by Mark Barber
“On me,” he yelled above the rising din of battle, “one rank!”
The cavalrymen quickly cantered through the opening in the wagon barricade and formed up in the open ground beyond. To the north, Orion saw heavily armored riders atop black warhorses with eyes of burning red; the Abyssal horsemen smashed their way through the already battered ranks of men-at-arms, trampling men underfoot and cutting them down as they came. Within seconds, they were at the defensive barrier in the center of the camp, hacking at the wall of wagons. To the east, ranks of lower Abyssals charged across from the lip of the hill, all signs of the mercenaries who had faced them now gone. To the south, of the twenty paladins Orion had left with Tancred, perhaps half a dozen remained, surrounded on all sides by some thirty Abyssal guards who fought atop a mountain of dead from both sides.
Orion lowered his lance.
“Charge!”
Digging his spurs into the flanks of his warhorse, the huge animal accelerated into a full gallop beneath him for what Orion realized would be his final charge. The thudding of hooves echoed to either side from his comrades as the line of knights hurtled toward the Abyssal guards hacking and slashing at their beleaguered brethren on the slopes ahead. Smiling grimly as he aimed the tip of his lance at the back of one of the creatures, Orion tensed his muscles and waited for the impact. His lance pierced the breastplate of the infernal creature, plunging through its torso and snapping a moment after the impact.
Spurring his steed over the top of the dead demon, Orion threw the haft of the lance aside and unsheathed his sword, leaning over in his saddle to hack at the back of a second Abyssal, killing it with two heavy blows before his horse was surrounded with a sea of snarling red skinned warriors slicing and slashing up at him. One of the paladins to his left was slain in his saddle with a sword strike to the gut; to his right, a second knight was dragged to the ground and butchered in the dirt by a chittering horde of devils. Deflecting a succession of blows with his shield, Orion twisted in his saddle and struck down another of the demons before clawed hands clutched at his legs and he was dragged from his own saddle into the dirt and the dead.
Yelling for all he was worth, Orion hauled himself back up to his feet and swung a series of rapid, heavy attacks at perhaps four of the demons who surrounded him, forcing them to back away. Screaming in rage, Orion flung his shield at the closest of the Abyssals to allow him to wrap both hands around the hilt of his greatsword.
“Come on!” he screamed. “Come on, you bastards! Face me, you cowards!”
With an inhuman shriek, the closest of the demons hurtled forward to attack, its warhammer held high. Orion darted forward and slammed a clenched fist into the creature’s face, smashing its nose and sending it staggering back, stunned. Orion dug his sword into the ground next to him and towered over the demon, grabbing it tightly by the neck and one leg before lifting the creature high over his head.
With a bellow of rage, Orion brought the struggling Abyssal guard down with all his might, slamming his armored knee up into the creature’s back to break its spine. The crippled devil sagged to the ground, giving Orion just enough time to raise his metal clad foot and plunge it down to smash the Abyssal’s skull. Recovering his sword, Orion looked up at the loose circle of demons surrounding him. Words escaping him, Orion could only let out a thunderous roar of unadulterated aggression before fixing his opponents with a determined grin of clenched teeth as they rushed to attack him where he stood.
***
His feet bumping over corpses as he was dragged slowly by the armpits, Tancred looked hazily up at the moonlit sky as a hellish flock of winged demons swooped down above him, their blue-gray skin illuminated by the blazing torches below as they fell. Looking frantically around him, the pain in his wounded neck flaring up to overpower the detached feeling of numbness,
Tancred let out a sigh of relief as he saw his shaking, blood drenched fingers still clung to the handle of his sword. He tried to lift his arm as he was dragged, desperately willing his body to twist and turn to face whatever was hauling him away, but his limbs stubbornly refused to heed his commands.
The night grew lighter, flickering sporadically around him in shades of orange and yellow as lines of lit torches swam passed him. Still refusing to yield, Tancred tried in vain once more to twist around to face the creature dragging him off to his doom. It was then that he saw two overturned wooden wagons drift slowly past, and it occurred to him that he was back in the center of the encampment - he was not being dragged off by the Abyssals; he was being carried to safety.
Tancred was laid down and his rescuer moved around to lean over him. He looked up and saw Jeneveve’s face fill his vision – crimson blood leaked down to cover one side of her face from a vicious wound on her crown. He could tell by her expression that she was shouting at him, but it had taken this long to realize that his hearing had been replaced by an incessant, high pitched whine. He remembered nothing before the initial charge against the attacking Abyssals.
The wizened lines of Brother Paladin Xavier appeared next to Jeneveve. The veteran paladin reached down toward Tancred with hands awash with the pale, blue light of spiritual sorcery. The powers of divinity magic flowed from Xavier to Tancred, and within seconds, his hearing faded back to normality and the dull aching across his entire body quickly transformed into sharp pains, causing him to cry out in shock.
“Lord Paladin!” Jeneveve shouted over the chaotic clash of battle around them. “Can you hear me?”
“Get me up!” Tancred spat, the bitter taste of blood in his mouth. “Help me back up!”
“Wait there, Lord Paladin!” Xavier said, the silver haired knight cautiously checking around them for the next attack. “You are badly wounded!”
“To blazes with that!” Tancred spat out a mouthful of blood and forced himself up onto one knee, his head swimming unsteadily as soon as he did so. “We need to get back to the fight!”
Gritting his teeth as a sharp pain flared up in his ribs, Tancred staggered unsteadily back to his feet. Looking around him, he quickly ascertained that he was one of only six paladins who had reached the relative safety of the inner defenses. Perhaps ten supplymen cowered in the very center with a similar number of squires, along with a dozen warhorses. Only Hugh, Platus, and Trennio looked capable of carrying out any sort of attack. There was no sign of any of the legion men-at-arms or the mercenaries.
“Is this it?” Tancred managed weakly, coughing up another mouthful of blood.
There was no answer. His paladins looked out to the south. Tancred staggered over to the wagons for support, and his eyes instantly focused on the object of the other paladins’ attention.
The battlefield on the southern slope was a carpet of red; maimed demons lay dead by the score, punctuated occasionally by the shining silver armor and noble blue surcoats of their paladin vanquishers. Tancred let out a gasp of despair as he saw at least a dozen of his knights torn to shreds amidst the hideous bodies of the Abyssals they had slain.
But the fight still raged. A swarm of lower Abyssals were crowded in a circle around a lone survivor, a single paladin who still fought on. His face pale from loss of blood, his blue surcoat washed red in the blood of his foes, Orion towered over the devils rushing at him, still slicing and slashing at the endless horde of evil. Five of the fanged creatures dived on him simultaneously, and Orion was momentarily lost under the pulsating sea of demons before he threw them off him with a roar, his sword arcing down to decapitate one of the Abyssal guards before he stepped forward and pierced the gut of a second opponent.
“Come on!” Tancred hissed hoarsely. “We have to help him!”
Tancred limped a step forward before Jeneveve’s hand shot out to stop him.
“We can’t save him!” she urged. “He saved us! That is how we were able to escape! If we go back for him now, then it was all for naught!”
Three of the winged, blue skinned demons soared down from the skies toward the lone paladin. Gargoyle
s – hideous, shrieking creatures with feminine bodies, bat-like wings, and curved horns crowning a pair of glowing red eyes – flapped and fluttered around Orion, tearing at his face with their talons. Orion swept his sword out at one and cleaved it in half at the waist; its hips and legs dropped to the ground while the body continued to flap in frantic agony for a moment before falling.
A second strike clipped the wing of another demon, felling it, while the third Abyssal backed off in terror. Orion reached down and grabbed the she-demon by the neck, lifting it up off its feet, and then grabbing the maimed wing with his other hand, tearing it clean off the howling demon. The gargoyle dropped to the ground and Orion brought his sword down on top of its head, cleaving straight through the Abyssal until his sword became lodged in its hipbone. He planted a foot on the gargoyle’s torso and wrenched his sword clear just in time to face the next wave of assaulting demons. Orion cut down the first foe to reach him but then disappeared beneath a red wave of lower Abyssals. This time he did not reappear.
Tancred let out a weak cry of despair, but his attention was dragged around to the north as eight legion men-at-arms sprinted frantically for the wagon barrier, a line of two dozen Abyssals surging forward at their heels. The first soldier was hacked down from behind, reaching out desperately to his comrades as he was dragged back into the jeering, chittering crowd of scarlet demons. The wailing man was held high above their heads and then torn in half before the Abyssals fell on the parts of his body, feasting on his bloodied flesh.
The first three men-at-arms reached the wagons and hauled themselves over. Two of the squires bravely ran over to assist the remaining men. Tancred recognized the bulky frame of Captain Georgis at the rear of the group of men. Inexplicably, he stopped in place and turned back to face the devils.
“Captain!” the closest of his men screamed. “Captain! What are you doing?”
“She needs help!” Georgis cried. “Quickly! Get back here!”
“No!” Xavier yelled. “It is a deception! Quickly, drag him to safety!”
Tancred looked across to the front rank of the advancing demons. Backing away, a terrified look across her face, was a beautiful young peasant woman, her blonde hair braided and her hands held up pathetically as if to keep the demons at bay. But for Tancred, trained and skilled in the powers of divinity magic, he could see straight through the lie. Behind the faded falsity of the pretty peasant girl was a tall, seductively feminine demon with a pointed tail flickering behind her, along with folded wings and fanged teeth.
Georgis never heard the shouts behind him. Bravely ignoring the danger and the wounds he had already suffered, he reached the apparition of the peasant girl and held out a hand for her. She looked up at him, eternal gratitude lighting up her emerald green eyes before the facade faded to nothing, and the temptress that stood in her place grabbed him with her clawed hands to pull him into a vicious embrace, sinking her teeth into his throat while puncturing his gut with her tail. Blood flowing from his wounds, Georgis staggered back from the temptress as she laughed hysterically at his expression of utter bewilderment. Georgis dropped to his knees and was almost instantly dragged into the baying mob of Abyssals, suffering the same fate as the last of his soldiers to fall as his limbs were wrenched out of their sockets.
Then, just as quickly as the battle had started, the howls and cries of the Abyssal horde faded to nothing. Showing something akin to discipline, the ragged mob of hellish devils stood still in their ranks, surrounding the wagon barricade in silence. The crackle of flames and the moaning of the dying was all that broke the silence. From the north, the crowd of demons silently parted to allow a single figure to walk forward toward the barricade.
A tall, broad shouldered warrior clad in dull, iron gray plates walked boldly out to the front of the Abyssal mob. His fingers, armored with spike-backed plates of steel, reached up to remove his helmet. The man, for he certainly appeared to be human, was middle-aged with gray flecks in his short, dark hair, and red rings rimming his dark eyes. A darkness emanated from the warrior; nothing like the evil that flowed from the Abyssal horde, but a distinct and detectable darkness nonetheless. Although Tancred had never laid eyes on him before, he knew the warrior must logically be the man he was looking for.
“You have come all the way out here to find me,” Dionne called out to the wounded warriors cowering behind the barricade, “well, here I am. You killed men who stood by my side for over a decade. I am here to collect your debt.”
“Traitor!” Xavier yelled back over the barricade.
Dionne did not respond to the challenge, but merely kept his glowering eyes fixed ahead on the barricade. Tancred heard a commotion behind him and turned to see Platus and Trennio engaged in a hushed debate while the squires continued to buckle armored barding onto the remaining warhorses. His eyes closed, Hugh nodded slowly a few times before walking out to the edge of the barricade.
“You have betrayed all of Basilea,” he said coldly to the armored man stood before the horde of Abyssals. “Whatever your perceived motivation, whatever excuses you have told yourself, whatever lies you use to convince those around you, you are nothing more than a coward, a liar, and a traitor. And while I have failed to stop you, others will not. You will fall.”
Trennio grabbed Tancred by the elbow.
“Get on your horse and get the Dictator-Prefect to safety!” he hissed under his breath.
Tancred turned to question the aide, but the blur of the events of the next few seconds caught him off guard.
“We will all fall, one way or another,” Dionne replied to Hugh, “but tonight is your turn. Come out and face it with some courage.”
Their yells combined, Platus and Trennio sprinted up to the barrier, vaulted over, and swung their swords down to attack Dionne in the open ground in front of his army of demons.
“No!” Hugh yelled, unsheathing his own sword. “Stop!”
Xavier grabbed the Dictator-Prefect by the arms and dragged him away. Jeneveve was already on her warhorse, a terrified squire sat behind her and clutching desperately to her waist. Supplymen and squires hauled themselves up onto horses as Trennio’s first attack met Dionne’s guard with a dull clang. Platus was quick to step up with an expertly timed sword thrust toward Dionne’s neck. This too was batted away with ease by their demonic adversary. Fighting to ignore the cramp and dizziness from loss of blood, Tancred found Desiree and struggled up into the saddle. He spent the extra few seconds in tying the reins of his second horse, Estree, to his saddle.
Ahead of him, Dionne stood his ground with flawless precision, changing stance and guard with the speed normally associated with a short sword rather than the heavy longsword he carried. His face set in determination, almost appearing bored and unchallenged, he fended off the flurry of lightning fast and expertly coordinated attacks conducted by Trennio and Platus. Hugh was dragged up into the saddle of his horse under Xavier’s supervision. Every last survivor was saddled and ready. All except for the Dictator-Prefect’s two valiant aides.
“Now!” Jeneveve shouted. “Go!”
The stampede of hooves echoed across the top of the hill as the armored warhorses charged to the east, barging their way through the wagon barricade. Tancred looked over his shoulder and saw Dionne’s eyes widen in surprise. He batted aside an attack from Trennio and then plunged his sword straight through the man’s belly, lifting the screaming swordsman bodily off the ground before throwing him down and slicing off his head. With a cry of rage, Platus ran forward to avenge his friend; Dionne neatly side stepped the attack and slashed down into Platus’ back as he ran past, cutting him open and sending him skidding to the ground.
The galloping group of warhorses battered their way through the ranks of lower Abyssals on the southern slope of the plateau – Tancred’s last view of the torch lit plateau peak was Dionne stepping over to drive his sword through Platus’ chest as he lay helplessly at his feet. Behind them, on the southern slope where Tancred had led his charge,
a momentary flash of purest white lit the sky, its warmth washing over him with a welcome feeling of optimism and tranquility before it was gone.
Looking ahead, Tancred wearily dug his spurs into Desiree’s side and urged every last measure of speed he could out of his loyal steed, driving ahead of the other riders as they escaped into the night. Behind them, a dozen armored Abyssal warriors atop flame-eyed warhorses thundered after them. Panicked cries were exchanged from the squires, supplymen, and men-at-arms at the sight of their pursuers.
“Keep going!” Tancred urged. “Do not look back! Keep going!”
The horses continued down the slope and into a flat plain of open ground leading toward the coast. Behind them, the Abyssal cavalry continued the chase, failing to close the gap but never easing off the hunt. For what seemed like hours, the chase continued, the thunder of hooves echoing across the plains, woods, and hills into the early morning hours.
By the time the sun rose, Tancred realized that they had escaped; but looking around him, only a handful of the very last survivors remained with him.
Chapter Fourteen
The agonized screaming from her dreams merged seamlessly into consciousness as Constance wearily opened her eyes. The morning sky above her was blood red, broken only by wispy clouds hued in pink by the sunrise. Her temples throbbing in pain, she forced herself to sit up to take in her surroundings. The broken walls of a small farm building surrounded her, the wooden beams of its roof having long collapsed to leave an unobstructed view of the sky up above. Sitting despondently against one of the walls were Jaque and Hayden, both battered, bloodied, and weary. Chains bound their wrists and ankles, leaving dirty bloodstains where they broke the skin. Constance looked down to find herself similarly bound.