Lastlight's Revenant #11

The two warriors stood atop a crumbling watchtower, the wind carrying the stench of burning thatch and spilled blood. Below, Vaeldrith writhed in its death throes—screams rose from the streets, mingling with the distant clash of steel and the guttural snarls of demons.

The Varekai warrior’s nostrils flared as he scanned the chaos. "I killed one of those faceless things before finding you," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "But there’s another. I can smell its stench."

Garran’s gaze locked onto the billowing smoke near the city gates. The flicker of unnatural shadows moved within it. "There," he said.

The warrior tensed, his hand already gripping the coiled chain at his belt. "Then let’s not waste time. We kill it. Quickly."

"Wait." Garran turned to him. "Your name."

The Varekai raised an eyebrow, his tattoos shifting as his lips curled in amusement. "You didn’t seem too concerned with names when we first met."

"You were just a passerby then," Garran said. "Now we fight together. We should at least know what to call each other when the demons come for our backs."

The warrior studied him for a moment, then gave a sharp nod. "Kaelvar."

Garran returned the nod. "Garran Dornblade."

"I know who you are." Kaelvar’s grin was all teeth. "A brother of mine spoke of you. Said you pulled him from a demon’s gullet when even our kin had left him for dead." He turned, already moving toward the tower’s edge. "We’ll trade stories later. Now—we hunt."

Without another word, he leaped from the ledge, his chain whipping out to catch a lower beam before he dropped into the chaos below.

Garran exhaled, then followed.

...

Sylrithiel found Edric atop the western tower, his back pressed against the battlements as he and his scouts fought off a swarm of vermin-touched.

The young lord moved with surprising precision—his sword strokes clean, his footwork steady—as he cut down one shambling corpse after another. His men fought just as fiercely, their blades flashing in practiced arcs.

They learned, Sylrithiel realized.

She remembered Garran’s words in the library—"Every scrap of knowledge was bought in Repentant blood." It seemed he had shared that knowledge freely with these men.

But it wouldn’t be enough.

A new horror lumbered into view from the smoke-choked streets below.

The Ember Maw.

A hulking, obsidian-skinned demon, its body split with glowing fissures that pulsed like a forge’s heart. Its elongated arms ended in hooked claws, each one dripping molten slag that sizzled where it struck the stone.

Its face was a gaping, toothless maw, lined with rows of searing vents that exhaled waves of scorching heat.

Edric’s scouts faltered as the demon approached, their blades suddenly seeming pitifully small.

Sylrithiel’s mind raced. She had seen this thing before—centuries ago—but the memory was frayed at the edges. How did it fight? What were its—

Damn it.

She cursed under her breath and flicked her wrist. A small, leather-bound journal materialized in her palm, its pages flipping wildly before settling on an inked illustration of the Ember Maw. The text beneath it scrawled in hurried script:

"Weak to sustained flame. Vent clusters along its back are its cooling system. Overheat it, and it will detonate."

Fire it is, then.

The runes along Sylrithiel’s arms ignited, their glow shifting from gold to searing crimson. She raised her hand, and the air itself twisted as ancient syllables spilled from her lips.

Magical sigils materialized around the Ember Maw, locking onto the fissures along its back.

Then—ignited.

The demon screamed as white-hot flames engulfed it, the vents along its spine flaring like a bellows. Its obsidian skin cracked, the glow beneath intensifying to a blinding radiance—

—just as Edric grabbed his men and yanked them behind cover.

The explosion shattered the tower’s edge, sending molten debris raining down into the streets. When the smoke cleared, only smoldering chunks of the demon remained.

Edric stared at Sylrithiel, his chest heaving. "You—"

"Don’t thank me yet," she interrupted, her eyes already scanning the horizon. "Garran Dornblade asked me to take you to the walls. The soldiers need someone to command them."

...

The last Faceless demon collapsed in a pool of its own ichor, its blank face frozen in a silent scream. Garran yanked his blade free, black blood sizzling where the fading golden enchantment still clung to the steel.

Around them, the city still burned.

Screams echoed from the streets—not just of terror, but of battle. The demons the Faceless had summoned hadn’t vanished with their master. Duskhounds still skittered through alleyways. The vermin-touched lurched mindlessly onward. And somewhere deeper in the smoke, heavier things moved.

Garran wiped his sword on the demon’s robes. "We’re not done yet. Those things are still out there. If they compromise the gates—"

"Go to the walls," Kaelvar interrupted, already coiling his chain back around his forearm. "You’re needed there more."

Garran hesitated. The Varekai warrior was right—if the defenses failed, nothing else would matter. But leaving the streets unchecked was just as dangerous.

Kaelvar read his silence. "I’ll hunt what remains in the city. My chains don’t discriminate between demons in the open or the shadows."

Garran exhaled. "Then we’re in your debt."

Kaelvar’s tattooed lips curled. "I’ll remind you of that when the time comes." He turned, his silhouette already blurring into the smoke. "Now go. May the ancestors guide you."

Garran didn’t waste another breath. He ran.

...

The walls of Vaeldrith had become a killing ground.

Soldiers braced against the battlements, pikes thrusting downward to impale duskhounds as they scuttled up the stone like spiders. The creatures shrieked as steel punched through their carapaces, their spindly limbs flailing before they were pried loose and sent plummeting to the cobbles below.

Crossbow bolts hissed through the air in volleys, thudding into the tide of vermin-touched hammering at the gates. Stones rained down from the towers, crushing skulls and splintering bone.

Edric moved along the ramparts like a storm, his voice raw from shouting orders. "Pike line—hold! Archers, loose at will! Ignore the ones at the gate—focus on the climbers!"

Sylrithiel stood apart, her black eyes scanning the chaos with detached precision. She had not lifted a finger since immolating the Ember Maw—until now.

A grotesque shudder ran through the corpses of three slain duskhounds near the parapet. Their flesh rippled, then merged, tendons stitching together, limbs fusing into a single abomination. The fleshforged abomination hauled itself upright, its many-jawed maw gaping—

—just as Sylrithiel flicked her wrist.

A blade of condensed shadow sliced through the creature’s neck before it could fully form. The head toppled, the body collapsing into a twitching heap.

Edric shot her a glance. She met his gaze, unreadable.

"Save your magic," he rasped.

"I've plenty to spare," she replied.

Then—

The sky screamed.

Dozens of winged horrors descended from the smoke-choked clouds, their forms leathery and gaunt, their elongated limbs ending in hooked talons.

They moved like vultures, diving with grotesque precision—snatching soldiers from the walls and hurling them into the chaos below. The fortunate died on impact.

The less fortunate writhed on the ground, only to be set upon by vermin-touched, their screams cut short as teeth found flesh.

Crossbowmen loosed bolts upward, but the creatures banked and twisted midair, dodging with unnatural grace. Morale shattered like glass. Men stumbled back from the battlements, their discipline crumbling under the terror of death from above.

Then—

"Hold your ground!"

Garran’s voice cut through the din like a war horn. He strode along the wall, his sword still slick with demon blood, his presence alone steadying the nearest soldiers.

"They’re no different than any other demon," he barked. "Now that we know they’re here—we kill them like the rest." He snatched a pike from a trembling recruit and thrust it toward the sky. "Wait for the dive. Let them commit. Then put steel through their guts."

As if to prove his point, one of the winged demons shrieked and plunged toward him. Garran didn’t flinch. At the last second, he sidestepped—

—and drove the pike upward.

The demon impaled itself, the force of its own momentum splitting its torso open. Black blood rained down as Garran shoved the writhing creature off the wall.

For a heartbeat, the soldiers stared.

Then a roar went up along the battlements.

Pikes and spears bristled like a steel forest. The next wave of winged demons hesitated—

—and Sylrithiel smiled.