What was left of my armor was stained in blood. Most of it had been chipped away by the spears and arrows. Not like I needed it. My body was impervious to any damage from mortal weapons. It was a waste of armor, honestly. But my family insisted I show some modesty. I didn't show any mercy, so modesty would have to do.

I swept my hand out and cut down seventeen men with a blade of fire that shot out of my arm. I swept my hand the other way, and a wave of water appeared and smashed into a small platoon. This was too easy. I almost felt bad. Almost.

I dove into the group nearest to me and willed two blades to my hands, and began spinning like a tornado. I sliced all of their throats, and blood began raining from the corpses. It was glorious. As I finished the group, I stepped out. The next closest group was about fifty yards from me. Far enough that I couldn't kill them from here without magic, and that was no fun. I stepped toward them.

As I did, a small furry creature arose from the ranks. It couldn't be bigger than my foot. Was it a rat? No. Its ears were pointed up. Almost as large as its head. Bigger, even. It had buggy eyes and looked like a demonic rodent. It threw its head back and let loose what I assume was a howl. At least, that's what it was trying to do.

Its stance was much like that of a wolf. Feet in front of its shoulders, bowed down, with its face looking to the sky as it released a high-pitched noise. What in the fuck was this thing?

I stepped forward some more, and, what I assumed to be, the dog continued attempting to howl at me. It was so tiny. I had never seen a dog so small. All dogs from home were mighty beasts that howled with the ferocity of a wolf but had the personality of a domesticated beast. This thing was just pathetic. But something about it was... cute.

I made it to the creature, and it continued barking. I squatted down to get a closer look. It was mostly light brown with a white chest. It had a black snout. Why had they sent this creature out here? I looked up to see if they were advancing while I examined the animal, but they were all still.

I liked this creature. It feared nothing. It showed courage worthy of a creature of the gods. I was going to keep it. I summoned a dark blade to my hand and sliced the air behind me. The space ripped and opened a hole to my home in the heavens. I grabbed the small dog and placed it inside the hole. I closed the hole up and stood back to my full height.

"Whose creature was this?" I yelled at the men as they cowered behind their shields.

"Mine, m'lord," one man said from the third row.

"Come forth," I bellowed. He made his way out of the group and stood in front of them all. "Closer, mortal." He came to stand right in front of me. I raised a hand, and lightning struck behind him, killing all of the men he previously stood with. The battlefield was empty except for him and me.

"I have spared your life on this day in exchange for your furry warrior. Spread word of this kindness I have done. I have done what I have never done in history. I have shown mercy. Go forth and spread the news."

​

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Let me know what you think! I'm still working on my writing. Any feedback or criticism is welcome.

I always thought that being called a god was hyperbolic. I was born into the peasantry, one of a dozen brothers expected to either die young or work the fields until I was old enough to be sent to war to die slightly less young. Every year as harvest wound down, a call would be sent out by our lord, calling for healthy men of fighting age to march against our neighbours in the south. This is how it had always been, and this is how I believed it would always be, so long as the Sun encircled our world. One by one, I watched my older brothers leave. When they returned, they might have lost a limb or an eye. And if they hadn't lost anything too valuable, they would go again the following year, and the year after that, and the year after that, until they eventually lost enough to be a liability, or failed to come home at all. Speak of me as the cold-blooded deity of death that so many believe I am, but I have never long mourned any of my brothers. It was just as expected.

The summer before my own enlistment, I turned 17. In the morning, before working the fields, my father took me aside and handed me a crude ring of iron tied to a cord of leather. It was the first and last thing he ever gave any of his sons; a lump of iron shaped on the day we were born, gifted to us when we became eligible to die by another man's hand. He barely said a word before grunting, then reached up to slap the back of my head lightly as he walked towards his work. I placed the cord around my neck, where it has stayed ever since (bar a few nights when I was held captive - I got it back eventually).

I was assigned to the front lines. They took one look at my height and build and decided that I would make an excellent meat shield. I was allocated a sword, a bedroll, and an empty rectangle of floor space. We were to be trained for two weeks before we marched. All around me, the other young men were either anxious and quiet, or very anxious and loud. I had not seen any of my brothers; the veterans were barracked elsewhere. I would never see my older brothers again.

The whispers and the legends have embellished my first battle to be some sort of monumental victory against overwhelming odds. They say I charged alone into the enemy lines and slew a whole platoon of men, breaking their defences so we could wedge ourselves in. But that is hardly the truth. My first war, I survived. That is only impressive if you also knew that more than half my regiment perished. But my squad survived, almost unharmed though we had stood at the centre of the frenzy. I have no doubt that my latent talent for warfare, activated by sheer survival instinct, had protected us. Even so, I merely survived.

But survival was enough for me to be recruited into the standing army. Instead of returning home, I followed along as the lord's corps of soldiers marched to the capital, where I was assigned to a squad meant to serve in vanguards. I had been a shield, now I was to be the sword. I was allocated armour, a rough blanket, and a thin straw mattress. I was eventually sent east, to fight an enemy I hadn't known existed; I had believed my entire life that we only fought our neighbours to the south. Then west. Then north, where we boarded ships to participate in combat. In every battle, I distinguished myself. Though I cannot recall these battles, I know that in battle, I seem to notice every minute detail. I can tell if the man behind me is friend or foe by the sound of their footsteps and their breath, I can see the injuries my enemies are hiding behind armour and clothes by the positioning of their bodies. I rose through the ranks almost as quickly as my legend spread.

Even as I became an officer, a man deemed too important to die, I fought at the front. I had an innate understanding of warfare, but my mind did not function the same behind maps as it did on the battlefield. I had special armour made to distinguish me on the battlefield. It served multiple purposes. Firstly, I would always be visible to my men, so they always had a rallying point. Secondly, it was a distraction, a bright target for the enemy to latch on to; even when you're meant to focus on what's in front of you, shiny objects in your peripheral vision still catch your eye. Thirdly, I wanted them to know. I wanted them to know I was here, and that I was coming for them. A soldier in fear is a smart soldier. A soldier in terror is dead.

The first time I remember being referred to as the god of war, it was said in jest. A colleague of mine, drunk, referred to me as such to the new recruits. And when they saw me in action, they believed in a new deity. To many, it was a nickname for a fearsome warrior. To others, a divine entity that descended upon battlefields to turn the tides of war. To my enemies, a vengeful god of death and destruction. To me, it was a joke that had grown legs and run off before I could rein it in. Slowly, as the years crept on, my divinity only grew in the eyes of the people. They had syncretised my name with a minor god and raised us through the pantheon to sit beside the king of the gods. I could do nothing to stop them. The belief had taken root. Not even my eventual, inescapable meeting with death (and it was inescapable, for I am still mortal) will have any effect. They have formed a canon that ensures that whatever death I experience, it will fit with their prophecies. So be it.

If you happen upon my likeness these days, you will doubtlessly find that I am accompanied by a great direwolf. A beast that we humans both love and fear. I understand why they have represented us in that way, but I must say that they embellish her even more than they do me.

Nearly a decade ago now, I stood in a field of war, the verdant green of the grass painted in chaotic brushstrokes by the slick crimson of human blood. The human bodies that had crowded around me an hour ago now only crowded the floor. I stood with the fraction of my men that was left. Our enemy had lost a much greater fraction of their men, but their massive numbers still dwarfed us. We were between waves of enemies now, and the rhythm of war had slowed. I knew this moment well. Their commanders were anxious despite their numbers. The soldiers were hesitant to charge. They had all seen what we had done to their comrades. At these moments, I have repeatedly employed a simple tactic to break the enemy's morale further. When you see a small force of killers so skilled at what they do, it is human nature to be afraid of them for what they can do to you. But if you see them triumphant in their killing, boastful and eager to face more, their association with "human" slips.

I suppose I am somewhat to blame for my reputation.

I glanced at my men, who seemed to pick up on the cue almost as though drilled, though we have never planned for this outside the field of battle. I drew in a large breath, ready to bellow a challenge, to invoke my divine reputation to turn these walking men into dead men walking, to fortify my troops' confidence that I was ready to die alongside them, to terrify their commanders into abandonin-

"YIP!"

The planned battlecry came out as a choked question.

"YIP!" came the noise again.

I looked down to see a little brown ball of fur, barreling across the plain towards me, never slowing.

"YIP!"

It jumped at me and I caught it in my hand.

"YIP! YIP!" she barked.

I laughed. A genuine, bellowing laugh. I do not believe I have ever laughed as hard or as genuinely as I did that day. The little dog, with her beady eyes and massive ears and bared teeth, was growling and snapping her jaws, trying to get at me. I laughed again.

"YIP!"

"Yes, yes," I said. I looked back at my squad. Good soldiers who had been with me for years, with fresh faces repopulating the squad periodically. I scanned the faces and found a suitable candidate.

"You," I said.

"Yes, sir!" he replied immediately. He was one of the fresher recruits. Not even a year since induction. I tossed the chihuahua at him. He caught her lightly against his chest, though she immediately started snapping at his face. He held her at arm's length.

"Keep her safe. Stay towards the rear," I instructed, using my most commanding tone of voice.

"Yes, sir!" he answered. There were no joke orders in my squad. They trusted my commands with their lives.

"Now let's finish this," I said, turning back towards our enemies, who seemed oddly more terrified than they had before. We did not lose that battle.

I took care of the dog after that battle. She had likely been one of the many pets that had been brought onto the battlefield by sightseeing nobles, who thought of war as something to spectate with as many luxuries as possible. This little one had run off, and I doubt they noticed. She was fierce and fearless, and once she settled, ceaselessly loyal. I came to find more joy in her companionship than I have found anywhere else in my life. Still, for all her qualities, I struggle to understand how she had become a massive direwolf in the consciousness of the people.

I thought of our first meeting now, nearly a decade later, at our final goodbye. On my estate, under a great oak, I put her to rest in a hole I had dug myself. I said a quiet prayer, then scooped a handful of dirt into the hole, over my companion. I stopped before my second handful. I reached towards my neck and pulled off my iron ring. I held it in my hand for a long, silent moment, then dropped it in to rest with her.

My first and last gift to you, I thought to myself as I filled the grave.

I had almost finished the last of the army, covered in blood and out of breath. Inhabiting a mortals body was worse than just doing it in my own. I walked slowly to the last man standing and raised my blade ready to end his suffering.

He throws a small creature at me in desperation. It was fluffy almost like Cerberus but much much smaller in size. I could see it was just as scared as the fat man who threw the poor thing but it stood its ground. It let out a small howl to the best of its might.

I was surprised it could do so. The closer I looked at it, the more I realized it was a howl of pain and not aggression. It was thin and malnourished, and had scars everywhere. This only made me more furious. I dashed to scoop the little thing into my arms, in doing so plunging my blade into the heart of the previous owner.

I took the small hellhound back home with me, tended to her wounds, and made a connection with her. I then took her to get a new collar and named her Samaria and she is now my battle hound.

What a pitiful excuse for an army.

Bodies lay scattered about the grassy plane, torn asunder by my might. Mortal men are but wheat to my scythe when they are foolish enough to draw my ire.

Their rotting corpses would make for a prodigious crop in the coming spring, I mused.

Lost in my thoughts I no longer felt the pinpricks of mortal steel. I cast my gaze on to their battle’s lines. Rows upon rows of broken men shook and stared in awe up at me.

“One of you Chihuaua’s had the gall to defile my temple and harm my priests and think I would not seek reprisal for this offense.”

I paused scanning the mob before me. Blank faces stared about in confusion as my statement was met with silence. Somewhere deeper in the crowd men wept openly and without shame.

Their ignorance and weakness will not save them. I smiled a nasty grin.

“I give whoever did this the opportunity to stand as champion for your people to atone for this grievous offense to me and my pe- “

“IT WAS ME!” Howled a man from somewhere in the crowed. My gaze floated lazily in the direction of his voice. A small man even by the standards of the Chihuaua. He walked, shaking as he did, towards me though he continued to bark as he approached.

“You have no power here! We are followers of the Shelar and your worshipers have no place here!” The crowd seemed to take some courage from his words and started yelling in unison with him.

“NO POWER!”

“SHELAR WILL PROTECT US!”

And on and on it went.

They prostrated themselves calling to their God to save them, tore at there clothes and debased themselves in a most unhuman manner. Unfortunately for them Shelar knew where they stood in the pantheon and had decided well before I took to the field to cut their losses.

A pity really, it’d been too long since I’d fought another God.

I grew tired of this spectacle and in one swift movement took the small man up by his neck and lifted him to look at his people. He would bear witness to what I was capable.

“You and your people bark and howl like wolves, but when it comes time to bear your fangs you whimper like lambs at the slaughter.” I whispered in the ear of the man. “You people thought yourself large and beyond my reach, and for your folly I will make you small and despised among the tribes of men.”

With a wave of my hand the masses of men before me changed, growing smaller and the mass weeping slowly turned slowly into snarls and yips. As I walked through the crowd of small dogs, they parted ways in fear but continued to snarl.

I threw the man to the ground and turned my back and started walking back into the space between worlds leaving him with a few last parting words.

“They will say of the Chihuaua that they are all bark and no bite.”

“… is.. is this supposed to be a war beast? Did they send this to try and kill me?” I say out loud, looking from the small dog up to the enemy battalions a hand full of miles ahead of me. They weren’t moving, so I assumed they really did send this beast after me.

The beast was unmoving, growling, barking, and howling at me, as if it was challenging me to make a move. “You are either the boldest or dumbest warrior I’ve come across on the field of battle. Surely you must be able to tell I’m a god.” I crouch down, thrusting my war scythe into the ground.

The beast didn’t back down, continuing to bark and growl.

“So, you’re determined to defend your master, hm?” I say, looking into the beast eyes. “Mm, very well.” I said, standing up and taking my war scythe. “Your master and army shall be spared, but those who dared to commit crimes of war and claimed them in my name shall die, and only them. That is as far as I shall settled.” I begin to walk past the war beast towards the battalions, knowing most of these men will know my wrath and live to tell the tale.

The minuscule canid attempted to howl at me and I heard its call as though spoken words. "Come no closer, we love our master, I am as big as you." In all my years of battlefields, there are only two things that have ever given me pause. The first is when terrified troops shove down their fear and spend their precious lives, all to buy time for a general they love. The second is when dogs are equally fearless. You see, when a general's troops love them more than life, when even their pets are willing to risk life and limb on their behalf, those are good people. And I don't rampage to end good people. Sometimes I take those lives. Every single one of them hurts, but then I am the horrors of war. It isn't a good job. It isn't a nice job. And you can be sure that I'm not a force of good or niceness. All that said, I've still never been able to let myself hurt a dog who was that bold, that willing to scream into the storm and bid the winds calm. Another day, another time, I will claim your general little Chihuahua, but not today. Today, your love and fearlessness bought her another battle before the end. Good dog.

{Conciousness log dump from Wargod 334}

I heard it before I saw it. A thin, pitiful howl rent the air, interspersed with snarling. “They had uncaged some beast against me,” I thought. It took the scouter eyepiece a while to even find the new threat. A tiny war dog, smaller than a rabbit, was darting towards me on tiny legs. “Dog”, of course, was being generous - the little bug eyed freak looked like a mutant rat had been shaved.

The scouter eyepiece beeped, displaying the puny thing’s vital stats and breakdown and threat level. Some dogs were “herding class”, others “guardian class” or “battle class”. I had seen one rich noblewoman’s dog be titled “useless class”. This one gave me pause. The screen listed it as “Chihuahua: Demon Class”. The emotional readout oscillated between “fear and tremble” to “seething burning white hot rage”. The AI presented a threat level of “extreme”. Surely it had to be an error. Demon class? The scouter was useless!

The beast left a trail of urine as it darted under my foot nipping at my ankles. It’s tiny furious attacks did no damage. I brought my war boot down to punt the yipping fiend back to its maker, slipped in its pee, and as I fell to the ground accidentally launched the tactical Mark XXI nuke missile into the air as I fell.

My face! The biting demon was now in my face - a whirling ball of madness as it went for my eyes. How could so much sheer hatred be contained in such a tiny body? I knocked it loose and stood up, blood pouring from my lip. I really should have sprung for the full helmet, but as a god of war I have laid waste to whole empires - planets have fallen to me - and nothing has managed to hit my face like this. Live and learn, I guess. The demon dog hung suspended in midair from my gauntleted hand, furiously growling painful death threats as it tried to sever my fingers, it’s body shaking as if possessed as it angrily worked on my hand.

A soft beep from the scouter. An incoming missile was approaching my position. In growing horror, I realized that the missile had fired while locked on the scouter’s target. The target that was still firmly attached to my hand. The missile was homing in on that blasted dog and the dog was attached to me. I was about to die by my own weapon zeroed in on my current position. I could see the point of light of the incoming missile- why is the shield not up? I might survive if I can get the shield up in time…. And then I remember - the shield generator controls are on my hand. Of course the little bug-eyed freak has been chewing through the controls while it was suspended in midair. Of course the controls are ruined. Sigh.

Demon class, indeed.

{Log termination}

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