cause.
“He promised-what was it?- to crush my bones to pebbles and peel my flesh?” Harruq asked.
“Something like that,” Qurrah said between coughs.
Thulos said not a word; he was too busy absorbing the details of the war. He counted the waves of undead that fought in the streets. He took in the number of demons and angels that warred in the sky. He knew his soldiers' worth, and in the passing of just a few seconds, he sensed the ability of the angels. The men who marched against him were only mortal, even if well-trained and adequately equipped. Thulos knew when he joined the fray, his troops would win, with a few undead and the vast bulk of the demons remaining. He smiled.
“Let you two be honored as the first of my sacred kills upon your land,” he said, saluting with his sword. Harruq saluted back, a nervous grin on his face.
Three angels swerved low toward them, carrying passengers. Before Thulos could attack, the passengers extended their arms, and a massive barrage of fire, ice, and rock exploded forth. The war-god crossed his arms and grunted. The fire and ice did little, and the rocks, boulders half his size, shattered, leaving a few scrapes across his armor. The angels released their passengers at the foot of the stairs and joined the battle in the sky. A tall wizard with yellow robes and a small red beard bounded up the stairs as Thulos pushed away the chunks of rock that blocked his way.
“Please tell me that's not who I think it is,” the yellow-robed man said.
At first Thulos thought the wizard spoke of him, but then noticed the hateful glance thrown at the smaller of the two brothers. He made a note of it, then looked to the two women, magic dangling from their fingertips. One was an elf, certainly beautiful, with long auburn hair, walnut eyes, a flowing green dress. The other appeared a twin of Tessanna, the second image of the goddess he had seen within moments of setting foot upon the world. This one had a healthy glow about her skin, and she wore a dress similar to the elf’s.
“In everything, I see Celestia's hand,” Thulos said to them. “Will she herself not come and face me?”
“You'll have to settle for us,” the wizard said, tipping his hat. “My name's Tarlak. Meet my Eschaton.”
As one they unleashed a barrage of spells, a swirling mix of fire and sheer magical power. Thulos batted the spells aside with his sword, knowing its enchantments, enhanced by the strongest spellcrafters of various worlds, could protect and endure. Harruq rushed up the steps, weapons ready. Thulos saw him between the powerful light of the spells, stepped to one side, and slammed his sword down in greeting. Their blades connected, and once more the mortal flew back.
He gave them no reprieve. Brushing aside their darts of ice and flame like they were wasps, he charged. His shoulder slammed the man named Tarlak in the face, plowing him several feet backward. With his sword he lashed out at the one who mirrored the goddess. It connected, but it did not cut skin, the woman somehow protected by strong magic. The force of the blow continued, however, and she cried out in pain as she rolled down the steps, several of her ribs most likely broken.
The elf slammed her hands together, trying a different tactic to defeat him. He felt the ground rumble beneath his feet, then crack and sink. She was trying to destroy his footing, as if the others could take advantage. Thulos shifted his feet, stepped twice, and backhanded her.
“Aurelia!” he heard Harruq shout.
Several lances of ice flew from her fingers as she stumbled back, the spells shattering against his breastplate like they were fragile glass. He paused a moment, knowing his skirmish was insignificant compared with the larger battle. He raised his sword, letting his demons take power and courage from his very presence.
“I am here!” he shouted, his voice carrying for miles. “Victory is at hand, my brethren!”
The angels in the sky reacted just as fiercely as the demons. The chaos above had formed into two solid armies, and those in white dived to the ground, shredding undead and calling out commands. Thulos could not hear them, but their meaning was clear. They were shouting retreat to the soldiers in the streets.
“This is our chance,” the goddess mirror said as she pushed herself to her knees and stared at him. “Without his army. Without all his strength. Without Karak at his side. We must kill him.”
Thulos admired her determination, but she was just a child. He dodged another ball of fire from Aurelia, smacked away a spear of magic from Tarlak, and closed the distance between him and the girl with blackest eyes. His hand closed around her throat, the tip of his sword hovering before her chest.
“Your name?” he demanded. “If you are indeed not the goddess.”
“Mira,” she said, still unafraid.
“Well Mira,” Thulos said, even as the others surrounded him. “Give word to your goddess. This world is lost. I will do as I did a thousand years before. If she will not face me, then everything- everything- will burn.”
He threw her away like a discarded doll. She crumpled on the hard ground and did not move.
Harruq lunged, his swords stabbing for openings in Thulos’s armor. At the same time, Qurrah lashed with a whip wreathed in flame. As the leather wrapped around the war-god’s neck he blocked one sword stab with his vambrace. The other he parried with his sword, looped his blade around, and thrust deep through the armor covering Harruq’s chest. This time it was Aurelia who screamed at the sight, and Thulos noted their connection. They loved each other, and in her grief, the elf would be dangerous. He had to deal with her next.
Of course, there was still the matter of the whip burning into the stone-tough flesh of his neck. He grabbed it with his hand and yanked, sending Qurrah tumbling back down the stairs. The whip released its grip and snaked back to its master like a living thing.
The smoke from the whip blurred Thulos’s vision, and in that momentary distraction he saw sets of white wings come flying in. He crouched down and held up his sword, preparing for an attack. None came. The angels swooped down and yanked his opponents into the air without ever slowing. Thulos sheathed his sword, frowning. Other than wounding the burly warrior, he was yet to score a solid blow, and even he might survive. Only Mira remained, still limp upon the ground.
“They flee!” he shouted to his troops. “Kill the slow! Kill the weak! Let blood rain upon the city, and our victory grow ever greater!”
An angel landed beside Mira, blood seeping from a wound above his right eye. He glanced at Thulos and tensed, waiting for the war-god to lash out and kill him.
“Go,” Thulos said. “She has a message to deliver.”
The angel took Mira into his arms, spread his wings, and fled. Thulos rubbed his neck, disappointment creeping through him. He held little doubt he had faced the greatest heroes this world had to offer, and all they could do was singe his neck and batter his armor. He consoled himself with the fact that the last of his brothers were here, and with their deaths, he could once again ascend to the heavens, reclaiming the power and glory that were his right.
His demons circled in groups, crashing into angels that lingered behind or exposing any openings in their retreat. Every time the battle was quick, bloody, and resulted in the death of either angel or demon. Thulos nodded in appreciation. At least Ashhur had trained and strengthened his army well. It had been years since his demons had fought worthy foes.
His eyes drifted to the fight in the streets. The undead surged forward, no longer oppressed by the human army. Only a few remained, and while they should have been quickly overrun, they were not. Thulos narrowed his eyes, and at the sight of glowing weapons and shining armor, he recognized the warriors of his brother, Ashhur.
“Still up to your old tricks,” Thulos muttered. “I never understood your love affair with paladins.”
He drew his sword and marched toward them, thinking he might have a bit of fun with his brother's champions. They were a beauty to behold, the two of them, especially against their most sworn enemy, the undead. One wielded a giant sword, shimmering as if made of a thick beam of holy light. The other had a hammer and a massive shield that shone brighter than the sun itself. Together, sword and shield, they held firm. Unsure of who commanded the undead, Thulos did not bother to part them, instead cutting a path through the rotting bodies.
The paladin with the sword noticed his approach.
“Uh, Jerico?” he shouted.
“Yeah, Lathaar?” Jerico shouted back.
“Time to go.”
Thulos watched Jerico risk a glance, no doubt seeing him as a towering Goliath of muscle, sword, and armor. The paladins stepped back, cut down the nearest undead, and turned to run. Thulos swore. He was used to people
