T Lain - Return of the Damned

Clemf batted away blades as fast as they came at him. He jabbed back at one soldier, catching him in the throat and sending him back a step. Though he managed to wound his opponent, the lunge cost him. Another soldier slashed at Clemf’s exposed ribs, opening a small wound across his stomach and down toward his groin. The tattooed human growled at his attacker and spun on him. His breathing became deep and his chest rose and fell as if he were an angry bull. With a powerful wail, Clemf stepped forward and beheaded two soldiers with one swing of his longsword.

Tasca fired arrows into the approaching crowd of swordsmen at a furious pace. His fingers flew over the bow string, releasing two arrows at a time and reloading in the blink of an eye. Nearly every arrow he fired found its mark, but his attacks didn’t stop the soldiers from advancing. Eventually he had to drop his bow and draw his rapier. With swashbuckling flare, the roguish elf battled his adversaries, trading blows even when he was surrounded and flanked.

Regdar stepped forward and grabbed Naull by the arm.

“Naull!” he shouted. “Naull, don’t you remember me?”

The slight wizard pulled away from his grip and glared up at him with narrowed eyes.

“I remember you,” she said, hatred dripping from her words. “You left me to die.” She spat in his face then bent down to pick up a quarterstaff lying on the ground near her feet.

“That’s not tru—”

His words were cut off by a hard crack to his ribs. Gasping to regain his lost breath, the big fighter took a step back as Naull bent into a crouch, twirling her quarterstaff for another strike.

“Naull,” he pleaded. “What are you doing? You must remember I didn’t want to leave you.” He held his arms out to his sides, trying to look less menacing.

“That’s not how I remember it,” she said, hurling the head of her staff at Regdar.

The fighter dodged back, narrowly avoiding the blow.

“But… but, you asked me to leave,” he said.

His words were again cut short by another whizzing attack.

This time Regdar had to use his greatsword to block. The enchanted blade bit into the dense wood of the staff, and Naull struggled to free her weapon. That left her ribs exposed to a counter strike. Regdar took note but stayed his blade.

Emitting a frustrated, scratchy cry, the slight wizard gave her staff a great tug, pulling it free. She took a step back, straightened her robes, and caught her breath.

“Why would I ask you to leave?” she shouted from two long paces away. “Surely a big, strong fighter like you could have protected a frail little wizard like me.”

Regdar wrinkled his forehead, confused. “It was you who saved me that day.” The memory of being pulled by Alhandra and Krusk from the City of Fire as it shifted into the Elemental Plane of Fire ran through his head. “When I had to leave you there, injured and trapped with that bitch Lindroos—” he lowered his gaze, and his lip curled up at the edge—“something inside me died.” He took a step forward.

“How very sweet.” Naull charged forward, her quarterstaff lowered like a lance.

She got a good jump and caught Regdar off guard. The heavy staff plunged into Regdar’s stomach where the efreeti’s falchion had split his breastplate. He twisted to one side, defending his midsection with a snap reaction borne of long campaigns in the bowels of dank, decrepit dungeons. The big fighter’s greatsword swept around in a blinding arc, spanking away the quarterstaff. His gauntleted hand came around as well, connecting with the petite wizard’s chin and knocking her to the ground with a single blow.

Naull landed on her back with a surprised grunt. A trickle of blood ran from her split lower lip, and she held her eyes shut, grimacing from pain.

Regdar stepped back. He looked down on Naull, feeling pangs of guilt. He started to kneel next to her. More than anything he wanted to cradle her in his arms, to tell her how sorry he was—to tell her about the gaping hole in his chest that had been punched there when he left her in the City of Fire.

But he hesitated.

Turning around, he took in the terrible battle unfolding around his companions. Whitman, Tasca, and Clemf stood back to back to back, surrounded by half a dozen cultist soldiers and four jann. Lindroos stood to one side, watching and smiling at the obvious advantage she enjoyed.

Whitman struck down another soldier with a hammer blow that might have felled a hill giant. Regdar turned away, hoping his men could hold there own for a moment longer, while he decided what to do with Naull.

Jozan stepped through the hallowed arches of St. Clembert’s cathedral. He paused to admire the beautiful architecture. The carved stone pillars on each side depicted scenes of terrible carnage—demons flooding across a huge plain and crashing into a line of mighty paladins. At the head of the holy warriors stood a protector from the heavens. Though he was only a man, he stood a full head taller than all the rest. His sword rose high above the swarming masses, and his armor gleamed with a holy light. His eyes looked out at the advancing hordes, concentrating but unafraid. He held his chest out as he strode forward into a pack of fanged demons, each intent on devouring the man whole.

“I see you’re familiar with this cathedral’s namesake,” said a woman’s voice.

Jozan turned around to see a tall, hard-looking woman in gleaming plate armor. He smiled.

“Alhandra,” he said. “Blessings be with you.”

“And also with you,” she replied, smiling back. “Do you know the story of how the paladin Clembert became a saint?” she asked, nodding toward the sculpted pillar.

Jozan scratched his chin. “No, actually, I’m not sure I do.”

Alhandra grabbed his elbow and spun him around. She pointed at the demons. “Thousands of years ago, a demon lord by the name of Jalie Squarefoot managed to convince a band of adventurers to travel to the third layer of Hell. Once there, the dim-witted fools were tricked into starting the legendary Doom Clock.” She moved her finger along the formed stone, rubbing it across demon horns and coming to rest on top of a deep chasm at the back of the evil horde.

“Once the clock came out of its millennia-long slumber, it began unraveling the fibers of time.” She looked at Jozan. “The clock actually had the power to pull apart the fabric that separates the planes.” She looked back to the battle scene. “As it moved from the third layer of Hell to the ninth, the huge, six-legged structure collected behind it a veritable army of crazed demons all wanting to wreak havoc on the other planes. Once it reached the ninth layer, it opened a portal to this world.” Alhandra ran her hand back across the entire, grisly scene.

“Here it unleashed the chaos army you see depicted onto our land.” Taking a step around the pillar, the paladin admired the tall, determined man at the head of the holy army. “The great paladin Clembert gathered to him the mightiest army of paladins and holy men ever to fight together on this plane.” The paladin shrugged. “Or any other for that matter.”

Alhandra let out a heavy sigh. “Many good, righteous men and women died that day.” She touched the sculpture of the heroic man. “Including the paladin Clembert. But his loss was not in vain. His efforts and those of the people who followed him saved our world from being overrun by the evil horde. If it hadn’t been for them, this world would be nothing more than the tenth plane of Hell.”

“Then the church sainted Clembert for his bravery and service to Pelor?” prompted Jozan.

Alhandra nodded. “Yes, but not for many centuries.” She sighed again. “You see, at that time, the elders decided that if the general population knew how close they had come to being enslaved by the dark forces of evil, it might shake their faith in the church. Even though Clembert’s bravery and sacrifice saved our world, the church set out to intentionally cover up all details of the demon invasion.” She turned and looked at Jozan. “The name Clembert was erased from all church documents, and his loyal service to Pelor went completely unrecognized by the establishment.”