The Present is moving...
The Camp disassembled itself in an amazingly short period of time. The people working on it moved with quick harmony, as if they had done it all hundreds of times before, moving from one area to the next with aplomb as the wagons were loaded and sent off.
A fair number of those wagons had no wheels, floating above the ground. Sama had never skimped on the foundation of the Ironblood, and that wasn’t going to stop now. Without having to worry about the rough terrain, the first part of the caravan was moving out, a lot of men trotting alongside or riding ahead on ready horses.
The site had already been chosen for the next camp, forty miles ahead, and one way or another, they would reach it today.
The Kaldens could only look on in envy, deeply impressed by how everything was torn up, loaded away, and then on the road, like ants devouring the camp and sending it on. Their own efforts looked quite pathetic in comparison.
The North Wind helped tear the Camp down, knowing perfectly well what needed to be done, and what did not.
“Prepare to move out!” Rorn shouted at everyone, not caring what everyone else thought. “There’s going to be fighting today! We’re going to secure this trail, and we’ve got ten miles to go to meet a Warpband coming in!”
Ten miles seemed like a lot, but they had traded some of their spoils for wagons and horses of their own, to carry armor and shields and lighten their loads while they trotted along. Ten miles was nothing.
Half an hour later, everything was stowed that needed to be, and the wagons rolled as the Kaldens headed out.
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Rorn held up his hand, reining in his horse. Fellow Marked, nearly two hundred more in number now among them than two days ago, sent the alert back through the straggling numbers marching northeast through the Badlands.
The broken landscape and mismatched terrain made it fairly easy to conceal large numbers, so scouting was of great importance. Alas for the enemy, this territory had been completely scouted out in The Map, and while it was legendary for its shifting... at least a thousand Nulls had trod down this path, Interdictions firing off, and vivic energy had baptized it. They’d already passed four battle sites, and the space here was locked down harder than steel.
In the distance, the men could see the stones warp, shift, and change, but there was a road stabbing towards Yle Tyorm that wasn’t moving at all, and was completely locked down on The Map.
Rorn knew that this was part of a massive injury done to the Land, spillover from whatever catastrophe had happened at Yle Tyorm in ages past. One of the things they were doing is feeding the invaders to the Land, for the express purpose of healing this injury. These invaders bore with them a lot of chaotic, unstable energy, and once vivified and devoured by the Land, the spatial distortions were being addressed, especially the instability that the Warp Gods were taking advantage of to materialize in the first place.
The Warpband coming from ahead was escorting a great brazen Bell, an artifact that would probably have a maddening effect on the Kaldens, while frenzying the Warped. It was something they would have to take down quickly, but that was what Liiss and the other Casters did best. The Warped had made the frame out of some wood. Barus would probably just Warp it, break the frame, and send it crashing to the ground, unable to ring. Subtle magic was sometimes the best...
But now there was another threat coming in from the right.
Orders went out, men were hurrying up to form a fighting line, grabbing their armor or shields and hurrying to get into position. Archers moved up behind, spears warded the flanks, the berserkers readied themselves to charge from behind the lines, while the scouts disappeared into the scrub and shadows of the copses that grew here and there between the jutting, frozen waves of grey stone.
He saw the horsemen first, scattered and straggling, clearly beaten like dogs, and running from a fight.
Khadifyr began to softly chant a lay from poems passed down for a thousand years or more. If he wanted to make his legacy, he would need to set down his own Song, and drawing upon the strength of his ancestors and the legends they all shared was a good way to start.
There were demonic serpents in the air, swooping down and attacking the fleeing riders, who had little defense against them. The ones in front saw the swelling lines in front of them, and desperately whipped their horses in that direction to find shelter.
“Kill them!” Rorn ordered.
Archers set in cover, arrows released, a few simple spells covered the sky with sticky webbing and fouled reptilian wings. Drakes shrieked and tumbled from the skies, and the other fliers veered off quickly, not wishing to follow the others into spirals of death.
After all, there were men on foot to prey on, too,
“Forward, easy trot!” he ordered, and the line of men swung in the direction he pointed, other Marked making sure to keep them on course. They parted to let the gasping horses file through, but otherwise spared the beaten, bloody men there no attention.
The mercenaries looked harrowed, eyes a little wild. They had come for gold and glory, and they had instead found death.
Rorn was already talking with the mercs’ Guide, who was back with the infantry who were fleeing for their lives, riding down Warped and harrying their flanks, slowing the invaders down to stop the slaughter as best he might.
They were civilized men, and hadn’t been prepared for the pure bloodthirstiness and savagery of the invaders... nor the fact that the least of the Warped fighters were Threes, veterans Fours, and elites Fives and Sixes. The Warped officers were all Sevens and above, and all of them had the Warped template, basically an Advanced Template that also included temperature resistance and lower food requirements... meaning all of these troops were bigger and stronger than normal humans.
As their morale faltered, their weakness fed the Warpband they had chosen to attack, and their lack of unit cohesion meant reinforcements and willingness to die holding their ground simply wasn’t there. When one troop broke, their formation had an opening, and the enemy elites got into their back line. Warp Wargs had harried the cavalry, preventing them from being effective, and the riders of the enemy had tied them up long enough for the Warped to surround them with glaives and spears.
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A unit of spearmen had thrown down their shields and run. Seeing their reserves abandoning them, the front line had faltered, and the berserkers of the Warp had torn them apart.
He was looking at routed cowards, a few score survivors out of over three hundred cavalry, none of them in great shape.
Rorn didn’t meet with them or talk with them. Cold-faced Marked directed them to get behind the lines, while Kalden streamed past them, giving them looks of contempt and not a few not-so-hidden comments about mongrels, soft southerners, puppies on the battlefield, and the like.
“Spread it out. We’ve got two battles to fight today. The first is to clean up after these fools who don’t know how to fight.” His words were picked up by Marked and disseminated across the Kalden lines quickly, and an eager shout went up in response. “After that is done, we still have our own fight to undertake. Quick and clean, we kill them all and get ready for the next fight!”
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Sergeant Temerick heard a Song in his mind from far away, the Sage still watching over him. There were no other Ironbloods to fight shoulder to shoulder with him here, but it was enough to render him a demon in personal combat.
A Fireball smashed into his Null, and nothing happened. He hewed the head from the shoulders of a Warped warrior reaching seven feet tall with that stupid overdone helm on, knocking down another that had tried to wrestle Corporal Bill down and now got himself trampled for his efforts.
Guides and Scouts were the first to get Awakened steeds. Corporal Bill was no mere horse, he was a Horse... and Horses could get Marks, too.
He felt Corporal Bill’s fatigue, and without a care drew out a Potion as they retreated from a flight of hurled spears. Bill turned his head as Temerick leaned forward, and the Horse sucked it down as he cantered away, striving to show his nimbleness even as he breathed hard.
The Potion was strong, even the small dose enough to give a man energy enough to fight for an entire day. The Horse wasn’t much different; Temerick instantly felt the wave of energy sweep away his mount’s fatigue, and his pace became easier and cleaner.
At this point, the two of them were true fighting partners. Per Sage Sama’s orders, any Horse rider had to be maxed out in Ride, and the Horse had to be maxed out in Mount. The synergy of the two skills, one able to guide their mount to evade blows, and one able to move to avoid strikes at their rider, made them particularly deadly combatants when skirmishing with the undisciplined Warped infantry.
He was out of arrows, quivers long emptied, momentarily noting that he needed a One More Arrow Quiver if he intended to do this job right.
The last of the Beloy Steadfast were about two hundred yards ahead. There were only a hundred or so of them left, out of a company that had mustered close to six hundred. They had fled when their Captain and his breastplate were unceremoniously hewn in two by an eight-foot brute wielding an Axe sized for an ogre. The rest of the company had panicked as his blood sprayed over them, and only the deaths of those who didn’t have time to panic had allowed this many to get away.
They’d be run down within another half-mile. The Warped were faster and had much more endurance. Several hundred of them were pursuing the straggling survivors, many of whom had thrown off their armor to run faster, and certainly didn’t have their weapons left.
Meat on the plate for the Warped.
But Sergeant... no, Warlord Rorn was coming.
Temerick’s eyes looked at the waves of stone, and the position of Rorn’s men on The Map. Rorn had quickly divided his forces after seeing the route of the fleeing men, and was waiting for the Warped to arrive.
The Warped cavalry were keeping their distance out of wary respect for him and Corporal Bill, who had cut down several dozen of them, letting them know that not all of the humans of this world were greedy cowards. His Sword was bubbling black stained with unnatural pastel hues, and they knew he wielded a Weapon made to kill them. They were screening him from their Caster, who seemed particularly miffed that his magic was utterly useless against the pair.
But now he had caught up to the runners, kicking away those who tried to grab at him and Bill, pointing with his Blade. “If you want to live, make it around that hill! Move! Move!”
They didn’t have the breath to shout questions, they could only have blind faith in the blood-spattered man who was the only reason they were still alive.
A couple of the slower men faltered, fell, and couldn’t do more than stagger back to their feet. The Warped ran over them, hacking them apart in passing and howling inhuman war cries as they did so, closing in on those still living.
Temerick watched the formation in his head, now turning the edge down there, where illusions screened the motion from the hundreds of incoming Warped, and where the archers had already stolen into position in the brush at the base of the next wave-hill.
The Beloy rounded the hill, gasping, staggering, and found themselves racing past lines of grim, ready men, a single passage to life between them. They staggered into it with the last reserves of their energy, and as the Warped came charging in after them, the Kaldens surged out to meet them.
“Thrust! Stand!” barked Rorn, as Khadifyr’s horn blew the opening notes to a new Saga.
The lead Warped kept coming, lost in bloodlust, and leapt to cleave into the lines of spears. Tall men with long spears stepped forward, froze into the Stance that Rorn had hammered into them, and gleaming spears plunged into throats, their shields raised to catch the incoming blows.
The front line was hammered backwards, but the second and third lines stood fast, their own spears braced, thick bodies hammering to the stops of their spears. The men in front were dragged back and to their feet, some gushing blood or cursing with broken arms, and the Healing Traps were Right There to fix them up.
The Kalden surged forward after the Warped charge was broken on the corpses of their own, the line of infantry wrapping out and around to close the flank and curve in on the Warped’s disjointed line.
The mounted marauders began to advance, raising their glaives in anticipation of biting into and along the line of men who were not armed with spears over on the flank.
Three Bolts of lightning thundered through their lines in blinding tandem, and then the arrows scythed across them with unnatural accuracy. Warped horses, spiked and with fanged maws, screamed and fell, distorting their formation, while a line of spikes erupted out of the earth in front of them, six feet long and fully capable of enduring the advances of their mutated mounts. The cavalry charge crashed into it and was broken, men and horses flying at the impacts.
The Huscarls charged into close-quarters, cutting the last of the foul horses down, arrows zipping above them to hatrack those riders who hadn’t fallen and thought they might be able to flee.
A roaring Hammer barreled past, and the Warped Sorcerer, his skull-tipped Stave glowing with power, was slammed off his horse as the Hammer punched through his protection, ribs and breastbone cracking savagely. He didn’t manage to get up from the ground before a shadow passed under his staggered mount, scampered right over him, and left his throat with a new crimson mouth in passing. Although he was gurgling and kicking, he didn’t manage to die before being trampled under the rush of combat.
A knot of marauders that had somehow managed to gather together saw a golden-haired woman point at them, and then a fireball detonating in their midst sent them hurtling in all directions. Formation shattered, the Huscarls, led by Silent Jhon, began to crack them open.
The later half of the Kalden line, led by the howling berserkers, slammed into the back of the Warped, hacking and hewing with abandon, easily able to compete with the Warped in battle-frenzy.
Rorn’s eyes moved constantly, the Marked shifting as he gave orders, concentrating fire here, plugging a gap there, pulling out wounded, opening a hole, dividing, pincering, flanking.
The brutal, bloody fight was over in less than ten minutes. Brown came rolling up out of nowhere to take down a massive armored brute who had managed to cut his way out of the back lines. A Marked fell on each of the man’s arms as the grizzly proceeded to rip his armored skin off, and then tore apart his chest and the unnatural organs within in a frenzy of blood and gore. His claws grabbed the helm of the still-living Warped and wrenched it off with irresistible power.
“Clean it! Feed the Land!” barked out Rorn, and those with Vivic Weapons moved in to set the battlefield alight. The Powered spread out, scanning for magic and gold, the Disks floating next to them starting to fill with the spoils of war, the things that would strengthen them and let them kill the Warped harder and faster.
Swifter men were assigned to immediately follow the backtrail of the mercenaries. After all, there was a lot of loot left behind on the dead of both sides, and the Kaldens were going to be completely impolite and take it all. What were the Beloy Steadfast or the Lances of Achime going to do about it?