The being awakens in the middle of the night feeling sore all over, her chest panging in pain with each breath. She barely takes notice of it as such a condition has become part of her.
She runs her gaze over the plains and quickly finds human silhouettes in the gray spectrum her shining eyes perceive. She notes their positions as she reassembles her healing constructs, noting that her access is a dozen portions lower which means her health is terrible enough to directly consume her flow.
It takes two entire hours for the being to clean her wounds and bandage them, following which she spends another hour to fit her armor back on. Then she travels north, sneaking past the sentries.
--- --- ---
A phalangite blocks an insect's pike with his shield and counter-attacks from below, stabbing his spear underneath the triangular head to pierce through the weak point in the carapace made by the creature's short trunk.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The insect's gargling is drowned out by the breathing cry of hundreds of scouts. The phalangite flicks to the right, avoiding the second pike and slams his shield into the scout's trunk, throwing it back a mere moment before it releases a thin fog of black energy and bursts into flames.
“Ha!”
He and his company erupt in sync while taking a step back. Two scouts scamper over their dead comrade and into the space he freed, falling on him from either side.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The phalangite swears inside because it means he was designated as a weak point to probe by the insects. He angles to the left so as to give free reign to his supporting phalangite and uses a lion strike to slam his spear into the insect's carapace.
The point of his weapon glances off the interlocked carapace, confirming to him that the Rykz' instincts saw through his exhaustion. With despair, he swings his shield and blocks three pikes only to receive the fourth on his chest.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
As he struggles to absorb the impact, the steel armor of a dead phalangite a dozen meters ahead bursts into fragments. The phalangite silently thanks his dead comrade in arms while his live one stabs her spear over his shoulder, deep into the head of the other scout.
He pierces out with his spear, taking advantage of a habit the insects have to launch a counter-attack when one of a pairing dies to predict his opponent's charge and use the scout's own momentum against itself.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
As his spear finally pierces through the insect, and another coming from his left impales the creature's lower trunk, the phalangite witnesses an incoming gigantic silhouette and pales. Harvesters, an entire line of them already coming out of the ruins.
“Carol, the line is yours!” He cries out.
“May the Lake's flames grant you warmth, Lord Claren!” She responds with grief in her voice.
His cheeks, coated in dried brown blood, stretch as he smiles at his friend's response. He is touched that his birth they used to tease him during his service to now be given as a respectful farewell.
The phalangite links to the sympathetic construct and follows the flow's indications to judge his timing. He feels the time has come and leaps out of the formation.
He charges at the next line of charging scouts at the same time as others like him do along the front-line and blocks the first pike that he finds in his way while comrades on either side do the same.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
He blocks a pike and stabs out with an armor-piercing construct straight into the insect's most vital point at the center of their trunk. He uses a lion's step to leap over the dying creatures towards the upcoming harvesters.
As he does, others do the same on his left and right but they manage to be quick enough to get past the scout before it retaliates while this phalangite is simply too exhausted from having fought all the way from the eastern quarter of the ruins to this western one.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
He does not feel the Rykz construct set his boot on fire, or the black energy spread out but the sympathetic construct informs him. The phalangite feels a burst of fear that he represses as he makes the conscious decision not to waste the last of his flow to prolong his already forfeit life.
“Screw you!” Lord Claren yells as he leaps over a row of triangular heads with flames climbing up his leg.
On the other side stands a line of charging harvesters. The tall beast towers over the battle in not only height but also through the irresistible strength contained within each of their eight limbs.
Four pointy legs that propel their huge weight and four bladed arms that will either cut or crush their enemies. One such creature barrels into Lord Claren as he lands with his shield up, sending him rolling back.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
He slams his arm down and stops himself. As he tries to rise, he finds his breath constrained by a bent chest-plate which is dreadful news because it signifies the damage to his armor has grown so extensive that the sympathetic construct couldn't spread it out without endangering the life of another phalangite.
He feels a scorching heat bite into his waist but does not let it distract him from his duty. He drives the butt of his spear to the ground and rises, only to find a scout looking down at him. He barely manages to angle his spear to parry the pike thrust at him.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The insect, having failed, immediately scampers off to free the way for the harvester which arrives with its torso arced backward, it's thick black interlocked carapace extended to the fullest extent.
Staring death in truth, with the majority of his flesh being turned into fuel by the Rykz' fire construct, Lord Claren pours the last of his energy into the armor-piercing construct and stabs out with his spear.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
As the tip of his weapon goes through five centimeters of carapace and then pierces even deeper, the harvester strikes. It swings its two lower arms at either side of his waist, shearing through the phalangite's armor through sheer power.
Then, the upper arms fall on the man's shoulder-guards, crushing them along with all the bones underneath. Lord Claren dies directly from the shock but his arm, unaware, keeps pushing the spear until it finds and severs the creature's spine.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The creature's four legs give out and it drops atop its killer only for the pervasive fire construct to set it ablaze as well. This large pyre is all that remains of two living beings who fought for their species with their lives on the line.
In the grand scheme of things, even in the scope of this battlefield, neither of their sacrifices had a perceptible effect on the situation despite the human's courage and the harvester's faith.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Yet, such events occur across the entire front-line, changing everything. Each spear struck inside a head or trunk is replied to by four scythes from a harvester strengthened with flow which give the human very little chance at survival no matter how intact their gear is or how much damage their sympathetic construct alleviates.
Like this, instead of the harvesters colliding with the Twelfth's, they are intercepted by individuals like Lord Claren who rush out from the front-line and their charge is stopped dead.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The following ranks of harvesters encounter these dead bodies and are forced to slow down to climb over them while the phalanx uses this opportunity to leave the death-trap of these ruins entirely.
It cost them hundreds to stop this charge from reaching their ranks exactly because the giants refused to die alone. And the Rykz are more than willing to let them pay this price.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The Queen herself, standing tall within the remains of the fortress, observes the events unfold from afar and activates the ruins' construct one last time at full power which causes the runes to crumble as they activate.
Black flow swirls, the energy rushes through pavement, along broken walls, around corners, and lastly out of the streets in a fog that moves like a tide. The Twelfth's last two flow-smiths raise their heads at the overwhelming sight.
They send the reserves of golden flow they've managed to drag out of the city in cisterns to fuel the sympathetic construct, something that slowed their retreat down which is why Marshal Ciervo tried to give the order to abandon everything with his dying breath but failed and Templar Remus found himself in no state to relay his words if he even understood them in the chaos.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The phalanx' last seven Majors, commanding six regiments of a thousand, link to the sympathetic construct protecting their phalangites and allow them access so that they can draw energy from it to fuel their defensive constructs.
The black wave of energy doesn't rush out alone, scouts throw themselves at the Twelfth's lines along with it, resulting in horrifying casualties as phalangites never lower their spears even in the face of death.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Hundreds of scouts fall dead, impaled, only to burst into flames that consume spears and shields. The black fog, under the control of Princesses hiding in the ruins, spreads out to swallow up the Twelfth's ranks.
The flow particles composing it drain an equivalent amount of energy from the constructs they encounter, whether they be armor-piercing, defensive, or sympathetic.
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This causes the phalanx's overall energy reserves to drop sharply and the fog to dissipate, revealing spherical lightning constructs which strike out at the lines that are only protected by a fraction of the steel rods they had before. Crack.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The flashing white light almost blinds those phalangites that aren't charred by the attack. They have no time to thank the Lake for their survival as their hazy sight spots the harvesters charging through ranks of scouts which disperse and reform with methodical synchronicity so as to allow them to pass.
The large creatures barrel into the Twelfth's disorganized lines and plunge deep into their ranks while swinging their four bladed arms. Armors start shattering across the plains as a result of the sympathetic construct trying to spread out the damage.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Carol, as many phalangites, stabs out her spear into the flank of a passing harvester but it breaks before doing significant damage. There is simply no way to stop their charge without using at least long spears arranged in consecutive rows.
The Majors witness this and, in despair, order for falchions to be drawn. A last resort for any phalanx because melee combat signifies that their already stretched lines will rapidly lose organization and take more casualties during their retreat. They have no choice after dozens and dozens of harvesters infiltrated their lines.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Across the regiments, phalangites draw the short single-edged weapons hanging at their waists. These were designed to be effective against carapace even when out of energy, they're hacking tools usually used with shredding constructs.
Phalangites, wearing steel armors so hot they almost burn the flesh underneath, throw themselves at the rampaging harvesters and start smashing their weapons at their carapaces while others aim at the legs to immobilize them.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
These drones, which used to be concierges to block tunnels in the Rykz' Hives, sustain the onslaught with their thick carapaces reinforced with flow and keep charging with their strengthened bodies.
Most of them are eventually dismantled by the phalangites and their carapaces shattered but not before trampling hundreds and opening the way for more of them to rush in and, suddenly, the Twelfth's lines become jagged and threaten to crumble.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Carol refuses to give way to a harvester, not after she managed to plant her spear in its chest and only needs to push it a bit deeper. She parries one of it's blows with her half-shattered shield and dodges a swipe while one of her comrades hacks at its lower abdomen with his falchion.
The drone keeps advancing while lashing out with it's four scythes, using no pattern like scouts or warriors are trained to. It relies entirely on aggression and power to try to plow through.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
A mere glancing blow suffices to finish her shield. She tries to block a swing by holding the flat of her falchion's blade with her palm only to find herself flattened into the ground with a bent weapon in her hands.
The harvester, finding her too low to strike at, raises a thick pointy leg and brings it down on her, breaking her brittle breastplate with its weight to start slowly impaling her through the stomach while it wildly hacks away at other phalangites with its four arms.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Carol tries everything to drive her skewed falchion into the insect's abdomen but the carapace is simply too thick and she's out of energy. It took all she had to take the lightning and then the charge.
Even in despair, she keeps trying, she keeps failing. Her comrade, who has been hacking at the creature's flank, finally manages to pierce through and severs the spine. Carol smiles with bloody teeth as the creature's legs give out and it falls atop her blade, crushing her.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
--- --- ---
Fallone witnesses the Twelfth crumble and weeps. He glances to the officers around the golden lion flag only to find injured wrecks on the verge of breaking down. His steel armor creaks as he straightens up, also causing his scorched flesh to crack and split with mind-rending pain.
“We, must send, auxiliaries.” He utters with a hoarse voice, pushing the words through his burnt throat. “Archers, then cavalry while infantry holds. The Twelfth, mustn't fall, this day.”
The officers, knowing full well that the situation of the auxiliaries is no better that of the phalanx, give him gloomy looks but none protests. None dares to defy the Duke, the General that sits at the top of their chain of command.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The reason is simple, the man has always been a stickler for rules so if they protest out of turn with no alternate plans to offer, then he may directly execute them in this dire hour where pointless delays cost lives.
Even raising their voice to defy the order with a proper reason may win them a lashing. These thoughts are on these officers' minds because, if it were up to them, they would have already pulled back the auxiliaries because their hopes for victory have long vanished.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
“Use a damn sound construct to isolate the tent! I can't hear myself think with the insect's damn incessant cries!” An injured flow-smith from the Twelfth yells from the back.
“Piercing arrows to the pockets.” Fallone says while pointing at the breaks in the Twelfth's lines, ignoring the flow-smith. “Send the light cavalry around the flanks to clear the scout drones, then they are to converge on the harvesters and hold them until the Twelfth's lines are restored.”
“Yes, General.” A gloomy lieutenant salutes and departs to relay the orders.
“Duke Fallone, Steso can't afford many more losses.” One of the two Colonels present mentions.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Hrk, phrth. Fallone spits a mixture of red blood and thick yellow pus on the ground without answering, making it clear what he thinks of the argument. After all, if the Twelfth falls then Steso's auxiliaries will receive much worse casualties than if they hold the line for a little while.
--- --- ---
The Rykz Queen is retreating from the field of battle because of a report that the Thirteenth used the Fourteenth's help to repel their army in the north and broke past the wall of flames they erected to march straight for the ruins.
As she does, she receives a message from a scout that informs her the auxiliary archers have pulled back from the south-western flank. She predicts that her harvesters will receive a shower of armor-piercing arrows which should drain the last of the human's reserves of energy.
[Encircle them and launch a full assault. The Eleventh split in two to reinforce the Twelfth with their cavalry so call for a retreat if this fails, we will have done enough damage.]
She dictates the message for the scout to relay before heading out of the ruins, aware that she and her daughters can do no more with their reserves drained. The rest will depend on the harvesters.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz!
--- --- ---
Fallone observes as a little over two thousand archers in staggered formation move a mere few dozen meters behind the disorganized Twelfth's line and stop to draw their bows.
Within moments, thick arrows with a golden glow fly straight out over the phalangites' helmets to pierce through the harvesters towering over them, killing the remainder of those rampaging within their ranks and doing much damage to those on the front-line.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Unfortunately, and unavoidably, some of those archers miss their mark or slip which causes arrows to impale some of the phalangites in their backs or skulls. Still, the General doesn't hesitate to forcefully raise his burnt hand to order another volley to the flanks.
This time, the projectiles that fly out contain no flow or constructs and they are much thinner but a small portion manages to kill injure scouts. A third volley flies out before the light cavalry arrives to charge these flanks.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
The General witnesses one in ten horse fall upon impact with the scout's pikes and grits his teeth. He can hear the cries of distress from the infantry behind him which now fights alone to maintain the escape corridor the Templars carved for them.
To his relief, the Twelfth manages to recover with the cavalry and archers' help. Their ranks reform and the phalangites start retreating. That is when he witnesses the harvesters' back-lines split in two wings that launch to the left and right so as to intercept the light cavalry which is trying to converge on them.
The impact is deadly. Riders and mounts fall like flies under these drones' scythes. Unlike the heavy cavalry Fallone led, they find themselves unable to sustain melee combat with the monsters.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
They have only light armor to rely on and neither horse nor soldier has enough training to go toe to toe with the harvesters. Still, they are having some success breaching the carapaces by coordinating their saber strikes.
Yet, they fail to turn the tide and their lacking numbers means that the lieutenants leading the cavalry have no choice but to call for a retreat north or south into the scouts' lines which causes further losses for these regiments.
But, Duke Fallone sees, this has also caused a breach in the Rykz lines between the small drones and the huge harvesters which is something the phalangites can exploit to infiltrate the large monsters' ranks to overwhelm them.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
“Suggest a major counter-attack! This is it, make or break.” Fallone snaps at a Colonel who quickly departs to find the Twelfth's Majors at the center of the battlefield.
--- --- ---
Major Fred, upon receiving the suggestion, doesn't hesitate to give out the order without even giving the others a chance to debate or chime in. Time is of the essence and it would take much too long to confirm what Fallone saw. All he knows is that the General saved their asses and that a phalanx is best on the defense with spears and best on offense with falchions.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Major Fred exchanges a glance with the six other survivors, one of which has no more regiment to command, and draws his personal falchion. They unsheathe theirs and exchange salutes before splitting up to go fight on the front-lines.
“For the Empire! For Emperor Rasaec! For the Twelfth!” Major Fred bellows as he makes his way through the ranks.
“For the Empire! For Emperor Rasaec! For the Twelfth!” Each of the Twelfth's phalangites repeats.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Orders to attack are transferred through the sympathetic constructs and those who still have a functioning connection to theirs relay the command. The phalanx charges at the harvesters.
They split in columns of one and return the favor done to them earlier by infiltrating Rykz lines. Some climb atop drones they've killed minutes ago to jump atop the giant drones and hack at their thick carapaces.
Others slip underneath their abdomens to drive their weapons in. Individuals receive scythes in their chests and close their arms around the limb to weigh down their enemy. Falchions break so spears are recovered from dead bodies, human and Rykz.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
Major Fred, one of the last with a shield, breaks his by smashing it repeatedly in the head of a harvester that lost its two forelegs. He starts laughing and picks up a rock to use on his next target.
“We ran out of shields as always!” He exclaims with a mad cackle.
He is joined in laughter by a phalangite standing on a harvester to bash it from behind with the pommel of his broken falchion. Another soldier throws him a spear and he uses one of the cracks he made in the carapace to stab it in the harvester's body.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
As Major Fred fights, he finds that the number of harvesters isn't going down, that in fact there are more and more around them while they're being corralled together at the center.
Aware that they've already lost too many to fight the Rykz' overwhelming numbers, he decides to take advantage of their attempt to reform their lines and surround them to crush through since it means their ranks are overall thinner than they were.
“Breakthrough to the west!” He yells the order out.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
His regiment rushes into the wall of harvesters first and takes the heaviest casualties to open the way to the rest of the Twelfth which pours out behind them to witness a whole line of Templars split in two to charge on their flanks.
The phalangites finally see hope at the end of the tunnel but there are no cheers even as they keep retreating west and witness a broken Rykz army of warriors to their left in the plains now flooded by more viscous brown blood than water and thousands upon thousands of trampled scouts on their right.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.
No matter the Rykz' losses, the Twelfth lost much, much more. Of the ten thousand phalangites there were fortified within the ruins, maybe three or four thousand have escaped. Of the twenty thousand auxiliaries, more than a third lies dead among the plains next the Rykz their slew.
Rh-hyyyyy, kszz.