The Witch Queen was eating across their lands like a cancer, and one by one, they were falling to her. Here, this day, they would stop her, or they would all perish trying to thwart her conquest.
Upon the distant hills was arrayed a legion of darkness. The visage of her knights was indelible against their sight because the black armour seemed to absorb the light and the contorted shapes of the metal made them appear more like a host from the depths of hell itself rather than a tangible army of mortal men.
Amidst the midnight legion were specks of light. These were the eyes of the avatars. The malignant allies of the Queen wielded sorcery that would visit a grievous toll indeed upon the bold troops that dared to defy her.
Her banners fluttered in the breeze. They were ragged and torn, vile of visage, and grim of purpose. They were embellished with nightmare enchantments to confuse the enemy and bolster the savagery of those who fought under their sickly shadow.
The Kings of the free lands regarded their own forces. They were bright and dazzling, and their silver armour sparkled. The colours of tunic and shield bestowed a palate of colour and symbols, and embroidered flags flapped proudly against the wind. The assembled might of a dozen nations stood in the open plains and they were ready to block the advance of the accursed foe.
The steady drumbeat of the Witch Queen's troops wafted across the fields. The sound was deep and awful, like the beat of a malevolent heart that kept the grim warriors to a pounding and unflinching march.
From the hills beyond the eldritch host, arose a line of crosses. The crucifixes rose high and immediately fixed down to reveal the pale forms of those upon them.
Gasps of shock and horror rushed like sibilant songs through the ranks as the troops recognised the forms of prince and knight, kidnapped by assassins and were now presented to them as starved, whimpering, shattered ruins that prayed for death.
With a series of coughing roars, the crosses ignited and smothered the condemned in fire. Their screams and cries echoed through the air and tore at the ears.
To the Witch Queen's forces, it was a pleasing sound, but to those who would defy them, it kindled their hatred beyond tolerance and brought rash response. As the order to attack was flung forth by incensed officers, the Kings roared for them to stop, that they required order to win the day. However, the troops were as eager for revenge as they who had granted the order and so the Kings had no choice but to call for the trumpets and horns to backup up the reckless assault with full commitment.
With a thunderous roar, the ranks broke free of the bonds of sloth. They charged forward and screamed to the heavens. The very ground reverberated with the defiance of their lives. Each was committed to the slaughter. Their lives were forfeit and each only sought to drag down as many evil souls with them as they could.
The banks of archers on each side set free blizzards of arrows. The slender darts arced through the vault and passed each other before streaking down in dense waves upon the enemy. As countless hundreds collapsed from the stab of bolt and arrow, the armies met.
The ringing clatter of metal upon metal, the awful sound of flesh being torn asunder, the screams and gurgles of the wounded, and the weighty thud of the slain dropping to the mud, immediately filled the air. Crimson drizzle churned along the battle line and thousands of warriors fed the strange incarnadine mist with every cut.
Weapons rose and fell with dreadful rhythm, hacking and slashing without pause, throwing arcs of gore through the air. The colours of the troops started to blend and they soon merged into the shades of empurpled gobs and blackened sod.
Waves of sorcery wove through the air and sought targets. The magics erupted with fiery plumes and extracted a section of the battlefield so it might be scattered upward with a bellow of unholy fury. Bodies scattered in the form of scorched debris and the craters that were gouged were swiftly filled with torn relics. A sudden rush then filled the gap as more warriors flowed forth into the fray.
Disruptive bolts started to disable and cancel the lethal energies. They targeted strategically important zones and the wizards and sorcerers of both sides strove to protect their best forces from supernatural mayhem while others of their number continued to hurl waves of deadly energy.
The stink of agony and opened bodies became a physical presence. It was like the odour wrought by the spectre of death itself, and the grim reaper's scythe was finding a ready harvest to collect this day.
The bodies piled atop each other to form mounds and create a terrain that was treacherous underfoot. Those who were absorbed with war started to stumble and fall. More often than not, they were summarily transfixed by a ravenous blade or staved in by mace or axe.
The outcome of the battle was in a tenuous balance, and then unto the fray came a grim form. Her blades started to cut a bloody swathe through the defenders. The strike and vivid punch of weapons upon her amour failed even to stagger her stride. The points and blades bounced off her sorcerously treated battle skin like reeds.
Lithe of limb, her midnight armour flowed in tight, sculpted waves. Ridges and crests formed bat-like wings, and thorns and spines jutted out to be trimmed with crimson. Clawed gauntlets with spiked knuckles bore the pair of serrated, great swords and each hilt was a leering demonic face that spat forth a toothed blade of jet. The swords were borne with the ease and skill of daggers, but they had not lost any of the mangling capacity for destruction such huge tools of war commanded.
Her sculpted and elongated helm gave her the face of a screaming devil with horns flung back on either side of a mane of albino hair. Her cuirasse was adorned with the vile symbol of the Witch Queen and it lay between the sculpted cups that betrayed her gender as female.
The maenad flung herself into noble or peasant without care for support. She separated from the main line of warriors who were held at bay by the ranks facing them. Where her blades fell, a life was snuffed out. Even a glancing wound caused the flesh of the victim to wither and pale. It dried the meat on their bones as they were desiccated by sorceress poison.
The lethal magical venom of the woman's blades eroded all life and though cleric and sage forced themselves through to try to counter the sorcery, it was beyond their ability. It was known that the Witch Queen herself had crafted these evil blades and the venom was impregnable to any curative, be it mundane or arcane.
Even the magically treated armour of the elite warriors was as nothing to her. The hardened metals parted with a thunderclap that spat cyan bolts and sparks out from the point where the black blades entered.
Cries went up as it was discerned that the Demon Angel was abroad. People screamed the name and it inspired more fear than the entire war host of the Witch Queen.
Mighty wizards sought to stop her and quickly locked their bodies into occult configurations. A purple weave of lightning wove around the group and the arcs leapt like serpents. They flashed with new power and suddenly merged into one monstrous enchantment. The single bolt screamed forward as a lethal juggernaut strike that robbed those who stared at it of their sight for many minutes.
The energy bored into the figure and threw her back against the warriors behind her. Her impetus shattered their bones as her body crackled and devoured by loosed arcs of toxic sorcery.
The woman dropped to the mud and seemed to be helpless. The broadswords of twin princes fell at the prone form and the edges ignited with fire as they called up the full fury of their enchanted blades. With a wriggle of impossible celerity, the woman tumbled aside and back to her feet. Her swords whirled in her grasp with terrible speed to slice the nobles open before they even had a chance to acknowledge her new position.
The troops who leapt upon her and sought to drag her down fared no better than those she faced. The demon female merely whirled. Her strength was incredible and the blades and teeth of her armour tore the attackers as she flung them from her as though they were the most trivial insects, mere annoyances at best.
The creature launched forward with a fearsome p
iercing shriek and her blades fell like shards of opaque lightning. They pierced the metal barriers of shields, slithered through armour, and transfixed chests and heads. Geysers of blood spat over teeth and limbs flew aside as they still clutched their weapons.
The Kings watched in dismay as their sons and friends perished at her hand. The generals of their armies, the officers, the wizards, none was able to harm her. The most destructive magics that could be gathered rained down onto her and the lives of those about her were sacrificed in the hope of felling the creature, but nothing could stop her. Fatigue was an enemy she did not have to face and it seemed that she drew her strength from the lives she snuffed out. The demon was somehow stealing their fleeing vitality to feed her ongoing carnage.
As she drew all attention with her rampage, the lapping army of the Witch Queen flowed around their flanks. It spread itself wide and sealed in the army that stood against them. With the dawning of this realisation, the troops sought to flee, only to find the black guards on every side. Order was lost and panic reigned. The ground flowed like a river with tides of blood. The life of thousands mingled with the dirt to forge cloying mud that gripped at those who waded through it.
When the sun started to set, the battle had devolved into a soft half-life. The glowing orb wreathed the horizon with wild crimson hues and it was a shade to match the mayhem that stretched as far as the eye could see. In every direction, there was now an uneven landscape of twisted bodies.
The Queen's troops wandered amongst the red harvest and were dispatching survivors or torturing them slowly to savour their agonised squeals and make the air ring with the ghastly signal of their suffering. The few who had slipped the gauntlet were scuttling away as they were hunted by mounted patrols for sport, and in the middle of the grand carnage stood the demon woman.
Tanya opened the concealed chin guard of her helm and drew it free. Her face was dripping with perspiration and her limbs were weary now that her blades were no longer feeding her the life of those they maimed and slew.
Tanya propped herself up on them and surveyed the scene. She looked across the ocean of red and the stink of death was powerful in her nose.
The troops here had been fortunate. The peoples they had fought to protect were to be less blessed because the Witch Queen would now make their pain last a lifetime. By comparison, to such a doom, the butchered warriors had fared well today by meeting a swift end.
Rubbing the short stubble of her shaven head, she traced her temples with her barbed gauntlets. Memories arose as she stood amidst the shattered carcasses of a regiment of the Order Eternal. She herself had been one of these paladins and it seemed to have been aeons ago.
How her life had changed since those days of seeking to bring justice and law to the land, of doing good and protecting the weak and innocent. She had become that which she had reviled. She was the personal Champion of the force that the world feared above all others.
Letting her mind drift, she awaited the arrival of the Witch Queen. Her beloved enslaver was scheduled to manifest and inspect the scene of atrocity first hand. If she were deemed to have done well, her Master and Mistress would be present this night to pleasure her with their sadistic whims.
However, before the Queen was to arrive, one final deed required handling. Tanya vaulted onto a warhorse and reared the beast before galloping off over the hills.
Tanya kicked out and her heeled foot struck the heavy doors of the monastery. With a punishing wrench to the timbers, the portal jumped back. The weighty doors jarred against their hinges amidst a booming tone and announced her arrival in full and deafening clarity.
The gloomy interior hall was lined with supporting pillars. Mounds of candles upon pious configurations cast a soft, warming glow through the stone hall and banished the chill of the night.
Tanya stepped in and reached to her back where her crossed swords resided in their scabbards. The weapons murmured softly as the demonic beasts within the weave of metal craved new souls for their collection.
The monks ran for their lives. They fled into the wings and into doors and private cells. They dropped before the symbols of their deity and prayed for protection against this most unholy of messengers. All of them muttered her name as they fled.
"The Demon Angel," they whispered, as though by saying her name any louder they would draw her manifested wrath and speed the taking of their lives and souls.
A shaven headed figure moved before her. He was young and his eyes were full of fear. His arms were wide as he sought to bar her passage.
"Foul seraphim of evil, there is no place for you here!" he roared.
He was an intriguing sight, and one she would have liked to experiment. She considered subduing him and taking him in chains back with her to the Black Fortress. When she was not serving her owners, she might make use of him. However, she had other deeds to perform here and she needed no further distractions.
With a violent swing of her arm, a blade hummed against the air and his face dissolved into a smear. His countenance spread aside and lashed the floor with a plume of rent gore. The headless body twitched and its arms tensed in spasms.
A kick into his ribs sent the body to the floor. It skidded to a halt and deposited a crimson trail in its wake.
"Have you no shame, dark one?" stated a grim voice.
A far less feeble opponent stepped forth from behind a pillar that was located far from her position. He was tall and resplendent in a suit of expertly fitted silver amour. The burning heart of the Order Eternal was set boldly across his chest and a cloak of red flowed behind him. A breeze poured around Tanya from without and made the fabric ripple in the breeze. The candle flames flickered in the wind and this made his armour flash with sparks of light.
"You butcher a helpless priest for your amusement? Then it is true, the Witch Queen has purged you of all save evil, Demon Angel."
He stepped closer and drew a slender longsword and a parrying dagger with a wide guard that was curved drastically outward to catch an opponent's weapon. Both blades sparkled with an incandescent light and were each clearly possessed of their own sorceress charms.
The light revealed his face and she froze momentarily because she recalled it well. There was no mistaking the grizzled round face of the Grandmaster of the Order Eternal. The knight had helped train her, raise her, and made her one of the Order's paladins, he had been one of her idols in a time long forgotten. His bushy beard was thinning in places, his bald head was a little more scarred, but it was him without question. She wondered if he knew who she was?
"I am here for you, paladin," she stated with severity.
Tanya was still pledged to the act of murder that her Queen had demanded. She must have known that the defender of this church was her former master and so Tanya promised to fawn on her heels with added delectation for such sly trickery.
"It is not I who shall be food for the crows, lackey," he retorted.
Settling into a fighting stance, the Grandmaster readied to accept her charge. His blades whistled against the air as he spun them in his grasp and then clenched the hilts tighter in his armoured fists.
"We shall see," she growled.
Tanya flicked her blades up and closed upon him. Her dark armour absorbed the light and made her appear as though she was one of the shadows.
The two paused before one another and then Tanya lunged suddenly. She cast a sword for his heart while keeping the other held back to defend against any riposte. She had never seen anyone best the Grandmaster, but she was a far different creature now. She had been warped by the sorcery of the Witch Queen and trained to be a warrior without equal.
His dagger hissed aside and slammed to the blade. Knocking it away, the weapon jolted back to continue its defence while his sword hacked for her throat. The distraction he intended for with a shot for her face was declined. Tanya skipped back, dragged her weapons with her, and left the longsword to hum upon the air and cut through the space she had deserted. Tanya droppe
d into a nimble crouch and lunged for his belly with a harsh stab.
The Grandmaster swung in a downward swipe. He caught her weapon with his sword and pushed it away. The altered trajectory was sufficient to have the tip jab ineffectually passed his flank.
The warrior made a sudden step forward and hauled his sword in a whirling overhead circle. The blade plunged down at the squatting female.
Tanya slashed up with her second blade and knocked the weapon aside so that it clanged to the stone next to her. It threw up a brief cough of sparks and suddenly his leg kicked out like lightning. The boot struck her wrist and pained the flesh to a degree that knocked her overextended blade from her hand.
The dark weapon clattered across the floor and skidded into the shadows. Without hesitation, she sprung up. Tanya led her attack with a vicious kick that sunk into his breastplate and lifted the mighty warrior from his feet.
A brief flight of a few feet ended with an awkward landing. He staggered back and struggled to recapture his balance.
Giving no respite, Tanya launched herself forward and whirled her blade in swift arcs before hacking at his guard. The dagger wilted in its task as she dropped three pernicious blows to it.
He responded with defiance and thrust for her heart. With a lash of her forearm, her vambrace caught the flat of the weapon and deflected it. The same limb suddenly jumped forward and smashed the elbow to his brow. A crunch of flesh sounded and his head jolted back. The spiked armour had not only dazed him, but had also opened several light gashes.
Tanya could see a chance for victory. She grabbed her sword in both hands and held it as a battering ram before throwing it at his chest with a yell of exertion.
The aged warrior suddenly sidestepped and his sword danced in his grasp before striking out. The weapon struck the side of Tanya's helm. The tip gouged through the metal and her skin to open a long gash from her jaw to her temple.
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