Vol 7, Chapter 21

Half of a knight's strength is his horse. For metal mages, it made little difference whether their armor weighed twenty kilograms or a full hundred, but for the horse…

A simple horse, the kind still found in the countryside today, would snap in half if an experienced knight tried to mount it.

Centuries of selective breeding, magical manipulation, alchemy: year after year, knightly steeds became faster, stronger, more enduring. And as the horses grew capable of bearing heavier burdens, the armor grew ever more massive; if the horse could carry more weight, then it had to carry more.

Even mounted squires never went into battle without full plate, and even their horses wore chain or even scale barding. Only messengers could truly feel how fast a knight's steed could be when freed of its armor.

Messengers and… us.

In mere minutes, a few dozen riders found themselves deep in the enemy's rear. A pitiful number, like sand slipping through fingers, we seeped between the neat battalions of reforming pikemen.

Reserves on both flanks were pulled from their positions and rushed toward the center, but it would take tens of minutes to close the front again.

"No one is trying to stop us," I remark, continuing to lead the cavalry squad toward the circle.

That was troubling. A chimera dispatched to plug the breach, infantry—understandable; but was the Duke truly blind to the threat we posed?

The only thing he did was deploy a square of pikemen directly around the mages' circle. Dense enough that behind the blackened armor, the colorful robes of the mages were no longer visible.

Each minute I waited for the circle to act, but all I heard was that vile chuckle inside my skull.

I turned my head, trying to guess what had amused Astarot. The squadron of squires that had finally risen from the left flank to intercept us? Neither they nor the siege chimera could catch us. Only light cavalry could… but that branch of warfare was held in no esteem by the generals here.

Lighter cavalry always lost to heavier in open battle, and any ranged weaponry was woefully ineffective against the mounted tanks that knights had become. Horse archers had died out as a class right after the Age of Discord, not only because they were inefficient but because they were considered dishonorable. Brigands and bandits—that was where you could still find mounted archers, but not on the battlefield.

Only griffon riders were socially permitted to use ranged weapons, though that was a special case. I looked up... But no — the griffins of both armies were only circling and relaying signals, not engaging in direct combat or attempting to dive at us. Strange.

The horsemen tugged the reins, rearing their steeds right before the pikes. Shots rang out. One particularly bold soldier stood straight up on his horse's back, aiming past the wall of pikemen at our true target, the mages.

The square wavered. Though built to stop cavalry, at this moment they were powerless. No matter how long the pike, it could not strike as far as a bullet.

This branch of warfare had become useless the moment knights laid aside their lances and took up pistols. Later, the same fate befell the reiters when infantry laid aside their pikes and took up muskets.

Fortunately, these pikemen would never have the chance to reach for muskets.

Drums pounded; bodies fell.

The cavalrymen took careful aim before every shot, not a single bullet must miss. Shot! Shot! The wall of pikes grew thinner and thinner until it collapsed completely. The riders surged inside.

Iron-shod hooves clattered on smooth stone; the earth mage had prepared a fine platform for the circle.

But they had gone no further than the basics. My mind reflexively noted the empty grooves where there should have been gold, even as my eyes locked onto the panicked figures in robes. My finger pressed the trigger, the grip bit into my hand—shot!

With a spray of blood from his torn chest, a mage collapsed onto the stone platform. His crimson robe darkened, his hood slipped, revealing nothing more than ordinary black hair. That was it!

My gaze darted across the battlefield, catching dying "mages."

Not a single red-haired Ashirian.

"Fall back! Cease fire on the 'mages'! Save your bullets! …Knew it, something's wrong here," I muttered more quietly, lowering the revolver.

Blood streamed down the stone platform in rivulets.

The pikemen commander tries to restore order, to close the encirclement around the riders who had broken through to the false circle. For the moment, he had a chance.

Or rather, he did. The only real Ashiri had already aimed her revolver at him. Bang!

The bullet flew past the captain's head, punching a hole in the regimental banner. The girl cursed, aimed again… Click! The cylinder was empty. Spitting, she raised her hand toward the enemy.

The regimental banner burst into flames along with the captain. Fire coiled like a serpent around the nearby soldiers, shattering their spirit completely.

Meanwhile, I was trying to make sense of what was happening. Damn it, from this position I couldn't see a thing. Where would I have placed the real mages, were I the Duke?

My gaze went up, toward the griffons circling above. But no, the riders carried no passengers. That left only one option.

The barges. They were guarded far more than they should have been.

"Recte," Astarot growled approvingly.

"Why didn't you warn me earlier?"

"Until they strike, we cannot absorb their magic," he rumbled reasonably. Hard to argue with the bastard.

"All to me! The real mages are on the barge! We must—"

"—incidentally, that will happen right about… now." The inner demon cut me off and began a countdown. "Duo, unys… nulla."

A fiery blossom flared where we had ridden five minutes earlier, right in the midst of the militia masses. Pikes burned, men in quilted jackets ignited like matches… and then went out. The flame collapsed into a single ember. Burnt men scattered, exhaling a strange mix of smoke and icy vapor. Their charred clothes cracked like ice.

The barges lit up red, and with them the ember tried to flare again.

"Damn bastard!" Asha swore, desperately trying to break the circle's cast.

The fire grew. Despite her struggle, the flames began their dance. One meter in diameter. Two. Ten. A hundred. Her attempt to slow the spell bought a few infantrymen a brief reprieve, but no more. The fiery whirlwind formed, pulling in all who hadn't managed to flee.

A regiment of musketeers was trapped. Ahead loomed an armored mountain of muscle. Behind raged the fiery vortex that had already devoured at least a thousand militia.

I had to admit — a clever move. The whirlwind cut off retreat, and the chimera would crush them.

"Enough! Freeze a passage to the barge along the river! I'll take the whirlwind myself!" I ordered her, but she shook her head stubbornly.

A cannon roared from the rear. A perfectly round stone shot smashed into the armored hump and shattered. The chimera staggered, bone plates cracked, blood ran down its back — but it was nowhere near the result I wanted. Damn mage…

"I'll hold it! I'll redirect it toward the chimera!"

"Are you insane?"

"Do not! Doubt! Me!" she screamed, wiping blood from her nose with her sleeve.

For ten seconds I stared at her. Then I shifted my gaze. The fiery tornado spun in place, twitching faintly as the girl, teeth clenched, tried to push it in the right direction.

In vain.

One mage could not stand against an entire circle.

"Forgive me," I muttered and spurred my horse.

The cannon thundered again. The ball flew over my head and struck the chimera's armored back, with the same result as before. Enraged, the chimera broke into a run. The ground shook like an earthquake. I dashed past friendly ranks. The volley roared in my ears even through the apocalyptic howling of the flames. Sergeants' commands drowned in the din. Even though they found themselves caught between the fiery anvil and the siege hammer-chimera, the regiment kept firing, refusing to let the enemy close the breach. Relentless, like a machine. Hundreds of eyes fixed on their target, none turning toward the growing whirlwind behind them, no matter the heat radiating from it. And I would swear that when the chimera neared, before scattering, they would unleash a full volley at it.

How could I let such men down? I leapt from my horse, and the animal, relieved of its burden, galloped away from the fiery cataclysm.

The fiery tornado loomed so close it blotted out the sky. Scorching winds whipped at my coat. Through the wavering haze I could barely see the crew hastily dragging their cannon closer to the chimera… but I wasn't sure even a shot to the head would kill it. Stun it, perhaps.

"Shall we feast?" Astarot asked expectantly.

I could feel his satisfaction, like a cat in a butcher's shop.

No surprise. For him, everything was a feast. For me…

At best, I would simply lose control.

At worst…

"When we're done here, remember — you won't find better food than what tramples behind us," I hinted.

"And if I decide to look?" The demon pretended not to catch the meaning.

"Then be sure of this — you'll starve forever." I cut him off and rolled up my sleeves.

In magical sight, the tornado appeared as a giant, glowing spiral. To absorb it into oneself seemed as sensible as sucking a hurricane into a household vacuum cleaner.

And yet, we managed.

The first trickle of power pierced through my body, coursing through me. The spiral gradually unwound, faster and faster with each passing second.

The energy flowed into me, scorching the inner channels. The thread became a stream. My uniform tore apart at the back. Next, the fine leather boots sprouted five new holes before bursting at the seams. The stream turned into a river, my vision swam.

The autumn field flickered, and through it bled crimson cliffs with lava running down their sides, fragments of a shattered black tower strewn everywhere. Before the waterfall of power carried me into oblivion—I understood.

This was what the demon saw.

*********************************************

◆ Battlefield. Evening of the Same Day. ◆

It had been a long time since I lost control.

A leaden, overcast sky loomed overhead. A warm puddle of something viscous surrounded my aching body. Too comfortable to open my eyes again. My eyelids closed on their own.

Only the squelch of the puddle nearby forced me to fight it.

The first thing I saw was a giant feline nose. Then a rough tongue the size of a shovel scraped across my chest like sandpaper. Ow.

I weakly shoved it aside, splattering blood across the cat's muzzle. Blood?

Of course. Well, I should have realized the stuff around me wasn't cherry jelly.

Elegant sabatons landed in the bloody mire beside me, sending up a small wave. The armored legs immediately sank to the ankles in blood.

A rider approached and stretched out her hand. The left one. Where her right should have been—only emptiness. Once-mirrored armor was now matte from soot. Bent, battered, pierced.

"I see you're awake," she said, hauling me out of my cozy swamp.

Raising me to my feet, she sharply turned to her saddlebags and awkwardly tried to pull something out with one hand. The cat took the chance to lap up the blood from the ground.

I decided not to fall behind the cat… meaning, I took the chance to look around.

My gaze first caught on a hill of torn flesh. In the heap of meat it was impossible to recognize the former chimera, but it could only have been one. The blood streaming from the remains had formed an entire bog. In the rays of the setting sun, orderlies  and our trophy squads moved about. A good sign. It would have been a hundred times worse if it had been enemy scavengers.

I looked toward the river. Jagged wreckage jutted above the water where the barge had stood. And beside them—an unfamiliar steel ship. An artillery barge!

"So, we won?" I asked the girl.

She finally wrestled with the clasp and handed me a crumpled cloak. Ah, yes. My only clothing was dried blood.

"Won? More like we didn't lose. Come to the fire," she suggested.

Throwing the cloak over myself, we squelched through the mire under the watch of the giant cat.

I waited for her to bring up the matter of my transformation, but she remained silent.

Fine, then I would.

"Ahem. I'll admit, I have a gap in my memory. What happened after… the whirlwind vanished?"

"You rushed the chimera and tore it apart. Tore and devoured, devoured and tore, until it became… that."

"On the way, I didn't kill anyone?"

"No, only it."

"And after?"

"And after, you did nothing at all. You feasted the whole battle, ignoring everyone else. Only by evening did you climb out of its innards and collapse into a blood puddle to blow satisfied bubbles."

"And you have no questions for me about that?" I asked cautiously.

"Your men didn't seem surprised, so it must be fine."

"Interesting logic…"

"…but not everyone agrees. Very much not everyone," she warned.

"Well, thank God. I was starting to think the world itself was broken."

"More like I'm the one broken…" the girl muttered.

"Ahem. Speaking of which…" I gestured at her missing arm. "What happened?"

She winced before whispering.

"A failure."

*********************************

◆ Battlefield, Day, Countess Erin von Klaus POV ◆

The chimera's screams as it was torn alive deafened the ears. Now it had no time for them. The knights poured into the breach like a flood, mercilessly trampling their own militia unlucky enough to be caught beneath hooves and claws.

Erin considered it a well-deserved end. Despite their numbers, they had failed to exploit the breakthrough, pitifully milling in place. It was understandable—running would have been harder when trapped amid enemy ranks. Understandable, but not forgivable. Had they obeyed orders and pressed forward, they would not have died.

It was not the hooves of their own heavy cavalry that killed them. It was their own cowardice.

A volley thundered, drowning out even the roar of the siege chimera. The musketeers pulled back in formation under the pressure of the Duke's tightening squares.

Shot. The line fell back. Shot!

Curiously, even the pikemen seemed bewitched by this rhythm. Instead of rushing forward, they slowed their step each time the line raised its muskets.

And these were not militia, not even household troops.. The soldiers of the Second Duke had gained renown throughout the Kingdom as some of the few who could withstand even the charge of knights! But they could not withstand a hail of lead.

For all their professionalism, they could not break the rhythm imposed upon them.

Three battalions advanced, but only the one nearest the musketeers took the volley. To surge forward? They had already seen the result: the power of gunfire was enough to wipe out one battalion in three.

Wipe out completely.

And none of them wanted to be that battalion.

Discord spread. Instead of unity, each thought only of ensuring that the hail of bullets struck the neighboring formation and not their own.

Erin was forced to admit that the commander of the musketeers was a talent. Without a word, he had imposed his mindset on the enemy. Yet the discipline of his soldiers commanded respect as well. A single bullet gone astray would have shattered the delicate balance, the unspoken contract between foes, signed right there on the battlefield.

If you were not the closest, you lived.

In vain did the Duke's commanders spit and rage, trying to drive their lagging battalions forward. Like stubborn mules, the soldiers slowed their pace the instant they realized they stood closest. Only after the next volley did they shuffle ahead with relief—until the enemy raised their muskets again.

The pikemen would never catch them. But the cavalry…

One squadron approached from the left flank. Ordinary horses, light armor. Squires. Cavalry that could not yet stand against knights, but had proven itself against infantry.

For her knightly squad, they are not dangerous — but those approaching from the right…

Waiting until the main force was committed, the Duke answered in kind. The knights of the Second Duchy advanced from the right flank. There was no doubt—the Duchess was among them.

Erin raised her hand, halting the cat. The trailing riders caught up with her, first the high aristocracy mounted on chimeras, then the ordinary knights.

"Listen! We'll smash the squires on the left, then return under the cover of musket fire to face their main force!"

"My lady, surely not!" cooed the syrupy voice of Count Beacon.  "My detachment will handle them, freeing your hands completely. Forward!"

Ignoring protest, he joyfully galloped off to meet the squires, dragging with him at least a quarter of the force. Damn.

"Cursed coward… New order! Prepare the spheres. Flamethrowers—in reserve. Do not engage directly, act according to plan. Follow me!"

Two cavalry avalanches thundered toward each other. The Duke's knights trusted in their strength; many times they had triumphed while outnumbered. With numerical superiority, as now, they believed none could stand against them.

So they were not even surprised when the enemy wedge suddenly split in two and galloped aside, avoiding direct collision.

But what did surprise them—the heaps of glass spheres falling from the sky.

With a melodic chime they shattered against armor and shields, crunched beneath iron-shod hooves, or burst upon the ground.

They burst and spewed clouds of poisonous yellow-green gas.

In an instant the field was opaque. Not only because of the toxic haze, but because eyes burned and wept unbearably. Helmets prevented wiping them clear. Horses snorted and tossed their heads, colliding with one another. The mouth filled with an unendurable sweet-metallic taste.

Lungs seared as if filled to the brim with acid bite, the air choking as if in a fire.

The cavalry ranks dissolved. Riders toppled from saddles, horses foaming at the mouth collapsed upon them. A rush of fresh air blew through, dispelling the haze, bringing a moment's relief, but scorched lungs struggled to draw breath.

Erin clenched her fist. The enemy circle of mages had reacted with brutal swiftness, driving the yellow-green miasma toward the right flank.

A minute—and panic reigned there. Soldiers scattered, forgetting they had only moments before fought each other to the death. Men vomited, coughed out their lungs, clawed at their gorgets as they fell. The right flank was utterly destroyed… destroyed on both sides.

While the knights were only just beginning to regain their senses, this was the decisive moment. The weapon had worked... not perfectly, but well enough.

If given time, they would rebuild their formations, the worst afflicted replaced by knights in the rear who had been fortunate enough to escape the gas. Attacking them was still dangerous — but what other choice was there?

She raised the signal. The cavalry shifted ranks even as they galloped, crashing into the tangled lines.

The cat vaulted over a fallen horse. A kneeling knight before Erin lost his head. Behind her, lances thundered, ramming into weakened knights and hurling them from their saddles.

Steel flashed all around. Fire roared behind as the flamethrowers burned their way through.

Erin ducked beneath a lance, driving her glowing estoc upward to pierce her attacker. Everything blended together. She could no longer follow the course of the battle — only a whirl of strikes and evasions remained. And judging by the blows striking from every direction, she had pushed too far into the ranks.

A swipe of the cat's paw broke a horse's neck, sending its rider crashing down. The pounding of hooves shattered spheres that had somehow survived until now. The sickly smoke spread low over the ground. The formation swelled, then squeezed so tightly that dozens of knights knocked shoulders. Some tried to find space to deliver a couched lance strike.

But most simply cast their lances aside, grasping instead for the sure steel of sword, axe, or mace.

A living torch tore past. Despite the fire-resistant armor, the flames refused to die. Jets of fire scattered the enemy, allowing allies to drive even deeper into their ranks.

Erin paid it no mind. She only kept hacking her way forward. Her blade cut down one foe after another — until it rang against an enchanted shield. The glow along her sword dulled.

The knight, having blocked, raised his weapon — but a shot rang out, and he tumbled from the saddle. The bullet through his visor slit did its work. His shield slipped from nerveless hands.

The girl holstered her revolver, her eyes lingering on the shield. She couldn't stand shields, but this one was exceptionally good. Few defenses could have absorbed her strike.

She looked around and saw only butchered corpses nearby. Most bore the crest of the Klaus family.

Digging her heels into the wounded cat, she spurred it forward through the bloody clearing, riding toward the noise of battle.

What she found was carnage.

A solitary knight with a bastard sword was carving his way forward. Without pause. Step by step.

One swing sheared through horse heads, as though their thick barding were made of foil. Another bisected knights — whether they struck or defended mattered nothing. Each strike he avoided with a lazy, bored motion, every guard he met he cleaved as if it were never there at all.

Broken blades clattered down. Split bodies collapsed. The knight accepted the fountains of blood upon him with indifference, striding onward. To him, this was not battle — it was routine. The dull, everyday labor of a butcher.

Erin hesitated for a heartbeat — then decisively returned the revolver to its holster. She would not fire into another's back.

Dismounting from the chimera, she patted the beast's blood-slick fur. With a growl, it withdrew. Against her aunt, it would last no more than a single stroke.

Erin took a cavalry lance into her free hand and advanced toward the Duchess, who continued her slaughter as if nothing else existed.

"Aunt Ariel!" she called, hurling the lance so it whistled past her helmet.

The Duchess, without turning, caught it and with a single motion drove it into the earth. At the same instant, her other hand thrust forward, impaling yet another knight. Only then did she deign to turn.

"Yes, darling? Did you want something?" Her already husky voice sounded lower than usual.

"A duel."

"Hm, why not? Shall I give you an advantage? Three opening strikes, perhaps? Two for each of your uncles, and one for your mother. They were so kind to cast me out of the family — I can hardly refuse to return such courtesy to my precious sister's daughter!" She laughed hoarsely.

"The decision to exclude you from the elder branch was made by the Third Duke. I'll decline the unearned courtesy."

"Do not anger me. He was out of his mind even then!" She slashed her blade into the earth.

A torrent of stone and soil exploded toward Erin. Her vision was blocked. She leapt aside, raising her sword into guard.

The dust settled. The Duchess stood an arm's length away, leaning indifferently on her bastard sword.

"I could have cut you in half already…  Attack. You have three strikes," she said flatly.

The thrust of Erin's glowing blade came in that very instant. It was aimed at the heart, but failed even to graze the edge of the armor. The strike shifted upward, seeking to sever an arm... but the arm was no longer there. The blade bent with magic, but even that availed nothing; the Duchess slipped past it all. Even when Erin abandoned force for sheer speed, she could not touch her. A torrent of blows followed one after another. Feints, tricks, provocations — the Duchess ignored them without a twitch of a muscle. Yet the moment a feint became a true strike — she was already in motion.

No. Not the moment. Earlier.

The instant Erin thought of striking, the Duchess was already moving to avoid it.

"We'll count that as one strike," Ariel smirked, bringing her hand to her mouth in a feigned yawn.

"Fine. Then here's another."

She gathered power for a single horizontal slash.

Mana surged into her weapon, making the blade blaze unbearably bright.

She had no plan of when to strike. She herself did not know. No one did.

The sword leapt forward on its own, kicking up clouds of dust from the ground.

Slash!

Clang. The blades met. The glowing sword bit into the bastard sword by a fingernail's breadth. Around the clash, the metal glowed red from the force of the energy.

"I thought it would be too petty if I just dodged," the Duchess said, pressing forward, easily forcing the crossed blades aside.

Erin clenched her teeth. The weapons shuddered, and the blades crept closer to the Duchess once more.

The clinch would not end in her defeat — though Erin yielded to her aunt in physical strength, as a mage she surpassed her.

The locked blades screeched under strain. The bastard sword slowly began to melt, opening wider than a fingernail to admit the glowing edge. Another minute, and the Duchess risked losing her weapon entirely.

But why should she allow it?

A sudden kick hurled Erin to the ground. The strike landed with such force that her breastplate dented inward, breaking ribs.

"A family technique. Once, I desired to master it. Now I have no need of it… But I admit, that did resemble a strike. You have one left," Ariel said approvingly, nodding to mark the result of the clinch.

Coughing blood, Erin pressed a hand to her chestplate, forcing it back outward and relieving the pressure on her ribs. Her left hand rested on the holster, her right…

For a long second she hesitated. To summon the sword lying nearby, or…

Her hand dove into her belt pouch. She threw.

The last glass sphere hurtled toward the Duchess as Erin unclasped the holster.

Tink! went the glass as Ariel delicately plucked the missile from the air. Erin raised her weapon. All she needed was to shoot the sphere, and then…

The gauntleted hand closed, crunching the glass to shards.

Yellow-green gas swirled around her figure, leaving Erin dumbstruck.

The Duchess stepped forward. Smoke hissed from the vents of her helmet, the breath she had drawn deep into her lungs.

"Foul filth, yes. Because of it, I lost my horse." Her voice gurgled, nearly incomprehensible. "Is this all you have?"

She stepped closer. The concentrated gas flowed down her legs, curling across the ground toward where Erin lay.

"Now tell me — do you think they were right to cast me into the lesser branch merely for weakness?" With each step her voice grew clearer, and ever more sinister.

She seemed less a human than a demon. No human could be mad enough to breathe poison just to prove her point.

Erin summoned her sword — but the Duchess stepped on it, denying it return to her hand.

The girl raised her revolver.

A shot thundered. The Duchess reacted as always: flawlessly, tilting her head aside.

But this time the projectile was too fast. The bullet glanced off her helmet, making it ring like a bell. Heart. Another bullet splattered against her armor, leaving a mark. Throat, where the plating was weaker… Missed. Even stunned, the Duchess still managed to evade.

Then… the leg.

Ariel shifted her foot away from the path of the bullet, placing her weight on the other...

...the foot that pinned Erin's sword to the ground.

Impulse!

The blade tore free from beneath her, throwing the Duchess off balance. Even as she fell, she thrust a hand down to spring back the moment she would touch the ground. Her other hand swept the sword upward, raising it to guard her head.

The revolver barrel crept after her falling form. Its muzzle aligned with the eye slits of the helmet.

Bang!

The bullet missed by a fraction of a second. The blade interposed itself, covering the weak spot. The bullet slammed into the bastard sword. Clang! The weapon snapped, weakened from the earlier clinch. The blade crashed to the ground, and Ariel with it.

Click. The revolver's empty chamber answered instead of another shot.

"Abyss. As always…"

The girl let the gun slip from her hands and seized the fallen blade.

Strike!

The sword came down, seeking to pin her aunt to the earth, but the glowing edge was caught in a gauntleted hand. The metal instantly glowed red-hot, yet the Duchess remained perfectly calm.

"In your place, I would look left," she advised.

Still pressing down, Erin raised her eyes.

Something long flashed before her, and the world spun. Sky. Ground. Ground. Sky…

After a dozen rolls, she came to on the ground.

Her right side felt unnaturally light. Her shoulder burned like fire.

Her already-broken ribs screamed in agony for such neglect. Blood filled her lungs. The glancing blow that had hurled her dozens of meters had drained the last of her strength. All she could do was lift herself slightly, enough to look around.

Beside the Duchess stood one of her knights, a man of no note at all. Except… an ordinary knight could not have hurled a steel spear with such force.

He offered his hand to the Duchess, and in his voice there was no trace of deferential respect.

"You really are slipping, my dear, if you needed my help,"  the 'knight' smirked.

"Not yet. I could have handled this myself. Your help will be needed in ten seconds," she replied calmly, letting him lift her to her feet.

"What?" the Duke asked, puzzled, raising his wife. A piercing whine filled the air.

"Four. Three…"

Behind them, fire-flowers bloomed. Explosions heaved bodies and clods of earth skyward.

Artillery bombardment. The barge had finally arrived.

Erin's eyes darted, searching for anything. There was no cover on this plain, but… a shield!

Clenching her teeth, she pulled the artifact toward herself, leaving only her legs unprotected.

"Two. One… Now!"

The Duke swept his hand, halting in midair a long shell that screamed straight at them. But there was no time to see it clearly; the iron shot burst apart, showering the field with shrapnel.

Fragments hammered the shield and the Duchess's armor as she instantly shielded her husband with her own body. She was unlucky; shards punched through her backplate, biting into her flesh.

"Don't stop them!" she hissed. "Better drive them…"

"…deep into the ground!" he finished instantly.

The next shell burrowed into the soil nearby, detonating deep enough that the blast only heaved the ground, leaving its deadly shrapnel entombed.

Supporting each other, stumbling whenever a shell fell too close, the pair withdrew under the relentless cannonade.