Chapter 188
The Kingdom in Terror
A tale sprung like the snowstorm in the middle of a Cold Snap--it travelled like thunder from far north deeper and deeper south with each passing day. At first, the tale was told merely in whispers--secrets shared almost silently, begging to be hidden. Then, as days passed, the whispers grew louder, and soon it was only the ignorant that dared claim they were in the dark.
It was a fascinating tale, indeed, for it spoke of a dead man rising from the ashes, ushering an army under his banner, and marching from the destitute and frozen north, claiming world itself as he went. At first, few believed the tales, taking them as mere bard songs of wistful lips in want of better times. But when it is not just a few lips, but hundreds and thousands that sing the same song, to disbelieve is to be a fool willfully.
The Forsaken Prince, the Unfortunate Child, the Sacrificed One... all those titles seemed to fade over night, for the Prince was neither sacrificed nor forsaken. He was alive, armed with men and women of legends, it seemed, and on his way south. He raised the banner of rebellion, though never called it such. He never burned the villages, never killed the civilians, and even accepted those who surrendered into his ranks.
His army grew like the river descending, and whispers spoke even louder of a few figures that seemed fantastical. They would take the front and charge, dismantling the few who dared stand in the Prince’s way.
While the stories were pretty, the reality was not so; in the end, the Prince ushered a rebellion, and the many Nobles gathered under the banner of Justice, demanding the Prince’s head to cull the uprising. Soon, the hastily-gathered forces of the far-northern counties were no more, and a proper army was raised and conscription was fully in place.
There were no choke points to hold, only open fields of the Midland that were perfectly suited for a massive battle. Everyone knew, even the mud-laden peasants, that the two armies would face there, and while it may not be a deciding battle, it would show to the rest of the Kingdom just what the Prince’s army was made of.
Whether the Prince could make any waves would be determined by that very battle and, as such, many eyes were focused on the field of choice--Cryster’s Plains was the ground the two armies inevitably met at. It was a vast, open plain with nary a hill, almost entirely flat, perfectly suited for a massive battle.
Sylas stood at the top of the recently-built tower overlooking the vast plain, taking in the sight. It was early in the morning, with the sun’s rays slowly burning through and gracing the grass. The weather truly was completely different--even though it was winter here, too, and the temperatures were quite low, there was barely any snow, and at least the days weren’t spent in overcast darkness.
On the far other end of the plain, he saw red-lined tents, thousands of them, housing tens of thousands of soldiers. As he suspected, inevitably, their tactic of rushing through would have to come to an end. The Kingdom was quite vast and there was no way to get from the far north to the Capital before the many Nobles could put together a proper army to fight them.
While Sylas wasn’t worried, that wasn’t the case for the rest, especially Valen. Even if they did grab a proper Commander at the Martyr’s Pass--whose name Sylas already forgot as he simply called the boy ‘Boy’--the differences were, to put it generously, vast.
Valen’s army numbered in solid 35,000 men, give or take a couple of thousand. It was by no means a small force, not to mention that they had at least 60-70 elite Knights in the rank that were worth three-four men by themselves at least. There were also the superhumans, as Sylas came to call them, that were worth a hundred at least. Even still... the force felt abysmal in comparison.
On the other end, the army that the Nobles put together numbered in at least 200,000 souls. In fact, even Sylas gasped the last loop when he first saw the sea flood out into the plain, completely dyeing it in the color of the armor. They were crushed within half an hour, everyone having been killed. Among those 200,000, most were at least trained soldiers, with a Knight Regiment sporting nearly 4,000 souls. And, just like Valen’s force, they, too, had the superhumans, 33 of them, in fact, from what Sylas’ noted. Only 20 of them went into the battle the last loop, while 13 stayed behind as reinforcement, likely.
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There was hardly a realistic way to win the battle. The only conceivable one was for Sylas himself to intervene, but he didn’t like the idea. He wouldn’t be opposed to simply holding back the ‘superhumans’ from the other side, but even if he did so, there was no way to defeat the 200,000 strong army with their numbers. Furthermore, there were no tricks they could pull--no choke points, no possible flanks, no points of entry for any ambushes...
A few ideas sprung about--sending in an elite team on a suicide mission to try and assassinate the Nobles and the enemy’s Commander, but it was a suicide mission through and through--in a sense that there was no way in hell it would be completed. Even Sylas wasn’t confident in being able to sneak in himself, let alone anyone else.
Another idea was to try and break the opposing army into chunks--use the cavalry for short-term battles and then escape, slowly straining the enemy forces. And while the guerrilla warfare was the best option numbers-wise, it was impossible to actually execute as there was virtually no reason for the opposing army to chase. They would simply march at a standard pace and eventually catch up to them.
Sylas descended the tower and went into the central tent. As soon as he entered, he practically smelled the tense atmosphere of defeat and death. Every idea, no matter how genius it appeared, was flawed and full of holes. There was little a dexterous mind could do when faced with the overwhelming reality of strength. No amount of tricks can gap a rift that insanely large.
“Is there really... no way?” Valen asked, his expression horrid. “Did... did I bring all men here simply to... die?”
“We could still retreat,” the young boy who was their Commander suggested yet again. “Withdraw into the winter-laden lands. They won’t follow, at least not until spring. Until then, we could fortify and slowly build our force.”
“No,” Sylas’ firm response caused everyone to look at him.
“Why?” the boy asked, frowning. The man never said anything, it seemed, besides ‘No’ to most his ideas.
“Right now we’re facing 200,000 people,” Sylas said. “Come spring, that 200,000 will become a million. Which is easier to face?”
“...” the boy remained silent, knowing deep down... it was true.
“What should we do, Sylas?” Valen asked.
“It seems I’ll have to dip into the bag I haven’t touched in a long time,” Sylas sighed. “Ryne, if we started drawing talismans all the way back at the castle, how many do you think we could make?”
“Uh... w-why?”
“Just give me an estimate.”
“If we worked non-stop, considering our success rate... maybe around 5,000? Exclusively combat-related ones with enough firepower to do damage, that is,” Ryne replied, though quite confused why he asked her that.
“That’s good to know.”
There was little else to plan for--they hardly had the time, even, as the midday came soon, and the opposing army blew its trumpets and beat its drums, the mass flooding the plain as they marched forward. Though the 30,000 men stood brave and defiant, charging ahead, even the blind could see.
Heads rolled swiftly and the blood pooled. Even if they claimed two lives for each life lost, it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough. Soon, the force was overwhelmed, and the massive army stood afoot the encampment where only the senior staff remained. Valen stepped out in front, helped up by Derrek so that he would not be sitting.
The enemy Commander was a fifty-something Knight donning silver, plate armor and a crimson cape. Dismounting, he stepped forward and scoffed at the sight in front of him.
“A cripple dares dream? You should have stayed in the frost, boy,” the man said. “Now the weight of all those dead men is on you. Grab the Prince, kill the rest.” His order was cold, but Sylas expected it. In fact, while everyone was standing, drawing their weapons--even Ryne--he was still sitting, sipping wine. He had no plans on doing anything, but hearing the old man’s tone pissed him off slightly. These days, however, even ‘slightly’ was a cause for celebration.
Just as the few Knights started moving forward to complete their order, Sylas threw the bottle of wine and completely obliterated one of the Knight’s heads. It exploded into the shower of blood and gore, shocking everyone around. Before they could process what happened, Sylas appeared by the old man’s side and grabbed him by the throat, dragging him back. Shouts and yelps of alarm rang out, but he ignored them, bringing him in front of Valen and pushing the man to his knees.
“It’s the King you spat on,” he spoke. “Do you think you can just leave after?”
“How dare--AAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” Sylas cleaved the man’s arm off even through armor.
“Men far greater than you would scurry like mice beneath him,” Sylas continued. “Your balls must be the size of the fuckin’ moons, no? One of these loops, your head will be hanging old man, and I’ll be pissing into its gaping mouth.”
With a swift stomp, the old man’s head exploded into another shower of blood and gore. Silence reigned for a moment as Sylas grabbed the nearby bottle of wine, sat down, and started drinking. It was one of those sights that, could it be remembered, would become a defiant myth that would survive until the end of time. Alas, as many things in life... it was not meant to be.