Skybound - Chapter 12: Gatecrashing and Other Recreational Activities

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 timbers as their shared and combined mass simply smashed through everything in their path. He was the point, the tip of the spear, and he knew instinctively they were only as strong as he could bear to hold onto the power contained within the charge. The Black Lance had built up so much inertia on the way down the bank of the river that he had no hope of stopping. 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 after. If he released his hold on [Momentum] the column would burst apart, although how he knew this was something he would have to ponder later.

Even in the midst of the charge, he could not allow himself to lose awareness of the rest of the battlefield. His eyes flicked left and right, the slits in his helm allowing a mere sliver of vision. It was enough, just barely, and he leaned slightly to his left as he sensed it would be a better angle to hit the next deskren trebuchet. The charging lancers followed suit, 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 flying splinters- one passing across his field of vision as Ares galloped onwards, momentarily drawing his gaze upward.

He spared a quirked eyebrow at the man-shaped object flying over the city beyond his lancers, before returning his entire focus to leading the charge. The glowing barrier faded from the top of the dome like water pouring off a rock as the air seemed to ripple around the flying form. He couldn’t spare any more thought for the sight. He gripped his lance and leaned forward. Another trebuchet needed to cease existing.

=========================================

Stev Aras sprinted along the outer wall, firing his crossbow into the milling mass of Deskren that had turned away from the city to face the flanks of the charging riders. The bombardment of the shield had fallen away in the chaos of the new attackers, and the city’s defenders had been more than ready to take advantage. He dodged and twisted to avoid archers and mages and every sort of classer the city had that were capable of ranged combat. He gave one particularly wild-eyed alchemist as wide a berth as the narrow palisade allowed. The man’s satchel of flasks and phials had half spilled onto the stones, promising a bad day for anyone unlucky enough to mistepp.

As the last light of the barrier faded in glimmers of blue, Stev could feel the low hum of the enchantments pulling mana through the air. Originally built to stop charging beasts from the pass above, the towers had more than one use. Glowing patterns shifted in the air around the tops of five spires, and energy that had been used to maintain the defensive barrier was now turned to offense. A crackling beam of coruscating light flashed overhead, and the last enemy spelltower ceased to exist in a spray of fire and dirt.

“Taz!” he shouted, waving urgently at his sister. The [Grizzly Knight] was bounding along the ground level street just inside the wall, with dozens of other combat classed residents following in her wake. Those with ranged skills were making for the top of the wall, but he knew they’d never get a better chance to sally and savage the enemy flanks. Taz looked up without slowing.

“The mages will shield Xerrioth!” he yelled. “The riders will still have to slow down for the gate, guard their backs while they cross!” Giving her an objective was better than having the beserker letting loose somewhere unpredicted, and sending her close to her new beau simply meant more likelihood of her actually staying with the line instead of charging in.

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, jamming it out of alignment in its dwarven-built foundations and wrecking the mechanisms to 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 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 a shot.

He saw the slender form of Xerrioth 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. Stev was nearly certain he could see it spinning, the large crossguard glinting in the shadows and the flashing glare of magefire and lightning. The drums that had beat with thunder as the riders charged fell quiet for a single breath, and from almost a hundred paces away he could hear the gravity mage speak.

“Nox Gravitalis.”

=====================

Millie Thatcher was in a place where time didn’t matter except the beat she set with her drum. The screams of the enemy blended with the howls of the Luparan recruits as the lancers rode 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. Their flanks would have been vulnerable then, had the enemy not been in such dissarray. Would have, if not for Millie’s lightning. The [Thunderstrike Battle-bard] struck her drum and it sang of thunder, and thunder answered the call. Bolts rained down from the frozen and angry sky with metronome precision, punctuating the drumbeats and banishing the darkness with every flash. 

Such power wasn’t without cost. Millie felt the drain, no single strike was all that 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 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 told her was her Mana fell as well. The lightning faded in intensity with over three hundred paces to the gate. She kept the beat, just barely, her arm feeling like lead as exhaustion tried to drag her down into the bed of the wagon. 

With less lightning, more of the Deskren were able to encroach on the sides of the riders. Most were trampled, but not without some taking Lancers down with them. Horses screamed, and their riders too, as arrows and spells slammed into the side of the column. Where one rider fell, the others shifted to fill the gaps and protect the wagons. Swords and hammers were used when lances broke.

Between one drumbeat and the next, Millie almost lost her footing in truth as the sound of the battlefield was pulled away, towards the gate. Suddenly shrouded in darkness, the snow and wind seemed to pause and drift towards a rippling black sphere of air like a giant drawing breath.

“Nox Gravitalis.”

The ground pushed the wagon into the air, and only the Battlemaster’s unique skill with the horses kept their line from falling apart. The Deskren were not so lucky, as cracks opened up beneath them and spells and arrows bent wildly in the air. Everything seemed to pull towards the gate before snapping back as the world groaned. The enemy were thrown to their feet, and suddenly arrows, stones, spells, and myriad alchemical munitions sailed out from the walls to savage the imperial lines. The first salvo was followed by skirmishers appearing suddenly in the chaos, led by a massive bear-woman in a loincloth who slapped Deskren infantry and spells aside with contemptuous ease. Millie steadied herself in the wagon, grateful for the reprieve as they continued towards the city.

=====================

Calvin Descroix held on for dear life, almost thrown from the seat of the wagon as it bounced over the shaking ground. He was no stranger to battle, but he had never heard of anyone charging with wagons. The very idea seemed madness incarnate. To take your supplies and support personnel into the midst of the enemy would have been sheer folly. But the Battlemaster had shown brilliance in desperation. Leaving behind the wagon train and the much needed supplies would have defeated the point of the mission entirely, but Calvin had expected a battle of attrition and maneuver to take the bridge and hold a crossing. A mad dash down the length of an imperial siege line was so far fetched as to be totally unimaginable to him. Even the Icefall mortars to cross the river was more easily believed than this nightmare ride.

He was tempted, briefly, to attempt to dive off the wagon and rejoin his countrymen. That lasted only a few bounces of the wagon. He had recognized his sister’s heraldry over the larger tents. If he had suffered any delusions about taking command and ordering the Deskren to withdraw, the crimson teardrop banner smothered those thoughts in the cradle. His sister was vicious enough at the best of times, and the Bloodletter wouldn’t hesitate to have him counted among the casualties of the engagement. Him being a year older and thus closer to the throne would guarantee that; the disgrace of his defeat at the day of Thunder and Mud would mean no one would bat an eye anyway.

The thunder began to fade, and with it the lightning that had discouraged attacks from their rear and sides. He readied his crossbow. He was no help to his homeland if he died this day. Without the lightning the company would be vulnerable, and he readied his crossbow. Arrows pinged off armor and shields, some thudding into flesh to squeals and screams of horses and men. The world seemed to pause for a moment between the beats of the drum, and Calvin could hear his heartbeat in the brief silence before a voice cut through the chaos.

“Nox Gravitalis.”

Sound resumed but the pressure that followed the words was unrelenting. The convoy seemed to fall forwards, and Calvin could feel as much as hear the groaning screech of tortured steel as the massive portcullis was wrenched from its footing. A form floated above the gate, a whirling orb of terrible darkness above his head that drank in the last light left in the day. Mud and stone flowed like water to either side of the gate-towers, and several unfortunate Deskren were crushed into smears of pink that mixed with the brown and grey that roiled under the terrifying mage. The path through the gate was held still and smooth, and the Battlemaster led the column straight for it as he leaned into the turn to fight the inertia of the charge.

Defenders from the city had rushed out, using the sally ports dotting the walls to sow chaos on the ground as more rained down bolts and blasts and various alchemical grenades from above. Taking full advantage of the chaos, they sortied out to savage the attacker’s lines. Some did fall, but for every one that fell the Empire lost dozens of its own. The lancers had a reprieve to that flank, but several enemy squads closed with the wagons ahead, as they trailed behind the General’s lead riders. One Ursaran heavy managed to flip a lancer overhead horse and all, and nearly reached Hett’s wagon where the bard steadily beat the drum. Calvin didn’t realize he had fired until after the thwang of his crossbow reached his ears, the bolt burying itself into the bear-man’s neck in a fountain of blood.

And now I am a traitor in truth, he thought glumly to himself as his hands mechanically went about reloading the crossbow with habitual precision learned over years of service. He looked up at the floating mage, then back across the battlefield. Introspection could come later, first he had to survive.

=====================

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 felt the strain of reigning in the power of [Momentum] with so much inertia held by the riders and wagons. Corporal Millie had drummed lightning along their flanks for far longer than he had anticipated, but they would still be vulnerable at the gate. The heavies of the Deskren line had been deployed closer to the walls than the siege engines, and now they were organizing. He had no intent of letting them stop even one wagon from reaching the city, but he could not relinquish [Momentum] in the middle of a charge. He instinctively knew, somehow, that attempting to do so would mean all of their kinetic energy of motion would be focused on him if he tried, and no one could survive such a thing. 

That didn’t mean he had no options, however. With herculean effort he turned in the saddle, keeping an eye on a mass of enemy infantry approaching with locked shields and short spears. He pointed 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 with power, and the world lurched. She quickly realized he had needed no help to shield him from enemy mages, the twisting monstrosity of darkness he had conjured into existence pulled and stretched the air around him and bent the light like taffy. Spells that drew near simply fell into that impossibly black sword as it spun, winking out in fizzles and silence.

The shock only lasted a few moments. There were Deskren between her and the riders and wagons that were even now rushing through the gate. Leaping over a rent in the ground she charged, the powerful drums of the convoy matched only by the rushing thrum of her blood and its beserker power. She swatted spears and shields and stray spells aside with equal ease, what few cuts and burns she gained quickly scabbing over. Taz was not a regenerator, not quite, but her Ursaran heritage made her nearly as tough as a soldier in 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 where the mage withheld his power below the gate, and on their flanks fought a man with such violence even she stood still in shock.

Wearing mail and leather, a wild eyed and bloody-bearded man with an axe leapt into a squad of at least a dozen Deskren heavies. His long-handled axe bore a woodcutting head and not a halberd edge or blade made for war, yet in the old man’s hands it dealt death with every swing. It cleaved through three unfortunate bodies who had the ill fate of being in reach, the single swing spinning the man around to open a Ma’akan badger in a line from his hip to his neck. His insides spilled out like a fisherman opening the nets to dump the day’s catch on the ground.

The old man never stopped laughing.

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 a 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 between the gate-towers, bent and heated by the immense forces imposed upon the steel. The metal ground into the stone, and the upper walkway dropped down in pieces as if slapped by a disgruntled deity. Pieces of the lifting mechanisms, timbers, gears and cables joined the pile, yet the pressure only increased. 

Xerrioth squeezed the rubble into and around the steel grate of the portcullis, stone and metal heating up and packing together like wet clay that immediately began to cool and solidify in place. The gate was no longer a gate, and now simply another part of the wall, and Taz had no idea how it could ever be fixed.

With a gust of wind that faded like a sigh, the magical power left the air, and the old man with the axe grunted in appreciation as he grinned at the sight. Taz felt her heart stop as Xerrioth’s sword slammed into the ground, it’s own weight driving the blade over a foot deep into the stone-paved street. A flutter of cloth fell from above, and she rushed forward just in time to catch her man in a tumble, barely keeping his head from striking the stones. 

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. A hand that held her with such strength that she could not budge. He pulled a flask from a pouch within his coat, handing it to her.

“We bring supplies to relieve the besieged,” he said. “If anyone deserves some of that it’s this young man. Haven’t seen spellcraft like that in a 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 had casually slung his axe through a loop of leather on his back, and just as casually reached out and jerked the sword out of the ground. He raised it up and let it lay back across his arm, raising an eyebrow at the bear-woman and her mate.

“After you,” he said. “I think introductions will need to be had at the head of the convoy.”

She nodded, grinning. “Indeed they will.”

=====================

Jacob Ward leaned back in the saddle, hands gently pulling on the reins as he strained with all his might to slow the column. [Momentum] had built up so much inertia he feared they would simply crash through the city, and he didn’t see another open gate to ride through. Every stride of the horses bled off more and more of their speed, and with it the pressure in his mind and in his bones increased. His jaw had clenched so hard his teeth felt as if they would crack, and his joints creaked and popped. Drawing breath was a labor, but incrementally, the column slowed. 

From a gallop to a canter, and his armor felt hot and stifling though he knew it was himself and not the armor heating up. At a broad intersection, he 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 from his skill, and a canter became a trot.

Sides heaving, Ares finallow slowed from a trot to a walk. Even at a walk, it took nearly a full city block before the 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 armet. Dropping the helm to the ground as well, he sucked in draughts of 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-”

And then he passed out.

=====================

Claire Descroix awoke to silent darkness, a moment of panic flowing through her mind before her wits caught up to the situation. Pain radiated through her shoulder, and through the rest of her everything, but the protective enchantments wrought into her amulet had kept her alive and in stasis until the immediate crisis had passed. Stasis was not true healing though, and while it was a risk she had to get out of where she was to see to her injuries.

Her right shoulder was impaled, and the arm below 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 them to be red pearls. Her fingers brushed one and it crumbled to dust, the sudden infusion of mana from the sphere of enchanted blood infusing her with sudden and potent power.

The earth and rubble exploded up and away, and Claire Descroix, Marshall of the Deskren Empire’s 3rd Gendarmerie, stumbled to her feet with more spells ready to lash out and deliver death and destruction. The protective stasis should have lasted several hours, leaving her potentially coming to her senses in an unknown situation.

Startled troops recognized her, and she them as 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 grown and another crumbled pearl to block the pain with her mana.

“Send the healers and cutters away,” she snapped at the Lieutenant, his name forgotten and unimportant in the circumstances. 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. Turning to the Lieutenant she snarled, making a pulling gesture with her good hand.

“Now! While the potion does its job!”

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 swift economy. 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. Sleep she would yet have to delay, and endure the resulting pain.

“Report,” she said, now more calm than when she had originally awoken.

“Sir!” saluted the Lieutenant, before relaxing to give her details about the aftermath. “The riders broke through our lines, as you know, and destroyed all but four of our trebuchets. The one spelltower they missed, the city destroyed with a blast from the towers.”

“How long was I out? How many troops did we lose?” She asked, not surprised by the news.

“It’s been almost four hours, and we lost at least eight thousand between the riders’ charge and the city’s sortie in the chaos. We may lose another thousand to injuries sustained. More supply barges arrived on the river within the past hour, but the Major in charge of the shipment won’t disembark the supplies or the slaves until you confirm the orders in person.”

“Slaves? The workers will help, but I need another battalion of heavies, preferably with mages as well. Without the spell towers our job just got a lot harder…”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, the siege is over. We can’t rebuild the spelltowers, and the barrier went back up within minutes of the gate being blocked after the riders were through.” His expression was pale, the man obviously expecting to die for his honesty, but he continued as her respect for him rose even higher. “Hundreds of wagons, no doubt filled with supplies. We can’t crack the city before the other forces of the northlands arrives, and we can’t fight off a northern alliance from outside the fortifications. I’ll follow your orders, Sir, but our best course of action is to withdraw with our captives, take the river to the coast and rejoin the fleet on its way to Kosala.”

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 captives?” Claire strode out of the tent, followed by the Lieutenant.

“Yes Ma’am. The city guard and hundreds 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. Too old for black collars, but not Shackles.”

“Shackles will not be necessary, and we will not be withdrawing from the field,” she said. 

“Pardon, Ma’am?”

“My respect for your honesty does not extend to tolerating the questioning of my orders,” she said darkly as the Lieutenant paled. She stood for a moment looking at the captives. “They’re residents of the city. They’ve fought here, sacrificed here,” she said. She slipped a hand inside her tunic, into an enchanted pocket. From within she drew a simple knapped obsidian dagger.

“I don’t understand, 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 link with the city, born of their lives lived here and fighting to defend it.”

“Ma’am, 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.”