Beneath a chaos-ridden sky of arcing lighting and pulsing red wounds on the very fabric of reality, a line of spears and shields stood 4 men deep and 30 long with a thinner, more widely spaced line of bowmen behind them on the roughhewn black and purple landscape.

  To their left Harmon the “Hammer” and his band held strong. Robust with their heavy infantry, multiple ranks deep backed by siege engines. Hastati to the front and Siegman to the rear. Heavy shields and thrusting swords before, ballista and onagers flinging deadly payloads forward in a slow, but steady drumbeat over their heads. Then Dimitri’s Band, then a few companies of Falxman with their half-sickle-headed polearms, before the line disappeared into the haze.

  To the right, six companies of The Emperor’s own 7th Legion stood shoulder to shoulder in their uniform black and gold tabards. Spears and tear-shaped shields backed by disciplined ranks of Capital Arbalesters. High 2nd and even 3rd tier crossbowmen firing volleys faster and with nearly the same effect as Harmon's beloved siege engines.

  Advanced classes and equipment that only the capital could field matched with a full-on Regional Unique Class. Such bonuses made them considerably more deadly than even their high tiers suggested, he reflected with a hidden sigh, and not for the first time either.

  A fact of life. And one on full display in back of the lines to either side as well. Resplendent ranks of Horselord’s Cataphracti. Heavily armored horses and men with long iron-tipped lances, reflecting like stars even in the dim lighting.

  He let the jealousy flow away. The band might not have the high-end classes or regional specialties, but veteran troops baptized in the fires of this generational conflict were nothing to sneeze at. Averaging at the end of the first tier with a solid core of 2nd Tier lancers to back them, they stood firm and confident. Not only holding back the red tide, but steadily eroding it.

  And tide it was. Standing above it, but spread hundreds of feet apart, were 16-foot, 4-armed, fire-breathing greater demons. Wielding a combination of whips, swords and flails, they towered over, and mostly behind, the fight. Overseers, motivators, slave drivers.

  He had a hard time calling the avatars of chaos commanders. With kicks and whip strikes, they pushed the swarm of mismatched horned and scaled barely sapient demonic beasts forward. A chaotic mess of arms, horns and scales. Of fangs and claws. Spikes and barbed tails. Some were almost humanoid. Wielding clubs, sharp rocks and stone javelins. Others fully bestial on four or more legs.

  Life force, strength and ferocity they had in abundance, despite their generally smaller stature, but being beings of pure chaos, coordination and discipline were completely absent. A great relief for humans and one that they had abused all the way here, to the edge of final victory.

  But the war would not have lingered on for so long without corresponding advantages. Primarily quantity. Chaos was the wellspring of life, and the sea it birthed stretched on beyond sight. Though that was mostly the smokers doing. The giant beetles spewed their namesakes into the air in a cloying, nausea-inducing fog that hid their numbers and tactics even as it struck at the heart with the illusion of endlessness.

  Or mostly hid them at least.

  “Brace!” He bellowed, a visible wave of gold flowed outward with his voice, as he felt the flow of battle twist and eddy. A sense he’d trained in a thousand battles, in victory and defeat. And backed by a well-leveled skill. A moment later, a fresh pack threw itself through the swarm and onto the waiting, and slightly glowing, spears.

  Beasts struck with an audible crash of flesh on metal and the riotous screams of the wounded as they howled in agony.

  For a moment at least.

  Then the second line of spears dropped and thrust, finishing the job or starting in on a new one. A shift and a shrugging flick jerked blades from bodies even as the third rank thrust past.

  Then the fourth.

  Then the first again.

  Rinse and repeat. Over and over again. For hours if needed.

  But not hours in exactly the same place. In barely a minute, a pile of bodies half-blocked the front. The flow beckoned and he listened as it spoke. A barrier was all well and good, but a ramp? No, that wouldn’t do. Back step? No, not with the units anchoring him to either end. It wasn’t yet time to play games by bowing the line. No. That left a slightly more physical, but still workable response.

  “Jumpers!” He called, the third and fourth line raised their spears, spreading out the sharp-bladed coverage from mostly to the front, to cover a quarter of a circle above. Bracing the ends against the earth and sky with man as the pivot. And not a moment too soon, as a spurt of beasts used the barrier as the ramp he’d seen, to leap over the first line of spears and the rectangular, slightly dished tower shields that faced it.

  Right onto the waiting spears behind. With practiced and trained motions, the spears drew an arc backwards, depositing the impaled beasts between the lines to add red to the beaten black and purple stone and clay. Cleaners rushed forward, shorter spears and cleavers in the hands of camp followers, boys and trainees thrust and fell. Ensuring the beasts were and stayed dead.

  It was going well. Not perfect, as the steady stream of casualties being passed backwards attested too. Bites and cuts were rare, between shields, armor and the prickling hedgehog of spears, but broken bones, smashed hands and concussions were frequent. Not to mention the occasional stone javelins from the impi.

  Still, not bad. Most would recover fully between the surgeons and Magister Blakes' healing rituals. Not bad at all.

  A roar struck him like a blow, even as he shed the Intimidate debuff with practiced flex of will. Apparently, his opposite read the same.

  The tall form strode towards them, kicking aside its minions with every step. Not its, his. The unsightly dangling bits made that point. His massive whip, for the first time not used on his own side, arced upwards with a flick of his upper right arm, then struck forward like a 20-foot serpent, smashing into a shield with enough force to fling its user 10 feet backwards with a broken arm.

  He hoped it was only broken. Ranks closed immediately, nearby spears shifting to cover the gap even as the demon breathed out a cone of black laced flames. The still-standing shields lit up, glowing as the rituals carved into them drained the demon cores embedded in the back to block the flames behind an invisible wall. All except the still-closing gap. Flames licked through for a brief moment, bringing screams and chaos, before a shield decisively closed it.

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  Men were passed backwards immediately, even as the reserve streamed forward to replace them. “Pilums Ready! Volley!” He called out, the skill lancing out of him as the demon became a hedgehog of its own. Pilum, two-foot spikes of barbed demon bone, topping another 2 feet of hardwood, sprouted from the massive figure's hide. Reinforced with skills and thrown in a coordinated volley, it made him look like he’d lost a fight with a porcupine.

  Massive black scales and a faint aura of fire shed many of the javelins. Many, but not all. Barbs stuck into its throat, cracks appeared on the membranes that shielded its eyes and even its double shoulders and upper chest muscles sported barbs and began to leak trickles of black blood.

  Not even close to enough to kill the fiend with its abundant demonic vitality, but enough to slow it down. Muscles twitched and jerked instead of smoothly bunching as it swung its massive sword. A telegraphed move that was stopped as 6 men lunged, bracing spears against the ground with crossbars and blades set to receive.

  The massive arm swung forward into them, impaled and stopped on the cross braces.

  Another 5 tried to stop a kick. A sarissa shattering in the doing. Sending a man rolling away in pain and blood, splinters sticking out of his helmet’s T-shaped opening.

  But the kick had little energy left in it and dinged pointlessly from a shield. Barely flinging its wielder back a few feet. Then Guile lunged through the gap. His armored form stood a head and a half above his fellows, and the massive great sword towering high above even that would have been comical if not for the effortless grace and speed with which he flicked it through the air.

  With a meaty thud, it struck into the back of a black scaled knee, shattering scales and jetting blood in a fine spray.

  The Greater Demon flinched, beginning to spin, but Andrew’s bowstring sang out. The double convex arms of the laminated wood and demon horn, the big brother of those wielded by the men and women behind the line, launched an iron spike as thick as Ethan's wrist into the cracked membrane over the left eye.

  Into and through. Looking little bigger than a needle against the massive form. But so what? A needle to the eye will ruin your day! It reared back, screaming in pain, a lower hand snapping up to cover the wounded orb.

  “Push!” He bellowed. A heartbeat later, a unified Shield Bash struck out, smashing the front wave of minor demons backward, reeling and vulnerable. “Thrust!” The stabbing motion glowed briefly, then gutted the beasts. Not just one row of them either; the glowing light shot forward and through.

  Then the front line of tower shield-wielding heavy infantry opened like a flower, lunging past the greater demon and driving its lesser brethren back with them. Leaving a large bubble around the wounded wretch for the spears and officers to do what was needed.

  And do it they did. The 16-foot sarissa spears darted forward in a massed block. Driving the full weight of their bodies and skills behind a foot and a half of sharpened iron backed by a double-sided spiked crossbar. Driving into the thoroughly distracted greater demon even as that massive sword rose and fell again.

  The knee buckled and the spears forced it over. Toppling the flailing beast backward in an ear-jarring scream of rage and pain. Then the vicious, bloodied blade rose once more.

  And fell with finality. Execute!

  And he felt the flow change. Intuition and skills screamed as he saw the beginnings of panic. Eddies and shifts in the swirling mass of demonic beats that told the tale, if you had the eyes and skills to read it.

  It was time.

  “Conner! Hold them for me!”

  “Yous just worry about your own hide.” The crusty old goat shot out of the side of his well-armored mouth as he darted forward, impaling a jumping dog-like demon on his merely 8-foot spear, then one-handed shaking it off even as his oval-shaped scutum flicked sideways in a bash that sent several others rolling.

  “Prepare to pass Cavalry!” The trumpeter echoed his call, warning the band and their neighbors alike, for the cataphracts wouldn’t be left out. He dropped his visor and grabbed the waiting lance from an apprentice’s hand. He didn’t have to look to either side or behind for the rest. They’d fought together for the better part of 20 years. His coterie was there, and they would follow him into hell.

  He chuckled harshly. The proof was in the hoofbeats!

  Then it was spurs and lances as they lunged through the suddenly porous line, smashing into the retreating beasts and recoiling against the back of the leather-covered wood saddle. The spear spitting one beast after another. Stabbing, slashing and trampling their way through the panicking, retreating foes. This was where the true butchery of battle happened. Not on the line, as bloody as that could be. But when the contents of that line tried to run. That’s where the true dying happened.

  And it applied equally to either side, he reflected grimly. This is defeat, avoid it!

  Then there was no time for thought. His lance over penetrated and he let it go, his sword licking free from the sheath strapped to his saddle, splitting a skull on removal, then arcing out in an efficient backhand to remove a second.

  Time passed. Five minutes? Ten? He couldn’t say, it was all a blur of flashing iron and raining blood. Then his skills and senses struck him like a brick as the flow twisted and began to settle, resistance beginning to stiffen in small knots as pockets of demon beast began to join together. The panic and fear weren’t gone, but they were rapidly coming under control. “Pull Back!”

  He called, the Golden Order pulsing a morale boost and projecting his voice to every ear. He turned his horse with his knees, eyes tracking over blood-spattered plate and riven mail. What would they pay the Butcher this day? A riderless horse trotted past him, heading back to a handler no doubt, the curry brush and food a far better bet than a field of hungry demons. Headless of the empty saddle on its back.

  And it wasn’t alone. He saw a few destriers carrying two. For the good, one behind the other, for the less so, one face down over the saddle bow.

  He prayed to Hectai that health remained, and to Kiron that when health failed, the dead would emerge from his scales in glory.

  But prayers were a matter of hope; pure military logic was pitiless. About 1 in 3 dead of those face down were dead. 1 in 6 maimed. It would have been a lot worse without a Magister. Those still living when they reached him would remain so. Even crushed bones and broken limbs could be recovered.

  Just so long as you still had the limb. A missing limb took a significant outlay for regrowth elixirs and a greater demon core powered high-level ritual. An outlay not even the most profligate would spend on a common soldier.

  He passed through the lines, now a good 90 feet farther forward and still well anchored between their neighbors. Conner knew his trade and knew it well. He pulled the saddle ties free and slid out of the high-backed wood and leather saddle with a grunt. Apprentices rushed forward with basins of water for cleaning, great skins of water cut with vinegar for drinking, even as grooms led the massive chargers away for their own meticulous care.

  They’d need it. There would be another charge. And only one more was wishful thinking. But that would be a while. He quickly washed what he could of blood and less-sightly remnants from his gauntlets and visored helm, before quickly mounting a small wooden platform to oversee the battle.

  Already the lines were settling down and the first eddies of beasts were swarming forward again, with new overseers and new courage. Still, it wasn’t quite the same. Even with smokers clouding the skies with their filth, he could feel the depth of the swarm had greatly decreased. A lack of pressure as much as anything else.

  They weren’t done yet, not by a long shot. But they’d done grievous damage to the swarm. And if there was one thing the Empire’s military and its Bandsman auxiliaries could do, it was to grind away.

  He glanced backwards to see the corpse-studded field already being addressed by camp followers. Beasts were being skinned, the demon butchered for its core and its massive sword carried away by 5 nearly grown boys.

  Oh yes, they knew this job. But soon. Soon, it would end!

  They would see to that.

  ___

  And they did. Five grueling hours later, they stood, bloodied weapons raised, while the Emperor’s Chosen, 10 feet tall in blood-splattered, gleaming golem plate, glowing with lines of enchantment and powered by a dozen greater demon cores, stood on the corpse of a 40-foot horned demon and smashed the rift core with a massive war hammer.