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[>>Now replaying: Log 1.14 - Shackle]
Date: Error
Location: Zephyro’s Domain?
//Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e’er of freedom. Here’s my hand.//
[>>DATA CORRUPTED]
E2 %I knew coming in here was a terrible idea!%
E1 %No, this is… this is incredible! We’re safe from the Takers.%
E3 %What? Why?%
E2 %Because no one but us is crazy enough to come in here! That’s the sign of the Tyrant Divine!%
Kasha looked to Zephyro, searching for reassurance, or maybe some sort of lie that would help her carry on, but the Vizier just shook his head.
“As ever, the Sultana’s wisdom flows as spring water,” he said, arms crossed as he followed my gaze through the broken gate. “If I were to guess, I would say if our Guard towers were still active, we could see Shackled walking up the road already.”
“But the Ferals…” Kasha began, her voice drifting off again.
“A probing attack,” I said. It was a half-truth. They probably wanted to swarm us with these beasts to soften us up before they closed in for the kill.
For what it was worth, Kasha took it better than I would have, in her position. She looked at her fellow warriors, probably saw as well as I how many of them were wounded, and how tired they looked.
You didn’t need to be a tactical genius to know the situation was dire.
Through it all, that soothing focus that came to me during big battles kept me calm, even if my mouth was dry and my stomach in ropes. Only two things mattered. To win, or barring that, to survive.
I thought about the carriage again, my ticket to comfortable safety. I’d kept pushing it out of my mind because just considering it felt like nothing but betrayal. Just standing in a command tent and giving orders was bad enough, and so I didn’t know how I would live with myself if I sat on soft cushions and relaxed a little while people fought and died to keep me safe. Still, what if I was making a mistake? Zephyro insisted I had to get to the Palace to claim the throne or the crown, but he never told me what that actually meant, just that it was important. It was kind of infuriating, but I suspected he must have his reasons. There were things you couldn’t discuss in the middle of a crowd, and perhaps there were some religious connotations that I didn’t understand.
Then the bells started ringing again, cutting my decision short.
“You said we’re expecting Shackled, right?” I asked Zephyro, who nodded. “How strong are they, compared to a Feral? Can you keep them occupied while we pick them off?”
Zephyro thought for a second, then he straightened and nodded again. His expression grew from concerned to cautiously optimistic, but I didn’t know if that was just for show or not.
“Humbly, I believe so, Sultana,” he said. “While the humans rarely control more than a couple of Shackled at once, even a single one is usually a formidable foe, as any of the Alkashuf will be able to attest. This faction of humans, however, seems to rely on subterfuge, and it is my hope that their cowardice is born from the weakness of their slaves.”
I thought about his reasoning for a second, then nodded my slow agreement. “Could be.” I hated to ruin the mood again, but I had to add “Or maybe they’re expecting more resistance, and this is killing sparrows with cannons?”
“Perhaps, Sultana. Whatever the case, I must urge you to not get too close to the heathens. Without proper protection, even a mere touch might have dire consequences.”
I nodded again, even though I had no idea what these dire consequences might be. In the end, it wasn’t like I was planning to find out. I walked toward the rear of the plaza and did my best to coordinate what was left of our defenders. Without any idea how long it would take our wounded to heal, I had to assume everything worked just like in the real world. That meant I would send injured people to the center and back, and most of our healthiest soldiers to the front while holding some in reserve for emergencies. I had far fewer of those than I would have liked, but it would have to do. It also didn’t matter how keenly I was aware that the people still unharmed were either those with exceptional skill, or far more likely those who’d rather stay a few steps away from the action. I didn’t blame them. I hadn’t been nigh-immortal for long enough to forget what fearing death was like.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
It took me precious minutes to dissolve the confusion. It didn’t exactly feel great to tell people to stop celebrating and get ready for another battle, and tired as they were, the soldiers struggled to fall into line. Just when I was about to get our people into a semblance of a decent formation, Zephyro yelled “Take cover!”
Before his last syllable had a chance to fade into the deafening silence, the broken remnants of the gate exploded in a shower of sparks and wood and flame and superheated stone. For a moment, reality hung frozen between seconds. Then the world glitched, rearranged itself, dissolved into a blurry mess before snapping back together. I remembered trying to scream away my confusion. Splinters hit me like hail, scraping, biting. A reign of chaos. People screaming. Shoving. Bells, hundreds of them, ringing an ear-splitting staccato that climaxed on another ear-splitting, eye-turning, stomach-punching glitch.
When the madness ebbed, the formation was in shambles. All our soldiers were either turned around, cowering, or dead. All of them, but Zephyro, who stood intransigent, radiating a faint silver glow. He’d drawn his sword and it brimmed with power, eager to defend those inside the Vizier’s sanctuary.
> A vista of Novus Apex. Fires. Rage. Strong hands holding my jaw, forcing me to watch.
> “Look at what you did, Sam.”
I grabbed the person next to me, a scout, and pulled her to her feet. Then I shook some sense into a militiaman. Then another. Anything to not think about that memory that had to be a fake.
My mace—its reassuring weight more bent and broken than ever— was in my hand again, awaiting the turmoil.
I didn’t have to wait long before the battle-calm finally pulsed in my chest again, and I let it take me without hesitation as something flashed red in the haze, and two figures emerged from the smoke.
They looked like postmodern storefront mannequins, a three-dimensional rendering with a low polygon count. Their forms suggested a torso with one head, two legs, and two arms, shaded dark orange to red, and didn’t reflect the firelight as they moved through the flames. Their movements were slow, deliberate, as if they couldn’t feel the heat at all. As far as weapons went, they carried simple gray rods, some game design student’s first prototype of a sword, or perhaps a club.
The second he saw the Shackled, Zephyro tensed. For a second, it was as if he was frozen in doubt, or maybe even fear, but then cyan light crackled over his form. It was hard to tell exactly what had changed when the arcs of blue faded. He’d become more substantial somehow, his outline more defined, like the world was a painting, and the artist had spent most of his time on him. He, and the Shackled.
Even though we were still scrambling to restore order, the militia fired their crossbows. Beams of light tore through the air. They slammed into the red figures and shattered them like glass, their shapes hanging in the air for a second, then dissipating into nothing. As they died, they released a shower of blue sparks, as I’d come to expect. Instead of pooling on the ground, however, they were pulled into the swirling chaos of the gate.
My fingers flexed around the shaft of my torch, but it did nothing to make me feel less like someone was pouring hot lead into my stomach. I wanted almost nothing more than to hit something until that damn feeling was gone. It was one of the only things that helped. That, and the indomitable safety offered by my friends.
Two more figures stepped out of the gate, and just like Zephyro, they looked more real, as if highlighted by all my senses at once. Again the Scouts fired, but this time, the red figure’s weapons blurred in the air, deflecting the bolts as if they were balls thrown by a child. The volley crashed into the surrounding buildings with a series of bright flashes and bangs as the figure twirled its weapon back into a ready stance.
“Allahu Akbar!” Zephyro yelled. God is Great.
Then he charged and his blade blurred, sending a large slice of white energy toward the Shackled.
“Allahu Akbar!” thundered the reply from all over the plaza, determined and afraid, just as the white line hit the weapon of the first enemy. At first, the figure tried to parry it as casually as the bolts, attempting to swat it away with one hand. In less than a second it had both hands on its weapon, leaning into the attack as if it were blocking a massive blade brought to bear by a giant.
If it hadn’t been for the other Shackled, the fight would have been over then and there. Zephyro stood before his target in a flash, blade raised for a follow-up that would decapitate his enemy. The other figure stepped around its comrade, however, and swiped at the Vizier, forcing him to step back and slap the crude weapon away with his scimitar.
Then their weapons became a blur, their speed mesmerizing to the point that our soldiers stood and watched, their weapons lowering as the fight unfolded. I’d seen that sort of behavior happen before. It happened every time when we’d been fighting Mage Lords. Not that I couldn’t relate. The first time I’d seen Stax and Jirrie spar no holds barred, I’d stared so hard my eyes started to water.
However, standing around and gaping was also foolish and could cost us everything.
“Fire!” I yelled. “Help the Vizier before they can recover!”
At that, the women and men around me snapped out of their stupor, and bolts started flying anew. They reached the Shackled just as the first one finally pushed the blade of energy away, and forced it to stop his attempt at flanking Zephyro.
The chaos of war swallowed everything after that. We rushed forward to relieve Zephyro because it was clear that without help, he would get overwhelmed, soon.