Prologue

The ruins of a once prosperous and happy village were all the evidence that remained of the events of that terrible night. Some would later call it a battle, but that was misleading at best. The images conjured by that sort of description could not begin to create an accurate picture of the scene. The villagers did try to fight back, despite the obvious fact that it was an exercise in futility. But to call it a battle implies that each side had a reasonable expectation of victory. To suggest that this peaceful people ever had any chance for survival was a great insult to their memory.

What really took place that night in the Valley of Archaeon was nothing more or less than a massacre. The victims had not feared the evil that destroyed them, for they had lived in the peaceful valley all their lives. Most were many generations removed from any other homeland, and as such, they all knew one simple fact: they were as good as dead the moment the Horde headed toward them. They went through the motions of resistance, but they knew better than to hold out any hope. As the most able-bodied among them gathered their small collection of weapons and left their sons to protect those that were unable to fight, the reality of their situation was never far from their thoughts.

The slaughter ended almost before it really began. In truth, they knew their time had come long before the warriors even crested the hill. Despite the incredible speed with which they traveled, the powerful hooves of their horses created such a thunderous sound as to be heard several hours prior to their arrival. This awareness did not leave them enough time to flee before the looming onslaught, but it gave them enough time to set their minds at ease and mentally digest their imminent deaths. The anticipation should have been much greater; it was tempered, however, by a lifetime of existence filled with the knowledge that such a day had always been a possibility—perhaps even a likely end to their way of life.

In the end the humble but courageous people had fallen as wheat before a scythe. They joined the seemingly endless list of towns and villages that had been swallowed up by a horror that consumed everything in its path.

Everyone in the land accepted it as a simple fact of life.

In some families he was a scary bedtime story that everyone pretended not to believe. In others he took the form of the threat of what might happen to disobedient children who refused to eat their vegetables or forgot to wash behind their ears. Though it evolved through the years, the story was essentially the same. Some details were purposely vague, while others were painfully specific, but everyone knew them by heart. The stories were so widespread that it was rarely necessary to tell them. Even the smallest children could easily relate the tale of the Demon King.

Under other circumstances forehand knowledge of this sort would be quite useful. Unfortunately, for the inhabitants of the many towns and villages in the land of Chak, education on this particular subject meant nothing. They lived with the simple understanding if he came after them, there would never be enough time to flee, nor would they have a strong enough arsenal to fight back—and his soldiers left no survivors. It was for this reason that accurate accounts of their atrocities simply did not exist.

Unlike most wild tales of the unknown, rumors of the exploits of the Demon Army were fairly close to the truth. They left naught but death and destruction in their wake. The demons’ thirst for blood could not be quenched and they had no use for riches. They took whatever they wanted when they saw it at hand; bargaining with them was not an option.

The only part of the outlandish tale that was exaggerated was its supposed duration. Stories of the cruelty of the Demon King had haunted the sleep of the young and old for more than three hundred years, while the monster himself had only been at it for two decades. True, he had been around for as long as the legend said, but he had not been killing for most of that time. It wasn’t for lack of desire, though, nor was it because he hadn’t tried. The genesis of the horrific tales was legitimate enough. Before his imprisonment, the Demon King had, in fact, embarked on his sinful mission, but he had scarcely begun when he found himself bound in what he had feared would be an eternal prison, held in check by a power he could not supersede, until another intervened in his behalf.

It should never be said, however, that his malevolence was borne of his imprisonment. It wasn’t revenge he sought, nor was retribution his goal. Vengeance was not among his aims—he did not harbor resentment toward others for his incarceration. The Demon King understood that he deserved all the punishment he had received—and much, much more. It was contrary to his nature to be aware of something that seemed so trivial to him, yet it was one fact that was never far from his thoughts. This monster, like the soldiers who obeyed his every command, did not seek to become wealthy nor was he out to improve his life. His bloody quest was not even motivated by the rush he felt each time he brought one of his victims to an untimely demise.

He was an implement of death.

It was all he knew.

For as long as he could remember his principal desire, above even the most basic needs of existence, was to kill. Death and destruction were the signature he left on every place he visited. The Demon King was evil incarnate. He was a soulless creature with no capacity for any positive or even neutral emotion. He had never had any friends, nor did he want them. His utter contempt for all other creatures made such a relationship both undesirable and unattainable.

Only one being had ever done anything to merit an exception. The benevolent actions of this rogue angel had left the Demon King in a state of constant internal conflict. Though more than twenty years had passed, the feelings these actions evoked created a kind of turmoil that always seemed to fester just at the edge of his thoughts.

When the demons appeared on the horizon it was such a strange sight that many of the villagers momentarily forgot they were about to die. In the telltale glow of twilight the demons came over the hills to the north. They did not bother to travel under cover of complete darkness, since they had no need for stealth. The truth was that they simply attacked at that time because it was when they had arrived. It was less a planned attack and more an assault of opportunity.

The land was populated with a variety of non-human creatures. Trolls, elves, dwarves, and fairies were just a few of the species which they encountered with some regularity. The villagers had, therefore, developed a certain level of comfort regarding creatures of this nature. All of this experience, notwithstanding, they were totally unprepared for what they saw.

Among the persistent rumors about the Demon Army was the notion that they traveled on horses that might not be of this world. Any speculation on this subject ended the moment the Horde came into view. The first thing that struck the villagers was the way the demons sat astride gargantuan horses that appeared to be almost invisible. This observation was not far from the truth. In actuality the hair that covered their bodies was black, but they came from another plane of existence, and thus never fully materialized in this dimension. They had a physical presence, as evidenced by the demons who rode the powerful beasts. In this plane, however, they truly existed only as specters, nearly invisible to the human eye.

The second amazing quality these horses possessed was the speed and fluidity with which they traveled. Their ghostlike appearance was furthered by the fact that they seemed completely unaffected by the obstacles in their path. Their massive, steel-shod hooves pulverized the small stones and even many of the larger rocks that littered the landscape as they galloped across the rocky, uneven terrain. The ghostly horses approached as smoothly and swiftly as if they were running in a competitive sprint around a race track, their speed unmatched by any land-bound creature.

The third, and perhaps most incredible thing about these creatures was both amazing, and at the same time, somehow absurd. As the Demon Army came close enough for the villagers to see them properly, they noticed two things that were incongruous with the impending siege. One was the fact that the horses, though they galloped down the slope, their hooves pounding the dirt and rock with a rumble like a looming thunderstorm, had powerful-looking wings tucked back against their muscular bodies. The other was that the demons who rode them appeared to have wings as well.

Before the people had time to consider the odd fact that they were under attack by flying creatures, who rode on the backs of other flying creatures, yet they chose not to attack from the air, the Horde was upon them. In a mostly peaceful land, they had little need for walls or sentries. The only foe from whom they needed protection was the very one by whose hands they were about to be wiped from existence. Any attempt to safeguard against this opponent would have been no more than an exercise in futility. There was nothing they could have done that would have provided effective protection against this army.

Just moments after they appeared on the crest of the hill, the demons began to take the lives of innocents there, who had never done anything to offend anyone, least of all this marauding mob.