing force. For the next few minutes, the Amazon did not care about anything else other than slaying her foes, laying about with her sword in brutal chops downwards at the men below her. Men fell before her, and Phillipus lost herself in the old exuberance of asserting the superiority of an Amazon over men.
A bugle sounded, jerking her out of her battle mood. The enemy cavalry had finally managed to make their way past the dogged defenses on the flanks, and were sweeping inwards to try one final bid at victory.
Out of the mess of men, Phillipus saw a sight that chilled her to her very soul.
The Lion of Ares appeared from the hazy backdrop of dying men, stained with blood all over. A snarl adorned his face, while both of his swords were sheathed in the scabbard on his back. His left hand carried two things that almost made Phillipus throw up in revulsion: the two severed heads of Clea’s champions, displaying their owners’ shock and horror. Blood still dripped from the neck stumps.
He walked determinedly to a horse bereft of a rider, and easily eased himself up in the saddle. He held up the two severed heads, and slowly rode to meet the approaching Nepherian cavalry. They slowed as they saw what was in his hands, their resolve bleeding out of them.
One rider nevertheless summoned up his courage to charge forwards. Phillip hung the two heads on a prong on the saddle, and drew out one sword with his right hand, then kicked his horse gently forward at a trot. The enemy cavalryman pointed his saber forwards, his mouth roaring out a challenge.
Phillip kicked his horse into a charge, and at the moment as they passed each other, the other man swung his blade, only to slice through empty air, the Lion somehow lifting himself off the saddle of his horse into an upside down position almost a full meter above the saddle, his legs curled above his body, his blade easily sweeping his opponent’s head off the rest of his body while the horse was still galloping at full speed. He continued his improbable rotation in the air, one hand on the horse balancing his body for an instant on the saddle before he dropped back into a riding position.
Nobody else moved after that, aghast and awed at what they had seen. The battle was over.

“Not you again!” Phillip clapped one hand over his face when Mayse stood before him, looking more pissed off than dejected.
“Same old, same old.” The Nepherian officer replied dryly. “Nice to see you again, General.”
“You fought well.” Phillip offered. He did see Mayse holding off three Eckians at the same time, trying to prevent the battle from turning into a rout. “Not your fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” Mayse snapped angrily. “I’m sick and tired of losing!”
“You didn’t lose. Your superiors were the ones who did.”
“Maybe I’ll convince myself if I say it enough times.” Mayse sighed. “I told them. I told them to drive for the capital to force you into battle.”
“And it still wouldn’t have worked.” Phillip said. “We had pretty strong fixed defenses, and holding them would be a lot easier.” He paused, then admitted, “But those defenses were also rather old and worn, so they weren’t really worth much.”
Mayse threw up his hands in disgust.
Phillip slapped the other soldier on the back. “Chin up, trooper. Take charge of the survivors. You’ll be leading them back out again soon enough.”
“For us to demoralize the latest arriving army, and to eat up their food?” Mayse glared at Phillip.
“At least you’re still alive.” Phillip shrugged off his heavy overcoat as they walked past several wounded. One man was shivering from the cold of the highlands, and Phillip draped the coat over the grateful man. “Believe it or not, I know how you feel now.”
“How would you?” Mayse shouted after him as he walked away. “You never lost a fight before!”
Phillip looked back. “The numbing fear when you’re defeated. The sick sensation in your stomach when you realize that your best just wasn’t good enough. Angry at yourself for actions taken or not taken. I know them very well. I’ve lost plenty of battles, Mayse. More than you ever know.”
He turned away, and continued walking away. “Tomorrow’s a new day, Mayse. Remember that.”
Mayse stared after the departing general, then squatted down to aid the shivering man to draw the coat tighter. He noticed something poking out from a pocket of the coat.
He took out the object. A book, without a title. He turned to the first page. The Book of Paths, it said in Nepherian script.
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The Games that Gods Play