The general stood at the edges of the expansive wheat farm. Here there was a sweet breeze, cooling the sweat that stuck to his brow. It had been a long war and now he was playing maid. He was dusting the corners of the ravished countryside, demoralizing all he passed. When their luck turned for the best an uprising would attempt an ambush and quench their blood thirst.

The men that followed him now were savages, shells of their former bodies. They'd come to him as wisps of a man. Frail. Frightened. Misguided. Now they had a calling and a passion. Food and women were at their beck and call. Their numbers brought the force of the gods. And it was all under the general's control. Whatever he asked they would obey. Happily.

He pulled out a canister of oil used to lubricate his firearm and uncapped it. He threw the contents across the dried wheat and then flicked a lighter produced from his pocket. The flames waved dangerously close to the wheat.

A soldier, only wary for the safety of his unstoppable leader, stepped forward. "Sir, let one of us do it."

The general stared through the flames, seeing an illusion of the wheat burning from within. Every stalk was like a citizen of this once fairly peaceful country. Standing tall, but too weak to defend against the winds of fate. He was damned bloody conqueror and swift one at that. He could choose to leave this field here and his 'superiors' could fuss all they desired but they didn't have an army of hounds loyal to them. He commanded them. They grew to love him during these two winters.

"Sir?"

What the hell, though? He tossed the lighter to his dog. What the hell did it matter to him? Let the politicians make war. He just wanted to watch things burn.

Embers grew and leaped in the wind, singeing uniforms and unnerving none.