The sky over Derylini was black.
Not the black of night. A dirty, low black, laden with clouds that looked like open wounds. The first sun, pale and sad, was barely visible behind the curtain of smoke rising from the burning villages. The smell of sulfur came from the south, from the island of the second portal, and the wind carried it north, to the battlefields where the soldiers of Endomyar prepared to die.
Deur Derylini watched from the top of the hill.
His dark armor, which he had worn in the duel against Arthur Errêndias fifteen years earlier, shone in the faint light of the dying sun. The sword, long and heavy, rested at his waist. His ice-blue eyes surveyed the valley where his knights positioned themselves.
There were seven.
The best of Derylini. Master knights, each with decades of experience. Their dark steel armor bore the family crest – a scythe cutting the neck of a rabbit. Their swords, sharp, shone even without sun.
"The demons come from the south," said one of them, a gray-bearded man named Torr. "The second tier. The weak lords, but their followers... are many."
"How many?" asked Deur.
"Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. The horde doesn't stop."
"Then neither do we."
Deur descended the hill. The seven knights followed him.
+++
Livia Aryster watched from the window of the castle of Derylini.
The building, once belonging to the Errêndias, was now Deur's. The white stone walls, the manicured gardens, the ornate halls – all stained by the blood of treason. Livia did not like that place. But she needed to be there. She needed to see.
Behind her, Arth adjusted his sword at his waist.
The slave – now a servant – wore dark, simple clothes, without a crest. His graying beard was trimmed. His eyes, once empty, now shone with a fire Livia could not name.
"You go today," she said, without turning.
"I go."
"You will kill him."
"I will."
"And then?"
"Then... I flee. Or I die. It's the same thing."
Livia turned. Her black, cold eyes fixed on his.
"Don't die. I need you."
"You need a servant. You can find another."
"I need someone who knows what it is to lose everything. Servants don't know. You do."
Arth did not answer. He only tightened his hand on his sword.
The sword Andy Decatry had given him, fifteen years earlier, on his birthday. The one he had never used. The one he had kept hidden under the straw in his cell all that time, waiting for this day.
Livia approached. She touched his face. Her cold fingers weighed.
"Don't die," she repeated. "Not for me. For yourself."
Arth looked away.
"I'm going," he said. "If I don't return... tell Andy I'm sorry."
"Tell him yourself."
Arth left. The door closed.
Livia was left alone.
+++
The battlefield stretched north of the castle, where the hills gave way to a plain covered in creeping grass and dry bushes. The demons came from the south, in droves, dragging themselves over the earth like a black tide.
Deur and his knights positioned themselves on the front line.
Behind them, the soldiers – three hundred, perhaps four hundred – formed phalanxes of spears and shields. Their leather and iron armor shone in the faint light. Their faces, pale. Their hands, trembling.
"The lords of the second tier," said Torr, beside Deur. "Trussum. Treiza. Trainur. They're not here."
"They're somewhere else," replied Deur. "They sent their children."
"Their children?"
"The lesser demons. The hordes. What's left after the strong have passed."
Torr did not answer. He only tightened his hand on his sword.
The first wave of demons hit the front line at midday.
They were small, thin, with yellow eyes. Goblins, for the most part. But there were also formless creatures – mouths in their chests, leather wings, tentacles that glowed with a green, sickly light.
The Derylini knights advanced.
Deur killed the first ones with two strokes. The sword, long and heavy, cut through the demons' flesh like butter. The blood – black, thick, smelling of sulfur – spread on the ground.
"Hold the line!" shouted Torr. "Don't let them through!"
The soldiers obeyed. The spears rose. The shields closed. The demons died by the dozens, but still they came.
+++
Arth infiltrated through the eastern flank, where the battle was less intense.
The dark armor, which he had worn over his servant's clothes, protected him from stray arrows and accidental blows. Andy's sword – the black blade with red veins – shone in the half-light.
The plan was simple: get close to Deur. Surprise him. Kill him. Flee.
Livia had provided a horse, hidden in a forest to the north. If all went well, Arth would be far away before the guards realized what had happened.
If all went wrong... he didn't need to think about that.
He approached the hill where Deur commanded the battle. The guards, distracted by the demons, did not see him. The knights, busy killing, did not notice him.
Arth climbed the hill in silence.
His knees hurt. His back too. Fifteen years in a cell do not heal in a few months. But the rage – rage healed everything.
Deur had his back turned.
The dark armor, the sword at his waist, his graying hair shining with sweat. Arth recognized the posture. Recognized the way he looked at the battlefield. Recognized his father's murderer.
"Deur," he called.
The marquess turned. His ice-blue eyes fixed on Arth's. He showed no surprise. No fear. Only... tiredness.
"Errêndias," he said, his voice neutral. "The slave who was never sold."
"The son of Arthur."
"The son of a traitor."
"My father was no traitor. You killed an innocent man."
Deur sighed.
"Innocence doesn't matter. Only power."
He drew his sword. The long, shining blade reflected the pale sunlight.
"You're going to die, boy."
"I died fifteen years ago."
Arth attacked first.
Andy's sword – the black blade with red veins – cut through the air inches from Deur's neck. The marquess dodged. He counterattacked. The blow hit Arth's shoulder – superficial, but enough to unbalance him.
"You're slow," said Deur. "Age weighs."
"Rage doesn't weigh."
Arth attacked again. Faster. Stronger. The black sword hit Deur's armor – not deep, but enough to irritate him.
"You'll pay for that," Deur hissed.
He attacked again. Stronger. Faster. Arth blocked, stepped back, blocked again. His strength was beginning to fail. The armor, heavy, protected him, but also tired him.
"You're still weak," said Deur, with a smile. "Like your father."
"My father was not weak. He was betrayed."
"He was killed. It's the same thing."
Deur attacked again. The sword entered Arth's arm – deep, enough to make him scream. Blood ran. His left arm hung limp.
"It's over," said Deur, pointing his blade at Arth's neck. "Do you ask for forgiveness?"
"Never."
Arth spat in his face.
Deur hesitated. It was enough.
The black sword entered his chest.
It was not a merciful blow. It was a blow of rage. Arth drove the blade between the plates of the armor, tore the flesh, broke the ribs. Deur's eyes widened. His mouth opened. Blood ran from his lips.
"You..." he whispered.
"Me."
Arth pulled the sword up. Deur's chest opened. The ribs cracked. The marquess fell to his knees, then to the side. His ice-blue eyes, once cold, were now empty.
Silence settled.
The guards, who had watched without knowing what to do, hesitated. The knights, busy with the demons, did not see.
Arth wiped his sword on Deur's cape.
"You died like my father," he said, in a low voice. "With your back turned. Without honor."
He sheathed his sword. He descended the hill. The guards did not stop him. Perhaps they were afraid. Perhaps they did not want to. Perhaps they knew Deur deserved it.
The horse was in the forest, as Livia had promised.
Arth mounted. He tightened the reins. The animal neighed and galloped away.
He did not look back.
+++
Livia Aryster received the news of Deur's death at dusk.
The messenger, a soldier with broken armor, knelt before her.
"Princess," he said, panting. "The marquess Deur... has been killed. The slave... the Errêndias..."
"I know," Livia interrupted, her voice calm. "You may go."
The soldier hesitated.
"Princess..."
"You may go."
The soldier left. Livia was left alone.
The window of the castle of Derylini had a view of the sea. The first sun, pale and sad, hid behind the low clouds. The cold wind brought the smell of sulfur.
Arth, she thought. You did it.
And now?
There was no answer. Only the silence, and the sea, and the growing darkness.