Worst Idea
Fate, in complete contrast to his previous adamant statement that he had never touched a sword before today, was perhaps the one doing the most damage to the imp horde.
While the sergeant kept the shaman busy, kiting around and deflecting Mana blasts, Fate felled one imp after the other. It was almost like they were lining up for their turn, an imp stepping forward to replace each one Fate killed.
Having broken away from the encirclement the Guards had created, he was enclosed on all sides by the brutish demons. They stabbed and poked and prodded with their pitchforks, smashing and slashing and swinging their chains, but Fate redirected or simply dodged every strike with practiced ease. Every pitchfork was met with stiff resistance.
He'd catch one with the flat of his blade, whereupon he'd slide his blade down the length of the pole, chopping the fingers off before whipping his sword up and cutting the imp's head off. Others he'd smack aside, driving the farming implement into another imp as he stabbed the attacker through the heart.
The chains were the worst idea the imps had. Each one missed him by either a hairs' breadth or entire feet, catching and entangling on the horns, arms, and legs of their fellow imps and causing chaos, which Fate ruthlessly exploited to kill dozens of them on his own.
Occasionally, just for fun, he'd grab a chain sent his way, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm when a spike drove into his flesh, and yank. The attacking imp would be sent flying, crashing into its brothers if it was lucky, or into their weapons if it wasn't. They were surprisingly light, considering many were taller than Fate himself. What he couldn't dodge or deflect, he redirected with a small nudge of his Mage Grasp.
Within minutes, Fate stood amidst a field of crimson corpses, their red blood dying the rock beneath his feet the same color as their bodies. The surviving imps, of which there were still several hundred, backed away from him, shrinking away as he turned his void-black gaze upon them. He wiped his blade carefully of the blood on it as most scampered away, shrieking in fear.
Soon, only a hundred imps were left, all of which were pressing their assault on the Guard. The shaman stood a ways away, unrelenting in his magical attacks. The sergeant was forced to focus entirely on the shaman to protect the others, relying on Higgs and Brent to keep him safe. Fate joined the fray, and together the humans eradicated all of the imps present in the cavern, except the shaman.
The yellow-skinned being stared apathetically as Higgs put a stone projectile into the last imp's head. The body slumped to the ground inches away from the shaman's shoed feet. His gaze soon turned upward as the sergeant levied his sword at the mystic's throat. "Now, foul demon, it's time to meet whatever insane maker threw you into this world."
"Ah, but human," the goat-man snarled, "You have a mere five men with you. As you humans are so fond of saying… 'you and what army?'"
He let out a throaty chuckle as the sound of stampeding feet came from the two tunnels in the cave. The sergeant cursed, swinging his sword at the demon's throat. It passed through harmlessly, the imp appearing at the other end of the cavern as the image the sergeant stabbed flickered out of existence.
An avalanche of imps descended upon them from the tunnels, forgoing chains in favor of swords and exchanging pitchforks for spears. Nearly all of them carried a shield, whether it be a small wooden buckler on the offhand of a spear wielder or a tower shield held by a particularly bulky imp that held a two-handed sword in one hand. This last imp was as tall as the shaman, clad in thick red armor from the neck down.
His sword's blood-red blade seemed to swallow the darkness around it, the tip so bright that it made Bregg's flashes of light seem like a candle next to a bonfire, lighting up the entire cavern and causing all other lifeforms to squint their eyes. The creature's tower shield had six menacing spikes as thick as Fate's head at the base, arranged in two rows of three and dripping with fresh blood and the red skin of insubordinate imps.
The shaman's chuckle turned into a mad cackle as it struggled to catch its breath. "Look what you've done!" it wheezed. "You've woken Gorn up from his slumber! It takes at least three hundred lives to quell his bloodlust once it's roused. It seems we'll have to pay one of your villages another visit soon!"
Gorn grunted, the force of his breath sending a strong breeze throughout the cavern and ruffling the hair on Fate's head. The behemoth stepped forward, the stone cracking under his feet as he impaled an imp that got too close with an offhand swipe of his shield.
Another step and three imps fell under a sweep of his blade. His brothers caught on quickly, scrambling out of the way and getting caught on their brethren's swords and shields in their hurry. Gorn covered the rest of the distance unimpeded, scowling down at the humans with his blood-red eyes. Those eyes swept over each of them, dimming with disappointment afterward.
"Too small," he spat. "How did my brothers die in droves to weaklings like you? None of you have even received the physical blessings of the Master Stage."
"They were weak, Gorn," the shaman said. "Unlike you, they are cowards, and cowardice and refusal to train make for poor fighters."
The juggernaut of an imp turned to look at his brothers, eyes filled with rage. "Is this true?" he growled. "You refuse to learn such important skills, ones necessary for our race to survive?"
"But Gorn, training is painful and exhausting! Why should we waste our time with it?" an imp said among the crowd. Its brothers yammered in agreement, nodding their heads and stroking their beards as if they were philosophers that had just heard an answer to one of the universe's mysteries.