Chapter 6:
A God's Rage.
In spite of my previous successes, I was lying on my bed nursing what must be the mother of all headaches. It seems that while I was so busy laughing at the reaction of the aforementioned Lord of the Land, he somehow managed to detect my magic and that I had been watching him. I presume that I was laughing far too loud, and whatever spell he had cast, had left my ears ringing and the throbbing had yet to fade. There was no doubt that he was coming for me, even now. I had planned a rather sneaky series of attacks, and hit and fade maneuvers to weaken his forces before springing the coup de grace, but my headache had done nothing to calm me down. If anything, it made me even angrier than I would have though possible. It felt like I had unlocked something, a blinding red rage that if I succumbed to it fully, would give me the strength, power and ability to carve down all who would stand before me. I did not know it, but that empowering rage was a gift, a blessing from one of the Dark Gods. My offers had meant to be generic, to appease all the Dark Gods, but the offering of Blood and Skulls, had made it very specific to one particular God. I would hunger for that rage, that battle lust, that darkness within, harnessing it to crush all who would oppose me in this land. Even as it coursed through my body, sending my blood boiling, my nerves singing with a single, driven thought: Kill, I could not do so until this particular bastard came down here. Not that it mattered, as he would come into my domain eventually, determined to root me out and destroy me. With a little bit of luck, I'll get to capture him and feed him to my minions, so that I can hear the sweet music he would sing as my minions made a meal out of him.
Two of my Giant Flies, had been posted at the only above ground entrance that lead to the underground that was relatively close to the rest of my domain. I'd taken the necessary precautions, and sealed off every inch of wall and earth that could possibly be used as a breech point to break the fortification upon the walls of my Dungeon. All these heroes would find, even if they cared to excavate every square inch of rock and soil are the walls that surround my domain, leaving but one way into my Dungeon. And while there is one spell to break the reinforcements upon the walls of my dungeon, I have yet to actually come across that one solitary spell. Its power would be great, and the ability to punch through those protective wards and spells would make me an unrivaled Keeper, drawing others, even lesser Keepers, to rally under my banner to avoid their deaths at my hands. If only I could find that spell.
My minions were enjoying their period of rest, and they knew that we all awaited the coming of the heroes to participate in a battle that would make our hearts sing as we slew and flew through their ranks. The only ones still training were my Demon Spawn, who never seemed to tire, always honing their already deadly skills. It struck me as being fairly commonsensical that the more they trained and honed their skills, the closer they come to unlocking the latent power and abilities contained within them. I would have to wait and see as to what exactly those powers are. I could already tell that those powers would be great indeed, for the more they trained, the closer it came to the surface.
When my Giant Flies notified me that they had spotted the heroes, entering in force through the only tunnel that lead between the surface and underground that is my domain. I was treated to a bird's eye view of a pissed Lord of the Land who advanced with every single warrior that he could bring to bear against me. If this was everything that he had – a dozen odd Dwarves, and an equal number of Rouges, plus himself for a grand total of twenty-five midgets and shadow hugging cowards against my fleet of teeth, claws and destructive spells, it would be a slaughter.
And this particular idiot was marching his armored warriors in lockstep towards me, chocking the passageways with their ranks. Sheer volume of fire would thin their ranks considerably, as it would be next to impossible to miss these leather or plate armored lambs marching to their deaths. My flies withdrew from their observation points while the alert went out to my warriors. The Keeper's Hand swept everyone to their positions that would ensure the destruction of my enemy. The Giant Flies zipped forward, sweeping through the raised blades as they harassed the enemy, solely to provoke them into that cavern where the pool had been steamed away in the process of cooking the band of heroes that had dared to intrude beforehand. Within the cavern, my beetles were already moving in position along three of its sides, creating a rough crescent shape with the points forward to create an overlapping array of hungry mouths that were dying to kill something that had more taste than the chicken we all eat to survive. The pool would be where these heroes would bleed and die. The pack of Demon Spawn and I have a magnificent array of spells to cut down my enemies. A solitary barrage of annihilating magical energy would be more than sufficient to begin cleansing these bastards from my land.
It took about as much time as I anticipated before the winged monsters swept into the cavern, high over everyone, nearly touch the ceiling above, as war cries echoed down the passage from heroes hell bent on slaughtering my minions, hell bent on an "heroic" charge to the death. I had, at one point, overestimated the intelligence of my opponents, and felt that I had done so again. It was the sheer simplicity of these suicidal charges head on against my forces. That is not to say that my own beast like minions are the sharpest knives in the drawer either – but at least mine are smart enough to follow orders.
I directed the final steps from the Dungeon Heart, using the map and the God's view of the underground to direct the fire of my Demon Spawn, ordering them to concentrate their fire against a single target at a time. If they didn't kill it, they would definitely disable it, knocking the dwarves down on their faces or their backs, almost submerged in the remaining rivulets of water. Exactly where I wanted them to fall – they would be the ones who would act as a barricade for the moment – long enough for the Lord of the Land himself to show up and, hopefully, get his head knocked clean off his shoulders, for I look forward to mounting his polished skull upon my battle standard, once my minions were done feeding upon his bloated corpse.
The magic missiles that my Demon Spawn cast emitted their high pitched screams of pleasure or agony – I never could decide which it was - that ensured that the midget Dwarves kept themselves as low as they could, to avoid getting one of the tooth-lined projectiles embedded in their skulls, but they continued their forward push without hesitation, even as they ducked or raised their shields to absorb the impacts, pushing into the pool of water that came up to their knees – but closer to my ankles.. considering that I am six and a half feet tall, so I definitely tower over these problematic dwarves. The Rouges had to duck even lower, and it was almost comical to see them nearly bent double to avoid the wave of magical death.
Moments after I had unleashed my first spray of volcanic projectiles that two Rouges took directly in the chest, did I hear the sweet sound of heavy metal plates clanking against one another, the sound definitely that of heavy, ornate plate armor. Even in the limited light of the underground, the plate mail gleamed, making the Lord of the Land stand out upon the battlefield, whether the battle took place in the underground, where there was little natural light, or upon a sunlit field above. He held his massive and supposedly "mighty" pig-sticker in one hand. I intended to blast him from the battlefield long before he got within effective range with that thing. Unfortunately, his presence and that pig sticker had a morale boosting effect and his warriors rallied.
They rose up and charged forward, howling war cries to their various false gods and deities, water churning around them as their momentum caused the little water to rise like a wave that followed behind them. The Dwarven shields formed an effective barrier that blocked the spells of my minion, negating the advantage, and once again proves that no plan succeeds completely in battle. The opening gambit had been played, and we had felled several of the enemy. I roared: The sound of death personified and my minions passed to let me forwards. I raised my sword, and pointed it towards the charging heroes. The greenish black wall of carapaces drove forward to meet the Dwarves halfway while another barrage of magic lanced towards the enemy.
I grinned. Most of beetles would be slaughtered, but beetles are relatively cheap in comparison to the value I place upon my Demon Spawn. Admittedly, its one of the few things that I didn't have to worry about now, but it was something that I would have to consider in later campaigns and engagements: The intelligence and morale of my warriors. Beetles and Flies are not the smartest and when told to "fight!" they'll get out there and fight even if out numbered ten to one. But smarter, more intelligent creatures, such as Demon Spawn, would sooner run back through the nearest portal than engage in a suicidal charge since my minions preferred being back in limbo over dying for a maniacal Keeper. Of course, they would have to make it to the portal without running into me… In my Dungeon there is but one rule: Stand by my banner, fight by my banner, and die by my banner. If you are incapable of doing that, then I will kill you myself.
The battle was joined as my more expendable warriors charged in using claws, teeth and fangs to tear and rend steel armor and the flesh beneath it. The Dwarves were thrown back by the bulk that smashed through their line, their charge degrading to a whirling melee as their counterattacked. Dwarven axes punched through carapace armor, biting into the flesh of my minions, while the Rouges sliced and stabbed with their swords. The black, tar like blood of my minions turned the ankle high water a nearly black, the red blood of the heroes blotted out. My Beetles had sold themselves dearly, nearly half their number butchered for less than a quarter of the enemy, even with my winged warriors surging in to the fray, their sudden airborne assault taking down several rouges, amongst them the two I had struck earlier. From where I stood, I could see one of my flies surging forward, driving the barbed tip on the end of his abdomen through the mouth of one unfortunate Rouge. The poisoned tip pierced through the back of his skull and he was lifted from the ground, while his hands scrambled desperately along the smooth flanks of the Giant Fly, trying to get a decent grip, before he was thrown off, into a wall. The sounds of his breaking bones were music to my ears.
The sudden flicker of a shadow where they should have been none was a minor mistake from the owner that would have been overlooked by another human. But when you tread in the realm of a Dungeon Keeper, the slightest mistake means death. A Keeper sees and knows everything that goes on within his domain. I teleported, moving from one side of the cavern to the other, quickly and efficiently cutting off the Rouges who had been attempting to sneak into my Dungeon, no doubt in an attempt to destroy the Dungeon Heart. The grin was savage but I wore it with pride while I reappeared, launching a massive shower of sparks. The sparks would not injure, but would be more than sufficient to break up the Cloak of Shadows that these pesky humans were using to mask themselves from me. The injuring, maiming and slaughter, I would meet out personally.
But the trio of Rouges that bore down on me were definitely my most cutting problem. The first time you pick up an injury in combat, especially from some shadow hugging coward who lacks the courage to carry a blade and meet their foe head on, is enraging. More than the blade that had buried itself in my upper. The wound hurt, and I felt my own blood coursing down my skin, bubbling slightly from the rage contained within me that sought its escape to the surrounding, copper smelling air. I snarled as the blade was yanked, extracted from my shoulder. The muscle was cut and lacerated, and for a human, the wound would have been disabling. But it barely slowed me down, as I could feel my changed body healing the wound from within. It would only be a matter of seconds before it closed, the only thing left behind a heavy scar, almost a centimeter wide, and nearly four inches long. Something exploded within me in those moments while I drew the heavy long sword from the scarab at my side, and spun the blade in my hand as they charged me, the three of them all at once.
The first was easy enough to intercept, as there was no real strength behind the strike, and I caught his blade against mine, forcing his blade down to his side. His blade had yet to be fully driven down when I lunged forward, driving my forehead directly against his nose. The bone broke with a satisfying crunch and the splinters were driven up and into his brain. He slid to the ground slowly, confusion written on his face for several long seconds before I snap kicked the corpse to his two accomplices. One ducked the flying body of his comrade, while the other "caught" his friend, literally, dropping his blade in a vain attempt to somehow lessen the impact. It was to no avail, as he crumpled to the floor, pinned down by the dead weight of his comrade. The second was a dual wielder with a hand axe in one hand, and a short sword in the other. And a man of some skill too, as he jumped determined to drive the blades of both his weapons in to my chest. Amateur. Calling upon the mana in the air, I fashioned and hurled it, "Väggen av uppehället avfyrar!"
The flame entity came to life in my palm, pulsing for a moment before it leaped upward and expanded to its full size, creating a wall of living flame three meters wide in the path of the descending Rouge. The heat was of sufficient intensity that it melted the flesh from his bones, burned away his clothing, and even consumed the metal blades of his weapons, leaving an ash white smoking skeleton, charred upon the floor. These are the warriors that my opponent sends against me? Mere children who lack any true skill with weapon or magic?
I stalked over to the last man, struggling to get out from beneath his slain comrade. He saw me approach, and I gave him that special smile, the one that makes it clear that death is coming for your soul. He raised his blade in a desperate attempt to defend himself, for naught as I slapped it aside with my own before pinning it the ground beneath my boot. Raising my other foot, I got a beautiful view off his eyes, a deep piercing, sapphire blue, before stamping down, the bones in his face breaking with a crunch, and he went limp, blood trickling out of his ears. Rest assured, the man is dead, for I don't do things halfway. I spat upon the third corpse, muttering my contempt of these so called warriors who were merely children playing at war.
Turning my attention back to the battle, I took note of something that seemed to be throwing back my minions in all directions. He was holding his own, and there was no doubt that every time one of my minions or warriors closed with him, they were thrown back, with varying injury. The Lord of the Land had to be given credit as the bodies of nine of my lesser minions, Beetles and Flies, were littered around him, along with the corpses of two of my Demon Spawn. My minions were holding him in place, while my Demon Spawn devoured the rest of his warriors. But it was reaching the point where I was running out of sacrificial meat shields to throw at this bastard. Not to mention that his armor, while dented and damaged, was still effective at absorbing the magic being hurled at it by my increasingly exhausted ranks of Demon Spawn. He was either letting his armor absorb them or, through some ridiculous combination of luck, skill and ability, deflecting the screeching projectiles that were fired at him.
He raised himself to his full height, side stepping one of few remaining Giant Flies that had swooped down in a futile attempt to loop off the man's head. His sword struck the winged creature in the flank, a shallow wound, but it forced the Fly low enough for him to grab it with his free hand before punching it, once, twice and then a third time, * Mandibles and exoskeleton cracked under the force, and the Lord spun his sword, lopping off a wing and several of its claw like appendages, leaving the creature flopping madly upon the flagstone ground, before stabbing it through the throat and killing it.
Most impressive, but it is time to end this show. Seeing that he had dispatched the last of his immediate foes, he turned and paused. I was not sure whether he was shocked or surprised, as my minions had drawn back, and had formed a rough half circle around the cavern. Broken swords and shattered axes littered the floor, his warriors, what was left of their mangled and bloody corpses, littered the cavern floor, several of them having been thrown and in one case, punched in to the surrounding walls. One unfortunate individual had been hoisted off his feet and impaled on the stalactites far overhead.
It was time to prove my worth. I drew my blade and spun it experimentally in my hand, "Almighty Lord of the Land. Your time has come. Face my blade. And die!"
He glared at me from beneath his full face helm, eyes narrowed to slits, "In the name of God, the impure souls of the fallen shall be cleansed with fire and blade, and face judgment at the gates of Heaven!" He whispered, a chant, a mantra to steady his nerves, as he brought his massive blade to bear, "For the Light! For Justice!" he charged in blade raised, determined to end the confrontation, the battle, with a single stroke of his blade. Unfortunately, this Lord forgot that he faced a Dungeon Keeper in man to man combat, and not a saint. Even as I rushed forward to meet his blade, my prepared magic flared to life, masking me from sight and blinding him. My blade lashed down, a killing blow that he blocked with his own rising slash. But we had concentrated far too much energy in our blades. As they crossed paths, they shattered sending fragments of metal flying in all directions. It was comical, when you consider that we were both staring at our broken swords, and then at each other. A pommel, and several inches of blade… looks like we're going to settle this the old fashioned way: With our fists.
I turned to face him, even as he dropped into a loose stance, spreading his shoulders apart evenly, to distribute his weight. Even weighed down as he was, he displayed true skill as he came to rest upon the ball's of his feet, and I saw his muscles fall in a relaxed stance that would allow him to lash out in any direction with cobra like suddenness. I didn't bother mimicking his stance, as he charged forward, lashing out with the fury of a wounded panther. I spun, ducking low beneath one kick, while he spun round, executing a reverse kick, that I had not seen coming.
The blow landed, driven by nearly a quarter ton of metal and muscle it crashed into the Keeper of the Black Flame, knocking him back several feet before he came to a stop, his ribs broken, most of them in more than one place along his right side. Breathing hurt, as his right side felt as if on fire, even as he regained his footing, and dropped into a cautious guard stance, even as the Lord of the Land came charging in again. This time, the Keeper met him full on, head to head as they collided with each other, trading blows, kicks and punches as a pair of brawling lycanthropes would.
The Champion of Light deflected and blocked the numerous punches and kicks that assailed him with the fury of a cornered wolverine, deflecting them with ease. Suddenly, the Keeper had closed to a grappling range, his hands wrapping around the back of the gorget that protected the neck of the Lord of the Land. He pulled the head down and drove a hard knee into it, twice, to dent the already bile streaked and blood stained armor, before releasing his grip and driving his foot in the face of the downed Lord of the Land
Staggering back, the Lord of the Land shook his head to clear the stars and static that danced before his eyes while he gasped, tearing the battered helm from his head, revealing a face marred by injury. Where the warped metal had cut his left cheek, blood trailed down the side of his face like a river. He breathed in as he rose back to his feet, and his jaw clicked, as he massaged it for a moment, before rewarding the Keeper with a grim smile, "Good hit."
The Keeper smiled, giving a mock bow to his sarcastic opponent, buying time for his injuries to heal. His ribs had almost fully regenerated, but that did not mean that his right side did not feel tight, and somewhat pinched, the freshly knitted bones somewhat uncomfortable, in the way they felt to him, "Thank you."
The Champion of Light lashed out with a series of rapid snap kicks. The Keeper parried two such kicks but grabbed the outstretched leg on the third kick and jerked back. The Lord of the Land wobbled off balance for a moment, before the outstretched arm, driven by the fury of a Dungeon Keeper crashed in to the chest of his opponent, slamming him to the ground. Not breaking his stride, the Keeper leaped skyward, somersaulting to rest his feet against the ceiling of the cavern some twenty feet overhead, before springing off, and driving directly towards the prone armor clad opponent.
The Lord rolled to the side as the knee of the Keeper slammed in to the flagstones, the force behind the blow shattering the stone beneath the knee, driving several inches into the rock, knocked loose from their supposedly secure foundation. Rising back to his feet, the Keeper sensed the blow too late, raising his hands just enough to absorb part of the impact as the armored foot crashed in to the side of his head, knocking the Keeper to the floor, before jamming that foot hard in to his lower back, pinning the Keeper to the ground.
"You come into my home, into my domain and you dare challenge me? You disrespect my home, and dare to threaten my family?" he roared in to the Keeper's ear, "You violated the rules and traditions that have governed the way of combat for over a century! You have no honor! No pride! You bastard coward! You should be granted a slow death for your crimes against me and my family! I will make sure that your eyes are torn from your skull while you live! Your tongue sliced from your mouth, along with your traitorous lips…"
The man continued to rant and rave in to the ear of the Keeper, who had begun to tune out the dire threats and promises, the rage and anger that coursed through him rose to the surface, as he folded his arms beneath him and pushed upwards. He felt the resistance upon his back, but found the red encroaching upon his vision and his common sense far too fast for him to control. The Keeper roared as his pupils exploded, fire encroaching and consuming them, while he pushed up hard, knocking his arrogant opponent to the side, and he rose back to his feet.
The Lord grimaced, shaking locks of hair out of his eyes, "Die foul worshiper of the Dark!" He sent a powerful double punch combination streaking towards the head of the Keeper. The Keeper reacted smoothly, red having consumed his vision, rage burning through every muscle in his body, as he dropped on to his knees, the pair of armored fists missing by mere inches. He drove forward, slamming his shoulder into the guts of his opponent, the armor plates buckling and finally shattering to cut the flesh beneath. Wrapping his arms around the waist of the Lord, Keeper Firestorm hefted him, turning what was a grapple into a powerful over the back throw that laid the Lord of the Land prone on his back. The follow through echoed the ferocity of the throw as the standing Keeper dropped, a rage driven elbow smashing in to exposed ribs.
The sound of breaking ribs was audible, as was the crack and shatter of the bones in the Keeper's arm from the elbow strike. To his credit, the Lord of the Land refused to give up, pushing the near exhausted Keeper off him, and crawling on to his knees. Looking up, he could see the Keeper struggling, also on his knees. The first to regain his footing would be at an advantage. The Lord crawled towards the somewhat dazed Keeper, and drove a gauntleted fist in the side of the Keeper's head, sending him reeling to the floor, blood streaming down the side of his face, bleeding from the savage blow to the temple.
The Keeper looked up at the Lord of the Land, now on one knee, while blood trickled down the side of his face, pooling along his upper lip for several seconds before continuing to stream downwards. He licked his lips, tasting his own blood, tasting the power contained within his blood. The fury, the rage, the anger and the blood lust, all contained within him. He had tapped it, but briefly, and had used it to level the battlefield with his opponent. But now, he needed to tap in to it again.
"The power within you. I, The Dark God Kharnax can bestow upon you, as my blessing. Accept my offer, and serve me, Keeper. Serve me, and offer the skulls and blood of those you slay, the blood and skulls of your enemies, and I shall grant you this blessing, the power to unleash the Blood Rage, the most recent of the many blessings that I have bestowed upon you."
What choice did the Keeper have? To refuse the Dark God would almost certainly spell his death, and defeat, sowing doubt amongst his own warriors whether he had what it took to lead, to be The Keeper of the Black Flame. And Keeper Firestorm would not want to fight off challenges to his leadership, not until one of his own warriors became foolish enough to challenge him once his power had grown sufficiently. Besides, every Keeper needs a God that he, or she, can turn to when in need of guidance. There was no choice, "Kharnax…"
The Lord of the Land grabbed Keeper Firestorm by the throat, hoisting him to his feet, and then in to the air, "And you thought that you could best me? You though that you could challenge my rule? You though that you could win?" He threw the Keeper into the air, catching him across his own broad, muscular shoulders, "You were wrong," he drove his head backwards in to the spine of the Keeper, "This," he drove his head again into the rapidly weakening spine of the Keeper, "Is," he slammed the tormented Keeper to the ground, "Your," before soccer-kicking him across the cavern, "Death!"
The eyes of the Keeper were closed as he struggled for breath, nearly blind from his swollen eyes. From between bloodied lips, and broken teeth, the Keeper of the Black Flame, managed to choke out two words that would change the nature of the combat, "I accept." It mattered not that he was wounded; mortally wounded with no hope of recovery, that death would be kinder. But the broken bones were already healing, the majority already knitted back together. The internal wounds were nearly all healed as well, the demonic blessing of regeneration, given unknowingly long before, ensured the continued life of the Keeper of the Black Flame, in spite of all the injuries that he had suffered.
Watching the battling duo, seated comfortably upon his throne of bones and skulls, Kharnax dipped his hand into the river of blood that flowed at his feet, the blood of all those slain and sacrificed in his honor. Their blood had contained their strength, and their abilities, and the blood held the key, as it always did. Kharnax dipped one finger in the river, seeking that which he sought, the power of Rage, the Blood Rage. Withdrawing that finger, he flicked it towards the prone form of the Keeper that he could see, "It is done." His voice was deep and throaty, even though the words were audible, it still sounded as if a bestial dog was growling in the background with every word he said.
The tired, aching form of the Keeper felt it, fresh energy, strength and power coursing through the tired and aching bones in his body. It was everything that he dreamed it could be, for never had he felt such raw power, both physical and mental. He knew that in the rage that was at the edge of his senses, like a near overflowing dam. He just had to "flick" the metaphorical switch, and the Keeper of the Black Flame did exactly that.
The power raged through his body, fueling every tired muscle, strengthening every sore bone while the last of his wounds began to close up, the lacerations, bruises and cuts all disappearing without leaving any scar. The Lord of the Land had been standing over him with the hilt of his broken sword, several inches of the sharp blade still attached to it. The eyes of the Keeper snapped open, and his hand rose up, intercepting the descending broken blade that had been aimed at his throat. Wrapping his hand around the shearing guard of the long sword, he twisted hard, and the Lord of the Land spun with his blade, suddenly finding himself upon the stone floor with the knees of the Keeper driving directly in to his stomach, slamming the wind out of the man, while his grip went slack.
Uncaring of the blade embedded in his hand, the free fist of the Keeper began to rain down a battery of hammer like blows into the shattered armor clad form of the Lord of the Land. The land was only capable of protecting the Lord from some of the Keeper's fury, as the armor gave way to the hammering that grew in both ferocity and intensity. A no mercy beating that broke the bones in the arms that tried to shield his face to no avail. The Keeper of the Black Flame roared his triumph, his hands wrapped around the head of the Lord, pressing down against the forehead with the demonic strength gifted on to him as he growled in to the face of his opponent, "Your soul is mine!"
The bone cracked, audible, as the Lord of the Land lay stunned by the sudden recovery of his foe, until his skull gave way, flattened by the sheer pressure placed upon it, sending blood and brain out across the floor in a near artistic paint like spray. The blade of the Lord of the Land had been dislodged and lay to the side, coated in the hot acidic blood of the Keeper that continued to slowly eat through the steel blade, the holy power within the weapon slowly but surely being overwhelmed by the Darkness in the Keeper, latent in his blood. The fragment of sword was more than enough, for it to be driven in to the neck, severing the jugular artery and also the windpipe. He worked the blade, side to side, severing the neck and also the spinal column of the corpse that was sprawled before him. Rising back to his feet, the rage still upon him, he bellowed, the sound shaking the rocks around him as his warriors roared their pleasure at the success of their Keeper, their leader. Together, as one, they marched, towards the sole passageway that lead to the land above.
Above ground, it should have been just past noon, perhaps one or two in the afternoon, but the cloud cover had appeared from nowhere, streaking in from the neighboring lands, and had been shrouded in darkness for many long days now. The Inhabitants had known that their Lord had ventured in to the underground to slay the source of such darkness and evil. Unfortunately the encroaching darkness had made it clear that he had failed, and done more than just fail. He had been slain. The few remaining guards and warriors left behind had either been to young, to inexperienced, or too old to actually fight, gathered together whatever weapons they could muster. They would mount a defense, but they knew that their first stand against the hordes of darkness would also be their last. But still they gathered, to do their duty, in spite of their fears. They knew that they would be butchered to the last man, even as those who had the motivation, and more importantly, the money, fled in terror while those that remained barricaded themselves in their homes, to await the assault, and their deaths.
The ground shook as the darkness boiled out of the ground beneath their feet, and the battle was short, almost pointless. The few guards that remained were cut down in seconds. Carnage and chaos played across the entire land while the inhabitants trembled, knowing full well the fate of their neighboring land. Hell from beyond their worst nightmares descended upon the innocent souls, and there was no escape.
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