Chapter 16. The Demon Lord. Part 1
Kingdom of Topa: Eastern District of the Fortress City of Tormeus.
A tense voice crackled through the radio's static:
— Command Post! Come in! Command Post, respond!
The command post operator, Captain Neverov, groggily lifted his head from the desk. His exhausted face bore the marks of countless sleepless nights. Fatigue had overtaken him right at his station. Rubbing his eyes, he struggled to focus.
— This is Command. What's your status? — His voice was weary.
— We've got a Nosgorath sighting. He's leading nearly two hundred high orcs. Spotted them three hundred and fifty meters from Minias' central square. He's furious—already wiped out three cavalry squadrons!
The captain immediately tensed. Nosgorath, the Demon Lord, rarely took to the battlefield himself. That meant the enemy was utterly confident in their dominance.
— Berkut-1, do not engage! Wait for our arrival. Copy? Over.
— Copy that, Command. Holding position. Over and out.
Minias Central Square.
The misty morning over Minias was bathed in a crimson glow. The city had barely recovered from recent skirmishes, yet another threat loomed over it. Elton, commander of the knightly cavalry, stood at the head of his squadron. His face was tense, his movements sharp.
— Faster! Form up! — Elton, responsible for his vanguard unit, barked orders over the clamor. His commanding voice cut through the battlefield noise.
The heavy cavalry formed into a wedge, their gleaming armor catching the light, giving them the valiant appearance of the kingdom's defenders. At Elton's signal, the unit surged forward like a storm, crashing into the frontline of orcs.
The knights' lances struck with devastating force, yet the orcs stood their ground like an unyielding mountain. Chaos erupted— a brutal, bloody melee. The deafening clash of steel mixed with the terrified neighing of horses, the desperate cries of men, and the guttural roars of demons.
Elton led from the front, setting an example for his men. His enchanted sword, etched with ancient runes, sliced through the air, leaving trails of demonic blood in its wake. But his battle fervor was short-lived.
One of the high orcs—a massive brute wielding a colossal battle-axe — delivered a precise strike, shattering the skull of Elton's horse. The knight was thrown to the ground, but fortune favored him—he suffered no major injuries. As soon as he rose to his feet, he saw an orc charging at him, a massive bardiche raised high.
Elton sidestepped the first swing and, in a swift diagonal motion, brought his blade down, severing the monster's head. Around him, the battle raged on, knights exhausted and encircled, struggling to hold the line.
Then, the ground trembled. A heavy, thunderous rumble spread across the square like an ominous warning.
A vortex of dark energy erupted in the midst of the battlefield, sending a wave of dread through the human ranks.
With an earth-shaking crash, Nosgorath landed, the impact causing a localized tremor. His armor, gleaming with the crimson glow of magic, was covered in intricate runic patterns. His eyes burned with black fire.
— You insects tire me! — his voice thundered. — Infernal flames from the realm of Ur-Badur, rise and incinerate these worthless wretches!
The Demon Lord's words were followed by a sweeping motion of his hands. A massive magic circle materialized beneath the knights, its surface pulsing with ominous energy. From within it, thick black smoke began to rise, engulfing warriors and their steeds alike.
Those who managed to scream were silenced in an instant. The ground beneath them melted, leaving behind nothing but charred armor and haunting shadows.
Inside One of the Abandoned Buildings.
In one of the abandoned buildings, standing taller than the rest—four extra floors to be exact—a sniper team from Berkut-1 had taken cover. The location wasn't chosen by chance: from here, like from a watchtower, they had a perfect view of the entire affluent district and Minias' central square.
The sniper lay prone, fully focused on the thermal scope of his VSSK "Vykhlop." Through the lens, a scene of absolute horror unfolded before his eyes.
— Holy shit, the heat signature is going crazy, — he whispered, as if afraid to disturb what he saw through the scope. — At least three thousand degrees, if not more. So much for magic mumbo-jumbo... I wouldn't wanna be anywhere near that inferno.
His spotter, sitting slightly behind him with binoculars, replied just as quietly, never taking his eyes off the unfolding nightmare:
— Agreed. I've sent an operation status report to HQ. If things go south, we pack up and fall back to the capital.
The sniper merely nodded, his gaze locked on the scope. His face remained calm, but inside, unease was growing. What was happening in the square was beyond human comprehension.
Meanwhile, the reinforcements from the royal army, having arrived at the battlefield, were horrified by what they saw. Three regiments, marching in from Berngen, stumbled upon the ghastly aftermath of a brutal battle. In front of them lay the charred, still-glowing remains of Baron Elton's cavalry squadron. There were no riders, no horses — only melted scraps of armor and eerie shadows burned into the stone.
And this was only the prelude to what was about to come.
Nosgorath stood at the center of the square, towering over the battlefield like a living nightmare. His arms, overflowing with shimmering dark mana, seemed like instruments of pure destruction. The demon's voice echoed across the battlefield, his incantation seeping into every crevice and corner:
— O Great God of the Earthly Core, Nur-Datar! Awaken your ancient servant! Awaken the guardian of your depths for me! O Nur-Datar, send forth into this plane of existence one of your oldest and mightiest followers! Ur-Garon, hear my call! Rise from the earth and bring ruin upon my enemies!
The ground trembled. At first, just a faint vibration, but soon it intensified into a full-blown earthquake. The cobbled streets cracked, as if ancient seams were splitting under the force of the spell. From beneath the stone pavement, a massive silhouette began to emerge. At first, it was indistinct, but gradually, out of the chaos and dust, a colossal form took shape.
A golem — a titan of stone and dirt, standing at least seventeen, maybe even twenty meters tall. It roared, a sound like the earth itself groaning in agony. Despite its massive frame, the creature moved swiftly, each step sending tremors through the ground as it advanced, destroying everything in its path.
The soldiers of the royal army froze in terror. Someone barked orders, but the words were lost in the cacophony. They were not prepared for an opponent of this magnitude. Panic spread like wildfire—men began to retreat, some even dropping their weapons in sheer fear.
And then, cutting through the chaos, a deep, resounding horn echoed through the city. The sound carried weight, restoring order amidst the turmoil. The elite royal mages had arrived. Their robes shimmered with the glow of arcane energy, their cloaks billowing like those of legendary warriors from ancient tales.
The mage battalion formed up in front of the golem. United, calm, and focused, they exuded an aura of raw power. Their spells interwove into intricate magical patterns, preparing to strike down one of the oldest demons of the earth's depths.
— Ready! Hit Ur-Garon and Nosgorath! Take them down in one blow! — bellowed the commander of the elite mage unit, his voice carrying over the battlefield like a war drum.
The mages, standing in precise formations, began chanting in unison, their voices blending into one:
— O spirits of the wind! Lords of raging storms, fierce hurricanes, gentle breezes, and serene calms! Hear our call!
Their hands moved fluidly, tracing intricate symbols in the air as if sketching invisible glyphs. The mana in their palms shifted from a soft turquoise hue to a brilliant, almost neon green—nature itself answering their summons.
— Bring destruction upon our foes! Dragon Tempest!
The sky, which had been merely overcast moments ago, darkened with storm clouds. The first drops of rain fell, and then, with a deafening crack, lightning tore across the heavens. The downpour turned torrential in an instant, and then, as if the gods themselves had unleashed their wrath, a tornado surged forth, its core crackling with blinding ball lightning.
The whirlwind of destruction engulfed the massive golem, Ur-Garon. For a moment, the monster stood frozen, caught in the raging storm. Then, with an earth-shattering crack, its colossal, squat body wavered. The ground trembled as the titan collapsed, sending shockwaves across the battlefield. The force of its impact shattered nearby buildings, sending plumes of dust and debris skyward.
— Yes! The royal mages are the strongest! Victory! — came the triumphant roar of four thousand soldiers. Their voices blended into one, as if the army itself exulted in its triumph.
But on the battlefield, celebration was short-lived. The mages, having expended their strength, could barely stand. One by one, they slumped to the ground, struggling to catch their breath. Their faces were pale, their robes drenched in sweat. Drained to their limits, they fought to remain conscious.
— Run! — one of the mages shouted, trying to be heard over the roaring wind. — We only stopped it temporarily! Run!
Their warning sounded like a death sentence.
— Hahahaha! — a thunderous, mocking laughter rang out across the battlefield. Nosgorath clapped his clawed hands together, the sound reverberating like a drum of doom. His crimson eyes gleamed with malice, and a guttural, contemptuous voice growled from his throat:
— So, the little monkey magicians learned a few parlor tricks?
He swept his gaze over the mages and soldiers, his lips curling into a sinister grin. Then, with a commanding snarl, he gave his order:
— Ur-Garon! Crush these insects!
The fallen golem, motionless until now, suddenly stirred. Its massive body shuddered, and then a low, gravelly voice rumbled from deep within its stone chest:
— Ur-g-ga-gy...
Like an ancient war machine brought back to life, it rose, and with unnatural speed for its size, charged forward. Each of its steps sent tremors rippling through the ground.
The soldiers, lifting their exhausted mages, tried to retreat. They sprinted toward the fortifications of the reclaimed castle, but the golem moved faster than anyone had anticipated.
Ur-Garon swung its massive stone limb and struck the earth. A devastating shockwave erupted, tearing through the battlefield. Soldiers closest to the impact were obliterated instantly, their screams of agony lost in the explosion. Those farther away were sent sprawling.
The air filled with the sound of shattering armor, pained groans, and desperate cries. Even those who managed to stand knew one undeniable truth—against this power, they didn't stand a chance.
Nosgorath watched the chaos unfold, a wide grin spreading across his face as if he was savoring the spectacle.
"This is CP (Command Post). We're in position. Berkut-1, what's your status?" Major Neverov's voice hissed through the radio, breaking the silence in the sniper's hide.
The response came a few moments later, accompanied by the crackle of static:
"CP, this is Berkut-1. Nosgorath just summoned a golem. When it started rising, we moved positions—didn't want to risk it—relocated to grid 1-9. No visual on the target anymore…"
Major Neverov exhaled sharply, gripping the radio tighter.
"Copy that, Berkut-1…" he muttered, lowering the device. His face twisted into a grimace of tension. His mind buzzed like a swarm of angry hornets. A seventeen-meter-tall golem… How much mana does that thing even consume?
Neverov recalled the words of one of his old mentors, Archmage Atorus, who had lectured about constructs back in his military academy days. Back then, as a young officer, he never imagined he would one day face one in real combat.
Atorus was an old but lively man, possessing a sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor. Having lived for over two hundred seventy years, he had dedicated the last chapter of his long life to teaching at the Qua-Toyne Military Academy of Magic. His lectures—especially the Bestiary course—felt like a blend of fairy tales and chilling warnings about the horrors lurking in the world.
During one such lecture, Atorus spoke of golems—magnificent constructs, capable of executing complex tasks through pre-programmed magical algorithms. In the Kingdom of Eymor, for example, they were used in farming, construction, and manufacturing. But in the distant past, golems had been weapons of mass destruction.
"Summoning a battle-ready golem," Atorus had said, stroking his long silver beard, "requires an absurd amount of magical energy. Even the most powerful archmages — or elder elves, for that matter—could barely summon one three or four meters tall. And the toll was brutal—many lost years, sometimes decades, of their lifespan. Ordinary mages attempting it dead on the spot."
As he explained, golems were virtually immune to medieval-level weaponry. No swords, spears, arrows, or even standard spells could inflict significant damage. This made them terrifyingly effective but also highly unpredictable weapons — liable to slip from their master's control and snap their summoner's neck.
At one point, a young officer in the class, clearly shaken by what he'd heard, raised a hand.
"Sir, if these constructs are so powerful… how do you destroy them?"
Atorus paused, considering the question. Then he smiled, his voice turning almost playful — but the words carried the weight of a challenge:
"I don't know, my children. That's for you to figure out."
Neverov could still hear Atorus's words echoing in his mind. How do you kill a seventeen-meter monster? We don't know…
He glanced at his radio, picturing Berkut-1's snipers staring at that colossal abomination from afar, their fingers hovering over their triggers, knowing their rifles wouldn't do a damn thing.
Beyond the window of their temporary command post, distant screams and the roar of battle echoed through the ruins. Neverov shifted his gaze to the map spread before him, covered in hasty markings. Somewhere out there, amid the wreckage and the chaos, their enemy lurked.
"CP, I've got a theory on how to take down that walking statue. Do you copy?" The voice from the radio yanked Neverov from the depths of his uneasy thoughts.
He straightened, snatched the radio, and responded:
"Go ahead, Berkut-1."
"It's cold all over, but there's a heat source—right through the chest, like it's glowing from the inside. Might be a weak spot. Do you copy?"
Neverov held his breath, digesting the information.
"Copy that, Berkut-1. Good work. Over and out."
After a brief hesitation, he switched radio channels, now addressing the armored unit crews:
"This is CP to Elephant-1, Elephant-2. Once you hit the main road, you'll see a five-story freak of nature. Aim for the chest with HEAT rounds, then finish it off with high-explosive shells. Confirm?"
The response came fast, crisp, and professional:
"CP, this is Elephant-1. Objective understood. Over and out."
"CP, this is Elephant-2. Copy that, moving into position."