by Mark B Frost
Chapter 33.
The Warlords of the Military
The charging forces of Felthespar crashed recklessly into the overwhelming numbers of Cainites. Kinguin watched from the city as the two waves came together. A resounding boom filled the plains, and roars and battle cries quickly turned into shrieks and cries of agony. At first it seemed as though the knights had the advantage, as the heavily armored infantry pounded deep into the Cainite ranks and halted their momentum. Then the Cainite forces adapted, pulling away from the clash of brute strength and switching to a tactic of speed and swiftly cast spells.
The foremost forces of knights held their shields—which had been decorated with some of Kinguin’s warding talismans—high to fend off the Cainite magic. When there was a lapse in the ferocity of spells they once again launched themselves forward. After the first few such exchanges, it seemed as though the Knighthood still held the advantage.
“What do you think?” Kulara asked the Archmagus with reservation.
“So far so good, I dare say. Yet it seems unlikely that your forces will be able to maintain this vigor. The Cainites have us badly outnumbered, and both sides are aware of this fact. Even if the enemy holds no other advantages, they will have the advantage in morale. As the battle wages on, that will increasingly become a deciding factor.”
“And of course,” the General added, “they do still hold the advantage in numbers.”
“Of course.”
The two watched as the battle raged, and Kinguin’s face became increasingly severe as the army of Felthespar began to be slowly driven back.
* * * * *
Shasta and Cyprus led a group of heavy infantrymen charging into enemy ranks. When the Cainites pulled away and started casting spells, Shasta had only barely been able to get his shield up in time, while the Lord of Saelen knocked the attacks away with his mirrored gauntlets wrapped in grey magic. The attacks subsided and the Dragoon once again spearheaded the charge forward. As the troops struck deeper into the throngs of enemy units, he found himself pulled away from Cyprus, and soon separated entirely from the other knights. He worried for but a moment, then shrugged it off and launched himself at the nearest enemies.
The Cainites mostly fought with small, swift katanas, although a few used hand axes or short spears. They were well trained, but clearly inexperienced. Shasta soon determined that while they knew how to handle themselves in combat, they were disturbed by the carnage and noise created by the huge battle. He used this to his advantage, shouting and roaring wildly as he tore into successive foes. He tried to make his way to where he thought he had last seen the Cainite warlords, but by the time he got there they were nowhere to be found.
He ran a sweep around his right side with his spear, and a fierce cleave to the left with his greataxe, clearing an area out around him. He took this second of freedom to look around, but all he could see in any direction was Cainite warriors. “Dammit,” he muttered, “I’m never going to find anyone.” A brave enemy ran in at him, and Shasta nimbly disarmed the man with the spear, then took his head with the axe. “If I’m stuck out here, might as well make the best of it. Have at you, Cainite scum!”
For a while he did some real damage, killing dozens of enemies in a matter of minutes. Then they began to regroup away from him, sending in a soldier or two at a time. Shasta found himself encircled and struggling to keep a step ahead of his constantly renewed foes.
He quickly lost his spear—shattered across an enemy skull—and resorted to fighting with his axe and Morabet. A single lanky Cainite wielding two long katanas stepped into the circle and eyed him cautiously. Shasta motioned him forward with the axe, then charged without waiting. The Cainite used his swords defensively, agilely catching and dodging incoming attacks. Every so often the dark warrior would slip in a small slice, but the Dragoon’s heavy armor deflected them all.
Shasta recognized that his opponent was trying to wear him down, so he gathered a burst of grey magic to his arms and struck a single ferocious blow with his Morabet. The sword shattered both of the Cainite’s katanas, then tore through the man’s body at the waist. The Felthespari was about to gloat, when he sensed something coming at him from behind. He rapidly turned to see another Cainite—identical to the one he had just killed—coming down at him from a ferocious leap. He tried to strike upwards, but he had reacted too late. The ambusher sliced the head off of his axe and sent his Morabet flying away with a swift twin katana combo, then finished the attack with a slash across Shasta’s head.
The katana bit through his helmet and the blade sliced deep into the side of his head just below the ear. He reacted in time to save his life, thrusting his body the same direction as the swing and throwing himself clean of the sword before it rent his head from his shoulders. He landed hard on the ground and hastily ripped off his helmet, grabbing the side of his face in agony.
The Cainite stepped forward and looked down at him. “Foolish Onion Knight. You cannot overcome such as we, the Cainite Elites. It is impressive that you killed my brother, but clearly you have overstepped your limit. Now you have no weapons and are at my mercy.” Shasta shakily reached his hand up toward the man. “Would you dare beg me for mercy?” the dark warrior taunted. “Such a thing would be utterly futile.”
Suddenly the Military Councilor made a fist with his upheld hand and cocked it down as far as he could. Two slim rods shot out of each side of his forearm and a crossbow bolt flew straight into the eye of the Elite standing over him. As the man dropped his katanas and fell to the ground, Shasta rose to his feet.
“A word of caution, Mister Elite—a Phoenix Dragoon is never unarmed.” He reached behind his back and drew forth two short swords, then once again launched himself into the ranks of Cainites, working his way out of the circle in which they had entrapped him.
* * * * *
If the first battle was meant to be a learning experience, Zynex Traval was learning that he was in his element. The Cainites were quick fighters, apt to dodge most attacks and keep their distance to use spells from afar. This suited Zynex well. He also preferred to keep distance between himself and his opponent while nimbly dodging incoming attacks. As most of his enemies proved to be no faster than he was, the Lord of Lurin was finding this battle to be quite fun.
While the Cainites’ talisman-based method of casting spells was much quicker than that of the Felthespari war mages, an arrow from Zynex’s bow was faster still. He dashed about the battlefield, always moving, always firing an arrow or two into someone’s face or throat. His elite archers followed his lead, and for a while they did well pruning the Cainite front lines.
Eventually the armies became too entangled to continue this barrage, so he sent out a few shrill whistles, signaling his archers to shoulder bows and draw swords. Zynex himself reached for the pair of twin long daggers he always kept strapped across his chest, then headed to confront Cainite troops on more intimate terms.
He was untouchable. The Cainites had not anticipated facing a faster opponent, so Zynex easily slipped among them, decapitating and disemboweling with his long daggers. A few spells came close to hitting him, but he knew enough grey magic to leap nearly ten feet into the air, and he used this ability soar out of the way of the more dangerous blasts. He even encountered a number of the Elites, but had only a minimal amount of trouble before drawing his bow and sending arrows to their throats.
Then, as he was delivering a particular vicious sweeping attack into one foe’s torso, he heard a roar and felt a slight rumbling behind him. Following his instincts, he let his reflexes take over and launched himself away to his right, just as a huge boulder smashed down and crushed the Cainite he had been fighting.
He turned and stared at the boulder, then let his eyes follow the long shaft attached to it and see the mammoth of a man standing at the other end. Not a trace of flesh could be seen, as his entire body was covered with a ragtag collection of shields and armors all arranged carelessly. By his size, Zynex estimated th
at he had to have at least three or four layers of this armor on. The archer suspected he would not find this foe quite as easy as the previous.
He wasted no time pondering his concerns and charged into the fray. The boulder rose from the ground with disturbing speed and once again smashed downward at his head. He hopped up over the attack, letting his feet land on the giant rock and then launching himself at the armored tank that wielded it. He did a neat spin in midair, slicing several times with each of his knives, then landed nimbly on the pole of the massive weapon and leaped over his opponent. As soon as his feet touched the ground he turned and ran a sweeping uppercut with each of his knives at his enemy’s back, then launched himself backward. His legs barely cleared the boulder as it was swung around in a broad sweep, and he felt a painful wind whip at his face. In an instant he knew he had almost just died, and he loved it.
He stopped for a second to observe how much damage he had done to his opponent, and was dismayed to find that his knives had not even sliced through the first layer of armor. The giant seemed to notice his reaction.
“I am Hartik,” he said with a deep accent that Zynex could not place, “ally to the Cainite legion. My armor is made of the shields of slain warriors, shields that did not break in their battles, shields which will not be broken in mine. You see, little archer, most soldiers make their shields tougher than their armor because they cannot bear the weight of an armor so heavy. But for a man as powerful as myself the extra weight causes no problem. The power of this armor makes me invincible.”
As the man spoke, the Felthespari examined the crude bucket shape that might be called a helmet. It seemed to be the only obvious place an arrow could penetrate, which meant the big man would doubtless be guarding his face well. Zynex suddenly sent one of his daggers forward, flinging it with all his might. The blade crashed impotently into the giant’s armored chest, piercing only a single inch and then falling to the ground at his feet. Hartik stepped down and snapped the dagger, as the archer quickly returned the other to its sheath. He pulled out his bow and ran a hand through the arrows in his quiver, quickly counting them by feel. “Only about ten left,” he mumbled to himself. “Hope I can hit him with at least one.”
He started firing, aiming for places he hoped might be openings. The arrows either bounced off harmlessly or stuck into a piece of armor, but none reached flesh. Hartik began charging forward, his weapon hovering just slightly above the ground, and Zynex tried to slip a couple of arrows into his face. The big man saw them coming and raised his left arm, deflecting the darts off of a huge shield on his forearm.
He raised his hammer with his right arm alone, coming in with another powerful sweep attack. It was then that Zynex finally saw his opening. He had precious little time to react, but fortunately already had an arrow nocked to his bow. He raised it and, taking no time to aim, fired and muttered a prayer.
The shot could not have been more perfect. It struck Hartik between his chest and shoulder, where the joint of his armor had revealed a slim opening. The unexpected pain caused him to let go of his hammer and it went circling into the ranks, killing a score of soldiers before crashing to a halt.
Hartik did not stay stunned for long. He delivered a crushing downward sweep with his left arm, which had to weigh at least forty pounds. Zynex jumped left, assuming the man’s right arm was out of commission. This was proven wrong as the giant gave a fierce right punch, catching the archer’s face in midair and sending him flying away.
Zynex hit the ground hard, rolling a few times before catching himself and landing in a crouch. Blood poured from his face where it had been smashed and bitten by metal, and his head throbbed so hard that he could not hear anything. He smiled through his pain and tears as he watched the metal monster that was charging at him even now.
“I think he just killed me. Well if that’s the case, I guess there’s no risk in trying something stupid.” The bottom of his bow had been broken off, so Zynex quickly removed the bowstring and tossed it aside. He waited until his assailant was only five yards away from him, then with his last ounce of strength threw himself forward and stabbed his bow into the ground, pointing the broken end straight at the top of Hartik’s thigh.
The bow went into a joint opening similar to the one his arrow had struck, and the jagged wood of the broken bow bit deep into the man’s groin. He shrieked in agony, then tripped and fell straight to the ground. Some final reflex of Zynex’s allowed him to roll away at just the right moment, and Hartik crashed hard onto empty grass, losing consciousness in a wave of pain.
The Lord of the Feather drew his dagger once more and pointed it at the armored body laying before him. His eyes filled with blood and his vision blurred as he began to black out. “I know you have a face in there somewhere, ya’ monster. If I could see right now, I’d carve it out with this knife of mine.” Cainites closed in to finish him off and check on their fallen commander. Zynex resigned himself to death, let out a low whistle, and then fell into unconsciousness.
He would not hear the sudden whip of arrows that ripped through the Cainites surrounding him, nor would he see the ferocity of Cyprus Galahe as he charged through to his fallen friend’s side. But he would be told the tale later, and would never forget either the loyalty of his archers or his fellow councilor.
* * * * *
Cildar felt like a god among ants. He knew how dangerous it was for a soldier to let his ego flare up, but he could not resist the feeling of glee that swelled in his chest. There were thousands of Cainites, and for every one he killed three more seemed to appear. Still they were not enough to stop him. Not once was he touched, not once was his armor nicked, not once was his clothing torn. His Lance and Morabet alike rent Cainite flesh, smashed Cainite weapon, shattered Cainite bone. Anyone foolish enough to step forward and oppose him was crushed immediately, brutally, and the Lord of the Phoenix stepped eagerly to find a new opponent.
Myris was doing similarly well, but was clearly enjoying it far less. Incoming spells were absorbed mercilessly into his thirsting Soul Scythe, along with enemy lives. The Cainites were bred for speed, but never had they imagined the speed of Myris Phare and his ghastly scythe. Their own champion had turned on them, and they stood no chance in the wake of his fury.
For a moment Cildar was left standing alone, his enemies retreating away from him. He stood catching his breath and reveling. “Do you feel it, Myris? We’re gods here. The storm of war devours soldiers but dares not touch us. We alone stand above it all.” He shouted aloud to the sky, “Is this what it’s like for you, Daemon? Is this the power that you hold, the glory that you feel when you fight? No wonder you’re such a monster. No man could give this up.” He charged forward into another group of Cainites and once again began wreaking havoc.
He stayed close to Myris, more out of habit than concern for the man’s safety. Soon the Cainite forces before them split away, and a tall woman in dark clothing carrying her own giant scythe stepped forward. A trail of black smoke followed behind and floated up around her, a Cainite illusion. Cildar braced himself to dash in and engage the woman in combat, then he felt a hand land lightly on his shoulder.
“Do not. This is my battle.”
He looked at Myris and noticed a strange sincerity in his eyes. “You want to do this alone, I take? Will you be okay?”
“I assure you, I am in no danger. I just need to handle this myself.”
Cildar nodded, then turned and dashed into the ranks of Cainites, leaving a trail of the slain behind him.
Myris and Karrin Tranch faced each other silently for a moment. Then each began the charge forward, and their scythes crashed together. Karrin’s scythe was twice as big as the Soul Scythe, and her physical power was daunting. But Myris fought hard and managed to match the ferocity of her attacks blow for blow, countering her scythe, smashing against her every slash, never once giving a single inch.
All of the surrounding soldiers stayed far away from the two combatants, knowing not to get i
nvolved in a duel between warlords. For nearly five full minutes the two fought at full vigor, scythes clashing and reverberating. Finally they hopped away, both sweating and catching their breath, exhausted from the lengthy exchange.
Myris was the first to break the silence. “Do not make me kill you, Karrin. It would bring me no pleasure.”
“You are a traitor. Nothing to me except a traitor.”
“Do you not remember me? We were once friends. Our fathers were friends, and their fathers before them were friends. The ties between our families run deep.”
“Ran deep. They once ran deep. But then you left me.” She straightened her back and her face contorted with rage. “You were my one friend, my only friend, and you left me in this hateful world all alone. All alone, Myris! Did you think that in five years I would forgive that? Did you think that in five years, I wouldn’t learn how to hate you?”
He shook his head slowly and his deep brown hair tossed lightly from side to side. “Do not make me kill you, Karrin,” he repeated hollowly.
“Tell me, oh great chosen Cainite, what makes you think you can kill me?”
Before her eyes, he disappeared. A slight grey shadow shimmered in front of her body for a second, then Myris reappeared. For an instant it seemed as though nothing had happened. Then the massive head of her scythe fell from the staff to which it was attached and clanged loudly onto the ground. The staff itself fell into half a dozen separate parts, and in her hand Karrin was left holding only a foot of pole.
She bent over and picked up the blade of her scythe, staring at it emptily. “Derris wants to kill you himself,” she announced without fear in her voice. “It’s not my place to rob him of that pleasure.” She turned and walked back into the throngs of men and women struggling, never once looking back. “Kill him, if you can,” she shouted to her forces, and they quickly dashed forward and closed in.
Myris’ eyes never left Karrin as she walked away from him, but he whispered quietly to the forces that surrounded him, “Fools should not attack gods.” Then there was a dark flash of movement, and severed Cainite limbs flew in every direction.
