Chapter 79

Cameron

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The Red Scythe - Army Size: 346

It was happening again. Why was I fated to suffer? Why me?

When I saw Thornhill’s walls, I rubbed my eyes, certain my vision had betrayed me. How could a settlement of fifty souls build such fortifications? And yet, why did it all seem so... irrelevant?

Thornhill—how could it be enough? You achieved a miracle, raising those defenses in mere months after being torn from our world, yet it still wasn’t enough. Don’t you see? These walls are meaningless against the Eldrin’s sorcery.

I’ve seen it too many times—villages and farms like yours, taken by the Eldrin. Their people shackled, collars placed around their necks, sent off to Auriel. I tried to deny the truth, but it gnawed at me—my village, Fairhope, would fall the same way, eventually. Maybe it already has? And I, no, all us humans, would all be powerless to the Eldrins to such a fate.

Why didn’t I listen, Ashe? Why did I try to play the hero instead of staying where I belonged?

I stood frozen, watching in despair as the raiders torched the watermill. I could do nothing—nothing but watch. Their eyes burned with malice as they marched on. The Eldrin captains’ eyes gleamed with lust as they watched the men and women cowering behind the distant white wall.

The march had taken its toll on the foot soldiers, their fatigue clear despite the brief bit of energy they showed in their petty destruction of the watermill. With the mill reduced to cinders, their eyes turned to the buildings beyond the walls, searching for more to burn and destroy.

Without Hadrelian’s enchantments bolstering them—magic that granted vigor, endurance, and morale—they were broken, weary, and still aching from the grueling journey. The Stalker’s barbs had lined every mile of the Red Scythe’s march, the slow bleed gnawing at both body and spirit.

Yet with Hadrelian’s magic, they had pressed on, almost drug-induced, their pace steady and relentless, jogging toward the prize that loomed on the southern horizon. Each step was driven by the promise of conquest, despite the weight of exhaustion from the march and sickness threatening to collapse them.

Only one barrier prevented them from breaching the fortifications and enacting their wrath upon those buildings and people inside. A lone wooden gate is wedged between two stone fortifications, constructed from perfectly square rocks meticulously stacked atop and beside one another, with a wide moat stretching out before it. For the moat, the Red Scythe had bridges made of logs nailed and tied together. For the lone gate, the Red Scythe had magic.

The wooden drawbridge shattered like glass under the meteor strike Hadrelian unleashed with a casual draw of his card. A blazing comet tore through the sky and slammed into the lone visible entry to the village. The impact obliterated the drawbridge, shattering their final line of defense into splinters and ash.

The breach opened a single pass through their walls. The horde would soon pour through the leak, an unstoppable tide ready to subdue any defenders still brave or desperate enough to stand. Behind them, Drudus and Hadrelian would waste no time. They would find every unbound Chattel within those walls and claim them, binding them in chains of magic and servitude.

Please, just run. The Eldrin cannot be defeated!

I marched with the archers, our bows and crossbows drawn, offering support to those who would lead the charge. Hadrelian had bound me once again to my old master, Varon. He rode ahead, clad in bronze armor painted red, his fiery beard protruded from beneath his barbuta helm, geometric wards covering him and his horse, a great zweihander in hand urging the men carrying the wooden bridges forward. Beside him, Fautus, twin swords crossed upon his back captaining the right side. Two red-armored Eldrin on each end, astride white steeds, leading a horde of beastkin—frogs, boars, rats, and gnolls—into the fray.

The first wave of raiders crouched behind and underneath wooden bridges and ladders as they rushed toward the moat. From the walls, the defenders answered. Every slit and opening on the parapets became a mouth, ready to spit arrows and bolts. There were at least forty of them up there, it seemed. It didn’t make sense—how had they prepared so thoroughly? Why weren’t our mages summoning barriers to protect the front line? Where was Drudus, flooding the field with covering fog, or Hadrelian stirring his men’s legs with vigor?

As the raiders reached the halfway mark, some one hundred yards from the moat, their momentum faltered. The long march had finally taken its toll, and the drug-like effects of the buffs that had driven them so far, suppressing exhaustion and the instinct to flee, began to wear off. Withdrawal hit them like a hammer, leaving many staggering and disoriented.

Something is happening… it’s as if… a black hole that engulfed all magic was getting closer and closer.

Behind me, Drudus and Hadrelian could be seen fleeing on horseback, their servants and the train of Chattel captives suddenly dropping to their knees in exhalation.

In front of me, the protective wards that had shielded the raider’s advance from the relentless rain of arrows shimmered and dissolved into faint blue wisps, fading back into the Void. Their once-solid assault unraveled. Ladders and makeshift bridges, hastily constructed, began collapsing one by one, as if some unseen saboteur had loosened bolts, unhinged nails and tied ropes in false knots.

Firebombs rained down on our wooden bridges and ladders, setting them alight with alcohol-fueled flames that scorched the hands of the men carrying them. In a panic, they dropped their burdens, leaving themselves exposed to the hail of iron that followed from the parapets above.

Then it happened.

I felt the warm hum of my collar vanish as the energy powering it drained away. Like a tumor shedding itself, my collar clattered to the ground. The compulsion to march, the need to obey, all of it… vanished.

Not knowing what to do, I left my archer ranks and bolted for cover, my hands raised in surrender, praying I wouldn’t fall victim to the defenders’ arrows. So many thoughts flooded my mind. Flee? Fight? What in the world was happening? Near the edge of the killing field, I turned, knowing only one thing. I had to know. I had to witness.

It was then that the defenders of Thornhill responded to our meteor strike with one of their own. This one was not born of magic but of human engineering. A massive boulder fell from the sky, crashing down on the raiders just before the moat. Beneath them, dirt had been hastily piled atop planks, concealing a deadly trap. When the boulder struck, the planks splintered, sending dozens of men plunging to their doom into a pit lined with spears. Unrelenting, the villagers of Thornhill followed with an encore; another boulder fell from the sky, smiting a dozen more, deepening the pit. Now, half the advancing formation was scattered—some men caught ahead the large pit, others behind, staring at their skewered allies. Unsure whether to press on in folly or retreat, they froze like startled deer between a rock and a storm of arrows.

Then I heard it—a song. It began faintly, a single voice rising above the chaos. A lone bard struck the first notes, and the melody quickly swelled, spreading across the battlefield like a wave. The tune hit me like a physical blow. I knew it—hauntingly familiar, because it was from Earth.

♫ Do you hear the people sing?

Singing the song of angry men?♫

The defenders took up the call, their voices surging like waves against a rocky shore. The song built to a crescendo, its defiant energy blanketing the battlefield, screaming resistance and unyielding fortitude.

Arrows began to rain faster, streaking from the walls with renewed purpose. The defenders, emboldened by the music, unleashed a relentless barrage. It felt as if the walls were lined with a dozen machine guns, firing an endless storm of arrows and bolts. Another boulder hurtled through the air, striking the ground with catastrophic force. Raiders were swallowed by the pit it left, their screams mingling with the clash of shattered armor and the relentless hum of ammunition.

Despite the carnage, some raiders managed to reach the gates. They climbed over the corpses of their fallen comrades, which floated like grim stepping stones in the moat. What had once been a force of three hundred and fifty was reduced to half, and only half of those made it across the moat.

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For a moment, I considered picking up a bow and joining the Thornfolk in their slaughter, but I hesitated. I didn’t want to make myself a target for either the defenders' arrows or the raiders' wrath.

I wasn’t going to leave, though; I had to see it through. I had to witness it, to know if a human settlement could survive the might of the Eldrin. I had to know!

♫ Somewhere beyond the barricade

Is there a world you long to see?♫

The first to reach the gates was a pair of gnolls, charging recklessly through the blown-out wooden gates. They were met by a rugged blonde warrior, smiling somehow, his long sword cleaving through, leaving them split in two by the waist. Close behind, a towering black spearman, clad in bronze and wielding a massive kite shield, stepped into the fight. His spear flashed in a rapid series of savage jabs, and more fell before him.

Three more fighters joined the clash—a man with short, spiky brown hair and a goatee, swinging a colossal warhammer as if it were a flyswatter; a copper-skinned man with a crew cut and mustache, wielding a glaive; and a hulking, balding man in his forties, gripping a heavy mace tightly. Together, they crashed into the raiders, their weapons crushing bones and breaking limbs.

The glaive-wielder and the warhammer-wielder fought side by side, and it looked like... they were arguing over who would get more kills. I couldn't believe it.

To make matters even more absurd—no, it couldn’t be her, could it?—someone who looked exactly like Sophie fucking Park, a popular influencer back on Earth, was twirling a quarterstaff and driving back more defenders.

The six human defenders swept through the raiders. Behind them, arrows supported them and rained down in a deadly barrage, striking down any fool who dared to reinforce their fallen comrades.

The villagers weren’t alone though. Suddenly, my Tracking sense picked up the sound of thunderous hoofs. From the north, mounted riders swept in like a rolling duststorm through the fields, crashing into the backline of the ranged infantry. The forty men stood no chance—skewered by lances and swords as twenty riders, bearing the gold insignia of a White Fox on their white capes, descended upon them.

Mercenaries.

It was a massacre. With no mages to shield them and the infantry, before them reduced to heaps of corpses, the men’s short swords were useless. They were pierced by long lances and spears, and trampled beneath the crushing weight of horses and mules.

I let my bow slip from my hands and raised them in surrender as the riders encircled me. One approached—a scarred veteran feline, sword drawn, lifting up his visor. He studied me briefly before turning to his comrades and speaking in Lokan, “This one is a Chattel. We aren’t to harm Chattel who surrender, comrades.”

“Who are you?” I asked in Lokan.

“Bronzeclaw. Captain of the White Fang Legion. We’re hired by the White Fox, tasked to protect Thornhill.” The Cat replied.

Bronzeclaw… the Lion of Ironclad. He examined my neck and then smiled at me.

“Beautiful sight isn’t it?” He asked. “Dead raiders and dead Eldrins.”

“Not dead yet. The Eldrins…” I said and together we watched the last two Eldrins on the field fighting to the bitter end.

Only Fautus and Varon remained—the last of the Eldrins in sight. Behind us, the mages had likely fled. In the distance, I saw Fautus draw his twin swords from his back, only to be pelted with bolts and arrows. He defended defiantly as he danced with his swords, twirling them to deflect the incoming missiles. Despite the crossbow bolts and arrows piercing his body, the Eldrin kept fighting, clutching at what little strength remained, drinking potions to sustain himself. He faced off against the spearman and the man with the mace.

The rest of the village had converged on Fautus like bees swarming an invading wasp, driving him back, and cornering him against the wall. No glorious mono-e-mono fight. Two warriors attacked him from both sides, hammering away as the Eldrin valiantly defended himself with twin swords, all while trying to dodge the relentless volley of arrows raining down from the villagers above. Fautus wouldn’t last much longer. His body was pincushioned by the few bolts that got through, and his vigor was quickly draining from him.

Meanwhile, Varon faced the blonde swordsman just outside the gates. As if the blonde human warrior wielding a long sword picked out my former Master, the two stared each other down in a confrontation. The two warriors clashed in a brutal exchange, each matching the other blow for blow. Varon’s zweihänder swung wide, an arcing strike meant to crush, but the swordsman parried it effortlessly, countering with a quick thrust aimed at Varon’s torso.

The Eldrin warrior twisted, narrowly avoiding the full force of the blow, though his bronze plate was dented. He let out a roar of frustration. A series of relentless slashes followed from Varon, driving the swordsman back, and forcing him to retreat.

I picked up my bow, aiming it at my former master, but a cat mercenary stepped in front of me.

“It’s not honorable, mate. These two want this duel,” the mercenary said, his tone wise.

“There is no honor among the Eldrins,” I spat.

How many times had I had to save Varon from these situations? Now he would have to be on his own.

Seizing the opening, Varon pressed the blonde swordsman toward the riverbank. With nowhere left to retreat, the swordsman took one last gambit, lunging for Varon’s feet. Varon leaped into the air, his zweihänder cleaving downward in a vicious arc.

But the swordsman was faster. He rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the heavy blade as it slammed into the earth, sending a spray of mud and stones into the air.

At that moment, and with Varon’s zweihänder stuck in the mud, the swordsman unleashed a horizontal slash of air that sliced a deep gash into Varon’s neck. With a last cry, Varon met his opponent’s gaze. He staggered back, blood pouring from his throat, his hand clutching at the wound in a futile attempt to stop the flow.

Varon nodded slowly, a final act of respect to the warrior who had bested him, before he collapsed on one knee, his life slipping away.

Varon had always treated me kindly, and as I watched his last breaths, a deep confusion settled in my heart.

Beyond the gates, the last remaining Eldrin, Fautus, was pinned to the ground by bolts and arrows. A loud clang bellowed as the mace-wielder smashed the Eldrin’s chestplate, a final spurt of blood erupting from his mouth before he collapsed, and slumped against the wall.

The mercenaries moved in, finishing off the last of the Red Scythe. They made sure every raider lying on the ground, pierced by bolts and arrows, was truly dead. Then, they began looting the corpses, refitting their company with fresh weapons and armor, their grim task made easier by the slaughter.

From the north, more freed Chattel arrived, drawn to witness Thornhill’s miraculous stand.

“I see you’re finally free,” a familiar voice said in an English accent, patting me on the shoulder. “You have no idea how long I wanted to speak with you but was worried that you’d…”

He chuckled softly, then added, “Rat me out.”

He spoke English… My God. He spoke English!

“You’re that… boar. You were a human from Earth this whole time?” I asked, still in disbelief.

“Indeed.” He smiled warmly, then glanced out at the carnage. “Ugh. What a mess. This is going to take forever to clean up.”

“How? How is this possible? How did they do this?” I gasped, struggling to wrap my mind around it.

"Thornhill? A humorless lot, but… it’s full of special people, mate. And now, it has at least one more—if you’ll join us, Cameron," James said, his smile widening as he gathered his Chattel followers and led them toward the gates. There, they were met by new faces—faces of modern-day Earthlings, their branded t-shirts and jeans visible beneath their leather and copper armor.

They did it. They defended Thornhill. And what’s even more incredible? It was an absolute massacre.

As the Chattel gathered at the ruined gates of Thornhill, the villagers continued to sing, their voices rising in a powerful, unbroken chorus.

Even though the Emancipated couldn’t understand the words of the villagers’ song, or the English in which they were sung, they felt it deep in their hearts and souls. They joined in the final encore, their voices rising, echoing over the battlefield:

♫ We will walk behind the plowshare

we will put away the sword♫

Tears welled up in my eyes as the weight of it all hit me. The tears I hadn’t been allowed to shed during my captivity came rushing out all at once. I reached for my neck again, needing to make sure. It felt like the first time I touched my teeth with my tongue, expecting metal braces, and finding nothing—a thousand times more relieving. It wasn’t a dream. I fell to my knees, gripping the grass beneath me, as the full reality of my freedom settled over me. Tomorrow had finally come, and I was no longer a slave.

There was a way to return to Fairhope. I could go back to Ashe and my people, save them just as I had been saved. The Magebane existed, and so did Sanctuary. There was a way to fight back against the Eldrins.