It felt like war. This battle was war to the old knight. On the way to the barracks, Bryanard had seen the demons for what they usually were: dangerous, yes, but straightforward. They rushed forward blindly, tried to swarm, claw, and tear, with little in the way of strategy. Some were cleverer, some carried weapons, but none fought with any real proficiency.
Here, though—here it was different. He swung his warhammer down on an imp that raised a battered metal shield, the impact shattering shield and skull alike in one crushing blow. The troubling part wasn't the kill—it was that every imp carried a weapon and shield, swords, clubs, or spears, as if drilled into some semblance of order. And they weren't just throwing themselves in chaotic floods anymore. They were coming in waves, striking hard, pulling back, pressing again, testing the formation Bryanard and the others had carved out at the barracks' single front gate. It was a battle line, a real one, with the demons pressing like organized troops rather than rabid animals.
If not for the position they held—the high stone walls of the guard barracks, the bottleneck of its single entrance, and the guards fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with them, bolstered by the iron voice of their commander—they might already have been overwhelmed. Another demon, a sharaykthun, lunged in with a thrust of its blade. The steel skidded off Bryanard's armor harmlessly, and with a savage horizontal swing, he smashed its head clean from its shoulders. His eyes lifted past the melee, scanning the horde's rear, and there he saw it: a drakorath, slimmer and less hulking than its kin, clad in scale mail. It barked orders, and the demons obeyed. Then its gaze found his, intelligent eyes locking with his across the battlefield.
"That's the one leading this band," Bryanard muttered, tightening his grip on his warhammer.
"Did you say something?" Calvinel shouted back, his voice nearly drowned by the clash of steel and screams of the dying. The younger knight caught the flurry of a drakorath's twin wrist-blades on his greatsword, twisted, and split the creature diagonally in a brutal counter. "It's hard to hear anything over this noise!"
Bryanard gestured sharply with his hammer toward the armored drakorath. "That one. It's giving the orders. That's why they're fighting like this, organized."
Calvinel followed his motion, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the figure at the rear. He gave a sharp nod. "Yeah, that one's the leader. The real target we need to cut down."
At that moment, the guard commander's voice thundered across the line like a battle horn. "Show them the strength of our steel!" He drove his steam-powered chainsaw blade through a demon's torso, sparks flying as the weapon roared. "The might of our resolve!" He gestured sharply, and a line of halberdiers surged forward, impaling shrieking demons on polished steel. "And the destruction of our firepower!" With a final barked order, he signaled the riflemen on the high walls, who unleashed disciplined volleys into the sky. The sharp cracks of gunfire cut down cherubs before their telekinetic barrage of debris could batter the walls.
The commander was everywhere, his presence ironclad, his voice unshakable, and under his command the once-faltering guards fought with newfound ferocity.
"That man," Calvinel muttered, pointing to the commander at the front. The older soldier stood firm in his decorated greatcoat, military honors gleaming against the blood and smoke. His sharp gray mustache matched the clipped cut of his hair, but it was his eyes—defiant, unyielding blue—that commanded respect. He was no stranger to war, and he showed no fear in the face of the abyss.
"He's the reason we're still holding," Calvinel said, his tone edged with grim certainty. "We need him and his guards to carve us a path to that one." He thrust his sword toward the armored drakorath at the back, the clear target looming like a shadow behind the horde.
Bryanard gave a firm nod and started pushing his way toward the commander, while Calvinel held the line behind him. The younger knight's greatsword swept in wide arcs, each strike punctuated with bursts of ice magic—walls slamming down to block advancing fiends, jagged spikes erupting to impale them in brutal fashion.
"Commander!" Bryanard barked as he reached the front. The guard commander ripped his chainsaw blade through a drakorath's skull, sparks and gore spraying before he turned to meet the knight's call.
"What is it, sir knight?" the commander demanded, his tone clipped yet carrying respect.
Bryanard raised his warhammer and pointed it straight across the battlefield toward the armored drakorath standing at the rear. "That one is leading them. We need you and your soldiers to carve us a path."
The commander's eyes followed the line of the hammer, his jaw tightening as he locked onto the figure. His glare hardened. "So that's the bastard." He spat to the side and raised his weapon high. "Do not worry, sir knight—we'll clear the way!"
He whirled on his men, voice booming over the clash of steel. "You lot! We've stood on the defense long enough! Let them taste the fury of people fighting for their families! CHARGE!"
And with that, he led the example, his chainsaw sword roaring to life as he plunged into the throng, cutting a bloody swath through the front ranks. His soldiers roared in unison, their halberds leveled as they surged behind him. Together, they did not just hold—they drove forward, forcing the demon line back step by step.
Calvinel closed in beside Bryanard, his greatsword dripping with black ichor. "Well, that worked," he said sharply. "Come on—let's not waste the opening."
Bryanard grunted in agreement, hefting his warhammer as the two knights pressed into the breach.
At the rear, the armored drakorath tilted its head, the scaled visage twisting into something disturbingly close to a smile. Its voice rolled across the battlefield, smooth and cold as obsidian. "Brave little knights. Let us see if their prowess matches their courage."