The horsemen charged forward. Their large numbers easily cleaving through any obstacle that stood in their way. The grass wilting under their feet.

Pale horses knew no fear as they galloped onwards, guided by their riders’ lashes.

Finally, the horsemen were close enough for him to tell who or what they were.

For, only in song or passing experience one could hear about these ghosts of the battlefield. Yet here they were. As far as the eye could see.

Their pale skin shined on the warm sunny day. Their dark armor molded to their skin. Helmets seemingly protecting their faces from any stray arrow that someone brave enough would launch at them. For, they were death incarnate.

They charged through countless armies.

The ruined armies weren’t conscripted peasants from the local towns and villages. But troops, men and women; molded for war.

These horsemen, equipped only with their swords, axes and halberds were able to cut all of them down. They tore through flesh and bone, mercilessly.

At one time or another someone would kill one of them. If they lived to tell the tale, they were hailed as heroes.

Everyone that knew of those stories wondered what it was like to be hailed as a hero. To live for eternity. Remembered by people.

Those that wanted to find out enlisted. Fighting years, decades even. Without seeing one. Many would crumble before their gaze. Those that remained rose to the challenge.

Woman’s eyes were looking from her home, she spotted a silhouette of a man running across the castle walls, as he aimed his mace at his fallen comrades. The stout man ran all day from one wall to the other. Stopping occasionally to catch his breath.

The man’s brow was dripping with sweat. His heavy helmet partially obscuring his vision. He breathed hard. Watching the somber scene playing before him.

He was almost out of mana. Potions and flasks lay empty beneath his feet. Clenching his hammer and holy shield; he prepared the holy incantation. He casted, but as soon as he did the last of his brethren had died. Cut by the cursed blade. His blood spraying the wretched knight. As soon as their body hit the floor, ghouls swarmed them from all sides, dragging them into the oncoming darkness.

Other people lay defeated. Their wounds or fear paralyzing them to the spot. Their weapons lied useless on the floor.

He was now alone.

The horsemen breached the gates.

As soon as the gates smashed to the ground the dark horde ran inside. Howling and screaming as they advanced. Their meals trapped inside. They would start massacring the town folk. Women, children and the elderly. Those that couldn’t carry a blade were left behind to pray.

He prayed he had more time.

One last option had left.

He would have to sacrifice himself. Detonate a holy bomb in their midst and destroy anything with a dark heart.

Tristan’s arm shivered. His battle ridden mace clanking against his beautiful mithril armor.

All of his teaching’s aside, this was the last resort.

The sun was burning bright. The birds were flying high. Fresh smell of trees carried by the breeze.

Watching the beautiful blue sky, he wondered what led him here. He gave everything for his King and country. For his brethren.

Now he would die for his people. Tristan felt everything he did was righteous. In the name of all that is holy.

Now it was time. A time for a righteous death.

The dark horde started to cleave the citizens caught in their path. Blood and guts showering the pavement beneath.

He bit his lip in frustration. Fear was still within him.

He jumped down without thinking. As he dropped down his fear was amplified tenfold. Tristan aimed his jump right in the middle of their numbers. Still advancing through the gates. His heavy boots echoing all around.

A young girl’s horrid sword wound slowly healing as he showered her with his healing power. Her mother’s eyes crying gratefully.

He smashed his heavy mace on top of the mithril shield, the sound echoing all around him, “I am Tristan Menas the Third. I am Holy Paladin of the Third Order. By everything that is Sacred and Righteous I vanquish all of you to the dark depths from where you came. Evil be Purged.”

He felt he power was welling from within. He had to condense it faster, harder; make it into a ball before its release or its power would be useless.

The power resonated with every holy user that found themselves at that time on the Eastern Continent.

He pushed more power into the unstable ball. Trying to maximize its potential.

Suddenly as if without warning the ball detonated. Soundlessly it traveled across the city. Then the landscape. The few remaining soldiers on the walls watched as the bright light showered them. Healing their horrid wounds.

Several people who knew about its power, were quick and removed any arrow or stray axe from their wounded brothers. After, their wounds healed quickly.

The light grew stronger and stronger. Swallowing anything in its path. Warm bright light showered anyone who could see the city on the horizon. Devouring any dark creature that found themselves in its path.

The weaker dark troops slowly burning as if the light’s power was too hot.

For the people in the city, those that had good in their heart, had experienced something.

Everyone left their homes, meekly looking from where the strange bright light was coming. They saw a small stout man standing in the middle of the road, surrounded by horde of burning wailing creatures. Their horrid screams chilling them to the bone.

Finally, the light started to be too much to look at.

It was as if they were watching the sun. The man was consumed by the light, his silhouette disappearing behind bright veil of light.

People felt their fear disappear.

Soldiers were renewed.

Courage flowing through their extremities.

They grabbed their swords. Those that fell, rose to their feet, wore their steel helmets again and roared into the wind.

As if carried by something invisible the people that were adamantly protecting the town, women and teenagers included, suddenly were no longer deathly afraid of the oncoming horde.

Everyone dropped down the walls and formed around the glowing Paladin. Their eyes refusing to look at the bright light emanating from his body.

The horde that had survived, watched confused as the defeated people renewed their courage and started to push them back.

Several of the Horde’s assassins were still around. Waiting in the dark crevices around the city. They made sure they were unseen, unheard until they were needed.

“KILL,” a whisper echoed in the their minds.

Above the large tavern’s sign a ghoul dropped down to all fours. He watched the odd scene play out. His being was emotionless while the rest of the horde harbored fear at the scene before them.