The pursuit continued. Our enemies fled like rabbits, but now more than ever, we would not let them escape—not after the massacre of so many of our troops. The enchantment in question was not civilized. It was not designed for complex structures—its purpose was destruction. That it did. Our troops had finally begun to reach the barracks where the gifted children were located. For a moment, everything went dark. The light did not disappear—it was absorbed. The screams that followed lasted perhaps seconds; to me, they still echoed. They were his superiors—expert troops in village invasions, dead in their entirety. A black sphere took all those I had raised for years... They would pay!
We barely managed to find out what happened. Our enemies had been running for several hours. The priests healed as best they could those who survived. Those responsible for the attack I found at the valley's edge—in black robes and gaunt faces, they were the living expression of evil. The support troops accompanied me. The commander assigned me two hundred elements to hunt down our enemies while they searched for texts on how they had crafted such destructive force. Now I traveled at the head of a vengeance troop. On each pike traveled a part of the damned. I carried the head of the one who was bound to the rest. The priests said they used their lives to eliminate us—typical of the uncivilized, wasting their immortal souls without the care of the Fire God. The squadrons carried priests; none wanted to attack without sacred forces involved.
It was the third day of pursuit. It was easy to follow their trail, but we could not catch them. The scraps of clothing, toys, and food they abandoned while trying to travel as lightly as possible were lines that even a novice could follow. But now we were not going in fast mode. We had to be sure no one was waiting for us with a surprise like before. We advanced two or three kilometers, sent spies and trackers. They identified traps made with thorns and tree blades—nothing to worry about. Then the priests enchanted our weapons and protections to resist and deal burning damage with our spear tips or sword blades that I longed to pierce my enemies' skin. Volcania had never denied me prey, and I promised that its flames would consume my prey.
This was our fifth day. We were close to them—I could smell them if not for the persistent drizzle that had been hounding us since last night. It must be some temporary magic, but it did not matter. We were not only mages—we were also excellent hunters. Everyone was in very good spirits in the morning. With sufficient provisions—including those abandoned by the fugitives—we could have a good feast. It was almost midday; better to gather the troops to send out the trackers.
Where were they! Where were my trackers? Fifty people—a quarter of my force—were missing! I called everyone; the supervisors swore that no one had advanced beyond the protection lines. Everyone was prepared. I had to be careful. Without trackers, it would be very difficult to hunt my enemy, but I did not intend to return—not now that elite troops had disappeared.
At midday, there were multiple contacts. The weather conspired against us, as the attacked troops only saw small silhouettes. They emerged from the shadows and vanished. Each appearance focused on quick attacks on about a dozen of my men, leaving smoking pieces where brave warriors had been. Added to that, some of my soldiers were unwell. The priests said it was poisoning, but they could not remove the venom's effects. So my healing troops were exhausted, keeping half my units from dying. I hated to admit it, but this was lost. I chose several of the fastest, with a sealed letter sending a request for a crusade—avenge us; we were lost.
At dusk, the sense of threat increased. I walked wearing all my armor, gripping the sergeant's lance they had given me—a sacred weapon, capable of melting iron breastplates in five strikes. My troops looked at me with pride. I was no weakling who gave up so easily. Sergeant Invader Teuth—that was who they should remember. I had killed thousands in the lands of fire, eliminated enemies, and provided new faithful to my god. If only I had someone to eliminate! Here, I saw none of those lanky heretics—only mist and forests that mocked our sacred mission. I heard a shout: "Contact!" I had to go. If we were going to die, it would not be alone.
I did not understand. The soldier was gravely wounded—a mark on his back indicated someone had struck him with something that fell inside his armor, causing acid burns. On the ground, a small pile covered in gray rags still smoked. I rebuked them—children must be baptized by fire to give power to Vulcan. The soldier writhed in pain but stammered that it was not a child. I did not believe him. No one was that size... a dwarf? Impossible! He was too thin. Yet when I lifted the hood, an ashen face awaited me—reddish skin, thin, no taller than a ten-year-old child. One black eye hung from its socket. In its scrawny chest, a black hole where the sword had struck. Wearing only cloth. This made no sense—this creature did not exist! It was one of the demons that existed only in the underworld planes, where evil reigned by God's will.
I swayed a little. I thought I was also poisoned. My amulets glowed, counteracting the power of whatever I had eaten. All our spies assured it was the food, but I had brought my own water and had not mixed my rations with anyone. Suddenly, I heard a laugh—high-pitched, malevolent. I fixed my eyes on the bushes. Something was there, but before I could warn my men, it disappeared. I heard it laugh behind me, so I gathered my strength. I left them at the boundaries. The priests invoked what their meager forces allowed—a few infernal hounds protected us from surprise attacks. But we had nowhere to flee. Those mastiffs kept growling; they knew something was out there, but no one let them pursue it. We had to be cautious. It would not be long before our forces returned—the main force of thousands who would reduce their childish games to nothing. I would wait here. They would die, and we would use their bones as graves for our remains.
It must have been past midnight. We had used up almost everything burnable. We did not dare venture further out of the clearing. The people were exhausted. We kept raising shields, but I knew it would only wear us out more. So I signaled with a hand for them to deactivate everything—save our strength. When they thought we were defenseless, we would bombard them with what we had left. There were just over two dozen adults—compared to the one hundred ten of us, there was no comparison.
A silhouette stood out in the mist. In the distance, I saw more joining it. They were the enemies. I could see them clearly. I saw the hounds—living beings, evident from how the veins of our mastiffs glowed. Lava dripped slightly from their fangs. They were eager, knowing they could kill them as soon as I gave the order. So I did not hold them back. I saw them depart—red silhouettes standing out in the night. They would arrive. They were ten, five meters away—fast. Their leader already lunged at the front one. I heard a dull thud, and he flew backward. It did not matter! He could not handle the rest of the infernal hounds—he would die while trying to cast some useless enchantment.
Blue lights came from several sides. The valiant summoned animals fell less than two meters from the enemy. How was that possible? That magic came from multiple sites—it was not an individual's attack. That was coordinated. Then the laughter came again—the enemy's voice.
He said he was a dark priest, representing his order, that he was going to kill us—I signaled my troops, who had already loaded their weapons and were energizing them. Then I began to hear cries of pain from all sides. I turned, and at the ground's edge, more silhouettes emerged—small, but not clumsy. They cut the heels and calves of my soldiers. Before I could annihilate them, they ran into the night. I asked everyone to hold back, not to follow, but few listened. They had been harassed for days—I did not blame them. Yet if we died, we would go after that enemy. I gave the order, and my guard ran alongside me. We had to reach him.
Some spawn came out to meet us, trying to attack me, but I eliminated them with a sword swing. They were not strong. Attacking me with a knife was ridiculous. Weakened as I was, I did not become a regiment sergeant just by scratching my belly. I kept running. I could see where my mastiffs had fallen; they still glowed a little, but they had ice-pure arrows embedded. They were doomed. Something tried to attack me from behind, so I sidestepped and split it in half with my sword. The movement left me a few steps from the enemy. He was young, carried a cleric's staff, but had a dark air. It did not matter—he would die!
My hand went numb. I still did not know how, but his staff intercepted the blow and did not break despite being wood. It did not matter! My guard would attack him, defenseless as he was. But he did not seem alarmed. With a grimace, he pointed behind me. A few steps away, they were all there—like the mastiffs—pierced through, dead. This threw me off. I struck as best I could, regardless of fatigue, pain, grief, the frustration of losing two regiments. He had to fall. No one helped him, but I admitted he was good—not good enough, not using a two-handed staff against my bastard sword. Finally, I broke through his defenses. My blade was about to deliver a mortal blow to his stomach, and it struck something. It was not a shield—no, something more fragile, like crystal armor. Yet it took all my momentum. The staff came from the side. I gritted my teeth for the impact.
I spat a little blood and got up. I did not know how, but I had flown almost five meters from a normal blow. With effort, I had blocked the impact, but my blade was broken. I tried to call to what remained of my troops, but I only heard silence and a little laugh—that insidious laugh. So I challenged them to come out—they had beaten me, but they could hang me if I would admit that some spawn had beaten me in the dark. At that, the priest spoke. He said he had not come alone—that the children had been in a refuge for days, that all my men were dead, that we had come to invade the priests' territory. I mocked him, telling him that this site was ours by divine mandate. He pointed to the edges. From all sides, creatures emerged—too many. Most were unarmed, all in black cloaks, with eyes glowing in the remnants of campfires, of my useless sword, of the summoned animals, of my troops' bloodied armor, of their own enchantments. Now I knew my reinforcements would not come. With soldiers like these, they could not have gotten far. The magic sphere was enormous—no trace of us would remain... I am sorry, Lord Vulcan! Your servant has failed.