Heroes of Newerth Story: A Time of Heroes (part 7/7)
Ophelia collapsed to the ground, breathless and faint. She watched almost helpless as the Hellbourne stormed forward toward her Horde. Pushing herself first to her knees and then to her feet, she shared her spirit and her voice with her chosen people. "The daemons!" she thundered in the Horde's ears and in hearts and minds. "They are the enemy! Cleanse them from Newerth!"
It took a moment for the taint of Hellbourne sorcery to lift from the Horde as it had from Ophelia. But when it left them, the Beasts of Newerth awoke with the vigor and strength that had been sapped from them for so long. As the Priestess raced forward, the Horde joined her, a phalanx of fur and claw and fang charging toward the wall of daemons before them.
Across the battlefield, Jeraziah roared orders to his men as the daemons drew near. Their hellish allies had turned on them, as he had known they would. "Now, men, now!" he cried. And then, "Look, look to the Heavens!" Above them, the clouds peeled back, and for a moment a spear of sunlight stabbed the earth. "The eye of Sol is upon us, my brothers, and the eyes of our fathers! For them, and for Newerth!"
The daemons struck the Legion's lines. The screams of the dying and the clang of steel weapons against daemonic bone and black iron rang out. A flight of arrows was loosed and burst into flames even before it reached the enemies. "Fight!" cried Jeraziah, charging forward.
And fight they did. Five, six, ten men ringed around a single daemon, hewing with their axes, charging to stab at any unguarded moment, striking with magic and weapon alike against their massive foes. With strength they had almost forgotten, legionnaires cleaved through Hellbourne armor. Arrows found purchase in daemon eyes. Twin, singing swords hacked and slashed against the foes.
But every charge the men mustered, every heroic surge against the daemons, did but glancing damage to those unholy creatures. It was the men who died, by the dozen, whimpering in the churned mud, crushed beneath chain-bound boots, clutching for mercy that no longer could be found in the world. "Fight on!" pleaded the Prince, pitting his own strength against a hulking monstrosity. So they did, flinging themselves to be broken against the enemy.
Even as their numbers dwindled, the Legion regrouped, fought shoulder to shoulder with men closer to them than their own kin. As if to mock the annihilation before them, they fought like they could still win. Some of the Hellbourne fell, and, almost in surprise, found their existence snuffed out. But more came onward, implacable.
The Legion found itself driven toward the remnants of the Horde. Jeraziah himself charged forward once more, matched himself against a new enemy. Down swept the daemon's black blade, up whipped his own to meet it, stroke for stroke. The Prince's youth had left him years ago; his flesh was whittled down by endless campaigning. But his strength had not left him, and into his attacks he poured every lesson won in blood and battle. Outmatched but undaunted, he drove forward, now parrying, now stabbing, now dodging to the side and lunging in, every breath searing his lungs. Down again came the black blade, but Jeraziah was already gone, stepping in, drawing back, and plunging his royal sword with every bit of energy left to him. The blow went true and slid past armor into the daemon's unholy flesh.
The Prince gulped ragged breaths and looked for a moment at his foe, waiting for it to collapse. But it did not. It was not slain. Jeraziah pulled at his sword to strike again, but felt it catch on some jagged edge of the daemon's armor. Again he pulled, to no avail. The creature raised its sword like an executioner's axe and the fires in its eyes danced with black joy.
Jeraziah staggered back before it, raised his arms to shield his face, futilely, knowing that death was sweeping downward. He whispered a prayer. But death did not come.
He opened his eyes and saw the daemon's arms pinned behind it by a behemoth, the Beast roaring in agony as other Hellbourne slashed and scorched its sides. Jeraziah rushed forward, and grabbed the daemon's own blade from where it had fallen. Ignoring the burning hellfire that licked at his hands, he thrust upward, knowing this time that the blow would not fail. He heard the daemon's howl of agony as the sword sank into its empty heart. The behemoth dropped the fallen monster and for a moment locked its alien eyes upon the Prince's. Then, with almost a nod of understanding, the two spun away to face new foes.
Now Man and Beast fought together, in desperation. Jeraziah found himself swept almost helplessly in the maelstrom of battle. There would be no victory, he knew, save the victory of fighting against the true enemy. The daemons were too many, too powerful.
The ground beneath him erupted in flames and he tumbled backward. A daemonic sorcerer raised its staff once more, but before it could slay the Prince, men and beasts hurled themselves in its path and dragged it down, hacking with their blades and claws against it. He turned again, and saw his sister before him.
She smiled and opened her hand to him and showed him the Sefir seed within. "The dream," he whispered. A silence had enveloped them and the roar of battle faded. He took the seed from her and knelt, dug a hole for it and placed it within. "Hope," she told him.
And then the battle returned, and they joined the warriors once more, all giving all they could against the Hellbourne. As the noose of daemons tightened, the survivors circled themselves, falling back step by step as Man and Beast fell side by side.
But something was happening. They all felt it, even the daemons. A shudder passing through the earth, a change in the wind bearing some last remnant of summer. And then the Sefir broke from the ground and rose, like life itself returning to the land. Its trunk shot ever upwards, its boughs stretching outward, the spreading of its leaves a song that each heard in his heart.
The warriors knew that they could not permit the tree to be destroyed, would not permit it. Almost with their backs to its bark, they renewed their defense, half berserk as determination outmatched desperation. Above them, the clouds broke once more. The midday sun shone overhead.
"For Newerth," cried Jeraziah and Ophelia together, and the cry was taken up in human voices and bestial howls. A last charge against the darkness.
The daemons broke. Their numbers, it seemed, were not so limitless, their strength not so irresistible. And so they broke and fled, for the first time in their ageless existence, rushing frantically toward the blighted lands beyond the reach of the Sefir's song, to long-dead scars of their passing or still-boiling portals to hell.
The victors collapsed, exhausted. They looked to each other, old adversaries, and remembered the old grievances and crimes, the old justifications for slaughter and genocide. Remembered, rejected, and forgave.
Jeraziah and Ophelia rose and stood before their people. At first they did not speak, or need to. But, like all newborn things, the alliance before them demanded a name. And so, joining their voices, they called it the Legion of Newerth.
For a moment, the new Legion rested beneath the Tree of Life, safe for a time in its shade. But they knew that safety was an island in a storm-tossed sea, barely more than an illusion. No, it was not a time of peace. But, for the first time in years, they had cause for hope.
For though it was not a time of peace, it was a time of heroes.
HoN Story: A Time of Heroes Part 1
HoN Story: A Time of Heroes Part 2
HoN Story: A Time of Heroes Part 3
HoN Story: A Time of Heroes Part 4
HoN Story: A Time of Heroes Part 5
HoN Story: A Time of Heroes Part 6
HoN Story: A Time of Heroes Part 7
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