Ngulu the Broken revelled in despair and destruction, yet there were reasons to worry in the way that his demons failed to break through the strange winged and mutated forces they faced. No easy victory was in sight and the recent arrival of the small force from the Tower bolstered the beleaguered forces he faced. Something had changed.
Writhing forms on the battlefield drew his attention. Of the two obvious leaders, one stayed well back drawing a number of the winged soldiers back into a protective cordon. The other marched forward, stopping to examine and touch the mutilated corpses on the field, including those demons unlucky enough to fall in battle. What was he doing?
The figure was closer now; a strange mist trailed behind him and, as the wind direction changed, the stench of rotting corpses and putrefying flesh became stronger. Ngulu watched as the man stopped, waiting for what the demon knew not, and his anger at the figure’s effrontery drove him forward, smashing aside his minions. It was then he noticed that he could no longer see the man as corpses reanimated, interposing themselves between their new master and the rampaging demons.
Shan loved the powers he had been granted; an army was never far behind when his touch could create new life. He giggled at the thought; life was a rather poor way to describe the things following him. Even the residual power of the demons was not immune to his unhealthy touch and perhaps, just perhaps, these new troops of his could turn the table even on Viker.
“Such an obvious minion…” crooned Viker’s voice in his head and Shan screamed in pain as raw power blasted into him. Through his tears he saw Viker rise above the battlefield, black wings spread wide and lambent power radiating out from his eyes.
“You are but a vessel,” he continued conversationally, “and that is something you should never forget. Cease your tending of the wounded, I wish to speak with the demon’s leader.”
Shan could do little but obey, as pain wrenched his muscles once more into uncontrollable spasms. Even his creatures reacted, moaning and squealing in his transmitted agony.
Viker passed him by, floating to a gentle halt into the winged master of the demon hoard. Anger rippled out from the frothing monster as it still thrust others aside in its anxiety to reach him.
“Oh, dear,” he laughed, “such eagerness should be rewarded…”
His arms raised high, he began to gather in his power, reaching out to touch the very essence of Fold Space in his greed. Ngulu stopped, mouth open in awe as the figure before him began to glow. His weapon tip dropped to the floor, partially forgotten as his better readied himself for to dispense his own form of justice.
At what seemed the last moment, the brilliance of Viker’s power faded, releasing Ngulu who raised his stolen sword in a roar of rage and leaped forward, intent only on the destruction of the timorous individual before him. He too felt the fabric of space rip, yet his anger was far too strong to worry about details. Ngulu the Broken would kill; the consequences of his actions he would deal with later.