Vol 4, Chapter 21

◆ Battlefield, Soldier Kurt's POV. ◆

"Ready! Aim!"

Kurt obediently rested his musket on the edge of the parapet, aiming it at the approaching enemies.

His ears were still ringing from the recent artillery volley that had mowed down dozens, maybe even a hundred, soldiers. Yet the enemy, like madmen, kept charging forward, trying to reach his trench.

A gust of wind struck his back, hurling thick clouds of smoke into the faces of the attackers. Kurt glanced sideways at the commander, waiting for the order, but the man showed no rush to speak.

Clad in armor, the guardsman clutched a rifle with a hatchet in place of a stock to his chest and peered into the smoke, waiting for the enemy to come closer.

The ringing in Kurt's ears began to subside, and he could now make out the screams. Mostly just groans and cries, but amidst them were shouts about magic and illusions. Another gust of wind briefly scattered the smoke, revealing a few dozen meters of the battlefield.

Several men had stumbled into spike traps hidden in the smoke, a dozen more had become entangled in barbed wire. A limping spearman staggered forward, a bloody spike sticking from his boot.

From the smoke emerged a bloodied swordsman in plate armor, his left arm dangling uselessly.

"It's not an illusion!" he shouted, turning his head back toward the others.

More enemies emerged from the fog. A large man with an axe shoved a hesitant soldier aside in irritation. The wounded swordsman collapsed with a cry of pain.

"Fire!" the commander ordered, leading by example.

A chorus of volleys merged into a single, drawn-out thunderclap.

The recoil slammed into Kurt's chest, but he knew from experience: no matter how badly the sword strike hurt his arm, the man at the other end of the blade had it worse. So he endured the blow of the rifle with humility.

Smoke engulfed their position, but he had no time to check if his shot had landed. Like in drills, he instantly dropped to one knee, simultaneously drawing a paper cartridge from his pouch. His trenchmate reached for the powder horn, brushing away glowing powder from the flash pan. A misfire.

Overhead, another line fired, and then a cannon's roar struck his ears like a bell tower hammer. The ringing returned with fresh fury, drowning out commands. Kurt had fought in many noble house wars, but none had ever been so merciless to his hearing.

His fingers moved automatically. He opened the powder pan, but a strong gust of wind blew the powder away. Damn it. He grabbed the powder horn, losing precious seconds.

The soldier could've sworn the wind was behaving strangely. It carried the smoke away from their position, only to freeze fifty meters out, as if the air there had become still. The swirling clouds disoriented the enemy, keeping them from assessing the situation.

Finally, the musket was loaded.

Kurt rose from his knee and immediately ducked. A steel bolt whistled past, ruffling his hair, and embedded itself deep in the ground. The air filled with the nasty whine and hum of flying metal.

Dozens of bolts rained down on their position, ricocheting off concrete with sharp clangs, biting into logs, thudding into bodies. It felt like they were under fire from a hundred crossbowmen, but Kurt was seasoned enough to recognize the weapon.

"Aim," the commander ordered again and jerked his head down just in time. A bolt screeched as it deflected off his helmet.

Kurt peered out from cover and saw the enemy: about thirty massive warriors, clad head to toe in knightly armor. Bloodied, battered, but perfectly organized and disciplined. The front row held tower shields, pocked and pierced but still formidable. The rear row fired from bolt-throwers, launching several bolts per second. The moment one emptied its magazine, the next fired.

No normal man could shoot with such force and speed. Only a mage, using magic to control the spring of a bolt-thrower.

And they were advancing, slowly but inexorably, pushing toward the lines of spikes and coils of barbed wire already strewn with corpses.

"Fire!"

A storm of lead tore into the knights, punching through shields, sparking off armor. Only a few bullets tasted blood. Several legionnaires fell, but their formation immediately closed ranks.

Kurt pulled the trigger, but nothing. No shot. Damn wind. Swiftly replacing the powder on the flash pan and waiting out the second line's volley, he peeked from cover again.

Damn it, there were even more of them now! New armored troops joined the formation of knights, and worse still, far behind, their own comrades were cutting down wavering soldiers without the slightest concern for the canister shot and cannonballs screaming through the air. The enemy was organizing... but why wasn't our artillery firing on their flank?

The formation came to a halt. As one, the knights thrust their halberds into the ground and extended their hands forward. Even the shooters in the second row set aside their bolt-throwers. Kurt's musket trembled in his hands, trying to rip itself free.

"Hold your weapons!" he shouted to his comrades and dove to the bottom of the trench, clutching the rifle beneath his body.

Metal wrenched from the ground, wire hissed and tore. Barbed iron rained onto his back, its sharp edges slicing through his uniform. A pike crashed down nearby. Screams rang out. Kurt held tight to his musket. A memory surfaced: in a battle once, a lord had disarmed an entire mercenary squad with a mere gesture. An unpleasant memory. The regrown fingers on his left hand ached with phantom pain.

A moment later, everything stopped. Kurt sprang up to assess the situation.

Unfortunately, not everyone had his experience. Many had lost their weapons and were now trying to retrieve them from the tangled heaps of barbed wire that had collapsed into the trench.

The enemy formation resumed its advance, having cleared a path through the obstacles. Behind them, the rest of their forces assembled, waiting for the heavy-armored spearhead to pierce the defenses and let the wave crash through. They were falling under crossfire from neighboring trenches, but more and more troops streamed into their section of the front, smelling blood.

A cannonball whistled through the air and thudded into the ground just in front of the knights, launching chunks of soil skyward. A miss.

BOOM.

A flash of light seared his vision as fragments flew overhead. Dirt drummed against his back. Kurt looked up.

A crater. And bodies. Those in the epicenter would never rise again, but a few knights were still moving. One calmly pulled a sharp shard of iron from his belly. Damn it, they were on potions too.

A new "spearhead" was already forming behind them.

As if that weren't enough, a drawn-out invocation echoed across the battlefield.

"Ana-a-a-fema-a-a-a..." A powerful voice made Kurt's body tremble with dread.

Frantically, he scanned for the one calling upon the god. And found him.

A clean-shaven priest stood several hundred meters away. His snow-white robes were soaked in blood, and most of the fingers on his bleeding hand were missing.

"Ana-afema-aa..." the priest chanted in a deep, trained voice. A chorus joined him. It seemed to come from everywhere. Even the wounded, even the dying, joined the chant. Novices and veteran inquisitors alike.

Kurt raised his musket. A long shot, but he had to try. He fired.

The bullet struck the priest's shoulder, making him stagger, but he didn't miss a single note.

"Ana-thema," he cried again, drawing a curved dagger from his belt. A slash. Blood poured from his wrist onto the ground.

Kurt knew he wouldn't have time to reload. He looked around—no sign of the commander.

"Shoot the priest! Everyone, kill him now or we're finished!" he yelled, grabbing a musket from a corpse riddled with bolts.

Scattered, weak gunshots rang out from the trench. Bullets whizzed past the priest, kicking up dirt.

Too late.

The priest's bleeding stopped. His bloodied robes began to brighten, cleaning themselves.

The ground around him began to tremble.

Someone from the second line fired a perfect shot. The bullet sped toward his chest... but disintegrated into rust-colored dust.

"Anathema!" The chorus rose as one. The soloist, now silent, raised his knife and slit his own throat.

A delayed shot from somewhere high above took off the priest's head, but it was already too late.

Blinding light engulfed the battlefield, searing eyes. Kurt dove to the trench floor, not believing it would help.

Hunger. Divine hunger crashed down upon them, devouring every grain of existence. Dozens of meters of fortifications simply ceased to exist. Concrete crumbled to dust, wood disintegrated, brand-new muskets rusted before their eyes. Even the land smoothed out, erasing every wound carved by human hands.

And the people...

Kurt opened his eyes, barely able to believe he'd survived.

Everyone who had stood within a few meters of him was now a desiccated mummy. Bloodless skin clung to bone, rusted muskets frozen in skeletal hands, uniforms rotted away. Even the commander hadn't been spared—his armor no match for a battle prayer.

Kurt's body trembled.

Not from the sight. He'd seen plenty of death, even magical deaths. No, this was something else. It had suddenly become bitterly, unbearably cold. His breath misted, and snowflakes began to fall from the sky. As if something had drained not just life, but warmth itself.

The first thing Kurt did was peek out of the trench. The enemy must never be left out of sight, under any circumstances.

The blast hadn't touched their own troops, which made sense. Only the priests lay as mummified husks, and the rivers of blood had evaporated, leaving the battlefield dry.

The knights looked weakened but were still marching relentlessly toward their position. Behind them, hundreds of lesser soldiers followed—more than enough to overwhelm. The cannons opened up, but their lonely voices couldn't contain the horde. It seemed several gun crews had been caught in the priests' attack as well.

"Fix bayonets!" came the order from the second trench line.

But Kurt wouldn't have lived to his years if he didn't know when not to obey. Bayonet charge against knights?

He wasn't suicidal.

"Bubble, get up, you asshole!" Kurt shook his pale comrade.

"I... oh gods, up there!" the soldier raised a trembling hand, pointing skyward.

Kurt shot a quick glance to make sure there were no enemies above. There weren't, only a wedge-shaped void in the sky directly over their position, where stars peeked through.

"Gawk later," he barked, hauling the man to his feet. "Where's Noah?"

"No idea... I feel weak all over."

"Damn it. I told you to stay close if you wanted to live," Kurt muttered, reloading his musket.

Shots rang out from the second line. But with nothing left of the defensive positions except scorched earth, their weak volleys at the flanks wouldn't change a thing.

Even Bubble understood that much, despite only ever fighting off crows in fields before.

"Run?" he asked, fumbling to fix his bayonet with shaking hands.

A few recruits actually thought fleeing was the smarter choice. Idiots.

One of them caught a bolt in the back and collapsed into the dust. Heavy footsteps echoed just beyond the trench—knights.

"No. To the bunker, now!"

Grabbing three surviving soldiers, Kurt slammed the iron door shut just as a scream rang out behind them. A knight had leapt into the trench and impaled a second-line soldier on his long halberd. A few point-blank shots hit the shield. They pierced it cleanly but failed to punch through the armor beneath.

"Son of a bitch," Kurt cursed, watching through the firing slit as the knight slowly gutted the man. He shoved his musket into the opening, silently admiring the well-planned defenses. From inside the bunker, they could safely shoot at anything in the trench.

Boom. The gunshot in the tight space hit like a cannon blast, the whole room shaking with the echo. Acrid smoke filled the air instantly. Maybe the design wasn't as clever as he'd thought.

The smoke drifted slowly through vents in the ceiling... far too slowly.

Raspy coughing sounded from all directions.

But then came the screech. A moment later, a halberd blade punched through the metal door. Too sharp for ordinary steel—it had sliced through centimeters of iron like paper.

Artifact.

With a dreadful scrape, the blade slowly carved through the door.

"Damn it! Who's got a loaded musket? Now!"

Two soldiers fumbled through their cartridge pouches in a panic. Bubble tossed Kurt his musket.

Slide it into the slit. Aim. Fire!

Boom.

Breathing became impossible. Furious shouting echoed from the other side of the door.

"You... you're gonna choke us all! Stop shooting!" one of the soldiers wheezed. He had no musket at all, having dropped it while running.

"Kkh—kha... shut up," Kurt rasped, stepping back to grab the next musket.

The halberd blade vanished.

In the same instant, a pulse of magic blasted the door off its hinges. It hurtled across the bunker and smashed the unarmed soldier like a fly on a wall.

Blood flooded the room as the smoke poured out into the open trench.

There stood a very angry knight.

Backlit by sunlight, he held a magical halberd and a shield as wide as the door. His thick armor was battered, scarred, and streaked with blood—his and others'. On his shoulders, heraldic symbols marked him as nobility. Not just a knight, this was at least a baron's son. A sergeant's insignia adorned his chest.

An elite. The kind of warrior who saw men like Kurt as sword grease. The kind who, just for a moment, had closed his eyes to avoid the sting of black powder smoke.

A gunshot rang out.

The bullet slammed into his visor and punched through the helmet.

Silence.

The knight stood still, unmoving.

"Aaaaaaah!" Bubble screamed and stabbed the knight in the chest with his bayonet. The thick cuirass deflected the blow with ease.

But that seemed to be the last straw. The armored hulk toppled forward, nearly crushing the soldier beneath it. Through the hole in the helmet, the contents of the warrior's head were clearly visible.

"He's already dead, Bubble," Kurt said wearily. His hands trembled slightly, and he nearly dropped the paper cartridge to the floor.

A bugle call echoed from outside. Kurt peeked out and cursed.

There were two more knights in the trench. One of them was heading toward the bunker, likely to avenge his fallen comrade.

"Aim for the head when he gets close," Kurt ordered, silently bidding farewell to life. Even if they managed to kill this one too, the second would finish them.

Still, two dead knights at the hands of commoners... That was worth a story or two by a campfire.

A deafening blast, like artillery fire, slammed into their eardrums. But it was close. Very close.

The knight walking toward them was hurled into the trench wall. A massive hole, the size of a man's head, gaped in his chest. The second knight raised his shield just in time to intercept a heavy cannon used like a club. The thick steel bent under the impact but held. Then came a second blow, and a third.

Captain of the First Company, Dorvan, was only slightly larger than the knight, but it was enough to drive him back. The knight dropped his now-useless halberd and raised his palm toward Dorvan.

Nothing happened. Instead, the massive weapon smashed down on his helmet, driving his head into his shoulders.

Bonk.

The knight staggered. Inside that helm, it must have sounded like a church bell.

Bonk... bonk... bonk.

The weapon slammed again and again into his helmet, crushing it and breaking the skull within. A minute later, the warrior stopped moving. Panting, Dorvan lowered the bloodied weapon and began to reload it.

Kurt climbed out of the trench to assess the battlefield.

"Fire!" came the lord's command.

The First Company, shining in new cuirasses, stepped in to plug the breach. All three ranks fired at once, blowing the enemy apart.

Amazingly, every knight nearby who had been charging toward the lord moved as if through water. Their motions were half as fast as usual. They didn't even raise their shields in time.

From the gunpowder smoke emerged one lone knight who had survived the point-blank volley. Seeing the commander, he roared, tossed his shield aside, and charged forward with a magical halberd held in both hands.

A slash.

The enchanted halberd, capable of cleaving steel, failed to split the lord in half. The blade met an ordinary arm and scattered like mercury, as if it had never been forged from enchanted steel.

The counterstrike from the white blade didn't pierce the armor. Instead, the metal flowed like tendrils, slipping into every joint and damaged spot in the plate. No one could see what was happening inside, but the armored body collapsed at the lord's feet.

Meanwhile, the rear lines pulled out round cast-iron grenades, like small cannonballs, and hurled them at the advancing enemy.

Seconds passed before a series of explosions tore through the enemy ranks, ripping bodies apart. One mounted officer, holding a flag aloft, tried to rally the troops, but a bullet from above punched through both the family crest and his skull.

With their command gone, the infantry fled.

Another bugle sounded. The company split in two, opening a path between the trenches. The rumble of hooves, faint yet deadly on the battlefield, began their march.

Dozens of knights on snow-white horses, led by the Countess with lances leveled, charged into the enemy. Some of the fleeing men tried to resist, but the cavalry passed through them like a knife through butter.

It looked like... victory.

Kurt leaned on his musket in relief. The magical mark on his neck itched furiously. This was, without a doubt, the largest battle he had ever survived.

A pity there would be no grandchildren to tell the tale to.