Cataclysm War | Chapter 92: Charge of the Black Knight (First Draft)

Friday, August 12, 4 S.E.

Nothing was going the way he had envisioned it.

Artur Mordred Paendrag gnashed his teeth in frustration atop Bucephalus, his eyes fixed on the forbidding walls of Dawnhaven with anger and hatred both. The City defied him, defied his Legions, defied his will. Thousands of the Humanity Alliance’s most fervent soldiers had already broken themselves on the siege towers, the gates had not shown any signs of giving way, and he could feel the morale of his people eroding.

His eyes flicked back to the swathe of destruction the angel had caused, and his expression tightened. A single slash had devastated his lines, killing dozens of his men and leaving the remainder injured and screaming. Whatever that red light had been, it seemed to resist conventional healing. Colette’s menders had been at a loss, unable to do more than cauterize the wounds. It was like the mana ate anything else that came near it.

“Monsters,” Artur muttered, turning back toward the City. “Inhuman abominations.”

His cavalry had been rendered useless by the lack of a breach in the gates, and for all that he’d believed his Archers would be somewhat impeded, the entire corps had been shown as worthless against the Fantasies. They’d laughed during the volleys and called back mockery when hurling the arrows back at his own people as if they were amusing jests.

The magical exchange hadn’t even been remotely on par, with his own spellcasters devastated by the arcane might of the Fantasies while inflicting minimal damage at best with their own Skills. It was the worst possible situation to be in, and now he had to wonder at the impossible: did he retreat? Did he accept that the Alliance could not break this enemy bastion, and return to Texas to strengthen, embolden its ranks, and try again?

The idea rankled his pride, but he needed to decide on how best he could preserve the Alliance. If he continued to bleed men against Dawnhaven, he would lose everything. He had come with the intent to be William the Conqueror, and was instead very nearly looking like Vercingetorix at the Siege of Alesia.

“This isn’t working, Artur,” Gwendolyn said as she rode up beside him, her face set into a look of frustration. “We have thousands more to throw at those walls, but for every Fantasy we kill, another takes their place. We’re bleeding soldiers.”

Artur glanced at his wife and then back at the wall. At a conservative count, he’d already lost a thousand to two thousand of his warriors to the siege. He could break it, he knew that, but not without leading the charge himself—or worse, costing him another several thousand good men in the attempt.

“The Archers are all but useless,” he growled in frustration, “and we have over three thousand mounted cavalry that can’t do anything without the gate being breached.”

“We could sweep around to aid the Fantasies,” Gwendolyn said, her tone disparaging despite it being her suggestion. “But splitting pressure like that may end terribly.”

“It would,” Artur concurred, “and it would put our forces into too close contact with our temporary allies. No, love, we need to breach these gates.”

Gwendolyn frowned and turned toward the ramparts, then back to the gates.

“The rams are doing their work, but those gates are strong, Artur. They must be System-enhanced at the least, not to mention reinforced with Skills of some sort.”

Artur grunted in acknowledgement.

“We have the men to keep pressing them, and I doubt they have enough to stop us. What about the irregulars from the other factions?”

“They won’t go in until we have a foothold,” his wife responded derisively. “They say it’s too risky.”

Artur glanced back to where the irregulars were on the battle’s periphery and scowled. Of course, they were being cowards. He had fifteen thousand good Alliance soldiers with him, and the five thousand from the other factions—motley though they might be—would prove invaluable in a frontal assault, but he could hardly coerce them into suicide.

No matter how much easier it would make things for the Alliance.

“Our only option, then, is to try to—”

Artur’s words cut off at the sound of a horn, and he and Gwendolyn turned toward the City as the horn rolled over the area in declaration. A second later, the gates audibly thunked as the battering rams completed their latest round of assault, and the crews looked at the gate in confusion—then started screaming as the doors opened inward and fire exploded over them in a gouting tongue of destructive flame.

A moment after that, golden-armored warriors blurred out of the opening gates before his forces could react, surging into the flaming crews and hacking them down with elegant, targeted violence. Artur’s legionnaires turned toward the gate when the golden-armored fantasies emerged, and then recoiled en masse a second later when a wave of violet energy slammed into them, staggering his frontline.

He’d kept his men back from the walls—barring those sheltering behind the siege towers—to avoid wall-mounted defenses, and there was perhaps thirty meters between the gate and the front line of his men.

“What the hell are they doing?!”

Artur’s question was answered when the black-armored figure that had slaughtered his ranks charged into the breach, followed by a mass of golden-armored defenders, and what looked like—

Kairi. What the hell is she doing there?

Artur’s granddaughter surged into the fray, unmistakable as her auburn hair flew around her in her foxtail and she launched herself against his forces, bringing death as the front line of his soldiers recoiled from the onslaught. Almost eighty of the golden-armored Fantasies came with her, surrounding her, the Black Knight, and what appeared to be a redheaded demon-elf with golden horns.

“Reform your lines!” Artur roared as he waved his sword, recognizing the rash overreach. “Meet their charge and push them back!” he commanded, heeling Bucephalus along his lines as spells rained down from above and detonated among his forces to create bedlam. “To the gate! Rally to the gate! The enemy has given us an opportunity!”

Glory-hungry fools. What do they think they can do with—

Artur’s words died in his mind as a colossal roar followed the initial charge, and he saw a seemingly massive horde of what looked like thousands of human citizens pouring out of the gate after the charging defenders. His eyes widened in faint disbelief at the sheer number of them surging out of the gate, and then the chant hit his ears.

“ACHILLES! ACHILLES! ACHILLES!”

The Black Knight at their head raced forward like a harbinger of death, eating up Earth with each step and smashing into his frontline with enough force to send a ripple of shock through the Legionnaires as they were forming to receive the attackers. The golden-armored defenders charged with him and hit like sledgehammers themselves, while the soldiers on the wall continued their defensive spellcasting, blasting holes into the Alliance’s lines while the mad creature that led them smashed into his front ranks.

“ACHILLES! ACHILLES! ACHILLES!”

Artur heeled Bucephalus toward Elijah as the chant grew louder, and turned to watch the result of the initial clash as he closed the distance with his second.

A slaughter would have been a generous term.

The Black Knight and his guardians obliterated the frontline of his Legions, carving through them like wheat as they threw themselves toward the core of his forces, and the humans charging out of the gates spread outward, forming a crashing wave of defiance that spread out toward his men before they could encircle the reckless charge of what Artur presumed to be their leader or champion.

“ACHILLES! ACHILLES! ACHILLES!”

It was a spear-tip assault that morphed rapidly into a parity anvil, hemming the momentum of his forces before they could even begin to consider collapsing around the mad charge. Worse, the eighty golden warriors surrounding the leader were no slouches—each of them must have been at least Contenders or higher, Artur rationalized distantly, because they slaughtered the Alliance soldiers around them with practiced and terrifying ease, rotating their positions with such coordination that no one was able to lock any of them down.

“ACHILLES! ACHILLES! ACHILLES!”

Artur stared at the advance force carving through the lines of his Legions with momentary bewilderment, his eyes fixed on the obsidian warplate of their leader as his blade moved with predatory elegance, slicing through his soldiers like chaff before a scythe. To Artur’s tempered eyes, his movements were perfect; no gaps, no holes, not even a hint of hesitation. The creature looked like a veteran of decades, and wielded death like someone else might wield a pen.

What in the hell is that bastard?

*

Yarilla finished her climb up the ladder with the vanguard force and charged forward, engaging a woman in the armored livery of the defenders and meeting her attack with disciplined counter-strokes, dancing back from a disemboweling stab and surging forward to punch the Haelfar in the helmet, ignoring the bruising on her fingers and pivoting to slash with both her shortswords, cutting through the cuirass on her chest and sending her tumbling backward as Yarilla charged forward and finished her with a stab through her neck as Truthguard forces stormed past them both.

The experience injection was ignored as she looked across the wall and then glanced upward. The battle raging over their heads was the only reason they’d finally been able to assault the walls again.

The Ascendants continued to duel with the Venerate, and the distraction alone had opened the way for the Starhold to properly resume the assault, clashing with the stubborn defenders in a messy exchange of blood and steel. The Haelfenn fought like Nightlanders, entirely unbothered by the assault coming up the ladders, and meeting them with dauntless courage.

Yarilla couldn’t help but respect her foes, no matter their differences. They’d lost over three hundred of the Starhold’s numbers trying to take the walls, but they were finally making progress. As long as the Venerate was kept busy by the four Ascendants still battling him, their victory would be a matter of time, not a matter of potential. The Venerates would prove an issue later, but if they were exhausted, even a group of Elites would be enough to handle them.

Her eyes glanced out across the wall and the melee raging upon it, and she shifted, jogging the surprising distance toward the other side of the wall. It was worth seeing what was waiting for them inside the gates, so they could plan for what came next.

The thought died in her mind when she actually looked.

A roar from thousands of throats stopped her in her tracks.

“SECOND DIVISION!” a mounted warrior bellowed. “REINFORCE THE WALL!”

Yarilla’s spine raced with ice when thousands of throats screamed in maddened enthusiasm and raced toward the lower entrances to the wall, surging into them as Yarilla’s eyes widened in disbelief.

How in Nocturne’s name did they get this many soldiers?!

Her head snapped to the left, and she searched for a Starhold Officer, finding one—a Senior Elite from the Heartwardens—and racing over to him.

“[You have to secure the entrances!]” she said, pointing her sword toward where the defenders were holding their line near the massive gateways into the wall itself.

“[We’re trying,]” the Heartwarden said tersely, his orange eyes turning to her with a flicker of stress. “[We’ve been trying, Night Sister. The Haelfenn are holding those entrances like Nocturne is at their backs.]”

“[They can’t be more than Initiates,]” Yarilla said determinedly. “[We have more soldiers mounting the walls every second. Find a way to destroy the entrances if you can’t seize them!]”

“[Those are manastone structures, Night Sister,]” the Heartwarden said bluntly, his gaze turning toward the defending formation of Haelfenn. “[We could assault them with spells for hours and not leave a dent. We’d need the Ascendants.]”

Yarilla gnashed her teeth and turned as the roars from within the passages up to the wall grew in volume, and tightened her fists around her blades. She’d thought the wall defenders were all they had to contend with, but now a new army was in play, and the numbers were not in the Starhold’s favor. What sort of madman marshaled this much force against a surprise attack? It was unprecedented.

Even if all the thousands arrayed against them were Initiates and Untempered, numbers mattered. The sheer tidal wave of life would be enough to stall the Starhold. They needed the Ascendants to handle the incoming reinforcements, but if they deviated from the Venerate, that would in turn allow him to turn on the Starhold—at which point they’d be obliterated.

I hope you have a plan, Yvrain, Yarilla prayed in her mind as she prepared for the incoming wave, and more Starhold warriors joined her on the wall, setting themselves quickly to receive the inevitable charge. Because this is going from bad to worse.