Chương 409: 12.6

Count Parabuch knew it was only a matter of time before the patricide took to the field. But even with all the words he had read of it, all the tactical instruction written down from the uprising and the nights of war against his lesser servants the fiend himself was a thing overwhelming. It began with the faltering of the heavens' sent light. The miracles of the chaplains buckling as a looming shadow was the first sign that the father slayer had arrived, a shadow rising over the wallachian army.

Followed by the marching figure of the man himself breaking ranks with his soldiers, armor so similar to all the others that they had faced before, but with the regality cutting a distinct profile, the yellow and black of Wallachia joined by a blood red trim. He wielded a simple spear as his weapon. But by sheer presence Count Parabuch knew him. The Fiend of Wallachia had revealed himself at last.

Immediately the spearing light of the heavens and the miracles of the gods tried to single him out, from all over the lines of the army the prayers and offerings of thousands of chaplains fell upon the self declared count of wallachia, but Vladimer Tepes did not even stumble in his approach to the front. Nor did any of the armored men flanking his left and right. They simply began to run, in that fluid and undeniable manner that no mortal man, not even the Wallachians could manage.

Not without the reinforcement of enchanted rings at least. Now was the time that all the princes, counts and men of rank given rings of power had been drilled for. With barely a press of his own will he was leaping up and out from the ranks of his men, the most blessed of the soldiers trailing him.

He landed with knees bending, the earth collapsing into mud and dust with his impact, around him the princes of Magarska, the High King Murad himself, and then the running feet of their most heaven blessed soldiers formed up into ranks. The rest of the army, Soldiers, Recruits, Chaplains and all the rest who could not be spared either the touch of the stars or the power of the Djinn took up command. Captains and Officers rallying to the strategy that had been prepared.

There was an eerie silence as the Vampyres put on pace to meet them, moving at a speed that if not for his own enchantment would have blurred his vision. He gripped his sword, moved into position, matched ranks with his fellow counts, moving as one with them at the right of his Prince. High King Murad took up a braced position, hand gripping a scimitar in each hand, resplendent in his armor and the colors of Magarska, his otherwise unarmored hands gleaming with a bejeweled ring upon each finger and thumb.

The shadow over Vladimer stabbed towards them like a knife. Bringing darkness to the heaven lit field. Parabuch felt his orders, his vows to the heavens running up and down his arms, the power of his ring waiting, ready to empower him beyond a mortal man's limits. And then when there was still a hundred paces between the forces of Magarska and the charging Vampyres suddenly in a blink the battle was joined!

High King Murad was a dervish, the sound was a roaring of metal, Parabuch could not follow the speed of it even as he felt his own ring's power pushing his sight beyond mere flesh and blood. The feeling of the sorcery making even the blessed soldiers around him seem to slow to an agonizing slowness. Their opponents did not feel anywhere near so slowed, it was uneven, not all could move as well as their fiendish lord.

But more than enough of the monsters ahead of them were rushing towards Parabuch and his prince at a speed that would slaughter their soldiers. He was moving with his Prince, him and the other three counts of the principality, singling out as one will in five bodies the charging monster. The first of them turned as the fiend approached, broke off and leapt back as his Prince struck. Then with barely a breath one of his fellow counts was interposing against the counter attack, a parry against the enemy's blow.

Parabuch stepped to intervene with his own blade. Then one of the lesser vampyres, those that could not muster up a speed under the interdiction of the heavens to do more than match the blessed Soldiers. He did not even need to command, he saw with languid slowness as one of his own men was already moving to interpose. Like matched to like. But the Wallachians, for all their fearsome power as bloodstealers, they were not able to counter the unity of Magarska!

The wretches fought as mere individual men, no matter how fearsome and monstrous. Parabuch felt the weight of his body return as his ring's power waned. He breathed and stepped back, his prince with a superior power shifted from the attack to defense. As they had drilled, as had been planned, as was commanded. The heaven's vows ran through Parabuch's veins like fire and held him back, held his breath even. Held him still and stoic as what had been a casual blow turned into an untrackable dervish of violence.

He did not break, he did not panic despite the horror of noise and metal and blood filling the air around him. He felt cold moisture on the skin under his eye beneath his helm. Then the ring's power returned, the world became clear, the insanity knowable again, he was moving to his Prince's defense before he fully grasped the way his brief lapse to recover had allowed the combat to develop.

In the serenity of the Ring's power he saw one of his fellow counts had been struck, the body falling to the ground in three pieces, the air arced with blood towards the vampyre before him, filling into a gaping wound that had nearly severed an arm. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. His prince lunged over his shoulder as he finished diverting the monster's blow, but he did not get a moment to apprehend what the result of his action would be.

The weight of mortal limits fell over him again, the ring burned on his finger, the air was nothing but noise, horrible clashing, heat, a burning furious wind. He dared not move, the battle around him was too rapid to know, he would be as vulnerable bracing in stillness as if he tried to flee. They were in shadow now, the darkness of the banished heaven's light bringing the stars starkly into view overhead, the gleam of armor and blood surrounding him.

The ring's power surged, he leapt into motion, another parry for his Prince, another blow done in defense, another opening made, this time his Prince struck true, the fiercest Vampyre before them had fallen. He fell back into mortal pace, his body aching, the transition from the supremely powerful to feeble flesh made him sick to his stomach. This time though the fury was no longer surrounding him, only bodies in the dark, barely discernable between Magarskan and Wallachian in the gloom.

But at his feet was a familiar upper torso, they had lost a count. His eyes began to ache as he felt the ring's prowess return, he saw clearly again, seven of the closest blessed soldiers were dead. His Prince moved, Parabuch's steps with him, the other empowered survivors followed as they were able, one of his fellow counts was like a statue, left behind as his ring regained its power. In a single strike all five of them fell upon lesser vampyres and mortal wallachians alike and sundered them.

Bodies breaking under their blows, Then he was in a tumult, surrounded by barely penetrable darkness, breath heaving, the smell of spilled viscera and blood filling his throat. He gasped, his every joint ached, he felt so heavy, his eyes wavered in that darkness but his vows would not let him falter.

Around him he heard the charge of men, running with unnatural but far too little strength and power, mere heavenly blessings striving them onward, he heard screams of slaughter but in that jolting fury he could not say whether it was Magarskan or Wallachian throats splitting the air. Then the ring power surged through him again. There were only two other counts alive, just five paces from him his neighboring lord had an expression that suggested he had not yet realized his head had been torn from its shoulders.

Parabuch was already moving, acting on the unspoken command of his prince, looking where he was needed; there, two of the Vampyres were moving to capitalize on his Prince's strike to exploit an exposed flank from the slayer of Parabuch's neighbor.

He swung wide, hard, already feeling how briefly he would keep the strength of the ring this time, one blade diverted, the second only just, he felt his shoulders wrenching as the power of his enchantment slipping away mid swing, he struggled, almost lost his footing, every muscle trying to arrest his momentum.

He felt the terrible exposure of his spine he had left himself in, but the furious sound and wind of his Prince interposing between his back and those beasts that would claim him let him breathe a few more gasps. But this was not tenable, they had already lost all but two of the counts to cover his prince, In the brief glance he could spare as his ring's power returned to him he saw that the other princes were not faring better.

The Wallachians traded five, some times even eight for every one of the ringbearers they had felled, but the number of the monstrous creatures seemed endless, and with the rallying power of their dark lord pressing back the intervention of the gods the battle was not faring well.

Parabuch did not have the rank to call for a retreat, or to even fall back, he was sworn to his Prince, he was already moving to cover for another attack, but they had been whittled down to only two surviving ring bearers to support the Prince's superior enchantments. He could already see that his defense was not going to be enough to allow another counter attack from his liege.

Blackness surrounded him, furious steel on steel, wet and terrible sounds of sundered bodies, he'd settled himself better for the inevitable drain, but the ring on his finger was searing hot, its power lasting less and less with how rapidly he was calling on it each time.

As the power surged back to him his vision returned, but instead of the assurance of his command he saw in horror that he was already too late, his counterpart and last surviving ally among his Prince's Counts was already bisected, his liege was faltering, stepping back under the blows. He felt the urge, the drive to throw himself between the swords of the enemy and his liege, the vows cutting at him.

Then he realized he was already too late, in a sudden flare of light his liege's right hand was cut from his body, and in that single blow his powers fled. With the loss of a Prince empowered enough to support the attack Count Parabuch felt the orders his vow enforced slam shut like an iron gate. He leapt back from the front with all the power his legs could support, he fell back as had been commanded in the council of war.

Leaving his liege behind to thankfully disappear into blackness as the power of the ring fled him. As he returned among the rank and file of the soldiers he could just barely see the way that the battle was faring in the gloom ahead. The whirling gleaming light of the High King's bout with the Patricide, a centerpoint that held the line, all of the Wallachians that dared to approach that glinting maelstrom fell to pieces but the Patricide himself. But along the flank that Parabuch had escaped?

Two princes could no longer be seen, a glance along the lines of the mere mortals of Magarska were also foreboding, even as their Officers and Captains commanded them towards the intended encirclement without the support of ring bearers there were now pockets of blood and death slowly biting their way out of the orderly formations. Arcs and swirling clouds of blood rising from the rank and file to feed and restore the enemy. He felt the burn of his ring, its power awaiting him to summon it.

He turned from the southern flank, with its Recruits and lesser Soldiers slowly being devoured by the Wallachian monsters. His orders had been clear, and there it was, a booming call in the air, the sound of Gryph steeds and then signal whistles and the marching bellows of Magarskan soldiers. The Reinforcements from the north had joined with them. As the war masters had planned.

Count Parabuch braced himself, turned back to the front and with the cut of his vows close along his aching shoulders and knees he called on the power of the ring and leapt forward into the fray, sword aimed right for the heart of an opportunistic vampire. The plan continued, if all went well tonight the Fiend of Wallachia would perish! And then with the unified power of the greatest of Magarska waiting for her the Shining Doom and her armies would follow!