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sdeaf -> RE: The Dark Forest (1/11/2010 5:21:17)
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Um, I think that this is chapter 22, and if it is, then goodness. This is without doubt the longest chapter I've ever written. It is almost 18,000 words long and 27 pages long. By comparison, my three other longest chapters, including the one where Damian and Wulf fight and Sophitia and Skull go at it, were all around 10,000 words. Also, my computer got fried, and I'm just thankful that we were able to get back all of the information on it. Yea, so basically, these are all excuses meant to distract from the fact that it has taken me over a month to write this chapter. More distractions will follow. Okay, so like I've said, this is my longest chapter ever, by a long shot, and it's only half of the entire battle. The next half is still to come, and will probably be at least as long. Hopefully, though, it will be an interesting 27ish pages, like I hope this one is. Lots of stuff is happening here, and if you catch a mistake, please tell me about it so that I can fix it, but also forgive me, as you'll understand it's alot of writing. Okay, more importantly, if you have a comment (Which would be nice), then leave it here Comment Thread. Again, i hope that you enjoy the work of my bleeding figertips ;P.
22
Of Honor, Deceit, and Death
Damian looked over the army that was arrayed on the other side of the plain, and for just a moment he felt a small tremor in his heart. Thousands upon thousands of werewolves, looking like a sea of brown, stood ready to descend and consume him and his forces at any moment. The army behind him looked miniscule in comparison, but Damian felt his fears quell as his thoughts shifted from the legions before him to his sister. She was all he could think of, and, for a moment, he could have sworn he smelled her scent float through the air. When his eyes settled back down on the mass of bodies before him, they still seemed just as large, but they had lost all of their terror.
“Let us do this.” He whispered as a smile splayed over his face.
Just then, he saw a gray speck separate from the rest of the mass and walk down the slope to the middle of the valley. When it stopped, Damian recognized it as Scar, the general of the werewolf armies. Scar stood silent for a moment, and then he spoke. His voice, deceivingly full of vitality, carried over the valley to the vampires and resounded across the entirety of the plain.
“I am Scar, first class werewolf, general of the Royal Werewolf Army, and survivor of the Werepyre wars. I ask now if any of you vampires has the honor to face me in single combat. Have any of you the courage to face a mere animal as myself in battle?”
There was an immediate roar, and Damian knew it was Samael, but that was muffled, and Damian could tell without looking that he was being held down by at least three other captains as he desperately tried to race his way to the middle. Normally, all would be satisfied with him dueling the general, but this was an officially announced battle, and as such, honor dictated that there was only one who was given the first opportunity to battle the challenger. If that one backed down, though, the battle was open to any. However, such an act would forever be remembered and recorded in the vampires’ annals.
Damian felt that all of their eyes were on him, and once again there was only one recourse. He slowly walked away from the ranks of his unit and down the gently sloped field to the werewolf who waited for him. ‘Damn honor.’ He growled in his mind. When he reached the middle, Scar smiled with yellow teeth and bowed. “Greetings again Damian, vampire first class. It is good to know that at least one vampire has something between his legs. Your honor is commendable, but you surely do not expect to defeat me, do you?”
Damian bowed as well. “There are many others, but they were not allowed to battle, as it was my right. Greetings to you as well, Scar. I do not pretend to know the outcome of this battle, but as long as you and your kind recognize that we have honor, my life will have been well spent.”
“Interesting words, coming from ‘Scum.’” Scar had a better memory than Damian had given him credit for, and that old man way of saying things in a perfectly annoying but correct manner.
“Well, sometimes even Scum can transcend itself; become something greater when given something to fight, or die, for.” Damian replied.
Scar actually seemed to ponder what he had said, then flashed his yellow teeth again and drew his sword. “Consider your point made. Now, shall we give them all something to gawk at?”
Damian drew his own sword in the instant that Scar charged forward. He had wanted to pull out his spear, but he knew that this was also a fight to show what the vampires could do, and to fight with a spear at this moment would reflect negatively on his race as spears were typically seen as a coward’s weapon. Normally, he would not care, as winning was all that was important, but here it was different. He had an entire race to represent. All of these reasonings flew through his mind in a moment and produced the actions of drawing his sword, holding it in both hands, and settling with his weight on his back foot as the werewolf charged forward at him with speed that was faster than any werewolf he had ever battled, but still slower than Samael.
Scar swung his sword out in a horizontal swing from the left side of his body with his right arm when he was within range, and Damian shifted his body to the right while placing the flat of his blade in the way of the sword and reinforcing it with his left on the other side. The weapons clashed in a spray of sparks, and Damian was forced to push harder as an unexpected strength almost tore through his defense in the first blow. Before he recovered from the blow, Scar reversed the flow of his weapon, swung it around his head with blinding speed, and attacked from the other side with the same strike save that his palm was facing up. Damian swung his arm around and switched his left arm to the other side and blocked this one as well. Once again, Damian was forced to give more force than he had thought was necessary, and this time Scar was prepared for the block. Once the swords connected, he spun the sword with only his wrist and brought it back on the other side of Damian’s sword, barely missing his arm, and smashing the guard towards where he had tried to block in the first place.
Damian was thrown to the side, along with his sword, and was barely able to throw himself back the other way to avoid Scar’s back swing. As it was, the sword cut down diagonally right behind his feet. When he landed, however, Damian realized that he had overextended himself, tripped, and fell to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and threw of a quick defense to deal with the inevitable assault, but none came. When he looked up, he saw that Scar simply stood in his stance with a slight smile on his lips.
“I would never hit an honorable man while he is down. More importantly, it seems that your are meant to wield a weapon with a pole involved, and yet you fight with a sword. Why is this?”
Damian smiled his thanks. “It would not be ‘honorable’ to fight a sword with a spear.” Without another moment of hesitation, he lunched forward and swung his sword over his head in a downward-diagonal cut aimed for the neck. Scar was being attacked on the left side of his body, so he crossed his right arm over his body and blocked the attack with one hand. The instance Damian felt the impact he pulled his sword towards him and lunged forward in a thrust straight ahead at Scar’s chest. Scar continued with the movement in his block and spun his body to the right, to the side of Damian’s thrust, and threw out his left hand in a powerful spinning back knuckled blow. Damian was unprepared for the speed and strength of the unbridled strike, and fell back as the werewolf’s knuckles smacked against his face.
He tucked his neck and arms to turn his fall into a backwards roll and came up just in time to block the first attack that came his way. Scar never faltered, but continued the slash past the sword after they made contact. His blade went to the side and up just a bit, and then in the blink of an eye he riposted his weapon back the other way, slashing at Damian’s head. Luckily, Damian had not blinked, and he dropped to one knee, sending his head down and his body forward by the length of his lower leg while swinging his sword out with one hand just as fast as Scar’s attack. Scar’s eyes followed the attack despite its speed, and they widened as he saw the trajectory. He immediately retracted his sword and, for the first time in years, leapt back and sucked in his stomach.
They disengaged, with Damian having to regain his footing before being able to resume a stance and Scar looking at his stomach as a small line of blood formed and another flowed down from it. He looked at Damian with humor in his eyes. “Well done, Damian. I am sorry that I underestimated you with this weapon. It seems that you are almost as proficient with it as your chosen one. Maybe this will actually be fun.”
Whatever Damian meant to say or would have said was lost when Scar shot forward as a flash of gray and a bright line of metal in the moonlight. This time he did not bother with a single attack, but launched a flurry of strikes toward him. For his part, Damian quickly backpedaled and used both hands on his sword to focus solely on defending himself. He found that, if he tried with all of his skill, he could see the attacks mere moments before they came into his range, and so he was able to block them. With every several attacks or so, however, he was forced to take a step backwards just to keep up. He could not think about it, though, as he had to constantly block, parry, and stop all of the countless attacks that flew his way.
Scar did not let up, but continued to attack again and again. It seemed like he was made of iron, since his attacks never slowed, but if anything, became faster as his arms warmed with the exercise. A fierce smile that resembled more barred fangs than anything else was upon his mouth, and several times he actually growled in delight as his attacks sped up just a bit.
Damian was finding it hard to block Scar’s attacks. He could not figure out what the problem was, but it was like they always came from the direction he did not expect it to. It was like his opponent knew every thought, both conscious and unconscious, and coordinated his attacks to it. The one place Damian considered to be safe inevitably filled with a blade, and when he started suspecting the places he did not suspect, the attacks came form those he normally would have suspected. He was thankful for his fast reflexes as, if not for those, he would have died minutes ago. Had it been minutes? Or had it been seconds? He could not tell anymore, and in another moment his thoughts fled from him like hares from a fox and he had to fill his mind with pure reflex as he worked to block all of the countless attacks.
And yet, it did not even seem like his opponent was fighting him, even though the blade, which looked at times to be several blades, denied the concept. Still, despite the mortal danger he was in, he felt like the fighter before was not even fighting him. But what was he doing? His attacks felt like they were completely random, like they were spur of the moment with no forethought. ‘But what is he doing?’
The force required to make one complete thought was not without consequence, however, as at that exact moment, one of the many blades passed right under the handle of his sword, and Damian felt it stab into his side before he slapped it away with his own blade. Still, the pain felt welcome, as when the edge pierced his body, it seemed clear to him what was happening. ‘He’s not fighting me, he’s testing me, like a rat.’
He noticed then, that each of the attacks was placed with perfect precision. All of the strikes made use of a weakness in his swordsmanship that only showed itself every several continuations or so. The blows were not meant to kill him, yet, but to learn everything about him before finishing him off with a final, perfect attack. ‘I know now!’
Still, the knowledge did nothing to lessen the torrent of swords flooding all around with tidal force, and he still had to give ground. Although, now he had begun to quickly step a bit to the side as well so that he would not be run too far towards the werewolves, which was where he had somehow noticed he was heading. He continued blocking, but also forced his brain to work as well. He tried to not just look at the tip of the sword—that would not be enough to survive—but now looked at the blade, the hand, the elbow, and finally at the entirety of Scar’s body as he dispensed two or three attacks every second. He felt like he was in a race against time, as eventually Scar would find the perfect flaw in his guard, and then he would be dead.
Eve as he tried, however, Scar’s attacks became even more unpredictable, as if he knew what Damian was trying, and was trying to make it harder on him. At the same time, Damian noticed that he was blocking each attack just another inch farther up the blade than before, and this disturbed him far more than he could explain. Still, he did his best to analyze every movement that Scar made, and as he did, he was amazed to notice that he was beginning to see something. It was just the barest tip of what he was looking for, and it was not something he could focus into a real thought, but he let his body go with it, and found that blocking the attacks became far easier.
In fact, within a few moments of his unconscious epiphany, he was blocking the strikes halfway between the two of them, and he no longer had to take any steps back. The blows came on a fierce and swift as ever, but there was something different. A familiarity flowed over him, and now he knew how Scar was able to fight him like he knew everything about him, because, in a sense, he did.
They battled for a few more seconds before Damian did something he had thought was impossible, he struck back. Scar’s last blow had been a stronger one meant to leave his guard there to attack from the other side with a swift weak one, but instead of keeping his guard and swiftly switching over, Damian spun his sword out as fast as he could. Scar barely missed a beat, and retracted his sword to slap the strength from Damian’s sword with his own, but with that one move, the tide of the battle changed. Damian took a step forward, blocked an attack, and attacked back. Soon the two of them were moving forward, to the side, and back and forth, as their sword flashed between them in intricate patterns Damian himself was not even sure he could comprehend. Their footwork was basic, and yet it looked like a dance for how they matched one another.
Then there was another change of tide, as Scar’s sword moved less, and Damian’s sword moved faster, until eventually he was the one pushing Scar back, and Scar was devoting everything he could to defending. Damian was actually pushing the General of the werewolves back! He thought for just one moment that he might be able to win, and, as if he had been waiting for it all this time, Scar barked and slashed his sword in from the side. Damian’s sword was out in an attack, but he swiftly brought it back to block the attack.
His sword went to intercept the opponent’s, but for some reason it never did. Maybe it was the speed of the attack, maybe the angle, maybe the trajectory, but for some reason, the blades passed right by one another, and Damian watched as Scar’s blade moved inexorably closer to his body. It took all of his ability to pull his sword back and place it next to his body, but even then, he felt the sword slice into his arm and grind against the bone before finally being stopped. When it was, however, the excess strength blew Damian back, into the air, and onto the ground. He lay there for a moment, but then, slowly, scrambled to his feet.
Scar stood where he was, a smile plastered to his snout, and his breath heavy in his lungs. “Very, very good, Damian. I can honestly say that I have not fought one of your caliber since the first battle between the vampires and werewolves. However, I must inform you that I have completely analyzed your swordsmanship, and any more attempts at fighting would be futile. If we battle again, you will be dead within three attacks. You have proven your point, once again, and I will still count you honorable if you secede from this battle now. Quit, and return to your side.” There was no lie in his eyes, and Damian knew, from his Familiarity with Scar’s attacks, that he was right. Suddenly, his bypassing of Damian’s block did not seem so accidental, and with that realization came the knowledge that another skirmish with this werewolf would mean death.
‘A funny thought, death.’ Damian could not help but thinking. ‘If I died fighting this werewolf in this forest, I wonder what would happen to me? Would Lucifer be able to claim me?’ Despite his thoughts, he brought his sword up and settled into his stance.
“I must decline. Death is not so fearsome that I must flee from it. Besides,” he chuckled just a bit. “Only the challenger may withdraw from a duel.”
Scar almost looked like he was saddened by the response. “Very well lad. Rest assured that I will always remember your name, and my people will sing songs of you at our feasts.”
With that he dropped his sword to his side and walked forward. Damian readied for his final battle, but then he noticed something strange about Scar. He was breathing heavily, like before, but the rest and conversation had done nothing to decrease his heavy breathing. If anything, he seemed to be more fatigued now, and it did not take his Familiarity to know that something was wrong. Then he took one more step, and it all became clear when Scar stumbled and fell to his knees. His right hand clenched onto his sword with fierce determination, but his left hand clutched at his heart, and his panting took over his entire body.
He knelt there, as a servant desiring the boon of his master, and it looked as if every breath was a battle for him. Damian walked up to him, with his sword raised in defense, and when he reached him, a gargled laugh escaped from his throat as he grimaced through his pain.
“Well, there you go lad, it looks like I’m finally too old for this kind of thing. Seems your people will have to sing songs about me. You win this, since I can’t continue. Kill me and take my heart, before I die of shame.”
Damian stood over him and raised his sword above his head. It fell to the ground as he knelt and pulled Scar to his feet, setting his shoulder inside his armpit. He turned him around and walked him slowly back to the werewolf line, where a pure white werewolf came through the crowd and took Scar from him. It pulled him back through, chanting spells as they walked.
Damian turned back and walked to his sword, which he picked up and put into his sheath. All was silence, on both sides of the line, but once his guard met his sheath, he heard a guttural voice from among the werewolves pronounce his one-word death sentence. “Attack!”
Damian quickly shot his head around and found that he had let Scar take him far too close to the werewolf line, and even if he sprinted as fast and as hard as he could, he would not be able to make it back to his own side before he was caught and ripped to shreds. For their part, his side had received no order to charge, so he had no hope there.
“Well, I guess this is where it ends.” Damian turned towards the werewolves and pulled his spear from his sheath, readying himself for one hell of a last stand. They came at him just like an avalanche of fur and claws, and the first one had just reached him when it simply exploded into pieces.
Damian had been about to attack it, and was very puzzled, until he saw N’colto swoop down and rip another werewolf in half like it was made of soft tissue. He then leapt over and grabbed onto Damian with his large talon-like feet and in moments they were flying through the air faster than even the werewolves could chase. The Chiroptera flew him to his own lines and then dropped him to his original position, where Vincent, whom Damian had chosen to be part of his own squad, handed him a small vial filled with blood. Damian quaffed it and felt his side, face, and arm heal as he looked to N’colto.
“Thank you. I thought I was dead.”
“Don’t mention it.” N’colto licked the blood from his fingers. “I cannot have the only true hope for my race dying in some honor duel now can I?”
“I guess not.” Damian worked his arm experimentally before looking at Vincent, who was still staring at him. “What?”
“What the hell was that? You let him live.” Vincent did not seem angry, simply surprised, and maybe just a little angry.
“Yes, I did.” Damian spoke as if just realizing it. “Damn honor.”
That elicited a chuckle from Vincent. “You can say that again. And here I thought that mister Worldly-Wise-Vampire would have figured that out by now.”
“Yea, shut up.” Damian smiled, and then turned his mind to the task at hand. A wave of werewolves were sweeping down at them, and it was his job to get all of his troops to charge them back. Even as he steeled himself to rally the troops, he heard Darius, who was safe in the camp with the Patriarch, call out the order to attack. Damian ground his teeth and shouted “Position A!” with all of his strength. He broke out in a run down the slope, and did not look back to see if his troops were listening to his order, or even if they were following him. Somehow, he just knew they were there.
The two sides headed towards each other. One was many times the other, and spread out in a massive wave, which made it look even larger, and the other was clumped together like a blade, which made it seem even smaller. One side the complete incarnation of order and unity, while the other a manifestation of pure chaos and anarchy. When they met, it was not akin to two rocks smashing into one another, or two volumes of water, but it was more like a knife cutting into flesh. The black of the vampires slipped in between the brown of the werewolves, and their wedge continued to tear apart the insides of their army, as the forces of the werewolves closed down behind them.
Down on the ground, Damian spun, let go of his spear with one hand while sliding the other to the very end of it at the last second, and decapitated his first opponent. Its head had not hit the ground before he was past it, grabbing his spear with both hands and goring his second up inside its ribcage. He jumped over its erect body while pulling the spear out, landed, ducked under a swing from a weapon he did not pay enough attention to recognize, sliced the owner’s leg while coming up, and then slit open its windpipes. It gasped out something, but he kicked it to the side and kept moving forward. A large sword came smashing down, but he stopped it with a horizontal block, slammed the shaft of his spear into the werewolf’s face, kneed it in the gut, spun the spear around, and shoved the tip of the blade through one eye.
Two stepped forward and lunged at him, trying to defeat him with a multitude of attacks, but the end of his spear wove around their weapons and defeated every move they attempted before he lunged and disemboweled one. He then ducked under the slash of the other, which severed the body of its comrade, and spun to stick his spear into its leg, twist the shaft in a circle and then yank it straight up, pull it out, and stab it into the back of the monster. He felt the soft lack of resistance as the blade slipped through the rib and pierced the heart. Another came at him and brought its weapon back behind it in an attempt to give its full strength to one attack, but before it could even execute its attack, Damian was in front of it. He jabbed the shaft of his spear into it face, then dropped down and cleanly sawed off one of its legs. Not bothering to finish it off, he moved past it to his next opponent. It punched out with spiked fists, but he let the attack pass between him and his spear, then spun, caught the arm at the elbow with his shaft, then broke it. He moved closer and stabbed the werewolf under the armpit. When it fell, it never rose again, and Damian was past it.
With every kill, he took a step further. He never let himself stop, never went to one side or another, and never spared his opponent. Finally, he felt that he had gone far enough, and he mouthed the words to a spell that amplified his voice. When next he spoke, it was as if his words came from the sky itself.
“All units, position A-V. Unit captains, command from here.” Almost immediately, his unit was behind him, and he felt them snap into place as a smaller version of the original “V.” Damian quickly led the way once again as his unit splintered off in another direction. The single blade inside the werewolf horde instantly broke, and ten, smaller, blades burst from it. Each of them went in a different direction, and each cut a swathe in their way, leaving werewolf and vampire bodies behind them. No matter how many they killed, however, the uncounted masses of the werewolves barely seemed to diminish in the slightest. When he felt that they had once again reached their destination, roughly in the north-west quadrant of the werewolf army, he spun past an attack, hamstrung his opponent, and then called out in an unaided voice to his own unit.
“Position O.”
As he exchanged a quick flurry of attacks with a werewolf, ending with him stabbing it through the foot, the thigh, and then through a kidney, he saw his unit form around him. They fleshed out the area around them, and eventually they became a perfect circle. It was filled within, just as ordered, and only a dozen werewolves were killed trying to leap into it and becoming impaled before they stopped attempting to do so altogether. The other squads had either done so already, or were very close to doing so, and soon the ten blades had morphed into ten spinning globs of black inside the sea of brown. Even as he bifurcated an over-zealous werewolf, Damian heard the affirming shouts of the other squads inside his head and smiled. A werewolf tried to leap down on him, but Damian knelt to the ground and shoved the bottom of his spear into it. The werewolf saw what was happening, but it was in the air, and had no way of changing its course. It slammed into the tip of the spear with its crotch, and continues to fall down it until the blade came out right next to its neck. Damian pulled out his sword and slashed the werewolf four or five times before engaging another one.
The first part of the plan was finished, and now all he had to do was survive. It was a prospect that seemed less and less possible as the night wore on, but at least eventually he was able to rip his spear from the spine of the werewolf after reducing it to mush through the course of several minutes. It was slippery, but that was fixed after only a few more minutes of battle.
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“Well, it seems that your Damian has performed his part to perfection, Darius. It was such a wonderful choice for you to make.” Saphira stood at the edge of the valley with all of the other tactical leaders, and although she was among them, it was clear to all that she was of a different class. Her long hair fell straight behind her, and her closely-melded armor glistened in the moonlight. In her hand was the same sword that pierced Galstryx’s heart more than a century ago, and her eyes flashed with anticipation of the kill as it had not in decades. She was an imposing figure, and the only one who compared to her was the male at her side.
Vladimir stood beside her with his hands by his side. He stood as if her complete opposite, with his long robe. It was black, as was expected, and had slits up the front, back, and sides. Under it could be seen leather leggings made from werewolf skin. He had no visible weapon, which made him all the more menacing, as no enemy who had seen his weapons lived. He looked to the side at Saphira before ending Darius’ fuming silence. “Yes, that he has. Now it is time for the battle to truly begin. We must strike now, while the werewolves are still without unity. Once they stop mulling about and attack the enemy within, our forces will start to greatly deplete.” He turned to Skull.
“Right, right.” Next to those two striking figures, Skull looked very diminutive, and he had adopted an uncharacteristic hunch when around them. Still, when he closed his eyes, he straightened unconsciously, and he looked every bit the leader of the necromancers. When he opened his eyes again, his skeletal features pulled back in a ghastly grin. “It is done. Now all of my people know of our plan. We will begin the invocation shortly.”
Othniel, who just happened to be around, since Sophitia was around to facilitate the discussions in case anything went wrong, wondered what they were talking about. He also wanted to with Damian and Vincent at that moment, fighting in the battle, but once again Damian had prevailed upon him to stay in camp and become Sophitia’s official guard. He even went so far as to officially relieve him of his duty to fight in the battle. Had it been anyone else, whether Damian telling him to stay behind or Sophitia with whom he had to stay, he would have flatly refused it, but this he just simply did not have the will to. They must have known he had no choice too, and now here he was, far away from his friends, while they fought and possibly died. ‘Damn I’m worthless.’
“Yep.” Sophitia replied. Then, without giving him room to reply, she spoke again. “In answer to your wondering about what we’re doing, all of the necromancers will chant the Spell of Invocation at once. The result should be quite interesting.”
“Why?” Othniel was, for the moment, distracted from his worthlessness.
“Because for a very long time—even before the werewolves were created—the vampires have been bringing the bodies of their victims here en masse, and as of today, it is the greatest burial ground in all of the continent.” Her eyes gleamed, and her head tilted down with a smile of malevolence.
It took just a moment for it to sink into Othniel, and when it did, he almost laughed. “So that’s why Vladimir—”
“Exactly, now be quiet, doing this in complete unison is going to be trying on all of us.” Her head bent down and she began speaking in an unknown dialect as her hands shifted and her fingers carved furrows in the air before her. At the exact moment she finished, a tangible wave of…something, blew past Othniel and swept down the hill towards the warriors there. Now Othniel grinned.
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Bryce, along with the one hundred first class werewolves specifically selected by the werewolf King to fight with him, felt the wave of magical energy even though they were on the opposite side of the Great Plain and behind the trees. They were all standing, waiting. A spell had been put up by Ghost late that morning, and those first class werewolves who could still use magic—about five—were working with him to uphold it. As long as the spell was up and none of them moved outside of its parameters, none would notice them, even if they searched for magic. That was the beauty of Ghost’s greatest magic. It was almost not magic at all, but rather simply a bending of reality.
Bryce had been standing silent, watching the ramifications of the vampires’ earlier attempts at strategy and, while seeing how what they were doing was right, knew that they would not last. He had honestly just been waiting for the vampires’ true plan to come into effect and when he felt the power flow over him, he knew it was there. It was obvious that all, whether vampire or werewolf, fighting or immobile, felt the power, but only a few knew what it meant. Even Bryce could not know what was happening, until he saw the dots of white begin to show, and even then for a while nothing made sense.
The vampires were still black spots in a flowing ring of brown, but once the power flew over the field, little specks of white began to shoot up all around. Some came up right in the middle of the werewolves, and some in the middle of the vampires, but soon it was obvious that there was great planning, as the vast majority appeared outside the ring created by the werewolves. A large band of white shot up and surrounded the brown ring as thousands and thousands of skeletons tore their way from the ground, grabbed for weapons, and then charged as one. Even as the first wave attacked the werewolves, another formed behind them and charged as well.
At first, they caught the werewolves by complete surprise, as they were unnervingly silent, but once they discovered what was happening, a large howl erupted, and those who were not directly fighting the vampires turned outward to battle the undead all around them. They tore the undead in pieces, many times killing two or more with every attack, but the undead simply continued coming, and soon the black and brown mural of battle became interspersed with streaks of white as the sheer numbers of the undead broke through at places.
‘Skeletons, but that means… Necromancers.’ The existence of necromancers in Darkovia had always been an issue of contest between the vampire slayers, and especially between Bryce and Dejan. Sometimes they had come so close to discovering them, but nothing substantial had come up. Now he could tell with his own eyes. If Dejan were alive, he would be gloating and wagging his large beard in delight.
The King growled when he understood. “Ah, so Vladimir has shown his true colors. I always knew that bastard would try something.”
“Orders sir?” One of the first classes asked.
“We join the fray. We’ll charge into those undead bastards, kill all of the vampires, then lead a spearhead straight into the vampire’s camp.” The King’s eyes reflected bloodlust, but before he could sprint forward, Bryce caught him at the shoulder. He turned and looked at Bryce in astonished anger.
“What are you doing, Deathfang?”
“Sire,” Bryce spoke quickly, half afraid of dying right then. “I know of that plain. I, being an elf, have lived for hundred of years, and the trees and animals have long spoken of a place where there is an immeasurable amount of dead. This is that place, and, as impossible as it sounds, if we were to join the fight, it would be just what Vladimir wants. If we are not destroyed, then at least our momentum will be lost and we will be worn down until Vladimir releases some other powerful device of his. Let us instead attack the camp of the vampires. They do not sense us, so we may at least begin to charge them before they can react. All of the necromancers are in that base, and they are the ones keeping the skeletons alive. They are weak in battle, and each of them is worth hundreds of undead.”
The King only thought for a moment. “How do you know this?”
“I have seen it, Sire.” For the first time, the King saw Bryce’s empty sockets. Even as the King thought, however, Bryce looked up into the sky and saw disturbing movements of life. Something else was coming, and he did not want to be in the battle when it came. For just a moment he sent out a mental image and got two responses.
‘Nightwing, I have a feeling something bad is coming from the sky, could you try to stop it?’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Nightwing was near him, but this way was faster.
‘Are you ready Minotaurs?’
‘We will charge with you, master.’ They had been camped close to the army this entire time, and Bryce had secured royal protection for them.
“Very well, we will attack them, and break Vladimir’s deceitful strategy in two. Are you with me, Lyke, Rhave, my people?”
There was a loud response as the hundred first class warriors, the Silver Manes, and the Lycanthropes howled and charged. Out into the open. Once the King passed the barrier, all of the forces were shown, and began running with all of their strength along the rim of the valley. They ran around the battle, and headed straight for the enemy camp.
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Othniel could not hide his pleasure at seeing the werewolves in confusion, trying to fight without and within at the same time. They were already splintered within by the elite force of the vampires, and now the blunt attack of the undead from the outside was proving to be too much. Still, it was far too close of a battle. The werewolves fought like trapped animals, and their ferocity was beginning to overcome their panic of being trapped. They needed one more push to make victory inevitable.
Amazingly, Othniel saw that the Patriarch was thinking the same. He turned to Dimitrious, who had stood by silently for the entirety of the battle, and beckoned him forward. “Dimitrious, are they here?”
Dimitrious walked forward. “Yes, they are all prepared, and they wait only your command, master.”
“Have them attack.”
Dimitrious looked up and his eyes turned white for a moment, then the sky darkened with clouds, and the moon was completely covered. When it came out again, the clouds were swirling about one another as if caught in a maelstrom. The eye of the storm spun even faster than the rest, and eventually was sucked back from them. When it came back, the entirety of the clouds went away from it, and only a pit of pure darkness was where it had been. Immediately, demons burst from the hole and filled the sky with their red bodies. They flowed forth from the hole at an alarming rate, and once they were in the sky they dived down at the battle below them. The mural of battle soon spun around with a swirl of red from above, and the demons did everything in their power to wreak havoc. They flew with their distorted wings and swung their nefarious weapons about them in abandon, hacking and slashing at will.
Now the werewolves were very hard pressed. They were cracked from within, smashed from without, and harried from above. Almost one thousand had already died, and that meant only four thousand remained. That sounded like a large amount, and indeed it was, but at the same time the werewolves were beginning to be afraid once again. Their morale was beginning to weaken, and an army with no will to fight, be they beast or human, was a defeated army. This battle was going decidedly bad for them.
But it was at that moment that a loud caucus of roars split the air, and the noise of it was almost as tangible as the wave of magic from before. It fell over the werewolf army, and they regained their spirits. They once again began to fight as if nothing were wrong, ripping bodies apart and laughing, even in the face of their untenable position. They knew what would happen, and the vigor of their comrades was a stronger drug than bloodlust. It drove them on greater than any hope. This battle was not over yet.
As if to prove their determination well founded, the group of first classes and other assorted creatures of death were already at least half of the way to the vampires’ camp. The vampire camp itself was filled with frantic movement as they tried to prepare for some sort of a defense. It was not long at all before hundred of skeletons began sprouting from the ground in front of them, but nothing was stopping them.
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Despite himself, Bryce was definitely having fun. Although he did think it was too easy, he just could not deny the satisfaction given by mowing through dozen of undead with his sword. All of the others were having as little effort, and some were even laughing. Above them, Nightwing flew and batted demons from the air. They were like gnats to him, and his tail, claws, and head brought many of them to their deaths, but they kept flowing from the portal. With one breath, he blew blackness over a large group of them as he flew by, and when the darkness precipitated, their bodies fell to the ground in pieces.
Honestly, Bryce did not even have to do much, since his loyal Minotaurs had formed a protective circle around him, and they did not even slow as they bashed through the skeletons. None of the werewolves, slowed, and they were almost to the vampires’ camp. He could already see the vampires and necromancers scrambling around in panic. This would be a slaughter.
But even as he came within a stone’s throw of the camp, figures began falling from the sky among them, landing like small meteorites and wasting no time in startingt to kill. They looked like large Werebats of a sort, and they were insanely strong. One in particular, landed down right on a first class and tore her arms off before grabbing her head and crushing it between his hands. Despite their strength, however, they were few in number, and were outnumbered at least four-to-one by the werewolves’ most elite warriors and allies. They could not stop all of them, and none hindered Bryce and his Minotaurs as they continued on.
Just when he began looking for a good target, he saw a huge white form fly up and head into the air. On further inspection, he saw that it was a completely skeletal dragon, and he saw it fly straight for Nightwing and clash with him. Bryce followed the trail of the undead dragon down to one specific necromancer who looked very strange. He wore black, like all of the others, but his face looked more like a skull than anything else. “Looks important.” Bryce headed after him instantly.
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Lyke, the leader of the Silver Manes, was having fun, and had to laugh with glee as he shoved his fist into the chest of one of those Werebats and ripped out its heart. It tasted so delicious, and he could feel the thrill of the hunt flow through his entire body. This had to have been his third, and they kept tasting better. They were strong, sure, but he was the leader of a superior group of werewolves, there was no way any bat could destroy him. He was war and death incarnate.
Another bat charged him, but just when it shot forward with help of its wings, he dodged to the side. As the attack went past him, he swung his hand down and cut the arm in two. The bat did not stop, but turned and struck with its other arm, which Lyke grabbed with one of his hands before sending the bat flying back by smashing his palm into its chest. It fell to the ground, and he still held on to its arm for a second before taking a bite from it and throwing it away. Now it had no arms, but it still tried to stand and kick at him. He laughed and stalked towards it, intent on getting his fourth kill of the night, but then another bat stepped between them, and immediately, Lyke knew this was no ordinary one.
“What is your name?” Lyke asked, wiping the blood from his chin.
“N’colto. I am the leader of my people, and I am here to stop your slaughter of them, Luke, leader of the Silver Manes.”
Without bothering with a reply, Lyke lunged forward. His knife-like claws led him, like blades pointing at their opponent before goring him. N’colto ducked under the lightning-fast strike and kicked out, shoving its feet claws deep into Lyke’s stomach and pulling him towards it with the leverage of the feet. Growling, Lyke grabbed the leg with both hands, digging his claws into it, and picked the bat up and into the air before slamming it to the ground on the other side.
N’colto sprang back and managed to get its leg away from Lyke. Once it was back, it went straight forward again, its right cross catching Lyke off guard and almost breaking his jaw. He had never felt a punch as strong as the one that smashed into him, and for a moment he felt fear, but then he shattered that fear with blind rage. He retaliated and punched N’colto as hard as he could in the gut, causing it to stagger back, then kicked it to the side. N’colto fell to the ground, but was back up instantly. Even as fast as it was, however, Lyke was already above it, and he flashed his fangs as he slammed N’colto to the ground with both of his hands. He was on top of N’colto almost before he knew it, and he began raining blows on it with a speed and ferocity he had never used before. N’colto placed its hands on its head in an attempt to block the attacks with its arms, but Lyke’s fists kept coming down with unequaled strength. Soon, a small grave was dug simply from his attacks, and the two of them were several feet under. Still he kept attacking, shouting profanities and unintelligible words of anger. His eyes were completely black, and spit flew from his mouth and pooled on the ground around them.
This bat had tried to challenge him. Him! He was crushing it now, just like all of the others, and just like all those in the future. He would destroy them all. “I will destroy them all!” The roar sounded from his throat.
So intent was he on destroying his opponent, in fact, that he even threw three more punches after his head had been grabbed by N’colto’s feet and torn from his body. In the end, however, his headless body fell to the ground, and N’colto, his arms hanging limp by his side and his chest filled with large holes, ripped out his heart with his feet, sitting to eat it. He looked around after his eyes had reformed, and saw that he and his troops had delayed the werewolves just enough. The vampires and necromancers had set up an almost-suitable defense, and now he and his people were done in their task. He called the retreat, and he and ten others, all that was left of his race, flew from battle into the sky. He had seen the problem, and had done his best to solve it. His part was done.
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The weird-looking necromancer must have seen Bryce coming, because as soon as he was within fifty feet of him, skeletons began flowing from him and materializing between the two of them. At first glance, it was obvious that these were not the regular kind of skeletons. They were all deformed in various ways, and it was clear that they would be more dangerous. By the time Bryce and his minotaurs reached them they were fully formed, and the two sides clashed like small armies. At first, the minotaurs burst through the skeletons, although a few were killed by strange traps inside the skeletons, but when they were about halfway, they were slowed, and eventually ground to a halt.
Just like with the larger battle, these skeletons kept flowing from the necromancer, and it seemed that there was only one way to stop them. He grit his fangs, told Brokenhoof to keep fighting, then pulled his large sword from his back and leapt in the air straight at the necromancer. Only then did he notice the last skeleton to emerge, with four bodies, eight legs, eight arms, and four axes. The necromancer smiled and the ribcages of the skeleton’s bodies burst apart. Long, whip-like appendages shot from them, with two coming straight at him and two whipping towards him from the side. Bryce ignored the two coming straight, and only grunted when they rammed into his torso. The other two, however, he did have to worry about. He shoved his sword straight down in front of him and held it with both hands and all of his strength. When the two came around, they struck the sword first, and then hit each other with a loud snap.
As planned, the two bone whips simply cut into Bryce’s body instead of slicing him in half as the necromancer had obviously intended. While still in the air, Bryce felt his skin harden around the four whips and knew they were held tight. He was about to pull the skeleton towards him when it spun on its axis and yanked him from the air with all of its whips. While reeling him towards it, it let its axes swing wide, and in moments they looked like one long, circular blade around it. Bryce grabbed one of the whips with his hand and spun himself around. His great strength counteracted the taughtness of the whips, and they bent around him as he spun and brought his sword around.
He ended his strange spin just slightly to the side of the skeleton and swung his sword out even as the axes spun towards him. The defining factor of the exchange was Bryce’s reach. His arm was longer than theirs, and his sword was far longer, so their bodies were separated from their legs, and all the received was a deeply cut chest. His rib and lung quickly began to heal, however, and he ran at the necromancer, who was at this moment trying to perform an extremely difficult spell. The necromancer saw Bryce as he lunged for him, and in an instant he canceled his spell and spun towards him. His stuck both of his hands out, and spouted off some word right as Bryce pierced him through with his sword. A large force shot through him when he pierced the necromancer, and in that same instant, Bryce felt his chest collapse inside itself.
Still, his heart was fine, as the necromancer had to fire at the last second, and Bryce swiftly overcame the pain to jerk his sword and cut the necromancer almost in half as his weapon left his body. Bryce looked down at the crumpled heap of a man in front of him, then turned to see all of the skeletons he had been fighting, as well as at least six hundred of those in the main battle, fall to the ground and disintegrate. He smiled to himself, a few more of those kills and this battle could turn quite swiftly. It was only then that he looked down and saw a huge hole in his chest. Blood was spurting out from it, and when he bent forward, he could see his beating heart just off to the side.
Even while he looked, though, the flesh began to grow around the troubled area, and Bryce knew that it would only be a minute at most before he was completely healed. He was about to run at the camp again, when he saw something black out of the corner of his eye, and reflexively stepped to the side and brought his sword up to guard. His reflexes served him well, as he felt his sword clash metal with another weapon and saw an Other vampire fly past him. It passed him and stopped only ten feet away. When it turned back, he saw that it looked quite similar to Damian, except that its horns went straight forward then curved back behind its back. It held two swords in its hands, and the look on its face was a mixture of anger and superiority.
It made no change of expression, and spoke nothing, but somehow Bryce knew it was about to attack. Its wings twitched, and then it was right in front of him, swings its swords at him with blinding speed. Bryce quickly backpedaled, knowing that this was short burst, and that the vampire would not be able to keep it up forever. He kept both hands on his sword for greater control, and found that in that stance he did not need very much strength to stop the attacks. Still, even with his greater control and strength, Bryce was hard pressed to keep up with the vampires’ double attacks, and it was giving no sign of stopping anytime soon.
Then, in a way Bryce could not understand, the battle went from being fierce to being deadly in the space of two seconds. The vampires swung his swords from both sides at once, and Bryce had to block one with one arm and the other with his blade. He realized once the sword in his arm barely scratched it that the attack was only a fake, and the vampire was crouched low with both of his arms close to his body. He sprung forward, with his sword pointed straight at Bryce’s exposed heart. Bryce’s arms were too far up to completely block the attack, but he did manage to slap the swords down so that they entered into his stomach.
He could feel them stab through his intestines and break out the other side of his body, but the pain only drove him on. He drew his sword back, reconnected his other hand to the hilt, and swung out in a vicious counter attack. The vampire pulled his blades straight out and leapt back, but it did not count on Bryce leaping after it. While still in flight, the two of them exchanged blows at an astounding rate. This time around, Bryce was able to use most of his power in each of his strikes, and the vampire had to use both of his swords to counter the blows. Had he used all of his power, Bryce knew for a fact that the vampire would not be able to block his strikes, but that would also slow him down, and he knew that the vampire was only waiting for him to give it an opening.
He knew that this vampire was strong, and guessed that, either this was no normal Other vampire, or that all of them were this strong. He seriously hoped that the former was true, as he had many hard fights ahead of him if it was the latter. The wounds in his chest, both in his ribs, the two holes were the whips had stuck him, the two gashes where the other two had cut into him, and the large hole the necromancer had blown in him, hurt, but from some reason the two that had stabbed through his intestines burned like hell. He wondered why they were not healing, or at least starting to, like all of the others, and it was only then that he took a good look at the vampires swords. They were Wolfsbane.
Then their respective leaps ended, and the vampire wasted no energy landing forward and shooting its head straight at Bryce. Its horns came straight at him, and the vampire grinned when he felt the thud of bone meeting snout. When he tried to pull back, however, he could not, and when he frantically swung both of his arms out from both sides, they were caught.
Bryce laughed hollowly, and clamped down his jaws on the horns he had caught in his teeth. His jaw had torn a bit, bit it was healing quickly, and after just a few moments pressure, the horns between his teeth broke apart. Bryce lifted the vampire into the air by his arms, then let go of one and grabbed the other with both of his hands. Using his grip, he slammed the vampire to the ground and got on top of him, pulling his small sword from its sheath as he did. He lifted the blade above the vampire, but then, for the first time, it spoke.
“Wait! I am Darius. I am the general of the vampire armies, and you can ransom me for a great fortune.” Even as fear was all over his face, his tail slowly rose from behind Bryce, and a large bone protruded from the tip of it like the stinger of an insect. It aimed itself directly at Bryce’s heart, but stopped in its tracks when Damian shoved the sword down into the vampire’s head. The head split in half, and the tail fell limply to the ground.
“I am Bryce, vampire slayer, and I don’t give a damn.” Bryce saw Darius’ one last eye widen in surprise before all went dark for the general. Bryce ripped out his heart and ate it as he watched the rest of the battle. The first class werewolves were in the camp already, and were slaughtering at will. Many skeletons were disintegrating from the battlefield as their masters were cut down, but Bryce could still not see where the battle was headed. He let go of his eyes and saw the battle with his other sight. The vampire leaders had wisely amassed their forces in the middle of camp in the time it had taken the werewolves to overrun the werebats, and they were holding their own, at least for the moment. All of those not in the main battle, however, were doomed a very horrible death.
Bryce casually flicked his eyes over the battlefield, and then saw something that made his heart quicken. “E.” He whispered. How he wanted to fight alongside his brothers, but at the moment, reverting to any other form would mean his death, and he was only alive now because of the heart he had eaten. His holes were just beginning to really stitch themselves together, and his two stab wounds had not even started. He resolved to wait until he was rested to battle. “Soon my brothers, soon.” He swore, as his minotaurs formed a protective circle around him.
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From their elevated position, it was clear that the werewolves were wreaking havoc throughout the vampires’ camp, but it was hard to make out quite what was happening. There was general slaughter, as all of the mythically powerful beasts spread from their one point of entry like a plague and, at one point, almost seemed to disperse into singular units. When they all heard one load roar, however, they stopped their bloody revelries and converged towards the middle, where it could be seen that the King and Queen were heading with a group of their best warriors. Further inspection saw Safiria and Vladimir with what appeared to be their personal guards and many militiamen at the center. This moment was exactly what E had been waiting for.
“I’m coming for you, Christine.” He whispered.
The captain of the paladins shifted from watching the battle. “What was that, E?”
“Ah,” E smiled and shook his head. “Nothing, let’s begin our attack.”
Both the vampire slayer and the paladin armies charged from their hiding place in the woods and into the clearing. They ran down the slope and prepared to join the battle, as if it could get any more complicated.
As she charged towards the camp, Serenade found herself running right next to Triplecorpse Hammerblow and Jacque. The latter of the two looked over at her and grinned mischievously.
“Have not a care, child. Stay close to us and we will ensure that you escape from this dreadful engagement with your life intact. Is that not correct, Triplecorpse?”
Triplecorpse grunted his reply, and to accentuate his point, he drew his hammer by its head from the leather strap on his back.
Serenade smiled her thanks. “Well, thank you, but I’m no ones prey, and I need no protecting.”
Jacque stared at her with a different eye than before, and even Triplecorpse spared at look her way. “Very well lass, have it your way.”
Halfway to the battlefield, both armies split in two, with half of each going to the main battle and half heading to the vampires’ camp. Serenade was right in the middle, and was about to head to the main fight, but Jacque grabbed her arm and kept her with him. The three of them went straight forward, and eventually they were inside the camp. At first, Serenade saw only a few of the races they were battling, and most of those were dead, but as they got closer to the center of the camp, they became more and more numerous. When they finally burst into the large space at the center, she saw why E and the two men with her had gone here.
The scene before them was a swirling melee of vampires, vampire slayers, paladins, werewolves, skeletons, and demons. They fought with ferocity born of age-old hatred, and the knowledge that whichever side lost would not walk away from this battle. There was no honor in their fights, no duels between warriors, but rather simple carnage. A fighter would vanquish his foe to be impaled from behind by another, who would move on to another and be killed. None were safe, save for the Matriarch and Patriarch. They stood in the middle of the battle, and a large circle of space surrounded them. Whether it was conscious or unconscious, none dared enter that circle, and all fought around it.
Then, however, there was a loud roar, and the amount of first class werewolves in the area greatly increased before the King and Queen entered the clearing. They did not bother with any other fighters, and none were foolish enough to attack them, so they swiftly made their way to the center, where Safiria and Vladimir waited for them. They faced off for just a moment, Vladimir, with still no weapon visible, against the King, who drew a black two-handed axe from his belt; and Safiria, with her fabled silver sword, against the Queen, who held two strange-looking swords. For a moment, they stood motionless, but then as one they moved.
The King leapt forward and lifted his axe into the air with both of his hands. He was right above Vladimir, who did not move until the King brought his weapon down. The axe slammed down with such strength and speed that it seemed like it could cut through the earth itself. Just when it began to go down, however, Vladimir morphed into his Other form, sprouting four wings and numerous horns that curved about his head like an elaborate crown, and suddenly had two objects in his hands. He locked his hands together, and only when they stopped was it obvious that he had two four-pronged hand claws. The axe hit down onto the two hand claws with strength enough to make all feel it, even those only watching, and even though the bars of steel between the axe and Vladimir’s hands stopped the blade from cleaving him in half, he was still hard pressed to keep the King from overcoming him. For a moment, they were locked together, but then Vladimir’s arms began to slowly lower, and the King grinned.
Vladimir grinned back, and then he was not there. His two hand blades fell to the ground, and after them came the King’s axe, which seemed to shake the earth when it hit it. The King looked around and barely saw Vladimir leaping all around. He used his four wings to great advantage, bouncing himself at speeds almost too great for even the king himself to perceive. Vladimir leapt low and slid under the King to grab his strange hand weapons again, and the battle between them began in earnest. The King fought with greater strength than any other before him had, and yet his technique was also to be marveled at. Vladimir fought with speed greater than any other before him had, and although his strength was inferior to the King’s, it was not overwhelmingly so.
The battle between Safiria and the Queen was already in place, and the two of them danced together with even more finesse than their consorts had shown. The Queen had shown why her swords looked strange in the first moments when she had jabbed out with both of them and their blades went sailing at Safiria. Her two segmented whip swords had almost taken Safiria by surprise and ended her life there, but she had dodged down and charged forward. Now they battled very close to one another, with Safiria looking like a banner blowing in the wind, or a mountain stream. She never stayed in one position for too long, but constantly shifted into the next strike as if she had seen everything beforehand and knew what move she would be using hours from now. Every attack and defense she used with her single sword looked like it was completely spontaneous, and yet also like she had choreographed it beforehand.
The Queen, who was in her normal form to make full use of her speed, was able to keep up with Safiria and counter her disturbing style with her two whip swords. They wove around her, and she looked to be dancing more than fighting. Sometimes she closed her eyes and just let the swords spin about her in flowing spirals of death broken for moments by swift lines of stabbing motion.
Serenade fought with all of the other normal warriors, but even she could tell that all of the other fighting was only half-serious. They were truly paying attention to the foursome in the middle of them, and any serious fighting was impossible when shown the face of such purely awe-inspiring power.
Then, one other figure entered the circle, and Serenade gasped when she saw that E was there. His large, glowing sword, the Sword of Office, was in his hand, and all of the opponents behind him were disintegrating even before they died. He stared at the battle before him, and then stuck his sword into the air. It pulsed with a powerful light, then sprayed rays almost as powerful as those of the sun over the battle. For just a moment, the entire diorama was brightened until it looked to be day. Those beings of the night closest to him instantly evaporated into air, but the fierce light flowing from the sword momentarily blinded almost all of them, even the humans.
The light ended momentarily, and when it did E ran towards where Vladimir and the King, the only ones save the Queen and Safiria to not be blinded still fought. He swung himself into their fierce battle with abandon, and the already powerful display of a duel became a truly dazzling event of a three-fighter brawl. E fit perfectly into the mix, and he completely countered both of his opponents with his own style. He fought with such perfect technique that he looked like he had come straight out of a teaching manual. Every step, every attack, and every block was executed perfectly, and there was no flaw at all to be found within him. His sword glowed with just enough light to make it hard to watch for long periods of time, and he was almost as fast as Vladimir was.
Had the King and Vladimir chosen to battle E together at that moment, he would have been easily slain, but they did not have to worry only about him and his deadly sword, which had slain many before even cutting them. At every opportunity, they would attack one another, then attack E. The fight could have lasted for years, and Serenade found that she was no longer fighting, but watching them. In fact, the beautiful battle more than likely could have kept her attention even if it had lasted until the ends of time, but at that moment her attention was stolen by two figures walking up to her, Triplecorpse, and Jacque.
The first was a huge, red werewolf, and she recognized it as Blood, the strongest of the generals in the King’s army. The second was a small human. He was short even by human standards, and so next to that giant, he looked positively miniscule. They had a single purpose, and they walked up to the three of them with it in mind. Blood spoke first.
“Well, this is lucky for me. You’re just the two I wanted to find.” He laughed. “We were destined to fight. It was written in the stars, human warrior. Let us continue what we started earlier, only this time I brought along Rhave to make sure that your own friends do not interfere.”
Triplecorpse brought his hammer in front of him and saluted. He walked up to meet the gigantic warrior, and while he did, the small man by Blood’s side walked past him to form up with Serenade and Jacque. He smiled at the condescending looks they gave him, and spoke. His voice sounded nasally, but there was an undercurrent of ferocity that immediately put Serenade on edge.
“Apparently, neither of you have met a Lycanthrope before. Well, after tonight I’m sure you’ll never forget us.” His last words were a broken snarl, and he howled as his face broke into a snout. His body soon followed suit, but instead of staying standing, he went of all fours. His hands and feet became paws, and his tailbone protruded into a bushy tail. He had turned into a wolf, which would not have been so bad had he not been six feet from paw to shoulder, four feet from shoulder to shoulder, and fourteen feet from tail to snout.
“Oh, this will be fun.” Jacque lied.
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Damian was worried. The plan had sounded perfect inside the pavilion, and at first he had actually believed that they would win the battle and he would live if only he kept to the plan. Now, however, it was obvious that the plan was no longer operative. The werewolves had somehow seen through the immediate battle before them, and had outflanked the vampires. Thanks to their counter offensive, the once-despairing werewolf army was now regaining its morale. Every necromancer slain made dozens, and sometimes hundreds, of skeletons fall lifeless to the ground, and from the looks of the skeletons, the werewolves were cutting necromancers down at a prodigious rate. With the threat of the skeletons lessening, and the attacks of the demons lessened considerably by that weredragon, the werewolves were turning inwards once again. They focused all of their strength on the ten units inside them, and the vampires were feeling the pressure.
Three werewolves with spears ran at Damian, and they took turns consecutively stabbing at him. He stood his ground in the face of their advance, and moved his hands in swift cuts and swats to defeat each of their attacks by slapping the sides, top, and bottom of their shafts and stealing their momentum. When the one on Damian's right took a chance and stabbed out with his spear in one hand, twisting his body and throwing out his arm for full extension, Damian switched from defensive to offensive. He turned his body to the right and slammed the spear's shaft into the other two, stopping them from attacking as well, and then let go of his spear with one hand. His weapon snapped down like a sprung spring, and the blade sliced down the werewolf's face. Its eye was sliced in two, but it was still alive. Disregarding it, Damian faked a lunge at the two left, but then ducked down when they stabbed reflexively. One recovered in time, but the other lagged, and so Damian chose that one and shot himself from his crouched position into its gut. His spear stabbed through its intestines before he pulled it out, stabbed it through a lung, and then slit its throat.
He was inches away from its face as they fell together to the ground, and he saw the light leave its eyes. In those same eyes, however, he saw the last werewolf raising its spear to stab down into him. He quickly rolled off of the werewolf, and waited until he heard the wet thud of the spear entering the body before he got to his feet and ran towards the werewolf, who had stabbed his spear into the spine of the other, and just pulled the spear out when Damian's own entered his body through the collarbone and exited just under the last rib. He knew that the last werewolf, its eye still hanging from one of its sockets, was going to attack him, and he also knew that he would not be able to pull his spear out in time. Still, he calmly put his foot on the shoulder of the werewolf and proceeded to slowly tear the spear from it. The werewolf snarled, but just before it was about to lunge it stiffened, then fell to its knees as Vincent ended his slash to its spine. He stabbed into its back to finish it off just as Damian pulled his spear out.
“Didn't have to save you.” Vincent smiled distantly.
“Of course, but you did anyway.” Damian wiped his spear on the cloth of the werewolf he had just killed.
Another of the thousands of werewolves charged Vincent from behind, only to have its weapon bashed to the side as he spun around and struck it with his own. He followed by ramming his shield into its face and then pivoting back around and digging his sword into its flesh. Another swung at him with an axe, and he blocked it with his shield before kicking out its knees and stabbing it through the mouth.
After that, for just a moment, there were no werewolves particularly interested in Damian, so he was allowed to give all of his attention to the problem at hand, and that was what they would to about the quickly deteriorating battle. Even as he thought, however, he felt the mental scream inside his mind that meant one of the ten units' circle had been breached. It meant that either werewolves had broken through the outer defenses, or that the vampires' numbers had been so depleted that there was a hole in the middle where the werewolves could finally jump inside and fight from the inside out. Regardless, once the circle of that position was broken, it was only a matter of time before all of the vampires in the unit were caught and slaughtered.
After a quick search through the links in their minds, Damian discovered that it was one of the newest units that had broken, and that their leader had already been slain, which was why the circle had been breached in the first place. Most of the other units were functioning properly, but a few—also the newer ones—were struggling, and one other was already on the verge of collapsing. 'Something must be done.' As if to accentuate his point, the other unit broke apart, and when Damian turned to look he saw its captain take flight in his Other form in an attempt to get away. Unfortunately, a dark shape flew from the ground and latched onto him. The werewolf stayed stuck to him, and as he struggled to gain altitude, another jumped from the ground onto him, then another, and another. Eventually, he sank back to the ground, and his screaming voice was silenced from the connection.
Only eight units were left now, and more and more they were struggling. Even Damian's unit was having problems staying secure, and now he and Vincent were battling fiercely with all of the others in order to keep it that way. The two of them fought in perfect unison, and all of the werewolves that met them fell within seconds. Still, they could not fight the war alone, and even as they killed the last two of a group of five, Damian heard another scream as a third unit was broken. He was shocked when this came through, as it was Julius' unit that had been broken. Julius' voice still echoed in his mind, even though it was clear his unit was being torn apart, but it was obvious that he had only minutes at most before he was torn down by sheer numbers.
The fact that it was an established unit that had fallen, not a new one, shook Damian more than he could understand, and it solidified his resolve to carry out the plan forming in his head. Using his magically-empowered voice, he shouted to his unit.
“Unit seven, position A, but fill it in. Point towards unit eight.”
Slowly, the circle his unit was in formed into a lopsided triangle, with the inside filled with warriors. He and Vincent were at the tip of the triangle, and they were pointed straight for Valdivai and her unit. “Fight towards unit eight!” Damian yelled and began moving forward while fighting. He felt his unit moving behind him and eventually he was running forward, paying only minimal attention to those enemies that confronted him. They would charge him constantly, and he would bash them to the side with his spear and dash past them. Some he killed, others he maimed, and some he simply deflected their blows and ran past them, trusting another to finish them. Eventually, the warriors facing him lost their singularity and the flood of fur and steel seemed never ending before him. At some point, he knew not exactly when, his body simply took over. He gave it control, and it reacted to every danger instantly and lethally countering without him even having to think about it.
Just when he began to think that the army of werewolves really was never-ending, the warrior before him was not a werewolf, but a vampire, and Valdivai at that. The two of them exchanged glances as Damian wrested control of his body back to his mind, and she nodded her consent to his plan. Control of her unit was given over to him at that moment.
“Unit eight, join unit seven and head towards unit one!” Just then, a voice flashed over the captains' mind link, it was the captain of the first unit 'No need for that, Damian, focus on saving the other units before heading to mine.'
Damian did not understand why, as the first unit was in the middle of the battle, occupying the lowest of the valley, and was taking the heaviest casualties, but Damian had to obey.
“Fight to unit two!” his voice rang out. By then, the two units were completely merged, and they headed towards Samael and his unit, which was closest. This time, he had Valdivai at his one side as well as Vincent, and they began moving even faster than before. At that moment, Julius' voice was finally silenced. He had been the last of his unit left alive, and he had fought to the death without abandoning his unit. Even with the news that a captain had died, Damian still felt like this battle might actually be turning around. Still, only seven units were left now, and there was little time to try to save them all.
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Othniel and Sophitia were not feeling quite as optimistic as Damian at the moment. Othniel's sharp eyesight had caught the first classes coming far before any others, and he swiftly pointed out the problems to all of the them before proceeding to sight and begin sending out arrows as fast as he could. Though he could see that his arrows were hitting their targets, only one or two of them stumbled, and none fell. Recognizing the futility in his actions, and in those of others who were trying to slow the charge with their own arrows or blasts of magic—or necromancy, he had stopped with at least ten arrows left in his quiver. When the Chiroptera began landing, and for the first time the charge was moderately stalled, Othniel had grabbed Sophitia by the hand and ran back into the packs of tents that compromised their camp.
And now they were still running through the alleys between tents. Apparently, two first class werewolves had caught their scent from before, and were charging behind them. He could hear the werewolves laughing as they easily gained on their prey. The lane they were in ended in about fifty feet, and two split off from it, going left and right. When they reached it, Sophitia grabbed his hand.
“Quick, this way,” she gasped while leading him down the left path. The way quickly turned right once, and then ended abruptly. Othniel groaned and spun around, whipping out his bow in the process. His hand shot to his quiver, and for a moment it rested upon his prized possession, an arrow with a tip made from Wolfsbane. In a split-second decision, however, he passed over that arrow and wrapped his fingers around two arrows. He pulled them out and flexed his fingers to their greatest extend to keep the two of them facing straight as he aimed them down his bow. Just as he sighted down it, the first werewolf turned the corner, and he released the two arrows before shooting his hand back and grabbing another.
As he had guessed, the werewolf had one arm in front of its heart, and so one of his arrows stuck into its forearm. It began to laugh, but just then the second arrow buried itself into its left eye, and it bucked back in surprise. For just a moment, it lifted its arm , and Othniel was right there with his eye sighted down the shaft of his Wolfsbane arrow. He let it fly, and it turned over in the air once before passing through the werewolf's ribs and piercing its heart. The werewolf had time to growl as it felt the poison of the mettle course through its blood system, and then it fell to the ground.
Even as it died, however, the second one was leaping past it, and Othniel had no other arrows that could do anything save pain the beast. His basic instincts told him to run, as any prey with any sense would from a predator. Being charged by a being that was made to kill him was completely different than anything he had ever encountered. Always before he had a sense of superiority, or at least had the idea that, as long as he stayed alive for long enough he would be saved. Now, however, there was no chance of that, or of him actually defeating the beast that was attacking him at that moment. His only chance to live was to run; to run, and to hide. To survive.
He almost did run, but then he felt the presence of Sophitia behind him, and he knew that he could not. An instinct greater even than self preservation ran through him, and he drew his sword and dirk. 'I'm not Damian, but I'm not prey either.' He thought.
With a yell, Othniel leapt into the air at the first class. It was obviously surprised by his counter attack, and as such he was able to slash down with both of his weapons across its chest. He landed right in front of it and spun to the side, slashing a line on the front of its leg and coming around to bury his dirk into the side of its stomach. He saw stomach and intestinal juices flow from the wound, but the dirk in its side only served to distract the beast, and when it turned around it was angry. Othniel frantically dodged attacks that could have split him in half, but he knew that he woulds not be able to last very long.
Still, he knew that he could not let up. He had to keep on attacking and dodging, because the moment he stopped he would be dead, and moments after that he knew Sophitia would be dead as well. Just when he began to think of her, however, he saw white begin to flow from behind the werewolf, and knew that she must be doing something. He dodged one more time by rolling to the side, and finally saw what she had spent this time creating. In front of her were lined dozens of werewolf skeletons, and for some reason he just knew that they were the ones they had battled in the forest together.
The werewolf skeletons charged the first class and leapt onto its back and arms and legs. It was unprepared for an attack on this side, and stumbled under their weight. Othniel took this opportunity and lunged forward with his sword pointed directly at the werewolf's heart, but it smashed him away with one hand. He gasped as he felt his ribs crack and break, sending shards into his lungs and heart. When he hit the pole of a tent and fell to the ground, he could already tell that he was dying.
The werewolf could not pursue him, as the many werewolf skeletons had finally succeeded in bearing it to the ground. They pinned it down, and just as Othniel saw Sophitia's guardian walk up to it, activate a ward along the blade of its forearm, and then chop its arm down on the werewolf's neck, he felt the world go black, and his view faded.
'I guess it was worth it, as long as she is safe.' He accepted oblivion, but even when he resigned himself to death, and whatever else it held, he felt the light coming back to him, and when he could see again he saw Sophitia kneeling over him pouring the blood of a first class' heart into his mouth. When the blood was drained, she allowed him to eat the flesh, and he sighed as he felt the increase that surged though his body at becoming first class. He looked up at her face and smiled. She smiled back at him, but it was a moment before he realized that it was not one of her special smiles, and he did not understand exactly why she was smiling like that until she punched him in his still-healing ribcage. He yelled in pain and rolled on the ground until his ribcage was completely healed and he could breathe again.
She rolled him over and looked him in the eyes. “Don't ever use me as your reason for living.”
He smiled again. “Damn mindlink.” When he stood up, he felt how his body had changed and bounced up in the air a few times before retrieving his weapons. “So this is what first class feels like, huh? Now I've just got to get Damian to show me how to turn all ugly.”
Sophitia was busy dismissing her undead minions, and Othniel noticed that she had consumed a first class heart before she had saved him. “Yea, for you that would be an improvement.”
Othniel's witty retort was lost when Sophitia clamped her hand over his mouth and shoved him into the side of the tent. He had no idea what was happening until he looked where her eyes were glued and saw another werewolf walking along the lane they had come through. It was obvious that he noticed the dead first class with the arrows in its eye and heart, but he still went right instead. He was a very strange werewolf, as he had to have been a first class, but was in his normal form, and his fur was milky white. He also had a strange translucence, as if he would disappear if one stared at him too long.
Through their mindlink, he heard Sophitia say 'Ghost,' and he suddenly understood and recognized the werewolf sorcerer for what he was. He asked her if they should attack him, and her thoughts hesitated for a moment before she nodded instead of answering. He could tell that she was as scared as he was, but that she knew what they must do.
He quietly pulled an arrow from his quiver and wished that he had removed the Wolfsbane one from the body of the other first class. As it was, he fitted the arrow to his bow, crouched down, and silently turned the corner to see Ghost still slowly walking the opposite direction. Othniel drew the string of the bow back agonizingly slowly, and looked down the shaft of it. He knew that he could hit the old werewolf's heart.
'Now.' Sophitia's thought rang through his brain, and he released the arrow. It shot through the air, and was going directly towards Ghost's heart, but when it was about a foot away the air around him shimmered, and the arrow turned and flew around him before flying into one of the tents. Ghost turned and spoke as Damian gaped at him.
“You did not honestly think that I would come into a major battle without warding myself from foolish assassins who did not know the most basic laws of magic, did you?” His voice sounded like it was echoed back upon itself before reaching the hearer. He did not wait for a response, and even if he did, Othniel was far from capable of an intelligible reply at the moment. With a wave of his hand, green ethereal warriors floated up from the ground and stood in files before him. They were clothed in full battle array, and each had a sword and shield. When about twenty-five had formed, he sent them flowing above the ground towards the two of them.
“I got these thingies,” Othniel regained enough poise to say. “Can you take that guy?”
“Not without about ten minutes of preparation.” Her voice was shaky, and it was the first time he had seen her without a plan. For once she knew that her opponent was superior to her in every way.
“You know, your plans seem to always include long periods of preparation in which I get the crap beaten out of me.” Othniel knew that he did not have enough arrows to kill all of the specters, but even so he shot five at them just to see if they were material. He was relieved to discover that they were, in fact, able to be killed, and smiled when he saw five of them fall through the ground and disappear. Having his courage bolstered, he drew his sword and dirk and charged them. The first one he met swung its sword down, and he, thinking it best to not meet blades with something so weird, ducked to the side and slashed out with his sword. He thought that the armor it wore would probably block the strike, but was surprised when his sword passed through it, only being stopped when it his the apparition's shield.
Cut in two, the ghost slowly faded from sight, and Othniel smiled once again. For once this might be easier than he had thought. As the other surrounded him, however, he soon found that their swords were completely tangible. He was forced to work both of his weapons very quickly to stop or evade all of their attacks, and it was hard work. He was ducking, weaving, blocking, and parrying with all of his skill and new-found strength and speed, but it was not so hard that he was not able to slip in a few slashes with his sword and stabs with his dirk every now and again. He blocked one attack with his sword then stabbed his dirk up under the shield. The length of the blade allowed it to cut into the ethereal being, and it soon faded. Then he turned one attack wide with his dirk, swung his blade but was blocked with the shield, and flipped the blade over to the other side and sliced the apparition from existence from the other direction.
He leapt over three of them, blocking their upward thrusts with his weapons, and stabbed his blades backwards after landing. They cut into two of the three and they disappeared. Before the last one could turn, its head floated above its body before both were gone. He was like a flash of light among them, always moving back and forth, jumping, rolling, lunging, and always killing at least one of them with every movement. He attacked with wild abandon, and he never seemed to stop, they also kept coming, but he could take them.
Sophitia was having a far harder time, on the other hand. To her credit, she was battling the greatest mage of the werewolves, and he gave her not a moments' rest to collect herself or summon her guardian. She was being forced to fight with only battle or defense spells rather than necromantic ones, which were her specialty, and every spell she cast was almost immediately dispelled and countered with a spell so powerful she could not dispel it until it was moments away from her. Several times she literally had to leap out of the way of a spell that was either too powerful or too obscure for her to find the counter spell for. She was obviously losing.
Still, every moment he was battling her was one he could not use to bolster his troops that were fighting—and losing to—Othniel, which he did often enough as it was. Whenever he did, however, she would quickly animate some skeletons and send them at him from different angles, which would force him to spend a spell on each of them and give her some time to think of spells or just rest. It was just after one of those moments, as she took a second to rest, that a thought hit her, and she figured that it just might work.
When Ghost turned his attention back to her, she dropped to one knee and shoved one palm onto the ground, sending a rumbling crack in the earth towards him, then stood as high as she could and threw her other hand into the air. A spark flew from her hand and into the clouds, causing a single bolt of lighting to fly down at Ghost. Then, as the last part, she placed both of her hands together and shot a bolt of black lightning from them with as much strength as she could muster. For his part, Ghost contemptuously redirected the small split in the ground, but then only barely was able to turn his attention up to the lighting bolt and split it in half. The bolt flew on both sides of him and struck the ground, but the bright light from it against his pupils blinded him for just a moment, and when his eyesight came back it was not sharp enough to catch the black lighting until it broke through one of his wards and slammed into him.
Sophitia smiled in relief when she saw him fly back, but groaned when he got up almost instantly. It had been a good idea, but it would not work twice, and now he was certainly angry. With one hand, he sent a flowing stream of ice towards her, and with the other he condensed the ten spirits left into three. These three looked the same, but they were much faster and stronger than before, and Othniel soon discovered that now their armor was solid. His sword clanged against it, and he sighed when he noticed that now their armor covered every inch of them.
Strangely, the tables had now turned on both battles. Sophitia was finally holding her own, if not gaining the upper hand, and Othniel was having trouble. The three warriors attacks in unison, but with completely different fighting styles, and since his sword and dirk could not penetrate their armor, he could only keep blocking and dodging. While he struggled, Sophitia was doing far better than before. Ghost was obviously drained by getting hit, putting up a new ward, and condensing those warriors, and Sophitia gave not a second of rest. She rode him mercilessly, and sent many of her best battle spells at him while forming one behind her back. He still blocked her spells, but now it was at the last second, and he was clearly on the defensive. He only got off two spells back at her, and they were halfhearted. Then her spell was done, and she sent a green mist floating towards Othniel. It flowed through the air, and then finally formed around his dirk.
Othniel thought that he understood what was going on, and when the three of them attacked once again he lunged past two of them, slapped the third's attack to the side with his sword, and then stabbed out with his dirk. The enchanted blade slipped through the armor of the specter, and after a moment it dissipated. Othniel grinned. The other two attacked him, but he spun out of the way, brought his dirk around, and lopped off the sword hand of the one closest to him. It turned and thrust out its shield at his face, but he ducked under and chopped off its leg, then came up and cut it in half from groin to head. He took great pleasure in seeing its two halves float away. Only one left alive.
Ghost had his wind back now, and the moment Sophitia had sent the spell towards Othniel he had launched his counter-offensive. It was obvious that he was back to normal, and now Sophitia was slightly drained from her last spell, which meant a lot in a battle of magic. The battle was becoming one-sided once again. She shot blue all over her hands and redirected a fireball from him before shooting the blue out of her hands as streams of pressured water at him. He made what looked like a curved shield, and the water hit it and was deflected to the side along with the curve of the shield.
Ghost smiled after that and stuck both hands in front of him, with his palms open and his fingers splayed about. A chill ran though Sophitia's spine as she recognized the spell he was about to perform, and her knowledge was the only thing that saved her as she threw up a wall of complete darkness in front of her just in time for rays of pure light to flow form his hands and shoot towards her at speeds faster than the mind can comprehend. The light hit the wall of darkness and was absorbed by it, but Ghost did not stop his spell. He kept spewing forth light, and that made Sophitia keep her wall of darkness up. She realized what he was doing too late. He was making a bid for victory out of pure magical power. If he ran out of magic first, she would be saved, but if she ran out first and her wall came down, she would immediately be turned to dust. In the back of her mind, she knew that making that much light for combat purposes at night was far more taxing than darkness, but somehow she also knew that Ghost would not run out first, no matter what. She was doomed.
Othniel was still fighting the last specter when burst of light filled the alley, and he was extremely lucky to not be in it when it hit. As it was, he still covered his eyes in pain and threw himself away from his opponent. He opened his eyes just in time to block a blow at his head. The specter swiftly pulled its sword away and stabbed Othniel in the side of the stomach. The sword went through him and spit into the ground beneath, but then it was stuck. Othniel looked at the wound and laughed before using his dirk to chop off the specter's arm. It then followed with the predictable shield smash, which hit him in the ribs, and only made him laugh more.
“Is that really all you can do?!” He laughed, dropped his sword, grabbed the tip of the shield, and pulled it away while getting to his feet and slashing the ethereal warrior out of existence. After it faded from view, he looked and saw the predicament Sophitia was in. his eyes burned just from looking at the light, and he could not imagine the strain she was going through to keep the wall up. His first thought was to go for his bow, but then he realized that, with all of the wards that werewolf had, it would be as useless as before. Then he looked down at his dirk, which still glowed green, and an evil grin stretched across his face.
He looked at Ghost, measured the distance in his mind, then took two steps back. He held his dirk in one hand and drew it behind his head. He was about to throw it when he realized that he did not have something funny, witty, or epic to say when he did, and that gave him pause. He simply could not think of throwing it and not saying something good, but nothing was coming to him.
'Just throw it!' Sophitia's thought thundered in his mind, and on reflex more than anything else, he took one step forward, pivoted his entire body, and launched the dirk toward Ghost. It went end over end, but, just like he had anticipated, when it reached a foot away from Ghost the blade was just beginning to face him. The wards around all glowed, and the multicolored lights were quite beautiful, but the green dirk cut through them like fabric. Ghost only had time to turn in alarm at seeing his wards breached, and then the dirk stabbed into him. It missed his heart by inches, but since he was in his normal form, it was still mortal, and he coughed blood when he reached over and pulled the dirk from him.
“Very good.” He gagged as he threw the dirk to the ground and then vanished in a mist.
Sophitia collapsed to the ground, exhausted, and Othniel retrieved his dirk, which no longer had the green enchantment on it, before looking down to see the sword and shield wounds on his body.
“Oh yea!” He yelled in exultation. “That was totally my victory, all the way!” He broke out into a ridiculous little dance after sheathing his weapons.
“Hah!” Sophitia laughed between long breaths. “you never would have been...able to do anything...without me.”
“Aw come on. First I put the beat down to like, thirty ghosts, then I killed those three super ghosts, and then I capped ol' Ghost himself with my dirk from like, twenty feet away. If that's not my victory, then I dunno' what is.”
“All of which you could not have done without me taking the brunt of the attacks and giving you that spell on your dirk.” She was feeling better already, and went to examine where Ghost had been. “and I don't think he's dead.”
“Yea, how does it feel to be in my shoes for once,” he quipped as he went back and pushed his Wolfsbane arrow through the first class before taking it from its back. “For once you took the pain and I was the one who saved you.” He barely seemed to notice the bleeding hole in his side and the rough bruise along his chest in his elation.
“Idiot.” She shook her head, but that was to hide her smile. 'He really did good this time. I owe him my life, and that protective bit was rather sweet.'
“Thank you, I owe you mine too.” She jerked her head up to see Othniel smiling, and for the first time in many, many years, she blushed.
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