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slaughtered the men of Antarese.
    He heard a woman screaming in fury.
    For an instant Arran thought the heat had driven him mad, that he was again hearing the screams in Carlisan, in Antarese. But the woman’s cries of rage grew louder, and he heard a deep, rumbling voice.
    He recognized that voice. It belonged to Prince Baal-Mar-Dan.
    Arran lurched to his feet, his vision swimming, his head reeling. He drew his Sacred Blade and crept towards the nearby gully, trying to keep his footfalls silent. 
    He spotted Baal-Mar-Dan standing at the bottom of the shallow gully.
    “You should be honored, woman.” The winged demon stood with his back to Arran. His clawed hand clasped a slender woman around the neck. She wore strange dust-colored clothing, and a black spear with a grease-stained head lay at her feet. “Royal blood flows in my veins. You shall bear my son.”
    The woman smirked, dark hair with silver streaks falling over her face. “I know better. You will not.”
    Baal-Mar-Dan snarled. “Do not mock me.” Arran’s parched lips thinned. Perhaps he could take one of Goth-Mar-Dan’s vile spawn with him in death. He drew his Glock and took aim. The woman looked up, and her green eyes widened as she saw Arran. 
    “You will…what are you looking at?” Baal-Mar-Dan turned.
    Arran fired, and his bullets reduced the left half of Baal-Mar-Dan’s face to ruin. The winged demon screamed, black blood splashing across his armored chest. The woman squirmed and darted free. 
    “You!” roared Baal-Mar-Dan. The winged demon drew his scimitar and took to the air. Arran dropped his gun and took his Sacred Blade in both hands. He parried the first blow, dodged the second, and took the third on his chest. The scimitar ripped a gash down Arran’s side, and he gasped in pain and stumbled back. Baal-Mar-Dan’s free hand slammed into Arran’s stomach, and sent him tumbling down the side of the gulley. Something shattered in his knee and sent a blast of pain up his leg. 
    Arran managed to kneel on his good knee, his Sacred Blade trembling in his hand.
    Baal-Mar-Dan laughed. “You are weak, fallen Knight. Perhaps I shall take you to Marugon alive.”
    Arran coughed. “Never.” Blood soaked into his torn clothes.
    Baal-Mar-Dan jumped from the edge of the gully. Arran tried to parry, but his exhausted muscles moved with agonizing slowness. Baal-Mar-Dan snatched him by the throat and flew into the air, Arran’s feet dangling. 
    The winged demon’s scimitar plunged into Arran’s gut. 
    He screamed as pain exploded through him, blood welling up in his throat.
    Baal-Mar-Dan flung him away, and Arran landed at the edge of the gully. He could not stand, could not even kneel, and felt his life’s blood seeping through the wound in his belly. 
    Baal-Mar-Dan’s laughter rang out. “Perhaps I shall not take you to Marugon. I will feast on you instead.”
    “Damn you,” whispered Arran. 
    Then Baal-Mar-Dan’s mocking laughter dissolved into a scream. The dark-haired woman appeared behind him, the black spear in hand. She stabbed again, and Baal-Mar-Dan howled and flailed at her. The woman danced away, her hair flying about her head. 
    The demon would tear her to shreds. Arran could not let that happen. He had failed to save Luthar and so many others.
    But perhaps he could still save her.
    Arran surged to his feet, feeling something tear inside of his stomach, and threw himself at the winged demon. His Sacred Blade slid into Baal-Mar-Dan’s chest, blazing azure fire. The demon screamed, and Arran lost his balance and fell against Baal-Mar-Dan. His weight drove the demon backward, over the edge of the gully, and they fell. Arran landed atop Baal-Mar-Dan, driving the Sacred Blade deep into the winged demon. The pommel struck Arran’s chest with enough for to shatter one of Arran’s ribs. 
    He groaned and rolled away. 
    Baal-Mar-Dan howled in mortal agony. Arran watched as white fire burst from his eyes and mouth, the Sacred