The Dark Lord

The Dark Lord

The retreat had become a slaughter. The dark lord’s forces spilled through the exhausted ranks of the three-army alliance, separating soldier from commander, man from his company. Near the center, the Dark Lord himself stalked towards a routed squad, savoring their terrified screams.

He raised his mace and swung in an arc. A corona of black energy spilled forward, crashing into the men like a wave.

The figure, nine feet tall, clad in black armor, took another step and swung again, sending more men flying. On his flank—movement; he spun to find a pair of human knights. They’d managed to get behind him.

The leader of the pair, a veteran, face creased with years of experience, pointed his blade at the towering nightmare. “I challenge you!” Then, not waiting for a response, he rushed in.

The dark lord extended a finger, and the man froze, immobile. He flicked his wrist, and the knight went flying.

The younger saw his opening. His blade glowed bright blue, and he swung, not for the plated body but the less armored hand. Alas, his strike found no contact.

The dark lord pulled his hand away, took a single, yawning step, and was on the young man. He lifted him up, wrenched the metal helmet from his head, and stared into his terrified eyes. The dark lord’s glowed red, and a mist, black as night, flowed into the terrified youth’s mouth. His form began to wither and rot.

Without a word, the dark lord dropped the warrior’s husk and continued his advance. His foes were on the brink of collapse, and unless they found a way to rejuvenate themselves, his victory was all but assured.