Lord of the realm

Chapter 194: In the eastern lands

The Eastern Front

The town of Carinhold had been evacuated three days ago.

Thirty thousand civilians fled south in waves, abandoning homes their families had occupied for generations. They’d left behind possessions, livestock, entire lifetimes of accumulated memories—because staying meant certain death.

The demon legion approaching from the east numbered ten thousand strong. An army large enough to overwhelm any conventional defense, disciplined enough to coordinate complex assaults, and ruthless enough to slaughter every living thing they encountered.

Carinhold’s garrison had numbered perhaps two hundred soldiers. Against ten thousand demons, they’d have lasted minutes at best. So evacuation had been ordered, the town abandoned to buy time for civilians to escape.

But four people had remained behind.

They stood now on Carinhold’s eastern wall—a defensive structure twenty feet high and ten feet thick, designed to repel raiders but never intended to face a full demon army. The wall stretched perhaps half a mile, connecting natural cliff faces that protected the town’s northern and southern flanks.

It was, strategically speaking, a decent defensive position. Narrow approach from the east, natural protection on the sides, high ground advantage for defenders.

It was also completely inadequate for what was coming.

Rodney Dennholm stood at the wall’s center point, his golden hair catching the afternoon sun. He was perhaps thirty-five, tall and lean with the build of someone who’d trained with weapons since childhood. His face was handsome in a sharp way—aristocratic features that suggested noble blood, softened by laugh lines around his eyes.

He wore light armor designed for mobility rather than maximum protection—leather reinforced with thin metal plates at vital points. At his hip hung a rapier in an ornate scabbard. The weapon’s hilt was wrapped in fine wire, and gems decorated the pommel. It looked like a nobleman’s affectation, a pretty toy for someone more interested in style than substance.

That impression was dangerously wrong.

Rodney was one of the Chosen—elite warriors selected by the Mother Supreme herself for capabilities far beyond normal soldiers. He’d been Chosen for fifteen years, and in that time, he’d faced horrors that would have broken lesser fighters. He specialized in single-blade technique refined to an art form, capable of killing with precision that bordered on surgical.

"Ten thousand," he said quietly, watching the distant dust cloud that marked the legion’s approach. "That’s optimistic thinking on the demons’ part. They should have sent twenty."

Beside him, Marylla Shadowend laughed—a musical sound that seemed incongruous given the circumstances.

She was elf-kind, one of the rare non-humans who’d achieved Chosen status. Perhaps thirty years old by human reckoning, though with elves, age was difficult to judge precisely. She stood shorter than Rodney—maybe five and a half feet—with a slender build that suggested fragility but concealed surprising strength.

Her hair was silver-blonde, worn long and loose, falling past her waist. Her eyes were violet—not human violet, but the deep purple that marked true elf heritage. Her ears were pointed, visible through her hair, and her movements had an inhuman grace that made watching her walk feel almost hypnotic.

She wore robes marked with Coven symbols, identifying her as an origin witch. But unlike most witches, she carried weapons—twin curved daggers strapped to her thighs, each one inscribed with runes that glowed faintly even when sheathed.

"You’re terrible at pre-battle humor," Marylla said, still smiling. "If we’re going to die today, at least make the jokes good."

"Who said anything about dying?" asked the third figure.

Paxton Whyte crouched on the wall’s edge in a position that shouldn’t have been comfortable but seemed perfectly natural for him. He was perhaps thirty-two, average height, with brown hair kept short for practicality and a face that was instantly forgettable—the kind of features that slid out of memory moments after looking away.

That forgettability was his greatest weapon.

He wore dark clothing that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and he moved with the absolute silence of someone who’d spent decades perfecting stealth. Twin daggers were sheathed at the small of his back, their blades coated with substances that would make even minor cuts fatal.

Paxton was an assassin, though the Covens didn’t use that word officially. They called him a "specialist in targeted elimination." But everyone knew what he really was—a killer so skilled that most of his targets never saw him coming, never knew they’d been marked until poison stopped their hearts.

"Three Chosen and one witch against ten thousand demons," Paxton continued, his voice carrying dark amusement. "Those are actually pretty good odds. For us, I mean. The demons are screwed."

The fourth person on the wall—the witch Paxton had referenced—stood slightly apart from the Chosen.

She wore formal Coven robes marked with symbols that indicated her senior rank, and the focus crystal at her hip was larger than normal—a sign of tremendous accumulated power.

"Confidence is good," Anita said, though her tone suggested she was trying to convince herself as much as them. "But let’s not underestimate the threat. Ten thousand demons is ten thousand demons. Even for Chosen, those numbers are... concerning."

"Concerning," Rodney repeated, tasting the word. "I like that. Diplomatic. Much better than ’absolutely suicidal,’ which is what everyone back at the Silver Spire probably thinks."

He drew his rapier in one smooth motion, the blade singing as it left the scabbard. The steel gleamed in the sunlight—perfectly maintained, sharp enough to split hairs, and inscribed with runes that enhanced both its durability and cutting capability.

"But here’s the thing about being Chosen," Rodney continued, testing the rapier’s balance with a few experimental thrusts. "We don’t fight fair. We don’t play by rules that say numbers matter. We’re chosen specifically because we can do things that shouldn’t be possible."

"Like holding an entire wall alone while ten thousand demons try to kill us," Marylla added. Her hands were already glowing with gathered origin energy, violet light matching her eyes. "That definitely qualifies as ’shouldn’t be possible.’"

"And yet," Paxton said, standing from his crouch and rolling his shoulders, "here we are. About to do it anyway."

The demon legion was closer now. Close enough that individual units could be distinguished. The formation was impressive—disciplined ranks that spoke of actual military training rather than mindless aggression. Black Orcs formed the core, their dark grey skin and intelligent eyes marking them as the dangerous ones. Lesser demons filled out the numbers, but even they moved with coordination that suggested proper command structure.

At the legion’s front, commanders rode on massive beasts that looked like horses bred with nightmares—skeletal frames covered in matted fur, eyes that burned with hellfire, teeth that could tear through armor.

"They’re going to hit us in waves," Anita said, analyzing the formation with practiced efficiency. "Soften us up with ranged attacks first, then send lesser demons to test our defenses, then commit their Black Orcs once they think we’re weakened."

"Standard siege tactics," Rodney agreed. "Boring, but effective if we were normal defenders."

"So we don’t fight like normal defenders," Marylla said. "We make them come to us, funnel them into kill zones, and systematically destroy them faster than they can reinforce."

"I love it when she talks strategically," Paxton said with a grin. "It’s almost as hot as when she’s casting."

"Focus," Anita said sharply, though a hint of amusement touched her voice. "They’re in range. Projectiles incoming."

She wasn’t wrong.

The demon legion had stopped perhaps three hundred yards from the wall. Too far for most melee weapons, but well within range for their siege equipment and magic-using demons.

Massive bows—each one requiring three lesser demons to operate—were raised and aimed. Fire demons began gathering flames. Some of the Black Orcs wielded dark magic, shadow constructs that could be launched like spears.

"Barrier," Anita commanded.

Her origin energy flared, and a shimmering dome appeared over the four defenders. It was massive—easily covering a hundred-foot section of wall—and translucent, allowing them to see out while providing protection from incoming projectiles.

The first volley launched.

Hundreds of arrows, some normal but many burning with demonic fire. Dozens of shadow spears. Balls of compressed flame. All of it arcing through the air toward the wall, toward the four defenders who’d dared to stand against an army.

The projectiles struck Anita’s barrier and shattered harmlessly. Arrows disintegrated. Shadow spears dispersed. Flames splashed across the dome like water against glass.

"That’s going to get old quickly," Rodney observed. "How long can you maintain that?"

"Hours if needed," Anita said, though strain was already evident in her voice. "But I’d rather not. Every second I’m maintaining this barrier is power I’m not using offensively."

"Then we don’t give them time for a second volley," Marylla said.

Her hands wove patterns, and her origin energy manifested differently than Anita’s defensive magic. This was attack-focused—violet light forming into dozens of projectiles that hung in the air around her like a swarm of luminescent insects.

"Drop the barrier," she commanded.

"What? Marylla, they’ll—"

"Drop it. Now."

Anita hesitated for only a heartbeat before complying. The barrier dissolved, leaving them exposed.

And Marylla released her attack.

The violet projectiles launched simultaneously, each one moving faster than arrows, each one guided by her will rather than simple trajectory. They crossed the three hundred yards in seconds and struck the demon formation with devastating precision.

She didn’t aim randomly. Each projectile targeted specific threats—the siege bows, the fire demons, the Black Orc magic users. Anything that could attack from range, she hit first.

Explosions rippled through the demon ranks as her magic found targets. Lesser demons were vaporized. Black Orcs stumbled, their shadow-casting interrupted. The massive bows splintered, their operators killed before they could reload.

In ten seconds, Marylla eliminated the entire ranged threat.

"Your turn," she said to Rodney, breathing slightly harder from the effort.

The golden-haired swordsman smiled.

"Watch and learn."