Mark and Henric stood on the wall, watching as the cultist army marched to the surrounding tree line.

His heart threatened to thump straight out of his chest, and Mark did his best to calm it, reminding himself that their preparations and tests had been successful. If these stubborn people managed to push through the wire, his imitation Greek fire would melt them away.

“There’s more than I expected,” Henric muttered in disbelief.

“They’re men,” Mark said resolutely. “I know how to deal with men.”

“Not all of them,” Henric gulped, eyeing several wargs gathered beneath a section of the tree line.

The humanoid wolves stood at least six feet on their hind legs, covered in tight muscle and fur. Their maws looked like they could tear straight through a man’s arm, crushing his bone.

“Not many, at least. This isn’t so bad. At least we'll get a chance to test ourselves against the wargs. In fact, it's kind of perfect. We will undoubtedly have to fight a larger force of them at some point. If we have any chance of winning against these odds, we'll need experience dealing with them. And this is a perfect opportunity to dip our feet in the water."

“Only you could look at this army that outnumbers as more than ten to one and be so confident.”

“Ten to one?” Mark turned to his Arms-Master. “More like twenty to one. Most of our people are civilians, or had you forgotten.”

“Maybe I was hoping they would fight…” Henric gritted his teeth, fighting back a scowl.

“Ah, cheer up. We’ve got all the tools we need to win this. Our plans are falling into place.” Mark turned his gaze away from his nervous second in command and looked across the fortifications.

About twenty-five ferals stood ready with bows spread across ten platforms along the Low District walls and another twenty-five on the ground. More were armed with spears by the walls and split into small response groups dotted throughout the district just in case the enemy managed to penetrate the wall somewhere. The acolytes remained on the former inner and outer walls, now entirely shielded by the Low District walls surrounding the fort. There was an argument to have them support the others, but Mark didn’t want to put all their eggs in one basket. If disaster were to happen and the walls faltered somewhere, at least they would have the crossbows to cover their retreat into the High District.

He also didn't want to rely entirely on the ferals for their defense, so he placed Imperial mercenaries on the little platforms they built for the four flamethrowers, each with a second mercenary to guard and work the pump for them. It was necessary if they wanted to continue firing flames without stopping, but also a backup plan in case Trumus failed to keep the peace. It was one thing if a cultist ally tried to open a gate—something that would likely fail thanks to the number of guards around—but entirely another thing if one of them tried taking out a flamethrower. The turrets were his ace, and Mark wanted to be sure nothing would happen to them.

Mark's gaze then turned back to the threatening army. He watched as, beneath the surrounding trees, the cultists prepared by separating into attack groups. Most of them wore some kind of armor, even if it was only boiled leather and a shield. Counting their separated attack groups, Mark spotted ten that appeared to be preparing to mount an attack, each of them about fifty men. But that wasn’t all. He could see support groups preparing. It looked like a probing attack, and the rest would likely charge wherever the initial groups spotted a weakness.

“They’re not going to attack already, are they,” Henric stammered.

“Without a single siege engine?” Mark mused, watching as some of the cultists prepared ladders. “This is to our advantage if they do. It won’t be easy for them to scale our walls with ladders alone.”

Henric ran a hand through his hair, and Mark realized it was the first time he had seen him truly stressed.

“Calm yourself. Our enemy is showing their impatience. We couldn’t have been given a better gift.”

“I hope you’re right,” Henric nodded. “But what do we do?”

“Watch, and if you see any signs of weakness, send one of our attack squads to relieve them.”

“Me? I thought you were commanding this defense. What are you going to do?”

“I'm not going anywhere, Henric. Calm down; I'm just going to take the ship up. But the tides of battles can change quickly, and if I'm not back in time to provide orders, I'll need you to, understand?" Mark said, relaying the confidence he had seen in commanders in movies and books, hoping it sounded realistic.

"Just don't go too far."

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"I won't. I'm sure you'll see me if you look up. But I'll have to save energy, so I’ll only fire on our enemies if it is absolutely necessary for our defense but don't worry, I will be keeping an eye on everything as it develops.”

“Imperator,” Henric raised a hand as Mark turned to leave.

“What?”

“Be careful. If the wargs truly believe they can conquer the entire Frontier, they must have a method of dealing with throne ships. Don’t get too overconfident because you’re in the sky.”

“Thanks for the tip, Henric,” Mark nodded. “I’ll be cautious.”

***

Pulling into the air, Mark circled the fort, dipping in and out of the foggy clouds that almost entirely held back the sun from the icy landscape.

From here, his enemies looked like ants gathering below. He knew he couldn’t fire his ship’s cannon many times, but if he selected his targets wisely, then perhaps a few shots could prove decisive.

The ten groups of cultists stepped out from the treeline at nearly equal distances between them, surrounding the fort, and began banging their weapons against their shields.

Mark eyed the group of gathered wargs; they were his chosen target, but he didn't want to be hasty until he knew what his enemy had to offer. The attack groups didn't worry him, though. He doubted they would even reach the wall as lightly armored as they were.

Okay, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.

The archers were ordered to hold their arrows until their enemy reached the trench. He wanted them to make the most of their arrows, and he wanted the enemy to commit to trying to get through the trench when the arrows started to rain down on them. If the enemy decided that the attack was going to be too costly and held their forces back until they could prepare real siege equipment, then their chances of surviving the battle would be drastically reduced.

Mark was happy to watch the assault start, but a figure among the trees began to glow, shifting his attention toward it.

What the hell is that?

Mark's eyes widened as a beam of bright light flashed toward him, clearing the distance between them in seconds. A jerk of his control only just managed to swerve the throne ship out of the way, sending the beam of light shooting up through the sky.

Swinging the ship around, Mark pushed down on the controls and dipped down, taking advantage of gravity and sending him hurling toward his attacker like an iron bug on a dive bombing run.

His target brightened with the same ethereal glow of energy, and another beam of light shot toward him, but he was moving fast now, and it barely took a slight jerk of his controls to send the attack skirting past him harmlessly.

There he is!

He hadn't wanted to make a decision on using his throne ship's energy just yet, but if his enemy were going to show themselves like this, he couldn't waste the opportunity.

Engaging the mage heart at the ship's core, Mark drew on its energy, funneled it into a pulse of building power, and sent the lightning burst thundering down on his target.

An angry clap of power crackled, exploding through the enemy line and sending snow tumbling from the forest trees, making the ground shake and sending birds into flight, but something wasn’t right.

Pulling back up into the clouds as he finished his swooping attack, Mark turned the ship and narrowed his gaze on the enemy formation where he had fired. There were plenty of charred corpses lying around where he had hit, but something told him the figure that had shot at him still lived.

Shit! Mark's eyes widened as a flash of light grew in seconds. Pulling on his controls, he sent the ship twirling to its side to dodge another burst of energy. Still, he came up short, and it skidded along the armored shell of the ship, rocking him violently and sending the throne ship into an uncontrolled spin toward the ground.

Damn it, listen to me.

Forcing his will on the machine, Mark tried to will the mage heart into action as he fell toward the ground, and a thump of power reverberated through it, humming to life and echoing back through the ship's heart, almost as if it were alive.

A jolt rocked the ship as energy surged through it, and another tug on its controls sent it lurching back into the air, having fallen only a few yards from the ground.

That was way too close.

Mark pushed back into the sky, pulling on the controls, but he could feel the ship's energy waning. If he pushed on now and attacked that figure again, there was a real chance he would run out of energy and get himself killed. But he noticed something. The glow of power he had seen was dulled, almost unrecognizable so. His enemy hadn’t left this battle unscathed either; that much was obvious. He couldn't tell Whether it was wounded, but he had at least forced them to draw on their power reserves and exhaust themselves in the process.

A smile tugged on Mark's lips. This little skirmish had been won. He turned back to the fort to land, not wanting to take unnecessary risks. After all, even if the throne ship's mage heart needed to recover, his was still fine. If that enemy was the only one among them with a power like that, this little fight might have just saved the fort. He had essentially drawn out their artillery and forced them to use up their ammunition. No doubt they would recover as would the throne ship, but that could be dealt with when it happened.

Pulling back into the fort, Mark landed heavily and hurried out, charging back toward the wall to take his place as commander as the enemy force readied their attack.

I think you’ll see soon enough that I won that encounter, cultist wizard or whatever you are.

"You're back?" Henric said as Mark rushed to his side.

"I see they're still planning on pushing forward with their attack. Perfect."

"Imperator, what happened? We saw you..."

"What did it look like, Arms-Master? Someone attacked me."

"Right," Henric nodded. "Someone powerful."

"You didn't tell me they had people like that."

"I didn't know. A follower of the Seven-Headed Wolf God, I presume. I have never seen such power from a feral. It must be their god's chosen."

"Their chosen, huh? So, you think that guy was the cultist leader?"

"I would assume so. If normal cultist priests had been capable of that, they probably would have won back the Frontier centuries ago."

"Makes sense."

"This doesn't look good."

"Don't worry," Mark said, patting Henric's back as he watched the cultist attack groups nearing the trenches. "You've got me, and I'm going to give them a hell of a time."

Screams echoed out as the first cultists tried to penetrate the rows of barbed wire, and the first volleys of arrows rained down upon them, the poor souls already leaving their brethren caught on the sharp iron behind as they hopelessly tried to wade forward.