Chapter 87: Great Defeat
"I hear we have rights to the women as spoils of war," a mercenary muttered with a wolfish grin to the man beside him, his voice low but laced with ugly eagerness.
Eric heard it.
His helm turned slightly, and then his voice erupted, sharp and commanding enough to slice through the steady tramp of boots, loud enough for all eight hundred and fifty men to hear.
"Everything in Redwood is for the taking! Once the war is won, you are free to indulge yourselves!"
The army roared in savage approval. Shields banged, weapons clashed against armor in rhythm, and a mercenary near the front thrust his pike high into the air.
"Long live the Bar—ack!"
His cheer cut off in a wet, choking gurgle as an arrow punched through the side of his neck, the steel tip bursting out the other side in a fine spray of blood that splattered hot across his comrade’s cheek.
The man staggered, eyes rolling back, and collapsed like a windblown leaf spinning to the earth. For a heartbeat, there was stunned silence, then gasps, mutters, the sudden hiss of drawn steel.
That was when the sky darkened.
From the crest of Snake Hill came the shrill whistle of death, two hundred arrows in a single, murderous volley. They fell like the claws of some vast invisible predator, driving into flesh, punching shields, ripping through armor. Men screamed as shafts tore through eyes, split jaws, buried deep into chests, or transfixed forearms mid-guard.
Dozens went down in an instant, some writhing in the dirt, others crumpling soundlessly. A few still on their feet were skewered by a second arrow before they could raise a shield. The air filled with the sickening thump of bodies hitting the ground and the shrieks of the dying.
Panic spread like fire. Footmen shoved one another, trampling comrades as they scrambled for cover. Several unlucky souls, driven backward in the chaos, tumbled over the steep cliff’s edge, their screams fading into nothing before ending in the dull crunch of impact.
"Get a hold of yourselves! Archers, return fire—!"
Clang!
Eric’s head jerked to the side as his sword deflected an incoming shaft, one that had been aimed perfectly to slip through the narrow visor slit of his helm. For a fraction of a second, his breath caught. That was no stray shot, that was precision.
His voice hardened. "We have an Expert Archer! Set up wall—!"
But before his order could fully spread, three more arrows tore the air. One punched clean through the layered scale of a cataphract’s cuirass, dropping him from the saddle. Another slammed into the throat of a second Man-at-Arms, spraying arterial blood across his horse’s plated neck. A third hissed through the eyehole of a helm, the rider toppling lifelessly to the ground before his armored bulk even registered the hit.
Terror pricked at the edges of Eric’s mind. This wasn’t luck, this was systematic slaughter. Kaelor. It had to be Kaelor. But how had he assembled an archery unit with this level of skill, this discipline? Wasn’t he supposed to be fielding an army of ragged slaves, charging to their deaths in reckless waves? Not an Expert-Rank Archer capable of splitting plate gaps from a hundred paces! This was no ordinary soldier, this was a predator.
Eric’s gaze snapped upward, following the graceful, deadly curves of the arrows arcing high and then dropping with uncanny accuracy, cutting down his most heavily armored cavalry. The Men-at-Arms, his pride, his elite, were pinned in place, reduced to shining stationary targets, unable to close the distance or shield themselves from death raining above.
"Use the ladder! Charge up those walls!" he roared, fury and desperation blending in his voice.
His Footmen, to their credit, rallied, shoulder to shoulder, shields locking, pushing up the slope toward the enemy position. But before they had gone twenty strides, the sky flashed.
Three great orbs of roiling orange fire, each half the size of a barrel, came screaming down from the hilltop. They slammed into the shield wall like meteors.
Whump! Whump! Whump!
Flames burst outward, rolling over men in roaring waves, shields cracking and splintering as the leather bindings blackened and curled. Men screamed as fire clung to them, their leather armour charred black before they collapsed, writhing in the dirt. Those nearest the impacts were hurled bodily through the air, landing broken or burning.
Wooden shields reinforced with leather and wrought iron proved useless, no barrier could withstand that heat.
’Do they have catapults?’ Eric’s eyes widened, scanning frantically for siege engines. But there were no stones, no engines, only pure, conjured flame.
The realization struck cold.
’A Combat Arcanist!’
He watched in grim disbelief as a sudden gale howled down from the hilltop, catching the struggling Footmen mid-ascent and hurling them backward like leaves in a storm. They tumbled into their comrades below, just in time for a new barrage to fall.
These were no ordinary projectiles. Massive flameballs, even larger than the last, tore through the sky with black smoke trailing in their wake, their glow reflecting in the wide, terrified eyes of those about to die. They struck the ground with earth-shaking force, exploding into torrents of fire that devoured men and scorched the earth to blackened ruin. The stench of burning flesh mingled with acrid smoke, suffocating the air.
Such power was beyond him. Even as an Expert-ranked warrior, Eric knew this was not a foe he could handle.
"Fall back!" he bellowed, his voice raw over the din of battle. He wheeled his destrier sharply, the rest of the cataphracts following suit, their armor clattering in disarray as they began the retreat.
But then, from the tree line behind them came a deep, rolling chorus of snarls and guttural howls. The ground seemed to tremble as hundreds of wolf-men emerged, towering and broad-shouldered, their fur bristling and their eyes burning with primal fury. Each carried a heavy, iron-rimmed shield and a saber that gleamed wickedly in the dim light filtering through the smoke.
At their head strode a man with hair the color of sunlight, a longsword in his grip that pulsed faintly with runes and beside him, an even greater terror: a massive wolf-man with fur as white as fresh-fallen snow, his fangs long and curved, glinting like ivory scythes. In each hand he wielded a saber so large they looked forged for giants.
The sight alone was enough to chill the hearts of the Men-at-Arms. Some faltered, others froze. Before they could so much as brace, the Guardsmen were upon them.
Hound, white-furred and towering, moved like a storm given form. With a single horizontal slash, both his sabers cleaved through steel and bone, cutting two cataphracts from their saddles in one brutal motion. The runes etched into his Constellation Sabers blazed to life, and in their wake a violent gale erupted, whipping up clouds of dust and stones that stung the eyes and sent horses screaming in panic. The ordered ranks of the cataphracts unraveled in an instant.
Then came Hound’s roar, a thunderous, guttural bellow that rolled over the battlefield like the wrath of a beast-lord. The sheer force of it hurled some riders from their saddles, their mounts toppling with them, clearing a wide circle of chaos around the wolf-commander.
The Guardsmen surged forward, cutting through the elite cavalry like a disease that spared nothing. Steel flashed, blood sprayed, and the once-proud unit crumpled beneath the onslaught.
The howls that followed were deafening. The wolf-men slammed into the Footmen next, their momentum breaking the shield wall as if it were paper.
Jon saw one Footman brace behind his shield. With a snarl, Jon brought his saber down in a crushing overhead strike, the sheer force driving the shield into the man’s skull with a sickening crack. Before the soldier’s body hit the ground, Jon’s saber flashed again, opening his throat in a swift, merciless cut.
Another Footman lunged at Jon’s flank, the spike of his spear aimed for the wolf-man’s ribs. Jon batted it aside with his shield, stepped in close, and swept his saber in a vicious arc, tearing a deep gash across the man’s chest.
The soldier’s eyes went wide, disbelief etched on his face. He had seconds to realize the truth, that the enemies they faced were not men at all, before life left his body.
Eric’s gaze swept over the slaughter. His great army, the pride of the Baron’s war machine, was collapsing into ruin. Rage boiled in his chest, and he spurred his destrier forward, angling straight for the towering white wolf-man. His expression beneath his helm was carved in grim resolve as the runes on his golden armor flared to life.
But then, the world darkened. Not from clouds, but from something vast blotting out the sun itself.
Eric looked up.
A figure hung in the sky above the battlefield, Kaelor. Black wings stretched wide, vast as ship sails, each ribbed and leathery like the wings of dragons from half-forgotten myths. The wind they stirred beat down on the field, tugging at banners and scattering embers. He hovered there, untouched by the carnage raging below, a dark and commanding silhouette against the fading light.
In that moment, Kaelor seemed less a man and more a warlord of legend, a death incarnate, that came to reap the field.
Eric’s breath caught. His eyes widened within the narrow slit of his helm.