The Touch of Astoroth

Prologue

The armies met in a field.

Both sides knew it was a terrible place for a battle. They were in a valley, with no plant life for cover, and a retreat would mean a steep uphill climb for both regiments.

At the front of the Kermerranian lines, Chief Zarkamal raised his double-bladed sword, and bellowed, loud enough to echo off the surrounding hills. His soldiers took up the shout, clashing their swords on their shields, until it was impossible to hear over the din.

The woman next to Zarkamal, his daughter, Sarahfim, brandished her silver scimitar, screaming a battle-cry of her own.

Meanwhile, in the Izmeelan lines, the soldiers charged without a sound. They knew better than to waste their breath on needless shouting. They charged as one, swords held in formation, and the armies clashed.

It was a terrible battle.

Fiery arrows flew from the Izmeelan archers, while they hung back behind their shield bearers. When the Kermerranians saw this tactic, they lobbed fistfuls of explosive powder into the air above the Izmeelan troops, vaporizing their flaming projectiles and scattering their formations.

Many who survived claimed that they saw the demons themselves dancing among the soldiers, whispering curses, and felling many of both sides.

Zarkamal stayed at the head of his regiment, charging through the fray, cutting down everyone in his path.

Sarahfim danced through the Izmeelan ranks, spinning and slashing with inhuman grace, completely unworried for her own safety. In fact, some who saw her mistook her for a demon herself, for she fought with sly smile on her face: war was one piece of the great game that she was constantly playing with the world, and it did not bother her; she would win in the end.

When night fell, both armies retreated, up either hill, they fled, no longer able to keep their feet underneath them.

They left their slain in the field, too wary of the other side's archers to bury the dead.

When the last stragglers had dragged themselves to their respective camps, a faint whirl of silver mist danced across the grass, towards the fallen soldiers.

It paused at a fallen woman and solidified into a small boy with pitch-black eyes. He stooped and touched the woman's forehead, releasing a soft sound between a sigh and a laugh; then he fished a book from her pocket, laid it open on her chest, and faded once more into mist, drifting off among the dead.

If anyone could have read the open page the book of poetry, they would have seen a list of the demons of Starklan:

Vallefor, darkness, bringer of sleep. Silence of mind, destroyer of light. They drift through the night, battling the moon and stars.

Gi, demon of thieves, creeper in dark places. They hide in allies, looking for those with goods to steal.

Clort, despair, usurper of hope. They dance around the weak and injured, but they bring no comfort at all.

Thornin, demon of mischief. Master of practical jokes. They scurry with the mice, they prance with the kittens, and they laugh with the children, whispering pranks in their young ears.

The list should have gone on and on, but the book had been badly damaged, pierced by the same flaming arrow that had killed the woman, so that only one more line was left un-charred and legible:

Astoroth, demon of death. Bringer of the eternal darkness. They haunt the footsteps of those who are sick and injured, whispering to give up and let go. They walk hand in hand with Vallefor, forever battling life and peace. They appear on battle fields to watch the wounded take their last breaths, and they follow assassins on their nameless deeds.