Chương 87: The Anvil

His brush scratched against silver metal, laying down a viscous black trail before Cal dipped the bristles back into the ceramic pot for another load of the oily Rotbane. The substance had thickened to tar in the cold, its surface dully reflecting the morning's gloomy winter light while he painted it along the spearhead's edge, working from base to tip in meticulous strokes. The pungent smell made his eyes water, like charred meat mixed with the bitter tang of medicinal herbs.

It crawled into his sinuses and settled there, foreshadowing the fight to come. Around him, fifty legionaries performed the same ritual. The clearing was silent save for the soft scrape of brushes on metal and the quiet clatter of clay on wood and stone. No one spoke, as the boisterous energy of last night's campfire evaporated with the dawn. The methodical motion was comforting, a reminder of the endless hours of practice over the past month.

His time had been productive; his constant work pushing both [Linebreaker Sweep] and [Turning the Point] to the Expert rank and finally aligning them with the rest of the Legion's First Form techniques. Yet the progress revealed a new kind of wall. All six spear Skills were now capped, and no amount of repetition seemed to nudge them further. He'd built a foundation for mastery but possessed no blueprint for the next step. After finishing his spearhead Cal set the brush aside.

Vane knelt beside him with his own spear already coated, his usual enthusiasm muted and replaced by an intensity that made him seem older. Catching Cal's eye, he gave a nod. Nearby, Berrick checked his gear with the alacrity of someone who'd done this a hundred times before, his rough face set in its perpetual scowl as his hands moved over equipment, tightening straps and testing buckles.

Ria emerged from her tent already armored and retrieved her spear, examining the Rotbane coating Berrick had applied before giving a satisfied 'thanks.' Their commander's loud wheeze carried over the camp.

"Final check. Anythin' you ain't wearin', you ain't takin'. We travel light from here." The camp broke into motion. Legionaries stripped their packs of everything non-essential, piling spare clothing, personal effects, and cooking gear in their tents, or for safekeeping with the handful of porters who would remain behind. What remained was simple and functional: armor, weapons, winter cloaks, water skins, trail rations, and potions.

Cal pulled a small vial of pinkish liquid from his belt pouch, uncorked the meridian liner elixir, and downed the contents in one swallow. Berg rasped again.

"Form up. Two by two. Move out." The Legion assembled.

"Andel. Fiore. Puig. You know th' drill. Go." Three figures detached themselves from the rear of the column, their gear standing out next to the heavy infantry. They wore light leather jerkins instead of plated armor and carried recurve bows and quivers instead of spears and shields. With a final check of the short swords at their belts, they broke into a near-silent run, melting into the sickly grey woods. The remaining legionaries formed a double file, shields strapped to backs and spears leaned on shoulders.

Protected in the center of the formation walked the expedition's sole healer, a somber man distinguished by the white apron of the Auric Medicus worn over his armor. Aurum filtered through the canopy in hazy shafts, illuminating the dark column as it began to march south, deeper into territory where the wrongness intensified with every stride. Cal fell into step next to Vane, behind Berrick and Ria, marching in step with the column. The trees changed first.

The big Sitka spruce and western hemlock that dominated the healthy Virethane grew blighted here, their bark sloughing away in diseased patches. Branches hung at unnatural angles, bent and twisted as though something had warped them from within, and the moss that should have draped every surface in vibrant green was instead a slimy and grey-black substance that oozed rather than grew. The undergrowth thinned to nothing, leaving detritus that trampled to ash. Cal activated [Mana Sense].

The corruption almost sent him reeling. The current flowing from the south was a thickening river of tainted energy that made his gut roil. He let the Skill fade before the nausea could build. That's what animates them. That's what we're walking into. The dead silence of the woods pressed in as his unease grew after two hours of marching. No birdsong offered relief, nor skittering animals a distraction. The stagnant air held its breath.

Somewhere up ahead there came a low whistle, the mimicry of a carrion bird squawking from the trees. The signal. A ripple passed down the column. Berg called out in a low rasp, barely disturbing the silence.

"Arm shields. High ready." The response was a rustle of leather and a series of soft clicks as hoplons slid from their back harnesses. Cal strapped the shield tightly to his left forearm, the leather biting into the skin beneath his gear. He shifted his spear from his shoulder to a high, upward-angled grip, its Rotbane-coated tip pointed toward the sky. The column's profile changed, transforming from a marching line into a bristling serpent ready to strike.

They advanced for another ten minutes, their boots making almost no sound on the dead ground. The trail opened into a clearing as the path widened. The Helemyr Scar came into view. The ghost of a settlement unfolded, its perimeter defined by a ten-foot crumbling stone wall that was barely waist-high in places. Within this broken boundary the ground had been beaten flat, though evidence of a forgotten life remained where foundation stones jutted from the packed earth like broken teeth.

Piles of rubble marked where homes once stood, their remains mixed with bone fragments, shattered pottery, and rusted scraps of iron. The smell hit him next. A cloying sweetness of rot mixed with the metallic bite of old blood saturating the very air, thick enough to coat his tongue with a film that made him want to spit. Berg raised his fist. The column halted as one.

"Wall up." Thirty bodies peeled off and jogged to the clearing's northern edge. In seconds, they formed a dense line of interlocking hoplon shields, a chest-high barrier of iron-banded wood stretching across the clearing's width. The remaining soldiers formed a second rank directly behind, spears held at a high ready, the fresh bodies that would step in when the front rank tired. Cal found his place in the front-center row between Berrick and Vane, Ria at their back.

He stamped his feet, trying to get more feeling in his toes as the frigid mud seeped a chill through his leather boots. The lieutenant continued issuing orders.

"The horde comes from th' old clan hall at th' heart of the ruin, but some of 'em will crawl from th' sides. Be prepared to collapse our flanks. Front rank holds th' line. Second rank supports and rotates on my command. Ya break formation without orders, yer on latrine duty fer a month. Ya get bit, ya fall back and dose yerself with Rotbane." He paused, his muddy brown eyes scouring the line.

"Questions?" None came.

"Good. Brace up and keep yer damn mouths shut. They're drawn to noise. We want a trickle, not a flood." Cal tightened his grip on his spear, knuckles whitening. The clearing fell silent; fifty legionaries motionless, shields locked, spears ready. The only sound was the faint rustle of armor and the soft creak of leather. His heart hammered and his mouth was dry. He activated [Feathered Edge], his perception expanding outward. The forest was still, a graveyard of corrupted vegetation and stagnant air.

His awareness brushed against the trees. Nothing moved. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Not yet. One minute. Two. Five. A scrape sounded from the decrepit wall. Cal snapped his eyes to the source. Something emerged. The animated corpse of a hemlock prowler stepped into view, its frame draped in bark-like hide that had peeled away to reveal desiccated muscle.

Its head lolled on a broken neck, and from the empty sockets where its eyes had been there wept a black ichor. The creature shambled forward on disjointed legs, moving toward the shield wall with the inevitability of water flowing downhill, as if it couldn't see them at all.

"Single contact." Berg was calm, almost bored.

"Front rank, on my mark." The wall shifted as thirty shields rose in unison.

"Brace." Cal planted his feet as the creature advanced toward him. His shield came up, covering him from chin to knee. The rotter closed the distance. Ten yards. Five. Three.

"Thrust." The nearby spears punched forward as one and turned the monster into a pincushion. Cal's spear pierced the creature's eye socket, the blade sliding through rotted tissue with almost no resistance. The Rotbane hissed on contact and the creature's body convulsed. The animating Mana dissolved, causing the rotter to collapse into a heap of decaying flesh and bone.

"Recover." The spears retracted as the wall returned to its ready stance. The entire engagement had lasted three seconds. That's it? The Scar answered. More rustling, louder this time, as rubble shifted along the wall line. Figures emerged. Two skeletal hemlock prowlers. A lumbering mosshide bear corpse, its fur a patchy mess. Half a dozen feral goblins, their mottled skin split, one trailing intestines as they scuttled forward. Rotters spilled from the ruins. Some shambled. Some crawled.

Some came in fitful and unnatural bursts of speed as the horde converged on the shield wall.

"Line, on my mark!" Their commander barked out the command.

"Brace!" The first rotter slammed into the wall. A skeletal prowler threw its weight against Vane's shield, but the monster couldn't move him. More and more made it to the line.

"Thrust!" This time thirty spears punched forward. Cal's blade found a goblin's throat, severing the spine as the creature went limp.

"Recover!" The spears retracted. The wall braced. The fight began in earnest.

"Brace! Thrust! Recover!" The chant drove the battle's heartbeat. Shields rose to absorb impacts while spears drove forward to kill, the line resetting for the next cycle in a vicious loop. [Your proficiency with Shield Block (F) has increased to Practiced] A man's scream from the right flank tore through the din. Brilliant golden light flared in Cal's periphery where the Medicus worked behind the line. The pained cry changed timbre as the healer did his grim work. The machine ground on.

Cal fell back into the motions as a large goblin corpse slammed into his shield. He grunted with the impact, his feet digging into the mud. On the next "Thrust!" his spear found the creature's eye, and the Rotbane did its work. As Cal was locked up with a decrepit stag a a huge bear corpse struck Vane's shield. The impact was a thunderous crack of bone on wood that drove him back a full step, his boots skidding through the dirt.

Before he could be thrown off balance, Ria surged from the second rank, planting her shield firmly into his back. Vane's body trembled with the combined strain as he held against the pressure. He laughed, an exultant sound that pierced through the tumult.

"Hah! Now that's a proper shove!" Berrick drove his spear into the bear's decaying ear from Cal's other side. The creature's animating force unraveled, its dead weight collapsing against Vane's shield before his and Ria's combined strength shoved it back.

"Stop admirin' yer handiwork, Vane!" Berrick shouted before spinning back into place on the line.

"Stay focused!" Cal finished off a stag and glanced left. Berrick dispatched a smaller goblin with a quick flick of his spear, the attack almost lazy. From the second rank, Ria called out through the noise.

"Two mistweavers, low-left!" Cal looked down. Two corrupted spiders, each the size of a dinner plate, were scuttling beneath the shields. Ria's spear slid through the gap between Cal and Berrick, impaling one. The spider convulsed and went still. Cal slammed his shield down on top of the other crawler to pin it, then choked up on his spear and drove it through the spider's head. Ding. [New Skill Gained: Shield Slam (F) - Novice] The horde came on, a lurching mass that seemed endless. Cal's arms began to ache.

His shoulder burned. Sweat soaked the padding beneath his armor.

"Brace! Thrust! Recover!" The chant continued on relentlessly. The lieutenant's instructions never faltered, the metronome keeping the machine running throughout the battle. [Your proficiency with Shield Brace (F) has increased to Practiced] Another mosshide bear threw itself against Vane's shield and his feet slipped in the ichor. His shield arm trembled, his entire focus consumed by holding back the crushing tonnage of the beast. A goblin rotter used the opening, scuttling over the mound of corpses unnoticed.

Bony fingers clamped around Vane's spear shaft, fouling his aim just as he tried to brace for a thrust. The distraction was all the mosshide needed. It reared up, a mountain of rotted flesh and fur that cast the warrior in shadow. Then it came down. Ria saw the fouled spear and moved to brace him, but the mosshide's attack landed before she could fully set herself. The impact was like a falling tree. The immense force drove Vane to one knee, his arm buckling under the off-balance blow.

Even with Ria's partial support the shield dipped. A gap opened in the wall. Another feral goblin darted through, its claws outstretched, aiming for Ria's exposed leg.

"Gap!" Vane shouted, his voice strained as he struggled against the bear's weight. Ria saw the goblin and snarled.

"Shit!" Cal pivoted, breaking formation. As another legionary's spear lanced from the second rank to impale the goblin, Cal stepped forward. He planted his back foot and drove his own spear up under the bear's chin, sinking the Rotbane-laced tip deep into its skull. The great beast twitched, its animating force guttered out in a wisp of black smoke. The bear's dead weight collapsed forward, a pile of rotting fur and flesh threatening to crush Vane.

Cal dropped his shoulder next to the man with Ria joining on the other side. Together, the three grunted with effort, heaving the massive corpse off the line of shields and onto the growing pile. They hopped back into position as one, locking their shields together just as the lieutenant barked again. The rhythm resumed. [Your proficiency with High Guard (F) has increased to Practiced] And the machine ground on.

As the pile of corpses before the shield wall grew, the grey earth turned black with their fluid, forcing the horde to climb over their own dead. Cal's breathing came harder and his muscles burned with the effort of holding the line. His vision narrowed to encompass only the next target, the next thrust. Vane's shield arm trembled visibly, his grin replaced by a grimace of effort.

"Vane, back! Ria, fill!" Berg commanded. Vane stepped backward without hesitation as Ria surged forward from the second rank. Her shield easily slotted into the gap he'd left as Vane staggered into the back line gulping air, trying to recover his Stamina. The rampart of bodies continued to grow as the Rotbane-laced ichor pooled on the ground, creating slick patches. Cal felt something scrabbling at the base of his shield and looked down to see a goblin rotter clawing its way through the corpse pile.

"Thrust!" He angled his spear down on Berg's command, driving the blade through the goblin's skull. The wave began to thin as fewer rotters emerged from the tree line, lessening the pressure against the shields. Cal's arms sagged with exhaustion, his lungs burning while sweat stung his eyes. How long? Ten minutes? An hour? Time had become elastic, stretched by the endless cycle of combat. The last rotter fell, dispatched by Berrick with a quick thrust through the eye.

Battle's clamor evaporated, leaving a sudden stillness. Cal breathed raggedly, his chest heaving as he sucked in stinking air. Around him, the other legionaries were in similar states. Their commander cautioned, "Hold the line. This ain't over." Cal wanted to argue. He looked out at the empty ruins and scattered remains of the horde. The silence stretched. Then a sound reverberated from the heart of the Scar. A cringe-inducing scrape of metal dragging across stone grated against the quiet.

They all stood motionless, staring at the breach in the clan hold's perimeter. Movement in the shadows. Two entities appeared, and the atmosphere curdled from confidence to dread. The first creature leapt atop the crumbling wall, a juvenile drake the size of a draft horse. Cal had only read about them, but there was no mistaking it as it perched on the stonework. The natural grace of a low-slung predator, with patches of its iridescent green scales sloughing away to reveal grey flesh and exposed ribs.

A serpentine head held a mouth lined with jagged teeth, its terrible eyes glowing with a ghastly blue light as it let out a bubbling cry, spraying black ichor onto the stones below. Under the beast, a second figure stepped through the shattered archway of the main gate. Clad in patchy plate armor that was corroded and streaked with gore, it stood perhaps seven feet tall. A massive battle axe trailed from one hand, the heavy blade scraping across the ground.

Behind the helm's horizontal slit a single point of malevolent blue light burned where its right eye should be. Cal concentrated on his [Spiritual Perception]. The Elite's signatures were a parody of life, brittle shells where living heat had been chilled and fractured by death Mana. The adventurer's corpse advanced with lumbering steps. It reached the edge of the body pile and stopped, planting feet and bending knees, raising its axe in what appeared to be a martial stance.

The weapon hovered above and behind its shoulder, ready to cleave through anything as its glowing eye swept the shield wall. The drake had stayed on the wall and was eyeballing their formation from afar. Cal doubted it'd need much time to close the distance. Vane grinned wide as ever, while Berrick's face had drained of color. Ria's lips pressed into a thin line. There was no denying the truth of what they all felt. E-tier.