by Philip Read
We pour into the gap as several such gaps open throughout their lines. Defenders now dividing their attention between different opponents, no longer having the luxury of only expecting death to come only from the front.
The fighting is muddy and bloody. Many of the Sandies are already tired, we’ve been at each other’s throats for hours at this point. And even as we fight giving our all, we have no idea how the rest of the army is fairing.
*
Fighting with forces this large is never easy. You become a small cog in a big mechanism, and though you may personally perform admirably the mechanism may fail due to other other factors involved. And in a battle of this size there are many such factors involved.
We cut into their lines like blood-thirsty wraiths. Butchering them enthusiastically in the several minutes it takes for them to re-establish their defensive line. My monster nodachi taking blood from a felled opponent for the first time and it’s vibrating him changes slightly. I may have a closer understanding with my zanpakutō, but I am yet to understand her.
I block a strike aimed at the person besides me and kick out hard. Connecting with the flat bottom of my boot solidly against a quickly raised shield. But I still gain some ground as my opponent is pushed back a step. I block two strikes one after the other aimed at me from elsewhere and strike forward. Stabbing through one of my opponent’s throats.
The rest fight a retreating battle as they realign themselves. Defending and keeping us honest with spears and short swords until all their gaps are again closed. We get back into a sort of stalemate with the Sandersonians. Though having slaughtered a substantial number of them.
But these Sandies don’t break, unlike the first Sandies I fought against so many years ago. These Sandies mostly fight to the end. But they have a division of soldiers dedicated to fighting a retreating battle for when their army has to disengage or get slaughtered. These divisions seem to excel at this, and other specialized tasks of war.
Because of their bravery and fighting spirit, the southern invaders have become a worthy enemy. Spoken of fondly by warriors as they tell accounts of the valiant opponents they killed. No longer referred to as the ‘soft southerners’, by most of our people.
Chapter 23
Sachi
The fighting continues for hours. Sometimes I’m distracted by the flashing of lights in the distance signaling the use of magics. A reminder that though I may be fighting hard such struggles are taking places all over the field of battle.
That this isn’t even the main force where the mages and other Awakened have been concentrated.
We cannot flank the Sandies due to their magics and wards. They cannot flank us due to the diligence of our seers. Facing each other in open conflict seem to be the only way a victor will be determined.
I deflect a strike, push a shield hamming me in aside with my open palm and vault my nodachi over the shield to skewer my opponent. I take a breath and drink a mouthful of water before heading back into the fight.
I have no idea where Om ended up in this chaos of bodies but I still see a lot of familiar faces. Faces I grew up seeing around the village. We are all comrades now. We have each other’s backs, we’ve struggled together and have formed an unbreakable bond.
Thirst is something common in the battlefield, especially with blood lose. Thus every single one of us has a water-skin on their person somewhere. We fight and fight and quench our thirsts and dawn turns to day. More than ten hours having been expanded in the fighting so far.
Our superior stamina starts to show as the day fully establishes itself. Our opponents exhausted and dying from simple mistakes they otherwise wouldn’t have made. We make them pay for them in blood.
Our superior endurance and strength seemingly being revitalized with every opponent we fell. Encouraged by adrenaline and the sight of our opponents giving up finally. The extra dose of adrenaline after a marathon of combat giving us the extra energy.
But relatively quickly their superior numbers show their value. The quick thinking general replacing his front lines with fresh soldiers that were reserved for this eventuality. Soldiers so fresh that they were probably still asleep at the start of the battle.
The transition isn’t seamless though and we take our pound of flesh. We make them pay for replacing so many, killing the largest numbers of Sandie’s at this time than any other time in the fighting. Killing both a large number of the retreating line and especially a large number of the fresh troops.
Every single one of the Sandersonians that has lasted this long can now be considered a veteran of war. Even as they retreat many are saved by their now honed battle instincts and reflexes after hours of battle. But the new arrivals are not so in the rhythm of the fighting to accomplish this yet, and we rip into them.
Their blood not yet jot enough to face a Barbarian already in the stride of battle. It takes a few minutes for the new arrivals to find their feet on solid ground under our onslaught. We make them pay, and as with most things we make them pay in blood.
The screams of pain and horror and the smell of blood and shit permeate the air as we eviscerate them. Rivalling in the give of flesh under axe, blade, spear or hammer. Rivalling in the fight itself more than the slaughter. To test ourselves in such a way, to be truly at the panicle of being alive.
There is nothing as intoxicating as a good fight. A fight to the death where your opponent is worthy of the honour of taking your life. And you are honoured for the opportunity to take theirs. A fight you can let lose your inner animal on, unbridle the violence within yourself without fear of causing too much damage. That is the opportunity war provides for us, a happy occasion for the Barbarian Tribes of the Tundra.
A lot of the southerners are unnerved by the smiles, grins and outright laughter that come from many of the tribesmen as they fight. They joy they seem to be taking in this slaughter must look unnatural to the Sandies.
I grin myself after using an experimental combination of moves to decapitate an opponent. A combination of battlefield experience and the 32nd form. I take a moment to look around as space opens around me. I can’t believe no one saw me perform that move.
The space quickly closes again as I’m being charged by a shield bash again. With the limited space available in the melee I haven’t been able to kill as many opponents as I imagine everyone else has. Not with my polearm of a nodachi needing a bit more room to be devastating.
And not when most of my opponents can just camp behind their shields for the majority of our exchanges. A shield and spear user or shield and short sword user has the clear advantage in such a battle.
But because they underestimate a personal wielding a single longsword in the mist of such battle, I end up killing my first few new opponents quickly before the rest wise-up. The flow and tempo of the battle taking me to new areas of fighting constantly.
I jump forward and my foot connects with a shield. The shield bangs into the face of my opponent and I land with a downward strike on another closing in, connecting with a hum and a ring with his shoulder guard. Shocking an opponent who thought himself still too far for me to reach.
I cut deep into his armour but not all the way through. I deflect another strike as I land, crouch, twist and spin in a complete revolution. A strike passing over me as my zanpakutō connects with a shin guard. Also not cutting through but breaking the leg bone behind it.
I twist right as a blade scratches into my side, dodging most of the downward strike while simultaneously striking upwards. My blade is deflected by a shield but I keep it in constant motion, wielding it in my right hand with ease.
I lift a knee and my leg stops the shield bash that has gotten within my guard. My shin bone rattles and probably fractures as I stop the shield in its tracks. All my balance and power on my right leg still on the ground digging a furrow with the force of our struggle.
I deflect a throw dagger going for my head from the side. Alerted by the telltale glint of metal spinning in the sun. But
this leaves me completely open to the opponent within my guard who goes straight for my ribs.
Her spear pierces into my side as I twist, almost losing my footing but managing to only allow it to pierce the flesh of my side and break the lowest rib. Saving myself from a pierced lung.
It wouldn’t have killed me, not a chance. I am a Barbarian after all and with my zanpakutō in hand I have the Rage within me. But it has become a sort if competition amongst the fighters to determine who can fight longest without going into the berserker rage.
But even as that thought goes through my mind my opponent suddenly retreats as a spear smashes into her shield hard.
I take the opening with a sweep of my left hand across my back and forward to the shoulder of an opponent that has just blocked my zanpakutō. I connect with my heavy spiritually bound sheath on his collar bone breaking it with an audible snap.
His shield drops like a stone and I detach the rest of the arm at the shoulder with a spinning arcing upward strike at the armpit. Before a spear stabs into his eye, the surprised look not leaving his face even in death. I have no idea how many opponents I was facing in all but four now face me and my spear wielding friend.
I give him a glance and I don’t think I’m as surprised as I should be to see Freydìs’ brother Asger standing next to me with shield and spear. I grunt and nod at him, he nods back and that’s the only acknowledgement we need from each other.
I look at the grim faced men and woman standing before us. Ready for the next clash. All of them breathing hard and sweating, not enjoying their jobs at all. Worthy opponents one and all who refuse to retreat or fall without a fight. I nod at them in acknowledgement. One spits at the side, the others nod back almost reluctantly.
I throw my water skin to the woman who is panting the hardest. Its caught by the one with the cleaved shoulder guard. He sniffs at the skin then takes a sip before passing it on. The fighting still intense around us.
I look to Asger and we both face our opponents again and we engage. Each of us facing off against two southern warriors in a fight to the death.
Chapter 24
Asriel
I stand and critically watch the battle amongst the noncombatant chieftains, a kind I didn’t know existed within the Barbarian culture. But I’ve learnt that a village chief may be a noncombatant and still carry respect within some of the tribes.
I’m amongst the company of the nine Sidhe fae that seem to be making a permanent home in the growing wonder of a city, Paradisum. They watch the battle silently, sipping at their dainty cups with the blue vicious liquid they call Ambrosio.
Among the company of watchers are the dwarves that still remain largely none participative in this war even as hords of their ancestral cousins march to battle as we speak. Here I stand as we watch the battle. Very little talking taking place among us besides a few grunts or whispers in response to moves of the war chiefs or generals on the various battle fields.
During study at the Order I was never a good student of war but standing here and being actually able to see the ebb and flow of the battle. How each move and counter move affects the entirety of the battle is interesting to see, and watching it all from this perspective gives the illusion of watching one huge creature turn and fidgit struggling against itself. The audience is entranced as we watch this all important game of life and death.
This is almost the 50th hour of continuous battle as the night fills the world with it’s light. With the Sandersonian mages at work and the Barbarian berserkers having fun, there is no such thing as ‘stop’ just because of a little thing like poor visibility or a need to rest.
The fighting is very protracted and draining to the combatants, but very beautiful to watch.
During the beginning of dusk 50 hours into the day the tribal drums started beating. The sound is deep loud and long. The rhythm vibrating within my chest, affecting the beating of my heart to it’s tempo. I wish I could capture the ambience of joyful struggle and pride created at this moment in a picture, have a people like these Barbarians ever existed anywhere else?
I feel invested in these people’s fate as though they were my own people. I feel responsible as I watch the fighting with all my senses. Listening the the loud beating of the drums permeate the night as though we were at a celebration or a bonfire. How are they so gleefull and proud as they watch their people struggle for their survival far in the distance bellow? Why am I so infected by the celebretary mood that fills all the space around me seeming to cause even the wind and the land to respond to its influence?
Somehow and naturally without any hickups the rising and falling of the battle’s tempo starts flowing in the rhythm of the drums. I am sure they are enhanced by magic somehow, I am sure!
*
We watch for hours more, the drumbeat keeping the tempo of my heart higher than it should be. Increasing awareness and adrenaline levels in the body. The excitment of the spetacular struggle doesn’t fade even after all this time analysing every move I can from this distance.
As night becomes deeper the blood on the battlefield turns from red to black to the naked eye affected by the light of the six moons of Gaia showing themselves in an unusual display of unexpected appearance. Even the four rare moons that only show themselves sporadically if at all to the world are visible tonight as though acknowledging the struggle below, feeding it and being fed by it in turn.
Looking down and watching the fighting spirit and heroisms of all the combatants, both Sandersonians and tribesmen how could I not admire the human spirit?
The Sandersonians have changed their fighting lines 16 times throughout the course of the day. Sixteen times their generals gave them time to rest and replenish themselves before heading back into the fight to replace other tired fighters. The battle continuing even during such substitutions almost without a hitch, it almost seems choreographed!
The Sandersonians paying dearly for every change but losing less and less soldiers as they got better at the swapping throughout the day. Of the approximately 190 000 Sandersonians present on the battlefield 180 000 of them joined the fighting at one point or another at this point i’m sure. Maybe even all of them have taste vattle today for what is a 10 000 reserve force that will not be able to stand even the Barbarian horde gets through the current soldiers? at least that’s my thnking but again war on this scale and fighting for yourself in a battle are completely different beasts to tame.
It is infectious to see this level of determination, this dedication to a cause a task or a way of life. Infecting not just me but everyone watching the fighting, everyone involved. Some tribesmen that previously classified themselves as none combatants have been seen to rush to the fight weapon in hand on occasion. Even the chiefs watching the fighting with me have been itching to go into the fray at one point or another, I feel the same way sometimes as well at the beat directs not just my heartrate and mood but something deeper.
I watch as another group of young men and women rush forward towards the war chief’s tent some with artifacts in hand as they go enquire were best they can make a difference. The people of the tribes are now calling all spiritually bound scalable weapons artifacts. This, as a way to help distinguish them from none bound weapons, or bound weapons that are none scalable.
A discovery by accident of using meteoric ore and a small amount of celestial ore shavings or powder to make bindable but none scalable items. Though they don’t seem to scale up in power regardless of the level of spiritual energy used to infuse them.
Artifacts are quickly becoming family heirlooms within the tribal culture. Passed from fallen warrior to family instead of claimed as loot as it used to be done when there was war between the tribes.
Now a days artifacts are being given as rewards to warriors that prove themselves in battle, tribesmen that achieve Awakening, or even as gifts to exalted allies or foes.
These celestial scalable spiritually bound artifacts are permeating the tribal culture and affecting how the
y see weapons and how they see themselves. A people that has always loved martial prowess and the strength of a good weapon, now they are learning to value weapon craft in a completely different way and are finding ways to honour not just the falled dead but the weapons they weilded in life.
It’s interesting to watch an entire people change before my eyes, shaped by the arrival of something new. As the Hito culture was shaped by the arrival of the katana. Or more specifically, the zanpakutō I see parallels here.
This is history being made and a historian will someday write, ‘This is the point at which the tribes became known as the keepers of the artifact,.’ or some such nonsense and they will be referring to this moment right now.
“The fight is about to end.” Miran says. The Sidhe is very peculiar but I can’t seem to pinpoint how exactly.
And just as he just predicted the horn to retreat is sounded and the Sandersonians are more than happy to pull back, a breath releases from the huge creature called battle as the Southerner’s relief at not being persued by the Tribesmen. Leaving quickly, many collapsing where they stand and being spared by the also backtracking Barbarians.
The many injured are helped out of the field, some having been bleeding out for hours. Even accumulating more injuries from being trampled upon or enduring dehydration. The entirety of the battle lines shiver like a living organism as everyone back tracks. Even barbarians in the Rage back track as everyone is completely tired of fighting, but the dream beats are celebratory as everyone who can leaves the field.
The fallen are pulled out by fellow tribesmen leaving the battlefield and by the healers and their many helpers. The healers being mostly the fae and the dwarves with a few highlanders amongst them. All their helpers consisting of young tribesmen and women.
“How bad would you estimate the loses to be?” I ask Seiji standing besides me. The vampires having shown up as soon as night fell.
