Augusto watched the wall from a distance, a cold glint of hatred in his eyes. Miguel's response had been an affront, a sign of disobedience that he could not tolerate. He had believed his brother would be smart enough to surrender without a fight, to submit to the inevitable. But Miguel had chosen to resist, and that enraged Augusto. "If he wants to play, then let's play..." he muttered, his voice laced with disdain and barely contained anger.
Beside him, Erondir watched the wall with growing curiosity. Even from a significant distance, he couldn't clearly discern the materials used in the construction. Something about that structure seemed different, strange, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly was bothering him. That mystery unsettled him, as if there was something there he still didn't fully understand.
Wasting no time, Augusto ordered his archers to take position. Quickly, the soldiers moved, obeying the command. Dressed in light armor to facilitate mobility, the archers loaded their bows with precision and skill. Their armor was simple, made of hardened leather with metal reinforcements on the most vital parts of the body, such as the chest and shoulders. The line of archers formed quickly, a disciplined and well-trained row. They knelt, positioning themselves in a double row, the first line on their knees and the back row standing, each one pulling the strings of their bows with force, preparing to fire in unison. The sound of wood bending as the bows were drawn filled the air, followed by the snap of the strings as the arrows were released.
Erondir watched with a thoughtful expression. As the arrows flew toward the wall, he noticed something unusual. Some of the arrows were not penetrating the structure as he expected. Instead, some of them ricocheted, falling helplessly to the ground. "How did Miguel manage to raise this stone wall so quickly?" he silently asked himself, intrigued by the resistance of that construction. The appearance of the wall, so solid and imposing, began to bother him. Something was wrong, but he still didn't know what it was.
Augusto, noticing Erondir's hesitation, asked arrogantly, "Do you think they'll all surrender in fear?" His tone was full of disdain, as if the idea of resistance was ridiculous.
Erondir responded cautiously, "I'm not sure... The wall seems more resistant than we expected."
Augusto snorted, dissatisfied with the response. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. With an impatient gesture, he ordered the fire mages to prepare to attack. A group of twenty mages approached, their robes billowing with the movement. Each one held a staff adorned with runes, arcane symbols that glowed with a soft light. Augusto turned to one of the mages and asked, "Can you hit the wall from this distance?"
The mage, a middle-aged man with a stern expression, responded firmly, "We are still too far, sir. Even if we cast the spell, it will lose power before reaching the target."
Augusto, frustrated by the limitation, ordered the mages to move closer to the wall, trusting that the archers would provide enough cover for them to move without being targeted. The mages moved in unison, advancing to a position just over 200 meters from the wall. There, they formed a line, their staffs raised in preparation.
When they were finally in position, the mages pointed their staffs toward the wall, their mouths murmuring ancient and powerful words. In an instant, flames began to form at the tips of the staffs, growing and intensifying until they became incandescent spheres of pure fire. In a synchronized movement, the mages fired their flaming volleys, which cut through the air toward the wall of Drakmoor.
Miguel was crouched behind one of the parapets of the wall, protecting himself from the continuous bombardment of arrows. Every second, he felt the tension rise, the morning cold penetrating his bones. Suddenly, the sound of explosions tore through the air. The impact of the flames against the wall was so strong that for a moment he thought the structure would give way. The heat was intense, the flames licked the stones, while dense smoke began to rise. Miguel held his breath, expecting the worst to happen, but the wall held, the stones and Roman concrete holding firm.
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Amélia, beside him, watched the flames intently. "This concrete you described to me is really strong..." she commented, her voice full of reluctant admiration. Whatever Miguel had used to build that wall was resisting the destructive power of the magic that, under other circumstances, would have easily destroyed common stone structures.
The fire mages, realizing that their attacks had not had the devastating effect they expected, hesitated. Augusto, on the other hand, did not seem willing to back down. His eyes were fixed on the wall, an expression of relentless hatred on his face. He was determined to bring down that obstacle, no matter how many men or how much time it took.
"Keep up the pressure!" he shouted, ordering the mages to continue firing. But the result was the same. The flames struck the wall and dissipated, unable to cause significant damage.
Miguel rose slightly, peeking over the parapet. His eyes focused on the enemy formation, on the confusion that was beginning to spread among the troops as they saw that their best weapons were not having the desired effect. He knew that there were still many difficulties ahead, but at least for now, the wall was holding.
"Prepare the catapults!" Miguel ordered, raising his voice to be heard above the tumult. "Prepare the ceramic spheres with flammable oil!" It was time to respond to the attack. As he shouted his orders, the soldiers ran to their positions, following the instructions of their leaders.
Amélia, beside Miguel, adjusted the strap of her armor, preparing for what was to come. "So, it seems like it's really about to start now," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the duchy's troops were preparing for the next move.
Miguel nodded, his mind already racing with the next steps. The battle was just beginning, and he knew he would have to use all his skills and strategies to protect the kingdom he had begun to build.
Miguel watched closely the movement of the enemy soldiers from the top of the wall. He knew this was a crucial battle and that any mistake could be fatal to his newly established kingdom. The night had been long, and now, with the light of dawn, the battlefield was clearer, revealing the enemy formation. The duchy's troops were well-organized, and the mages, positioned further ahead, were preparing to launch another wave of fire at the wall.
Miguel had designed the interior of the wall to facilitate the movement of soldiers between different sections, a true labyrinth of corridors and stairs. Additionally, he had left some ballistae strategically positioned within the wall, hidden from the enemy's view, with specific openings for firing. He knew that the enemy's rain of arrows was good cover for the mages, making it difficult for Drakmoor's archers to react. However, the ballistae inside the wall were out of reach of the attacks, ready to act.
Miguel called a soldier and gave him the order: "Authorize the ballistae to fire at the mages. They are vulnerable now." The soldier nodded and ran to relay the order to the ballista operators.
Inside the wall, the soldiers responsible for the ballistae began to prepare. The one-meter-long bolts were carefully positioned, each ballista adjusted to aim precisely at the mages who were about to launch their attack. The soldiers' hands were steady, their gazes focused. They knew they couldn't miss.
From the parapet, Miguel watched. He could see the mages gathering again, staffs raised, ready to unleash another barrage of fire against the walls. But before they could complete their spells, one of the mages was hit. The ballista bolt pierced him completely, lifting him off the ground for a brief moment before violently slamming him down. The impact was brutal and instantaneous.
Panic quickly spread among the mages. They were completely unprepared for this kind of attack. Another bolt was fired, followed by two more, and each one found its target with deadly precision. Mages fell to the ground, their elegant robes now stained with blood, their staffs rolling across the battlefield, inert. Chaos overtook the group, and the survivors began to retreat, their faces showing a mix of horror and disbelief.
Erondir, watching the scene from a distance, cursed, his expression hardened by frustration. He knew the mages were one of the main weapons they had to break Miguel's defense, and seeing them being taken down so easily was a harsh reality. He quickly ordered soldiers with shields to advance to rescue the few mages who were still alive. The soldiers obeyed, moving quickly to form a protective barrier as they helped the wounded retreat.
The ballista bolts continued to fly, embedding themselves in the soldiers' shields or finding the bodies of those who were unprotected. Miguel watched it all from the top of the wall, his heart racing, but his mind clear. He knew that, for now, he had managed to weaken one of the enemy's main forces, but the battle was far from over. Each small victory like this would be crucial to the survival of his kingdom.
With the mages in retreat and the battlefield momentarily calmer, Miguel took a deep breath, feeling the cold morning air fill his lungs. He turned to Amélia, who was beside him, and saw in her gaze a mix of surprise and respect. "This will buy us some time," he murmured to himself, before turning his attention to what would come next.