God of Hell - Chapter 40 - One More Step Towards The End (Patreon)

One thousand, maybe two thousand even, Gunther hadn’t ever seen an army this strong in his life, he hadn’t ever thought such a gathering of armed men and women was even possible.

They covered the landscape like a plague of locusts, Five Crimsons, Many Grays, a greater number of them and few, he imagined, had much love for Stradale.

He couldn’t help but worry for Cain, she sat alone on a fresteed in front of the horde.

He on the other hand was on one of the many archer towers recently erected, which gave him quite a view of the enemy, one he now wished he hadn’t taken so that his last moments could have been spent unaware  of how hopeless the situation truly was.

Nero, Selvas, just where the shit are you?

“You need to get down from here Chief, it’s not safe.” Aigburth said. He was the archer stationed at this tower. One of the mercenary outlaws Cain had brought to Stradale to help fight this hopeless fight.

A look into his frightened eyes made Gunther bury his terror and drag a facade of confidence so tightly around his face that he almost felt it himself. “Have you ever gotten to kill this many soldiers of Damnation?”

“No sir.” He shook his head.

“Well, then I won’t ruin your fun.” He smiled and the corner of the other man’s lips twisted ever so slightly into a grin.

Gunther climbed down from the tower and set his feet on Stradalian mud with a sigh. There was nothing he could bring to this fight, he’d long come to accept that, his contribution came in non-combative support, enough supplies to heal the wounded and shelter for the citizens. He had students that he’d done his best to train as quickly as possible in these trying times, and Stradalian warriors he’d educated on the basics of healing and potion making.

The fight itself was something that would be led by Cain and all Gunther could pray for was that she was more confident in her odds than he was in his.

It had been a long while since Cain had worn Crimson armor, but today she’d donned it for a decision that she could live with herself for making.

It had belonged to a dead man, who he was didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was hers now and it would protect her through this battle.

Knight plate was easy enough to fix after being damaged. As long as there was still enough of its solid mass left, one just needed to give it time and it would regrow. Even shrink or expand to accomodate a differently sized wearer. That was what made it so valuable.

Cain’s eyes settled on the men before her, the Knights, faces hidden behind helms and eyes burning with hatred.

“I am Cain, citizen of Stradale, I request a parlay.” She announced.

The Crimson nudged his steed forwards and it made a small hissing sound in response to its rider. It took a few steps towards her. 

“General Vandajin.” He identified himself, holding a large red shield in one arm and a sword in the other. Her steed was still bigger, leaner and more muscular than his despite his rank, because at the end of the day he was still a human riding a human's fresteed and she riding one of a Demon.

“I urge you to reconsider where you stand in this clash.” Cain told him.

His men sniffed and chuckled, but the captain didn’t. “And why is that?”

“Because we stand at the precipice of a new dawn.” Cain began. “We have a chance to change something, tell me you haven’t dreamt of turning against the Demons and placing their head on pikes, tell me you haven’t dreamt of taking Hell for yourself.”

They were all humans here, no Lords to spy on their conversation. No matter where one stood on the hierarchy, one thing all humans of Hell had in common was the desire to rise. It got stronger the higher their rank was, in fact. 

People were nasty that way.

The General took a moment to speak, that meant he was thinking, Cain liked thinking men, they were rare. 

“Your rebellion won’t make it, your town lacks the advantage, and as I hear it you killed a great number of your Mighty, that’s a good number of your fighting force fucked.”

Good points, if she had been the one to plan the rebellion she would have made far less idealistic decisions than Nero and Selvas did, but one must bargain with the hand they were dealt.

“All correct.” She agreed and nodded. “So I suppose we’re at an impasse.”

The man said nothing.

“We’ll meet on the battlefield.” She told him and turned to get on her mount.

“Wait.” He pressed after a moment.

Cain stopped and turned. 

“Before I came here, I looked into Stradale, listened to tales of it, because I like to get into the habit of knowing my enemy.” He said. “A certain story caught my attention, a story of a woman who journeyed all the way from the third circle and down to the first.” His men tensed at those words, hushed whispers flowed from Knight to Knight.

Cain’s heart went cold and stony, she clenched her reins hard enough to bruise her palms. Still he kept on talking, relishing the reaction his words got out of her.

“A story of how a Crimson of Miluina ended up living like a hermit outside an inconsequential town in Tayalnisyan.” 

“You be very careful with what you say next, boy.” She warned. The killing edge was in her voice, she hadn’t even meant to put it there.

“If you’re here now, speaking to me, that means you killed the Knights Lord Mercury put in your town to secure it.” He asserted, voice hot and tense. 

“What’s your point?” Cain asked.

“He underestimated you, I won’t.”

“Are we done here?” She asked.

“No, tell me, why did you leave?” The General demanded.

Without another word, Cain pulled on her reins, turned her steed around and headed straight back for the walls.

“You have an hour to lay down your arms!” He snarled behind her but Cain just kept on riding away.

The approaching force dwarfed hers in number and were massively more equipped.

Still, she’d done well in recruiting, she thought, though not nearly as well as she’d have hoped. She’d specifically gone for men and women with a reputation for Might, choosing quality over quantity, as they would never be able to beat their enemies in that department. Amateurs made a mess of any unit they joined, cowards more of one. Weaklings most of all. They’d do more harm than good with the time they had.

So each  fighter she’d chosen was at the very least a match for a single Gray Knight.

It had all come naturally to her of course, stories of valiance, telling them that their children would sing of the day they finally stood up against their tyrants, that perhaps they might be at the forefront of a revolution, today it might be Stradale freed, but tomorrow it might be their town, then Tayalnisyan and eventually even the Three Faced Monarch will not be able to escape a domino effect spurred on by their actions.

It helped that the God of Hell was on their side, but in reality it was all the same bullshit. Most of them were young, as almost exclusively the young were willing to risk it all.

Convincing children to kill themselves is easy…

She entered the town and observed the army from a slit in the gate. Their general stood atop a fresteed, growing impatient as they waited for Stradale to recognise how hopeless their situation was and surrender. He had no intentions of actually sparing the town if they did that, their orders were clear- to burn the town until there were but a handful left to tell the tale of what happened here to today.

She had no ear for lies today, she was far too busy plotting to slaughter every single one of them when the time came. 

Nero and Selvas would not come, she knew, they were dead, dying or worse. It was only her and Stradale and she had come to peace with that despite knowing exactly how it was going to end.

“Stradale!” The General roared. “I have given you a chance to speak your peace, you have turned a deaf ear to me!” He spat. “Now, tonight, my blade will speak!”

And then the men were coming.

A horde, that was what Aigburth was facing, and yet he knew better than to let the fright give in. In his lifetime, many had tried and failed to perform a successful rebellion against the Demons of Damnation, but up until now, none had the God of Hell on their side.

Now if only he was here.

He raised his bow, a curious mechanical thing with gears and coiling strings, nocked his arrow and when given the signal let it loose upon the sea of bastards.They rained down upon them like death from the circles above, felling men and leaving many more trampled underneath their allies.The power and force behind the bow was something stupendous.“Fire!” The signal came again and Aigburth readied his arrow once more, and shot into the faceless mass of bodies below.“Fire!”“Fire!”“Fire!”“Fire!”

He heard, and each time he did, and so did his fellow archers, and yet the mass of bodies just kept on coming. It felt as if they were a singular beast driven by a hive mind which had no qualms shedding its skin behind as the larger mass of its body rushed towards its prey.

They were almost at the gates now and nothing Aigburth could do would stop them. Still, he readied his bow, nocked his arrow into it and let it lose one more time.

Again the hive of killing men shed mass but just kept on coming. It hit the gates, and Aigburth felt the world tremble beneath his feet.

“Fuck!” Tommy hissed. They were at the gates, they were at the fucking gates.“Get into position!” Cain roared at him, shoving him out of his stupor and moving his feet again.

He rushed up a flight of stairs, legs racing, but mind too. His feet stopped once he got into position, a platform angled just above the gate allowing him to see the top of the heads of those around it, but his mind didn’t.He reminded himself of the basics; he was covered in Knight plate, sober and in the best form of his life. If there was any time to face a horde of bastards it would be now. But the sobreity left him feeling weaker than the haze.

The gate burst open a moment later, and it was a Crimson that entered first. They were inside the walls and Tommy only wished he could have seen the look on the bastard’s face when he saw not a mass of bodies on the other side, but yet another wall.It was a false wall, made to lead the enemy into a choke point, one of Cain’s ideas and built just in time thanks to the coordination of Gunther.

Tommy placed his hand on the large pot in front of him and tipped it over and onto the mass of bodies congealing below.

The boiling hot, flaming liquid erupted cries of agony from the dying men, and the archers upped the pitch to a crescendo by adding their arrows to the mix.

Some men fled, but the bulk of the forces continued moving through the reeking smoke. They split into two, one heading left, the other heading right. Only one of those directions lead into Stradale, the other would lead them to a wall.

Tommy rushed down the flight of stairs and headed down into the fight. He drew out his sword, a weapon of destruction.

Tommy intended to put it to good use.

‘Here’s one thing to remember, these guys aren’t proper warriors, they’re bullies, they don’t know how to fight anything that isn’t a starving old woman on the side of the road.’

Those were Cain’s words to Tillian.

A lie, now that he let himself think about it, Knights often were enlisted to fight in wars with other cities, and all that stood in their way here was a town.

Even if he wanted to believe her, it was hard for him to see the truth in her words when the titanic mass clashed with the gates, hard for him to feel it when the ground trembled underneath their approach, and now, as the men charged face-first into his spear wall, he could only pray for of truth in her words.

Their only clear path into the town had been deliberately made into a tight bottleneck and each man who spilled in was soon gifted with a spear through the neck rather than fleeing men and women.

Still they kept on coming and still Tillian and his fellow spearmen continued to cut them down. At first it was a victory, it felt like a victory, so many of the enemy cut down and not one defender even injured so far.

But they just keep on coming…

His arms soon grew tired, his reaction slow, the bottleneck was spilling down soldiers faster than they could manage.

A mounted Gray charged through the opening, and Tillian called on his brief training. 

‘No steed would charge directly into a spear wall, no matter how much their rider wants them to.’

But as he saw the two thousand pounds of Might infused muscle charge at him, her words rang hollow and he found his legs shuffling back.

The rider swung at his head and the blade connected. 

Tillian felt his Gray helm shatter as he fell down to the dirt. Blood poured from his head. He scrambled to his feet while the rider approached and got hit right back into the mud again.

His armor didn’t shatter this time, only a deep crack was spread across its surface. Tillian knew his luck would run out soon however and perhaps his murderer knew that as well.

Dying away from home, in a foreign town, fighting a losing battle.

It terrified him, but there were very few other ways he could have died that didn’t.

The alternative was as an old man, withered past his prime after a long life of keeping his head down and doing exactly what the Demons told him to.

Fuck that, fuck that times infinity…

The rider came at him again and Tillian roared. They stabbed at him and he stabbed at their mount. His spear buried itself in the man’s mount.

It reared, brought him down and Tillian was upon him within moments, stabbing the tip of his spear straight down that slit and burying it into the dead man’s skull.

Someone came at him, a Mightless or perhaps Mighted of little potence by his sluggishness, and Tillian whipped his spear out at them, stabbing him in the neck and not wasting time to check if he’d died.

Another came and another came and another came, the battle had started in full force now, men everywhere, but he made sure the ones who came after him would not see the end of it.

A Gray caught him in the back, shattering the plate to his side and cutting into his flesh, but Tillian caught him in the gap between his neck and breastplate before he could capitalise. Luck that, not skill. Lots of luck today.

Bleeding, bruised and fighting, the world became a blur of bodies and Tillian could only catch so many with his spear . He stabbed, smacked, parried and spat.

But in the end he didn’t even see what it was that killed him.

Cain held onto the memory of Tillian’s face and decided not to forget it, another portrait added to the endless gallery. 

She was covered in blood, and surrounded by bleeders.

What would younger you say if they could see you now.

Probably call me a fucking pussy.

Stradale was strong, stronger than she’d ever expected. Where they lacked skill, they made up for it in sheer determination, raw spirit.

It was something that the enemy could not match, they were in a foreign land, fighting a battle for a cruel Lord while the Stradalians fought for the existence of their people.

And still it wasn’t enough.

The enemy kept on coming, bodies upon bodies, each spilling in immediately to replace the ones she just downed. Cain had crushed stronger towns, the trick was always bodies.

A Crimson and several Grays surrounded her and she sent each to the dirt in moments, but not before earning a few more cracks along her armor, cracks that would turn to injuries, injuries that would slow her down, a slowness that would make the next fight that much more tasking.

She saw Alfie rip a man’s head messily off with his bare hands, Tommy plunge his blade deep into the chest of some deserving bastard to explode out their back, and knew that it still just wasn’t enough.

Cain always knew that she would die on a battlefield, it was right, it was fitting and the very fact that she tried to flee what she knew so truly what the fates had already decided for her was hubris encapsulated.

But they didn’t have to.

An enemy came and Cain killed, not before his strike could land however. Perhaps it was a lucky shot, perhaps he just had that much skill, but what was certain was that it had shattered a section of her armor.

One more step towards the end…