A horn sounded. The Lord Major reined in his horse as the Eighth Detachment of the Kimonese Army ahead of him came to a shuffling halt. He looked across the large snowy flat at the top of the hillcrest. The sky was a thick blanket of grey, hovering above ground sodden with muck and snow. Flakes of frost settled on his woollen coat, and his breath billowed white in the crisp air.

His eyes scanned the meticulously ordered rows of heavy cavalry before him, twelve thousand strong, where not a man was without a horse or weapon to call upon. They had been riding for weeks, and a great tension had been mounting.

The Lord Major gazed at the plated siege towers, the steel-nosed ballistae, the catapults, and all the various engines of war they had managed to wheel in, despite the challenging winter terrain. There weren't many contingents that could have accomplished such a feat, but his had with admirable deftness.

Pulling a spyglass from his coat, the Lord Major peered beyond the parade of horses and riders at the two nigh-insurmountable stone ranges that walled off everything but the heavens, their sharp inclines coated with the brown bones of deciduous trees. A narrow gorge was the only way beyond, and standing at the mouth of the mountain pass, barring entry to all but those it was willing to admit, was a castle of formidable stature. Buttressed walls, massive and thick, rose from the ground, towers poised on spurred, pyramidal bases, crowned with spires half as tall as the mountains that shouldered them. Lights burned in the castle's many slitted windows, yet not a shadow stirred among their sills. It was a temple of ominous silence.

"First Captain," the Lord Major ordered, "to me."

The man saddled on a horse well left of the Lord Major wore a suit of plated armour draped in fineries befitting the rank of his second-in-command. Mounted on the rear of his horse stood a black and yellow standard emblazoned with a fist clenching a long iron nail. The state symbol was a reminder of Kimone's founding as a place of industry and progress. But the war had changed all that. Now they were pioneers of nothing but tactics and the machinations of warfare. It was regrettable what they had become, but necessary for their survival in these turbulent times.

The captain deftly manoeuvred his animal to his superior's side.

"Lord Major, sir?"

The Lord Major handed the spyglass over to his captain. The bitter chill in the air made his weary joints ache and the movement made him wince slightly.

"What do you make of this?"

The younger man looked through the glass, scrutinising the field before him.

"No soldiers, no guards, not a soul in sight." He lowered the scope. "Certainly peculiar."

"Certainly."

"Maybe we took them by surprise and they fled?"

The notion had already crossed the Lord Major's mind. His regiment was a terrifying preamble for any enemy to face, especially one that hadn't the means to challenge it. The Davishnans had suffered significant losses throughout the war and their remaining forces were spread much too thinly. The majority were preoccupied in fields of contention abroad, and his troops had been able to cut through their domestic defences too quickly for them to marshal an adequate response. But what their enemy lacked in sound strategy they made up for in tenacity, refusing to submit even in the face of insurmountable odds. It was this that caused the Lord Major to hesitate.

"No," he said, running his thumb and forefinger over his greying moustache. "Beyond that stronghold is the Davishnan capital, Punbai. There's no falling back for them here. They must fight or surrender, and they haven't willingly ceded so much as an inch of land since the start of this war. They're expecting us - I'm sure of it. The question is how are we to be received."

"Surely our numbers dwarf whatever forces this paltry hold might contain," declared the captain. "Our victory is assured. All you need do is order the attack."

"Patience, Captain. There's no better occasion to bide your time than when you can afford to do so."

The War of Flags was entering its twelfth year, and for Davishna at least, the war was about to end. The Lord Major envied them in that regard. Kimone and its people would have to carry on fighting in one of the many other theatres of discord that plagued the land, until either the war ended - which didn't appear to be any time soon in the happening - or they suffered defeat at the hands of some other enemy, of which there was no shortage. All the Lord Major could do was to hope the coming battle would be quick and decisive, so his men would have sufficient rest before the next inevitable skirmish.

"I understand, sir," the captain said, his voice betraying his reluctance to remain idle with the promise of battle so close at hand. "But I just don't... Wait." He raised the glass to his eye again. "Down there, sir. I see someone."

"Where?" The Lord Major reached for the spyglass.

"Twenty feet from the south side of the moat."

The Lord Major raised the scope to his eye.

The stronghold was fronted by a broad, deep, dry moat. On the castle side, the gatehouse was closed and the drawbridge was raised. On the opposite side, a few hundred yards from where his army waited, stood a figure at least fifteen feet tall, swathed in a heavy brown cloak that reached the ground. The folds of the hooded cloak flapped in the wind but revealed nothing of what lay within.

"It must be a decoy of some kind," the captain said, "part of some enemy ploy. It's too large to be a living thing."

The Lord Major frowned, staring through the eyeglass. "Too large to be a living thing, yet it walks this way."

"What?"

Its pace steady, its strides long and unhurried, the shrouded figure was advancing in a straight line towards the ranks of cavalry spread before it. As it moved, a gust of wind parted its coat slightly and afforded the Lord Major a brief glimpse of its feet, large, blocky, and of the same earthen tone as the shroud they briefly departed. Uncertain as to whether his old and tired eyes were playing tricks on him, the Lord Major paused, his mind racing past all the possibilities.

"Impossible," the First Captain said. "No man is of such size!"

"Whatever it is, it appears intent on getting in our way." The Lord Major turned to his second-in-command, his mind made up. "First Captain, I trust you to see to its removal."

"Yes, sir!" the First Captain said, straightening in his saddle, visibly pleased that the attack would finally get underway. He leaned down and pulled out a metal speaking trumpet from the pack strapped to his horse and put the mouthpiece to his lips. His voice carried over the open field to every ear: "Archers, hear me! Let us test the stuff of this colossus. All archers, draw!"

Four thousand shafts of sleek wood were drawn from boiled leather quivers.

"All archers, ready!"

Four thousand strings were pulled back far enough to cause the bows to which they were bound to creak. A stiff breeze turned the air.

"All archers, loose!"

The giant ceased its advance halfway between the army and the stone fortress, standing staunchly in the face of the great flight of arrows swooping down towards it.

Through his spyglass, the Lord Major watched as the thousands-strong barrage merged into a single pillar, all following the same relative path over the heads of the ranks of his command before striking their single mark. They shattered against the giant as if launched into stone, the splintered shafts piling up about its unmoving feet. The razor-sharp arrowheads slashed its robe, viciously ripping the pelt asunder until the frayed tatters fell free and what lay beneath it was exposed to the light of day.

The Lord Major leaned forward on his horse, crushing the spyglass against his eye, heeding the giant and nothing else. The thing appeared humanoid, but only in a very general sense, lacking discernible gender, hair, or even flesh. Its constitution appeared more like clay. It seemed to be no more than a statue, yet it walked like a living man and had endured an assault that no work of clay had any right to bear without so much as a scratch. It was stocky in shape and crude of limb, with two stumps for legs and another two thick extensions for arms, all stemming from a broad, barrel-chested body. Its feet were without toes and its hands without fingers, simply two balled fists.

Without its cloak, he could see swirling lines covering its body, etched around its arms, legs, and chest like some strange attire. None of the delineations adorned the bald lump that was its head. Instead, there were two eyes, dark and deep, one round and the other a vertical slit. Beneath them was another, larger slit resembling a mouth. The lipless maw was parted slightly, toothless, as dark as the disparate eyes above it.

The sight of the strange and resilient figure caused something of a stir in the ranks and a disruptive murmur rippled through the Lord Major's assembly like a virulent infection. Contingent commanders rushed out to subdue this morale-crippling affliction before it became epidemic, but the heights of confidence that had pervaded the gathering only moments ago had already dwindled to near nothing, their eagerness for battle now little more than an ember, a spark, at grave risk of being snuffed out entirely.

The Lord Major knew only too well the fear they felt. Deep in enemy territory, surrounded by very real dangers, their anxiety was already at a high, and the being that stood defiantly before them, surrounded by the strewn remains of impotent arrows, fanned their unease to nearly irrepressible heights. The Lord Major lowered the spyglass from his eye.

"Impossible," he muttered.

"Sir? Do you know what it is?"

The Lord Major took a swig from his water canvas and wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand.

"Some years ago now," he said, "I was tasked with seeing the makers of such things abolished, a deed I had thought done."

"What is it, sir? What is that ... that thing down there?"

"It is a golem," the Lord Major said, not daring to lift his eyes from the spectre, his tone ominous. "And I fear it has come to end us all."

A beam of light burst from the depths of the golem's round eye, like the glint of an earthbound star. An instant later, a siege tower exploded into flames, as if a giant magnifying glass had been put to its body with the fullness of the sun pouring in through the lens. The scraping of metal drawn eagerly from thousands of sheaths followed on the heels of the shouts of confusion and alarm as the army reacted to the attack as they had been trained, though unsure as to the nature of what assailed them. There had been no visible explanation for the flames, beyond the glint from the giant's head. There came another flash, and another, each followed by a livid flame that consumed yet another siege tower, until all five were raging infernos, filling the air with smoke and heat.

While the First Captain struggled to retain control of his steed, shouting and cursing, the Lord Major set about marshalling his muddled army, before what discipline that kept his lines from disintegrating entirely was exhausted. There was nothing better for a soldier's morale than action and he set about providing such, shouting through his trumpet.

"All troops, hear me! Maintain formation and keep eyes on the enemy! Support troops: prepare the ballistae and catapults. Await my command!"

Drawing his curved sabre and brandishing it in the air, the Lord Major bellowed, "All other troops, attack!"

The forefront of his legion sprang into action, charging towards the golem, a deluge of horsemen leaning down in their saddles, weapons drawn and poised to strike, moving like a thundering storm front towards the oddity.

The golem's eye flashed again, casting a resplendent beam that cut a silver trail of light along the ground before the charging host. A towering wall of flame erupted from the crescent incision, rising with an explosive gust that caused the tide of swords and halberds to stumble and fall. The horses that carried the rush bucked in fright from the conflagration, throwing riders onto the hard ground. Most of these ran away in fear, but some defiantly threw their spears through the wall of flame barring their way. Although its body looked to have been sculpted from clay, the brown-orange skin of the golem easily deflected the steel tips that sought to wound it, their pointed ends cracking and breaking.

The intrepid minority quickly cleared the way for two ballistae that were wheeled into position, pointed at the golem, and launched in short order. The two large bolts fared little better than their thousands of smaller cousins - the thrust of their delivery nudged the giant one way and then the other, their sharp ends yielding little more than a few scratches that looked to fade only moments after, making the Lord Major wonder once again whether his eyes were fooling him. The soldiers manning the ballistae fled their posts moments before the two ballistae went up in flames.

The Lord Major tore his gaze away and turned back towards the hill where, parked on its downward slant, lay an array of catapults, a dozen in total, waiting on his command.

"Catapults, fire!" he screamed into his trumpet.

The catapults slung their weighty payloads all at once, sending twelve granite boulders hurtling through the air towards the golem and the castle.

The golem's eye flashed repeatedly, as fast as a man's blink, the undulations blasting the airborne stones into clouds of particulate before they had even begun to descend. No matter the distance, the golem's reach appeared absolute. Through the veil of smoking silt left by their demise flew another volley of arrows that did the golem no more harm than the first.

The Lord Major was dismayed. He had no choice but to call upon his greatest weapon if he were to have any hope of defeating such an enemy.

Above the catapults, at the zenith of the hill, rested a massive 50-foot-tall trebuchet, known affectionately as the Castle Cracker. A giant sphere rested in its sling, with flames gusting out of the holes in its iron shell. Far too heavy for any ordinary catapult to launch, it was filled with a volatile mix of chemicals capable of starting fires that burned far hotter than the common variety and cause fantastic devastation. Many a hardy fortification had been toppled by its might.

"Launch the Cracker!" he ordered, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I want nothing left standing!"

Its counterweight falling hard and fast, the long arm of the trebuchet swung forward, launching the flaming sphere high into the air. Meanwhile, the golem kept the Kimonese war machine from regrouping or making further attempts to retaliate with a series of smaller blasts that tossed the soldiers around like toy dolls, over and into each other, breaking up the ranks until the battlefield was in total disarray.

Significantly heavier than the boulders from the catapults, the Castle Cracker's volatile consignment left the golem no time to turn its injurious attention to its coming. The deadly shell broke open on the golem's head, giving rise to a pillar of flame that engulfed the being in its entirety, cremating the forest of arrows about its feet.

Everyone stared, wanting desperately to believe it had been defeated. At first, all one could make out was a shadow that stood aloof to the chemical inferno that raged around it. As the flames eased further, its definition grew sharper, and soon it was apparent that their greatest weapon had done nothing to the staunch golem other than to darken the tinge of its skin. As the flames dwindled, so did the soldiers' hope. Never in his life had the Lord Major felt so powerless.

The familiar flash from the golem's eye heralded the demolition of the catapults, their razing coming at a seemingly leisurely pace, made all the more insulting in its casualness. The men who had manned them plummeted down the hill as their stations went up in flames.

The Lord Major struggled to find his voice, struck dumb by the fear that gripped his soul like a serpent, slowly squeezing out what courage he had left and leaving him cold and empty.

"Sound the retreat," he uttered weakly.

The First Captain turned and looked at him uncertainly. "Sir?"

"There is no fighting this monster. It is beyond us. We will only catch our deaths if we try. We have no choice. We must-" The Lord Major's head whipped around as the air began to hum.

The hum increased to a whine and then a pitched cry. The Lord Major stared at the golem in horror as its eye flared again, more brilliantly than before. Residual dust and smoke gave body to the narrow beam of light that shot from its eye, over the heads of the rutted army and into the hill where the Castle Cracker and charred catapults rested. The snow evaporated in the molten heat and the hill liquefied before the Lord Major's eyes.

His horse bucked in terror as the intense heat rippled outwards and hit them in scorching waves. The hot gust threw the Lord Major off his saddle and onto the ground. He gagged and coughed. He tried desperately to get up, but his weighty and oppressively hot armour made it difficult for him to move, let alone escape the danger that was hurtling towards him.

The uppermost portion of the siege tower nearest him, engulfed in flames, had broken free of the rest and was barrelling down the hill, the Lord Major in its direct path. There was no escape. Closing his eyes, the Lord Major lay in the muck, praying his demise would be swift and merciful. He heard shouts all around him and another explosion just above. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, seeking the tumbling pile of flame that should have been his death by now. There was no sign of it, however; nothing but a fresh scorch mark on the side of the hill. Confused, the Lord Major looked towards the golem, his gaze settling on the smouldering red rim of its deadly eye that appeared to be gazing directly at him.

Hands lifted him from the wet ground and presented him another horse, the one belonging to his First Captain. Adjusting his stifling armour, he heard the sound of a horn close by, answered by several others across the field, all playing the same one-note tune of retreat that every soldier knew how to dance to. Hoisting himself onto the back of the horse, the Lord Major wheeled it around to join the flurry of troops withdrawing into the thick and misty woodland just west of the fortress. It was the designated rallying point, something the Lord Major insisted upon despite what had once seemed the unlikely event of their retreat. The faces of his legion were blackened with ash, scratched, bloodied, some mildly singed. None had suffered any significant injury. The worst off were those who had lost their mounts, but all had legs to flee and were putting them to good use.

The Lord Major looked back at the battlefield, unable to spy a single casualty. He was baffled. The might of his army had been a farce in the face of the golem's fearsome potency. By rights, none of them should have survived. He, himself, should have been buried under a half-tonne of burning wood, but they had each been granted the opportunity to see another sunrise. This strange mercy was every bit as much an enigma as the golem itself, but for now the Lord Major would let these mysteries lie, intent on putting as much distance between the creature and his men as was physically possible, praying he would never lay eyes on such a monster again.

******

The drawbridge lowered on long black chains, and a five-man contingent departed the stronghold's great walls at a steady gait. They were on horseback, looking like tortoises in their full sets of plate armour that promoted frames more mail than man – all except the mystic, who wore a simple attire of white silk, crossing the bridge on ivory-coloured slippers.

Archers covered their trek from the stronghold, their bows at the ready, but they were just a precaution. There wasn't a single enemy left in sight. The landscape, only thirty feet from the stronghold, was cratered and smoking, littered with a glut of forsaken swords, shields, helmets, and other bric-a-brac that glinted in what little sunlight managed to pierce the overcast. The once eminent hill that had stood afar had been blasted flat and was now black as pitch, every tree on the face of it reduced to nothing more than a charred stump. Isolated patches of flame were slowly dying out, lacking the fuel to persist or grow, and the deep cold was gradually reclaiming its territory. The only thing that stood among the desolation was the cause.

By hoof and by foot, the small band advanced on its position over the field of discarded steel and scorched earth, led by the commander of the stronghold's forces. Emblazoned on his padded surcoat was the emblem of the Davishnan Empire, a simple table-cut diamond, designed to evoke the nation's beauty and versatility. These facets had suffered much throughout its involvement in the War of Flags. The empire's once glorious lands had been tarnished by battle, the prosperity of its cities ravaged by unkind hands. Its defences had been breached almost beyond recovery and the diamond pierced almost to its heart.

Then the mystic came.

"I would never have believed it possible," said the commander, with a profound sense of awe. "You have delivered us with a wonder I had thought nothing more than a legend."

The mystic smiled ever so slightly and lowered his eyes as he nodded in acknowledgement. When he had first approached the Davishnans a week ago with his offer of support, it had been met with scepticism, but they were desperate enough to let him try. All he needed, he'd said, were several barrows of clay and a quiet room in which to work. He had brought his own tools: mould, turntable, brushes, knives, and the miscellaneous trappings necessary. With the massive army marching on their stronghold, intent on waylaying the capital beyond it, he had immediately set to work. For seven days and nights, he had sculpted, kneaded, carved, and fashioned the golem as he had been taught and, he liked to think, with a master's competence. Other than its size, it was hardly the most intimidating construct ever made, but the simplicity of its design belied the fantastic power it possessed. With the traditional blend of blood and ink, he prepared the long slither of parchment needed to give his creation life and slid it between the golem's cracked lips. There had been no need for a kiln, the power of the parchment both hardening and darkening the clay, setting it in its made manner.

"As per our agreement," said the mystic, flakes of snow and ash fluttering on the icy wind, catching on his clothes and the blonde hair that hung long over his face, "from this day, until the end of this war, my golem will keep Punbai safe and repel any further assaults."

"You have our undying gratitude, Magician," the commander said, his voice solemn.

"Magician?" The mystic chuckled slightly, brushing ash from his sleeves. He hadn't had time to change out of his work clothes, which were in great need of a wash. They could easily have been mistaken for ceremonial garb, white and silken, bound tightly at wrist and ankle to avoid accidentally brushing up against his pliant canvas of clay. "For all my talents, I'm no good at conjuring rodents from my sleeves. But, I beg, no titles. Corrin will suffice."

The ground around the golem still smouldered but it was traversable. Corrin ran his hand over the regalia impressed on the golem's broad chest. A simple crest, it had a circle at its base, representing the earth, with two hands emerging from its sides to reach above it. Between the open fingers was a small person fashioned in a manner not unlike the golem he'd wrought, with stumpy limbs and little more than a lump for a head. It was the crest of Corrin's lost order.

"Well done," Corrin said affectionately to the golem, smiling like a proud father. He couldn't have been more pleased. It was obvious his patrons were delighted as well.

The commander's horse trotted up beside the golem, bringing its rider and the golem face to face.

"Corrin, pray, will you help us not to simply fend off our enemies, but to defeat them as well? With an army of mighty beings such as this fighting alongside us, this war that has beleaguered us for years could be won in weeks!"

Corrin had anticipated such a request. The commander had been elated at the sight of his enemies being driven off so easily and now he wanted to harness that extravagant power to his own ends. It was only natural. Corrin nodded again, this time with regret.

"To use a golem as a shield, a defender of life, that is something the Order of Argil condones, but it may never be wielded as a weapon, a depriver of the same. Such a thing is forbidden."

Disappointment furrowed the commander's brow beneath the long peak of his helmet.

"Many a would-be king and conqueror have thought to turn a golem army against nations. The enemy we faced here today approached my order not so long ago, having heard rumour of our arts," Corrin explained, resting a hand against the side of his creation, cool amidst the smouldering heat. "They beseeched us: 'Please, build us an army with which to win this war, an invincible army that none can stand against; one that is tireless and strong.' But we refused them as we refuse you now. Fearing our arts might still one day be used against them, they set in motion a plan to eradicate us and take possession of the secrets of golem creation for themselves." Corrin chuckled, without mirth. "It's ironic that the golem, which are such strong and resilient defenders, never needing sustenance and able to fend off entire armies, are unable to protect their masters from something so feeble as poison. I was the only one fortunate to escape such a fate simply as I was away on errands. Had I not been, my order would now be extinct. And, had the hallowed ways of their making not been guarded by these same everlasting creations of my dear, departed peers, you might well have been the ones facing a golem this day."

The commander stared at him, puzzled by his words, and then turned and slowly scanned the field beyond them.

"You say they took the lives of your kinsman, of everyone else in your order, and yet I see no bodies, not even a drop of blood. You spared their lives – all of their lives. Why?"

"To lose so handily can wound a soldier's dignity far graver than any physical injury. I'll wager you'll not see them again. And life is too precious a thing to waste, no matter how it might have wronged you."

A magnificent black thoroughbred wandered aimlessly through the debris. Corrin proffered it a half-eaten loaf of bread that was still relatively fresh. He waited patiently as the steed sauntered its way over and sniffed it, its breath hot on his hand.

"See here?" Corrin said, eyes bright. "There is more beauty to be found in this glorious creature than in anything I could make. You should relish it." Setting the loaf on the ground, Corrin proceeded to remove the armour plating encumbering the horse, freeing the animal of its weight, leaving only the saddle.

"You will be richly rewarded for your service here," the commander said. "Land, livestock, fineries – a fortune."

With some effort, Corrin climbed onto the horse's back and petted its ebony mane.

The commander turned his horse around, now eye to eye with Corrin.

"What will you do with such wealth, if I might ask?"

"See through something I've had in mind for some time now. All the materials and labour I need lie beneath my feet, but creativity is a commodity not so readily available. I need ideas, imagination, designs borne from masters, and the best of anything in this world is rarely ever cheap."

The commander perked up.

"You intend to build something?"

Corrin gazed out over the battlefield. "At the rate it's going, I fear this war is going to spread to every corner of the land, leaving no refuge for those who wish no part in it. I want to give the orphaned, the fearful, and all those hurt by this conflict a place where it cannot find them, a secret place where they can live without fear or strife."

"A sanctuary?"

"No mere sanctuary." Corrin turned to look directly at the commander, his resolve as implacable as the golem that towered beside him. "A city, unlike any that stands today; a home to any whom might need it, for however many tomorrows this war might endure."