The clang of arcane steel echoed throughout the hall as Jorg’s shield and the dwarf’s flaming hammer collided. The sputtering metal drove a primal fear into Jorg’s bones, his soldier’s resolve the only thing keeping his feet planted. He pushed his attacker back, his mace crunching into the dwarf’s ribs, another blow turning his face into a smashed ruin.

A death knight lumbered closer, one of Lucia’s arrows jutting from its skull. Jorg activated [Zealot’s Fury], holy energy encircling his weapon. The sight of it sent an unpleasant tingle through his body, but he ignored it. He roared and blasted the knight’s leg backwards with a thunderous blow, its bones reduced to powder. With its head lowered he delivered a downward strike, finishing it off.

“We’re clear,” Lucia called, wiping sweat and blood from her brow. She had a nasty cut along the top of her scalp. The wound wasn’t too bad, but it needed tending. Jorg watched her as she collected her arrows, thankful the sight of it didn’t stir his hunger.

He walked to the edge of the stairs. They trailed down into darkness, his new enhanced vision barely able to contend with the choking darkness. But if Darian and the others had stuck to the mission, they were likely below.

“Almeda.” Jorg directed the leaf-haired woman Lucia’s way. “Stem that bleeding. Then we continue.”

The little fairy, Lallet, hovered down from the rafters. Fey in Jorg’s experience had no fear of death. But she looked upon the carnage—the blood and bones—with a sense of mortal dread.

“Tell your sister we’re closing in on the objective,” he ordered.

Lallet nodded, then closed her eyes in focus.

Almeda placed a hand against Lucia’s forehead, green light pulsing beneath her palm. “The noise from outside has stilled. And they’ve surely realized we’re here.”

“We’re going as fast as we can.” Jorg glanced at the bodies. The undead and dwarves had been stationed here as guards. Whatever lay below had to be important for them to leave so many troops behind.

“The Aspirant trusts you,” Almeda said, Lucia’s wound sealed. “So I will go where you lead.”

“Understood.” He worked the battle stiffness from his neck and started down the stairs. “Then follow me.”

***

Zander commanded the remaining tree men to form a perimeter around the edge of the forest. He doubted the dwarves were stupid enough to continue their pursuit, but the stunted creatures were stubborn.

“Best to be safe,” he mumbled to himself, his eyes drawn to the roughly bandaged stump of his left arm. The bleeding was under control and the pain manageable, but the fact it’d been taken by Azlar set a fire in his chest. He could only hope that wherever the demonic scum ended up, misfortune had befallen him.

“Commander,” came a voice at Zander’s rear.

A trio of satyr scouts were knelt in the grass, their faces grim. Their leader was Torvis, a powerful and spirited fighter. What carnage this night must have unleashed for his eyes to be so downcast.

“Report.” Zander did his best to stand proud. He could not afford to show any weakness.

“Half of our troops remain, but of that half, only a small number can continue. The rest are injured. The dryads are seeing to their wounds.”

“Half?” Zander questioned, a crack in his voice drawing concerned glances from his men.

“Yes commander, half.” Torvis lowered his head. “They died bravely.”

Zander clenched his remaining fist. “Thank you for the report.” He turned to look down the hill, the gore-soaked battlefield peeking at him through the trees. “Collect those who remain and have them meet me here. The final phase of our lord’s plan is upon us.”

The scouts disappeared into the forest one by one. And once Zander was sure they were all gone, he turned sharply and struck a nearby tree, his fist leaving a crater in the bark.

He trusted Raphael with his life. He’d been his companion for so long he hardly remembered what life was like before they met. But the death of his people was permanent. The fey queen saw to that when she cursed the banished. Their souls would fade like those of mortals, and that terrified him.

“What are you thinking,” he mumbled. His plan for the Aspirant, it was beyond risky. But he cast aside his doubts. Whatever his lord was planning, it was worth the sacrifice.

It had to be.

***

The rough-cut stone gave way to darkened metal as they descended. He’d seen the same style during his crusade in the east. It was demon forged, probably produced in one of their smoke spewing forges. But what was it doing this far west?

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Demons,” Almeda hissed. “My father was right.”

Jorg scoffed. He wished her father had shared his theories with the group before they departed. “Demons and necromancers, a vile combination.” He waited for the hot pump of righteous fury to flow through his veins, but his pious rage was subdued.

A horrid clash of growls, screams, and the gnashing and scrape of steel reached the group, the sound clawing upwards from the chamber below.

“Sounds like a war down there,” the fairy whispered.

Jorg hefted his shield up. “That kind of chaos can only come from one man.” He exchanged looks with the fey, then the group charged downward.

***

The room was a wash of frost, bones, and blood. His frost creatures were still battling Calhaven’s summoned hordes. Why haven’t they vanished? He stuck his blade into the metal floor and pushed himself upright, pain keeping his eyes open.

Calhaven’s body was motionless on the ground nearby, his head several feet away. No fire blazed in his empty sockets. The necromancer was dead, yet his conjured undead showed no signs of fading away.

The sound of marching boots drew Darian’s attention to a clutch of advancing skeletal soldiers. They hacked through a frost wolf before turning their attention on him. He pulled his sword free and tried falling into a fighting stance.

His mind and body were already well past their limits, but he raised his blade, the stumps where his fingers used to be slicking the handle with his own blood. But before the monsters reached him, a purple light gleamed from a corridor behind them. Then the familiar shape of a certain grumpy paladin appeared, two others at his back.

The first skeleton came at Darian with a thrust. It was as slow and predictable as all their attacks, but Darian’s arms faltered, his attempted parry knocked aside. The tip of the skeleton’s blade crunched into the armor over his chest, softening the blow. He returned with a stab of his own, but the skeleton absorbed the strike, Darian’s blade doing little but shoving the beast back.

An arrow thunked into its skull and it went down, another stepping over it, an axe coming down from overhead. Darian didn’t even try to block it. Instead, he stumbled back, his feet kicking and scattering discarded shards of bone. Once the axe sparked against the floor, he stepped forward with a horizontal slash. This time he struck true, caving the skeleton’s head in.

Dark energy swirled into Darian from behind, his wounds healing, some energy returning to his body. Alistair appeared at his side, blood caking one side of his face. His staff was gone, and he cradled his ribs with one hand. With his other, he sent waves of flame into the encroaching monsters.

“Thank you,” Darian said, straightening his posture.

Alistair’s unique bone golem charged through the winter haze, its claws scattering the undead with each swipe. And as they moved to surround it, Darian and Alistair advanced, sword and magic cutting down their enemies one at a time.

Jorg smacked a skeleton to the ground, then crushed its head with his mace. He was joined by Almeda, her magic binding the undead with summoned vines. With them now joining the battle, what remained of Calhaven’s forces were quickly dispatched.

Darian stumbled to the side and slid down the nearby wall. His summoned blizzard still raged, and he sent a mental command for it to calm. He then ordered his summons to protect them while Jorg and the others rushed to his side. Seeing Jorg so worked up almost made Darian smile.

“What happened?” the big man asked, setting his shield and weapon on the ground. He gently took Darian’s wrist and inspected his severed fingers.

“Calhaven took them,” he replied, realizing he’d dropped the Soul of Damnation somewhere in the scuffle. “But I killed him.”

“You defeated the lich lord?” Jorg looked shocked.

“He did.” Yaz limped up, his massive sword acting like a makeshift walking stick. He was cut all over, and there was a giant gash in his right shoulder. But the orc hardly seemed to notice the wounds. “I saw him deliver the finishing blow.”

Alistair staired down a few feet away, his eyes latched onto Calhaven’s body. “The lich isn’t dead.”

Darian perked up at that. “What you’re looking at says otherwise.”

“A lich can’t be killed until you destroy its phylactery,” Jorg explained. “He’s likely forming a new body to puppet as we speak.”

“Great.” Darian let his head rest against the wall and closed his eyes.

“It will take the lich time and energy to regain his full strength,” Almeda added. “By the time he does, we will be gone from this place.”

Darian slumped to the side, jolting awake just before he could completely fall to the floor.

“You need to rest,” Jorg said, his usually hard face taken by a soft smile.

“We can’t afford to slow down,” Yaz argued, drawing a nasty glare from Jorg.

Darian was tempted to side with the orc, but he wasn’t sure if he could stand. “Just…just give me a minute.”

“Alistair, do what you can to heal him,” Jorg commanded. “I will watch for threats.”

Falling in and out of consciousness, Darian let his body relax the best he could. His thoughts drifted away, the dark chamber replaced by an endless black void. In that void stood a glowing figure, and Darian approached the man cautiously.

“You did well,” Radrick said, a hearty grin on his face.

“Am I asleep?” Darian asked. He had to say, it was better than the nightmare his slumber usually brought.

The paladin nodded. “But this will likely be the final time we speak.” He looked down at his fading hands. “I used what remained of my energy assisting you. Before long I will vanish.”

“What will happen to you then?” Darian asked.

Radrick shrugged. “Who’s to say? But before I go, there are things I must tell you.” His brow drew downward, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “There is a war coming, Darian. A God war. And before it arrives, you must be ready.” He gestured to the side and the image of a man standing in the center of the sun appeared.

“Argus,” Darian mumbled, the image growing clearer. “What are you trying to show me?”

“You must see the past, in order to save the future.” Radrick grimaced, as if recalling a painful memory. “But I will warn you, what I’m going to show you, it may be…difficult for you to accept.”

“I can handle it,” Darian assured. He’d seen and done enough that he figured nothing could shock him anymore.

Radrick placed an ethereal hand on Darian’s shoulder. “For all our sakes, I hope that’s true.”