Jacob Ward could feel the inertia of every horse he led in the charge. He felt every hoofbeat, every impact of lance against shield or flesh or wooden timber as their shared, combined mass simply smashed through everything in their path. He was the point man -- the tip of the spear -- and he instinctively knew their charge would last only as long as he could bear to contain its power. The Black Lance had built up so much inertia on the way down the bank of the river that he couldn’t simply stop the charge. The entire company pushed him from behind, and even turning to follow the curve of the Deskren siege lines took monumental effort he knew he would pay for later. If he released his hold on [Momentum], the column would burst apart and the riders would be scattered uselessly across the battlefield, although how he knew this was something he would have to ponder later.
Even in the midst of the charge, he knew he had to maintain awareness of the rest of the battlefield. His eyes flicked left and right, the slits in his helmet allowing only a mere sliver of vision. It was enough, just barely, and he leaned slightly to his left, sensing it would be a better angle to hit the next trebuchet. The charging lancers followed his lead, with the wagons bracketed on either side by galloping horseflesh and sharpened steel.
As he rode the trebuchet down, lance crackling with black lightning, the momentum carried the weight of thousands of charging horses and soldiers to its point. The trebuchet was smashed to flinders, one passing across his field of vision as Ares galloped onwards, momentarily drawing his gaze upward.
His eye was caught by motion above the city: a man-shaped object drifting to the south, its outline wavering as if caught in a heat haze. Behind it, the city’s defensive barrier started to recede, like water pouring off a stone.
Jacob pulled his gaze back down to the battlefield, flexing his hand on his lance and leaning forward. He couldn’t spare any more thought for what wasn’t in front of him: another trebuchet needed to stop existing.
=========================================
Stev Aras sprinted along the outer wall, firing his crossbow into the teeming mass of Deskren that had turned away from the city in an attempt to address the charging riders. In doing so, their assault on the city had slackened, and the city’s defenders had been more than prepared to capitalize. He dodged and twisted to avoid archers and mages and ranged combat classers of every description. He gave one particularly wild-eyed alchemist as wide a berth as the narrow walkway allowed: the man’s satchel of flasks and phials had half spilled onto the stones, promising a bad day for anyone unlucky enough to misstep.
As the last remnants of the barrier slid away from the battlements, Stev could feel the hum of the city’s enchantments drawing the mana back to the towers more than he could hear it, both in his molars and in the way the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood up. He glanced back, and saw glowing patterns shifting and twisting in the air around one of the city’s spires as its mages bent their backs to a new effort. Originally intended to hold the barrier in place against onrushing beasts from the pass, it took a certain amount of ingenuity to redirect the energy -- but the city’s mages had accomplished exactly that. A crackling, coruscating beam of light leapt forth from the city, and the last enemy spelltower disappeared in a spray of fire, dirt, and iron.
Looking down, he saw his sister bounding along at ground level, just inside the wall, leading a group of fighters towards the melee beyond. Those with ranged skills were breaking off and making for the battlements, but there would never be a better chance for the melee fighters to join the fray.
“Taz!” he called down. The [Grizzly Knight] looked up, barely slowing her pace. “The mages will protect Xerrioth, but the riders are going to need cover while they pass the gate! Watch their backs!” She nodded, and started moving faster. Stev sighed in relief; giving her an objective was much better than simply having her cut loose somewhere he couldn’t predict. Additionally, putting her near Xerrioth would ensure she stayed close rather than wandering off.
Stev wasn’t sure how much damage it would cause to force open the south gate. The initial Deskren assault had heated and bent the massive portcullis, knocking it out of alignment in its dwarven-built foundations and wrecking the mechanisms that would lift it. The necessities of defense meant it had been better left in place, as the damage had only made it even more secure.
The city’s towers began emitting a low hum that buzzed in his ears, and mages and archers along the walls began volleys of fire against the few groups of Deskren spellcasters that seemed to be rallying amidst the confusion. Turning the towers to offense was more complicated than maintaining a shield, and it would take several long and laborious minutes to gather the energy to fire again. Only the chaos caused by the charging riders had given them the respite from bombardment required to even attempt the stunt in the first place.
Stev saw Xerrioth’s slender form descend in a rippling swirl of icy wind to land on the walkway above the south gate. He had travelled along the wall until he was close enough to just make out the black form of that terribly heavy sword as it rose above the mage’s head. He was sure it was rotating, magefire and lighting glinting off the crossguard as it spun overhead. The drums that had kept a furious tempo for the entire afternoon suddenly fell silent for the span of a heartbeat, and the sword stopped rotating. A hush fell across the city, and from a hundred paces away, Stev heard the mage speak:
“Nox Gravitalis.”
=====================
Millie Thatcher was in a place where the only time that mattered was the beat she set with her drum. The screams of the enemy blended with the howls of the Luparan recruits as the lancers tore through the Deskren line. The Battlemaster’s charge destroyed everything in its path, and what wasn’t trampled under was cast to the sides in a tumultuous wave of blood and timber and screaming bodies. With everything focused at the head of the column, there was nothing to defend their flanks if the enemy suddenly reorganized. Nothing, that is, except for Millie’s lightning. The [Thunderstrike Battle-bard] struck her drum and it sang of thunder, and thunder answered the call. Bolts hammered down from the frozen, angry sky with metronomic precision, adding weight to the drumbeats and banishing the darkness with every flash.
Such power wasn’t without cost, however. Millie felt the drain; no single strike was especially taxing, but they fell like rain, and her Stamina poured out like water through a sieve. Only the long march, and the levels and power she had earned, allowed her to maintain for so long this thing that Jacob had referred to as a “power ballad” when she had first demonstrated the ability. For all that the march had been merciless, the Black Lance had reaped a bounty in endurance and toughness. So Millie kept the storm whipped into a frenzy with her drums as they rode, and the massive gate of the city loomed closer. She grit her teeth and hoped it would be enough.
It wasn’t.
Her Stamina fell closer to nothing, and what Lady Jenna had identified as her Mana fell as well. With three hundred paces left before they reached the gate, the lightning began to fade from the sides of the column, and Millie’s arm grew leaden, exhaustion trying to drag her down into the bed of the wagon.
With less lightning, more of the Deskren were able to approach the column’s flank. Most were trampled, but not without some taking Lancers down with them. Horse and rider alike screamed, as arrow and spell raked the exposed side of the column. When one rider fell, two more emerged from the middle to fill the gap and defend the wagons. When their lances, no longer bolstered by lightning, broke against the Deskren, sword and hammer were used instead.
Between one drumbeat and the next, Millie was almost thrown to the wagon’s floor as the ground began to rise up under her, and the din of the battle around her faded, as if pulled ahead, towards the gate. The snow and wind, too, drifted ahead, towards a rippling, inky-black sphere of air, as if a giant were drawing a breath.
“Nox Gravitalis.”
The words were quiet, but the effect they had was immediate: the rising ground pushed the entire column up, and only the Battlemaster’s unique skill kept the line intact. The Deskren met with worse, as cracks opened beneath them, and spells and arrows bent in their paths, seeking new destinations. Everything seemed to be drawn towards the destroyed gate for a few moments, before the entire world groaned, before snapping back. The Deskren were thrown to the ground in disarray, and then suddenly arrows, stones, and all manner of munitions poured forth from the walls to savage them. The first salvo was followed by roaring skirmishers suddenly appearing amidst the chaos, led by a massive bear-woman, clad only in a loincloth, who slapped Deskren infantry and spellcraft aside with contemptuous ease. Grateful for the reprieve, Millie steaded herself and took up her beat again as they continued towards the beleaguered city.
=====================
Calvin Descroix held on for dear life, gritting his teeth and huddling in the back of the wagon. While certainly no stranger to battle, the notion of a commander mounting a charge with his wagons -- to take your supplies and support personnel into harm’s way -- seemed to be madness incarnate. But necessity was always the mother of invention, and the Battlemaster had shown brilliance in desperation. To leave behind the wagon train would have been to defeat the entire point of their mission, but Calvin had expected a battle of attrition and maneuver to take and secure the remnants of the bridge and its crossing. If using the Icefall mortars to cross the river strained credulity, then a nightmarish ride down the length of a Deskren siege line shattered it -- and yet, here they were.
A flicker of a thought almost had him diving off the wagon and rejoining the Deskren to get away from the wild ride, but that thought only lasted until he recalled that his sister’s banner had flown over the command tents. If it had been any other in command of the Deskren, he might have even deposed them and ordered a withdrawal. His sister, however, was vicious and bloodthirsty at the best of times, and he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to have him counted among the dead. The circumstances of their births -- Calvin was a year older, and therefore closer to the throne -- would have guaranteed it, and the disgrace of his earlier defeat would mean nobody would bat an eye.
The thunder began to fade, and with it the lightning that had discouraged attacks from their rear and sides. He took a breath, and raised his crossbow. He would be no help -- to his homeland or anyone -- if he died, and without the lightning, the company would be vulnerable to attack. As if summoned by his thought, arrows began impacting armor and wood, some finding their way to softer, more vulnerable surfaces as horse and man screamed.
Suddenly, the world seemed to pause, as if taking a breath, between two beats of Millie’s drum. In the silence, Calvin heard his own heart beat before a voice cut through the quiet:
“Nox Gravitalis.”
Sound and motion returned, but the sudden pressure that followed the words was enormous. The convoy seemed to fall forward, then, and Calvin could feel as much as hear a terrific groan, a screech of tortured metal. He looked towards the city, and saw a man-shaped figure floating above the gate, an orb of terrible blackness suspended above him that swallowed the last of the day’s light. The ruins of the gate jerked and tugged themselves upward under some titanic force, and mud and stone flowed like water to either side of the towers. Several unfortunate Deskren, caught in the flow, added a pinkish-red tinge to the brown and gray that swirled underneath him. The path into the city lay clear, and the Battlemaster leaned into a turn, fighting the column’s inertia as he sought its safety.
Defenders from the city had rushed out, using the sally ports dotting the walls to sow chaos on the ground as others rained down bolts and blasts and various alchemical grenades from above. Taking full advantage of the chaos, they poured forth to savage the attacker’s lines. Some did fall, but for every one that fell the Empire lost dozens of its own. However, they could only adequately cover the flank closest to them; several Deskren squads began to close with the opposite flank as they drew near. One Ursaran heavy from the lead squad got his massive hands on a lancer and tossed him over his head -- horse and all -- and drew ever closer to Hett’s wagon, where Millie sat with her drum.
Calvin didn’t realize he had fired until the twang of the crossbow reached his ears; suddenly, the bear-man’s throat sprouted the tail end of a bolt, and he went down in a fountain of blood.
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And now, I have betrayed my country, he thought bleakly as his hands reloaded the crossbow with a mechanical precision born of years of service. He looked up at the mage, then across the battlefield, shaking his head. Introspection could wait; first, he had to survive this day.
=====================
Jacob Ward saw the gate lift after he heard the voice cut through the din of battle and the rumble of galloping horses. He had struggled to turn the charge enough to sweep inside the gate, and had finally succeeded -- though his joints creaked at the strain of containing his column’s charge. Corporal Thatcher had drummed lightning for far longer than he had anticipated, but even her strength had limits, and they would be vulnerable as they reached the gate. Up to this point, they had been harassed by the comparatively more mobile Deskren light infantry, but they had deployed their heavy troops closer to the walls, and they were turning to meet the charge. He had no intention of letting them stop a single wagon from reaching safety, but he couldn’t stop to clear the path: he knew, on a level beyond knowing, that if he tried to relinquish his hold on [Momentum] in the middle of a charge, his body would be made to bear the entire force of the stopping, and no human could hope to withstand that sort of energy.
That didn’t mean, however, that he was completely out of options. With an immense effort, he turned in the saddle to keep an eye on the mass of enemy infantry approaching, with locked shields and short spears at the ready. He leveled an arm at them.
“Hett!” he shouted. He dimly heard the cackling of a madman as the old drover hurled himself from the wagon with his axe overhead, leaving only the rooster on the seat and Millie drumming frantically in the back of the wagon.
It would have to be enough. He plunged through the gate.
=====================
Taz Aras heard her lover Speak, and felt the world lurch in response. It didn’t take long for her to realize he didn’t need any protection from enemy mages; the twisting monstrosity that he had summoned pulled and stretched the air around him, and bent light like taffy. Spells that came near simply found themselves drawn to the sword, splashing harmlessly against it.
Her shock only lasted a few moments; there were Deskren between her and the column that was even now passing through the gate, and they needed her help. Leaping over a jagged rent in the ground, she charged onto the battlefield, roaring. The drumming of the convoy swelled around her, matched only by the rush of her blood and the berserker power it contained. She slapped aside the spears and spells that came for her, what few cuts and burns they granted her healing quickly. Though she wasn’t quite a regenerator, her Ursaran heritage made her the equal of any suit of mail or light plate.
She skirted the destruction wrought by Xerrioth’s magic, followed by a handful of Expedition city guards and a few of the tougher adventurers from the city. The riders poured through the gap he held clear, and on their flanks fought a man with such violence, it held even her fast for a moment.
Clad in mail and leather, a wild-eyed and bloody-bearded man leapt into the midst of at least a dozen Deskren heavies, wielding only a small axe. It bore a woodcutting head, not a halberd or battleaxe head, and yet in his hands, death followed every swing. He swept his axe three times, and three bodies fell before its edge. His momentum carried him into a dancing spin, and at its end, a Ma’akan heavy found himself split from hip to neck in a single blow, spilling his viscera like a fisherman opening his nets to spill the day’s catch.
Through it all, the old man never stopped laughing.
Not to be outdone, Taz rushed into another squad of Deskren. She dodged a spear-thrust, then ripped the spear out of the soldier’s hands. Before he could react, she levered his shield out of the way and opened his belly with a powerful blow. As he fell, Taz tore the shield from his arm, pivoted, then buried it in his shieldmate’s throat, sending him, gagging, to the ground.
She didn’t stay still more than a second, whirling to face more Deskren. The riders’ charge down the siege line had been a cavalry troop’s dream of smooth terrain and no obstacles except enemies to trample and smash, and smash they had. They drove through the enemy lines and into the city, and Taz fought next to the madman until the last wagon passed under the shadow of the floating portcullis.
As she backed under the arch, she looked up and saw Xerrioth floating, and he didn’t wait for them to walk the last distance. She suddenly felt herself floating, and the old man swore in at least two different languages as the gravity mage tossed them back up the street. They both tumbled, but regained their footing just in time to see the portcullis drop.
It slammed into the stone foundation with a titanic crash, the metal frame twisted and glowing from the unimaginable force imposed upon the steel. The gate shuddered, then dropped into the stone; the walkway above the gate crumbled as if slapped by an annoyed deity. Pieces of the lifting mechanism, supporting timbers, gears, and cables joined the pile, and the pressure continued to mount.
Xerrioth forced the rubble into the space surrounding the wrecked portcullis, the stone and metal heating until it softened like clay, which he continued to pack into and around the gate, where it cooled and solidified. The gate was no more, merely an extension of the wall, and Taz couldn’t conceive of how it might ever be fixed.
With a fading gust of wind like a sigh, the magical power faded, and the old axman grunted in appreciation. Taz’s heart stopped as Xerrioth’s great blade fell from the air, its massive weight causing it to bury itself a foot into the smooth-paved street. The mage followed his sword at a slower pace, and Taz rushed forward, just in time to catch him and keep his head from striking the stone.
Blood seeped from under the cloth around his eyes, and out of his ears, but he was breathing. She turned to shout for a healer, but the old man stilled her with a hand on her shoulder, and such was its strength that she couldn’t budge. He pulled a flask from within his coat, handing it to her.
“Here. Use this,” he said with a slight smile. “If anyone deserves it, it’s him. Haven’t seen spellcraft like that in many a year.”
Taz couldn’t move, stunned by his words as much as by his gentle strength. The blood and viscera on his coat and in his beard did nothing to soften his visage, but she calmed herself and took the flask. Xerrioth sputtered as she dribbled some into his mouth, and after a few moments had recovered enough to drink on his own.
“S’not exactly--” the mage mumbled. “Not something I do very often.” He tried to rise but stumbled, leaning on Taz.
“No,” she said. “I’ll carry you back.”
She lifted him over her shoulder despite his protests, where he promptly lapsed back into silence.
“We’ll have to come back for your sword, Xer,” she said, looking at the strange black metal sticking out of the road. “I doubt I could pull it up, and certainly can’t carry the thing--”
The old man, having slung his axe through a loop of leather, had reached out and laid a hand on Xerrioth’s massive blade. With an almost casual ease, he pulled it from the ground and laid it back across his arm and shoulder.
Taz gawked. “After you,” the man said, gesturing into the city. “I think introductions will need to be made at the head of the convoy.”
She nodded, grinning. “Indeed they will.”
=====================
Jacob Ward leaned back in the saddle, hands pulling at the reins as he strained with all his might to slow the column. He wasn’t bleeding inertia fast enough, and he was worried that he’d smash straight through the opposite wall. With every stride, the column bled speed, and with it, the pressure in his mind and bones increased as he shouldered more of the force. It became harder to breathe, but moment by moment, the column slowed from a gallop to a canter.
His armor felt hot and stifling, though he knew it was himself and not the armor heating up. At a broad intersection, he finally saw an opportunity, and with relief, began to release Lancers from the melded link that allowed his skill to work. Peeling off to either side, they eased much of his burden, and a canter became a trot.
Sides heaving, Ares finally slowed from a trot to a walk. Even at a walk, it took nearly a full city block before they finally, and with great relief, came to a halt. Jacob tried to unclench his teeth, and the haft of a broken lance fell from numbed fingers as he lifted his hands to his head to remove his helmet. The metal clattered against the stone as he dropped it to the ground, drawing in deep gasps of the crisp winter air. He could hear commotion from the wagons behind him, and Erin’s voice snapping orders as she drew closer. He braced his hands on the pommel of the saddle, and dismounted with agonizing slowness to turn and look back. Erin came running towards him with a worried expression, laying a hand on his shoulder as soothing magic flowed into him.
“See that the supplies get handed out,” he said, leaning against his horse. “And give a medal to that mage who opened the--”
The world spun around him, and he collapsed, unconscious.
=====================
Claire Descroix awoke in silence and darkness, panicking briefly before her wits caught up to her situation. Pain spiked through her shoulder and radiated through her entire body; while her protective enchantments had kept her alive and in stasis, it hadn’t healed her. It would be a risk, but Claire needed to get out of wherever she was to assess her condition.
Her right shoulder was impaled, and the arm below was numb and useless. Her left hand felt along her belt in what little space she could manage to push back from the dirt and rubble. Along the embroidered cloth were small spheres the ignorant could have been forgiven for believing to be red pearls. Her fingers brushed one and it crumbled to dust, the sudden rush of mana from the sphere of enchanted blood infusing her with sudden and potent power.
The earth and rubble burst up in a violent upheaval, and Claire Descroix, Maréchal of the 3rd Gendarmerie of the Deskren Empire, stumbled to her feet, mana flaring along her arms as she prepared to lash out. The stasis field she was wrapped in should have lasted several hours, meaning there was no telling the circumstances she might find herself in.
Startled troops recognized her, and she them; some knelt or bowed and others called for healers. The Lieutenant approached, with several mages in tow. She waved away the enlisted and stumbled for the nearest tent, ripping the broken shaft of the lance out of her shoulder with a growl, crushing another pearl and using its mana to block the pain.
“Send the healers and cutters away,” she snapped at the Lieutenant, his name forgotten and, for the moment, unimportant. She pulled a small vial from her belt pouch and uncorked it with her teeth. She swallowed half the contents, grimacing at the bitterness, and poured the rest into the gaping wound that was what remained of her right shoulder. Bones ground and popped as flesh knit together, but she knew it was dislocated as well. She turned to the lieutenant, making a pulling gesture. “Now! While the potion’s working!”
To his credit, the man didn’t hesitate, and her respect for him rose a notch as he pulled her arm out and pushed her shoulder back into place with ruthless efficiency. She nearly bit through her tongue, but feeling returned to her hand and the potion would ensure the healing was properly accelerated after a night’s sleep -- a sleep she would unfortunately have to delay.
“Report,” she said, now more calm than when she had originally awoken.
“Ma’am,” the lieutenant replied, coming to attention. “The riders’ attack was devastating. We lost all but four of our trebuchet, and the one spelltower they missed was destroyed by a blast from the defenders.”
“How long was I out? How many troops did we lose?” she asked, not surprised by the news.
The man glanced over his shoulder. “It’s been almost four hours. Between the riders’ charge and the city’s defenders...about eight thousand casualties. Maybe a thousand more will die from injuries sustained. More supply barges have arrived within the past hour, but the Major in charge won’t release the slaves or supplies until you arrive.”
“Slaves?” Claire shakes her head. “The workers will help, but I need another battalion of heavies, and mages wouldn’t go amiss, either. Without the spell towers, our job just got a lot harder…”
The man swallowed, stiffening. “Ma’am, with all due respect, the siege is over. We can’t rebuild the spelltowers, the defensive barrier went back up within minutes of the riders entering the city, and a powerful mage wrecked the southern gate so badly we’ll never make it in. The riders brought hundreds of wagons with them; doubtless filled with supplies. They’re more than equipped now to hold us off until the rest of the northlands forces arrive.” He swallowed again. “I’ll follow your orders, ma’am, but our best course of action would be to withdraw with our captives, take the river back to the coast and rejoin the fleet.”
Claire pinched the bridge of her nose, deep in thought as she considered the man’s words. “Thank you for your honesty,” she said. “Many would simply tell me what they thought I wanted to hear.”
The Lieutenant managed not to sigh in relief, though he visibly relaxed.
“You said we took captives?” Claire strode out of the tent, followed by the Lieutenant.
“Yes, ma’am. The city guard and dozens of adventurers,” he answered, guiding her between the rows of tents to where several dozen Expedition guardsmen and ragtag fighters had been corralled within a ring of spears. “All over level forty, some close to fifty; a few of them we’re less certain about. They’re too old for black collars, but not Shackles.”
“Shackles will not be necessary,” Claire declared, grinning. “And we are not withdrawing.”
“Ma’am, I’m not sure that’s--”
Claire cut him off with an icy glare. “My respect for your honesty,” she said darkly, “does not extend to tolerating you questioning my orders, Lieutenant.” She held his gaze for a few moments more, then looked at the captives. “Hm. Residents of the city.” She circled the spear ring. “They’ve fought here, sacrificed here…” She reached into her tunic, into an enchanted pocket, and withdrew a simple, hand-knapped obsidian dagger.
“Ma’am?”
“It’s exactly what I need for a ritual,” she said with glee. “They’ve given me exactly what I needed. They have a blood link with the city, forged from their time spent here and their effort spent in its defense.”
“Ma’am, I don’t understand. I’m not a mage, and certainly not a ritualist…”
“You were right about one thing, Lieutenant,” Claire said, reverently slicing open the side of her thumb and licking the blood that welled up. “This siege is over.”