Tulla had always yearned to fight.

  Side by side, with her sisters in arms, driving back the darkness like the heroes of old, smiting the monstrosities that thirsted for their lives, like the ones that took her parents, so many years ago.

  But this was nothing like the stories the fire keepers told them after their prayers.

  They had long run out of firewood, so they had chopped up the furniture to light the hearths of the garrison, but it did little to banish the biting cold.

  The albedo of the snow was ever present, swallowing all sunlight and making it impossible to determine the hour of day.

  Only the coming of the night brought certainty: Certainty of death.

  She pulled the fine fur cloak tighter, shivering at the thought of what horrors the ivory lords would unleash upon them.

  Wretched creatures of pale twisted flesh and jutting fangs led by legions of bare-chested slaves had turned the once proud city into an icy tomb.

  Oh, how she yearned for the sea breeze of distant Carcosa, how the sun danced on the emerald sea in the docks, where the little girls waved the brave sailor boys goodbye.

  Her lips mouthed a silent prayer, that the flame might deliver her from this hell and back into the bosom of the past. The only reply was another gust sweeping through boarded windows and chilling her soul and marrow.

  She could feel herself losing faith.

  And who could blame her in such a forsaken place, battered and broken.

  Time after time they thwarted the attacks and yet no end seemed in sight.

  Only never ending night.

  But before she could follow the thought, orders came barking in from the outside.

  The men-at-arms numbly rose to their feet, grabbing their tools of war.

  Their long faces and harrowed eyes lost all hope.

  But she could not afford such luxuries.

  A familiar voice “rise sisters, rise proudly for the darkness beckons and we must answer. And what do we answer?” The church militants' eyes were ablaze, such passion, such contempt. Death, death, death the sisters cried in chorus.

  She drank the cold air, fervor stirred in her chest, as her metal gloved hand clasped her halberd.

  Death to those that prey upon the innocent.

  The guardsmen and soldiers took heart, as the holy sisterhood marched through the frozen streets, chanting their hymns of the glorious angel's light and Padraig’s sacrifice.

  Tulla marched in line, letting the sight of the wounded ignite her heart with hateful zeal.

  Horns blared all over, rallying the last breathing few to stand their ground.

  People wept, clutching each other tightly.

  They were doomed and there was nowhere to run.

  Tulla knelt down to a little boy, putting her plated hand on his little head.

  She smiled at him “fear not” she said,` for the fire's grace is with us today.”

  The boy looked at her in awe as she walked past him back into formation.

  There weren’t many left of them, a few hundred of the thousands that came, banners held high.

  Soldiers and sisters from all across the realms stood side by side.

  Their arrows were spent, either fired or burned, so everybody that still could, grabbed a spear or sword, lined up in what could be considered a formation.

  The sisters from deep-cross and Carcosa at the forefront.

  Their pride and duty would allow no less.

  Tulla mounted her grim looking helmet.

  The dead littered the fields ahead, the rime devouring them like a ravenous beast and a road stretched into the faraway wall of blizzard.

  Drums. The cursed drums of the savages beating like a feral, frozen heart.

  Then they came, sprinting towards them, breaking through the white like furious spirits from the grave.

  Naked, painted with blood and excrement, they came screaming, carrying clubs of stone and wood or sometimes just the stones themselves.

  There were so, so many of them.

  Among their lines, jutting out like sores were the beasts of war, their terrible mongrel hounds, large monstrosities of twisted pale flesh on two or four legs and feral bears of massive sizes and white fur.

  In a shrill commanding voice, the church militants ordered their sisters to brace, halberds rammed into the ground while the soldiers filled the gaps with pikes and shields.

  Tullas' breath steamed from her helmet as her heart beat like thunder in her chest.

  The cursed drumming was drowned out by the roar of the savage’s war cry.

  They were so close now, she could see their faces now, some of fear, some of fury.

  She screamed too now, as the two armies clashed, the savage’s formation breaking upon the lines of spears and polearms, blood exploding from the shattered bodies or the fallen, their dying screams adding to the choir of war.

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  Tulla’s axe rose and fell, cleaving a bloody path into the lines of the berserker.

  If there was any space for sympathy in her mind right now, she’d feel pity for them.

  But pity was another luxury she had just ran dry on.

  The war beasts battered their lines though, sisters and soldiers surrounding them, impaling them but exposing their flanks doing so.

  Men and women were clubbed to death by many painful blows and slowly but surely their lines were ground down.

  The golden glow of the church militants sanctified blades smote the infidels asunder, letting holy fire be the judge of the mettle of their souls.

  A terrible thing pounced above them, a large four legged beast with a massive crown of antlers carrying a pale rider, an Erlen knight who bore a spear of pure ice.

  Its hoofs trampled the men behind Tulla and before she could strike it, it had leaped again with uncanny agility.

  Within a few moments it reached the holy warrior who barely evaded its rider's deadly sting, crushing the beast’s antler with a furious blow of golden light.

  The thing reared in pain, a hoof hitting her on the armored head, before she could retaliate.

  The surrounding sisters brought the thing low, but it buried the militant, and the rider blurred into a whirl of death, cutting down any who came too close.

  Tulla had made her way over to the spectacle, halberd raised.

  The Erlen wore porcelain armor adorned with plate gold, pristine, glistening even in the absence of light, as the fresh blood ran down it without stain.

  His movements were lightning fast and incredibly precise, she knew if she walked into range of the spear, she’d die a pointless death.

  She cursed the devil under her breath.

  She could feel its piercing gaze from beneath its porcelain mask, looking right through her and into her soul.

  Her eyes wandered to the crushed warrior nun. She was still conscious.

  Their eyes met and Tulla spoke a silent prayer.

  With a weak golden glow, the church militant began to stem the massive bulk of the moose and with a pained scream and the cracking of bones she hoisted it off her, throwing the rider atop it off balance, if only for a split second.

  But that was all she needed.

  Time seemed to slow down.

  Years of combat had honed her skills to a killing edge and so she longed her halberd for the devils chest.

  She could feel the fire's fury rage from her heart into the steel, as with a golden shine the steel spike shattered the armor and pierced white flesh.

  Blue blood bubbled and steamed from the cauterized wound.

  The Erlen fell to the ground lifeless, the dreadful spear at its side in the frozen mud.

  She could barely believe the angel had blessed her strike in her hour of need, the adrenaline had left her lightheaded.

  Tulla struck the devil’s neck and served its skull from the slender body, lifting it by the antler crown and holding it as high as she could, bathing her armor in cold blue blood.

  The soldiers cheered but the victory was short lived.

  Tulla saw the writing on the wall.

  Their numbers were dwindling fast, and the coherent line of pointed steel was engaged in a fierce but desperate melee.

  A slow frosty fog was rolling down the frozen meadow plain, heralding the final blow to the valiant defenders.

  Tulla helped the church militant to her feet, but her body was shattered.

  “Your fury burned brightly, the splendorous one is proud of you, rest now” she said to her superior. A grim nod was all the sister could muster.

  Pushing through the crowd she made her way to the frontline and could barely believe her eyes.

  The storm was approaching and, in its heart, a cold glow.

  From the fog a giant slender figure emerged on long spindly legs.

  The slaves around it hurried away, but before they could gain ground, they froze in their tracks as lifeless statues.

  The savages hammered their beleaguered lines with a new panicked frenzy in the face of their master.

  Dark sorceries twisted the freezing gales, bursting into crystalline spikes and maiming? the poor sods in their path.

  Tulla picked up a spear from a fallen soldier, who had given his life to protect the broken city Tilea.

  She mounted the Erlen, head on it, and stared at the fiend.

  There was a straight path towards the nightmare ahead where the savages dared not tread.

  With a wide look around her she saw the grim faces of her sisters-in-arms and knew their resolve well.

  Deep breaths, she drank the cold in and exhaled the fear, fueling the furnace of her soul.

  She raised her head once more and screamed “CHARGE”.

  The wind cut straight through cloth and metal, but they felt no cold.

  Weapons raised and heads held high they charged the Erlen lord, the trauma the world so desperately sought to forget.

  Its skeletal frame wrought in fine cloth and jewelry of silver chains was crowned by a bare carved skull.

  The macabre runes glowed dimly, and its antler crown stood regal on its visage.

  There was nothing in its eye sockets to save a bale blue glow of malice and hunger.

  They could hear its whispered words of power as it drew runes into the wind with its boney claw.

  And as the brave band was about to strike, it summoned spears of ice from thin air to obliterate them all in one fell strike.

  Tulla stared at it, facing her doom head on, as she charged but the pain never came.

  Like a comet golden light had struck the Erlen, a burning spear buried in its arm that it raised to block the blow.

  Tulla was starstruck by the rain of sparks and burning feathers.

  Like the legends of old, on fiery wings of fury, she had come.

  Saint Iset of the morning dawn.

  War horns blared from the south as the host of the Leythwin had come in their darkest of hours, the soldiers of the ancient light had come to their rescue.

  Isets angelic figure clad in golden plate wrought her spear from the monstrosities arm and struck again and again “Child of sin, face the judgement of fire” she commanded the Lord.

  Ancient curses and dark magic were all she got in return, as massive blades of ice were flung her way.

  Blow for blow they went, black ice shattering upon her golden aegis.

  Everyone held their breath as the fighting ceased.

  Isets fire burned bright enough to cut through the oppressive gloom, a beacon in the dark moving through the air with incredible speed.

  But the Erlen would not relent.

  More of them slowly emerged on their war moose from the fog, like vultures waiting for fresh kill.

  Isets battering assault was a sight to behold, her oaken hair glowing with a burning halo as she struck and struck again, shattering the sorcerous lies with righteous fury.

  But there was one weakness her armor could not cover and the Erlen saw it well.

  All the while she tried to drag the fight away from the sisters, pushing the nightmare further and further back, away from them.

  In a split second of reprieve, the Erlen cast his foul spell and lances of ice darted for one of the sisters.

  “NOOO” she screamed, racing faster than the eye could follow and crashing to the ground, covering her with her body.

  Golden ichor sizzled to the ground as a dozen spears protruded from Isets massive body.

  Tulla was dumbfounded.

  Isets glow had died from one second to the other, leaving them all in darkness.

  She felt lonely. Lonely and afraid as animalistic panic gripped her heart.

  She could feel every torn muscle and her freezing fingers that barely held any feeling.

  The Erlens pale visage dominated her mind, otherworldly and grand.

  Vile whispers of a forbidden tongue caressed her ears, commanding her to surrender, surrender, surrender yourself to me and no woe you'll ever know.

  Tears ran down her face and froze on her cheeks as she wept, the ugly tears of a scared little girl.

  Isets voice cut through the magic like a knife. Run.

  And run she did.