236 Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty-Six – Getting on the Errant Path (1/2)

There was a lot of fire going on.

Errant was chaincasting Walls of Fire at this point. They only lasted as long as he kept the Wrath focused on them, so generally no more then a few breaths... but that was naturally enough to disrupt anything resembling a line formation, and set a lot of mushrooms on fire.

There were demons around, but the elves were hatracking them with Baned missile fire one by one, the MUD highlighting them for attention and arrows converging from all directions to take them out.

If they were flying outside the range of the company's Interdiction, nothing like a dragon swooping in with a smiting Paladin to really put a nail in their fun.

Of course, there were lots of demons being brought in. However, they were dealing with Heavenbound, and there was nothing like the expression on a demon's face when you grappled it into the range of the Interdiction and shoved it away, to go free-falling at King Gravity's behest, while your highly trained and intelligent mount power-glided down under Angel Walk or Featherweight, reached the outside of the zone, and zipped back into motion.

All the Dragons had Baneskulls for Evilborn, so they were energetically playing the chewtoy game, although even they didn't have any liking for the taste of things made out of condensed sin, except for boosting their own superiority.

There was a lot of magic going off, but there were problems. To wit, the sheer amount of smoke full of poison and spores that was obstructing the view of the battlefield.

Even if you have hordes of Casters, they still have to be able to see their targets. Burning shrooms generated a LOT of smoke. Target acquisition was proving to be somewhat problematic on the far side.

Sama somehow managing to interlink the perceptions of hundreds of eyes into a comprehensive personally-relevant real-time tactical assessment display, and the sheer fucking brilliance of it singing through them like that... well, this was a Warlord to beat all Warlords.

With Wayfair bursting her Charisma to a 46, it was like fighting with a Goddess of War in your head.

Elder Arg smashed through a couple of 'stools and straight into the flank of a drow missile line that thought having perching archers would work out for them. Tumbling dark elves flew in every direction under the impetus of a lot of monkey, five bars of Philosopher's Might driving the big guy's Might up to the Sherman Tank-reps level. Massive gauntleted paws slammed elves to pancakes, smashed them aside like toys, and a horde of Chakon with beat-sticks and metal-clad hands and feet sent them flying around yet further. On the other side of the street, more drow archers regretted as Elder Arg smashed through their stations, leaving the sharp ones floating in midair to be hatracked by elven archers armed with Smokesight and a rather large amount of antipathy.

A full cavalcade of magic was unleashed at a charging line of shadows as pissed drow Casters found targets and unloaded. There were a lot of multi-colored lights, explosions, thunderclaps, hissing sprays, whirlwinds... and the Ironblood came out of it totally unharmed, dragging the dwarven pikes right behind them, and the elven archers behind them.

The drow didn't do a good spear line, especially with all the monkeys running around breaking things up, and the tight formation hit them like bricks. The Ironblood whirled and crashed through, the dwarven spears became lawnmowers, and the Forsaken were on the Casters before they could even think of fleeing. While hardly incompetent in a fight, given their society, it didn't matter. Before the Ironblood, their magical defenses were smoke, and they were hacked down in no time at all by Axes burning the same bright ruby hue as their own blood.

Rains of multi-pound hurled spikeballs introduced the elves to the ability of ouch-big-rock-hurt, breaking fine bones rather well, and capable of snapping an arm right through the bucklers they favored.

He saw three strafing bolts of lightning off, and some ballistae on wagons blowing apart with their crews.

A swarm of buzzing man-sized fly-demons was ahead, converging on him, Darkbolt hurtling right for them at improbable speed. Purity reached out ahead, sheared the droning wings off one of them, split to send two others tumbling away in fear and pain and bright holes burned into them. Darkbolt plunged through their numbers, tucking his wings at the last second, and reaching out with eagle's talons and beak in three different directions to rip off more wings in passing, while his own flight remained perfectly level.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth ones trying to converge on them ran into the edge of Grace, one after another, a single circling stroke cutting all three down instantly.

He fired Purity backwards as bolts of lightning crackled up from below, just missing them as Darkbolt heeled them over. The remaining fly demons plummeted from the sky as Darkbolt dove down, slamming into a swooping vulture-demon with burning claws on all four limbs before spinning along the long axis that no flier should do, and Errant took off its head, snapping off a Wrath shot at the drow who'd thrown the lightning bolt at him that burned the dark elf's head right off his shoulders.

His and Estemar's Eyes of Heaven were feeding right into the MUD, giving everyone instant, real-time awareness of Evil all about him. Since his Soul-Boosted Range to this was five hundred feet in all directions, he and Estemar were basically the perfect real-time tactical spotters for forward movement and the flanks.

It was fucking depressing how much Evil there was.

Even most of the children had been corrupted. He was seeing kids less than waist-high with dark Auras. Fucking dark elf society. Most of the slaves weren't any better, which, if they were let free, generally meant they took the chance to slit a few drow throats, so a win in that direction.

He basically always had something to shoot at, so, grimly, he shot it.

They were leaving an impressive trail of carnage behind themselves; burned cities, dead drow, slain demons, some butchered undead –

A roar up ahead, and a building moved. Whoops, nope, that was a fifty-foot demon, looking sort of like a great horned demon with improbably broad shoulders, truly massive fists, and hooved feet that could almost stomp Elder Arg flat. Atop those shoulders, the dark elves had built a howdah, now currently packed with Casters and Archers.

That was a Goristro demon, and a big one. Thirty hit dice? He didn't even bother trying to punch his Wrath into it casually.

Elder Arg wasn't deterred at all. The big ape could motor with the Monk Levels he'd taken, obscured by the ruins of the massive shrooms and stools he was hurtling through and under, certainly a big target and attracting his great share of direct magical attacks.

Errant and Klistos both blew golden Walls of Fire across the howdah, end to end, leaving the drow nowhere to run, only bail or get toasted. Some of them might be able to resist the wild Song Heavenbound's Wrath, but not his own. They shrieked as all of them began to cook.