“Uttara,” he called out, the airborne sand clawing at his skin as it lashed out with each passing gale. “Uttara! Follow my voice!” called out Zuptak once more, the warrior’s voice failing to cut through the chaos that was unfolding around him. The sandstorm was at its apex now, blotting out the very sun and swallowing the entire battlefield with its earthen embrace. Zuptak would not get the opportunity to call out for his mate yet another time, brandishing his spear with clenched fists as shapes emerged from the sand-hewn partition.
They were not slow; Zuptak had expected them to be slow, but nor were they in a hurry. The living dead marched in near, uniform ranks, and they seemed unbothered by the W’adrhŭn that had travelled so far to face them. “Coming out here was a mistake…” thought the warrior, but he did not dare voice such a sentiment out loud. Even amid such a violent dirge of felled bodies and clashing weapons, the mere utterance of such words was to admit defeat, and Zuptak was not one to cower before any enemy, even one such as this.
One powerful thrust, and the first of the unliving thralls to come near the W’adrhŭn warrior fell down, Zuptak quick to release his spear from the soldier’s punctured breastplate. A second warrior of the Old Dominion swung his blade at the W’adrhŭn, his shriveled and bloodless arms carrying much power as they propelled the blow forward. Zuptak took a step back as the sword tip grazed his bare chest, leaving a shallow gash that was quick to bleed once the wound had been delivered. One moment more and the W’adrhŭn would have been dead; Zuptak praised his good fortune for but a fleeting second, slamming the haft of his weapon into the undead thrall and shuffling his immense body backward.
More silhouettes emerged from the beating sands, forming a neat line as they joined together to reforge the ranks that had been lost so soon after the battle between the W’adrhŭn and the Old Dominion had commenced. Then came the sound of a horn and the tremble of heavy-footed strides, and Zuptak could not help but smile. Other of his kin now stood beside him, weapons at the ready as they too formed a wavy crescent of well-muscled bodies ready to clash with the unliving enemy.
“How many are dead?” growled Zuptak to the warrior that now stood at his side.
“Hard to tell,” answered the newly arrived W’adrhŭn, an eye missing from its socket and replaced with dried-up blood. “This blasted sandstorm has scattered our forces; the enemy has been clawing at us without pause, but they seem to be running out of bodies…”
Zuptak gave a weary smile and felt his chest tighten as the thundering advance of a Tontorr, a reptilian creature of immense proportions, rang within his skull, the prehistoric beast emerging soon after. The creature was in tatters; large swathes of flesh and hide had been torn into crimson ribbons across its figure; the large palanquin that had once been fastened onto it had been destroyed, and only twisted wooden chunks remained; and a coterie of jutting weapons had been violently planted across its body. Wounded or not, the Tontorr proved a mighty boon, and its heavy stride saw a warrior of the Old Dominion crumble under its immense bulk, the titanic creature swinging its notably elongated neck akin to a whip, with each wide arc humbling more and more of the advancing undead warriors as they were rammed into the ground.
Roars of elation and reignited hope followed the beast’s advance, its immense form a beacon that stuck out despite the tendrils of torrential sand that seemed to have swallowed both armies. More and more W’adrhŭn rallied behind the Tontorr, and Zuptak was one among them, spear held up high as he joined in the deluge of taunts and battle chants.
“We are winning. In the name of the Living Goddess, drive the corpse-bound back!” These were but some of the many calls to action that soared through the desert-heated air. Soon enough, however, they would all cease…
For something was here: an unspeakable thing. The Theokrator.
The W’adrhŭn could not see it clearly at first, only the immense bulk of the eddying silhouette, but they could definitely hear it: screams, countless of them, some calling out in language deemed unknown and others lamenting in pure, wordless agony. Zuptak felt the contents of his stomach churn with fear while others outright dropped their weapons and clutched their heads in an effort to mitigate such an accursed chorus. Highest of points across the battlefield, breached upon an ever-impressive neck rivaling in length entire regiments, the Tontorr bellowed in response, its mighty roar briefly matching that of the unseen horror.
Brief it was indeed…
When the Theokrator emerged, it was in a storm of flailing limbs and warped, death-touched flesh. It moved akin to a gargantuan slug, heaving its terrifying bulk across the sand, yet was not nearly as slow as one would have hoped. Three great heads looked down upon the W’adrhŭn, while countless other smaller ones writhed and shifted across the aberration’s body. The horror was covered with too many writhing limbs, in the same manner a porcupine has quills, some diminutive and barely visible while others thick and lashing out with unholy strength. On the thing’s back sat a cursed shrine of sorts; Zuptak thought it to be one at least, and the ossified orator atop it spewed blood-chilling litanies while the cursed horror at its feet unleashed fresh violence across the field of battle. In truth, the priest himself was the one with the title of Theokrator, while the creature he lorded over was once of divine stock, now laid low and made to do his bidding… Zuptak and all of the W’adrhŭn present, however, lacked a way to know of such details; nor would they have cared if they were aware of the minutiae: to the warriors facing such an accursed horror, both master and indentured mount were to the W’adrhŭn one and the same, forming a singular enemy so vile that the mortal mind struggled to comprehend the mere sight of it.
The W’adrhŭn that had first leaped before the Theokrator soon found themselves smothered, their bones snapping like twigs as they were crushed underneath the death-spawn’s wriggling advance. Others were torn apart by its many limbs, the tormented reaching out from their flesh-bound prison and clawing at the inhuman warriors, digging into lively skin and muscle with pulseless digits and gnarled fingernails.
Then the Tontorr roared yet another time, and as the two charged at each other, the sandstorm seemed to split from the impact alone. Deathless aberration and reptilian titan traded terrifying blows, and for a moment, the Tontorr seemed to have the upper hand, its great strength and the assistance of the W’adrhŭn troops that had hurried to its flanks seemingly too great a challenge to overcome.
Great, yes, but not impossible. For through self-sacrifice, strength is assured.
Sensing the danger of imminent defeat, the great chains that held the altar fastened onto the writhing abomination twisted and slithered like serpents, digging into the horror’s flesh as they grew taut and stiff with tension. The preacher saw his hollow, lifeless voice rise further as his litany reached a grim crescendo, and the many cadaverous figures that were embedded into the horror below moaned and roared with exaltation, lashing out onto their own fleshy prison as they entered a state of frenzy. Dark blood seeped across the aberration’s twisted, bulbous body, seeing that both the bonds of its torment and even the very nature of its blasphemous anatomy would see it brutalized for some unknown sin… The results, however, were quick and ruthless in their effect, for the unholy spawn went into a frenzy that could no longer be contained.
One of the aberration’s largest limbs, heavily muscled and crowned with jagged metal, drove into the enemy Tontorr and up the beast’s neck, ending the wounded animal’s assault with one final blow. Doused in a veil of crimson, the charnel entity that was the entirety of the Theokrator would not stop its attack, only ramping up the bloodshed caused by the spilling of its own ichor. At that point, many of the W’adrhŭn would try to run, but the time for retreat had long passed, the rampaging horror crushing them under unrelenting charges or turning them into sinewy ribbons through limbs both great and small. Worst of all, however, at least to Zuptak’s fear-stricken mind, was the wailing: the unnatural monstrosity seemed to be crying, a lamentation turned into a dirge of too many a throat. Even the three great heads leading the horror into battle were now shedding blackened tears, and the orator at the very top of it all seemed content at what he wrought. Zuptak thought he saw a smile across the priest’s parchment-like features… That did not matter now.
Zuptak’s last thoughts were of his mate, whom he had lost sight of during the battle, and of the love that they shared for each other. Countless arms pulled at his body, and he resigned; though many of the W’adrhŭn had grown maddened with fear before what they had to face, Zuptak lacked the will to fight no longer… His body was pressed against the abomination’s now, and the tumorous flesh seemed to part like sludge as the W’adrhŭn was swallowed whole, consumed by what was simply unnatural.
“I feel cold,” Zuptak thought. Then, there was nothing.