"I'm afraid there's not been a word out of him so far. He would have likely jumped back into the thick of things had we not grabbed him." The silver knight looked over his shoulder at the tent that had been set up near the entrance to Izalith. "And thank the Great Lord we got to him when we did. It's only been getting worse over there."
Ciaran nodded and dismissed the knight, entering the tent with Artorias and Sif in tow. Inside, Ornstein sat on a makeshift stretcher, his helmet on the ground at his feet. He was looking at its scorched surface with a blank, unfocused expression. There were burns on his face and neck, but they weren't too bad. He had been incredibly fortunate.
A cleric entered the tent, moving supplies around. "The Captain refused to let us heal those burns. Maybe you could convince him otherwise? Izalith is home to very different sicknesses than Anor Londo."
Ornstein didn't react as they got close. Ciaran knew right away that he would permit no such thing. His red eyes looked dull, his pale skin darkened with burns and soot.
"Ornstein? How are you holding up?"
Instead of answering, he looked away and absently scratched dried demon blood off of his pauldron.
This was bad. She had heard what had happened to the Witch, and only three of her Daughters were accounted for after the blast, with two confirmed dead and two missing. As the masses of demons were swelling across the obsidian fields, things weren't looking great. She had discovered a terrible truth when she had taken this information to Gwyn.
He had not been present in his throne room. Instead, he was in the Kiln of the First Flame, tending to its namesake.
It had been sputtering madly as if being buffeted by a strong wind.
She had no difficulty connecting these two situations. Gods, what would happen if the First Flame acted like the newly dubbed 'Chaos Flame' when tampered with, drawing power from Gwyn to release massive destructive energy?
She pushed it to the back of her mind. Gwyn was the most powerful of all the gods in Lordran, still as towering and mighty as ever. There were plenty of other immediate problems to deal with. Word had gotten out that undead had begun to turn up in New Londo, but they were being tight-lipped about the whole affair. Even so, Ciaran had managed to deduce that one of the Four Kings had succumbed to the curse. She had spied him locked away deep in the citadel, a sniveling mess, skin discolored and hair falling out.
As far as she knew, there was no cure for undeath.
"Ornstein, at least speak to us." Artorias drew close, laying his hand on the Dragonslayer's shoulder. This elicited a small change in expression, a tightening around his eyes.
Sif approached on the other side, nudging at his idle hand encouragingly.
Something stirred under the surface of the Captain's face, and he patted Sif of the head in a somewhat awkward manner. He didn't say anything, however, just focused on the wolf.
Artorias sighed and squeezed Ornstein's shoulder before turning away. "Alright. Sif; stay with him for a bit. We'll find you when we need you."
As the two left the tent, Ciaran slipped her hand into Artorias's, which gently enveloped hers. He followed her as she walked to a nearby ridge. She stared out at the city that was slowly being torn apart by the demons writhing within, lost in her thoughts, and he decided not to interrupt her train of thought. He simply held her hand and enjoyed a companionable silence.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
When the silver knights had first descended upon Izalith, their priority had been to retrieve Captain Ornstein and pull out to a more defensible position. That had quickly been altered when they had seen the demons.
They were ripping through the residences, slaughtering anything that wasn't a demon. Priority had changed to include protecting the civilians.
This didn't last long, however. The amount of demons was steadily increasing, and even some of the civilians that they had saved had transformed into hideous bloodthirsty monsters. It was an awful situation, and they had had to pull out.
Commander Korde observed what was left of Izalith through his binoculars. The demons would run out of things to kill soon. He had most of his troops here, at the main entrance to Izalith. They would be the most likely to come this way, seeing the large number of knights. On the off chance they didn't bite, he had detachments posted at a few other lesser known exits.
He had a bad feeling about this.
He'd fought armies before, but even the least organized of those had at least some pattern to them. He got the feeling that this would be more like fighting beasts.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, they were suddenly boiling out of the ruins, loping, slithering, and rolling straight for them.
"ARCHERS!" he roared, holding up a hand.
A two-deep line of archers that stretched for yards and yards pulled back on their massive bows in unison, each planted against the ground and standing taller than they were. The infantry behind them stirred restlessly, but held their ranks.
Korde watched the horde approach. There was no front line, the fiends were just closing as fast as they could. He made note of at least twelve varieties.
"HOLD!" His fist remained clenched over his head.
The roars and cries echoed through the massive subterranean chamber.
"RELEASE!" He dropped his hand, and over a hundred steel spikes soared into the oncoming crush of bodies. There was a collective howl of pain and rage, and they sped up.
"SECOND VOLLEY!"
The archers in front stepped back as the ones behind them stepped forward and loosed their greatarrows. The stench of the beasts was starting to become noticeable.
"THIRD VOLLEY!"
The first line had been readying their ammunition as the second had fired, and they released after stepping forward.
The ground began to shake as the demons approached.
"ARCHERS BACK, INFANTRY IN!"
Armor flashing, six-deep rows of silver knights took up their positions with disciplined movements. As one, they turned slightly to the right, raising their shields and locking them against their neighbors' shields.
There were a few seconds of tense silence and shifting grips on weapons.
Hearts beating faster.
Breath coming quicker.
Jaws locking.
The impact was hard, the full force of multiple several-ton demons moving as fast as they could in a straight line. The shields shuddered, but the wall held the blow.
The knights wielding halberds had been stationed in front, and they stabbed outwards on Korde's mark. Demons recoiled, or fell dead.
Not everyone was so lucky.
A snake-like demon covered in bony plates dashed underneath the shields, flailing its body in the ranks below and sending knights flying. Those not thrown began hacking at the thing from all sides, but not before it had opened its maw frighteningly wide and swallowed a knight whole. His struggling could be seen and heard as he was forced down its throat by powerful muscles.
Korde leapt down from his position, cape fanning out behind him in a brilliant white display, and brought his glaive's blade down into the snake demon's head. It rose up and shook itself, trying to get him loose and apparently not dying anytime soon.
Another silver knight slashed into the unprotected belly of the demon while it was exposed, and his sword bit deep.
The thing fell to the ground, head barely attached to the body, but still moving weakly. Korde twisted his blade, and the yellow light faded in the creature's eyes.
Cutting it open, he found that it had wicked teeth lining its stomach, and the unfortunate knight had not survived the encounter.
"HOLD YOUR LINE, MEN! TIGHTER RANKS!"
The beasts were hammering relentlessly on the shield line, and some had started to get wise to it, groping over or under it with various nightmarish appendages to slay knights.
Korde rushed up and stabbed a Taurus demon in the heart as it raked its claws over the face of a knight struggling to hold the wall. They were getting tired.
The demons weren't deterred by their dead. Instead, they began climbing on top of those dead at the shield line and throwing themselves over it. A Capra demon leapt over, screaming triumphantly, only to be nearly cut in two by the upward two-handed stroke of a knight's greataxe.
"REINFORCEMENTS UP!"
A fresh batch of knights moved towards the front line, forming up just as the previous one disbanded and retreated, clerics healing those they could. They lost about six yards of ground in the process.
Korde had been deeply disappointed in the battlefield they had been forced to take. It was incredibly flat, offering no use for the archers except for the immediate volleys. The only positive aspect was that the enemy didn't have any special advantages either.
"FAUX BREAK!"
This was a bit of a risky move, but the demons were far too powerful to drag this out. They would simply outlast the knights if it came down to a contest of endurance.
The center of the front line began to slowly give ground, the nearby shields moving to keep the wall unbroken. Seeing what they perceived as weakness, the demons pushed their assumed advantage. They were allowed to push it for yards and yards, until Korde saw a brief break in the inward flow…
"CLOSE RANKS!"
More halberds moved up suddenly from reserves, and a massive swarm of swordsmen followed them. They simultaneously reformed the original line and sealed a number of demons within a bristling hedge of gleaming swords.
The swordsmen rushed in, hacking and slashing ruthlessly. A rubbery cone shaped demon covered with eyes began releasing thick gas from its tentacles, and armor and weapons alike began crumbling to dust. It took the helmet and most of the breastplate from a knight, leaving his flesh untouched. He drove his sword through one of its eyes, and dragged it to the side, easily parting the soft flesh.
He took demon claws to his neck a moment later, bereft of his armor.
Korde began to sweat.