The night air was cool against their skin. The stars were bright, tiny jewels in the great curtain of night. The trees were quicksilver in the moonlight. And then they came, footfalls heavy, eyes blazing, the very earth trembling beneath their feet. Leathery wings rasped against their hide.

“The Utré come for us,” hissed a voice in the dark.

“Their numbers far exceed our own. We cannot win this!”

“Steady yourselves. We are men of Pyrithia, not cowards. Let all of hell’s fury descend on our helms; it will break like the waves upon the rocks.”

            A quiet hiss of swords against sheathes. A hundred or so soldiers, balancing on a knife-edge between life and death, each as terrified as the next. The Utré were a fierce race, some called the demons, others did not speak their name. But they were not immortal, and though their wings rasped like ghostly voices they could not fly. They burst from the trees screeching, howling, fangs glistening with saliva as the scent of fear met their nostrils. Running now, scampering across the grass with unmasked glee, talons glinting, tongues lolling like dogs. Arrowsong. The first volley found its targets well. A second volley, a second row of demons crumpled without a sound. A third and the men of Pyrithia rose from the darkness, swords shining, roaring as they ran to meet their deaths. Bone was sheared, limbs severed, talon and steel flashed and tore flesh as man and demon locked arms. Many were mad with fear, fought as demons themselves, but were slain.