The shaman waved its staff, did a small dance, and the ten Brutes swelled to the size of compact cars, lumbering over the backs of the small horde of Raccan Skirmishers. The ranged troops had yet to start firing their slings.
“That’s a lot of big boys.” Sarah said with a low whistle. She was atop the wall with Miriam, under the small overhang they’d tried to assemble to keep whoever was on watch dry during their shift. It only fit one, and Sarah had commandeered it.
“Sarah, get your healing ready.” Miriam muttered under her breath, used to the drenching of the rain at this point. “I think our own boys are about to get stomped.”
“Always is.” Sarah murmured back.
John cleared his throat, shooting them an annoyed look. “Ladies, I appreciate the preparedness, but for our morale please keep those sentiments to yourself. Legion! Open Testudo!”
In the dim, rain-soaked light, the few members of John’s legion moved into position beside him. His Optio stood to his left, the two Tiro to his right. The muddy ground squelched under their feet, and the cold, wet air bit at their exposed skin. They left a gap in the formation, a testament to John’s rigorous drilling. He knew the formation might falter if they had to move, but here, in the narrow gate, they stood ready for his orders.
So when the Shaman did another dance, and the Skirmisher’s ammunition began to smoulder, he called out the next. “Legion, Closed Testudo!”
They scrambled in front of him, lifting shoddy wooden shields and relying on him for the rest. From the second row, he raised his scutum high and activated his Testudo skill, just in time to deflect the dozens of smoking rocks that slammed against his shield and burst into flames.
If not for the absolutely drenched state of everyone’s gear, and the fact that they had been in too much of a hurry to do anything extra like dry out before the battle, the Legion’s shields would have gone up in smoke just like that. As it was, they sat comfortable save for the scattered impacts of the sling shots.
A twang cut through the downpour and a black blur shot from the ramparts. As fast as a twitch, one of the juiced-up Brutes stepped in front of the Shaman, a black feathered arrow sinking into its bicep. It turned its head to the sky and roared, and from behind it the Shaman cast another spell. A golden glow surrounded the Brute who’d been shot, and the arrow pushed itself out of his flesh, leaving no wound behind.
George hummed thoughtfully in response.“Ezekiel, you’re on wall cover. Keep ‘em safe.”
“Where are y- George! Damnit..” Ezekiel called out over the wall to the east, then shook his head and continued firing from his now lonely scaffold. A couple more shots saw a Skirmisher fall to the ground, unmoving.
George had run off to the east, and as the sounds of battle fell behind he noticed a small shadow keeping pace with him, just off to his side. “Nimbus, I thought I told you to stay back at the settlement.”
Their path through the branchways went quickly, and soon they turned north to get around the Raccans and start hitting them from the back.
The cat stutter-stepped, and a pinecone fell from a branch in front, nearly hitting him in the head. George laughed. “Alright buddy, good point. If it gets rough, though, you know to go for Sarah, right? None of this instinctual ‘crawl under something to die’.”
Nimbus meowed, and George sighed with relief. “Good. Just keep yourself safe and watch my back, buddy. When we’re done with all of this, I’m gonna buy us a whole tuna.”
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From her vantage point, Miriam had a clear view of the battlefield. However, with the Raccans maintaining their distance and enhancing their attacks, she found herself out of effective range.
The Acolyte contemplated her next move, knowing her spells could turn the tide if she timed them right. She could light off a Flare, but the clouds weren’t nearly thick enough for the light of a Flare to be a lasting distraction. She could use her new spell, which could probably deal with quite a few of them, but as she stood, she knew it would drain her of MP.
She knew, deep down inside her, that she’d been working on spells beyond her capabilities. She was close, she felt, on cracking the secret to indiscrete mental magic, but all of her research just pointed towards that being very high level magic - the MP requirements were insane. She’d also experimented with a version of Flare where the spots of light acted as turrets that shot more Magic Missiles, but that too ended up far too expensive.
Then something struck her: With the Flare spell, she’d figured out how to originate a spell effect from a targeted location - it was how she made the lights spread out like a firework. She’d also learned the difference between the Magic Dart spell from the wand, and her own Magic Missile spell, which was mainly the number of projectiles and the homing function. Switching that out for something less complex should allow her to reduce the costs enough for it to be viable.
Finally, in her experiments with mental magic, she’d run through more arrays than any other, and the key one was a ‘self-reference’ array. This array did nothing on its own, but acted as a semi-autonomous targeting array.
Her main issue with mental magic was the targets, and the amount of diagnostic spells she would have to cast - though they were less spells and more like single-array cantrips. 1 MP cost at the most. The self-reference array allowed her to start building something much more complex, and in the end she’d created a Calm Emotions spell, which would simply equalise the levels of extra hormones in someone’s brain, along with a dispelling effect. Whereas before she could cast it on Mitchell as she’d diagnosed his typical levels, with the new array she could weave each diagnostic array into the spell itself, then use the self-reference to call back to the values in those arrays and use them to create the arrays needed for a Calm Emotions spell. She didn’t need anything so complex here, though.
She began constructing the spell meticulously. First, she created a set of three gathering arrays, but found them too energy-intensive. She then dismantled them and skillfully interwove the components into a single, more efficient array, each connection humming with latent power. It had instability in the dorsal connections, so she ripped out a segment of it and reworked it to be symmetrical. Slotting it back in, the first array vibrated with energy, and she moved on.
The second would be one she’d figured out on her own but had yet to experiment with. Various arrays she’d worked with so far, and a number of elements within her tome, had depicted the methodology behind the adjusting of a spell's aspect. She called it a reflavouring array, and that was the next to be layered into this spell. She took all of the energy she was gathering, and simply flavoured it as negative. Charged negative, not the esoteric Negative Energy type of Negative.
Then, she started adding arrays from the Flare and Magic Missile spells, and to anyone around and watching, it would appear as if a great circle had started to faintly glow above Miriam’s head. To those lucky observers, they would see her eyes reflecting a pale blue light, and darting back and forth as if reading something, even as her Staff moved in esoteric patterns and her left hand pluck and threw invisible somethings around. Even to those with magical inclination, her actions were foreign and nonsensical.
Within Miriam’s mind, everything finally made sense. She wasn’t meant to make spells for later use. She was supposed to make spells to use now. As array after array was added, found wanting, and reforged into something new, she could faintly feel her cheeks start to hurt as a grin split across her face - as fast as she was, she was fighting against the stability of the spell, and she relished the competition. Even so, she was finally doing it. Playing the strings of reality like a priceless harp, plucking and trilling the components of physics into a composition that she found pleasing.
It was a satisfaction she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before, and even satisfied she pushed.
If she didn’t finish it in time, the spell would fail and take all of that MP with it. What it would do with that MP was unknown, but if she could just finish before that happened…
Her MP flashed past halfway, and the path to the end revealed itself in her mind’s eye. 5 arrays folding in on each other, gathering small, energetic motes of energy and feeding them through the next series of arrays to ensure those motes did what they were supposed to.
She locked in her final changes, turned her staff to the overcast sky, and infused her voice with the last of her MP to overcharge the spell. Either this would work on its own, or it would be enough to let the others finish the army off - either way, it would take the majority of her MP, so she would be out for the rest of this wave. Hopefully, she thought as she released the spell to the heavens and cried out, she could contribute properly now.
“Lightning Storm!”
Her calculations were somewhat off, and blackness crept in from the edges of her vision as a glistening ball of arcane energy shot to the clouds above and detonated there, forming a grand array easily the size of their budding village. Streaking down from the array were a series of small bolts that sunk into a random assortment of the Raccan’s, where a small shimmering orb popped into existence above their heads.
Miriam was unable to see the results as she passed out. Even so, the battlefield was tilted as each of the Brutes found themselves with a mark..
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“I’ve got her!” Sarah shouted, voice cutting over the rain, but Mitchell’s eyes were on the array above. He knew nothing about magic, nor about those symbols and circles Miriam seemed to use like blocks to build spells, but he was fairly certain they weren’t intended to linger.
Then the sky split in two and chaos reigned.
A bolt of streaming lightning crashed down in the centre of the formation of Skirmishers. Sending the small furred creatures scattering like bowling pins, the bolt crashed down into one unlucky skirmisher, and the sheer light from the strike seared itself into Mitchell’s eyes. Or that’s what it felt like, anyways, as the original lightning bolt lingered, anchoring itself to the ground where the original Skirmisher had been. Nothing remained of the creature.
Then, small streamers of light shot out and danced through the air like a sparking, glowing stalk of seaweed, weaving and searching until one got too close to a Brute and then-
Another bolt flashed out, from the main bolt that was rapidly glassifying the ground, and struck the Brute with the power of a cannon shot. The corpse - for it had died instantly - flew backwards and splintered into the surrounding trees with a prolonged crash. It was only for the briefest moment, as the flash of light lit up the forest, but Mitchel distinctly saw a dark figure dashing through the trees above the wreckage, a small quadrupedal shadow flitting behind him.
“John. George is in the trees, looks like he’s breaking for the Shaman. I’m gonna go give him a hand.”
John looked back over his shoulder from where he held the widened shield. “That’s stupid, and he’s stupid for sallying out. We have the wall. We can defend the wall much better than battle in open fields.”
Mitchell unhooked his helmet from his belt and slipped it onto his head. His voice emerged muffled. “I think we both know that Shaman types will have damage spells. After seeing what Miri could do at her level… We need to take it down quick, before it can damage the wall. I’m going.”
With that, he dashed forwards past the line of shields and almost immediately the bulk of the Skirmishers switched targets to him. Running at a diagonal, he was able to read the arcs of the stones, no matter how difficult they were to pick out through the rain and against the grey sky. In an awkward, loping gait, he dodged what he could and blocked what he couldn’t. Even as he was getting pelted, three Brutes split off to intercept him, leaving six behind to guard the Shaman.
Mitchell cursed. He could not adjust his course in any way except towards the Shaman, and from the previous fight it would take all he had to take out just one of the Brutes. Even without adjusting his course, it was next to impossible to see the traps in the commotion and mud, and so he was largely avoiding them by memory. That would be impossible in a fight. Maybe if he got lucky he could take two of them, but with the traps, the ranged support, and the buff the Shaman placed on them making them as big as vehicles, he had to genuinely contemplate returning to the wall.
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Then an arrow shaft grew from between the eyes of the leading Brute, stopping its momentum and sending it slipping into the mud, eyes dark and glassed over. That still left two, and in a flurry of pounding steps they arrived.
Mitchell’s shield arm was forced down by a devastating hammer blow, and he returned the attack with a draw cut on the offending arm, whirling around to deal with the second flanking Brute. That one seemed pre-occupied, wailing in pain as Kyla - when did she get here? - danced around it with her spear, prodding and jabbing, punishing every attempt by the Brute to get closer.
He would not decry the assistance, and turned to his own opponent. He was just in time to see one of the small, dancing streamers of light drift a little too close and in a panic, hurled himself to the ground shield-first. “Get down!!” He yelled out, aware that Kyla was beside him and may not have seen the impending strike, but that was all he had time for before his world vanished in a detonation of mud and light.
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Things weren’t looking good. George had been gone for not a minute, flanking around the back of the enemy formation, but by the time he’d returned Miriam and Mitchell were both down, and Kyla was far out of position doing her best to keep the Brutes away from Mitchell’s uncon-
George reassessed as he watched his armoured friend slowly stagger to his feet.
George aimed, drew, and released another arrow, sinking it into the back of the neck of one of the Skirmishers as it whirled its smouldering ammo around its head. It’s body falling limp, the steaming stone skipped across the grass, landing in front of another Skirmisher who paused in its own slinging to look down with curiosity, only for it too to fall limp, dark wood sprouting from its chest.
He was found at that point, and a Brute paired with two Skirmishers broke off from the formation to chase him down. Foolish, considering he’d yet to see them even attempt to use the branchways.
Then the Shaman chanted, the Brute’s arms and claws extended a foot past what was normal, and George had to dodge as the creature leapt up into the tree he was in, rear feet splintering bark as the claws dug deep and both foreclaws swinging towards his head. George abandoned his next shot, driving the arrow deep into the Brute’s forearm as he retreated to an adjacent tree.
Nimbus tagged in, leaping towards the Brute with claws extended and mouth wide, and George’s mind simultaneously snagged to a stop and fired into overdrive.
The Brute was distracted by the arrow in its arm, which should allow Nimbus to land his strike. The key word was should, as even in the split second available, George was able to watch the Brute’s eyes tracking his feline friend. With a hideous squelch, it ripped the arrow out, and with a bony crunch backhanded Nimbus away with the same motion. The cat yowled, falling through a few branches but catching himself on a lower branch just out of reach of the Skirmishers.
A surge of fury blinded George, the sight of Nimbus's pain igniting a primal rage within him. He charged forward, a fierce growl escaping his lips, “You motherfucker!”
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John briefly wondered what, if any, the Raccan’s policies around prisoners were.
That was all he had time for before the majority of the Army hit his line. With Mitchell down outside the wall and Kyla the only thing keeping his stunned ass alive, the Page needed Sarah, but Sarah was too valuable to let leave the walls on her own. He couldn’t spare a single spear. Miriam was still down with exhaustion, which would hopefully be alright by the next wave, but he didn’t count on it - it had taken her close to 6 hours to come back from draining her MP last time, which meant it wasn’t unlikely she would be out until the Waves started coming back-to-back.
George was stuck in a battle with some sort of augmented Brute, and his feat of managing that battle while still hopping through the branches of the trees was nothing short of miraculous in his eyes. Nimbus was nowhere to be seen. That only left Ezekiel, who was shooting arrow after arrow from atop the wall and steadily depleting the number of Skirmishers. In all, John figured the Archer was likely contributing the most to the defence, outside of his own wall and traps efforts.
The key thing he was able to glean, right before his poor troops had to deal with a squad of Brutes, was that the Skirmishers were no longer shooting at him, which meant he could finally lower his shield. “Legion, brace fo-”
Chaos erupted. Roars from his men mingled with the hissing of the hulking beasts as they crashed against the shields. John’s two Tiro, showing rare tactical acumen, planted their spears and aimed at the same berserking Raccan. The creature, too focused on its attack, failed to dodge. Its eyes widened in shock as the spears found their mark, and it slumped to the ground. They had struck a weak spot.
Some deep part of his mind regressed from the desperate struggle, as he and his three men were pushed back and down by four huge monstrosities. Their bulky bodies were thrown against shield with abandon, their claws swiped and slashed and did all they could to break past the paltry wooden shields, but they somehow failed. John’s body started to work on automatic, his shield bashing out to cover his Tiros flank, his Optio lunging forward with his own sword and driving the blade into the attackers ribs. It was not a kill shot, but with the rate of blood loss, it would be getting weaker and weaker as it used the last of its strength to try and pierce the barrier.
That deep part of his mind spread out across his vision of the battlefield, the glances in between strikes, blocks, and parries. Locations sunk into his head, status checks updating and being catalogued, and within moments John had a clear picture of the battlefield.
Half of the Skirmishers remained, though half of those were out of ammunition and were huddled by the Shaman. George and the altered Brute he fought were both showing signs of damage, but Nimbus had managed to take out the supporting Skirmishers, so John would have been willing to bet that George would come out ahead. He’d only sparred with him once, but it was infuriating beyond belief how he managed to dodge every strike.
Kyla and Mitchell held their ground admirably until one of the Brutes leapt for a gap in Mitchell’s defence. The claw slashed at his torso, but when Mitchell clamped his arm down and took the hit to immobilise the creature, Kyla flashed forward and the tip of a spear erupted from the back of the Brute’s skull. Another flash of blue-white lit up, and the second Brute they were fighting was flung into the forest by a jagged bolt of lightning as thick as a pop can, fur smoking.
Unfortunately that still left four more for them to face off against, even if one was weakening. There was one in the trees with George, and with five dead, that meant there was only five left. Fortunately, that left the Shaman open.
“Mitchell!” John shouted out, even as one of his Tiros went down to a solid strike to his head. With the rain washing everything away, John couldn’t tell how bad it was, but the man was unmoving in the pool of red. The odds quickly turned against him as the four Brutes concentrated their attacks on his left flank, pushing Jack backwards inch by gruelling inch. They wouldn’t last long, and he was too pressed for time to even shout out a warning to the Page.
John fell into the second-by-second thinking required for combat, and the rest of the battlefield faded away from his perception. He fought carefully, never over-extending, bashing his foes away with his shield only to be stopped from following up by another staggered attack. Claws slashed across his right bicep, cutting deep, and the next parry he made with his gladius had him dropping the weapon as the vibrations of the impact travelled up his arm and into the burning wound.
The gladius was quickly trampled into the mud underfoot, and John swore, bashing once again with his shield and activating his Testudo skill once again, hoping to get a moment to grab his sword.
Which is why he was unprepared as the shield pushed forwards, illusory red copies to either side, and bashed the entire squad of Brutes. Jack, finally getting a moment to breathe, snarled and drove his sword into the throat of one of the Brutes, killing it almost instantly, but in the rain he lost his grip on the weapon as the corpse fell backwards. That didn’t stop him, as he grabbed the flimsy boards of his shield in two hands, raised it over his head, and fell on top of one of the downed Brutes.
The other two were getting to their feet quickly and had eyes on Jack, so without a thought for his own safety John charged forwards and wrapped his arms around the Raccan, tackling it back to the ground. He knew there was another one getting up, and he wouldn’t have long, so he let the fury slip over his mind.
You dare touch them?
A voice slipped through the red haze of battle, and John startled as he realised it was his own thoughts. It wasn’t enough of a startle for him to lose his position, and even as hind claws scrabbled at his back, small lines of pain and agony butting against the overflow of emotion, he lifted a fist high.
I will END you first!
His fist slammed down with all of the power and authority he could muster, and with a wet crunch, powered through the skull and deep into the mud. He could feel the rising form of the other Brute, and tried to rise to his feet - but as he pulled, the jagged edges of the broken skull caught on his armour and threw off his balance, sending him tumbling to the mud.
It likely saved his life, as a set of slashing claws skimmed through the air where his head had been a split second prior. He had enough time to turn, and see the feral, black eyes of the Raccan staring down at him in hunger. It lifted two arms high, claws glistening in the rain, and bellowed as it went to bring them down and disembowel the Centurion. John’s arm was caught, and his shield too encased in mud to get it before him in time.
He distantly thought this would be a good time to panic, but that distant part was drowned out by the bellowing of his internal voice.
Get up! Fight! FIGHT!
John could do no more than lash out with a foot, catching the side of the Raccan’s knee. With his lack of leverage, the blow skittered off to the side, feeling like he had tried to kick a brick wall. He could see, almost in slow motion, what was happening in his peripheral.
Jack, bleeding and with half his armour torn off, stood over the unmoving corpse of a Raccan Brute, weaponless but still taking the first steps towards helping John out. To his right, Sarah cast spell after spell on the downed Tiro, her face flushed with effort and lips speeding through incantations like an auctioneer would speed through bids. In the distance, out of his sight, he knew Mitchell and Kyla were after the Shaman and George was caught up in the trees against the mutated Brute. His other Tiro leaned against the wall, red pouring from his leg as he moaned in agony. In short, nobody was coming to save him.
Which is why he was surprised when rather than bringing those deadly claws down, the Raccan on top of him sniffed, then he saw surprise in its eyes. He spared a brief moment to wonder why it was surprised, then scrambled out from underneath its frozen form, wiping the mud from his eyes to get his bearings properly.
There, behind the Brute who had been about to disembowel him, stood the savage form of Kyla. She was breathing deeply, and he could see multiple slashes had gone through her thin leather armour, where they had cut through flesh and spilled her blood. Even now, her face seemed pale, but in that paleness was a fire and determination John had only seen once in the past week - when Mitchell had stepped before a raging bear to keep it away from Miriam.
Her spear was driven deep into the monster's back, piercing out through its chest. The eyes that were filled with surprise slowly glazed over, and the creature died as it fell. As Kyla also dropped to her knees and passed out, John staggered up, disturbed at the red that tinted the rain puddles on the battlefield. Two skirmishers limped towards the tree line, Mitchell faced off against the Shaman, and George was running full speed back towards the wall, cradling a black ball of fur in his arms.
It was almost unnatural, seeing the Ranger sprint over the mud that was almost impossible to walk through, and at a speed higher than an Olympic sprinter would be capable of, but John’s brain wasn’t focussed on that. Prying his sword out of the mud and rolling Kyla over so she didn’t drown, John began to move towards the fleeing Skirmishers, determined not to let any escape.
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Mitchell stood alone before the Shaman, at least a hundred feet from the wall where the rest of the battle was dying down. The Raccan was clearly intelligent and capable of utilising strategy, so Mitchel had foregone his initial plan to just charge it and kill it. It had even drawn a dagger as he approached, and now held a staff in one hand and the bladed weapon in the other.
As he was unable to retreat, and was unsure what circling would count as, he simply held his position. The Shaman hissed a warbling tune, and a greasy black bolt of energy flew from its staff, slower than an arrow but faster than a thrown spear. Mitchell raised his shield, and before he could second-guess the efficacy of blocking a magical spell with a shield, the bolt splashed against the metal of his shield and he felt a draining sensation, as if adrenaline had just worn off after he’d run a marathon.
Mitchell gasped, having already been tired from the brief but intense skirmish. However, another black bolt was on its way towards him, so he advanced diagonally, ensuring to not take any steps away from his foe. With the speed of the bolts, they should have been easy to dodge, but after that first impact he found his body sluggish and his reactions muted. As it was, he was barely staying ahead of where the bolts were flying, and then only because he was watching the staff and moving before the bolt was ever unleashed.
The Raccan was smartening up, and was blasting bolts to prevent him from advancing. Out of ideas and growing more tired, Mitchell flung his shield out at the Shaman, who tried to sidestep it but still took a nasty hit to the shin when his foot stayed in the mud a split second longer than expected. It was enough. The curse of pain interrupted the Shaman’s casting, and Mitchell dove on the opportunity.
Dashing forwards, Mitchell’s plan hit a snag when rather than another black bolt, the Shaman spat out three crude syllables and a sickly green shot from his staff straight into Mitchell’s sword, which leapt from his hands twirling into the air before sinking blade first into the mud. A smug look - or what passes for one, Mitchell imagined, when it was a brand new species - plastered itself on the Shaman’s face, and it began building up another black bolt.
From Mitchell’s perspective, he’d felt almost no loss of effectiveness from losing the bladed weapon. Neither did the lack of shield bother him. Encased in steel as he was, he knew that he himself was a weapon, and it was this thought that travelled through his mind as he completed his charge. That, and the entirely new realm of options that opened up for him through his Weapon Mastery. He finally realised something important for his class.
The sword was a sidearm. The shield, a tool for deflecting ranged attacks. It was him, his own body and power that was the driving combat force behind his class, and so he let himself use it.
The Shaman had no chance.
A muddy, gauntleted fist pierced through the rain and connected with the snout of a surprised Raccan. Another metal-clad hand grasped the fur at the base of its neck, and the Shaman only had time for a pained squeak before the mass of steel came crashing in, burying itself in the caster’s soft stomach, causing the Raccan to retch pathetically.
It tried to lash out with the dagger, but the blade skipped uselessly across the human’s plate.
The grabbing hand lifted, and the Shaman briefly felt its feet leave the ground, before it was thrust back down and slammed against the armoured figures knee. It felt bones break, and desperately tried to squeak out a surrender, but the grabbing hand tightened, and its airways were cut off. The hand squeezed tighter, and important tubes and passageways collapsed. The leader of the small group of Raccan’s realised it would die, and looked up into the eyes of its killer.
It saw only a grim, dirty helmet, the eye-slits enclosed in shadow. As the darkness drew in from the edges of its vision, it thought it saw a faint blue spark, deep within the helm.
That faint blue spark was the casters only thought as it died, and the area surrounding the wall finally went quiet, save for the pouring rain.