by A Uscila
As a bonus - Wail noticed an unexpected message pop up. A long awaited one at that.
Summon Minor Demon - Intermediate level 1 (0.02%)
Description: From the dark nether of the abyss, summons a demonic minion to serve its master’s will. Due to its nature – might be hard to control.
Minion strength: 30%
Cost: 3000 mana; 30 Souls.
Duration: Unlimited.
Finally, the summoning spell got a long awaited upgrade - as the minion strength increased by 20% simply for upgrading into intermediate rank. Quite the pleasant surprise. Though the increase in the demand of mana and souls was a minor setback.
Somewhat interested - Wail glanced at the annoying pest, only to witness a sudden change in Sorro’s appearance.
His muscles enlarged, while the figure grew - as the demon no longer seemed anywhere near anorexic. Nails seemed sharper, while the black mane increased in mass and magnificence. A pair of blood red horns slowly coming into view from within it.
Indeed, Sorro could no longer be called a pest - as he was almost half the size of Wail now.
A malicious cackle left the devils fanged mouth - another improvement for the worse as the magnitude stepped up a few notes.
“Much better! Now I can finally feel at least moderately comfortable in this world!” - With visibly renewed vigor, the sinister companion extended his palms towards the approaching enemy force - both held adjacent to one another.
A breathtaking barrage of fiery projectiles were conjured from the middle of sharp-nailed hands - as they rammed into the yellow force in increased volume, size and ferocity. Damaging and even stopping the advance of one rectangle formation all together. Forcing their ranks to form a solid, immobile shield wall in an attempt to resist the attack.
Seeing this as a pleasant opportunity for a shift in the tide of battle, Wail paid little heed to the continuous barrage of arrows onto their position and turned back towards his forces - “Fire the trebuchets!” - With a bellow, a single command was let loose, its laconic content echoed by numerous hidden bandits as it traveled towards the deeper parts of his fortress.
Eventually - a reply came into being, as Wail occupied his time with a healthy activity of hurling fiery projectiles at his enemies.
As if the messengers of doom - huge flaming projectiles flew from way within the fortress, seemingly coming from the inner keep. With their frightening mass - the relatively small in number balls of swirling flame fell upon the fortified fields. Slamming in an almost earth-rumbling force beyond the lines of hidden bandits. Some even inflicting damage to the invading force.
No amount of armor would protect those unlucky enough to be subjected to the sheer mass of the spheres of fire. Earth rumbled, while huge explosions of fire, earth and sometimes charred pieces of flesh scattered to every direction. As if meteors - each projectile left a crater in their wake, disrupting both the advance of the enemy even more, and even filling the already musical atmosphere with additional sounds. Explosions and the screams of those unlucky to survive the impact.
Indeed, the tide of battle was shifting, as Wail’s resourcefulness continuously payed off.
Chapter 50
Wide-eyed Willow bit her lower lip – as she observed the horrific scene beyond. Her gaze darting from one detail to the other, eventually falling upon the fleeing warlock with furrowed brows. Dark green cape fluttering behind the deadly ranger as it caught wind.
Together with numerous similarly dressed females – Willow nestled upon the roofs of run down shacks, present at the very outskirts of Wail’s castle-town-to-be. Their silent figures gripping bows tightly – waiting for the enemy forces to get in range.
Willow should have known things would eventually turn out the way they did. Nothing good ever lasts for long – and the fun little war the deranged warlock seemed so bent on was about to be over. With all that they managed to create burnt to ash.
Reluctant, the pessimistic vixen notched an arrow and prepared to fire – as she observed Wail’s frantic flight, with a squirming little bundle tucked under-arm. His skinny figure finally darting into relative safety as he joined the rest of the withdrawn bandit forces. Their scattered numbers hiding behind and beneath various man-made ledges and steep slopes. Dark, poorly armed dots scattered unevenly throughout the fortified field. Every single one patiently awaiting the approaching foe. As if waiting for the problem to solve itself.
Which was not completely wishful thinking, seeing as the yellow ranks constantly fell apart due to extremely unfavorable terrain. Climbing up, climbing down, going around – the invaders constantly moved about frantically in an attempt to maintain a semblance of order, yet were struggling fervently.
It was the perfect opportunity to exploit.
As if a signal flare – a sole ball of fire rose up into the air. Cast by a barely visible blazing dot of annoyance and ever-present annoying cackling. Wail’s little devil did not waste a second of the opportunity to inflict pain on others. Like minion like master.
Rising high into the air – the blazing projectile fell straight into the middle ranks of the yellow menace, splitting into multiple balls of flame mere moments before impact. Yet no matter how magnificent the performance seemed – it did not provide the intended end result. Sure, the fragments rammed themselves into quite a few of the soldiers, as they burst into a blast of scorching tongues. Yet – not many reacted to the attack, since most of the flames simply glanced off shield or armor – dispersing into sparks, carried away by the wind. Their relatively polished steel plates now scorched and covered in soot at most. A bare few ending up with a few burns and singes.
Eventually - Wail joined the fun, while performing the usual act of familiar order. A field of dark dust, followed by numerous fiery projectiles in varying size and number.
Both master and servant performed various tricks and displays of fire based beauty, yet no matter how they tried - they just did not inflict enough damage to the disruptively advancing rectangles. Their forms shifting and dispersing - continuously subjected to the unfavorable and simply crazy terrain.
Yet that was about to change - as Sorro abruptly stopped his antics only to go through a visible change in appearance. Heck, even Willow could see his enlarged form from her current vantage point. What she’d give to have that fabulous hair of his…
With renewed vigor - the fiery assault resumed, as both Wail and Sorro released a seemingly endless barrage of fiery orbs. Their twisting forms bursting apart upon contact with the yellow infantry. Soon joined by a ray-like barrage of fire – a barrage that had a much more visible effect onto the enemy. Screams echoed, as some caught on fire, while others were burnt to death. Their middle formation now forced to dig in - each and every soldier huddling up into as tight a formation as possible - while shields faced the relentless onslaught face forward. Immobile. Under strained effort to withstand.
Amazed, Willow ended up somewhat mesmerized by the view - a lack of focus that almost helped her miss the vital piece of info that drifted vocally towards her location.
“Fire the trebuchets!” - Were the words that her ears caught onto - shouted out by a random leather clothed bandit. A messenger - part of the offhandedly constructed chain of communication set up by Wail in advance. A means to signal the start of something devious.
With carefully aimed precision - Willow turned towards the inner-keep of Wail’s fortress and loosed an arrow towards it. It’s destination? A relatively small target, attached to a bell beneath.
As the arrow successfully reached its mark, the bell rang - signaling the start of unknown events. Events that revealed themselves a few moments later.
As if spewed from the very bowels of hell - huge orbs of fire flew out from within the stone keep. Each and every single one traveling high up into the sky - only to fall upon the fortified field beyond. Miraculously missing the linear positions of the warlock’s forces, while inflicting great chaos and damage to the approaching force of yellow.
Their numbers crushed underneath or sent flying from the force born once the projectiles struck the ground. An ear splitting shockwave spreading in every direction - smoke, scorched sand and even body parts scattering about. Those close enough either blown away or wounded by the myriad of rock shards that spewed out from the crash site.
Carnage ensued - reinforced even more as Willow and her rangers joined in. Exploiting the forced holes in the enemy’s formations - another addition to the man-made rain that filled the air already.
Shrouded by the gloom of the days end - a myriad of arrows flew from both opposing sides. Their lithe forms visible only until it was too late for most, while others were lucky enough to take notice early enough to dodge. Their lucky break supplied by the multiple light sources that were present in great supply. Conjured balls of fire loosed by both Wail and Sorro - the projectiles fracturing into larger numbers as they burst upon contact with the intended targets. While miniature suns fell from the earth illuminating all in an ominous yellow - long enough to foretell a woe upon those unlucky enough to stand on their point of descent. A great burst of light blinking into existence for a moment or two as each and every single flaming rock burst into thousands of pieces in a magnificent flash of pain and death. Taking many with them.
Forced by circumstance - the three large formations of the invading force burst into pairs of two and three, scattering like leaves in the wind, yet maintaining the charge. Fearless. Unrelenting.
Yet so were Wail’s forces, surprisingly, as their own groups of three to five refused to give any ground in a valiant show. While using the terrain to their advantage - they bravely buffered the assaulting force with spear and sword. Attacking from lower ground while using the superior reach provided by their weaponry. Who said being on higher ground is always more advantageous. Someone who knew what they were talking about, that’s who – seeing as those killed by the spears fell face forward into the bandit ranks – disrupting their groups and creating openings for living enemies to jump down.
In addition – no matter the valiant stand, Wail’s forces were still outnumbered three to one. Even the unmatched presence of his two commanders could not challenge the overwhelming disadvantage in both number and quality.
Surrounded by bodies of the deceased - both Macrosh and Bob were performing at their best. Both present at the opposite ends of the battlefield - managing Wail’s wings, while the warlock himself maintained a foothold in the center.
Willow could only scratch her head at the sight - wondering if it was so on purpose or a convenient coincidence took place.
Smoldering in black flames - the exhibitionist warrior battled in familiar desperation, as a black aureole covered his figure. Barely visible black smoke rising from his wounds. Rivulets of black liquid running down from scorch marks – souvenirs from his previous demise. As if the old wounds still carried the memory of his gruesome transformation and its cause.
Oblivious - Bob carried on at the very forefront. Fighting for his own and the lives of all those present, groups of bandits desperately pushing back the tide of superior steel and skill. Using every trick accumulated over the years of shady activities - trying to survive. While his line was slowly pushed back towards the fortress.
Glancing off shields and swords - Bob’s pulsing blade craved sacrifice, while leaving bundles of remnant flame. Its black tendrils spreading over those unfortunate enough to come in contact.
Screams of anguish surrounded the half-naked death-bringer as he shrugged off wounds new and old, while placing his all into offense. A well-aimed thrust piercing through the abdomen of the closest yellow soldier, while opportunistic slices and attempts to wound, assaulted Bob’s figure from every direction. Using the chance to attack without consequence. While taking heed not to get shot by their own archers - feathered projectiles falling occasionally in near proximity.
Little did they expect, that the bandits that littered the field all around - so desperate to save their own hides, would come to the rescue. Reluctant to abandon their obvious leader - multiple groups of spear and shield/sword wielding figures dashed in. Repelling the metal clad hyenas with pure tenacity. Though the fact, that every single attacked soldier had their attention upon the half-naked warrior did help somewhat.
On the opposite side of the field, Macrosh wasn’t doing too badly himself. Actually, he was doing better - as his flank managed to maintain a somewhat shaky, but relatively unshifting line of defense. Repelling wave after wave of metal clad soldiers without giving way. An oversized slab of metal whirling around in wide arcs - each swing leaving a gust of wind, accompanied by an ominous whistling. Each swing crippling, disemboweling or at least knocking back any who dared come in contact. Bellowing with unimaginable intensity - the oversized orc had the scales of battle within his huge grasp, as his bandit comrades were immersed in battle with a similar level of vigor. Their heated figures covered in visible steam, a peculiar red color to it catching the eye. As if each and every bandit in the vicinity around Macrosh were infected with his overbearing nature, as their strength rose beyond their normal capacity.
Oppressed - the yellow-wearing forces could only slowly, but surely step back as to avoid overly large dents in their lines. A result of the work the orcish commander put in - giving not a second of respite to himself or his enemies. His wound covered figure disregarding all the damage it received – which were far from lethal all thanks to the worn heavy plates that bounced projectiles off more often than not.
Regardless - no matter how significant the three’s presence was, they simply could not tip the scales fast enough to matter. They needed more help, and Willow was just the woman for the job.
Satisfied by the self-praise, the vixen smiled wickedly just before darting from the rooftop in a reckless display. Her cape fluttering behind in a desperate attempt to hold its master back from the madness. From the chaos of war below. A merciful order left as a goodbye to the vixens ranged comrades - “Hold position. Provide support.”
*******
Flaming explosions littered the field as sparks filled the air - a product of two fire wielding figures holding nothing back as their destructive nature was set loose. Chaos ensued as a result - battle lines forgotten, each man or creature for himself. Both Wail and Sorro darting in between their own forces and the enemy - as an all-out melee ensued, positions long broken down. Arrows rained down from both sides - friendly-fire as a taboo long forgotten and impossible in such circumstance. Tremors and explosions flashed in the background - while Wail desperately dodged multiple swords and maces aimed at his balding head. Droplets of sweat falling to the blood soaked earth - while sparks of fire glanced off of the metal plates that the enemies cowered behind. Gripping his dagger in a desperate reassurance of safety. An attempt to maintain the illusion which was on the brink of crumbling. Flashes of blades filled his peripheral vision - as new rips in the dark robe opened up constantly - darkened even more by all the blood that it was soaked in.
Yet each time a wound was inflicted - it closed up almost instantaneously, as Soul Syphon provided an almost unimaginable supply of life force. Every now and then - as the life-support threatened to expire, Wail would dart behind an ally or two - as his figure froze in stupor moments before another set of color joined the fray. Particles of black smoke mingling with the already all too familiar floating ambers. As if that wasn’t enough - Wail’s figure shimmered in swirling shadows constantly, the seemingly endless supply of life-force ending-up converted into mana. A reason for it in full display right nearby.
Visibly larger, due to recent circumstance - Sorro ran around in a magnificent display of fiery fury. His form long consumed with tongues of flame - licking, spreading, attacking all around without discrimination. His plentiful mane turning into a mixture of red and orange - the hair practically coming alive in flames.
With claws sharp enough to rend steel - the demonic creature darted in between the clustered enemy with relative ease. Cutting at limbs and sid
es without remorse - while wave after wave of fiery beauty exploded in every direction in his passing. Wounding, knocking back and simply disrupting all who were unlucky enough to be nearby.
In support of the group - an awkward figure darted to and from the friendly bandits - slicing at the backs and sides in opportune timing without a shred of shame. Pale flesh came into view as a stalking shadow - rushing in offense with awkward, inhuman steps - only to jump upon the back or ram into the side of a preoccupied yellow-wearing soldier. As soon as the charge-in was noticed - the pale, scorch mark covered fellow would immediately retreat. Running away in a performance of unmatched survival skills. Especially if we include the state minion number one was - the state of un-life that is.
Intense would be a word to describe the current events - and Wail was at the brink of mental collapse. His heavy breaths forcefully slipping through the slits in between clenched teeth. So utterly chaotic the fighting was, that the mad warlock simply could not find an opportune moment to reinforce his dwindling forces - seeing as there were plenty of willing candidates lying about all over the place.
Every single time the warlock would attempt to perform the mobility impairing summoning - one or two soldiers would simply use it as an opportunity to inflict pain upon the magician. Circumstance that were simply beyond Wail’s capability to cope with - he should have just stayed a safe distance away from all of it. No amount of health regeneration would save him from well-aimed impalement.
Just as he was about to give up on the issue all together - being the impatient bastard that he was, help arrived in display of attractive danger. Like a goddess of war - Willow’s lithe form darted towards one of Wail’s pursuers - only to perform a series of amazingly well aimed thrusts. A dagger covered in an obviously friendly color pierced into the throat of an unaware soldier in betrayal. Its tip sinking relatively deep to inflict a moderate amount of damage. Yet it did not go deep enough to kill. Unsurprised, death’s mistress continued in the same manner only to inflict numerous wounds in between the plates of steel - continuing so until the foe fell lifeless. Five thrusts - each one performed in breath-taking swiftness and precision.
