Give the devil his due

He pressed his scrawny fingers to the wound and dug out the wood splinters.

"Stop" Mist wheezed. “just s-stop. There is no point saving me now. But what you ca-can do is to keep them alive. Make sure they are alive when they are tortured. Ma-make sure they scream like Banshees when salt is put on their wounds, just like those torturous souls out there. Make sure they are alive when bugs feed on their skin and vultures tear their limbs apa-apart."

He nodded, letting his sobs drown in the battle cries of the dragons. He rubbed his hands together, hands which were soaked with blood, silky yet sticky, and picked up his sword. He started running and sliced the first creature he saw into half. The creature's head rolled to his feet. He plunged his sword into it, picking it up and screamed the most painful battle cry holding it. Others surrounding him let out a cheer and continued to kill even more ferociously.

A wolf with jaggered teeth advanced towards him and leapt on him. The wolf's teeth caught onto his upper shoulder knocking him to the ground. Dropping the sword he pulled two daggers and ripped his hind legs of with it. The wolf whimpered and stumbled onto the red soil. He placed his loafers on the wolf's head to prevent him from running and sawed of his other two legs with the same daggers. However, revenge got to him and the blood spilled did not satisfy his anger for his murdered friend. He pressed one of the daggers on to the ground with so much strength that the tip of the knife curved inwards, creating a hook likes structure. Seeing what was going to happen to him, the wolf tried to move away from the dagger. He grabbed the wolf's neck and slammed him into the floor. Then, using the daggers he plucked out his most precious assets, his eyes. A wolf without his eyes was as good as a human without his brain. Keep him alive. And that is exactly what he did.

Leaving the wolf, he ran forward, further into the heart of the battlefield. No one could stop him from killing their leader. He pressed a hand onto his shoulder. The wolf had got him good. But pain did not even register to him. Perhaps it was because all his nerve endings had been destroyed in his arm.

Just then he found the Falcon. Their head. He was an abomination on this realm. An arrogant, hot-headed fool. He raced forward, eager to end his life. He was not looking at him. A perfect opportunity waiting for the perfect strike. He raised his sword up above his head, and breathed in the smell of blood, rotting flesh and smoke. He gritted his teeth in pain. His shoulder was acting up on him now. He was so close. So close. To making him beg.

He gasped. Not from the pain but from the impact. A sword emerged from the front of his chest, ripped clean from bone to flesh. He could feel the blood rising into his mouth, dripping from his nose. He turned, or rather stumbled around. And exactly at the point he thought his heart could no longer take it, his eyes widened in disbelief and hurt. He fell to the ground with a thud, eyes wide open, blood pouring out of his wound.

And just like that hope died along with him. There were no survivors from the war. At least not from their sides.

In reality, the sword was not the one that killed him. But the way truth did, it was very predictable no one from their race could ever stand up again.