[Quitti]

Albrecht von Alemanya surveyed the battlefield. Dying and dead men, both Ermorian and Ulmish. Slaughered horses, translucent scantily clad girls with shadowy spears, struck down and maimed by the antimagic theurgy of black halberds. Black knights, armor and horse barding pierced by ermorian javelins. Crushed skeletal horses and horsemen, crossbow bolts sticking up from the field the feet of the two armies had ground to something resembling more mud than hard earth, soggy with blood. The smell of blood was overwhelming.

Yes. It had been a good fight. A hard victory. Though only a handful of forces remained, they had reached the sea, and messages told that reinforcements were on the way.

Later that night, at the temple of the false Ermorian god, one attempting to usurp the title of the Lord of Forges. Barrels after barrels of rich mineral oil was called up from the deeps by the remaining master smiths. Bodies of the killed Ermorian Hastati, wrapped in plain cloth, wet from the oil, filled the temple. They had to be burned to ashes with the temple, or the ermorian priests would surely practice their unholy magic upon them, reanimating the poor and misled, though well trained soldiers.

Albrecht conjured up a bolt of flame and threw it inside the temple of the false god.