Nothing erotic happens in the first chapter.
Chapter 1
The air seemed to be alive, crackling with an unnatural demonic energy that made even the most seasoned warriors skin crawl. Overhead a black cloud churned. Like an angry ocean swallowing the light and smothering all hope. Screams rose and fell human cries of agony, mingled with the high-pitched shrieks of imps and other demons. The clash of steel rang out harsh and relentless as though the battle itself was a living thing and thirst for more blood
In the center of the chaos stood Arathorn Steelblade, a towering figure who seemed more myth than man. He wasn't just tall he was massive, his frame encased in battered plate armor caked with dirt and blood. Scars crisscrossed his weathered face, and though he'd long forgotten their stories, each one held a tale of survival. His eyes, a steely gray that burned with fierce determination, swept across the battlefield like a predator searching for its next kill.
Arathorn's sword as big as some men gleamed faintly under the sickly light of the storm. Every swing was deliberate, every strike a calculated blow that cleaved through demonic flesh with sickening ease. Around him the human forces clung to hope drawn, by his presence like moths to a flame. Young soldiers pale and wide-eyed, struggled to hold their ground. While grizzled veterans barked orders in hoarse voices, their words more instinct than thought.
A roar cut through the din. The sound froze even the most battle-hardened soldiers, if certain doom was a sound, that was it. A demon, massive and bristling with jagged spines, barreled into the human lines like a wrecking ball. Twice the height of any man, it moved with terrifying speed for something so large. Its jaws snapped open, dripping venom that hissed as it hit the ground. With a single swipe, it sent men flying like ragdolls.
Arathorn turned toward the creature, his lips curling into a grim smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His muscles ached, and his armor felt heavier with every step, but he raised his sword anyway. "To me!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. It wasn't a request, it was a command, and his men knew better than to disobey.
The scattered fighters began to regroup, shields locking together in a rough line. Spears bristled like the spines of a porcupine, and their shouts carried a renewed purpose. From behind them arrows arced through the air, flaming tips leaving streaks of light and black smoke as they found their targets.
Arathorn strode forward, his movements slower than they had been in his youth but no less purposeful. Every step was deliberate each swing of his broadsword calculated to do maximum damage. When the blade struck the demon's scaled hide, the impact reverberated up his arms, a bone-deep ache that reminded him of just how many winters he'd seen. But the blow landed true, ripping a massive gash in the creature's side. Black blood sprayed out; the sickly-sweet stench wafted into the air as the demon howled in pain.
"Archers! Aim for its eyes!" Arathorn yelled, his voice hoarse from the constant yelling. "Spearmen! Flank the beast, try to take out its legs!"
The men moved quickly, their trust and reverence in him was absolute. Arrows thudded against the demon's thick hide, some glancing off while others found softer spots. Though the wounds were shallow it was enough to make the beast flinch. Its movements slowing as it protected its vulnerable face.
Arathorn watched the demon falter, that was his cue. His sword became an extension of his will, slicing through scales and sinew with every swing. Each blow felt heavier than the last his arms screaming in protest. Arathorn didn't let up, he couldn't, the beast before him had to die.
Then without warning the beast lunged toward Arathorn, its venom-coated claws slicing through the air. Arathorn barely managed to pivot. The sudden movement sent a sharp jolt of pain through his back. He clenched his teeth ignoring the strain as his mind raced to find an opening.
"Hold the line!" he shouted. "It's weakening don't let up!"
The younger soldiers emboldened by his command began to tighten up their formation, their shields locking together like a wall. Veterans circled the demon, jabbing at its exposed legs with spears, forcing it to stumble. Arathorn's eyes narrowed as he saw his opening.
Summoning what felt like the last reserves of his strength he lunged toward the beast. The demon reared back, its claws swinging wildly but Arathorn was faster. He drove his broadsword into the demon's chest, the blade sunk deep with a sickening bone jarring crunch. The creature let out a deafening roar, it began thrashing around sending Arathorn flying, until he impacted the blood-soaked ground. He landed with such force the air knocked from his lungs as pain lanced through his already weary frame. For a moment the world seemed to blur, the sounds of battle faded to a dull roar. Then replaced by the woosh of his blood in his ears.
Arathorn gritted his teeth and used his sword for support as he made it sluggishly to his feet. He struggled to fill his lungs, from the exertion of battle and the impact. The battlefield stretched out before him, the tide had turned; the demon's death had sapped the morale of the remaining monsters, and the human forces began to rally.
Just as Arathorn steadied himself, a flash of movement caught his eye. A young woman face matted with dirt but unmistakenly a woman. Her helmet missing and her ill-fitting armor askew. She fumbled for her sword which lay just out of reach, as a snarling imp clawed at her breastplate, its talons seeking the gaps. Her wide eyes were filled with terror her lips trembling as she screamed for help.
Arathorn didn't hesitate. Every muscle in his body protested as he pushed forward, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked earth. The imp turned toward him, its jagged teeth bared in a hiss, but it was too late. With a single swing, Arathorn's blade cut clean through the top part of the creature's head, with a spray of black blood the body fell on top of the woman.
He extended a calloused hand to the woman, his voice steady despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "On your feet," he said, his tone firm. "You're not done yet." That was why women didn't belong on the battlefield, had that been a man would he have stopped to help? Women's mere presence had the tendency to make everything confused, men would forget themselves around them.
The woman stared up at Arathorn for a moment, her chest heaving before she pushed the imp off her grabbed his hand and pulled herself upright.
"What are you doing here, girl?" His voice was harsher than he intended. "A battlefield isn't a place for...," Arathorn stopped himself, he knew that she was there and there was no changing that. "Never mind." He grumbled. "Keep your guard up."
Arathorn picked up her sword from the muddied ground and handed it to the woman with a nod. "Remember your training, strike fast strike true. These creatures won't give you mercy, so don't waste your time offering them any." Her lips parted as if to reply, but no words came. Instead, she gave a slight nod back to him. Together, they turned to face the next wave of horrors crashing toward them.
Arathorn took in a long breath as he adjusted his stance, the weight of his sword settling familiarly in his hands. There was no denying that the world was changing, the constant threat of battle and the diminishing male population saw to that. Women in armor fighting alongside men, it didn't sit right with him. Though he couldn't deny her resolve, despite almost dying she seemed just as determined. He exhaled, a sigh lost to the chaos of the battle. Steeling himself he stepped forward once more, carving a path through the demonic tide.
Amid the clang of steel and screams, something unnatural drew his attention. A dark figure moved through the battle with an unsettling speed, cutting down his men as though they were no more than reeds in the wind.
It was a woman or at least, something that resembled one. Her armor seemed forged from darkness itself, its edges sharp and seamless. Every surface gleaming with a sinister sheen, that could be seen even from his vantage point. The blackened plates fit her lithe frame as though they were an extension of her body, skintight. Or was it her skin? The metal seemed to be alive with pulsating crimson runes that flickered like embers in a dying fire. Jagged pauldrons jutted from her shoulders like the broken wings of a fallen angel, she left trails of shadow like smoke in her wake as she moved.
The helm was the crowning horror, a nightmarish mask crowned with twisting, horn-like spires. The hollow eye slits glowing with an unnatural crimson light. She moved with the ease of a predator.
Arathorn tightened his grip on his broadsword, his jaw set as she drew closer. They circled one another, two warriors locked in a deadly dance. The clamor of the battlefield seemed to fade, as his attention focused on the very deadly adversary in front of him.
The demon woman struck with incomprehensible speed. Her blade a dark cruel length of obsidian steel. It cut through the air with a sharp whistle, a sound that sent a chill through Arathorn's marrow. He barely managed to parry; he was surprised that he had been able to. The impact reverberating up his arm like a thunderclap vibrating his skull. He countered with a powerful arcing slash. The woman... demon moved like flowing water her steps impossibly light and swift.
They clashed over and over, the ring of steel echoing like a grim chorus. Each strike Arathorn slowed slightly, though Arathorn's raw strength and years of battle-hardened experience struggled to hold firm against the onslaught. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes as his muscles burned with the strain of meeting her relentless assault.
For a moment he fooled himself that they were evenly matched. Then she showed her true speed, in a move that was so fast that his brain barely registered it, she feinted to the left and struck from the right. His brain screamed as his mistake registered, he saw it a heartbeat too late. Her blade slipped between the plates of his armor. It tore into his side, a jagged, precise cut.
White hot pain exploded through him, sharp and immediate. It was more pain than it should have been. Though he couldn't see it he suspected that he had had worse. Arathorn stumbled back, one hand clamping over the wound as warmth spread beneath his fingers. As blood flowed it came a deeper agony debilitating, burning sensation that crawled through his veins like thousands of spiders biting him from the inside.
Arathorn gritted his teeth, his vision narrowing as the pain threatened to do him in. The fire in his veins felt alive and had nothing but hatred for him. Every heartbeat pumped molten despair and pain through his body, he struggled not to succumb. He steadied himself he repeated that he had worse, it was nothing but a flesh wound.
