Artur lost track of the demons as they swarmed the meadow. Their black dragonfly wings had been the cause of the humming in the air, and the lightning, he concluded, had heralded their summoning. His lips never ceased in their endless prayer and his sword cut though the night without pause. They were lower-level demons, no match for him and his flames, but before long his limbs had grown heavy with exhaustion from the sheer number of enemies.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the swarm thinned. Fewer and fewer demons came within reach of his blade. In fact, they seemed to be ignoring him in favor of flying as quickly as possible toward their destination. Artur turned his head – they were flying in the direction of where one of the bolts of lightning had struck. He stood looking in the direction a moment longer, and then his stomach twisted. There was a village in that direction, an hour's ride away. He'd been headed there yesterday, to bless the chapel and read a sermon in the name of the Guardians to help renew the faith in these distant pagan reaches.

He sheathed his sword and picked up his saddlebags. Time was of the essence. Already he could picture the screams of the innocent villagers, the blood, the dead, and the possessed wandering the streets. The horses shied away from him; Apocalypse was calmer than Revelations, so Artur offered him a sugar cube laced with calming spell then untied Revelations, leaving him with the bulkier saddlebags and a homing spell that would help him make his way to Artur. He mounted Apocalypse and kicked him into a gallop.

An hour later, he arrived at the village in the midst of a cloud of demonic activity, slashing right and left, Apocalypse rearing and kicking and stamping on the fallen dark ones. To the villagers watching, he would have made an impressive vision: a white-robed priest of the Guardians single-handedly wielding a hand-an-a-half sword from the back of a massive black stallion, shouting the [i]Guardian of Light[/i], long, blonde hair cascading down his back. Unfortunately for Artur, however, the villagers had mostly hidden themselves, so the demons were the only ones to see his strength, and they were soon gone.

This Artur found strange. He had expected more blood, more demonic activity. Perhaps someone had come before him; it was unusual for villages like this to have their own protector. The buildings looked singed, and there was evidence of spells being cast. He kicked Apocalypse into a slow walk, looking around warily, sword out.

“Who goes there?” Artur reigned in sharply, causing Apocalypse to neigh in annoyance, and turned toward the voice. A man was leaning out of a doorway, calling to him cheerfully. The priest straightened in the saddle and put on what he thought to be a look of great wisdom and smiled softly the way his counselors smiled at young novices.

“Artur Lightbringer, Fifth Guardian of the Tenth Order of the Guardians of Light, herald of the Gods and bearer of the--” he broke off and narrowed his eyes. Sharp ears, black hair.

“And elf!” he cried in a voice that resembled a young girl's, and raised his sword, “What are you doing here?”