"So what do you dream of, little ones?" the old man asked.
"Well… I think it would be to start a family with the man I love while we serve our benevolent masters till the end of our days," she replied shyly, playing with her short, boyish hair.
The old man pretended to be in deep thought, then he smiled and patted her on the head. "That's a nice dream to have, little one," he said, before turning to Morn. "What's your dream?"
"I want the whole world to know my name."
"Why?" someone asked.
"Well, I don't know…" Morn paused. " 'Cause I'm a man," he said with a defiant will.
"….."
"Don't laugh."
From then on, the dream was hazy.
Artam had long fallen into a trance-like sleep, as his tormented body sought to heal the ravages of days of flight.
Often, he seemed to hear again the howling of dying slaves and the whining of a bird in dire urgency.
At length, consciousness returned to Artam, and with it came the realization that something hovered near his side.
Snapping into instant awareness, he hurled himself to one side.
His corded arm whipped upward, and he grasped a lock of white hair, as his other hand came up with the sharp pebble he had by his side.
"W-wait, don't kill me, you insolent brat!" the old slave screamed out.
He shoved Artam to the side, screaming, "Run, mad brat! Or we're all going to die."
Something whizzed over Artam's head. It was a corpse.
"A corpse?" Artam muttered in confusion. All around him was carnage manifest.
Corpses of slaves and legionnaires were strewn about, some unrecognizable, their innards decorating the macabre sight—crushed skulls, flesh, and bone, with bodily fluids strewn about.
Like a scene out of damnation.
Whisper was madly chirping in his arms.
"It's as if I've crawled out of hell."
In the middle of it all was a giant demon, towering at fifteen feet with a terrifying keen gaze.
Glossy black skin with steel-like muscles rolling underneath. It had two legs and two arms, with an intermediary pair of limbs that could be used as either arms or legs. Its eyes were set at the extreme sides of its head, a trifle above the center.
The eyes were blood red, while the pupils were dark. Tusks curved upward to sharp points, ending about where the eyes would have been located if they weren't at the sides. The whiteness of the teeth was not that of ivory, but of the snowy and frozen landscape of Ishas that folk song often spoke of.
On its head, a total of seven horns formed a somewhat lopsided crown. Lastly, It had a revolting long obsidian tail and wielded a sword made entirely of fire.
"A demon," Artam whispered.
Even if he had never seen one before, something from the recesses of his soul told him so.
He clutched the fletching crow, tucking it into his chiton.
The mist enveloping the cave seemed thicker around the demon and permeated outwards. Five or so legionnaires were engaged in fierce combat with the demon.
Their coordination was poor, and their movements were off as if overcome with a persistent sluggishness.
Slaves ran in panic, lurching away in a cacophony of screams.
Entangled by the thick chain, some slaves fell to the ground, dragging others with them.
"Backs to the wall! Clear the way!" Prince Raedas commanded as he and half a dozen legionnaires joined the fray.
He unsheathed a longsword from his hip, whispering a short prayer as he drew the sword on the palm of his left hand.
Bright red blood ran from the gash he made and washed over the Amarakian steel. Then the sword took fire from point to crossguard. Shield on his left arm and his sword burning in his right hand, he seemed the very image of a divine flaming prince sent to bring judgment to the wicked.
"If he wasn't born of the wicked," Artam snided.
With his back pressed against the wall alongside the other slaves, Artam watched the battle begin with earnest interest.
The demon towered over the legionnaires, unshaken despite being outnumbered eleven to one.
He stood so still he might have been carved of stone. But when they charged him, he moved fast enough. Faster than you'd expect for something that size.
All four limbs and tail whipped forward. The man leading the left flank of the attack was the first to die.
He was crouched down, trying to deflect the incoming blow, but misjudged the strength of the demon. Now he was a puddle of gore. The left intermediate limb connected with another legionnaire's shield and was parried easily.
Prince Raedas ducked between two limbs and got within striking range, then he was on him. Steel sang, too fast and furious for Artam to follow the blows. The demon traded blows of its own with the flaming sword. An old Knight centurion slipped through the defenses of the demon, followed closely by the legionnaire named Kaloc.
Swords danced against the demon from three directions at once. Most of the cuts were aimed at its leg, with the intention to bring it to its knees.
The dance of steel and fire had begun. Two legionnaires released arrows from their bows like dark blurs, and they bit deep into the hide of the demon.
Two others came bursting from the back side by side, axes in their hands.
One axeman died at once, swatted like a bug. The other managed to duck, so the claw ripped through his shoulder.
He staggered on, landing a clean blow on the tail before ducking for cover from another attack.
Two more arrows found the demon, so quickly it was hard to say which had struck first.
The long shafts punched through the tough hide as if it had been made of silk.
A crossbowman appeared, but no sooner had he loosed a bolt than the demon's tail hissed past his head. It managed to rattle off his helm, but the bolt had sunk deep into the demon. It let out a terrifying wail.
The crossbowman began reloading while retreating when he vanished, bow and all.
Then a deafening sound rang four meters to Artam's right. Dust exploded outwards with shards of rocks and the screams of unfortunate slaves.
Artam coughed violently, straining to see the cloud of dust. A crumpled corpse trapped in deformed armor lay amongst the rubble with a score of dead slaves.
Someone shrieked in agony, and panic spread like wildfire. A spearman went down, then another, and the two bowmen as well.
"Retreat!" Prince Raedas cried. "Retreat, damnit! I'll hold him off."
"What about the slaves?!" the old centurion yelled.
"Forget about them! We can't do anything about them," the prince gritted his teeth. "We'll come back to slay the demon with reinforcements."
His flaming sword grew even more radiant than ever as he nimbly ducked under the demon's sword, slashing the back of its leg with his sword.
The sharp edge opened a long gash on the demon's leg. It retaliated with a swing of its own.
It slashed at his left arm and caught him, his shield exploding into shards. The demon's sword dug deep into the vambrace, and molten steel ran down its length.
The prince grimaced as he wrenched his arm free and parried, before dancing through the corpses of the fallen legionnaires and slaves. Before coming to a halt and catching his breath, revealing the melted steel vambrace, underneath was a deep gash.
'But no burn marks or burnt flesh,' Artam thought.
The old veteran, Kaloc, and the last legionnaire had already retreated, the latter busy sending a raven requesting help. The veteran and Kaloc had begun releasing the horses and mounted one each.
"Good lords, you're not going to abandon us, are you?" a slave asked the soldiers, but no answer came.
The other legionnaire had joined them and was about to mount a horse when a slave held his arms.
"Hey mister, you won't leave us, right? Right?!" he pleaded with frantic desperation.
The legionnaire hit the slave with his metal gauntlet, but the slave didn't relent his grip.
"Say something!" another slave screamed.
Then, like an avalanche, the slaves called out in frightened screams.
As though madness took hold of their reasoning, they began grabbing and pulling the soldiers in a desperate attempt to save themselves.
"Save us, please!"
"You cannot leave me to die!"
"I have a villa I could give you after I'm tried!"
"Please save me, I'm begg-"
"SILENCE!" The old veteran's words cut through the screams like a hot knife through butter. He reined in his horse and cut down the few that disobeyed. The old man addressed the slaves with a voice tinged with sorrow and regret:
"Listen well. I swore to protect and serve, yet today I am forced to betray that oath. Circumstances beyond my control demand that we leave you behind. I cannot express the depth of my regret, nor can I ask for your forgiveness, for I know I do not deserve it. If fate permits, I will find a way to make amends for this grievous wrong. Until then, may the crow watch over your journey to the next life."
A stone was launched Into the air and struck the old Knight centurion.
"I don't want to die!" The culprit sobbed.
The old man wept.
"All men die regardless of what they want."
Then the slave's face twisted into an ugly, angry grimace.
"Damnation to you! Curse you!" he screamed with tears while launching another stone. Others followed suit, launching a multitude of stones at the legionnaires.
Then, a painful scream rolled across the cave, reminding everyone of the reality of the situation.
The prince had fallen.