Bronislav stood silently, legs spread and arms outstretched. His long black hair was matted to his back, dripping sweat down his naked body. He kept is eyes focused on the roaring flames of the gigantic bonfire. The heat seared his lungs as he labored to keep his breathing under control. The chanting of the priests rose and fell in his ears.

The high priest approached. Bronislav tore his gaze from the dancing flames and locked eyes with him. The high priest's mouth worked with the harsh guttural words of the chant. A second priest flanked him, holding a black pot. The high priest reached inside and withdrew a handful of Aq'Dharash, a mixture of volcanic ash and the blood of their clan's strongest enemies. He smeared the mixture onto Bronislav's face and chest, tracing runes and charms onto his flesh. When he had finished he moved on to the next aspirant.

There were eleven aspirants in all, each vying to be chosen to be the instrument of their deity's will. They were selected from the clan's strongest and most able warriors. Aq'Chamoneth, the god of the fiery mountain, rewarded strength and loyalty and despised weakness and cowardice. The rewards for pleasing the fire god were great. The punishment for displeasing him was swift and terrible.

The priests' chanting reached a feverish pitch, and the fire roared higher into the black night sky in response. The high priest strode into the blaze and was engulfed by the flames. He turned to face the aspirants. The flames licked and crackled around his face, but did no damage to his skin or hair.

"Aq'Chamoneth has spoken. A great crusade will begin! You honored few will face the Fire Lord himself. If he finds you worthy, you will lead his forces. You will bring glory to our deity and our people! Go now to your judgement!" The high priest thrust his arms above his head and a column of orange fire surged into the sky.

Bronislav threw his head back and screamed into the inky blackness of the night. His voice mingled with those of his fellow aspirants, a cacophony of defiance and rage. As one they hurtled off into the darkness, running barefoot over the rocky volcanic ground. With only the pulsing red glow of Aq'Chamonek to guide them they raced up the face of the volcano's steep slopes.

Away from the heat of the fire the frigid northern winds chilled Bronislav's sweat soaked body. The air that once seared his lungs now threatened to freeze them from the inside. He worked to control his breathing and monitor his pace. Already the group was strung out along the mountainside, the fastest warriors taking the lead, the larger and slower lagging behind. Bronislav estimated that there were two warriors ahead of him. Getting there first, however, did not matter.

Bronislav's feet were torn and bleeding from the razor sharp volcanic rock. With discipline, pain could be ignored. In the darkness he spied a trailhead that led up to the mouth of the volcano. It was a meandering path but clear and free of obstacles. The direct approach was littered with slag and boulders. He veered onto the familiar path and quickened his pace.

The path emptied out onto a flat shelf about one hundred yards from the mouth. Bronislav hit the flat at a full run then lurched into a sprint as he encountered the final slope. The heat of the volcano had driven out the wind's chill once again. He could see two aspirants silhouetted in the red glow ahead of him.

Off to the right a scream of rage split the night. Bronislav risked a glance in that direction. It was Kriskei, one of the fastest warriors. In his haste to ascend the volcano he had fallen and broken his leg. It was dangling limply as he dragged himself by his hands toward the fiery summit. Bronislav focused on the path ahead.

The first aspirant reached the peak and leapt into the mouth of the volcano. In the red-orange glow from the magma Bronislav could make out his face etched in a fevered mask of fanaticism. It was Maachek, a good friend of his. Even over the increasing roar from the volcano's mouth he could hear his scream change from triumph and rage to terror and agony, then die abruptly.

Maachek's failure had struck fear into the heart of the second aspirant, who skidded to a stop at the rim of the volcano. He stood for a moment, peering into the crevasse, his chest heaving like a bellows. Then he turned away, his head hanging. As he took his first step a wave of boiling magma splashed up over the rim, enveloping the failed aspirant. His shriek was short lived as he burst into flames and was quickly consumed. Aq'Chamoneth despised weakness and cowardice. Bronislav's charging strides covered the last few feet to the rim.

I am strong Aq'Chamoneth, and brave. Fear finds no home in my heart. Judge me now and weigh my worth.

Bronislav made no cry as he launched out into the air over the volcano's mouth, legs and arms outstretched. He could see the churning orange-yellow sea below. As he fell the heat became nigh unbearable. He could feel it searing the flesh from his bones. His lungs burned like a thousand fires and the roar in his ears was deafening. He felt as if his eyes would boil and burst from his head, but he did not close them. If this was to be his destruction, he would meet it head on and with his eyes open.

He plunged into the seething magma. He shut his eyes and held his breath, but the pain was gone. He could feel the immeasurable heat from the lava all around him, but it did not burn him. He opened his eyes to the white heat of the raging molten rock that surrounded him. He felt a presence, one that he could not describe. In his head he heard a voice, it sounded like the crackling of flames.

Bronislav, son of Zakhari, I choose you. You are worthy to be my champion. I name you Aq'Korax, my Tower of Fire. I grant you the power of the living rock, so that you might serve me. Go forth and bring me victory.

Bronislav felt a surge of energy beneath him, thrusting him upward. He surfaced on a column of molten rock. Slowly it raised him to the rim of Aq'Chamonek, the house of the Fire Lord. He stepped onto terra firma, whispering a fervent prayer to Aq'Chamoneth.

He looked about himself in wonder. He could hear the wind howling about, but no cold touched him. He could see perfectly even in the near dark of the moonless night. He felt no fatigue, no pain. A quick check confirmed that his feet were whole and without blemish. Not far away he spied two of the aspirants. One was Kriskei, who had just hauled himself up to the rim. The other was Abnik, a wily warrior, always full of tricks. He strode to meet them.

"So you are chosen," Kriskei smiled. "I knew it would be you."

Abnik's swarthy eyes darted about. "Hail Aq'Chamoneth's chosen one. I will go ahead and proclaim your return!"

"Not I," Kriskei grimaced. "I must appear before the Fire Lord to be judged."

"You too must go," Bronislav said to Abnik. "Aq'Chamoneth awaits."

"B-but he has already chosen! The ritual is complete. There is no reason to go on." Abnik glanced about himself and shuffled backwards.

"The ritual is not complete until all of the aspirants are judged," Bronislav warned.

Abnik turned and broke into a sprint down the rocky slope. Bronislav gave chase. In but a few strides he was upon the fleeing wretch. He clamped his hand down on the back of Abnik's neck. He felt bone grinding and sinew snapping under his grip. Aq'Chamoneth had granted him great strength. With one arm he hoisted the twitching aspirant in the air. He strode to the rim and looked down into the crevasse.

"Aq'Chamoneth, I fear this weakling is not worthy of your fires, but I give him to you as you command," Bronislav called into the pit. He hurled the shrieking aspirant into the seething magma below. The body was consumed before it even hit the molten rock. Bronislav returned to the place where Kriskei lay.

"He was weak and cowardly," Kriskei spat.

"He is despised by the Fire Lord," Bronislav added, then paused. "I will carry you to the rim."

"No! I will face him on my own two feet." Kriskei dragged himself the final yards as Bronislav watched. He admired the man's grit. At the rim he stood on one foot, balanced for a moment, then leapt out, a warrior's cry on his lips. Tonight he would feast at the Fire Lord's table. Bronislav turned and began his trek down the mountain.

Bronislav stood in front of a crude mirror in his tent. His woman stood behind him, braiding his now dark red hair. It had changed during his judgement.

He wore his new Aq'Shyash'y armor. Blood metal they called it, a red ore that was mined from the roots of Aq'Chamonek. It was light and strong, and nearly impenetrable to normal weapons.

The high priest entered the tent, Bronislav turned to face him.

"All preparations are complete, Bronislav. Your warband is assembled. Aq'Chamoneth has chosen you as his champion. You will bring us glorious victory in this crusade. Go now and fulfill your destiny," he intoned, stepping aside with a flourish and pulling back the tent flap.

Bronislav took up his helmet and axe and strode out to meet his troops. They were assembled outside, awaiting his inspection and orders. At the front of the column, bedecked in Aq'Shyash'y armor and mounted on great black steeds were the Magma Guard, his personal retinue. They were the greatest of the clan's warriors.

Behind them, in precise ranks, stood the Infernal Legion. These heavily armored warriors were stout and strong, the anchor for his force. Next came the Hellfire Raiders, the lightly armored but lightning fast cavalry unit. Behind them the Firewalkers, also lightly armored but fierce and mighty, their flails a whirling doom for their enemies. The baggage and supply train brought up the rear.

Bronislav mounted his mighty black steed and wheeled to face his men.

"I am Bronislav, son of Zackhari, the Aq'Kharneth. Aq'Chamoneth has chosen me to lead this sacred mission. Our clan will invade the lands of the wetlanders and teach them a new way. We will show them strength and fire. Aq'Chamoneth has demanded conquest! And we will give it to him!"

A roar rose up from the ranks, the men chanting Vor'Ir Aq'Kharneth, Vor'Ir Aq'Kharneth, Vor'Ir Aq'Kharneth, the warriors of the Conqueror. They beat their weapons against their shields. Bronislav surveyed his warband, grim satisfaction etched on his face. He spurred his mount to the front of the column and signaled the advance.

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