The air around him was filled with panicked hisses and hurried shouts as the demons scrambled madly, many still disoriented from traveling through the waypath. Crackling magic still hummed in the air, its frenetic energy heating fur and skin. The waypath had not been kind to their flesh and their runes, the air stinging with the scent of burnt tissue. Whatever magic reformed their bodies was not nearly as meticulous with runemetal—it had fused the iron to their claws and scales with the heat of a molten brand. The sharp pain mixed with the heavy scent of blood in the air, serving only to send many of the demons into further panic. Confused and disoriented, the scent prompted instinct and bloodlust to surge over reason. In the face of the madness of the battlefield, many tossed about helplessly, baring fangs and claws to any sudden movement as they struggled to calm themselves.

They had been deposited randomly in the mud, the waypath not nearly stable enough to hold together at the end. It was fortunate enough that most of them made it through alive—although Willem had yet to see either the king or Kha through the crowd. They had been the last to pass through the waypath, for they were still needed to hold it open until the end; they would be the last to come out of it as well, should they come out at all.

It was fortunate enough, perhaps, that they were all dropped on the same side of the river—and opposite from that monstrosity of shadow and darkness. Should they have been completely scattered, any hopes of unity would certainly of been dashed. They would have been no different from those soldiers, strewn across the banks like flies with broken wings, struggling to even walk. Many of them were hopelessly desperate at this point, seeing the demons fall out of the waypath. Surely they would have taken it for madness, for hysteria, seeing creatures of myth and fable materializing before them. Many had stopped their struggles, falling slack on their backs and laughing madly at the heavens.

His thoughts turning to soldiers, he suddenly was reminded of Norus. The legionary had entered the waypath only seconds before Willem, surely he could not be far? Yet as he scoured those around him, he could not find a hint of the men amidst the demons. Gritting his teeth, his gaze flickered once more to the shadow looming in the distance.

Willem struggled over to the nearest soldier, his powerful legs nevertheless fighting the thick mud that clung to his scales and claws. The wet mud seemed to almost drag him down the more that he moved, the silt and scum underneath the water slipping away as he shifted his weight. Still, he managed to make his way over to the wounded man, whose face was surprisingly young in spite of the mayhem surrounding him. He’s not old enough for this, Willem thought suddenly, the notion unbidden yet undeniable. Those rosy cheeks had not seen harsh winters. That slight frame was not built for war. This was a summertime soldier, told of festivities and denied the truth of harsh winter. He was nearly ten years younger than he ought to be, to wear that armor on his shoulders.

Yet those ruddy cheeks were flushed pink, blood and mud staining their surface. His helmet had long since been discarded, cast away as he struggled to cross the surging rapids of the river. His body was drenched thoroughly, his hair a messy mop strewn wildly on his head. The armor as well sat awkwardly on his body, half of the straps loosened in some tired attempt to cast it off. It hung lopsided on his chest, the front plate dented and punctured in the characteristic mark of a stab from a short sword. The mud and muck did well to partially hide a wound below the armpits, in a spot where the armor did not cover. Dark crimson dripped down his side, crusting and drying or otherwise joining the dirt in a puddle below him. More wounds crisscrossed his arms, none fatal, yet the worst was hidden in his back.

Almost indiscernible amidst the warped iron of his armor, a small spearhead was buried below the shoulder blade. It was stuck in fiercely, hooks in the tip ensuring that it could not come out cleanly. While the wooden shaft had long since snapped off, the soft metal proved far more tenacious, firmly embedding itself without intent to let go. Such a wound had clearly passed the window for treatment; this man surely would die.

Yet it felt strange calling the soldier a man as Willem gazed down at that youthful face, perhaps only five years older than his own. Those blue eyes were lucid and clear despite the pain, a thin film of tears the only obscurance in them. Those lips seemed more apt for pouting, for chaste kisses at night in uninvited gardens. There was nothing but the promise of life in his face, yet here that promise lay unbroken before him. This man was all I wanted, Willem realized. Good looks, a strong body, he was all I ever envied. So curious that it was he who lay dying now, and the cripple, the ever-jealous, ever-lacking cripple that stood over him watching.

Scarlet bubbled from those lips as the soldier coughed out a gurgling laugh. His eyes blinked leisurely, every movement slow and unconcerned with the torpor of death. “So...Nan’s monsters have come...at last?” Blood trickled down his chin, tracing a thin rivulet across his collarbone before disappearing into his armor. Slowly, he staggered and fell onto his back, his legs going limp as the last bits of strength fled from him.

“What happened here?” Willem asked hurriedly, cursing his throat and tongue that the words could not come out quicker. The soldier was dying fast, and he did not have the time to run to another for answers. His heart was hammering out a frantic rhythm, still seeing that monstrous shadow out of the corner of his eye. While it seemed busy with those on the other side of the river, when it was finished playing its attention would surely turn to the demons here. “What happened to your legion?”

The soldier’s lips curled into a thin smile, his face beginning to lose all vestiges of color as more blood fled from his body. “Fire…” he managed to croak out feebly, his hand trembling as if out of fear for the mere memory. “Brimstone...from the sky…” Yet those words petered out even as they left his mouth, strength deserting the dying man.

“Wait!” Willem growled out, claws tightening around the soldier’s throat in a desperate attempt to keep them man awake. “More! Tell me more! What else happened? The shadow?” When did the skal’va come—if that even was skal’va across the river. Yet the soldier resisted any of Willem’s attempts to rouse him, those eyelids still drifting closed.

“Damn Mors…” he whispered out was a rattling gasp, hand gripping Willem’s arm desperately. “Making the fish march…” His last words made his grip tighten as well, the feeling like an iron vise as it clamped around Willem’s wrist. All strength seemed to have gone to those fingers, a force strong enough to snap bone and break stone.

Willem struggled to pry the corpse off of him, those dead limbs harboring a deceptive strength as he gazed around hurriedly. Many of the demons had shaken off their initial confusion, although their current state still left much to be desired. Most had seen the shadow in the distance, dancing back with a mixture of fear and anxious excitement. They had turned on each other for their weakness, many devolving into scuffles in the mud over cowardice. Sparks flew from their runeclaws and runearmor, the air buzzing with the promise of magic. Some had already triggered the spells in the runes, gouts of flame shooting out of their claws as they swiped madly.

The scent of burning flesh was quick to send the demons into a further panic. A few had even turned to the corpses littering the riverbank, gorging themselves on the still-warm flesh in gluttony. There was no semblance of order in this strange army, no hint of command. They were a viper without a head, a blinded bull. Willem could not help but grit his teeth in frustration—all that muscle and all those fangs would be useless without the king to direct them. It would become the snake that bit its own tongue, dying to its own poison.

Where is the king? The thought raced through his mind as he scanned the crowd, looking desperately for the sole figure that might lead this rabble. Yet as if hearing his thoughts, the air suddenly crackled with magic. Purple sparks shimmered and showered to the ground as a rent was torn above the ground, ripping ever farther with a sudden keening noise. It echoed across the riverbank, distinct above the madness that embroiled the rest of the demons and piquing their attention through the bloodlust. White smoke billowed out of the tear as quickly as it opened, depthless as it curled towards the sky. Without warning, two figures staggered out of the rift. Worn and weary yet still standing stiff, Kha and the king landed with a wet crunch on the ground, claws sinking into the mud.

Gaze swiftly sweeping across the throng of demons, the king tilted its lupine head back before letting out an echoing howl. The sound seemed to claw its way out of the demon’s throat, rugged and raw as it shook the very earth. Yet as they heard the howl, more and more of the demons quickly joined in, adding their own raucous voices to the cacophony. Fighting pairs suddenly paused in their struggles to bay, flesh falling out of the mouths of the feasting almost comically as they lifted to roar. Almost instantly, the madness of the riverbank was halted.

As the cry died down, hundreds of eyes gazed intently at that slouched figure, waiting intently for its next command. Even across the river, the shadowed thing slowly turned, its attention having been drawn away from the scrambling remnants of whatever army it was still toying with. On its head was perched some vague ghost, some spectating god, shimmering and indistinct in the distance.

Its black surface was featureless and depthless, a chilling emptiness that belied no weakness. Spears and sword alike had sunk futilely into that smoking skin, to no avail. Willem could not help but shudder at the very idea of fighting that thing, that mountain that seemed to swallow the heavens. The demons had to feel the same, regardless of their animal strength. Even predators felt fear facing gods—and that was what this monstrosity was, an utter force of nature. They might have better luck trying to fight a mountain, trying to fight a flood. What could king hope to say that might rally the demons against that terror?

The king gazed impassively at the smoking figure that towered in the distance, those mismatched eyes glittered unreadably. By his side, Kha slowly hunched over, eyes closing and tongue flickering in a guttural chant. Likewise, the king slowly raised a clawed hand, a black palm directed straight at that wraith-like giant and whatever ghost stood atop its head.

The air suddenly hissed with the stench of brimstone, crackling and then popping with a clap of pealing thunder. Brilliant light arced towards the shadow, faster than thought as it shot from Kha’s claws. Trailing half a heartbeat behind it was a column of flame, scorching all moisture out of the air as it shot through the sky. Both struck the fiend square in the chest, burning a hole in its body clear enough to see the clouds on the other side. Lightning punched the wound, flame greedily latching onto the opportunity to wreath the surrounding parts of the shadow with tongues of fire. While the billowing darkness knitted itself quickly, stamping out the fire and closing the wound, the message could not be clearer.

Without having spoken a single word, the king rallied his men towards the thing of shadow and nightmares. A terrifying roar echoed off the stones as myriad monsters suddenly ignited their runes, crackling magic feeding brilliant white flames that shrouded their bodies. Willem could not help but add his own voice to the howl, his heart now racing not from fear but excitement. His bloodlust now aroused, his every sense seemed to tingle with excitement, with anticipation.

Across the river, impassively, the shadow-fiend made a single, looming step towards them.