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Great masses of flame fell from the clouds above and burst in the midst
of the undead army. Soon, the air was full of thick, greasy smoke, and
the stench of burning bone and charred flesh. For a time, the walking
dead at the wall continued trying to assault the defenders, but soon
turned back. As for the fate of the black-robed necromancers... they
could not be seen in the smoke and flame, but Garkhen could only assume
they were faring as poorly as their minions.
The storm of fire continued for several minutes, then ended as abruptly
as it had begun, leaving only the smoldering corpses in the scorched
field behind. Except... there was movement. The robed figures still
lived.
The Loyalist forces seemed frozen with shock for a few moments, but
soon, a great shout went up as they sallied. Some of Garkhen's squad
seemed inclined to follow, but Sergeant Gerim's stern gaze kept them in
place.
They didn't hold position for long, however. Soon, orders came to
gather at the gate. A rushed commander looked over them as they arrived,
then handed them off to a lieutenant, who slotted them into place with a
few other squads in the gathering formation. Then a shouted order sent
them marching out of the gates.
It seemed to Garkhen that they stepped into a different world. While
the battle on the walls had been bad enough, this... this was like
gazing into the Abyss. Charred remains smoldered around them on ground
burned clean of grass. Smoke drifted around the fields, lit by weak
moonlight filtering down from above mingled with the light of dying
fires below. Garkhen could hear the retching of those soldiers who
lacked strong stomachs above the clink of weapons and armor.
A shout arose ahead, and soon after flashes of light and the crash of
weapons. Garkhen quickened his pace, trying to keep in step with the
faster cadence of his formation as they marched towards the sounds of
battle. Soon enough he could see, through the smoke, a small group of
armored soldiers... and a handful of large, fiery figures battling them.
The soldiers were losing ground quickly, retreating before the face of
their foes. Towards Garkhen's formation.
As they drew closer, he could make out these foes more clearly. There
were perhaps half a dozen of them, varying in size from only slightly
taller than a human to twice as tall. All were terrifying, misshapen
creatures, vaguely resembling different races of Men (and trolls), but
horribly twisted, with auras of sickly flame about them.
“Infernals,” Garkhen breathed.
Infernals, or demons, or devils, or... there were more names for them
than reliable sightings. While he had read of them in tales, yet the
more trustworthy religious and scholarly texts generally agreed that
such creatures never came to the world—or if they did, only in small
numbers, and with the blackest of dark summons. Supposedly, they were
the end fate of souls so twisted and evil that they changed after death
into monsters. Seeing them, Garkhen could not help but think it was
true.
Their power, however, was clear. The once orderly retreat of the
soldiers they were marching to reinforce had become a full-on rout, as
they fled before the fell creatures. The largest of them swatted a man
aside with the back of one hand, sending him flying several feet before
landing and laying still.
The archers in Garkhen's formation halted, took aim, and loosed. The
arrows flew true, arcing over their allies and striking the Infernals...
to no effect. They ricocheted off the abyssal creatures' skin as if off
steel. Remembering something, Garkhen focused, calling to mind a
spell-prayer he had once read. Holding aloft the symbol of Bahamut, he
called on his god for holy power. A silver-white glow formed on the
weapons of the soldiers closest to him.
“Now we may harm these creatures!” Garkhen exclaimed, pulling his mace
out as their fleeing companions reached their ranks. They let their
injured comrades through, then closed ranks again just in time to meet
their foes.
A troll-like Infernal, with red-black scaly skin and huge claws, the
largest of the six Garkhen could see, was first to meet their lines. It
locked its eyes on the Warder and, with a roar, swept its clawed hand
down. Garkhen raised his shield and braced himself. The black claws of
the Infernal bit into his shield, cutting down to his arm, but was
stopped by his armor. The half-dragon grunted at the impact as his left
arm was borne downwards by the blow, but he managed to keep his feet.
Somehow, he got his mace up and struck down at the creature's arm as it
started to pull it back.
It roared in pain as a holy light flared around Garkhen's mace. Quickly
it pulled its hand back, but just as quickly it lashed forward with the
other. Garkhen stumbled backwards, the Infernal's claws again thwarted
by his armor, but the force of the blow no less for it. But by now the
soldiers around him were at work, and several blades cut deep into
scaled arm.
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