Knights of the Holy Mother – 12

Another day, another village saved from demons.

You wipe the sweat from your brow and congratulate the Solar Squires you fought with. They grin your way, though they send a few nervous glances at Burdock. The kobold incubus is less restrained without Halloween around, his maw slick with the blood of the demons he’d mauled. Still, you’ve got a good handle on him.

All you have to do is let him stuff you every night~

You squirm a bit, the vicious kobold’s leer getting you all hot and bothered.

You are Vanilla, and this last battle was a far cry from the hell that was the Battle of Weeping Mountain. It wasn’t as easy-going as your first battles, though the artillery from the Golden Redemption and her knights made a massive difference.

The Knights of the Holy Mother took the first opportunity scram before the Paragons arrived. Understandable, given their demonic natures. Instead of risking exposure, they volunteered to join the Solar Knights in their efforts to rescue citizens. Blade Goldheart gave you his blessing, staying behind to personally deliver his testimony to the Paragons. Leaving the two fastest groups of knights to blitz through the scattered villages south of Weeping Mountain for survivors.

Which still makes your head spin. Why would these demons risk so much to protect mortals they don’t even know?

When you ask them, they all have different answers. Some wanted to explore Prillia, others seemed to have a sense of right and wrong, and a few (Halloween and Burdock) just wanted to fight. Tongs said to look at it like you were sheep, domesticated for your wool. If they’re going to protect you and others so they can ‘shear’ you later, it’s a compromise you’re all too willing to accept.

Especially if getting 'sheared' involves being at the center of a sex party~

The village you’d just saved is a rare mix of elves and dwarves, a sign you’re skirting the border of the Dwarven Range and the Elven Territories. You, Libby, and a few of your other fellow squires have floated the idea of breaking the ECS on the Solar Knights so you can have a more open celebration.

You've seen how they look at the Knights of the Holy Mother. They're all undeniably attractive. Sure, there's the risk of their 'natures' being revealed...You just know that the Solar squires would be more comfortable with Burdock after sharing his fantastic cock. And the men among them will be sure to appreciate spitroasting your supple body…

Too bad March wasn’t having it. ‘A major OPSEC risk,’ she’d called it.

“Why do you think the demons are doing this, Libby?” One of the squires breaks you from your thoughts.

“Huh? Oh, these guys?” You poke at one of the burned bodies with your sabaton. “I don’t know much about demons…”

They all give you a look, already familiar with the stories you tell about your aunt. Darn it, why are you the expert on Niflheim demons?  One of them, a muscular human named Johan seems particularly curious. You’ve had your eyes on him for a while, with his strong jaw and sad, blue eyes.

“Typically, demons only exist to cause pain. The only time they don’t is when they’re following someone’s orders. Either from a contract, or fear of a stronger demon.”

“Grixum Bloodbather.” Johan mutters the name like a curse. “They keep saying his name, too. Why?”

It’s a lesser-known fact that demons grow with power if they’re given a name. Which you only know by noticing the power disparity between March’s weird imps and the other imps you’ve run into. The demonic squires did mention that they got more DESIRE from sex with those who know them. Moreso if there are romantic feelings involved.

If Niflheim demons operate on the same basic principles, with violence instead of sex…

“Don’t say his name.” They look at you in surprise. “The more hate you put in the name, the more you recognize the name, the stronger it gets.”

Their eyes widen in alarm.

“Then…all of this—Invading Prillia, kidnapping tens of thousands of people, assaulting Weeping Mountain—Is basically a powerful demon’s PR stunt?”

That’s one way to put it.

“All demon incursions are.” Another squire realizes. “All named demons are proud to proclaim their names. Though I don’t think any would willingly order their ‘troops’ to flee. Or kidnap people.”

“Not unless they’ve got what they wanted.” You finish and rub your chin. “Tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of people kidnapped. That’d make a nasty ritual.”

“…How nasty?”

That’s the issue, isn’t it? What kind of ritual would require so many sacrifices? There are rituals goblins used during the Green Tide that used dozens of willing sacrifices to bring down a rain of fire over nearly a hundred miles. With unwilling sacrifices, the price is an order of magnitude larger. Doing some math, you come to a worrying conclusion.

“If they wanted to cause fear and terror, they could have it rain fire and brimstone over half of Prillia for the next decade.” The squires take in hissing breaths. “But they could have done this with less than ten thousand sacrifices. Whatever they’ve got planned, it’s much bigger than some deadly weather manipulation.”

“That’s…not comforting at all!” One of the squires throws her arms in the air.

“Sorry.” You shrug. “None of this makes sense to me, either.”

Their shoulders slump and they sigh. After everything, there are still more questions than answers. Still, at least the battle is over.

You’ve been waiting for a moment to steal Johan away to a nice secluded place so you can flash your tits at him and get him to stuff your womb full of his human swimmers. With the demons vanquished, there’s going to be another party, so while your demons are busy breaking the ECS on the villagers, you’re going to pass him a drink with the aphrodisiacs you’ve got in your pocket and—

“Hail!” A manly voice calls from atop the hill. “Are you perhaps Knights?”

You see him and immediately put your plans on hold. When you were young, your grandparents frequently told stories about the green tide. The dangers of human ingenuity, elven magic, dwarven everything…and the greatest weapons against the goblin horde, the unstoppable, relentless, absolutely massive centaurs.

They once charged through the dense goblin hordes in heavy armor and javelins, thrusting into armies until they broke under their hooves.

“Hail!” Johan responds. “We’re but squires. What business do you have in Stonebreach village?”

“None, my good man.” The centaur trots closer. “The Pony Express has been reformed for one last job. We are to deliver important tactical devices to as many Knight Orders as we can. I see some of you wear the insignia of the Solar Knights!”

“Yes, we’re also joined by the Knights of the Holy Mother!” Johan waves his hand to you and Burdock. “They may be a strange lot, but they were instrumental in the Battle of Weeping Mountain.”

“Truly? These are good tidings, then.” He stretches his sinuous upper half to reach into his saddlebags and pulls out two palm-sized mirrors. “Bring these Thaumirrors to your highest-ranked members. These instrumental devices will do to the radio what the radio has done to the Pony Express!”

His hearty guffaw echoes in your chest. He looms over you by a good five feet, large enough for you to see his undercarriage. You can calculate his thickness from the size of his sheath, and momma likes. You bite your lip and curse the fact you’re wearing your armor; he has the perfect angle to look down your shirt! Burdcok grumbles as he feels your lust for the centaur spike. You discretely take out the aphrodisiac you’ve been saving.

The centaur kneels and hands the Thaumirrors to you and Johan.

“Simply touch the surface and they will activate.” He gently explains. “The wide breadth of its functions will be revealed in time. For now, they will help your Orders organize with others, even without functional radio towers.”

“Thank you.” Your blushing ears wiggle as you hold out your (spiked) water bottle. “Maybe you can stay and rest for a while? We’re going to celebrate our win, you can join us if you like?”

“I am grateful.” The centaur beams and takes your bottle. “But the Pony Express does not rest until the job is done! Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds!”

He chugs the bottle and tosses it back to you. You stare at him, mouth agape. He rears up on his hind legs and bellows in a voice that you could only dream of as he pins you beneath his bulk.

“I must away! For Prillia, and the Pony Express! Hyah!”

And off he gallops.

“That is the coolest postman I’ve ever seen.” Johan sighs wistfully.

Why is he sad? You’re the one that wants to ride the Pony Express, not him!

Whatever. You hold up the ‘Thaumirror’ and press your finger to it. To your surprise, your reflection melts into white and letters appear.

THAUMIRROR - Version ALPHA

Presented by KB, C, SL, and S

When you tap it, it changes to show a map of Prillia with the relative locations of several knight orders and the movements of demon armies. It’s being updated real time! Already, you can see how the demon hotzones are getting herded by the points representing the orders. Okay, that’s pretty neat.

Still…

You pout as you see the courier disappear over the hill. You were hoping to at least get a taste…Johan sighs again and you squint his way. You’re wondering what his deal is when you feel Burdock’s hot breath on your neck. A shiver runs up your back and you stop yourself from letting out a submissive moan. His jaws open right over your ear, the flash of his white fangs sending your loins on fire.

For the first time since you met him, he speaks.

“He’s gaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy…”

Well, crap.

No centaur dick, no human mating press, just another orgy with the liberated townsfolk. Well, that’s not too bad. They may have given you and the other goblins some weird looks, but they’re bound to be thankful after this mess. Pretending to be a wild goblin getting domesticated by elven and dwarven cocks could be fun. First, you’ll need to bring this ‘Thaumirror’ to March.

Demons gather at the mouth of the valley. You recognize several different types through the telescope; thorn demons, ice demons, chain demons…different types of monstrosities, each deadlier than the last. They snarl at each other, occasionally swiping at one another and hissing, but never coming to blows. They shrink away under the dark glare of their leader, a ten-foot tall demon with two pairs of horns and cloven hooves. Its jaw unhinges, and a barbed tongue cracks one of the quarrelling demons in the head.

Some manner of Pre-Unification demon.

Flanking it are four humanoid demons. They have horns, and tails, and that unholy presence, yet what disturbs you the most are the cloaks lined with runic inscriptions. Demon mages.

You had the misfortune of running into a pair over in Cogbottom. They caught you by surprise and burnt six squires and a Knight to a crisp before you could put them down.

You don’t know what’s more disturbing: the fact that you’ve seen enough demons over the past month to be able to tell them apart, or the fact that those damned demonic mages look identical.

You are Blade Aeon of the Holy Knights. For the past two days, what remains of your regiment has holed up in Valley’s End as demonic forces gathered. You had your men clear up a narrow pass that had been blocked for the past couple years and have finally begun escorting the citizens of the small hamlet out of this death trap.

The passage is perilous and narrow, with only enough room for people to go one by one.

The demons…they can taste your desperation. The civilians will not be able to escape in time. Even now, the demonic leader screeches and waves its arm, goading its horde into a frenzy to descend upon the village.

You and your men will have to make a last stand if the civilians are to have any hope of escape.

You grimly pull out the Thaumirror. There were more users, more dots on the map than last night. Still, none close enough to render aid. Your finger hovers on your location on the map, options to pin, to comment, to report demon sightings. The blaring exclamation point above your icon remains unanswered; you are too far from any help.

If only you’d had access to this device earlier. You were playing blindly on the chessboard, and now you are but a piece that’s overextended itself.

You sigh. At the very least, you should ensure that the remaining Thaumirrors do not fall into enemy hands. You never thought you’d have to consider tactics when fighting demons, but their movements have made it clear that this is no average invasion.

“Carriers!” You call as you open the door to the house you’d reserved for the honored guests. “It’s time.”

The musty smell washes over you and your nose curls. The two centaurs trot apart skittishly and stand at attention. The female centaur, Carrier Pippit, straightens her leather jerkin as her tail whips about. The male centaur, Carrier Reckless, wipes his brow and angles his undercarriage behind the couch.

Pre-battle jitters, no doubt. Reckless seems to have the worst of it, his horse half bucking and twitching nervously.

“So soon?” Pippit bites her bottom lip and glances at Reckless. “Shouldn’t we let more civilians go before us?”

“Any longer and we’d be risking your cargo.” You shake your head. “Prillia needs those Thaumirrors. Unfortunately, that’s the brutal arithmetic. As of right now, you will both take the path with the escaping children, then make your way to south and east, where the trace amounts of a holy presence hint of Holy Knights.”

“With the children?” Reckless pales and his ears twitch. “I may have to grab a caparison…”

“South and east.” Pippit lets out a frustrated groan. “…I’ll go south.”

The pair leave as the demon horde picks up speed. You’d wonder why Reckless needed to fashion a skirt for his horse half before they left, if your mind wasn’t so occupied by your impending death.

You arrive where you will have your final stand.

Brave squires quell their trembling as hateful masses funnel into the valley. Knights, veterans of smaller conflicts one and all, kneel to preserve their strength for the demons arrival. Village men wielding what few farming implements you could bless stand stoically on crumbling earthwork walls. They’ve accepted their deaths, grim determination and the knowledge that every second they delay the demons is one gained for their loved ones to escape.

They will fight harder than anyone else here.

The ground rumbles. The screams of the unholy ring through the forest, their lopsided jog increasing to a stampede. Hope is fleeting. You coax your holy power over your men, suffusing them with the bravery to stand firm.

You close your eyes and begin to pray. Perhaps the Outer God will grace you with a miracle.

You stare at the Thaumirror in your hand. Your reflection returns a wry grin. If only, if only…

Blip

Text begins to scroll across the surface of the device. Lines, familiar and unfamiliar, filling out lore that had only been referenced in passing and given up as lost. The light of the divine reaches through you, and your lips move despite yourself to recite what was once thought to be lost.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

Another voice recites along with yours. A young woman’s, mischievous yet kind. The Holy power surges, your arms and armor glinting with holy might.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”

The golden aura spreads among your knights, their bodies too, alighting with divine strength. The quickest demons burst through the underbrush, maddened eyes alighting with vile glee as they scramble up the earthwork to attack the knights. They stumble in the presence of your holy energies, and your forces take advantage to dispatch the first wave before they could rip into them.

“He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.”

The voice, your voice, is joined by the knights as they too are suffused with the power of the Holy Spirit. Blessed weapons burn bright with power, cleaving through the demons with enough strength to destroy them forevermore.

The demonic mages sprint through the shattered woods, gaunt and emotionless as they raise their hands to aim their unholy magics.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

You see her. A nun.

A woman, chaste and kind, imperfect and loving. You see her myriad pieces of her life, fragmented and nonsensical yet bound together for a purpose. She works through arcane magic, studying it, weaving it into a shield. You guide the holy power through her motions, six golden shields expanding outwards in time to catch the black flames and push back the demons. More demons crash into shields, shrieking in pain as their flesh sizzles on contact.

More demons, more evil seeps from the wounded forest, crashing into the weaker ones and pushing through to attack your men. Your voices and identities are as one, joined by something far greater than yourselves.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

Green eyes brim with tears. She is in pain, deep pain. Yet she continues, for love, for hope, for all that is good in this world.

How could you falter in the face of her sacrifice?

Every sting of your wounds, every claw, every lick of terrible black fire, fades with surging holy power. Even the villagers match the demons blow for blow, enduring grievous injuries with righteous fury. Debilitating wounds fill with golden light, men and woman fighting past death by the grace of the Outer God. The holy power surges through your bodies, the very presence of men, nay, warriors of the divine, scalding to the unworthy demons.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”

The swan song of the soon-to-be-departed is a blinding beacon of hope and a righteous blaze of glory woven together. Your eyes light with power, your sense of self returning to you like the night kissing the last light of dusk over the horizon.

You are fighting the giant demon. Its body is scored with smoking slashes, your own sword arm connected by a strip of sinew and fading holy power. You lean out of the way of its jagged claws, scarcely wincing as your arm spirals away. Your fist, alight with the glowing Thaumirror, drives through its chest, a golden light glowing inside it before it pops.

As it crumples to the ground and fades to dust, you look over your forces. Injured, dying, and scattered…yet some of you remain.

The attack has been repelled.

You cradle the Thaumirror to your chest. Cracked, yet whole. Imperfect.

Just like the Saintess whose touch saved you.