Ioras, The Golden Child watched the army assemble on the great plains of Galis. For years he had waged war on the Sinforce of Colm Sadach and watched many brave soldiers die, their blood feeding the ground. His armor, helm, and shield of pure gold shone brightly in the twilight.
A grimace wrinkled his youthful face as he tried to count the numbers assailed against his army. Small groups of demonic forces gathered in separate groups like the various wards of a city.
On one end, her weight spread out upon a large divan, carried on the shoulders of six ogres, the immense bulk of Marbha Leisg, the Knight of Sloth, yelled orders at a throng of featureless men each armed with a scythe. The ogres strained beneath her bulk and only the threat of the huge silver hammer in her pudgy fist kept them moving forward.
The colorful silks of her flowing gowns were a bright contrast to the greenery that surrounded them and was offset by the orange hued tresses piled high upon her huge head.
Just behind her marched her husband, Craosaire Ramhar, Knight of Gluttony, also immensely obese in his purple robes. He carried a bucket from which he would grab a handful of eyeballs, place them in his gaping maw, and chew vigorously. He was surrounded by a veritable sea of what appeared to be shirtless men wearing black hoods. His bald head was barely visible between the creatures.
At the lead of the immense army, flanked by a horde of zombies and ghouls, riding a black mount was Dunmharu Fuilteach, Knight of Wrath. His mount’s flaming hooves left a trail of ash where it stepped. Dunmharu’s body clad in blood spattered plate armor, face covered with a bloody cowl, bobbed in time to the clopping of the hooves. A huge axe adorned his back, the haft wrapped in the skin of a succubus.
The pale faced, but beautiful Knight of Lust, Banntrach Gradach led her forces of scorpion bodied men to the north, far away from the rest of the army. Clad only in a half length chainmail tunic and breechclout, she swung a shortsword lazily in a fist at her side.
To the south, amidst a swarm of goblins, riding upon a skeletal mount was the Knight of Greed. In life he was a merchant, now he was Breagadoir Santach, a slender man in oiled leathers carrying a slim rapier at his side. The goblins pulled a large cart filled with treasure.
The hill giants were led by Uabhar Gortaithe, Knight of Pride. Once a prince of Fenia, he still wore his red hair and beard in long braids. A saber and an axe were crossed upon his back.
Bacach Ead, Knight of Envy, brought up the rear with his squadron of tarbhac, bull heads snorting at the darkening sky. Whatever flesh peeked from the wrappings he wore bore the scars of burning. He carried a gnarled cudgel with which he struck at the tarbhac eliciting small roars of pain.
In the middle of the camp was a large tent adorned with a huge red eye. Before it, sitting on casks of ale, nearly invisible in his deep blue leathers, sharpening his twin sabers, was Bron MacBas, the Son of Death, Colm’s well paid and highly efficient scout and assassin.
Ioras knew that inside the tent he would find Colm Sadach and his two generals, the lich Baab and the vampire known as Creel. Still incomplete, his scattered body parts never completely recovered, Baab had turned his wrath toward all living things. It was his power alone that had kept the King’s men at bay and it took all of Ioras’ patience and willpower to wait and watch.
Into the camp, leading a motley assortment of Soulless, walked a small, hunched figure. Its fingers were red with blood and its eyes glowed a deep yellow. At the head of the Soulless was a slender woman with spiked red hair, feet dragging as she stumbled in undeath.
Ioras ducked behind the hill and rode his mount back to where his army waited for yet another in a long line of battles. Pennants flew in the breeze displaying an array of symbols. The Crimson Keep, The Temple of Light, Leonach Or, Wyrmslayers, The Faithful, and the Uachtar Lamh were all represented as well as a large contingent of abhac, corani, bwbach, and sirite. They were the kingdom’s only hope to stem the flow of the dark forces before they could overrun the continent.
Ioras was tiring of the constant warfare. He removed his helm, shaking out his golden curls. Barely slowing his horse, he leaped from its back and rammed his spear into the ground. Solemnly, he marched toward his tent of blue and white striped cloth and called for his generals, Noinion Bui, the tattooed wild woman from Cruithnia wearing a thorn necklace and Ceol Binn, the bard in the mismatched clothes, tripping on his too long sword.
“We need a plan,” Ioras grumbled. “We will have battle by tomorrow.”
The generals followed him into his tent and the planning began. There would be more blood soaking the Galis plains, Ioras feared, but as long as the black hearted Colm waged his war, the King’s men would defy him.
