Draycott saw Uriel launch into the air and screamed in anguish, “Uriel!” he roared and began to cut through the fighting in front of him, men fell quickly to his swords, the corrupted blades biting into their flesh and causing it to decay. French and English alike fell to the hungry steel as Draycott made his way towards Dmitri, the damned angel would have to descend if his mortal hero was killed.
Dmitri and Wayte fought side by side, linked. Wayte’s natural skill was enhanced by Dmitri’s perception and Dmitri’s inherited skill with a blade was enhanced by his ability to use his magic while he fought. As the battle continued, the moans of the wounded, the smell of the blood and dust, all of these stood out to Dmitri. Sweat was beading on his brow as his golden sword of flame cut into yet another Englishman, the wound instantly cauterised by the heat. None of the English had continued fighting after being struck by Dmitri’s blade. The wounds were far from fatal, but there was something about them, whether it was the cauterisation or something divine imbued into the blade by Uriel, the wounded simply seemed to get up when they were able to and wander off the battlefield.
Hearing screams of something beyond agony, Wayte looked for the source to find Draycott wading through the battle, his deadly blades leaving a stream of what appeared to be rotting corpses. He nudged Dmitri and pointed Draycott out to him; “We have to do something about him,” he suggested.
Dmitri nodded in agreement, “If he is indeed Akahaziel, we need to kill him. Can you hold the English off me?”
Wayte nodded and wished him good luck.
“Draycott!” roared Dmitri over the din. The English Lord looked up and saw Dmitri. A wicked smile appeared on his face and with a wave of his arms; soldiers from both armies were thrown aside by an invisible force. Draycott charged at Dmitri, twin blades whirling. Dmitri held his ground in a defensive stance, blade up, ready to stop the charge. The two forces of light and dark met with a clash, the twin black blades meeting the single golden blade. Upon impact, lightning seemed to cascade off the blades and there was a boom as if thunder.
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In the hill overlooking the battle, Arcaedus had been following Draycott’s spirit with his mind. When it had darkened as black as pitch and he heard the thunder sound, he knew that Draycott had caught up with his mortal nemesis Dmitri. He sent his spirit further, finding Dmitri in the fray. Interesting, it seemed that the golden spirit of Dmitri wasn’t alone, there were spirit tendrils snaking out and linking him with... with the other human it seemed. Very interesting indeed.
As Dmitri and Draycott clashed, the battle around them continued with unceasing ferocity. The hot stink of blood hung thick in the air, the dust being kicked up clung to the sweat pouring off the soldiers, English or French, they were all human and surely none of them could relish their current situation. Apart from Draycott; feeling empowered by the deaths occurring around him in his name, he struck out at Dmitri again and again. Thunder boomed and lightning struck each time the blades met.
Dmitri was beginning to tire under the mad onslaught, but stiffening his resolve; he ducked around one of Draycott’s assaults and managed to hit Draycott with a slash to the arm. The blade bit deep, the flame sealing the wound almost immediately. The divine energy imbued into the blade washed through Draycott; his eyes opened wide as a sense of vertigo overtook him. His grip on his blades slackened and he drop one of them.
“Edmund?” asked a kindly voice. Draycott looked to the source of the voice; it was a strange foreign man with a glowing golden sword. The man’s arm was outstretched in a gesture of friendship. Draycott stretched out his hand to take hold of the man’s hand, but then something bubbled up inside him; a seething hatred. His eyes cleared and he saw the man in front of him; “Dmitri!” he screamed and struck out with his blade which bit deeply into Dmitri’s outstretched arm. The skin around the wound began to darken and fester. The sword in his other hand glowed bright and the festering wound began to glow as well. In moments, the wound was gone, replaced by a golden scar. Both men, startled from the occurrence stepped back, Draycott collecting his fallen sword as he did so; it wasn’t going to be as easy as either man thought.