Chương 405: 12.2

Count Parabuch could feel the clutch of the heavens every waking moment since the war. The vow he made under the stars to his Prince far tighter than any metal around his throat. Outside of war he could ignore it, the presence not felt in most cases, but when his Prince and the high king had called the muster of Magarska's armies? The often forgotten touch running up and down his spine and around his neck made itself known. To the north the Shining Doom was playing to High King Murad's plan.

Allowing a detachment of the army to delay and bleed her armies. That is assuming the missives from the general engaging her were correct of course, the reports said the Wyrm Countess had split her forces, sending the bulk of her army and all of her gryff riders west to secure more cities and presumably maintain the supply lines back to her frigid homelands. The war beast of a countess was apparently leaving the smaller portion with only herself as a force in the air.

Reports like that revealed that the northern king must be mad, that he had truly put a beast in the role of a general and master of war! Nothing else could explain the audacity and foolishness of her actions but an animal's inferior mind. He buried his memory of the Wyrm Countess deep, he focused on only her beastly nature and 'obviously' poor grasp of the art of war. Lest the touch of his vows awaken too sharply and draw his blood.

That was the extent that Parabuch was aware of regarding the situation, It was beyond him and his divinely empowered role to act on it, his place in the War Rooms was a situational affair. Called upon by his Prince or the High King when needed and then dismissed as the strategy of the King required. The heavens and his vows always felt so heavy in war. His loyalty had to be held like a blade on his throat, a pressure in his back, a feeling behind his eyes.

It was sorely tested in this one especially, never seeing the sun, living under night for a season on end. Never seeing the dawn or dusk. He was a Count, no mere captain or officer bound to blindly obey commands. Yet still he felt the burden of this war dragging on him. Standing as he was under the light of the stars it felt like the touch of his vows was far stronger than under the sun. Made all the stronger for the constant shine of godly attention to bring the darkness into visible illumination.

The chaplains of the army were dispersed among his lines as they were throughout the army, calling down miracles of radiance and protection from what might be every God and Goddess in good standing with Magarska. Making the dark of night nearly bright as day in the High King's chosen killing field. The first Wallachian campaign's lessons had been learned well and shared among the officers, captains and higher.

In the uprising they favored raids on encampments at night, leaving armies exhausted for lack of sleep due to the defense despite the binding of their vows. That is when armies were not destroyed utterly by The Patricide's dishonorable tactics. But such dishonor was met by the High King and the Princes' command.

Magarska now marched and engaged the Wallachian front at night, rallied chaplains in twice the usual number for their composition and requisitioned the offerings needed for rituals of early dawning, protection and forbiddence. The High King's position on the field was further reinforced by three of the highest Priests available in the Kingdom. Each wielding their god's attention like a spear.

Count Parabuch disliked the heaven's light and how it made the entire world but for the battlefield seem like a pitch black void. The illumination of the blessing blinded him to the stars, sky and the surroundings beyond the grim business of war. Making a single illuminated island for the bloody work of each battle. Like all the world had collapsed into nothing but an eternal all consuming war. They march and fight in the night, sleep through the day.

No blue skies, no warm sun, nothing but blood, dying men and the Wallachian monsters leading the traitorous rabble. He'd rather fight a proper war under a proper sun, but he'd trade that discomfort for becoming a desiccated corpse in his sleep. A cry from a scouting gryff in the air, an answering whistle from its handler. The enemy's movement had been spotted. He knew that night gryffs had to be funneled from all over Magarska to supply for Murad's scouts on this front.

Night Messengers drawn in and their vows elevated to service in the army. It was nearly time, the Wallachians had learned to hold in their offensives until they had a screening of mortal men and their own traitorous god botherers in these night engagements. The army chaplains could rebuke them if they exposed themselves to the concentrated attention of their increased number in this army.

And with the Captains, Officers and the most decorated Soldiers further blessed with strength and resilience from the heavens the Vampyres no longer dared to risk being stunned, pinned down, dismembered and burned. When they were not struck down leaving the army a headless beast. Or worse, the mettle breaking in a Captain and allowing an entire company to route, flounder or stand paralyzed for lack of orders. It was shameful, grounds for dismissal, execution even to fail one's lord in battle.

But against the horrors of Wallachia it had happened, even under the eyes of High King Murad himself some men could not keep their spines against the terrors of the night. Count Parabuch ran his thumb over the ring that had been assigned to him. The simple metal band was prominent in his attention beyond the way it had changed to fit his first finger perfectly, they were new for this campaign, every Lord in the High King's army was equipped with at least one of the Djinn rings.

The Princes he heard had at least two each now. The touch of the heavens shifted when he considered how valuable the plain steel band was over long, he had each been required to take on a new vow before being entrusted with the treasure." If my hand should seek to covet and keep this ring beyond my High King's will I will cut it off at the wrist, should my eye desire to look upon it as my own I will put it out, should I claim ownership over it with my tongue I will swallow the offender and choke on it."

A strict and severe vow which spoke highly of the magic in the simple metal band, one he now respected for more than just the words he had promised to seven gods, it had already saved his life on more than one occasion. And tonight it will serve again. Three more of the night gryff's warning cries, one after another, sharp answering whistling in the ranks of the army signaling the meaning from the darkness. And then he saw the enemy enter into the illumination the Chaplains had bargained for with the gods.

They approached out of the night. The crimson eyes and hair of the Vampyre hidden by their black and gold armor, but surely among the most well equipped of the forces approaching they would be there. Hiding to avoid drawing the concentrated focus of the Chaplains. You could no longer even tell them apart from the mortal thralls of Wallachia, by some sorcery the living had begun to learn to move as the Vampyre did, fluid, graceful, with an ease of strength that shielded their masters from easy detection.

And this nature had changed the nature of the army Magarska faced. The fiends moved not as regimented soldiers but like swarming vermin. Like a tide of rats in man form flowing together without order, musical instrument or even a cry of fury. They flowed and lesser commanders had faltered before new disciplines were found and drills perfected. The orderly blocks of Magarskan regiments once outmaneuvered during the first nights of the war now stood ready to brace and strike.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. High King Murad called out the command, his voice carrying over the entire field of battle with the sorcery of his boons." Magarska Prevails!" The Princes echoed him, up and down the lines they stepped forward, the War Gryffs, Strikers and Steeds winging into the air over the pool of radiance they had made for their battlefield." Magarska Prevails!"

Count Parabuch called out and began moving with his men, his steps launched him into the air, each bound able to cover thrice that of a man. His voice had rung out as well over the thousand men directly under his command." Magarska Prevails!" His Captains echoed him, as one voice, moving as one body, he restrained his bounds after he had reached his place among the front of the formation.

Reminding them that they had his sorcerous support, then having shown his Captains and Officers that they still had a ringbearing lord among them and the aligned power that meant, he settled into position back from the front of the line. In rank and file, with ordered precision and command of the officers their weapons came up and out in unison. Soldiers intermingled with pockets of Recruits to act as shields and intercessors for the inevitable push from the Wallachian lines.

The eventual reveal of their monstrous vampyres striking from surprise. Like spilled ink on parchment the Wallachian army came upon them, shifting to a running charge at the end with steps that were only just barely in the means of mortal limbs. His men were practiced though, confident and all well bloodied by previous nights. Shields, swords and spears met together in a defensive wall of edges, points and blades.

None among his thousand were going to bear the shame of overextending or being caught in the flank by horrors tonight. The clash was sudden, violent, like the waves of the sea against cliffs. In many places the now obviously mortal thralls were crushed and skewered against spears and shields. Held off by mere recruits, only a handful of Parabuch's men were felled by those graceful stabs between poorly covered guards of the first line of Recruits.

Every loss of his men was met by a trained reprisal by the back ranks and the skilled hands of the Soldiers. For all their fluidity and fury the mortals of Wallachia were scattered like leaves whenever they came upon a properly blessed Warrior on the line, a sword or shield press throwing back either parts or whole men into their fellows, the blood was allowed to spill fully to the ground at their feet these nights, their enemies had learned to stop drawing it in too obviously.

The sparse armor among the majority of the thralls once again showed how little the vampyres truly cared for the lives of men. Every Magarskan Recruit had at least his armor and shield, training to empower him, and vows to align him to the will of his betters! Count Parabuch watched the line, the struggle, the ebb and flow of his men but there was no sign of the true beasts yet. A portion of recruits were buckling, falling under the assault, inexperience failing them despite the command of their vows.

He called out a sharp command to the laxness of the Captain for that flank. His command flowed through his men and a blessed Soldier empowered by his voice took up the gap opened where five men fell, pressing the line back. Parabuch glared briefly at the lapse, if the Captain commanding that flank survived the night he would be reprimanded for the lapse. He turned his attention back to the front, the churn of bodies, the recruits trading their lives for two or more of the Wallachian thralls.

He yearned to feel the power of the ring, to be a furious storm felling men like wheat, but it was not time for him to lose his position in the melee, that would only leave him exposed, instead of joining the front Parabuch looked up to the black sky. In the air lit by the glaring light from the battlefield the shapes of the Gryffs swept above, raining arrows down against the most heavily armored of the enemy's troops, strikers making probing sweeps into the roiling formation of the enemy.

Shouts of struggling recruits pricked his ear. Count Parabuch turned his attention back to his men, bracing, muscles singing with anticipation, the sorcery of the ring running through him like water down a street. And then he saw it, five-no six of his men were cleaved apart! Their torso's sent sailing out from a single strike in a great arc like half the petals of a blooming flower, blood cascading as splashing water in sweeping glinting red, then looping back towards the attacker.

He was in the air before the dying men could even try to utter that distinct choking scream of a human body with split open lungs. His sword was out and moving towards the black and yellow armored Knight that had split men like freshly baked bread. He was moving through the spilled blood, feeling the touch of already chilled crimson before it leapt from his cheek to sail away and under the armor of his target.

As he came down from his bound, sword raised, the figure was already moving, twisting, a fist clad in steel struck Count Parabuch with a blow that he could feel distorted his own mail and the gauntlet that had delivered it. He felt bodies break and crack around his back as his men softened and stalled the blow against him. He might have fallen or flown all the further but they braced him. He tried to command but he could not find his voice!

However an officer finally found his sense and bellowed an order and as one all together they surged forward carrying him to stable footing from his sprawl. He could not get a full breath, he felt a deep sting in his chest despite the ring's protection, he felt at his chest, fingers tracing the familiar lines of the plate, dented badly around a fist. His hand was reaching up to tear the buckles loose from under his cloak.

But he still could not breath, his fingers dug into the mechanism on his shoulder and he pulled, metal creaked and tore. Already voices were calling out but Count Parabuch joined his call with theirs.

"Vampyre!" He saw the drills taking hold, Blessed Warriors stepping forward and Recruits moving to brace and cover them, take the blows meant for them and trade life for a chance to slay the fiend. The figure in the dark armor swung, and every blow had men falling, flying apart, some cut from hip to shoulder, others split at the belly chests toppling from legs before those too fell.

A dozen Recruits and half that in Soldiers were dead in a circle around the monster even as Parabuch tried to catch his wind- Then the heaven's light around the fiend intensified, the stars which had been all but drowned out seemed to shine through with a terrible wroth, like lances of light down upon this butcher of his men. The figure staggered as if he'd been struck by a blow, stumbled and then braced hard against the light of the heavens.

Count Parabuch leapt forward again finally taking in a deep breath that he had opened up his armor enough, his dented breastplate tearing free under the duress of his motion. He felt the ring's power flow through him, his shoulders and arms bracing to hold the hilt of his blade with as strong a support as possible as he aimed the point of it for the heart of the stunned Vampyre.

The figure even under the weight of the heavens turned towards him, head snapping with the violence of the motion, but the heavenly struggle of the stars directed upon him was apparently too much. Parabuch felt his sword's heart groan in strain under the blow, he felt his muscles burn, his shoulders creak. The metal of the blade was bending as it tried to pierce his enemy's own armour and unnatural bones and flesh. Then disastrously he felt his strength waning!

The Ring had been called on too often and too fast, Its sorcery waning, but experience had already shown him the bloody price paid if opportunities like this were not taken. The blow rattled Count Parabuch but he felt and saw his sword pierce the metal of his opponent, the blow was true despite an attempt by the monster to twist out of the way. Blood splashed through the grill of the face covering helm, and then the intensity of the heavens' light was gone from them both.

He tried to leap back, but could feel the terrible weight of merely mortal strength answering him, the ache of his body that had partially lost the protection needed to endure motion and blows as powerful as he'd taken. He was out of position and exposed, the enemy were shocked but they would rally soon, thralls that they were. Still he was a Count of Magarska and the army was his!

"Men of Magarska to me!" As one they stepped and pressed into the space around him, shields braced, spears at the ready, stabbing, cutting, pressing into the shocked mass of Wallachians. Recruits were felled by the awakened reprisals of the enemy, opportunistic maneuvers felling men around him but their fellows obeyed their vows and stepped over their falling comrades even as they screamed in pain.

In moments he was no longer at risk of having his weakened state exploited by another Vampyre, and in good order Count Parabuch was moving further back behind his lines, letting the blessing of his Captains and Officers fill the role he was leaving. He ran his thumb over the metal band of the ring, needing to wait until he could feel its might and protection return to him. His men would have to hold until he could risk entering the fray again.

Count Parabuch reached over and took a sword from one of the soldiers beside him, the man understanding his Lord's need without order or question, the hilt placed in his hands without even needing to look. He spared a glance down the blade then nodded. Solid steel, at least as good as the one he'd left ruined in the chest of the Vampyre. He glanced over the officers and captains closest to him, felt at the ruin he'd made of the straps that had held his armor in place.

Ah, but there was nothing that he could attach a fresh plate to in its place. He considered the possibility of returning to the backmost lines to call for a new set of armor, but no, if his ring's protection failed against another Vampyre the metal would apparently be of little value to him, maybe if it was enchanted or blessed by the heavens somehow? Made to match the strength his ring bestowed on his flesh and bone?

He continued to watch his piece of the battle, he heard more shouts of "Vampyre" to his left and right flanks, but for the moment they were not pressing his portion of the lines. Count Parabuch focused on the tumult, the fury of it all and the feeling of sorcery slowly returning to the ring and how that flowed in his veins now like fire instead of water. He was going to have to write a report on the use of Enchanted Rings and Armour against physically superior opponents. His binding vows as a Count would demand it!