Authors note: This story is a mix of Diablo and DragonCrown Warcycle, a
series by Michael A. Stackpole (author of the X-wing series). A gibberer is
a creature like a fallen only larger and less timid. A vylean is like a
shaman. Also I would like to note that Lightblade is my own creation.
Light not only refers to good but also the weight of their swords. Oh well,
just read the story.
Thrandel stared out through the tent flap at the green field with his cold gray eyes. The sun blazed down on the land, an unusual thing for the land of Scosglen. Small rabbit-like creatures ran scurried across the field, making the scene almost cheerful. This damn place is hardly cheerful. Like most of the men of Kurast, Thrandel was tall and had a dark complexion. He was about thirty-six at the time, which was a ripe old age for a paladin in The Lightblade Battalion. The tent flap swung open Vaylien, a lieutenant, entered. "The Lightblades are ready, sir." Thrandel got up; musing over the events of the past two months that had brought to command the best known battalion of paladins. The entourage had left Kurast to "convert" the lands to the north. Ha, convert. More like slaughter Thrandel thought bitterly. The Lightblades had entered Scosglen four weeks ago, fat and bored. They had pillaged, killed, and plundered in every town they had past through, hardly befitting their title as the protectors of the Light. But then, we were all delusioned fools then. After destroying every border town, they moved inland away from the sea. What they found astonished them.
(Note: If your wondering why paladins are slaughtering innocent people, read my not at the bottom.) Moving through the camp, Thrandel passed the healer's tent. Inside he could he the moaning of those unlucky enough to be severely wounded. "Gibberers", as the men had dubbed them for their ceaseless jabber, had a nasty habit of ripping up flesh. Another wonderful thing about this damn place.
Once they had started toward the capital a wave of defense hit them. But these were not men. These were demons of a kind never seen in Sanctuary before. The gibberkin were small beasts, about four feet in height, which had thick white fur coats. They attacked in small companies of ten to thirty; led by smaller creatures the locals called vyleans. These vyleans were magic creatures, who twisted the elements to create a strange green fire that could sear through plate mail.
Thrandel approached the men assembled, all those who injuries were not severe. They numbered near five hundred, less than half the number that had left from Travincal. The injured are less than two hundred. Thrandel sighed. The runners he'd sent back for help three weeks ago could not have even reached the city yet, much less have had the three thousand standard footmen he'd requested ready. The Lightblades would have to hold back the waves of demons threatening to overrun Sanctuary. But who was sending these demons through? They couldn't be sent from hell. The lesser evils had long ago left the Three to rot in their imprisonments. Who was sending these creatures?
Thrandel returned his attention to the men. "Lads, we're moving soon. We must press the gibberers back to whatever hole they came from." Thrandel paused before his next order, knowing mutiny could come of it. "We're leaving the wounded here with no guard. I'm ordering them to retreat back to Travincal." The announcement was greeted with riotous calls. One of the lieutenants cried "We're abandoning them to certain death?! Trelin would never have done this!" At them mention of his predecessor, Thrandel filled with rage. "Trelin would have had you still killing the innocent back at the border! You're lucky that arrow got him, I would have! And yes, perhaps we are abandoning the wounded to death. But if we do not stand here, we doom every man, woman, and child of Sanctuary to death. You have all seen the terrors these demons can create. We must stand or all of us will surely die!" With this, Thrandel turned and went back to his tent, refusing to listen to the arguments of those still foolish enough to believe any of them had much of a chance. But I swore an oath, and that holds me to this damn fool errand.
Justoul woke the screaming of his dream still echoing in his head. The reoccurring nightmares of the horrors of Mijtem haunted him. In the once proud capital of Scosglen, he had seen death and pain of the worst kind. Tortured mutilated bodies lying in the street, Many disemboweled were burned into his memory. But worse were those that lived. Staved and crazed, they stumbled through the city. When food was offered those who were sane enough to understand refused. "We thin ones aren't tasty. They leave us alone, they do. Please don't make me eat it. I promise to be good. I promise" they would plead to the soldiers. Insanity was one thing, but absolute fear was another.
Justoul shuddered and flipped over. He doubted there would be many cities left untainted by this wave of evil if the Lightblades could not stand here. He was a simple paladin, of no great ability. In fact, he was unlike most of his fellow soldiers. He was shorter and his eyes were a sparkling blue, something not often found in Kurast. His skin was pale and his hair a flaming orange. He never knew his parents, having been left at the temple to Kedyn, the warrior god. I may still find my true self among the chaos of war.
Lias gripped the magical falchion Messenger, which he'd been given by the town mage, tighter. He was growing more uneasy the farther he went from the desert he'd called his home. Lias was a small man, of no great strength, with unnatural silver hair and soft brown eyes. Hair color was not the only strange thing about the man of nineteen. He had an uncanny ability for magic of all kinds. At least, the kinds I've come in contact with.
He could call upon the elemental and arcane magic of the world at a whim. As a child, he had imprisoned his single sibling, a sister who had been taken by the sorceresses, in a block of ice. His magic ability seemed boundless and he had been sent to Lut Golhein to be trained. The single mage there had been astounded by him, and had asked a sorceress recruiting to train him. The sorceress had seen the boy's talent, and devoted four years of her life to his training. And now I'm going to Kurast to be trained in the holy magics.
Lias heard the familiar cry of saber cats. But it was closer than ever before. And what were saber cats doing this far from the desert? Thud!! A javelin stuck itself in a tree, inches from where Lias stood. He whirled around, clumsily drawing his falchion. Behind him were four saber cats, two with javelin, another to holding the weapons that gave them their names. For a second, Lias paused. He'd never been in combat before. A saber cat hefting its javelin for another throw brought him back to from his musings. He lifted his arms, spreading out his finger. He released a simple fire spell, but put to much power into it, causing the saber cat to explode in flame. He turned to the other javelin throwing saber cat and opened a chasm beneath it. It fell into the fiery pit, letting out a feline scream as it was engulfed in flame. The other two saber cats moved toward him, one slashing at his stomach. The falchion jerked his arm into movement, parrying the blow. The blade stabbed itself into the cat's stomach. Lias felt warm blood splay out over his hand, making the sword hilt slippery. He wrenched the sword from the cat's body and turned to the final one. It had begun to run back for the desert. Instinctively, he uttered an arcane spell and the cat was exploded into a blaze of green fire. My god, what have I done? Lias Triax vomited on the moonlit ground as the putrid smell of death surrounded him.
Note: the paladins in this story are not the paladins you no. They do not have the holy powers, except for a few main characters. They are the paladins after the first coming of the three, most of who are just as corrupt as the high council.
Thrandel stared out through the tent flap at the green field with his cold gray eyes. The sun blazed down on the land, an unusual thing for the land of Scosglen. Small rabbit-like creatures ran scurried across the field, making the scene almost cheerful. This damn place is hardly cheerful. Like most of the men of Kurast, Thrandel was tall and had a dark complexion. He was about thirty-six at the time, which was a ripe old age for a paladin in The Lightblade Battalion. The tent flap swung open Vaylien, a lieutenant, entered. "The Lightblades are ready, sir." Thrandel got up; musing over the events of the past two months that had brought to command the best known battalion of paladins. The entourage had left Kurast to "convert" the lands to the north. Ha, convert. More like slaughter Thrandel thought bitterly. The Lightblades had entered Scosglen four weeks ago, fat and bored. They had pillaged, killed, and plundered in every town they had past through, hardly befitting their title as the protectors of the Light. But then, we were all delusioned fools then. After destroying every border town, they moved inland away from the sea. What they found astonished them.
(Note: If your wondering why paladins are slaughtering innocent people, read my not at the bottom.) Moving through the camp, Thrandel passed the healer's tent. Inside he could he the moaning of those unlucky enough to be severely wounded. "Gibberers", as the men had dubbed them for their ceaseless jabber, had a nasty habit of ripping up flesh. Another wonderful thing about this damn place.
Once they had started toward the capital a wave of defense hit them. But these were not men. These were demons of a kind never seen in Sanctuary before. The gibberkin were small beasts, about four feet in height, which had thick white fur coats. They attacked in small companies of ten to thirty; led by smaller creatures the locals called vyleans. These vyleans were magic creatures, who twisted the elements to create a strange green fire that could sear through plate mail.
Thrandel approached the men assembled, all those who injuries were not severe. They numbered near five hundred, less than half the number that had left from Travincal. The injured are less than two hundred. Thrandel sighed. The runners he'd sent back for help three weeks ago could not have even reached the city yet, much less have had the three thousand standard footmen he'd requested ready. The Lightblades would have to hold back the waves of demons threatening to overrun Sanctuary. But who was sending these demons through? They couldn't be sent from hell. The lesser evils had long ago left the Three to rot in their imprisonments. Who was sending these creatures?
Thrandel returned his attention to the men. "Lads, we're moving soon. We must press the gibberers back to whatever hole they came from." Thrandel paused before his next order, knowing mutiny could come of it. "We're leaving the wounded here with no guard. I'm ordering them to retreat back to Travincal." The announcement was greeted with riotous calls. One of the lieutenants cried "We're abandoning them to certain death?! Trelin would never have done this!" At them mention of his predecessor, Thrandel filled with rage. "Trelin would have had you still killing the innocent back at the border! You're lucky that arrow got him, I would have! And yes, perhaps we are abandoning the wounded to death. But if we do not stand here, we doom every man, woman, and child of Sanctuary to death. You have all seen the terrors these demons can create. We must stand or all of us will surely die!" With this, Thrandel turned and went back to his tent, refusing to listen to the arguments of those still foolish enough to believe any of them had much of a chance. But I swore an oath, and that holds me to this damn fool errand.
Justoul woke the screaming of his dream still echoing in his head. The reoccurring nightmares of the horrors of Mijtem haunted him. In the once proud capital of Scosglen, he had seen death and pain of the worst kind. Tortured mutilated bodies lying in the street, Many disemboweled were burned into his memory. But worse were those that lived. Staved and crazed, they stumbled through the city. When food was offered those who were sane enough to understand refused. "We thin ones aren't tasty. They leave us alone, they do. Please don't make me eat it. I promise to be good. I promise" they would plead to the soldiers. Insanity was one thing, but absolute fear was another.
Justoul shuddered and flipped over. He doubted there would be many cities left untainted by this wave of evil if the Lightblades could not stand here. He was a simple paladin, of no great ability. In fact, he was unlike most of his fellow soldiers. He was shorter and his eyes were a sparkling blue, something not often found in Kurast. His skin was pale and his hair a flaming orange. He never knew his parents, having been left at the temple to Kedyn, the warrior god. I may still find my true self among the chaos of war.
Lias gripped the magical falchion Messenger, which he'd been given by the town mage, tighter. He was growing more uneasy the farther he went from the desert he'd called his home. Lias was a small man, of no great strength, with unnatural silver hair and soft brown eyes. Hair color was not the only strange thing about the man of nineteen. He had an uncanny ability for magic of all kinds. At least, the kinds I've come in contact with.
He could call upon the elemental and arcane magic of the world at a whim. As a child, he had imprisoned his single sibling, a sister who had been taken by the sorceresses, in a block of ice. His magic ability seemed boundless and he had been sent to Lut Golhein to be trained. The single mage there had been astounded by him, and had asked a sorceress recruiting to train him. The sorceress had seen the boy's talent, and devoted four years of her life to his training. And now I'm going to Kurast to be trained in the holy magics.
Lias heard the familiar cry of saber cats. But it was closer than ever before. And what were saber cats doing this far from the desert? Thud!! A javelin stuck itself in a tree, inches from where Lias stood. He whirled around, clumsily drawing his falchion. Behind him were four saber cats, two with javelin, another to holding the weapons that gave them their names. For a second, Lias paused. He'd never been in combat before. A saber cat hefting its javelin for another throw brought him back to from his musings. He lifted his arms, spreading out his finger. He released a simple fire spell, but put to much power into it, causing the saber cat to explode in flame. He turned to the other javelin throwing saber cat and opened a chasm beneath it. It fell into the fiery pit, letting out a feline scream as it was engulfed in flame. The other two saber cats moved toward him, one slashing at his stomach. The falchion jerked his arm into movement, parrying the blow. The blade stabbed itself into the cat's stomach. Lias felt warm blood splay out over his hand, making the sword hilt slippery. He wrenched the sword from the cat's body and turned to the final one. It had begun to run back for the desert. Instinctively, he uttered an arcane spell and the cat was exploded into a blaze of green fire. My god, what have I done? Lias Triax vomited on the moonlit ground as the putrid smell of death surrounded him.
Note: the paladins in this story are not the paladins you no. They do not have the holy powers, except for a few main characters. They are the paladins after the first coming of the three, most of who are just as corrupt as the high council.