Vol 7, Chapter 16

◆ Lands of Marquis Etienne, battlefield, Marquis Henri POV ◆

Almost-Third-Duke surveyed the coming battlefield from the height of griffon flight. As expected, his dear sister had decided not to hide behind the castle walls. But that was not only due to her quarrelsome nature. On the hill adjacent to the castle lay an enormous ritual circle, at least a hundred meters in diameter. Such a construct could not possibly fit within the castle walls, not to mention that it would interfere with the functioning of the shields.

There were fewer mages inside the circle than one might expect for such a size, but that in itself meant nothing. In any case, the circle was the center and main point of defense. If he destroyed it, the enemy army would fall in turn. Vastly inferior in numbers to the forces of the Third Duchy, without the circle's support they could not withstand them. The army would fall, and so would his sister. No matter what kind of monster Arielle was, she could not destroy thousands upon thousands of soldiers alone.

Yes. The circle remained the primary threat.

The enemy understood this as well. The hill was encircled by a formation of heavy pikemen, packed extremely densely at the front and much thinner in the rear, where Henri counted only six ranks of soldiers clad in heavy plate.

Their task was simple: to serve as living shields for the mages. The knights would find it difficult to break through such a barrier, even from behind. Riders on chimeras could perhaps manage it, but with so many mages present, it would not go without losses. And since he had not yet accepted the title of Duke, losing his loyal core was the last thing he could afford.

What troubled him further were the entire rows of hundreds of barrels surrounding the ritual circle like a kind of wall. And given that even from above he could see the red-haired heads inside the circle, it was easy to conclude that what filled those barrels was certainly not wine.

But where could his sister have acquired so much lamp oil?

No, she simply could not have acquired that much. Surely part of the barrels were empty, placed merely to intimidate him.

Still, some of them must indeed be full.

The fact that there were no archers stationed on the hill, behind the pikemen, suggested the same.

It meant he would need to divide his knights into several squadrons. The poorest and least experienced would form the first wave, break through the pikemen's formation, and burn at the foot of the hill. The second wave would finish the work; fortunately, the hill was not so steep that horses could not charge up it. Yet surely the mages would not sit idly by. Even if no metal mages were among them, there would be no avoiding losses. He had to keep part of the riders in reserve under the barons for a third wave if things went awry. Better to lose part of his loyal men than to lose the entire battle.

Henri once more cast a thoughtful glance over the battlefield. The hill's left flank was further covered by archers and infantry, while the right flank stood bare, as if inviting him to send cavalry wedges there. It seemed that all that was required was to pierce the pikemen's ranks, survive the barrels, and reach the mages… But at the rear of the hill lay the enemy's reserve, and he was certain his sister would definitely be there.

An exposed flank was not a sign of her foolishness, but of her powerless fury. Oh yes, surely she was in a rage, inviting the enemy in so she could exact proper vengeance for her husband's death. Mad bitch.

Therefore Henri had no intention of personally taking part in the battle. He did not overestimate himself; against her, he likely would not last even a minute. Besides, it had been by the King's order that her husband was eliminated, so let her cross blades with him instead. He would rather focus on commanding from a safe height. Only a fool would willingly step into the path of a beast driven mad by grief.

Unlike others, he understood perfectly: from the moment Thorn died at an assassin's blade, Arielle was doomed. No matter how great a warrior you were, swordsmanship alone could not preserve power when it was already crumbling beneath your feet. Too much had been bound to the Duke himself. So when the royal messenger personally confirmed to him that the Archmage was dead, Henri realized that he had already won.

All that remained was one little push, and the Second Duchy would collapse like a house of cards.

And today's battle would provide that push.

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◆ Battlefield, Second Duke POV ◆
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The griffon with its strange, yellowish plumage descended from the skies, and Henri's troops regrouped, shifting closer to the right flank.

Several tens of thousands of scattered militiamen finally broke what little semblance of formation they had, taking up new positions. Meat, whose greatest advantage was sheer numbers. Motley equipment, from plate armor to padded jackets, short spears, axes. Over the units proudly fluttered the multicolored banners of the western barons, yet those rags would hardly keep them from fleeing if things went wrong.

What would truly keep them in place were the dense formations of household troops pressing them from three sides. Armed far better than the militia and far more numerous, the vassals' private forces greatly outmatched the soldiers of the Second Duchy.

Several thousand riders shifted in the rear, clearly aiming for the right flank. Not all of them were full-fledged knights; most were mounted squires, not nearly as well equipped, but still a significant force, even if not the main one.

The main strength stood at the rear. The barons, and three dozen large and wildly different beasts accompanied by the most seasoned knights. Strong enough to carve through even the heaviest infantry, resilient enough to survive under magical assault.

Thorn lifted his head to the skies. Six griffons circled over the battlefield; those, too, could not be ignored. Strange, there were two fewer than expected…

The riders finished their redeployment. Horses snorted, releasing clouds of steam into the cold autumn air. Withered grass stirred faintly in the breeze.

Everyone awaited the signal.

"It's time," Detlaf snapped to the circle's mages.

Waves of power made the very air tremble. Crystal spheres filled with the most precious ingredients burst, flooding the air with the fragrant scent of herbs and the far less pleasant stench of magical beasts' entrails. At least the crystals themselves had no smell.

Streams of power spread along golden veins from the mages, when at last a rolling thunder of the signal to attack resounded over the battlefield.

The infantry charged forward, losing all semblance of order.

The riders shifted into a trot. The earth quaked under thousands of hooves.

Perhaps, had there been someone else at the circle's center, they might have crossed half the field.

But this time fortune was not theirs.

Runes flared with fire, golden veins heated with strain. Ingredients crumbled to ash, their power spent. A powerful pulse spread from the circle, nearly knocking over the wooden barrels.

Among the riders a tiny spark ignited. An iron-shod hoof struck down on it with a crash, grinding it into the dirt.

Yet it did not die. It could not be extinguished.

The withered grass flared like a miniature sun. Flame raced along the ground, effortlessly outpacing the riders. The tongues of fire rose higher and higher, licking greedily at knights' armor and devouring squires. A wall of fire engulfed hundreds upon hundreds of meters, and that was only the beginning. The sun ignited again, and every spark, even the tiniest ember, was drawn toward it. The flames coiled toward the center, rising ever higher into the sky. Their tongues whirled around a blinding core whose very light seared the eyes. Faster and faster, until the slow waltz became a storm of fire.

The heavens darkened beneath a fiery whirlwind that seconds before had been no more than a spark.

The riders scattered in panic. They rode without knowing where, covering the slits of their visors with gauntleted hands. They tumbled from maddened horses... burning horses. Smoke rose from the armor of the lucky few who escaped, their standards ablaze, but they had survived. Those who had been too close…

The fiery torrent did not merely melt armor; the whirlwind snatched riders aloft with ease, lifting them higher and higher, roasting them in the air until they crumbled to ash. Before the face of the howling element it no longer mattered whether you were knight or squire. Quite the opposite.

The knight would suffer longer.

The fire scythed a wide swath through the cavalry ranks, taking hundreds of lives, though the greater part of the riders escaped. Too mobile to be caught.

But the whirlwind was never meant for the cavalry.

The spell surged onward toward the infantry ranks. Men who only moments before had been charging toward it now turned to flee, stumbling, falling, trampling their own. But one cannot outrun a whirlwind on foot. The very sorcery that once laid waste to cities now began its harvest.

Padded jacks flared like matches the instant the whirlwind's edge touched the militia. Chainmail fused into flesh, plate armor of the household troops glowed red-hot within seconds...There were no lords in the world wealthy enough to inlay the armor of common infantry with isolite!

Fire devoured spear shafts, boots, flesh, and bone… and only grew stronger. Throughout all ages fire mages had been kings of battle precisely because of this property of flame.

The whirlwind swelled like a bloated whale, its greedy arms overtaking the fleeing infantry. Their screams were drowned by the howl of the fiery storm. Their fate was inevitable. One does not escape fire.

"Such sorcery wins battles!" Detlaf shouted in ecstasy. "Thousands of lives claimed in a single minute!"

The pyromancer gazed upon his creation with shining eyes, raising his hands to the sky. Obeying his fingers' movements, the whirlwind continued its reaping, relentlessly hunting the largest clusters of militiamen.

"Time. Second phase," the Second Duke reminded him, and Detlaf reluctantly released control.

Yet even deprived of magical guidance, the whirlwind did not vanish. The awakened element had no thought of ending its harvest… only now it was no longer driven by the will of mages.

The circle shifted, allowing the Duke to take the central place. New materials were hastily laid to replace those consumed. Dimmed cores were exchanged for fresh ones.

"Faster. Third Star, replace the core. Tension on the fifth line is unstable, change the mage!" Thorn snarled through clenched teeth, weaving streams of power into the spell. Now it was his turn to serve as the focus.

Molten gold burned even through his boots. But that did not matter. The circle would withstand another strike. It must.

The reorganized cavalry pressed on toward the hill, but their gallop slowed to a trot as several horses stumbled and dozens suddenly began to limp. Caltrops. Annoying, though not the greatest problem. The knights slowed. Thanks to their Gifts they felt the hidden metal in the grass and with brief gestures flung it aside from the road. It had delayed them, nothing more.

Unlike the utterly shattered infantry, the cavalry had suffered more than tolerable losses. This was how they had triumphed during the Age of Strife. Mobility.

The whirlwind needed too much time to reach its full strength, and armor weakened magic quite well. Something else was needed to stop the knights.

Runes flared again, but this time with a silver, dim light. Metal magic had never enjoyed honor on the tactical level. Too inconvenient, too short-ranged; it was remembered only when some beast resistant to magic had to be slain… and even then earth magic was often preferred.

But since the Age of Strife it had found its niche.

Steel shards, scattered across the ground in advance, began to quiver. They were drawn as if by a giant magnet whose force grew stronger each second.

Clang!

One shard rang out as it struck armor. Clang! Clang! others echoed. Meeting plate, the shards lost the speed they had gained… but not their acceleration. The air filled with the roar of steel, racing faster and faster. Clang! Clang! Clang! Large and small alike, they scored armor, pierced joints, and shredded unprotected horses' legs. Thick armor reinforced with isolite was strong against magic, against blades and claws… but steel driven to such speed could pierce even that.

The most seasoned riders halted their mounts, trying to locate the spell's center. They knew from bitter experience that trying to escape it was the most foolish thing one could do. For it was at the boundary that the shards reached such speeds that they tore apart anything, no matter how fine the armor. But in the center there was still a chance to survive.

The squires, lacking such experience, tried to leave the zone. The cowardly turned back, the brave spurred ahead. The result was the same. Their weaker armor gave way first, the air filled with blood. The field grew so strong that even thin veins of isolite could no longer resist it. An invisible force seized bodies, yanked them from saddles, and hurled them like living projectiles. The crunch of broken bones was audible even through the piercing whine.

The spell reached full power.

Steel shrapnel flew as if fired from a cannon. Specially tempered shards shattered on impact, yet at the same time gnawed steadily through armor until it split. Larger fragments punched straight through plate. The knights who failed to react in time, or were simply unlucky, died. For the horses, there was no chance at all. Not everyone was willing to die standing with bared chest; men dropped to the ground and pressed themselves as hard as they could against it, offering their legs to the steel torrent…

But the field sank lower. Fragments of armor, swords, and helmets joined the man-made storm, plowing the earth and lifting great clouds of dust into the air. For five endlessly long minutes the iron tempest raged before subsiding.

The shrapnel buried itself in the ground, finally losing its speed. The dust settled. Aside from about half a squadron of riders untouched by the storm, only a few dozen bloodied but still living knights remained at the eye of the maelstrom.

Most of the cavalry had been destroyed.

But the circle, too, had played its last role.

Heat rose from the molten gold. The mages lay collapsed where they had stood. Some of their clothes had caught fire. A weary Detlaf extinguished his colleagues with a wave of his hand. Thorn wiped his hands clean and yielded the circle to the last, still-fresh water mage. In truth, it was little more than a formality; the circle no longer functioned. The final spell would have to be cast relying on personal strength alone.

Thorn bit his lip, blood trickling from his nose, and lifted his gaze upward, away from the ground that pulled at him so strongly. He could not allow himself to lose authority; he had to remain standing.

Thunder rumbled in the heavens. Griffons fell from the sky. Unfortunately, not only those belonging to Marquis Henri…

Anticipating that the enemy would attempt to disrupt their spell, his own aerial forces had been dispatched to intercept. The Archmage simply could not afford to leave such a threat unanswered.

Regretfully following with his eyes the winged body plunging from the clouds, Thorn returned his attention to the sinful earth. The last, most dangerous reserves were already advancing toward them. The remnants of the cavalry moved to join forces. However…

The Duke surveyed the battlefield strewn with corpses and smiled. They had done their work. Now it was only a matter of surviving. The enemy would try to finish them at any cost, for if the mages were allowed to live, then in just a couple of weeks they would be able to repeat these monstrous strikes. That was the true horror of an army whose core strength was its mages. The enemy lost soldiers, troops, countless lives, while the mages lost only their energy, which was all too easy to restore.

The Duchess's detachment moved steadily toward the hill, forcing the remaining enemy forces to hasten their steps. A shallow-minded commander might mistake this for folly, but his beloved was once more taunting the foe, luring them into a trap. People liked to believe that he made all the decisions, but in truth they always devised battle plans the same way they fought: together, back to back.

The wall of pikes bent and splintered under the assault.

War chimeras crashed into the pikemen's ranks, not without effort but still overturning them. Alas, however good common soldiers might be, they could not withstand even knights, let alone armored chimeras.

This was the second reason why they had triumphed in the Age of Strife. One should never underestimate the power of a metal mage in close combat, especially when mounted upon a multi-ton beast.

Pikes snapped, sturdy armor was split by halberds, torn open by claws and fangs. The foot of the hill ran red with blood.

The Duke calmly observed the thinning ranks of pikemen while regaining his strength. A minute. Two. Three.

A boar-like beast knocked down two soldiers in the last row. The body of one pikeman dangled from its long, curved tusk. Grunting gleefully, the chimera charged up the slope, with wave after wave of riders pouring into the breach behind it.

Time.

A short nod, and the mages toppled the barrels. No, not filled with lamp oil. The enemy elite surely possessed good enough amulets not to fear that. These barrels contained plain water.

Streams of water trickled merrily down the slope, soaking the withered grass, making it slick… but that was far from all. One mage, who had been conserving his strength for this moment, cast the final spell. Frost swept down the hillside, freezing the streams solid.

The hooves of the giant boar skidded. With a baffled squeal, it slid down, straight into the wall of pikes held by the reformed pikemen. The points sank deep into its unprotected belly. It was finished. The baron struggled to escape the crushing carcass, but failed. Horses tumbled after, turning the heroic charge into a complete pile-up. A lynx-like chimera dug its claws into the ice and narrowly avoided sliding. Urged on by its rider, it pressed toward the hill.

"Hmm. Unacceptable," the Archmage muttered, flicking dried blood from his beard and drawing his sword. A pulse of magic sent the blade flying toward the beast's leg. The baron tried to interfere, but even in his exhaustion their strength was too uneven. Barely noticing the resistance, the sword severed the limb. Crimson blood spattered across the ice, and the chimera, screeching as its remaining claws scraped futilely, slid back to join the rest.

At the foot of the hill, slaughter. The Duchess's detachment was already tearing into their rear, while the pikemen barred any attempt to climb and regroup. Cries of surrender grew more frequent.

The Archmage stood upon the hill, watching his wife carve her way toward him and lending magical aid where he could. Her blows were lethally precise and monstrously strong, as always. Few foes required more than a single strike, as she carved her way forward at a strolling pace.

Ten minutes, and it was over. The defeated aristocrats cast down their weapons. The battlefield lay carpeted with corpses. A great victory, yet…

The Duke had not seen a single royal soldier. One might think that fortunate, but unease gnawed at him.

"So you sat on the hill through the whole battle without even joining me?" his wife shouted mockingly from below. She held a bloodied helmet in one hand, her armor drenched in gore and chimera entrails, though her own body bore not a scratch.

"I aided from here. Down there, I'd only have been in the way. Besides, did you not see me take down over a thousand knights?"

"The circle helped you. That doesn't count!"

"And you had my help!"

"Touché… No, wait. My contribution was still greater, the strongest knights were here!" the Duchess retorted, waving her sword so close it nearly clipped the approaching Étienne. "Oh, pardon."

"No harm done. Congratulations on your victory. Nothing now can hinder your rise!" the Marquis offered, almost sincerely.

"Thank you, but you are wrong, brother. One problem remains…" The Duchess's face darkened as she called out to her husband. "You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

The Duke smiled.

"Of course not. After such a resounding victory, what negotiations could there be? We shall take what we desire by force."