The science of necromancy was not a new thing to the ponies of the east. Across the villages and deserts many magical and radical cults had risen, some even attempting to seize power. While many of these fanatic unicorns were killed some have survived long enough to pass down their dark practices to others. If a general is lucky he may be able to use them in battle, their unpredictable nature making them hazardous to friend and foe.

Dellas was one of these few. Long ago he had imprisoned a number of cultists within his village. His guard hunted down each and every last individual, locking them away till they proved useful. Under Azzal’s own council Dellas had been convinced to have a few of these psychopaths brought across the sea. Chained in place and under constant watch, they would not be realized until the battle was underway.

But they have far more applications than simply charging in blindly. Necromancy is not restricted to acts of inflicting harm. Their connection to the underworld was unquestionable, sometimes acting as hosts to their unholy forms. It was this that gained the interest of many generals, but many were too frightened to be in the same room as those loons. All it seems except one.

Azzal Khan carried in his hoof the long metal construct formally of Sil Ran. The Talon of Pain was a symbol of everlasting rule and an iron grip, Azzal sought to make it more. A tool such as this should be made to evoke fear in their enemies, breaking their formations and running in terror. As a last resort he had gone to the Necromancers, chained within the ships off shore.

Once Azzal was on deck he commanded his guard not to follow him, entering the brig alone. They gave him a variety of nervous looks but agreed none the less. Down the creaking steps he slowly entered the prison. Shrieks and squeals echoed around the room, these mad ponies acting in a way that resembled a panicked animal. But out of them one rested on his haunches, his face a grim visage to behold.  Azzal wearily approached this pony, a watchful eye for any unexpected movements.

As he neared closer the Necromancer turned to face him, his white eyes focusing in on the stallion. His coat had faded to a dull white along with his mane, as if all the color and emotion had been drained from his body and mind. His voice echoed in a low drone, one that even caused Azzal to flinch.

“Why have you come?”

Azzal rested the Talon of Pain in front of him, the Necromancer raising an eyebrow at the intricate piece of technology. “I desire to inspire my allies…  and drive fear into the hearts of my enemies. I know that you have ways of doing so.”

“The art of necromancy is a dangerous one, it’s toll is high upon the mind. I have seen the dead and all the power beneath this world. I may indeed be of some aid to you.”

“Show me.” The words muffled by his mask fell flat, the Necromancer not moving an inch.

But suddenly he drew up his hooves, reaching forward to the talon. Seizing it in both hooves he began to mouth words of a forgotten language, the low hums of his voice escaping as he did so. Without warning the metal talon burst into flame, its surface becoming red hot. The Necromancer began to chant louder as he progressed, Azzal taking a cautious step back.

The next second the flames were gone, the talon emerging without any damage. Placing the device back down on the ground, the Necromancer finished off his spell.

“You ask to be feared then I give you the tool to do such. To this weapon I have bound the undead, souls that have never found peace. On your whim they will leap out and strike down their targets in a baptism of flame. They are always hungry, they are always thirsty, and they will burn all in your path.”

“Your words are hollow until they are tested. You claim to have bound the spirits of the deceased to this talon, I will see it myself.”

Azzal left without another word, seizing the talon in his hoof and leaving the Necromancer to linger in the brig. “Remember Khan, my loyalties are not to you, only to the gods. Every life that is taken only feeds our cause. The more you kill the stronger we get.”

These words fell on deaf ears for Azzal had long left him to rot. On deck the wind had begun to pick up, the day beginning to grow late. It would soon be time, when morning came they would march to Canterlot, to war.

Azzal could feel an unnatural surge of energy within the Talon, placing it over his hoof and sliding it into place. The claws began to move as an extended limb, effortlessly able to predict his movements. But that was not all. The iron began to glow a pale red, the heat emitted from it climbing by the second. Without warning fire began to leap forth from his outstretched hoof, its tongue lashing out at the air. His guards ducked for cover as the possessed flames searched for the souls to consume. Azzal clenched his hoof, retracting the claws and causing the flames to disperse. It would take plenty of mental strength to keep it under control; he would have to stay focused.

He slid off the talon, letting the outside cool as he rested it against the deck. The Necromancer had not lied; the undead had indeed possessed the weapon, turning it into an icon of terror. Azzal could not hold back a slight chuckle; under his mask he wore a devilish grin. The perfect tool for what was to come.

“Soldiers!” Azzal stood atop a boulder that jarred out from the coast, tall enough so that all may see his speak. His mask presented difficulties but added to his dominance.

“Rest well and train hard, for tomorrow we march to war! Tomorrow we begin our road to the end! The walls of Canterlot will crumble under our strength, their towers will topple to the ground! Their troops will flee before the thundering hooves of our advance! Tomorrow…    we write the end time!”

Raising the Talon of Pain into the air the flames burst forth like a pillar of unholy light, extending skyward, screeching with the voices of a thousand souls. All watched in amazement and awe at the feat, all beginning to cheer for their leader. They were under his command, his protection, his sway. Azzal had done the impossible; he had claimed an army to his own.

Next Chapter: One Last Farewell Estimated time remaining: 1 Hour, 40 Minutes