Chapter 25

Erinn knocked another arrow into her bow, letting her Rank 6 mana enhance her strength. The longbow was taller than her, and few could use it in Innesvalle. She aimed carefully, before letting loose. The arrow shot across the grassy plain, striking a Fiend in the skull just as it was about to slash at her husband’s unprotected back.

Gunther was too engaged to notice, his large, two-handed sword sweeping through the enemies before him. To his side, his father and grandfather were similarly fighting. Three generations of Innesvale lords, trying desperately to stave off destruction.

The creatures had emerged from a drop of sticky black tar that had struck the ground just outside their village. They were goat-like monsters, standing on two legs, with long horns curling backwards from their skulls. They stank of sulfur and their eyes glowed red in the darkness.

They had barely had time to evacuate the children before the town was overrun. Abandoning it, they were forced to fall back, buying time for the townspeople to flee.

The Innesvale House Guards were nearly all lost, the fiends hacking through them with curved swords, or stabbing with the long-barbed tails that extended from behind them. Individually, they were only Rank 2 or 3, but there were hundreds of them.

Arrow after arrow flew from her bow, but it was too little against the horde they were facing.

The first of their family to fall was Gunther’s grandfather, the old knight blocked an attack meant for his son, the barbed tail piercing his wooden shield before two more penetrated his chest armor. He died with his sword in hand, cleaving the goatlike head from another as he collapsed.

“Father!” Baron Innesvale screamed, charging towards his father in order to cover his prone figure. He didn’t make it far before a streak of crimson fire lanced across the field, burning everything in its path. The ray of fire slammed into the Baron, his figure black against the red to Gunther’s eyes, before he was reduced to ashes.

Roaring, Gunther charged at the fiend responsible, a tall, red skinned woman with large wings protruding from her back. In her hands was a long staff, the top burning with crimson fire. Not pausing, she directed the staff at the charging Gunther.

The glowing staff was knocked off course, the fire shooting harmless into the air, by an arrow shot from Erinn. Her arrow was followed by a heavy attack by Gunther, a two-handed overhead chop that drove the demon’s feet deep into the ground as she blocked.

The red skinned demon responded by smiling at the large warrior, her eyes glowing red. Gunther found himself entranced, lost in the Demon’s eyes. They were beguiling and beautiful, and he couldn’t look away, even when her clawed hand pierced his unprotected eyes.

Screaming in pain, the spell holding him was broken. He collapsed onto the ground, blind.

Erinn shot another arrow at the demon, dashing forward to pull her husband away from the creature. She was pushed back by another jet of flame, this one nearly hitting her. Erinn leapt to the side, the intense heat searing her skin.

Laughing in amusement, the red skinned demon turned her flames to Gunther, the crimson fire engulfing him. Erinn screamed as she watched Gunther die, charging forward, firing arrows are quickly as she could.

Her last thoughts as the fire overtook her were of her family, waiting for her in the afterlife.

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“Primaris protects! Mass Cure Wounds!” Marin shouted, his holy symbol of the Yellow Sun held high, shining with divine light.

All around him, knights, and warrior priests of Primaris fought to drive back the fiends that attacked the rebuilt Cathedral in Aachen. Goatlike fiends, red skinned devils and the undead assaulted them. For every human that fell, the negative energy surrounding the city infested their remains, bringing them back into a horrible mockery of life.

Martin’s healing spell washed over those fighting, sealing wounds and revitalizing them. They surged forward, forcing the enemy back from the steps of the Cathedral. Beside him, the Bishop was gathering his energy, the Tier 6 spell matrix glowing in the air above them.

“Forbiddance!” The Bishop ended, the spell matrix exploding with power. “In the name of Primaris, I forbid Fiends from entering this holy ground!” Yellow light covered the area, and every fiend that touched it burned in the radiance, searing flesh from bones.

Driven back, the warriors felt relief as they quickly cut down the few remaining undead. Breathing a Sigh of relief, Martin turned his attention to the more seriously injured, ready to mend their wounds. They would need every able-bodied priest and warrior to defend the rest of the city.

Their reprieve was short lived when another drop of black tar fell from the Black Moon. As it fell, it transformed, taking shape while it careened towards the ground. With a massive shockwave, the tar covered figure slammed into the ground outside of the city.

Martin tried to keep his balance as the city shook around him. The Cathedral, a bastion of safety and security in Aachen, teetered, the marble facade showing cracks and several of the supporting pillars collapsed.

From the impact crater rose a red skinned demon, with large, leathery bat wings extending from its back. Muscular, it held a black sword in one hand, and a whip of pure fire in its others. Over twenty feet high it stood, with long black horns curling from its forehead.

The demon roared, and a wave of negative energy swept out from the creature, rushing across the ground, killing everything in its path. The green grass and trees that had been carefully planted and nurtured since the rebuild, withered, and wilted.

When the energy struck the mundane citizens of Aachen, thousands died instantly, swallowed up by the darkness. Their bodies fell lifeless onto the ground, littering the streets with the dead, only to rise again, this time as mindless zombies.

The negative energy crashed against the barrier of the Cathedral, a tide of darkness that threatened to swallow the yellow magic. It held, although Martin could see cracks beginning to form in the spell.

The Balor, taking the continued existence of the Cathedral as a challenge to its power, leapt into the sky, its powerful wings carrying it over the city. Like a meteor, it crashed against the shield, its black sword piercing the barrier. The Bishop’s ‘Forbiddance’ spell lasted only a moment, the strength of the Balor was too great to be halted.

With a tremendous crash, it obliterated the Cathedral, sending shards of marble and destroying one of the greatest sites of worship to Primaris in all of Illyria.

The priests and warriors tried to fight back, hurling themselves against the demon, but it was unstoppable. The bishop succumbed to the whip of fire, shattering his body into a bloody mist.

Martin’s last view of the creature was of its black sword crashing down on top of him.

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Archibald Anwir followed the hum of battle, swinging his sword to a musical beat that only he could hear. Each slash cut down one of the Fiends before him, but there was always another to replace it.

He had been traveling across Eastern Illyria, on his way to Khmer where he planned to study the God King’s monuments, when he had stopped into East Haven to pass the Night.

Now, the city burned, and he was fighting fiends and demons as he tried to escape to the river.

“Dissonant Whispers.” Anwir chanted, following the incantation with a hummed note. A large, red skinned demon clutched its head in agony before kneeling onto the ground. Anwir finished it off with a swift stroke of his sword, separating its head from its body.

Turning, he was about to strike a pose and inspire those fighting beside him, when a terrible explosion shattered the land. Rolling and tumbling, Anwir finally stopped beside the Whitewater river, trying to catch his breath. He was covered in ash and soot, and a terrible pain shot through his leg.

Looking up, he saw more of the Fiends charging the fleeing townspeople who were attempting to climb aboard the remaining riverboats.

Dragging himself back to his feet, Anwir limped forward, meeting the enemy charge head on.

“Perhaps someone will compose a sonnet for me, this time.” He whispered, before his voice was drowned out by the sounds of fighting.