The paths were filled with daemons of all sizes and shapes, terrible faces contorted in rage
as one after the other they pressed toward Donyl and Pedyr, swinging their bronze weapons to meet their iron. Calm and rational in this irrational situation, Donyl dealt death as no novice at arms had a right, slicing and parrying, arms burning with fatigue. He understood that they were going to die – that had been a given when they saw the hordes upon the paths — but the man at his back deserved better. Here was a Believer, a follower of the One, who trusted his god to save his soul, but did not expect him to save his life. Oath-sworn to see Donyl to his destination or die in the attempt, Pedyr fought a last futile battle for naught but honor. The citadel is within sight! Could not the Denygal god find it to save this most deserving man? Donyl’s rational mind thought this as his exhausted arms continued swinging his sword upon daemon after daemon, with no stop in sight. God I do not know, please save Pedyr.
An air-rending roar filled the gorge and the daemon host ducked as if expecting attack from on high. A terrified keening rolled along the paths, echoing off the cliffs, as a dark winged shape glided out of the moon light and swept low. Donyl screamed as the enormous claws reached down and plucked him free of the ledge.