Rich Boy: Growing Pains - 18. Chapter 18

"We've got three hours until the end of the first phase, Sinclair." Weatherby's voice held a hint of reproach to it, and Worthington sighed as he opened his eyes. One hour of sleep just wasn't enough. The sun would be coming up in about two hours, but the new day wasn't promising to be a good one.

"Give me just a moment," Worthington said as he reached into his backpack and pulled out an MRE. "Has everyone else eaten?"

"Yes," Weatherby said tightly, anxious to be off. Around them the fourteen surviving soldiers crouched or stood in a protective circle, watching for any movement in the pre-dawn stillness. It had taken just under an hour to locate the rest of the soldiers still alive and to put them to sleep. It had taken the same amount of time to break the controls holding their mind hostage, and then Worthington had slept, trying to regain back some of the strength he'd spent.

One soldier Weatherby had shot after Worthington's last sleep spell didn't work on the man. The others were last seen being carried off by demons, including the hapless Erikson. As for the other soldiers, they were just glad to be alive and in control of their own minds again. None of them particularly looked forward to what they were going to do next, but not one of them suggested anything else when Weatherby had told them what they were going to do.

"Sorry, I'm taking so long, Weatherby," Worthington said after a moment. "I just need to get my strength back up before we do this. There's no way we can let the demons complete this ceremony. If they get a foothold in this world… well, let's just say anyone with family within five hundred miles would be better off dead."

"I figured that one out for myself, Sinclair," Weatherby said, but he too was watching the men, seeing the looks of determination flitter across their faces. Each of them had been soldiers in different branches of the United States military, and while they were now ‘civilian contractors' working for the federal government, they still often thought of themselves as soldiers in a different type of war. They were still defending their country and their loved ones from evil in the world.

This evil was just a bit more… evil.

"Okay, let's get a move on," Worthington said as he finished the MRE and stuffed the empty container back into his backpack before tying it closed and tossing it into the branches of the tree nearest him. Most of the group's gear had been stowed that way, except for a canteen of water, their weapons, and a few other small items. Brandon fell in behind Worthington as they took off at a slow trot. Hopefully, Brandon would be able to keep up this pace, and if he couldn't, someone would carry him.

It was five miles, in forest terrain, and uphill. Covering that distance in three hours would normally not be too much of a problem for soldiers, but they had been in the field for about two days now, moving almost all day. Worthington had the most sleep of any of them now with his little power nap, and he'd only had a handful of hours with his eyes closed in the last day. Added to the problem was the fact that there were demons loose in the countryside, and mages controlled by demons on top of that.

They skimmed the summit of the ridge easily but slowed down as they ran across demon prints in the forest floor. The howls of grass, demon dogs, shook the night and Worthington cursed as they grew closer. Their only reprieve was that while their dwarf-made guns were powerful, they were not overly loud as they spit out bullets that chewed up all six of the big, strong demon animals, and the two orange-skinned demons behind them.

"Well, that does it for sure." Worthington murmured as they moved past the carcasses. The demons would know they were out here for sure now, and soon enough they could make out the figures of demons and more creatures streaming over the ridge as a mage shield went up at the same time. He recognized the signature of power behind the shield and closed his eyes briefly.

"Do we press on?" Weatherby asked.

"Yes, and we shoot anything that moves at this point," Worthington replied with a pointed look, and the former officer nodded before issuing orders to his men. They moved now more in a loose diamond formation than as a column, with Worthington and Brandon in the center of the formation.

The grasist hit them first, snarling as they leaped ahead of the demons rushing towards them. With the discipline of their training, the soldiers waited until the creatures were well within range and line of sight, firing in short, controlled bursts that still tore the things apart. The demons behind them launched their own attack, and Worthington raised a shield over the group in response, blocking the worst of the attacks.

What he didn't count on were the humans mixed in with the demons. These fired guns of their own. Their weapons weren't military style, but hit his shield and tore through it after it had already been weakened by the demon attacks. Two soldiers fell backward after bullets hit them in the chest, and five demons lived long enough to pour into their ranks through that hole.

One of the soldiers who had been shot got to his feet just in time to find himself face to face with an orange-skin demon that snarled as its claws ripped the man's uniform from crotch to sternum. The man flew backward as Francis managed to get a burst off, hitting the demon in the arm. It snarled as it turned and another soldier fired a burst that blew its head apart. Two more soldiers were slashed by demons before their fellows shot the demons, and three soldiers threw grenades at the humans that were still firing at them.

As quickly as it began, the firefight was over, and soldiers rushed to the aid of their wounded comrades. Worthington hastily rebuilt his shield, knowing the summoners of these demons would know of their deaths and summon more to take their places. That was one of the problems facing demons. Until you killed their summoners, there were always more to take their place. It would be worse if the ceremony was completed on the other side of the hill because then demons could cross over freely, and there would be a never-ending wave of them.

"Jenkins, you stay with Paulson and Miller," Weatherby said as they figured out that two of the soldiers who had been clawed by demons were in no condition to continue onwards. All of the soldiers had dwarven armor on under their uniforms, and that had saved the lives of all of them. Paulson was one who had been shot and then clawed, his weakened armor breaking in two areas where demon claws drew blood. Still, the wounds were not fatal and, if they survived the morning, would be treatable. Three more soldiers had torn uniforms, but their armor had held and saved their lives.

"I think I'm going to kiss the dwarves who made this stuff." Collins could be heard whispering as they reformed ranks and began to move onwards. When they reached the crest of the small hill, they flattened to the ground, and Worthington crawled forward with Weatherby to take a look.

"What do you think?" Weatherby asked as he handed the binoculars to Worthington. There in the center of the valley was the bonfire being used to make the sacrificial killings. Worthington counted less than ten frightened, huddled humans left alive near the base of the fire, and he bit back any reaction to the sight of two more being thrown by the Demon Lord onto the fire. Each death was bringing the clouds above them closer to pure black, and the valley itself radiated so much heat that it felt like the late afternoon in Phoenix more than the cool mountains.

"We're in trouble," Worthington commented as he moved the binoculars closer, to look at a spot about halfway up the valley floor from where the bonfire raged. There stood Michael Lowenthal, Marcus de la Plane, and nearly a dozen mages he didn't know. A dozen mages were surrounded by the eerie glow of dull red light that meant they were summoning demons, and each of them stood next to a circle inscribed with the blood necessary to create a portal between planes.

Even as he watched the air above the circles shimmered, and more than a dozen orange-skinned demons appeared, along with six more grasists. The demons didn't immediately take off up the hill though. Rather they turned to the two mages not summoning demons, and Worthington felt his stomach roll queasily as Marcus and Lowenthal cast strong shields around the demons.

"What are they doing?" Weatherby asked.

"They're shielding the demons from bullets," Worthington answered grimly.

"Can't the demons do that themselves?" Weatherby asked nervously.

"Yes, but this way they're not using their own power to do it," Worthington answered and began to slide back down the hill. "We're going to have to use multiple bursts on each demon this time. In fact, we might want to start using full auto mode."

"We don't have that much ammunition," Weatherby noted as they rejoined the formation of troops a dozen feet down the side of the hill. "Most of us only have two or three magazines left as it is."

"Then we have to take out twelve demon-summoning mages and the other two all at the same time." Worthington murmured and thought about the situation quickly.

"How much longer before they complete phase one?" Weatherby asked.

"Not more than ten minutes at most the way those flames are consuming the people," Worthington answered after a moment of thought. The first grasist appeared at the top of the hill, and a soldier opened fire, killing it with one burst. It was replaced by five more, and the first of the orange-skins at the same time. The demons staggered back from several hits, but their shields held until they were halfway down the hill. Already they were being replaced by more demons, and Worthington shouldered his own weapon, adding his fire to the mix.

None of this round of demons broke their line.

"Ammo check!" Weatherby called out as the last demon collapsed to the ground. The numbers that were called out as Worthington extended his mage senses and felt the stirrings of power were not encouraging. He checked his own ammunition which was slightly better than most and added his answer. The officer frowned at the last report and moved to stand closer to Worthington so they could talk without being overheard.

"Just a moment." Worthington murmured as he concentrated on something.

"We can take two, maybe three more of those before we're out." Weatherby murmured just as quietly.

"I know." Worthington snapped at the man and sighed. "We only have to take one more at this position, and then we're going to move forward."

"Why?" Weatherby asked.

"You can't see it, but that right there is what will win this for us," Worthington said with a nod over the hill. "It takes exactly four minutes and thirty seconds for them to summon another group of demons. Then Marcus and Lowenthal are putting the shields on them, and while they're doing that, the shield over that part of the valley weakens. Lowenthal strengthens it once he's done, but while he's shielding demons, its weakest, and each time he gets a little bit weaker from the power he's using. As soon as they start shielding demons next time, we charge over the hill. You and the men concentrate on taking out the demons. I'll start hitting the summoners. We save Marcus and Lowenthal for last, in case there's any hope for breaking the controls on them. Here they come."

"We got another group coming at us!" Weatherby said in a louder voice to the men. "I want controlled bursts, conserve ammunition but do not let them close with us! As soon as the last one falls, be ready to move out, over the hill."

This time it was eight grasist that came over the hill first, and the demons were right on their heels. The orange-skins were being led by an Oska that stopped at the top of the hill and began to rain down bolts of power on the formation of soldiers. Worthington was forced to let the rifle dangle on its strap while he simultaneously strengthened his own shields and struck back at the demon with blasts of his own. Behind him, Brandon groaned with the amount of power being pulled out of him, and at the effort of trying to replace it from the desecrated land around them.

This fight was neither brief nor as clean as the previous wave. The grasist were eliminated but not before they were almost to the formation of soldiers. The orange-skins were right behind them, blasting with power of their own and then they were among the soldiers. Dwarven armor already stressed broke under this assault and Worthington switched back to his rifle as the green-skinned Oska gave up the power battle and charged downhill to join the melee.

Worthington switched to single-shot and began to pump out single rounds into demons as a clear shot presented itself. Twice he had to wait for the demons to finish disemboweling a soldier before he could get a clear shot. All around him the soldiers were using their weapons as clubs as much as guns. At least they were sturdy, dwarven made weapons and withheld the punishment being delivered. Demon claws bounced off of them as much as they did dwarven armor.

"Check the wounded!" Weatherby called as the Oska fell to a bullet fired by Collins. There was confusion for a few minutes as the officer triaged his men, and spread out the ammunition of the fallen to the survivors. The picture was grim, but it could have been worse, and Worthington was chomping at the bit as he turned to check on Brandon, who was feeling woozy through their link. He was bordering on exhaustion, and not even a quick bite of a protein bar and a drink of water was able to make him feel better.

"We've got to get moving." Worthington hissed when Weatherby approached him. Brandon was sitting on the ground, his head between his knees.

"What's wrong with him?" Weatherby asked.

"Sucking in power for me from these tainted lands is making him sick," Worthington said sharply. "We need to get moving. We've already lost two minutes!"

"I know." Weatherby retorted. "Collins get over here!"

"Yes, sir?" Collins said as he trotted up.

"You need to carry the kid," Weatherby ordered. "Keep yourself glued to Sinclair, and keep the kid on your back and alive. Can you do it?"

"Yes, sir," Collins said as he moved to lean down and whisper something to Brandon who was starting to feel a little bit better.

"Four men dead," Weatherby said in grave tones to Worthington. "That leaves us, seven men, not including you. Two are wounded, but it's not enough to keep them from fighting, so they're coming with us. We have an average of three magazines each, not including whatever you have."

"I have one and about a half left," Worthington said grimly. "You understand what we're doing?"

"Yes." Weatherby nodded. "You take out the mages, we take out the demons and switch fire onto de la Plane and Lowenthal if we finish off the demons first. Unless that is, you tell us differently."

"Sounds right." Worthington sighed as he tried to ignore his own weariness. The truth was he'd never been so tired as he was right then, but he had to keep going. Failure was not something he wanted to consider right now as the clouds on the other side of the hill turned from blood-red to the darkest black.

"Fuck." Weatherby hissed as he saw that. "We're running out of time. Okay men, listen up!"

While Weatherby issued his orders to his men, Worthington turned to check on Brandon who now was hanging off of Collins's back, his arms around the soldier's neck, holding on tightly. He wasn't sure how much longer Brandon would last, but he could feel his soul-bound Channel's grim determination to last as long as possible. Brandon had long since passed the point of exhaustion and should not be able to still be doing what he was doing, pulling more power in even as Collins adjusted him slightly on his back. As Worthington was turning back and Weatherby was giving the order to move out, Brandon was wrapping his legs around the soldier's waist for an extra grip.

Everyone was at the limits of their endurance, but they still managed a trot as they headed up the hill as a unit. The six soldiers, including Weatherby, took the lead in a ragged line with Worthington right behind them, and Collins is carrying Brandon bringing up the rear. As they crested the hill, they were greeted by an intense heat, greater than anything Worthington had felt before, and he nearly fell as a wave of dizziness hit him. The air reeked with sulfur, and the flames of the bonfire were now burning a black that was darker than the night around it. Already six demons had been summoned and were waiting for the shields to be placed on them. All were Oska demons, and Worthington nearly lost his determination at that moment, but even as they continued to run forwards, the soldiers opened fire and two of the Oska demons fell.

How could he turn and run when mundane soldiers, with no hope of fighting demons once their bullets ran out kept on charging? Worthington's faltering courage was galvanized as Weatherby began a marching chant, and the soldiers responded as if they were on the parade ground instead of a battlefield. He could barely hear the words, something about what a demon's mother feels when her baby demon dies at the hands of soldiers of the United States, but the way they slowed to a fast walk and moved forward with determination brought an answering swell of power in him, and he cut loose with frost bolts that seared the hot air into winter as they flew towards the demons.

Even as more demons appeared, all Oska, de la Plane switched from defense to attack just as Worthington's bolts hit the shield being held by Lowenthal. Worthington kept his own shields extended in front of the soldiers, protecting them from de la Plane's attacks. Weatherby switched his target after felling a particularly large Oska, and the bullets sparked as they hit and were repelled by the shields still being held by Lowenthal.

Brandon was no longer conscious, and with him in peaceful oblivion, he was no longer pulling in more power, but Worthington still drained him of what was inside him, pulling it all into one large blast of power that ripped into the shields being held by Lowenthal. One after another the series of shields the mage had placed to defend the summoners, himself, de la Plane, and block access to the valley shredded under Worthington's assault.

Brandon was fully drained, in fact so drained that he might die from the amount of power Worthington had pulled out of him. He had done well though, because with the lack of shielding, the soldiers' fire was finding their targets. Even as he watched, de la Plane's head burst open from a perfect headshot by Weatherby, Worthington drew on his personal reserves of power and a whip of pure white mage power appeared in his hand. Before he could raise the hand though, something stopped him, a presence he knew all to well, and it spoke into his mind, again not in words, but in concepts ideas. Still, its meaning was clear.

What do you think you are doing? The Light demanded of him in harsh images and feelings. It was outraged one, not of its calling had dared to summon it through such a spell.

They are summoning demons. Worthington thought with determination. What better to fight demons with than Light?

You are not Light. Was the cold response. I let you use me once, but that was then. There are none of my children here, none of mine depending on you.

How short-sighted can you be? Worthington ‘shouted' in the vaults of his mind with anger and agony as another demon appeared only to be shot dead by a soldier. As one called out he was out of ammunition, Worthington wanted to reach and throw his last magazine to the man, but he was frozen. The demons will use this place as a base from which to attack those who do follow the Light! Surely you can recognize that.

But you are not Light. It responded again. I should never have let you use me once. How many times will you seek me out now if I let you do this?

I am Gray. Worthington said firmly. When the Light serves the best, I will use the Light. All my life, I will use Light or Dark for the task at hand.

Why should I allow this? The Light demanded.

Does it matter if I am dedicated to the Light or not, so long as the goals of the Light are met? Worthington asked. A deed done in the name of the Light is still a deed of Light. I am no more Dark than I am Light, but rather a bit of both. I honor the Light for the good it does in the world, and there are many things the Light is better suited for in this world than the Dark.

A price. The Light demanded firmly. Always there will be a price. Two prices this time.

Two? Worthington asked with fear. He'd expected one. Last time the Light had demanded he spend two weeks at a camp for the poor. What would it demand of him now? Was he to give all his money to charity?

First a price for the path you walk. The Light's message was mostly images, Worthington on a path that glimmered light and dark in a dozen different patterns as it stretched before him. And for those who will walk this path with you, if you live. He was joined on the path by Jamie, and then more and more people, whose faces he could not quite make out yet, but he knew they were people he would meet in the future. You must sacrifice now, for them, a part of yourself I think, a dream. Yes, one of your old dreams you must lay aside to put Light into this path you wish to walk.

No! Worthington's mind shouted without his actually thinking about it as he realized the dream that he must give up.

What does this dream matter to you now? The Light asked, and now it was sharp, clear, actual words more than images. It was a foolish dream anyway, fraught with peril. You will do better without it in your life. Give it up to me.

I pay this price. Worthington said with a sigh, physical and mental. There were tears brimming his eyes, but time was running short. Now fully half the soldiers had run out of ammunition, and Lowenthal was turning from defense to offense, casting mage bolts at the soldiers, causing them to have to duck or dodge his blasts.

Now the price for the spell. The Light hummed in his mind, and it laid out the price it wanted clearly in his mind. This price was almost as painful as the first one to bear, but he'd already gone this far, and knew he would pay it and deal with the consequences later. There would be consequences to this price, too, but the Light accepted his agreement, and his body thrummed with new power. Now, feel what it means to wield the Light!

Worthington's body was washed of its weariness as he lifted up his hand with the Light-born whip of power in it and flicked his wrist towards the nearest of the demon summoning mages. Even as another demon appeared in a circle, the Light took his spell and doubled it, then tripled it, and finally doubled the result again. Twelve whips of power reached out, and each settled about the neck of a demon summoner, twirling around the neck and penetrating the shield that the summoning process gave each of them. Twelve voices cried out in fear and pain as he twisted his wrist again, this time up and backward, and the whips of power pulled tight, beheading all twelve of them.

The last demon summoned roared as a vortex appeared behind it, dragging it back where it had come from, and Worthington looked deeper in the valley, hoping to see the Demon Lord also being dragged back into his plane of existence. He had no such luck though, as he watched Zaroc lift the form of the Adept Benjamin, and throw him into the fire.

A blast of power hitting his shield dragged his attention back to Lowenthal, who had now shifted his attacks to Worthington. The blast was weak, and Lowenthal looked to be on the verge of collapsing, but Worthington found he couldn't summon the power necessary to rip away the man's last shields and kill him. Nor could he lift the gun that was still on its strap against his chest. Even as the mage lifted his hands to send another blast his way, Worthington found he could not strike back.

"Mike! No!" Collins's voice broke through the night and the sounds of the bonfire in the distance. Zaroc was barking orders to the Oska demons around him now, words that Worthington couldn't quite make out. Collins had dropped Brandon somewhere behind them and moved out from behind Worthington, holding his hands out towards his friend. Lowenthal shifted his gaze to Collins, and it was plain from his eyes that he was fighting the controls placed on him. "Don't do it, Mike. You're better than this, man. You're my good luck charm. Don't make me kill you."

"Do it." Lowenthal murmured through gritted teeth. His hands were glowing with power, all the power inside him. He'd gathered it for one last strike, a death strike. "I can't hold it for long, bro. Shoot me."

"No," Collins said as he approached the man slowly, his hands now resting on his weapon. "I won't do it. You can fight it; I know you can. No fucking asswipe is going to make you do something you don't want to do. You saved my life man, and I'm going to save yours."

"I can't hold it." Lowenthal gasped and his hand cocked back as the controls inside of him took over again, but Collins was too close, and rushed the last few steps, swinging the stock of his weapon so that it hit Lowenthal just under the chin, raising him off his feet and he landed flat on his back, knocked unconscious by the blow.

"Sorry, my friend," Collins said with a chuckle as he bent to check his friend's pulse. His hand never reached Lowenthal's throat before there was a tremendous roaring sound from the bonfire, and a wave of concussive force knocked all of them off their feet.

"My queen." Zaroc's voice was clear as Worthington got back to his feet, and saw a figure rising from the black flames of the bonfire. It was tall, easily twenty feet, towering over the Demon Lord with great wings twice as wide as it was tall, and skin as black as the darkest of night. Pale blue and orange flames traced lines in that skin, and the horns on its head curled outward and upward in a deadly spiral.

"Zaroc, my child." The tall demoness boomed, her voice deep, and yet somehow still feminine, in a terrible way. "You have kept your promise, my little one."

"We are begun, my queen." Zaroc was down on one knee; his head bent towards the figure in the bonfire. His Oska demons were also kneeling, holding the rest of the human mages that were to be part of the sacrifice. "I beg of you to see fit to grace your servant with a permanent doorway to our home."

"It has been many centuries of this world since we have done this, and I sense the presence of someone who would stop you." She replied, and Worthington felt his body begin to shake as she looked at him. Any other time, the warm liquid seeping down his leg would have had him embarrassed enough to want to die, but he was proud that he had just pissed himself, and not defecated as well. Every tale he'd ever heard said no mage ever survived seeing the Demon Queen.

"The Sinclairs have always been troublesome," Zaroc said with a slight shrug. "I will deal with him in moments. He cannot stop the doorway if you choose to open it, my queen. He has come too late."

"Weatherby!" Worthington hissed to the nearby officer as he somehow found his courage and his voice. "Get the men, grab Lowenthal, grab Brandon, and run!"

"We're not leaving you behind, Sinclair," Weatherby growled back at him, and Worthington noticed the soldiers, including Collins carrying Lowenthal over his shoulder, were pulling back, forming a circle around him.

"Here," Worthington said as he handed his last full magazine to one of the men who'd said they were out of ammunition. The man frowned, but took it and slammed it into his weapon, putting a round in the chamber. "Weatherby, this isn't a discussion. Take the men, grab Brandon and get the fuck on the other side of the hill."

"You can't give me orders, Sinclair." Weatherby snorted as Zaroc continued his discussion with his queen, cajoling her to accept his sacrifices and open the doorway. Worthington caught some mention of Blasoc, another Demon Lord, doing something similar elsewhere, but much further behind in progress. It sounded like Zaroc and Blasoc were competitors more than allies, competing with each other for the Queen's favor.

"Weatherby, this isn't your fight; it's my fight." Worthington retorted.

"Wrong, it's all of ours fight," Weatherby said. "Those who are wounded, hand your ammo over to someone else. One of you take Lowenthal, another grab the Meyers kid and meet up with the others on the other side. Rest of you, form up and let's make sure Sinclair can do his part."

There were protests from the three wounded men, but they limped off, taking Lowenthal and Brandon with them as they went, and Worthington glared at the former officer who shrugged at him. At the same time, he could hear the Demon Queen give her acquiescence. He barely got the shield up in time as a bright flash of orange light lit the valley, setting it afire.

"I name you Prince, Zaroc!" The Demon Queen's voice roared, and most of the soldiers still around him clapped their hands over their ears. Worthington could feel the trickle of blood flowing out of his ears and tried to ignore the pain. Their time was growing even shorter now as the next of the five remaining mages was thrown onto the fire, each life and power going to feed the doorway that was forming there now as the Demon Queen melted back into the fire.

"Kill them!" Zaroc roared, his voice sounding distant and tinny in Worthington's ears. Blasts of power flowed from four Oska demons, hitting his shield through the murky orange haze that now filled the valley. Worthington shuddered, nearly losing the shield as his weariness returned. Even the Light could not stand long against this.

The sound of soldiers firing at the oncoming demons was barely audible over the constant roar and ringing in his ears. Worthington lifted the Light whip once more, but it faded out as it touched the orange haze. Even the dwarven-made bullets melted or fell far short of their targets, and the soldiers stopped firing when they saw that.

Worthington held out his hand and gave the hand signal for moving forward. The men who had turned to look at him for direction nodded, some of them gulped visibly, but they moved forward as a unit. He moved with them, concentrating on holding the shield against the blasts of power reaching towards them, and the deadly murky orange haze. It was a thin hope that the soldiers who had fled with Lowenthal and Brandon had made it far enough away already.

Marching was something every military person did from the moment they entered military service. That was something Worthington had learned from Weatherby, but as they moved forward in that small group, he realized why it was so important. They were all exhausted, there was almost no visibility, and they were fighting for their lives, but they all moved in the exact same stride, at the exact same pace, knowing almost instinctively where the other person was. Because of what he'd done to Weatherby, Worthington could move with them, was one with them and lifted his gun to open fire when the Oskas were close enough that even the demon atmosphere outside his shield could not slow them down too much.

The bullets bounced off their shields, but more bullets came from the soldiers around him, and the demons fell one by one before they hit his shield. He'd dropped the Light whip when he'd reached for his gun, and as he summoned it again, he was half-afraid the Light would demand another price, but it didn't, and he prepared to wield it as they increased their pace to a slow trot.

The reached the edge of the bonfire, and the pressure on his shield was tremendous as they squared off against Zaroc. He could see three more demon-summoning mages on the far side of the bonfire. They had been hidden by it before, but now he knew they were there. Worthington struck out with his whip, but the Demon Lord, or Prince now, reached out his hand and blocked his strike. The whip left a cut on Zaroc's hand, but the whip was stopped.

"We meet again, Sinclair." Zaroc's voice boomed out, louder although oddly distorted by both the demon atmosphere and the damage to Worthington's ear drums. "You have made it through my defenses, but you are too late. Kneel, and I will spare you life."

"No thanks," Worthington said, and lifted his weapon, but cried out in pain as Zaroc lifted his hand and power poured forth in a wave that crumpled his shield, and threw all of them to the ground. It was like a four-hundred-pound gorilla on his chest, and he could barely breathe as the Demon Prince moved to stand over him.

Pain ripped through him as he felt the Demon Prince moving to stand over him, and he could not do anything to stop the pain. His mind screamed, unable to focus, or call up even the dregs of power that remained to him, and the demon's mind swarmed into his, overpowering his shredded defenses, holding him immobile as the demon lifted him in its burning hands.

More pain filled him as the burning hands caused the material of his uniform to flash fire, leaving him in nothing but the dwarven under-armor he'd donned days ago. More pain filled him as the demon's claws ripped through the armor, peeling it from his bleeding body and the demon's laughter filled his ears and his head.

You will be my trophy piece, Sinclair. The demon roared in his mind as it stripped him before setting him back on the ground, on his hands and knees, his rear towards the demon. Worthington knew what would come next, and felt despair fill him as the demon prepared to mount him, to penetrate him, and take him, body, mind, and soul.

Even you can call on me in need, now. That was another voice, a gentle caress wiping away the pain and giving him a moment of clear thought. Worthington seized on that moment and cupped his hand where a feeble, flickering gleam of white appeared in a perfect sphere. Zaroc's roar was distant as Worthington turned, fell on his back and threw with all his remaining strength.

The feeble ball of pure Light struck the demon in the abdomen, and Zaroc howled in pain as he tried to clutch it, but it burned him, and spread, until it was a blinding white that took everything with it, and Worthington was left floating in a gentle darkness, hoping that the pain would never return.