EME ỊSE
Pale Riders, Grim Reapers
The Knights of Azrael, the Azraelites as they are sometimes called, paid due attention to their duties on the battleground. Leaving and trusting others to do theirs, the grim soldiers drove Destiny's Spear into the heart of the enemy.
The Azraelites were divided into ten groups, these platoons were called Plaguebearers. Each with fifty battle-brothers. Like the Creator's punishments upon the Egyptians as they held the chosen children in bondage, the acolyte-knights of Azrael, embodying the Plagues brought wicked death and unparalleled suffering to the very foes that echoed a pharoah's folly.
The battle-brothers of the Blood Plague—red capes, red badges, red helms or red pauldrons pointing them as so—visited bloody ruin upon the enemy. Relentless, furious and nigh blood-mad, they carved up foes before them in a holy frenzy. They were masters of rage and berserk warfare. They created a sea of blood about them, hacking with axes and slashing with swords the body parts of the infernal horde; creating a bloody shoreline made of the broken bodies of the twisted and tainted. Waves upon waves crashed upon them, only adding to their dam of split subhuman limbs.
Fell blood tainted their blessed armour, but one could care less in battle.
All Azraelites wore black armour made from a strange obsidian rock ore, the glint of metal and other embellishments depicting duty and purity, consecrated fetishes were like a silver lining in the dark cloud of armour. A coloured part of their armour reflected a platoon's Plague.
Their gift to the enemy, in celebration of their sins.
The sick green warriors of the Carbuncle Plague fought with speed—their daggers and shortswords flashed, trailing silver arcs in the air as it left lattices of wicked cuts on cyclopean man-beasts; with cunning—striking at chinks in the armour of Ihojoo's vice-acolytes; with poisons—noxious substances stained on their blades that cause varying detrimental effects on the vile, weak and the damned.
Hailstorm Plague, bearing colours the white of hail and the yellow of fire fought with spiked clubs and barbed mauls, dealing fatal concussions to twisted human-thing skulls, breaking bones of human-whelps and causing internal organs to bleed as each once white-yellow weapon became daubed with corrupted blood. Their blows rang out as little thunderstorms, striking their enemies with the speed of lighting. The life sparks of the dark enemy expressing its anguish as pain flaring up and dying instantly like a short-lived flame.
Ravenous brown Locust Plague fought with the rapaciousness of the creatures they were named for; the enemy were a ripe harvest for the taking, they scythed through the enemy with wicked gloves topped with cruel blades. The sharp edges of these glove-contraptions burst evil eyes in their sockets, shredded snarling fanged faces, gorged abdomens of gluttonous Ihojoo, and ripped open exposed throats of the lascivious.
The green-brown of the Anuran Plaguebearers was a blur in the battlefield. They were acrobats, excelling in fights against the foes using their overwhelming athleticism. The warriors employed throwing knives, daggers, glaives and shortswords. Their reflexes seemed almost inhuman, but it was training and discipline that saw them to those heights.
The Anurans confounded the enemy with evasive maneuvers, flips, dives and the likes; before plunging their blades into their throats and vital organs.
The choking ash of the Gnats Plague was seen making members of the stygian hordes into blood fountains. Their rapiers piercing arteries, veins, hearts amidst other vital organs. The Gnats fought with a regal grace, they were elegant killers. When these warriors could not get a killing blow on the enemy, they would bleed the foe to its death, with mischievous slashes to important blood vessels.
The devouring green of the Swarm Plague bit into their evil twins, Ihojoo's vice-acolytes of Envy in a dipteran rage. Half of them were with the archer squadrons, loosing arrows into the jealous hordes. The rest were across the battlefield working in squads, singling and taking out enemy commanders. Putting an end to their foul lives with animalistic fury, buzzing weaponry and impunity.
The Plague of Pestilent Steeds were one with the cavalry, running the unclean down and through with spears and lances, cutting the corrupted humans down with halberds and longswords. The blessed steeds—horses, bulls and such—expressed their own acrimony towards the graceless through kicks and stomps. Shattering ribs of human-vermin, rending skin of the Ihojoo, cracking skulls of the blood-mad, snapping the necks of the callous. Facing down the animal-aberrations of nature, born of devilish sorcery and their death-riders in equestrian warfare.
Onyisinwe Pahdraig was of the Darkness Plague. His platoon fought alongside the Plague of Deathly Scions—pale coloured war-hardened veterans of the Knights of Azrael—strode to glorious deaths. Pahdraig's body moved as it was wont to do in times of battle. Bashing, parrying, ripostes and such. His spirit was gilded in harsh divine light that would see these Egyptian foes to bloody nights, snuffing out blood moons and baleful stars with caliginous fury.
His mind and lips spilled orisons as he brought righteous demise to his enemies.
++I am the Creator's twilight son. I shall bring dawn to those who keep to His word; I shall herald night, a dusk to those who do not. I am the deluge of bloody death upon the sinful, as I lend a hand in building the Ark that would see humanity saved. I am the Creator's instrument of karma, the deliverer of nemesis. Within my breast rests the Hallowed spirit, its motive force fills me with power. I shall be the torch drawn from the divine bonfire, I shall light the way of the pious and burn away the weak, vile and the damned.++
The Adighike, Ihojoo and Diaburuonu.
Pahdraig dodged a blow to his left side. He ducked beneath the swing of a defiled sword and brought his blood soaked maul to the head of the truculent vice-acolyte of Gluttony. There was a sickening crunch as the blow shattered cranium and softened flesh. He looked up from his kill to witness a battle-brother from the Locust Plague get struck from behind by the dreadful axe of a wrath vice-acolyte while fighting off rabid human-hounds. The Onyisinwe's battle-brother crumpled to the ground dying, the human-hounds swarmed in to profane the body. Stabbing, scratching and biting relentlessly, stripping the dying Azraelite of blood and flesh.
With a roar, Pahdraig threw his maul at the wrathful Ihojoo. Outrage fueling the throw, his maul struck true, stunning the fiend. The human-hounds looked up from their bloody deed, blood-red eyes and snarling fang mouths trailing the fleshy bits of the pious warrior, noticed the leash-liege in duress.
The rabid men attacked Pahdraig like a swarm of hornets.
Pahdraig drew a reserve weapon, unsheathing the sword from its scabbard nestled on the left side of his hip. Rage hot and distilled, the Azraelite cut into the horde of hominid dogs.
The Onyisinwe beheaded the first of his foes, a human-hound that came at him with a cleaver. Its head flying to the unknown, blood spurting freely from the stump of the neck. The knight stabbed the next in the chest, shattering the jaw with heavy punch from his black-gauntleted hand that pushed off the soon-to-be corpse. The next was a rabid female shrieking heresies clad in dirty attire, her tattoos glowing with fresh blood, never seeming to ever heal. The female vermin lifted a dirty evil-looking dagger, intending to land an overhead strike on the Azraelite. The Onyisinwe weaved to the side, cutting the wrist that held the offending weapon in one motion.
The stump spat tainted crimson fluid. The she human-hound started with a scream filled with Agony, the howl cut short as Pahdraig's blade slashed open her throat. The rabid woman died choking on her blood, her other hand trying to stem the bleeding gash in vain.
The pack of human-hounds coming for Pahdraig seemed without end. The knight hacked, slashed, and decapitated as he weaved, blocked and parried blows inclined to end his righteous life.
++I am of the chosen. All have fallen short of His Glory, like Piotr I do know I am unworthy… but in serving the Creator, in advocating for all that is good… may I find goodness, may the Creator's grace see me to the bliss of afterlife. May He keep me as I serve his light… as I slay evil in His glorious name… as I keep safe the sons and daughters of Isa.
Heed me Heavenly Father, Master of the Universe… Hear my humble plea Great Sage Isa…
The sons of the Darkness shall not… will never… ever claim victory over the sons of Light. Through Your mercy and grace… I shall see this war through!++
Pahdraig had entered a sort of fugue state while reciting prayers in his mind, slaughtering through the pack of dog-brained human scum. Armour and sword soaked in gore, feet steeped in blood and their source-corpses. The knight felt the fatigue in his muscles and smelled the stench of death upon the plain.
Yet there was more culling to be done.