Rise of the Horde - Chapter 636 - 635

Galum’nor met the Pale Lord at dawn, in a clearing where the frost was so thick that the grass beneath it had become a carpet of crystalline needles that shattered with each footstep.

His strike team had lost time during the approach. The Pale Lord’s corrupted sentries, unlike the Scorcher’s heat-radiating thralls, were ambush predators, hidden among the frost-covered terrain in positions that were nearly impossible to detect until the attack was already underway. Three Verakhs had been wounded before the team adapted, learning to read the frost patterns for the subtle irregularities that indicated a corrupted creature’s body heat disturbing the otherwise uniform ice cover.

Drae’ghanna had taken the lead after the third ambush, her dark eyes scanning the frozen landscape with an intensity that missed nothing. She moved with the fluid precision of a warrior whose senses had been honed by years of combat that required identifying threats before they materialized, her twin swords held low and ready, the blades generating faint warmth from the Bufas compound the shamans had applied to their edges before the team’s departure.

Aro’shanna covered the left flank, her war axe balanced across her shoulder, her breath misting in the increasingly frigid air. The temperature had dropped steadily as they penetrated deeper into the Pale Lord’s domain, passing through zones of cold that felt artificial, imposed on the landscape by a will rather than produced by weather. The frost that covered everything was not the white, crystalline frost of winter mornings. It was pale and faintly luminescent, glowing with a cold light that seemed to emanate from within the ice itself, as if the frost were a living thing that grew according to patterns its creator had designed.

The Pale Lord stood at the clearing’s center, motionless, its slender form a vertical line of pale flesh and bone against the frost-covered backdrop. It did not carry a weapon. Its hands, long-fingered and tipped with nails the color of old ice, hung at its sides in a posture of patient readiness that communicated more threat than any raised blade could have achieved.

Its eyes found Galum’nor across the clearing, and the orc felt the cold intensify around him, not a physical sensation but a psychic one, the demon’s awareness pressing against his consciousness with the focused precision of a being that had assessed thousands of mortal minds and found them all equally fragile.

“Verakhs, clear the perimeter,” Galum’nor ordered, his voice carrying the flat authority that his team had learned meant the time for stealth was over. “Drae’ghanna, Aro’shanna, with me. Everyone else, keep the corrupted creatures off our backs.”

The Verakhs fanned outward, their crossbows tracking the frost-covered terrain for the corrupted wolves and other creatures that the Pale Lord had positioned as its defensive screen. Bolts hissed through the cold air, Bufas-treated tips igniting corrupted flesh in bursts of orange fire that stood out against the pale landscape like wounds in the frost.

Galum’nor charged.

He crossed the clearing in a dead sprint, his heavy boots shattering the crystalline grass with each stride, his weapon raised in the overhead position that maximized the first strike’s downward force. The Pale Lord watched him come with its glacier-blue eyes, its expression, if a demon could be said to have expressions, carrying the particular quality of a predator that was not threatened by what approached but was curious about it.

At five paces, the demon moved.

Its hand rose, fingers spreading, and the air between them solidified. A wall of ice erupted from the ground, six inches thick and eight feet wide, its surface smooth as polished stone, appearing so fast that Galum’nor’s conscious mind registered the obstacle after his body had already committed to the charge.

He did not stop. He dropped his shoulder, lowered his center of gravity, and hit the wall with the full force of an orc at full sprint. The ice shattered. Fragments exploded outward in a glittering spray that sliced across his face and arms, dozens of tiny cuts opening on his exposed skin, the cold of the ice itself reaching into the wounds and numbing the flesh around them.

His weapon came through the shattered wall already swinging. The blade caught the Pale Lord across the midsection in a lateral cut that should have opened the demon from hip to hip. But the demon had moved backward during the heartbeat it took Galum’nor to break through the ice, and the blade’s edge, instead of finding the deep tissue that would have produced a mortal wound, skated across the surface of the demon’s frosted skin, leaving a shallow furrow that welled with a fluid the color of moonlight.

The Pale Lord’s counterattack was not a blow. It was a touch.

Its hand closed around Galum’nor’s weapon arm above the elbow, and cold, absolute and total, shot through his body like a river of ice being poured into his veins. His muscles locked. His breath froze in his lungs, the air in his chest becoming a solid thing that pressed against his ribs from within. His heart stuttered, the blood in his arteries thickening toward a consistency that would stop it flowing entirely.

He was dying. The cold was killing him from the inside, the demon’s touch a conduit for a force that was not merely low temperature but the absence of thermal energy on a scale that the mortal body was not designed to survive. Three heartbeats. That was what he estimated he had before the cold reached his heart and stopped it permanently.

Drae’ghanna arrived in two.

Her twin swords, their edges glowing with the residual heat of the Bufas compound, struck the Pale Lord from behind in a double slash that crossed the demon’s back in an X pattern. The compound ignited on contact, and fire, the antithesis of everything the Pale Lord embodied, bloomed across the demon’s flesh with a ferocity that produced an effect Galum’nor had not expected.

The demon released him.

Not voluntarily. The fire disrupted its concentration, the pain of a substance that burned in a way its ice magic could not counter forcing it to divert attention from the killing freeze it had been channeling through its grip to the defense of its own body against the flames that were eating into the wounds Drae’ghanna’s swords had opened.

Galum’nor fell to his knees, gasping. His arm was numb from shoulder to fingertips, the skin discolored with frost patterns that would take days to fade. His chest ached with every breath, his lungs protesting the damage the frozen air had inflicted. But he was alive. The cold had reached his heart and found it still beating, the orcish physiology that provided a natural 4th Realm constitution having bought him the extra heartbeats that the difference between life and death had required.

Aro’shanna hit the Pale Lord from the left. Her war axe, the heaviest weapon in the strike team’s arsenal, came in low, targeting the demon’s thigh where Drae’ghanna’s fire had weakened the frosted skin. The blade bit deep, the Bufas compound on its edge igniting within the wound, and the fire, fed by the compound’s chemical persistence, burned inward through tissue that the ice magic should have made impervious but that the combination of physical damage and fire had compromised.

The Pale Lord hissed. The sound was the demon’s equivalent of a scream, controlled and cold, the expression of a being that processed pain as data but was finding the data increasingly difficult to analyze with detachment. It swept its hand in an arc, and a wave of freezing air blasted outward, catching Aro’shanna across the chest and throwing her backward three paces. She landed hard, her armor rimed with instant frost, her breath knocked from her lungs.

But the damage had been done. Two wounds, both burning, both resistant to the regeneration that the demon’s ice magic normally provided.

Galum’nor forced himself to his feet. His right arm responded. Barely, painfully, but it responded. He gripped his weapon in his functioning hand and threw himself at the demon with the particular desperation of a warrior who understood that the window between the demon’s distraction and its recovery was measured in seconds.

His blade struck the Pale Lord’s wounded side, driving into the gap that Aro’shanna’s axe had opened, widening it, deepening it. Drae’ghanna struck simultaneously from the opposite side, her twin swords finding the wounds on the demon’s back and reopening them with surgical precision. The Bufas compound on every blade continued to burn, each cut depositing fresh fire into the demon’s body, the accumulated flames creating an internal conflagration that the Pale Lord’s ice magic could suppress but not extinguish.

The demon staggered. Its glacier-blue eyes, which had been steady and calculating throughout the fight, began to dim. The frost that emanated from its body thinned, the cold that had defined its domain weakening as the energy that sustained it was diverted to the losing battle against the fire eating through its flesh.

Six Verakh bolts struck it from the perimeter. Each one treated with the Bufas compound. Each one adding a new point of fire to a body that was already losing the war against flame.

The Pale Lord fell to its knees. Slowly. Deliberately. Even in death, it maintained the controlled dignity that had characterized its existence, its body lowering to the frost-covered ground with a precision that refused to acknowledge the catastrophic damage that was consuming it from within.

Galum’nor stood over it, breathing hard, his weapon arm numb, his body trembling with the residual cold that would take hours to fully leave his system.

“End it,” he said.

Drae’ghanna drove both swords through the Pale Lord’s chest. The demon shuddered once, its glacier-blue eyes finding hers with a final, clear regard that carried no malice and no mercy, only the acknowledgment of a conclusion that had been reached through the application of sufficient force.

The frost began to melt.

Two demons down. One to go.