Chương 38: Desperate Defence

"Ural, take your drake and go stabilise the west gate! Alcyr, you're with me!" Lenore's enhanced voice was heard even over the howling winds. Ural's drake banked to the side, heading for the contested west gate with a pale-faced Vormas accompanying him. Lenore's drake, meanwhile, snooped down hard, rushing for the broken east gate.

"They're already in the compound," Alcyr noted calmly.

"The outer perimeter is completely overrun."

"The east gates may have fallen, but they are still signs of resistance. The inner sanctums are not yet lost." Lenore's voice was composed, her sharp eyes analysing the field below.

"Ural can hold the west gate. You and I will have to rally the defenders here and drive out the invaders. Once both gates are secured, we will have proper chokepoints to hold back the foe." It was doable. No matter what forces the barbarians sent, Lenore was a Master-tier warrior. Her strength alone would be enough to fight back any number of northmen. Or at least, that's what he thought until he noticed a shadow swooping down on them from above with alarming speed.

"Look out!" he shouted. Lenore had detected it before he did — her halberd already raised — but the foe was too fast and too large, its ambush perfectly executed. Alcyr caught sight of a gargantuan bird of prey — with talons large enough to grab entire horses each and a wingspan several waggons wide — before it smashed right into the drake. A Rocfiend! His Combat Sense hadn't even sensed it coming. Blood sprayed as the avian monster tightened its talons and pierced through the scales of the drake.

The draconic mount roared and buckled. Lenore held on, but Alcyr lost his grip. The physician quickly spun her halberd and thrust the blunt end of the polearm towards him. Alcyr grabbed it just in the nick of time, his body hanging dangerously off the side of the drake. Before he could pull himself up, he noticed movement on the back of the giant bird. A deranged-looking old man — clad in furs and crowned with an antlered headdress — raised a crude bone staff and pointed it at him. Damnation!

"Shaman!" Alcyr roared, warning Lenore. His free hand was already reaching inside his throwing pouch, even though he knew he would not make it in time. A sickly bolt of green energy lanced from the shaman's staff the instant Alcyr threw one of his chakrams. The caustic spell struck him square in the chest, the splash eating at his chainmail around his neck as the impact tore him clean off the drake's back.

Before the fall took him, however, Alcyr saw the shaman's head snap backward, a dark gout of blood spraying from his neck, black against the moonlit sky. [Acid Resistance has improved to 3] [Throwing Weapon Discipline has improved to 36] [Fated Hand has improved to 4] He heard Lenore shout his name, but there was nothing she could do. Gravity seized him, and then all Alcyr could hear was the howling wind as he plummeted. Brace, now!

Forcing his body to stop flailing, he brought his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, and tucked his chin in. The impact hit him a split second later, and Alcyr felt every bone in his body creak. [Blunt Resistance has improved to 23] [Armour Discipline has improved to 39] [New Skill: Fall Control 1 (Uncommon)] His vision spun in flashes of stars.

He struck the edge of a pillar first — breaking off a large chunk of the structure — before the stone floor met him, the landing carving a shallow crater in the fortress courtyard. Had it not been for his skills, the fall would have turned him into a bloody smear on the ground. As it was, he was still alive. Groaning, Alcyr shakily got to his feet, the armour of his chestplate hissing from the acid shot at him by the shaman. He blinked the haze from his eyes and quickly realised he was not alone.

Staring at him, flabbergasted, were dozens of barbarians, as well as the pair of Regulars they had been fighting. It was as though a spell had settled over the courtyard. Though the roar of battle thundered on around the fortress, friend and foe alike stared awestruck at the large, armoured figure that had just fallen out of the sky and into their midst. Alcyr rose. Rage and power pumped in his veins as Mortal Defiance took hold. His Blessed Blood called for violence.

He spat out a glob of blood, and then, drawing upon two chakrams, he attacked. The spinning blades ebbed themselves in the head of two barbarians. With a roar of rage that shattered the silence, Alcyr lifted his longsword and launched himself at the nearest foe. He moved with such blistering speed that the barbarians' eyes struggled to follow his form.

The silverite blade drew a bloody arc through the air as it effortlessly cut through the northman's stomach, bisecting the foe at the waist and hurling his severed halves to the ground. The battle then resumed, fast and frantic. The two Regulars cut their way to him. The enemy outnumbered them three-to-one, but they held Journeyman-tier strength at best. Even wounded as he was, none were a match for Alcyr's ferocity. Within seconds, all the barbarians lay dead.

[Mortal Defiance has improved to 39] He briefly inspected his wounds and equipment. Despite the fall, most of his gear was fine. Even more miraculously, none of his bones were broken, although they ached terribly. His chestplate held, despite the acid blast it took head-on. He mentally reminded himself to thank the quartermaster when he had the chance — the man had truly crafted him quality armour.

"Did you just fall out of the sky?!" One of the Regulars asked, panting.

"How are you even alive? What the hell are you?"

"Never mind that!" Alcyr snapped, struggling not to collapse. The kills triggered Red March Swordplay to start mending his wounds, but there was only so much the skill's measly healing could do.

"What happened here? How did such a large force attack us?"

"That's what we like to know," the other Regular grunted.

"You're on our side, right? Who did you come with? 2nd Platoon from the plains? Or has Grandmaster Faldren returned?"

"Neither. I was with Lenore." A look of despair came over them.

"Captain Lenore? Balls!" One of them swore.

"That means there's practically only four of you!" The other pointed accusingly at him.

"Hey, wait a minute! That means you're that peasant! The Butcher of the Red Rime!" Alcyr ignored them and looked up. Lenore was still duelling furiously with the Rocfiend on her drake. He was on his own.

"We need to retake the east gates," he said, struggling not to cough blood.

"How many Regulars are left here? We need to regroup and push out."

"No! Absolutely not!" One of them snapped.

"I'm not taking orders from a cadet, let alone a lowborn! You— Ah!" In the blink of an eye, the Regular found a blade at his throat.

"My patience is at its limits," Alcyr said, his sword arm steady despite all his injuries.

"If you are not going to cooperate, then I'll just cut open your throat here and use your corpse to block up the gate. Decide, now." The Regular swallowed.

"Okay! I, I understand…" [Persuasion has improved to 24] [Presence has improved to 18] Alcyr lowered his sword.

"Good. Let's go." Time to reenact his rallying action he pulled off in the Battle of the Red Rime. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He found two more scattered groups — a squad with three remaining soldiers, and another that was a mix of cowering auxiliary staff and a lone Regular. That lone Regular, however, was drenched in blood and surrounded by barbarian corpses. Alcyr would have gladly welcomed her strength, if not for the unfortunate fact that he had antagonised her before.

"You!" Nerma growled.

"Why are you here?" The mutant shock trooper did not look happy to see him. He had the feeling she would have lunged at him if she wasn't already so exhausted and wounded.

"We are retaking the gate," he said quickly, unwilling to argue with her.

"You can either come along or stay here. I neither care nor have time to settle our grievances right now." She glanced at the handful of Regulars he had gathered behind him. With great reluctance, she nodded.

"I'll come with you." Her decision surprised him, but he did not bother asking why. He told the auxiliary staff to head to the inner compound, where it should be safer. As he and the other soldiers made their way to the gates, he hurriedly asked his questions.

"How did the fortress fall? Was it the Rocfiend?"

"That giant bird?" Nerma laughed shakily.

"No, that came later. The gate had already fallen by then. It just made things even worse than they already were."

"When did the attack start?"

"Two hours ago, maybe. It was fine at first. We fell back to the inner gates when the enemy's numbers were clearly too much for us to hold against in the open. Mere barbarians could never take our walls, but they were accompanied by something worse." Alcyr remembered the rider upon the Rocfiend.

"Shamans." And if shamans are here, that means… His thoughts were confirmed when he saw enormous, lopping shadows ahead. The creatures that emerged were nightmarish. Lupine-shaped and the size of horses, the beasts had too many joints in their limbs, and what little moonlight bled through the smoke overhead revealed mangy fur and rampant mutations. Their most damning feature was their face: four moon-grey eyes atop a snarling trisected maw.

"Blightwolves," Alcyr spat. The creatures charged, their ragged shriek-laughter crackling with joy and hunger. Combat erupted around the courtyard as the Regulars fought back. More of the beasts joined in the battle from the side, quickly surrounding them. Alcyr's free hand found his gladius hilt on instinct, the blade clearing its sheath to join the silverite longsword in battle. Dual-wielding his weapons, Alcyr tore into the beasts, spraying corrupted black ichor across the stone floor.

[Paired Blade Mastery has improved to 31] One of the other Regulars was overwhelmed by the hoard. The soldier went down fighting, the beasts jumping onto his back, dragging him down by sheer weight before ripping him apart limb from limb using their eldritch maws. Another soldier was on the brink of having his throat torn when Alcyr rescued him, his twin blades tearing the foul abomination apart in a single Cleave.

"Stay together!" he roared.

"Back to back, now!" [Leadership has improved to 16] The Regulars obeyed. Only Alcyr and Nerma remained alone, twin islands in a sea of mangy fur and snarling teeth. Both of them were the only ones strong and fast enough to fight against the tide on their lonesome. Nerma had a gladius in hand, though she used her draconic claws and teeth just as often to tear the foe apart. The blightwolves fought with single-minded ferocity, uncaring of their own survival.

They ripped their way through their dead kin for the slightest chance at tasting Alcyr's flesh. This ferocity isn't normal… The shamans are boosting their abilities. One of them leapt off a wall and slammed bodily into him, knocking him off balance even as Alcyr cleaved the horse-sized beast in twain. Sensing he was about to be overwhelmed, he threw his gladius to impale another's head before stepping into a low crouch. Gripping his silverite longsword in both hands, he channelled as much power as he could.

Cleave, Red March Swordplay, and Power Strike all flooded his blade with their might in tandem. With a valiant roar, Alcyr swung. The horizontal slash utterly tore its way through several bodies' worth of bone, flesh, and blood. A bloody red mist exploded over the courtyard as the power of the combined Artes extended Alcyr's slash beyond the maximum edge of his longsword. Gore rained over him and the other Regulars, and Alcyr felt the keening crimson glow of Red March Swordplay shiver in delight.

[Red March Swordplay has improved to 31] [Power Strike has improved to 3] A torrent of unholy regeneration bloomed over him, knitting his most pressing wounds and invigorating him. His bones ached less, and any fatigue he had became muted. The last remaining wolves were soon dealt with. Panting, Alcyr looked over the rest of his squad. Aside from the Regular that was overwhelmed earlier, another was dead — his throat torn out by one of the wolves. Now, including Alcyr and Nerma, only five of them remained.

"Nice work," Nerma said, her tone a little shaky.

"What kind of Arte was that? I've never seen someone slash like that. Not even the Sword Knight from 2nd Platoon could cut through that many bodies in one go."

"I combined a few of my Artes together." Alcyr said. He tried wiping the blood from his body or blade, but it was pointless. He was utterly drenched in the foul liquid.

"Let's keep moving. We should be near the gates." Nerma blinked." Combined? What are you talking about, you can't just combine Artes— Hey, wait!" Alcyr ignored her questions. Every second was precious. The longer those gates remained open, the worse their odds were. When they finally reached them, he saw more wolves beyond rushing up the rampart to the opening. Some of them even had barbarians riding on their backs, throwing axes strapped to their waists.

One of them ripped off a blade and tossed it with inhuman strength and precision.

Alcyr drew his shield and deflected the powerful projectile with Missile Deflection even as he sprinted forward.

"Close the gates!" He ordered the soldiers.

"I'll hold them back!" The first wolf that lunged at him was smashed into pieces as Alcyr sprinted full-force into it, shield raised like a battering ram. He felt the satisfying crunch of its skull and teeth shattering under the weight of his momentum. [Shield Discipline has improved to 42] Tossing the broken corpse aside, his longsword met the horde with powerful, one-handed arcs. Alcyr combined shield bash with sword swings, using his guard to block the throwing axes that came his way.

He held the gate entrance on his own. Funnelled by the rampart's narrow confines, the horde's momentum was halted. All of it was directed instead upon Alcyr. He was a lone rock in a raging river. There was barely time to take a breath. He pushed deeper into the melee, his blade parting flesh as his shield shattered bone. There was a ululating war cry as one of the riders leapt from his mount, an axe in each hand.

He threw one of them in midair, forcing Alcyr to block with his shield, before slashing downward with an Arte. The shield buckled at the weight of the blow. Alcyr barely dodged the follow-up, saved only by his Combat Sense. An Elite. Or rather, several Elites. More riders surrounded him, their expressions eager.

"The Butcher!" the rider laughed.

"At long last, a worthy opponent! Come, sons of Iron Wolf! We take his head for the Frostcoil Tribe's honour this day!" The other riders howled with their beasts before charging. Alcyr raised his sword.

"More corpses for Hell's feasting table, then." Without hesitation, he threw himself into battle, drenching himself in ever more blood.

Time lost meaning, as did the number of foes he slew. His vision was awashed in red. The stench of copper and the feeling of sticky flesh upon his skin became all his senses knew. The ground grew slick in gore as blood flowed ceaselessly down the rampart until a massive puddle formed at its base. A distant, small part of his mind felt a pressure growing at the back of his head. Something dark and powerful had set its gaze upon him, and its attention only strengthened with each foe he slew.

Eventually, the tide of bodies ceased. Alcyr panted, his form barely recognisable from all the stringy muscles, skin, and entrails that clung to them. Corpses upon corpses. The dead of both men and beasts piled around him, butchered into unrecognisable chunks. His ears were ringing. The air was so thick with the stench of iron that he could barely breathe. The notifications he had been holding back came rushing in.

[Sword Discipline has improved to 49] [Physical Conditioning has improved to 46] [Red March Swordplay has improved to 32] [Slash Resistance has improved to 25] Slowly, seeing nothing else he could kill, he turned around and shuffled back up the rampart, ankle-deep in meat. There was the hissing of steam engines as the gates cranked open. He hadn't even realised they had been closed. As he tiredly dragged his way back into the compound, he was met with the horrified looks of the other soldiers.

One of them stumbled back as he approached. Another took off his helmet and started retching. Only Nerma stood where she was, her gaze equally part awe-struck and disturbed.

"What in the hell are you?" Alcyr spat a glob of blood to the side.

"Tired. Is it over?"

"The gate held, no thanks to us." She looked down, ashamed.

"We kept shouting at you to retreat the moment we got the gate controls working, but you won't listen. You just kept… killing." Did they? He hadn't heard them.

"Keep the gates closed. We hold this position," he instructed. Nobody dared question him.

"Any signs of the others?"

"None. I think I can still hear battle above, so Captain Lenore must still be occupied." That made Alcyr frowned. The Rocfiend had been Low Master, at best. Lenore should have no trouble killing it with her drake. Maybe the shamans are giving her trouble? I doubt there's only one, assuming the one I hit with the chakram earlier even died. He shook his head.

"There's nothing we can do. We stay here and rest for a moment first. If no other hordes come up from this side, one of us can try heading to the west gate to scout out the current situation and—" Before he could finish, a horrifying roar echoed across the walls, swallowing the rest of his words. It was not the sound of a drake. It sounded far too deep and humanoid. Footsteps followed, large and heavy. The ground shook. Nerma froze.

"That… that came from inside the compound. Don't tell me the west gates have…" Alcyr cursed.

"Nerma, stay here! Two of you, with me!" He ran back the way they came. Barely half a minute later, he stopped. He could see it, even from a distance. It towered over the other stone buildings. When the barracks stood in its way, it simply smashed its way through and walked on. Its single, baleful eye locked on to them. One of the Regulars at Alcyr's side nearly dropped his sword.

"By the Gods… The Saints have abandoned us…"

"No," Alcyr corrected, smiling faintly.

"They have chosen to bless us with worthy fights this day." Carrying the twisted corpse of a drake — Ural's drake — in its meaty hand, the frost cyclops roared, hoarfrost forming at its feet as its deadly breath turned the air to ice. The aura of its power felt clear as day. Low Master. Without another word, Alcyr lifted his longsword and charged.