Dallarath ran his ranseur into a four-armed demon. The creature tried to claw at him, but the trident-like spear’s crescent cross hilt kept it at bay.

The demon seemed diminished — not at all like the ones they faced during their brief training session arranged by the Scourge. It felt weaker and slower than the demons he faced. Its magic, while still deadly, felt less threatening. He could predict when it was going to use an ability or cast a spell and disrupt them with ease or avoid their effects altogether.

He questioned whether all he knew about demons were exaggerated to magnify their threat or the accomplishments of the ones who defeated them. It seemed like it was not the case. One look at the men fighting by his side and he could see the devastation a few demons could cause. Many of the men were gravely injured. Fortunately, the duke provided his guards with healing drops. It would minimize casualties, but more than a handful of soldiers would be returning home with a missing limb or two.

Was it the training? How could he grow in power in just one day? Dal could feel that it wasn’t just his hell-forged spear that elevated him from the other soldiers. He was somehow stronger, faster, and hardier. A blow that would send a soldier flying would only knock him back two or three steps back. A fire spell that would burn flesh only seemed to singe him. Spells that affected the mind would hardly even register. However, the greatest boon of his training was experience. He knew he could survive facing a demon — and that knowledge translated into the battlefield.

Dal sprang towards another demon. He shoved away a guard to prevent him from being ripped open by the demon’s claw — taking the blow with his spear shaft. He jumped back to create distance. With the demon’s attention on him, he could use his mobility and agility to avoid blows and target openings.

He chided himself for momentarily thinking the guards were getting in his way. They were holding up their own to the best of their abilities — and his party wouldn’t have lasted the first onslaught without their help.

A blast of frost covered the demon he was facing with rime. Gwin was choosing to use her spells to hinder the demons and give her allies the openings to attack. It was a good strategy, considering how much she grew in power.

She was also sporting something borrowed. While Dal considered his spear remarkably useful, it paled compared to Gwin’s borrowed gauntlet. It barely even passed as a gauntlet — but that was what the Scourge called it. The gauntlet was a set of five rings — one for each finger — all of them linked to a bracelet with supple mithril chains.

The chain gauntlet allowed Gwin to tap into a repository of mana comparable to that of five archwizards. Unfortunately, her body would not withstand that much mana — but the gauntlet’s near-unlimited store allowed her to cast her spells continuously.

Dal was not going to waste the opportunity she had given him. He ran the spear through the demon — piercing its torso then slicing upward to split its head in two. Unlike his battles in hell, there was no spray of blood and gore after the kill. The demon simply dissipated.

The spear was a marvel of craftsmanship and enchantment. While Siege was certainly not the greatest of dwarven smiths, the fact that he managed to make the spear in a day was a feat of greatness in itself. The steel shaft allowed him to attack with greater force, without worry if it would break. The mithril-lined pointed blade proved effective in piercing and cutting through demon flesh.

The Scourge’s enchantments made the weapon even more lethal. There were no elemental enhancements that would add to the damage the spear dealt, nor were there debilitating enchantments that would weaken the enemy. At first glance, the spear wouldn’t even seem enchanted at all.

The Scourge imbued the spear with strange applications of force. The spear did not constantly utilize the wielder’s mana to improve sharpness or piercing power. Instead, its enchantments would only flare upon contact with flesh and the wielder’s prompting. The enchantments created a halo of force around the blade, aggravating wounds and allowing the wielder to easily retract the weapon. Dal had to admit that it was an ingenious innovation.

He saw Siege charging towards the largest demon on the estate. The dwarf moved where the fighting was at its fiercest. He drew the attention of the demons, giving the soldiers a reprieve and allowing the wounded to retreat.

Under normal circumstances, Remilla would be providing healing — however, healing duty was relegated to one of the Scourge’s golems. The wizard said Shelby wanted to participate remotely and she sent the golem — which was oddly named Staffany — in her stead.

Dal wondered how the giant snail controlled the golem from a distance — much more how it could control it in the first place.

He worried for the soldiers. Their cries of anguish and pain reached the battlefield — perhaps a sign that the snail’s golem was not up to the job.

Strangely enough, he saw some of the wounded soldiers returning to the battlefield with renewed vigor. They seemed even more determined to defend the duke’s estate — their fear of the demons replaced with glints of fire in their eyes. They fought fiercer than they did before while suffering fewer injuries.

Dal shivered, finally realizing what was happening. He didn’t give the upright staff sticking out of the golem’s back, thinking it was some kind of mana amplifier for the snail to bridge the distance. He remembered his own cries of anguish and pain during his training — the soldiers were probably experiencing the same ordeals he went through.

He roared as he charged towards a demon — his eyes alight with the same fire as the soldiers. He would not be subject to the Scourge’s twisted healing. The battle would end without him asking for aid.

***

Solokor waited for news from the city. While he didn’t have spies in the duke’s estate, he had informants stationed nearby. Unless it was suppressed, word of the duke’s death would not escape his notice.

He wondered how the agent of death would end the duke. He wondered how he even manage to summon such an entity and why it catered to his requests. The lives of five hundred prisoners seemed a cheap price to employ death itself to kill the duke. His employers would be happy and he would have a tale for the ages for his close colleagues — not that he had any, especially ones that wouldn’t stab him in the back given the opportunity in the literal sense.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Solokor smiled. If word got out that he could summon death itself, his reputation would skyrocket. He wondered if his dealings with the strange entity could be extended. Five hundred lives was a small price to pay for the lives of nobility — or perhaps his rivals. He would be the most sought-after assassin and he could demand the highest rates.

A sudden chill interrupted his thoughts of fame and fortune. It was as if his soul was dying and not just his body. What was happening? The summoning circles were two rooms beyond the one he was in — the entity’s aura couldn’t possibly extend all that distance.

Clarence, Death is coming.

The voice was everywhere — filling his ears and mind with the presence of death. He started to walk towards the summoning room, but his instincts told him that it was not needed.

Something was coming. Something dreadful.

He expected shadows to converge or perhaps the ground to split in two and reveal a flaming pit. He did not expect a wooden door to appear on the wall.

Solokor stared at the door, waiting for the entity to emerge. The design and make of the door seemed a bit modern. A skull was carved into the wood — though it seemed more comical than menacing. Then again, the deathly entity had the same visage as the carving — and he was undoubtedly menacing.

The door opened. The duke entered the room followed by the hooded entity carrying a scythe. While the agent of death was unchanged, the staff in his hand was different. It looked more like the traditional farming tool than the magnificent scythe from before. It seemed apt. Death was harvesting a soul — not appearing for an audience.

He managed to catch a glimpse of what seemed like a butler closing the door — but it was probably his imagination running wild.

“Why is the duke here?” Solokor managed to find his voice amidst everything that was happening.

“It would be a shame for him to die alone with nobody to see,” the entity answered. “You can do the deed yourself if you want to.”

“I would rather not,” he shook his head.

The duke was subdued, as if weariness had taken over his body — like a calm acceptance of what was to come. It seemed like death took its time to bring him here.

“Then it’s up to me.”

The entity paced the room. It picked up a few baubles and lingered near the bookshelf.

“Your demons failed, as expected,” it turned to him. “But don’t worry. I sent a few compatriots to tend to the lives of everyone in the estate. The duke should be meeting them soon enough.”

All of them? It killed the entire estate?

He couldn’t help but glance at an emerald embedded in the wall behind the entity. It was a makeshift truthteller — and it wasn’t detecting any falsehoods.

“The lives of five hundred men for the duke,” the entity stared at him intently. “You don’t have to pay a single coin for the ones at the estate. Quite a fair trade — is it not?”

It wasn’t — but Solokor didn’t want to openly disagree with the entity’s words. The lives of five hundred peasants and slaves were a pittance compared to what happened at the estate.

“What of the duke?” he asked.

“This one?”

The entity raised his scythe and swung at the duke. The blade severed the duke’s neck and Solokor caught the look of indignation on his face before it dissipated into nothingness.

“But, the body—“ Solokor stammered.

“Didn’t you say you would rather not deal with the duke?” the entity’s voice grew more threatening. “The duke is with his family now. Nothing you can do can bring him back here.”

“My employers might want proof of his death,” he ventured to say.

“Oh, our talks regarding your employers are yet to start, Clarence,” the entity hissed. “Now where are the lives I was promised!”

“Through the woods, east of the estate, there is a cave with more than five hundred captives,” the words rattled through Solokor’s mouth. “There are four guards — they are also yours to take.”

The entity paused at his words.

“Did you catch that, Sebas?”

What? Who was this Sebas?

The entity’s words troubled and confused Solokor.

The door opened, revealing the butler he previously saw but dismissed as a fragment of his imaginings.

“Indeed, Master,” the butler answered. “A cave to the east across the woods and four guards.”

“Bring the half-elf,” the hooded figure waved a hand dismissively. “Make sure the golem heals him even if he doesn’t look injured. He could have muscle strains or internal bleeding that can’t easily be seen. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“I’ll make sure of it, Master Jeremy,” the butler bowed before closing the door.

“Wait! Master Jeremy?” Solokor turned to the hooded figure in horror. “You’re not Death?”

“Oh, I certainly am,” Jeremy answered. “Perhaps even yours.”

***

Cedric rubbed his neck. He could still feel the scythe’s blade slicing across his neck — severing his head from his body. Of course, most of it was probably imagined — and it wasn’t his actual body.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit angry at how he died. They never discussed decapitation and their last rehearsal only involved the Scourge touching him before he dissipated. The wizard did say he would make it more dramatic — but decapitation was a bit too much.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. His aides and servants would normally knock so it could only be his wife, Leonora.

“Are you well, my dear husband?”

“Yes, my dear,” he answered. “Everything went well — though the Scourge might have taken things a tad too far.”

“Are you fine? Are you injured?”

“No,” Cedric took his wife’s hands to calm her down. “But my head hurts from the decapitation.”

“Decapitation?!”

“A joke, my dear,” he assured her. “But my head does hurt a bit.”

“I knew it,” Leonora pulled her hands away from his and headed to the door.

There was a strange golem standing at the doorway.

“Once the battle was over, I headed down to the men to check on them,” she explained. “Most of the men were doing fine. When I asked for a healer, they pointed to this wonderful golem. They said it healed almost the entire squad, leaving little for our healers to do.”

“I guess I could do with a bit of healing.”

The golem seemed to react to his words. It walked towards him and bowed — which was strange for a golem.

“The golem is named Stephany for some reason,” Leonora happily beamed at the golem’s actions. “It seems like it has a mind of its own.”

The golem nodded at his wife, confirming her guess.

“Fine then, Stephany,” Cedric urged. “Heal me of my headache.”

The golem placed its hands upon his head. It was only then that he realized that it was probably brought to his home by none other than the Scourge.

“Wait—“