The Grim Legion

by Kindred Ult

"I guess not." Demenn worked his arm experimentally before looking at Varus, who was still staring at him. "What?"

  "What the hell was that? You let him live." Varus did not seem angry, simply surprised, and maybe just a little angry.

  "Yes, I did." Demenn spoke as if just realizing it. "Damn honor."

  That elicited a chuckle from Varus. "You can say that again. And here I thought that mister Worldly-Wise-Vampire would have figured that out by now."

  "Yea, shut up." Demenn smiled, and then turned his mind to the task at hand. A wave of werewolves were sweeping down at them, and it was his job to get all of his troops to charge them back. Even as he steeled himself to rally the troops, he heard Darius, who was safe in the camp with the Patriarch, call out the order to attack. Demenn ground his teeth and shouted "Position A!" with all of his strength. He broke out in a run down the slope, and did not look back to see if his troops were listening to his order, or even if they were following him. Somehow, he just knew they were there.

  The two sides headed towards each other. One was many times the other, and spread out in a massive wave, which made it look even larger, and the other was clumped together like a blade, which made it seem even smaller. One side the complete incarnation of order and unity, while the other a manifestation of pure chaos and anarchy. When they met, it was not akin to two rocks smashing into one another, or two volumes of water, but it was more like a knife cutting into flesh. The black of the vampires slipped in between the brown of the werewolves, and their wedge continued to tear apart the insides of their army, as the forces of the werewolves closed down behind them.

  Down on the ground, Demenn spun, let go of his spear with one hand while sliding the other to the very end of it at the last second, and decapitated his first opponent. Its head had not hit the ground before he was past it, grabbing his spear with both hands and goring his second up inside its ribcage. He jumped over its erect body while pulling the spear out, landed, ducked under a swing from a weapon he did not pay enough attention to recognize, sliced the owner's leg while coming up, and then slit open its windpipes. It gasped out something, but he kicked it to the side and kept moving forward. A large sword came smashing down, but he stopped it with a horizontal block, slammed the shaft of his spear into the werewolf's face, kneed it in the gut, spun the spear around, and shoved the tip of the blade through one eye.

  Two stepped forward and lunged at him, trying to defeat him with a multitude of attacks, but the end of his spear wove around their weapons and defeated every move they attempted before he lunged and disemboweled one. He then ducked under the slash of the other, which severed the body of its comrade, and spun to stick his spear into its leg, twist the shaft in a circle and then yank it straight up, pull it out, and stab it into the back of the monster. He felt the soft lack of resistance as the blade slipped through the rib and pierced the heart. Another came at him and brought its weapon back behind it in an attempt to give its full strength to one attack, but before it could even execute its attack, Demenn was in front of it. He jabbed the shaft of his spear into it face, then dropped down and cleanly sawed off one of its legs. Not bothering to finish it off, he moved past it to his next opponent. It punched out with spiked fists, but he let the attack pass between him and his spear, then spun, caught the arm at the elbow with his shaft, then broke it. He moved closer and stabbed the werewolf under the armpit. When it fell, it never rose again, and Demenn was past it.

  With every kill, he took a step further. He never let himself stop, never went to one side or another, and never spared his opponent. Finally, he felt that he had gone far enough, and he mouthed the words to a spell that amplified his voice. When next he spoke, it was as if his words came from the sky itself.

  "All units, position A-V. Unit captains, command from here." Almost immediately, his unit was behind him, and he felt them snap into place as a smaller version of the original "V." Demenn quickly led the way once again as his unit splintered off in another direction. The single blade inside the werewolf horde instantly broke, and ten, smaller, blades burst from it. Each of them went in a different direction, and each cut a swathe in their way, leaving werewolf and vampire bodies behind them. No matter how many they killed, however, the uncounted masses of the werewolves barely seemed to diminish in the slightest. When he felt that they had once again reached their destination, roughly in the north-west quadrant of the werewolf army, he spun past an attack, hamstrung his opponent, and then called out in an unaided voice to his own unit.

  "Position O."

  As he exchanged a quick flurry of attacks with a werewolf, ending with him stabbing it through the foot, the thigh, and then through a kidney, he saw his unit form around him. They fleshed out the area around them, and eventually they became a perfect circle. It was filled within, just as ordered, and only a dozen werewolves were killed trying to leap into it and becoming impaled before they stopped attempting to do so altogether. The other squads had either done so already, or were very close to doing so, and soon the ten blades had morphed into ten spinning globs of black inside the sea of brown. Even as he bifurcated an over-zealous werewolf, Demenn heard the affirming shouts of the other squads inside his head and smiled. A werewolf tried to leap down on him, but Demenn knelt to the ground and shoved the bottom of his spear into it. The werewolf saw what was happening, but it was in the air, and had no way of changing its course. It slammed into the tip of the spear with its crotch, and continues to fall down it until the blade came out right next to its neck. Demenn pulled out his sword and slashed the werewolf four or five times before engaging another one.

  The first part of the plan was finished, and now all he had to do was survive. It was a prospect that seemed less and less possible as the night wore on, but at least eventually he was able to rip his spear from the spine of the werewolf after reducing it to mush through the course of several minutes. It was slippery, but that was fixed after only a few more minutes of battle.

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  "Well, it seems that your Demenn has performed his part to perfection, Darius. It was such a wonderful choice for you to make." Saphira stood at the edge of the valley with all of the other tactical leaders, and although she was among them, it was clear to all that she was of a different class. Her long hair fell straight behind her, and her closely-melded armor glistened in the moonlight. In her hand was the same sword that pierced Galstryx's heart more than a century ago, and her eyes flashed with anticipation of the kill as it had not in decades. She was an imposing figure, and the only one who compared to her was the male at her side.

  Vladimir stood beside her with his hands by his side. He stood as if her complete opposite, with his long robe. It was black, as was expected, and had slits up the front, back, and sides. Under it could be seen leather leggings made from werewolf skin. He had no visible weapon, which made him all the more menacing, as no enemy who had seen his weapons lived. He looked to the side at Saphira before ending Darius' fuming silence. "Yes, that he has. Now it is time for the battle to truly begin. We must strike now, while the werewolves are still without unity. Once they stop mulling about and attack the enemy within, our forces will start to greatly deplete." He turned to Skull.

  "Right, right." Next to those two striking figures, Skull looked very diminutive, and he had adopted an uncharacteristic hunch when around them. Still, when he closed his eyes, he straightened unconsciously, and he looked every bit the leader of the necromancers. When he opened his eyes again, his skeletal features pulled back in a ghastly grin. "It is done. Now all of my people know of our plan. We will begin the invocation shortly."

  Niethel, who just happened to be around, since Sophella was around to facilitate the discussions in case anything went wrong, wondered what they were talking about. He also wanted to with Demenn and Varus at that moment, fighting in the battle, but once again Demenn had prevailed upon him to stay in camp and become Sophella's official guard. He even went so f
ar as to officially relieve him of his duty to fight in the battle. Had it been anyone else, whether Demenn telling him to stay behind or Sophella with whom he had to stay, he would have flatly refused it, but this he just simply did not have the will to. They must have known he had no choice too, and now here he was, far away from his friends, while they fought and possibly died. 'Damn I'm worthless.'

  "Yep." Sophella replied. Then, without giving him room to reply, she spoke again. "In answer to your wondering about what we're doing, all of the necromancers will chant the Spell of Invocation at once. The result should be quite interesting."

  "Why?" Niethel was, for the moment, distracted from his worthlessness.

  "Because for a very long time—even before the werewolves were created—the vampires have been bringing the bodies of their victims here en masse, and as of today, it is the greatest burial ground in all of the continent." Her eyes gleamed, and her head tilted down with a smile of malevolence.

  It took just a moment for it to sink into Niethel, and when it did, he almost laughed. "So that's why Vladimir—"

  "Exactly, now be quiet, doing this in complete unison is going to be trying on all of us." Her head bent down and she began speaking in an unknown dialect as her hands shifted and her fingers carved furrows in the air before her. At the exact moment she finished, a tangible wave of…something, blew past Niethel and swept down the hill towards the warriors there. Now Niethel grinned.

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  Brand, along with the one hundred first class werewolves specifically selected by the werewolf King to fight with him, felt the wave of magical energy even though they were on the opposite side of the Great Plain and behind the trees. They were all standing, waiting. A spell had been put up by Ghost late that morning, and those first class werewolves who could still use magic—about five—were working with him to uphold it. As long as the spell was up and none of them moved outside of its parameters, none would notice them, even if they searched for magic. That was the beauty of Ghost's greatest magic. It was almost not magic at all, but rather simply a bending of reality.

  Brand had been standing silent, watching the ramifications of the vampires' earlier attempts at strategy and, while seeing how what they were doing was right, knew that they would not last. He had honestly just been waiting for the vampires' true plan to come into effect and when he felt the power flow over him, he knew it was there. It was obvious that all, whether vampire or werewolf, fighting or immobile, felt the power, but only a few knew what it meant. Even Brand could not know what was happening, until he saw the dots of white begin to show, and even then for a while nothing made sense.

  The vampires were still black spots in a flowing ring of brown, but once the power flew over the field, little specks of white began to shoot up all around. Some came up right in the middle of the werewolves, and some in the middle of the vampires, but soon it was obvious that there was great planning, as the vast majority appeared outside the ring created by the werewolves. A large band of white shot up and surrounded the brown ring as thousands and thousands of skeletons tore their way from the ground, grabbed for weapons, and then charged as one. Even as the first wave attacked the werewolves, another formed behind them and charged as well.

  At first, they caught the werewolves by complete surprise, as they were unnervingly silent, but once they discovered what was happening, a large howl erupted, and those who were not directly fighting the vampires turned outward to battle the undead all around them. They tore the undead in pieces, many times killing two or more with every attack, but the undead simply continued coming, and soon the black and brown mural of battle became interspersed with streaks of white as the sheer numbers of the undead broke through at places.

  'Skeletons, but that means… Necromancers.' The existence of necromancers in Darkoven had always been an issue of contest between the vampire slayers, and especially between Brand and Janije. Sometimes they had come so close to discovering them, but nothing substantial had come up. Now he could tell with his own eyes. If Janije were alive, he would be gloating and wagging his large beard in delight.

  The King growled when he understood. "Ah, so Vladimir has shown his true colors. I always knew that bastard would try something."

  "Orders sir?" One of the first classes asked.

  "We join the fray. We'll charge into those undead bastards, kill all of the vampires, then lead a spearhead straight into the vampire's camp." The King's eyes reflected bloodlust, but before he could sprint forward, Brand caught him at the shoulder. He turned and looked at Brand in astonished anger.

  "What are you doing, Deathbreak?"

  "Sire," Brand spoke quickly, half afraid of dying right then. "I know of that plain. I, being an elf, have lived for hundred of years, and the trees and animals have long spoken of a place where there is an immeasurable amount of dead. This is that place, and, as impossible as it sounds, if we were to join the fight, it would be just what Vladimir wants. If we are not destroyed, then at least our momentum will be lost and we will be worn down until Vladimir releases some other powerful device of his. Let us instead attack the camp of the vampires. They do not sense us, so we may at least begin to charge them before they can react. All of the necromancers are in that base, and they are the ones keeping the skeletons alive. They are weak in battle, and each of them is worth hundreds of undead."

  The King only thought for a moment. "How do you know this?"

  "I have seen it, Sire." For the first time, the King saw Brand's empty sockets. Even as the King thought, however, Brand looked up into the sky and saw disturbing movements of life. Something else was coming, and he did not want to be in the battle when it came. For just a moment he sent out a mental image and got two responses.

  'Nightwing, I have a feeling something bad is coming from the sky, could you try to stop it?'

  'I'll do my best.' Nightwing was near him, but this way was faster.

  'Are you ready Minotaurs?'

  'We will charge with you, master.' They had been camped close to the army this entire time, and Brand had secured royal protection for them.

  "Very well, we will attack them, and break Vladimir's deceitful strategy in two. Are you with me, Lyke, Rhave, my people?"

  There was a loud response as the hundred first class warriors, the Silver Manes, and the Lycanthropes howled and charged. Out into the open. Once the King passed the barrier, all of the forces were shown, and began running with all of their strength along the rim of the valley. They ran around the battle, and headed straight for the enemy camp.

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  Niethel could not hide his pleasure at seeing the werewolves in confusion, trying to fight without and within at the same time. They were already splintered within by the elite force of the vampires, and now the blunt attack of the undead from the outside was proving to be too much. Still, it was far too close of a battle. The werewolves fought like trapped animals, and their ferocity was beginning to overcome their panic of being trapped. They needed one more push to make victory inevitable.

  Amazingly, Niethel saw that the Patriarch was thinking the same. He turned to Dimitrious, who had stood by silently for the entirety of the battle, and beckoned him forward. "Dimitrious, are they here?"

  Dimitrious walked forward. "Yes, they are all prepared, and they wait only your command, master."

  "Have them attack."

  Dimitrious looked up and his eyes turned white for a moment, then the sky darkened with clouds, and the moon was completely covered. When it came out again, the clouds were swirling about one another as if caught in a maelstrom. The eye of the storm spun even faster than the rest, and eventually was sucked back from them. When it came back, the entirety of the clouds went away from it, and only a pit of pure darkness was where it had been. Immediately, demons burst from the hole and filled the sky with their red bodies. They flowed forth from the hole at an
alarming rate, and once they were in the sky they dived down at the battle below them. The mural of battle soon spun around with a swirl of red from above, and the demons did everything in their power to wreak havoc. They flew with their distorted wings and swung their nefarious weapons about them in abandon, hacking and slashing at will.

  Now the werewolves were very hard pressed. They were cracked from within, smashed from without, and harried from above. Almost one thousand had already died, and that meant only four thousand remained. That sounded like a large amount, and indeed it was, but at the same time the werewolves were beginning to be afraid once again. Their morale was beginning to weaken, and an army with no will to fight, be they beast or human, was a defeated army. This battle was going decidedly bad for them.

  But it was at that moment that a loud caucus of roars split the air, and the noise of it was almost as tangible as the wave of magic from before. It fell over the werewolf army, and they regained their spirits. They once again began to fight as if nothing were wrong, ripping bodies apart and laughing, even in the face of their untenable position. They knew what would happen, and the vigor of their comrades was a stronger drug than bloodlust. It drove them on greater than any hope. This battle was not over yet.