Chương 84: 19 – Interlude: Another Battle

Neogon felt a bone-deep weariness when he stared out across the battle lines. He barely remembered the last time he'd slept. He'd gained more free points in the past two months than he had in the previous ten years. It didn't matter. It wasn't enough. Sheer overwhelming numbers were crushing his army, forcing him to fall back over and over again, bleeding men for every line of territory wrested from him. Denarla had promised soldiers two weeks ago, but they hadn't arrived. Word was they were still mustering.

Politics, the magic schools demanding favors for their service, and that shitty chit of a Duchess not treating the invasion with any sense of urgency. He believed the rumors that another army was already on the road from Tacuria, but only because he knew General Pormot. The man was a battle junkie, and despite being nearly seventy, he would be the first to leap in against any threat. All the better for him.

"Sir," came a tired voice.

"All mages on the northern front are depleted. They're going to need some mana crystals, ether vessels, or something else to keep them running if we want to hold up there. The east fares better. We got a lucky match. They sent water mages, expecting to need to counter our fire, but were met with the steel of our dragoons instead. Two dead to every one of ours. No reports from the southern end for the last few minutes."

"Aye," the general responded.

"Lost a platoon or two that way. I think Captain Choteras was overwhelmed by war trolls. There are still rift monsters coming from the south, popping up and making a nuisance of themselves. Only beauty of it is that I think they took out the Eschal force, too. Whatever they used to control the rift monsters seems like it's become much less effective. Maybe it's the distance from the rift?" The man shrugged.

"Could be, Sir, but I wouldn't bet on it. I'd suspect they're lulling us into a false sense of security."

"You think they'd let their own soldiers die for a ruse like that? Remember, this is Eschal. These people lived lives of leisure before this... this... whatever this is!" he said. Vovel nodded, conceding the point. Sergeant Vovel was worth his weight in gold. Neogon would've given his left arm for a man so competent back in the Rechin Wars. He remembered a few short months ago when he'd thought the man competent but only capable of field work, and nothing more.

He'd promote the man on the spot if he had a command to give him. Their numbers dwindled by the week, injuries sapping the mana from his healers, while the fucking Eschal soldiers seemed more like zombies, getting back up and fighting when they should've been half dead. Captured depots and stolen supplies showed that they had some new miracle gel that could patch wounds that should've left a man speaking with his maker. It thickened the blood, holding it within the body when otherwise it would spill freely.

It was real, and it was horrifying. No wonder Eschal had invaded. The stuff was probably the most useful substance he'd ever seen. As such, he'd adapted his strategies. Fast bursts of intense shock, and then full defense. The Eschal soldier who survived an encounter would be back to trouble him the next day, so he made sure not to let them survive. And Eschal had just shown him an opening.

"Full advance, less Fire, on the East. Retract all forces in the North. Cede the ground. Slaughter those water mages, but be prepared for wind. Eschal always has wind." he ordered.

"Yes, sir!" the Arc Sergeant replied with a salute, before running off to carry out the order. No complaints from the man. No fear. Just sheer, bloody-minded determination, and a growing belief in Neogon that made the General feel proud, and a little intimidated. Estimates of the Eschal army's size had long since spread to the troops. One hundred and fifty thousand Eschal soldiers, mages, and cavalry had invaded at the start of Harvest. Possibly as many as two hundred thousand.

His army had slipped under thirty thousand. It had been valiant. Gods be good, this campaign had been the fight of his life. And he'd bled them for every fucking step. But he was starting to lose ground. Where fresh soldiers might've managed, half dead ones were failing. Missions with enough men to handle a task, weren't coming back because they were too tired, too drained, or just not enough. Scouts were slower. Intelligence was slower.

Sending wind mages or dragoons into the sky to report enemy positions had become suicide missions. Some of them still went anyway, bless them. They were surrounded on three sides. There was one last fort between him and the Eastern Wood, but it wasn't as well defended as this one. Still, he was considering a retreat. This endless siege had been keeping him cooped up on this hill, and while that had been to his advantage two weeks ago, he was beginning to think it was in Eschal's best interest to keep him here.

While he was stuck here, he couldn't bother them if they were doing anything else. Were they planning an attack on Denarla? Or were they aiming to sweep up the central Army near the rift? He didn't know. He'd received a report from Maulander. A single woman had made it through, and she confirmed that eight scouts with the same mission had been sent to him.

She'd had a lot to say, but what it boiled down to was that Eschal had a woman with a monstrous talent with Wind magic above and beyond anything a normal wind mage should be capable of. They also deeply suspected the woman was the one capable of controlling the rift monsters. He still wasn't sure he believed the scout when she told him the woman had been riding a dragon, let alone that she was more dangerous when she left its back.

Still, it would explain how several of his outposts were being silenced without any warning. There had been a blonde woman sighted with General Foredeck, the Eschel commander, but he hadn't known who she was. He still didn't, but he could draw conclusions. The Chemist. That would explain the miracle gel as well. Maulander was a sack of shit. He hated the man and wasn't surprised to hear that he'd been just on the other side of the Eastern Wood but had made no move to cross it and lend aid.

What, under all the gods' names, was he even doing this far north when the rift was still not contained? If he didn't get a grip on that soon, this winter would make the Summer of Bone look like a small village graveyard. … It was already uncomfortably close. Nearly twenty thousand dead. His men. His friends. Some of whom he'd known for longer than his wife! Stolen story; please report.

"Sir!" came a sudden shout. A young man, no older than nineteen, rushed in. He saluted. Neogon remembered not six weeks ago, this man was a stuttering mess when he'd first stood in front of him. No longer. He'd been tempered. They all had. Bags under his eyes, and fire in his blood. Fury for friends lost. Neogon wondered how many levels the boy had gained.

"Report, soldier," he said, as the young man came to a stop in front of him. The man nodded. He couldn't resist the habitual need to come to attention for a moment, but immediately stood at ease.

"Captain Berkenem has returned. He has three wagons, filled to the brim with barrels. Over twenty," he said. Neogon's eyes widened.

"Twenty? Busy little bees, those peasants. That will certainly be useful. I was half expecting every town around the lake to be a graveyard." He'd need a full report from the man as soon as he could get it. The Lieutenant had presented him with the paste over a month ago, and he'd been incredibly impressed. A girl of seventeen with no prior combat training, disabling a fully grown war troll? Level forty-three, even! That wouldn't be an easy feat even for him to do alone.

After he'd gotten a single whiff of the stuff, he'd believed it. Pepper paste. A potent weapon indeed. He'd trade it in a heartbeat for the Eschal medical formula, but every skill had its purpose. With it, he might be able to extend their stay here on this hill for another week! He practically salivated at the opportunities the paste presented, but he couldn't let himself be distracted now. His army was in the middle of an attack after all.

"How many soldiers did we send with him? Ten?" the general asked. The young soldier blanched.

"I… I'm not sure, sir." Still had a lot to learn, but then, Neogon was the one who'd forgotten.

"No matter. If his soldiers are hale, send them to the south to find out what the hells is happening there. Otherwise, have them come here to the healing tents. Get those wagons to me, either way" he replied.

"Anything else to report?"

"Nothing, sir. The west is clear," he replied.

"Good lad. Back to it."

"Yes, sir!" the young man replied, before turning and rushing out of the room. Neogon sighed. He stood. His old body ached. He'd seen more than his fair share of direct combat in this damn endless game of cat and mouse, and he was sure he'd experience more before he was done. He wanted to see the battlefield directly. They had the high ground. This damn tower could be good for something at least. No commander ever had perfect information.

Something was happening to the south, but he trusted his men and already felt them beginning to pull back. He had concrete evidence that the eastern siege line was weak. They'd laid traps before. That damn confusion powder had shocked him once or twice, but he'd managed to circumvent it with fire magic. It had been irritating forcing the entire army to eat a ration of poisoned berries to grow their Chemical Resilience, but it had saved lives in the end.

He was sure whatever they were doing to the South would bleed him, so he decided he'd best make as much trouble for them as he could. He stepped out into the afternoon air. It was frigid outside, but he felt warm in his leather armor. He wasn't wearing the mail today. He didn't expect to be in any direct engagements and hoped he wouldn't need it. Choosing plate or leather was always a calculated gamble. He could see his breath in the cold air and smell blood on the wind.

The hillside fortress they occupied had been a dilapidated ruin two weeks ago. Now it was a fully fortified bunker. A veritable city of tents filled every spare space in the small courtyard within the walls, but the entire army could never fit within them. Neogon hadn't even tried, especially since some of them had fallen anyway. Instead, a wall of pikes and magic barriers wrapped the ruined fort in a cocoon of protection. So many people, and still not enough.

He turned to the east and smiled with grim satisfaction. He could feel the roaring triumph coming from that direction through his talent as he watched his fighters tear through the startled water mages. A sudden explosion of powder momentarily shielded the area from view. Neogon smirked. They'd already fooled him with that trick. Rather than being deterred, his men charged through the confusion powder as if it wasn't even there.

Fire mages, far behind the line of engagement, reached out and set fire to the powder, temporarily setting the entire front alight with an eerie red glow. It evaporated, leaving startled Eschal soldiers facing his enraged dragoons. They tore through the Eschal attack force like a knife through butter. Neogon winced as yet another platoon to the south was silenced in a heartbeat. He turned in that direction, though there wasn't really anything he could do from here.

He was personally spent, and he couldn't send reinforcements. There were no reinforcements. It was hard to see that way, as the treeline covered much of the southern side of their camp. He had no way to tell what had killed his men, and it rankled, boiling his blood. Hopefully the Captain was in good health.

"Diviners! All eyes on the southern front! Get me news! What is in there!?"

"Wings, sir!" Came a voice. The man stood a few paces down the crumbling wooden wall. A massive eye, forged of mana, hung suspended in the air above him.

"I see a lot of wings!"

"Winged ones!" he cursed. With the majority of their dragoons engaged in the center, the mages and soldiers fighting to the south would be easy pickings for a group of winged ones. With his dragoons engaged in the east, there'd be hardly anyone capable of combating them to the South!

'Gods damn you, Maulander! What are you even doing down there!?' He thought furiously. Winged ones, on top of everything else!? And the central war camp general had done nothing to stop them from breaking through. Winged ones were only vaguely humanoid. A massive mouth, constantly drooling, that never fully closed. It was wide enough to swallow a man whole. They had no stomach. They didn't need one. Something in their terrible bodies immediately converted matter they consumed into mana.

They had Leathery yellow skin, and a pair of wings that kept them aloft. Neogon had seen one swallow a full sized mountain troll. Entire battle plans changed when they were present. A boom echoed from the south, and Neogon watched as a distant treetop toppled over. A column of… something blasted up from the ground before crashing back to the earth. He heard the death wail of a winged one, and for just a moment, saw one of their grotesque bodies blast up above the treeline before crashing back to the ground.

He glared down at his bandaged arm, itching to pick up his axe and run. He couldn't. He'd come too close to dying last time.

"Vovel! Vovel, are you here!?"

"Sir!" cried a man down in the courtyard.

"Take five dragoons! Preferably lancer and above, but take privates if you can't find any. Reinforce the south! Send a runner back as soon as you have any idea what's going on down there!"

"Yes, Sir!" the man replied. His battle prowess was the only thing that outmatched his competence. Vowel would make sure the entire line wasn't collapsing down there. He was tentatively hopeful, but anything that could fell full-grown trees was something he needed to know about. The ground shook with a sudden tremor, and he glared off towards the south. The men from the eastern attack were already retreating, the prize of dead mages already won.

The north was temporarily ceded, but Neogon had a plan for that, and a new weapon had just presented itself to him. He turned, finding the young private who had been shadowing him ever since he'd found the boy.

"Chett. It's time. There. Hit them there," he said, pointing toward the North. The boy nodded tiredly. He raised a small hand and thrust it forward. Just before the ranks of his retreating men, lightning struck out of a clear blue sky. A crater of earth formed beneath it, and men screamed as they died. More, near the edge of the blast radius, were flung away or electrocuted. The northern advance halted, buying much-needed moments for his men to escape back to the safety of the courtyard. Chett slumped over.

His breath was ragged. He'd been called on for more bolts today than ever. His rare talent allowed him to use magic, even though he'd never been formally trained. A young boy, fascinated with the weather and lightning ever since he witnessed a bolt set a tree aflame in his youth. He'd enlisted because he'd had nowhere else to go. A gem, and half the reason Neogon's army was still even alive. Unfortunately, the boy was barely able to keep his eyes open. He hadn't said a word in hours. He was only nineteen.

Neogon desperately hoped the captain's pepper paste could buy them more time. He'd been relying too heavily on the boy's lightning as it was. He needed sleep and food. Hell, the whole army did. Perhaps that girl he'd found would be worth something as well. The army had to retreat soon, but he was running out of options. Only one more fallback position, and then he'd be caught between the Eschal army and the eastern woods.

This was not a fight they could win, and he didn't even know if there were reinforcements coming or not. It wasn't in him to stop fighting, though. And so, as the northern advance began to chase down his retreating men, he looked back to the boy. The soldier, loyal fighter that he was, lifted a trembling hand.