Chapter 30
The cacophony of battle rang out across the field, a symphony of chaos and violence. Metal clashed against metal as swords clanged into armor or the grinding sounds of blades finding their home in the flesh. The strangled roar of men giving their all for the cause, punctuated by cries of pain and anguish, were thick in the air, piercing the soul of everyone around.
Within sight of the ruins known as Oxford, men tried, and men died.
The whizzing of arrows through the air was underscored by heavy thumps as they found their marks, embedding into wooden shields or, more fatally, into the exposed bodies of the enemy army. The haunting sound of the whirling spears accompanied the rhythm of war, felling soldiers where they stood or receded them back to mourn over their wounds.
Charging hooves of the mighty horses rumbled the ground beneath, forming a thunderous flurry of power and strength among the warriors. Their iron-shod hooves raised small gouts of dirt, adding to the tumultuous environment of the battle. The charging cavalry brought the tangy scent of sweat and fear from both the humans and their equine companions, mingling with the stench of spilled blood, forming an eerie, unforgettable aroma.
The air was thick with the oppressive smell of death and the acrid burn of smoke from nearby scorching fires. All around, the crimson-stained ground bore testament to the destruction that unfolded. The glint of sunlight off the polished armor and weapons gave the battleground a surreal, haunting beauty, only to be marred further by the endless screams and despair that invaded the senses.
Brightforge, masterfully orchestrating the battle, stood resolute at the heart of the Cincy Griidlords formation. His hands weaved through the air in an intricate dance as he cast powerful boosts upon his fellow warriors, the invisible waves of energy rippling over their armor and weapons. With renewed strength, Hunter surged forward, the Cincinnati Arrow plowing through their enemies with a ferocious might. Metal met metal, the sounds of mortal combat echoing through the battlefield.
Arcstone, the Cincinnati Shield, charged into the fray, his enhanced defenses turning away the Empire's soldiers as if they were nothing. The eerie glow of the enemy's power-weapons failed to pierce his mighty barrier. Amidst the chaos, Underbough, the Boston Axe, and general of this army, attempted to breach the Cincinnati lines, his eyes locked on Brightforge, recognizing their key target in disabling the Cincy Griidlords advantage.
Weighing the risk, Brightforge contemplated calling upon Arcstone to intervene, but the tempting lure of winning the entire battle enticed him to stay focused on the current plan. In the chaos of war, chances needed to be taken, and so far, those taken by the forces of Cincinnati seemed to be paying off.
On the front lines, the armies of Cincy and Empire clashed like titans, the whirling melee of sharpened steel and berserker rage contrasting with the more reserved but still fierce tactics of the Empire. The cavalry's intertwined struggle on the battlefield's fringes began to draw to a close, their desperate engagements turning in favor of Cincinnati.
As Haldor, the Cincinnati Axe, emerged from his hidden position, his expertly placed blows hastening the end of the deadly skirmish on the borderlines, he set the stage for the final decisive move. With the opposition crushed, Cincinnati's cavalry prepared for their impending charge against the Empire's flanks, setting the stage for the Empire's utter defeat.
As the tide of battle swung in their favor, complete panic would soon consume the Empire's colliding forces, threatening their resolve while making way for total rout. A mighty victory seemed within grasp—a catastrophic blow that would leave the Empire reeling and shatter their perceived invincibility.
Underbough, the Boston Axe, cut a menacing path through the heart of the battle. With each determined stride, the distance between him and his target, Brightforge, grew shorter. His immense Axe gleamed with each calculated swing, the powerful suit amplifying every precise strike against his foes. As a natural counter to the Sword suit, the Axe gave Underbough a significant edge should the battle come down to him and Brightforge.
Weaving through the chaos, Underbough at last reached Brightforge, who, despite the mounting pressure, remained steadfast in his role. As steel clashed against steel, Brightforge fought defensively, his focus unwavering as he continued fueling the power of his fellow Cincy Griidlords through his expertly cast boosts.
The sound of Brightforge's Sword meeting Underbough's Axe was like a hammer upon an anvil, echoing across the battlefield as they locked into a deadly dance. A storm of sparks erupted each time their weapons met, the dazzling display painting the sky with a myriad of colors in the heat of battle. Brightforge skillfully parried each heavy, lethal strike aimed at him, his footwork expertly evading destruction while his mind worked in overdrive to maintain the enhancements upon his comrades.
As the lengthy duel wore on, Brightforge's efforts paid off. The clashes between the Cincy Griidlords and their opponents only further amplified in their intensity, turning the tide increasingly in Cincinnati's favor. Arcstone's impenetrable shield, Hunter's devastating bladed hans, and Haldor's relentless axe blows tore through the Empire's ranks, fueled by the ceaseless support from their steadfast troops.
Dodging and deflecting, Brightforge fell back through the battlefield, a dance of blades and force accompanying his retreat. Each step was deliberate, calculated, ensuring that not one movement was wasted in this life or death struggle. His eyes surveyed the field, measuring the progress of his allies while anticipating Underbough's incoming attacks with an unwavering determination.
Underbough's voice carried across the battlefield, a tinge of frustration coloring his words. "Enough! Even if you win today and humiliate me before the Emperor, all you're doing is wasting lives and impoverishing your own city. The Empire has a dozen more armies like this one - you can't possibly hope to keep getting lucky!"
Their frenzied duel continued unabated. Brightforge countered, determination in his eyes, "We don't need to defeat all your armies. As word spreads of the Empire failing time and again against a single city, other cities will break free. Each liberated city means one less army under Empire control and more forces needed to quell the rebellions. Underbough, your Empire is a house of cards."
Despite the ferocity of their duel, Brightforge managed to boost Hunter, who crashed into the flank of an enemy spear formation. Meanwhile, Cincy's cavalry, rearing their mighty steeds, charged toward the Empire's vulnerable flanks.
Unfazed, Underbough shot back, "It hasn't happened yet. There's more to the story than you know. The North King of New York is dead, assassinated by order of the South King. Your hope for a combined revolt is in shambles. Your plans are hopeless. The Empire has stood for two hundred years; you think your puny city will bring it down?"
The thunderous roar of the cavalry rang out as they clashed with the Empire's flanks, tearing through their ranks like wildfire. Brightforge, still locked in the deadly dance of blades, barely avoided each of Underbough's relentless attacks. The former's eyes betrayed a subtle concern at the news of New York, but he pressed on.
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"We'll take it one day at a time," Brightforge said. "For now, you're here trying to take me down but failing. Your forces are flailing without your guidance, and this battle is collapsing around you. Something you need to understand, Cincy's men, our Griidlords, we fight for our city, our land, our families. Every inch matters to us. Your army is comprised of men from half a dozen cities with no stake in this land, fighting only for the Empire's conquest. That's why they rout so easily—they prefer to live to see another day. Our fighters have no such luxury; giving up would mean watching our people suffer."
Underbough roared in blind rage, his fearsome battle cry resonating across the battlefield. His all-out assault on Brightforge intensified, his Axe arcing through the air like a destructive whirlwind, each swing more desperate than the last. Brightforge was forced to fall back, grappling with a newfound sense of dread. The relentless onslaught, fueled by Underbough's fury, left no room for a counterattack.
Meanwhile, the tide of battle shifted dramatically as the Empire's forces began an all-out rout. Like a torrent of panicked humanity, they poured away from the conflict, their fighting spirit shattered by the resounding victory of the Cincy Griidlords. Soldiers in retreat fell under the merciless blades of their pursuers, the field painted in a crimson testament to the carnage that had unfolded.
In the midst of this chaos, Arcstone joined Brightforge in his struggle against Underbough. The ground quaked as he charged into the fray, his Shield suit, a natural advantage over the Axe, offering a desperately needed respite for Brightforge. Intercepting Underbough's frenzied blows with his vastly enhanced durability, the tide of the desperate duel began to turn.
With Arcstone fully engaged, Brightforge had a chance to gather himself and observe the battle below. The mopping up of the scattered Empire forces, spurred on by the Cincy Griidlords' relentless pursuit, signaled a hard-fought but undeniable victory was at hand.
Underbough found himself locked in mortal combat with Arcstone, each concussive clash of their weapons echoing the downfall of his once-mighty army. Seeing his opportunity, Brightforge began preparing to boost Arcstone, knowing that tipping the balance even further in their favor would spell the end for Underbough and the Empire forces.
Brightforge’'s heightened senses detected the unmistakable sensation of an approaching footfield. The distorted vibrations in the air indicated that someone approached the battlefield from the east at great speed, propelled by an unseen force. Confident in Arcstone's advantageous position against Underbough, and aware of the ongoing carnage his cavalry unleashed upon the routing Empire troops, Brightforge's attention shifted eastward.
Sword held at the ready, he scanned the horizon with narrowed eyes, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. Could it be Pittsburgh? Yet, Pittsburgh had no stake in this, and in the current political landscape, they were more likely to support Cincy than hinder their cause.
As the blurred, streaking form of the mysterious Griidlord drew closer, the distortion of the footfield cleared, revealing the terrifying visage of the entity who had come to join the fray. Brightforge felt a chill of dread embrace him as Lorin Jadeslash, the sinister Baltimore Sword, stood before him. His massive sword was held casually across his shoulders, and his armor was adorned with grotesque trophies and brutal spikes.
Smirking, Jadeslash acknowledged the Cincinnati Sword. "It's been some time since we crossed swords, Brightforge."
Still reeling from shock, Brightforge mustered a response. "What are you doing here? You have no stake in this battle."
Jadeslash sneered, the sarcasm in his voice palpable. "Baltimore is a loyal vassal of the Empire."
"Bullshit," retorted Brightforge. "You're a vassal in name only so you can keep pillaging and gathering wealth for your city. Coming here puts your forces at risk. What the hell are you up to?"
Leveling his sword and giving a mocking bow, Jadeslash replied, "What can I say? When my Empire summons me, my honor is bound to answer the call." With that provocation, Jadeslash launched forward, and Brightforge raised his own sword in reply.
Chapter 31
Alistair Whitlocke proudly stood atop a hill, overlooking the mustering fields of Baltimore.
His eyes scanned the scene below, taking in the impressive sight of siege equipment being prepared for transport. Ballistae, catapults, and trebuchets lay in disarray, bustling crews working diligently to make them battle-ready. Ranks of spearmen and swordsmen were gathering amidst the ordered chaos, their shining weapons and sturdy armor glinting under the sun.
As Alistair watched the preparations unfold, he couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and dread. The time was fast approaching when the Griidlords would arrive to collect these valiant soldiers and ferry them away with the aid of their Footfields. This ability allowed them to travel much faster than any ordinary means, swiftly bringing their forces to bear on distant battlefields.
Alistair himself was dressed in luxurious robes that indicated his status as a scholar. The soft rich fabric draped around his tall, lanky form. Despite the extravagance of his attire, there was a disorganized element to the way he appeared. Quills, scrolls, and papers protruded from the many available pockets of his robes.
Despite the wealth of resources he carried on his person, Alistair was careful not to be overburdened. He favored efficiency and practicality, ensuring that he could swiftly access his ample knowledge—whether it be a quote from an ancient text or the latest scientific data—on a moment's notice.
Behind Alistair stood his ever-faithful manservant, Pip. The loyal young man was bent low under the weight of several packs, filled with equipment necessary for their upcoming journey. Camping gear, writing materials, and books filled the bags strapped to his back, while a donkey, equally weighed down, dutifully trailed behind him.
Alistair mused aloud, "It is most unusual to see Baltimore mobilize outside of campaign season. Great events must be unfolding to prompt such action. I wonder, what could have stirred the city, considering it has hardly been drawn into the conflict between the Empire and Cincinnati before."
He continued, "Baltimore, while being a vassal to the Empire, remains so in name only, and not truly at the Empire's beck and call—more like a well-paid mercenary than a loyal subject. It would indeed require a significant payout from the Empire to convince Baltimore to take action, for she holds tremendous power, with her mighty Griidlords and formidable martial forces."
Pip, groaning under the weight of his burden, chimed in with evident disinterest, "The war has not gone well for the Empire so far. And, as you well know, New York threatens to rebel, Detroit is said to be unruly, and even Chicago has a new Sword, rumored to be a rare talent. Everywhere, the Empire weakens."
Alistair responded with a flourish of articulate language, "Indeed, these are times of great change! Like Rome of old, the Boston Empire crumbles and, as the Goths once did, the seeds of a new Empire are being sown in Kansas to the west. Such events provide much fuel for the penning of the Griid-Nomicon."
Pip cast a weary glance at the massive tome strapped to the donkey, remarking with a hint of sarcasm, "Ah, yes, the Griid-Nomicon—your life's work, which shall surely place your name among the pantheon of great historians, and leave your rival, Seraphina Blackwood, languishing in your shadow—despite her current position entertaining the court of the Red King of Kansas."
Alistair shot a look at Pip, unsure whether the manservant's tone was indeed sarcastic. He said, "My Griid-Nomicon shall indeed be the greatest work seen on Earth since the days of the Greek scholars, and Seraphina is naught but a pretender. A popular storyteller, not a true scholar! She lacks research, archaeology—her work is simply flash and theater."
Pip said, flatly, "When she uncovered that tomb in the desert near Phoenix, that was certainly theatrical and flashy."
Alistair stomped his foot and retorted, "That was pure fortune—she simply got there before me! That's her way, no heavy lifting. But you and I, Pip, we are the true historians. We do the leg work, we uncover the real truths, and we shall be the ones truly remembered."
He paused for a moment, then mused, "Now, I wonder if it might be possible to tag along with one of these troops. To witness what great events may be unfolding! Perhaps you could scurry down there and offer some of our precious pieces in exchange for a place in the next Footfield train."
Pip, already groaning under his load, resignedly replied, "Yes, sir." He then began trudging down the slope toward the waiting men and the neatly packaged siege weapons.
"Ah, what momentous events are to unfold before us! Baltimore and Cincinnati—the very names resound with the clashing of steel and the cries of brave warriors. We live in an epoch of change and upheaval," he proclaimed, his voice filled with passion.
"And here I stand, Alistair Whitlocke, poised upon the precipice of destiny! My work, the Griid-Nomicon, shall be the guiding light in these troubled times, the beacon that illuminates the path forward for all humanity. I have been called to this mission by the great muse of history, and I shall not falter or waver," he continued, his gaze fixed upon the horizon.
"In the annals of time, my name shall be etched indelibly alongside the likes of Herodotus, Plutarch, and Thucydides. My contributions to the understanding of this world and its denizens shall be unsurpassed, unchallenged, and unavoidable. Through my work, the collective memory of this age shall be preserved for generations yet unborn, and they shall look back upon these events with reverence and wonder," Alistair declared, swelling with pride.
"And in due course, Seraphina Blackwood's name shall wither and fade like the ephemeral works of lesser scribes. It is I who shall stand tall, immune to the ravages of time, as the greatest living historian! I swear this upon the hallowed pages of the Griid-Nomicon; I shall not rest until my noble ambitions are brought to glorious fruition," he finished, his chest heaving with the weight of his own importance.
From below, Alistair caught sight of Pip waving to him urgently. A Baltimore Griidlord had appeared, ready to take a group of troops. Alistair's grandiose monologue was abruptly interrupted by the sudden realization that they might be left behind.
"Ooh," he muttered and descended the hill with panic, awkwardly flopping down in haste. Seeing Pip still waving urgently at him, he noticed the donkey had been left behind. His heart raced. "The donkey!"
Quickly turning back, he sprinted up the hill. Upon reaching the donkey, he grabbed hold of the reigns, and with his cumbersome weight, began a second, hapless attempt to descend the hill—this time, with the donkey in tow.