Chapter 140 - Prologue - The Lady of House Augustus and the Battle of Meerfog Gorge
A woman with a pair of large, floppy ears poking out of a pointed hat paced back and forth through a wide open hall. Completely lost in her own thoughts, the cotton tail continued stepping to and fro, her face adorned with an almost perpetual frown. No attention was paid to anything in her surroundings until she stubbed her toe on the corner of a table. Howling in pain, she stuck out her hands just in time to stop a delicate ceramic vase from rolling off the edge and shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces.
“Be careful, Ms. Cedr, the duke would have thrown a fit if you didn’t catch that. It’s one of his favourites.”
One of the high-ranking maids stepped out of a nearby dressing room and greeted the grand magus with an awkward smile.
“O-oh, good morning Marie. I didn’t see you there.”
Her face reddening, Allegra placed the ornament back where it belonged and moved over to the door.
“How’s she doing?”
“She still seems a little out of it, but the doctor says that it isn’t bad enough to affect her schedule.” Mariabelle squeezed the serving tray she was holding to her chest. “Personally, I think we should let her rest for a little longer. She doesn’t have any of the energy she had before the attack.”
“Me too, but it’s too late for a change of plans.” Allegra pulled her hat over her face. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing more. Mariabelle was a sweet girl. And as a victim, the Grand Magus felt she deserved to know the truth, but she knew better than to leak a military secret.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Cedr. I’m sure she’ll get over it soon. I think she’s just shocked that the Kryddarians attacked unprovoked.”
Mariabelle’s understanding of the previous month’s events was shared by the general public. To ignite the flames of war, the duke had spread the rumour that the Kryddarians had attacked his home with a long-ranged curse. Most of the more technically skilled mages, like Genevre, knew from a glance that the claim was a lie, that the manor was clearly the spell’s source, but the truth was swept under the rug. The rich and powerful were all on the duke’s side. They had absolute confidence in his abilities and understood that a war would only bring victory and prosperity. Even knowing the true course of events, they bought into the lie and begged the king to slacken his nephew’s reins.
In the end, not even the royal aspect was able to deny the surging tide. Less than three days after the incident, he declared that Kryddar and its allies had wronged House Augustus; he made a public announcement detailing an entirely falsified account of the attack on the duke’s manor and claimed that the house’s fair lady had been damaged. He disclosed to people far and wide that she had been rendered mute by the shock, and her injuries were so horrific that it was no longer possible for her to do so much as eat without another’s assistance.
The masses bought the story without a shred of skepticism. Outrage, fury, and bloodthirst swept across the nation. Far and wide, patriotic warriors proclaimed that they would fight for the honor of Lady Claire Augustus, that they would bring ruin to Kryddar in her name, and that they would return her stolen voice.
That was the narrative, the narrative whose climax was right upon the horizon—
“How long until she’s ready for the ball?” asked Allegra.
—Because it had finally come time for the jewel of House Augustus to step into the public eye once more.
Mariabelle brought a finger to her chin and frowned. “It should just be a few minutes. Bea’s finishing up her hair right now.”
“Would I be interrupting her?”
“No, no, of course not. Please, go right ahead.” The lady in waiting stepped out of the way and began walking down the hall. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready as well. Father sent me a wonderful new dress, just for the occasion.”
Allegra smiled. “That does sound rather like something Count Phlence would do.”
“It certainly does! It’s a wonder that we’re not all spoiled rotten.”
With an adorable flutter of the ears, Mariabelle skipped down the hall and pranced around the corner. She was so excited that her hooves clicked against each other whenever she leapt into the air, and for good reason. Marquis Postumus was among the ball’s attendees. The stallion in question had come running to the capital in a fluster upon learning that Lady Phlence had been cursed. He had brought with him not only a force of priests to tend to her curse, but also dozens upon dozens of gifts symbolising his affections. He had apparently loved her since they were both still foals, but he had been too shy to act; it took hearing of her near demise to finally spur him into action. The rumour around the manor was that he had proposed immediately upon his arrival, in front of her father, the duke, the king, and several other prominent political figures. She was too embarrassed by the whole ordeal to accept, but he continued to pursue her and shower her with his affections until she gave in to his raw passion.
Though Mariabelle had found her happily ever after, not all of the failed ritual’s victims were so fortunate. The backlash had destroyed half the manor, and some of the servants had been buried beneath the rubble for hours on end. None perished, but the survivors were forced to endure days if not weeks of pain. There were many patients in need and too few skilled priests up to the task. Of the seven that took residence within the capital, only three were immediately available. The other four were away, departed for missionary work in other lands.
As even the weakest soldier was at least level 300, none of them were wounded by the collapse, but some of the fresh squires, who lacked the skill required to determine the curse’s true source, were put under the impression that the Kryddarians were truly capable of the devastating, long-ranged attack. One was so terrified by the false assumption that he resigned, fled the country, and returned to his people’s motherland, so that he could live a simpler life without fear of retribution.
With so many soldiers knowing the truth, it appeared as if the duke’s plan was sure to fail. It was a fragile scheme that revolved almost entirely around a campaign of misinformation. It could easily have been turned on its head. But it wasn’t. Everything went exactly as he had planned. Not a single man spoke, not because they feared Virillius, but because they respected him. They too believed that Vella’s chosen champion would bring them only victory.
That was why they had marched with him, and why the man in question was not present at the manor.
Cadria was at war, both with Kryddar, and the neighbour that was its closest ally.
War was the last thing the grand magus had wanted, but she continued to obey the duke nonetheless. Seasoned as she was, the three-hundred-year-old witch knew that it was the best choice, the only way to ascertain a better future for generations to come. The only way to ensure that Cadria’s enemies would be unable to bring about its collapse.
Dismissing the depressing thought, Allegra adjusted her hat once more and opened the dressing room’s door. Within it, she found a pair of ladies, both fully decorated in their evening attire. One of the two, Lady Beatrice Gallia, was standing behind a chair, working her hands in front of a large vertical mirror. Carefully, she braided the silver-blue stands running through her fingers and arranged them in a neat pattern befitting the daughter of one of Cadria’s most influential men.
Claire sat perfectly still and allowed the stylist to do as she pleased. It was rare for her not to resist. On most days she would run away and refuse to sit through the process, but she knew the importance of the upcoming function. Its purpose was to demonstrate that she had recovered; she was to serve as a symbol of Cadria’s mettle.
“Good afternoon, Claire, Beatrice,” said the cottontail.
“Good afternoon, Professor,” said the maid. “She should be ready in a minute.”
Claire didn’t say anything, but replied to the greeting with a small, subtle nod. Her face was just as emotionless as ever, empty as a blank slate.
“Just one last thing now.” She finished the final braid before grabbing a pair of golden ornaments and placing them directly atop the other lady’s disproportionate ears. “And we’re done.” Beatrice smiled softly, stepped away from the chair, and waited for Claire to rise. “What do you think, my lady?”
The halfbreed looked herself over in the mirror, touched her braided updo to check it for stability, and nodded again. It was the same style as always, arranged by the exact same person. There was no reason to be dissatisfied.
Smiling briefly at her hairdresser, Claire lifted the hem of her long, flowing gown, walked to Allegra’s side, and gestured at the doorway.
The cottontail adjusted her hat. “Let’s be off. We wouldn’t want to keep the guests waiting.” Straightening her ears and back, the witch opened the door and waited for both ladies to exit before closing it behind her.
Together, the thorae, the cottontail, and the halfbreed navigated through the manor’s magically repaired halls and made for the venue, the venue where they would greet the hundreds of guests that awaited the lady of House Augustus.
___
Far away from the Cadrian capital, in the neighbouring land of Kryddar, Natalya Vernelle placed a hand on her sword as she looked over a rocky cliff. Her slit eyes were cast on the confident enemy force marching through the cliffside valley below. Of the roughly one hundred mismatched men and women that lined its ranks, half were of centaurian descent, and as such the lines varied drastically in size. The moose centaurs were twice as tall as their donkey and deer-like counterparts, who were in turn several heads above the cottontail and thoraen troops. Their formation was based not in form, but function; soldiers of completely different heights were placed shoulder to shoulder as if it were the norm.
Had the Duke of Death not stood at the unit’s forefront, Natalya would have assumed the army a hodgepodge arrangement of soldiers, with many of their number recruited at the last minute just to inflate their ranks. Even with the distinct, oversized cervitaur present, she was tempted to write off the group as an insignificant threat. There weren’t enough of them to put up a fight against the fifty thousand troops gathered in the surrounding mountains. She was confident that, one by one, they would be worn down and slain.
The higher ups were much less assured of their victory. Having guarded the command tent the previous night, the young and foolhardy Ms. Vernelle was well aware that most of the generals were cowards. More than half of them had wanted to call off the attack, but the top brass had deemed it necessary to risk the troops on an all out offense. They claimed that Meerfog Gorge was one of the only two places they could mount a defense capable of stopping the Cadrian advance.
Knowing of the generals’ fears had led Natalya to expect a vast army with numbers perhaps double their own. She had been incredibly excited for her maiden voyage, for the chance to prove herself more powerful than any Cadrian warrior, so she was disappointed to find the enemy unit to be only a hundred strong. The years she had put into training, into becoming a level 500 blademaster, would culminate in nothing but a tiny skirmish. She was confident that there would be a few hundred casualties at most, even if the Duke of Death was truly the aspect the rumours described. She and everyone else knew that he was Vella’s chosen, but that was no guarantee of his might. It had been over twenty years since he fought his last real war; everything known of his strength may very well have been overblown.
The joint Kryddar-Paunse force had nearly a dozen individuals approaching level 1000. Case in point was Natalya’s elder twin sister, her pride and joy and the woman in charge of her squad. Alina was level 984. She needed only another sixteen milestones to become an aspect in her own right, and she was only the army’s second best fighter.
“Are you scared?” With a twitch of her large feline ears, Alina spun around to meet her sister’s gaze.
“Not at all.” Natalya smiled confidently as she placed a hand on the hilt of her blade. “I know we’ll win.”
Alina’s smile faltered briefly as she returned her eyes to the enemy lines. “Yes, we will.”
Natalya opened her mouth to speak again, but she was cut off by the sound of a horn. The deep bellow rang through the mountains and signalled the troops to spring the trap. The air about Alina changed. Her eyes sharpened and her smile flattened as her tail rose straight into the air.
A tsunami of troops descended upon the duke and his men, but the Vernelle unit was not among them. Like most other elites, they stayed hidden and awaited their turn. They were meant to be a part of the fourth of five waves, as was decided by central command.
The many veterans in Alina’s unit thought the outcome unlucky and the strategy ridiculous. They saw no purpose in attacking in waves. Taking turns meant nothing but giving up an opportunity for glory, to wait as their competitors snatched it from right under their noses. A belief that held only until first contact was made.
Duke Augustus did not order his troops to stop or react. They continued to march, leisurely, as catgirls, cat-siths, and moths descended upon them in droves. Not a single soldier flinched, even as they were bombarded with a wall of arrows and a hail of spells. It looked as if they simply wished not to acknowledge their demise, to proceed with pride until they were taken and forced to accept death’s kiss.
But it was not a bluff, nor a final attempt to keep up appearances.
The silvery-white cervitaur that was the force’s commander raised a hand in front of him and clenched it into a fist. That was all he needed to do, the only action he needed to take to command the crimson tide.
Every single enemy soldier within a thousand paces of him erupted into a fountain of red. Their bodies were squeezed dry, drained of vital fluid, and turned to empty husks. Even the vampire corps was wiped out in an instant. Despite their innate mastery of hemomancy and their iron grip on their own blood.
The cardinal current was formed into a veil; Virilius crafted a powerful barrier that warded off all the incoming projectiles without so much as the slightest hint of difficulty.
Natalya gasped in horror. The troops began to falter as they bore witness to the massacre. As much as she didn’t want to believe it, the catgirl was made to realise that everything she heard was true. Virillius Augustus was every bit the freak of nature that he was so often described. In just one attack, he had caused the army’s morale to crumble.
Some of the joint forces began to reel back, but they were not allowed to escape. The bloody currents swirled around the battlefield and consumed all, near or far. It took no more than five minutes for the infamous Cadrian to exterminate the first wave of assailants. The battle was over. The war was over. By his hand, it was already decided. Natalya gulped and awaited the sound of a drum, the signal to retreat, but what she heard instead was another horn. Another order, for another wave of troops to march.
It was then that she finally came to understand why the army had been divided into five smaller parts. It was to seek victory through attrition. High command had judged that the best way to defeat Virilius was to deplete his mana. The first few waves of troops were fodder. They existed only to lay down their lives, so that the path to victory could be paved with their corpses.
It was a disgusting scheme, but an effective one. Or at least that was what she wanted to believe. The possibility of losing, even with so much blood paid, was one she refused to entertain. But the distinctive white moose appeared nigh unstoppable.
Both waves two and three were dispatched in a similar fashion. Natalya couldn’t help but shake in her boots when the horn was blown a fourth time. A grim look on her face, she looked towards Alina, who raised her blade and led the charge. Natalya followed her sister’s lead, but with much less vigour. She didn’t think that victory was within their grasp. Not anymore.
Fear stopped her from advancing as quickly as the others, but she couldn’t abandon her sister. With that earnest thought, she charged on all fours, sword in mouth and tail held high.
For once, he didn’t immediately cast a large-scale spell. It appeared that the brass’ strategy had worked, that he had finally run out of mana. The thought spurred a burst of acceleration. Before long, she got close enough to see the pores of his skin, the lack of sweat on his brow, and the blank stare that sat atop his face.
It was like he didn’t care that he was being attacked, like he didn’t care that he was being starved of mana, and like he didn’t care for the lives of those he reaped. Looking him in the cold, dead eyes brought nothing but terror.
Her steps began to falter. She couldn’t push forward. Falling to her knees, she could only watch and pray as Alina engaged him in combat.
Her sister was a master duelist. She was specialised in close quarters, and she was far better at single combat than just about everyone else in the army. Her instructor, one of the men in command of the operation, was the only one she couldn’t consistently best, and even then, the score was roughly even, barely skewed in the colonel’s favour.
There was no way a mage could possibly deal with her, once she got within range. That was the assumption Natalya made. But she had failed to consider one thing. Virillius wasn’t a mage. He was a battlemage, a type of caster specialised in the use of weaponry.
It took only a single exchange for the winner to be decided. Three quick slashes; Virilius only swung his spear once and his shieldlance twice.
But that was all it took.
The first blow sent Alina’s sword flying. It flew through the air and landed a few feet away from Natalya, its blade embedded deep in the ground.
The second attack skewered the retreating catgirl through the chest.
And the third removed her head.
Natalya couldn’t believe it.
She trembled uncontrollably as her eyes shifted between her sister’s head and the man’s blank stare.
He had thought nothing of killing her.
He had thought nothing of killing the second best warrior in all of Paunse.
She wanted to cry, to grieve the loss of her beloved elder sister, but she was unable. The only thing that filled her mind was terror. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she grabbed Alina’s blade, turned tail, and ran. She didn’t care if she would be tried for treason or branded a coward. Her life would be forfeit if she was unable to escape the monster that served as Cadria’s sword.
The battle of Meerfog Gorge was unwinnable.
Fleeing and seeking refuge was the only way to survive.
Chapter 140 - Prologue - The Lady of House Augustus and the Battle of Meerfog Gorge
A woman with a pair of large, floppy ears poking out of a pointed hat paced back and forth through a wide open hall. Completely lost in her own thoughts, the cotton tail continued stepping to and fro, her face adorned with an almost perpetual frown. No attention was paid to anything in her surroundings until she stubbed her toe on the corner of a table. Howling in pain, she stuck out her hands just in time to stop a delicate ceramic vase from rolling off the edge and shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces.
“Be careful, Ms. Cedr, the duke would have thrown a fit if you didn’t catch that. It’s one of his favourites.”
One of the high-ranking maids stepped out of a nearby dressing room and greeted the grand magus with an awkward smile.
“O-oh, good morning Marie. I didn’t see you there.”
Her face reddening, Allegra placed the ornament back where it belonged and moved over to the door.
“How’s she doing?”
“She still seems a little out of it, but the doctor says that it isn’t bad enough to affect her schedule.” Mariabelle squeezed the serving tray she was holding to her chest. “Personally, I think we should let her rest for a little longer. She doesn’t have any of the energy she had before the attack.”
“Me too, but it’s too late for a change of plans.” Allegra pulled her hat over her face. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing more. Mariabelle was a sweet girl. And as a victim, the Grand Magus felt she deserved to know the truth, but she knew better than to leak a military secret.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Cedr. I’m sure she’ll get over it soon. I think she’s just shocked that the Kryddarians attacked unprovoked.”
Mariabelle’s understanding of the previous month’s events was shared by the general public. To ignite the flames of war, the duke had spread the rumour that the Kryddarians had attacked his home with a long-ranged curse. Most of the more technically skilled mages, like Genevre, knew from a glance that the claim was a lie, that the manor was clearly the spell’s source, but the truth was swept under the rug. The rich and powerful were all on the duke’s side. They had absolute confidence in his abilities and understood that a war would only bring victory and prosperity. Even knowing the true course of events, they bought into the lie and begged the king to slacken his nephew’s reins.
In the end, not even the royal aspect was able to deny the surging tide. Less than three days after the incident, he declared that Kryddar and its allies had wronged House Augustus; he made a public announcement detailing an entirely falsified account of the attack on the duke’s manor and claimed that the house’s fair lady had been damaged. He disclosed to people far and wide that she had been rendered mute by the shock, and her injuries were so horrific that it was no longer possible for her to do so much as eat without another’s assistance.
The masses bought the story without a shred of skepticism. Outrage, fury, and bloodthirst swept across the nation. Far and wide, patriotic warriors proclaimed that they would fight for the honor of Lady Claire Augustus, that they would bring ruin to Kryddar in her name, and that they would return her stolen voice.
That was the narrative, the narrative whose climax was right upon the horizon—
“How long until she’s ready for the ball?” asked Allegra.
—Because it had finally come time for the jewel of House Augustus to step into the public eye once more.
Mariabelle brought a finger to her chin and frowned. “It should just be a few minutes. Bea’s finishing up her hair right now.”
“Would I be interrupting her?”
“No, no, of course not. Please, go right ahead.” The lady in waiting stepped out of the way and began walking down the hall. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready as well. Father sent me a wonderful new dress, just for the occasion.”
Allegra smiled. “That does sound rather like something Count Phlence would do.”
“It certainly does! It’s a wonder that we’re not all spoiled rotten.”
With an adorable flutter of the ears, Mariabelle skipped down the hall and pranced around the corner. She was so excited that her hooves clicked against each other whenever she leapt into the air, and for good reason. Marquis Postumus was among the ball’s attendees. The stallion in question had come running to the capital in a fluster upon learning that Lady Phlence had been cursed. He had brought with him not only a force of priests to tend to her curse, but also dozens upon dozens of gifts symbolising his affections. He had apparently loved her since they were both still foals, but he had been too shy to act; it took hearing of her near demise to finally spur him into action. The rumour around the manor was that he had proposed immediately upon his arrival, in front of her father, the duke, the king, and several other prominent political figures. She was too embarrassed by the whole ordeal to accept, but he continued to pursue her and shower her with his affections until she gave in to his raw passion.
Though Mariabelle had found her happily ever after, not all of the failed ritual’s victims were so fortunate. The backlash had destroyed half the manor, and some of the servants had been buried beneath the rubble for hours on end. None perished, but the survivors were forced to endure days if not weeks of pain. There were many patients in need and too few skilled priests up to the task. Of the seven that took residence within the capital, only three were immediately available. The other four were away, departed for missionary work in other lands.
As even the weakest soldier was at least level 300, none of them were wounded by the collapse, but some of the fresh squires, who lacked the skill required to determine the curse’s true source, were put under the impression that the Kryddarians were truly capable of the devastating, long-ranged attack. One was so terrified by the false assumption that he resigned, fled the country, and returned to his people’s motherland, so that he could live a simpler life without fear of retribution.
With so many soldiers knowing the truth, it appeared as if the duke’s plan was sure to fail. It was a fragile scheme that revolved almost entirely around a campaign of misinformation. It could easily have been turned on its head. But it wasn’t. Everything went exactly as he had planned. Not a single man spoke, not because they feared Virillius, but because they respected him. They too believed that Vella’s chosen champion would bring them only victory.
That was why they had marched with him, and why the man in question was not present at the manor.
Cadria was at war, both with Kryddar, and the neighbour that was its closest ally.
War was the last thing the grand magus had wanted, but she continued to obey the duke nonetheless. Seasoned as she was, the three-hundred-year-old witch knew that it was the best choice, the only way to ascertain a better future for generations to come. The only way to ensure that Cadria’s enemies would be unable to bring about its collapse.
Dismissing the depressing thought, Allegra adjusted her hat once more and opened the dressing room’s door. Within it, she found a pair of ladies, both fully decorated in their evening attire. One of the two, Lady Beatrice Gallia, was standing behind a chair, working her hands in front of a large vertical mirror. Carefully, she braided the silver-blue stands running through her fingers and arranged them in a neat pattern befitting the daughter of one of Cadria’s most influential men.
Claire sat perfectly still and allowed the stylist to do as she pleased. It was rare for her not to resist. On most days she would run away and refuse to sit through the process, but she knew the importance of the upcoming function. Its purpose was to demonstrate that she had recovered; she was to serve as a symbol of Cadria’s mettle.
“Good afternoon, Claire, Beatrice,” said the cottontail.
“Good afternoon, Professor,” said the maid. “She should be ready in a minute.”
Claire didn’t say anything, but replied to the greeting with a small, subtle nod. Her face was just as emotionless as ever, empty as a blank slate.
“Just one last thing now.” She finished the final braid before grabbing a pair of golden ornaments and placing them directly atop the other lady’s disproportionate ears. “And we’re done.” Beatrice smiled softly, stepped away from the chair, and waited for Claire to rise. “What do you think, my lady?”
The halfbreed looked herself over in the mirror, touched her braided updo to check it for stability, and nodded again. It was the same style as always, arranged by the exact same person. There was no reason to be dissatisfied.
Smiling briefly at her hairdresser, Claire lifted the hem of her long, flowing gown, walked to Allegra’s side, and gestured at the doorway.
The cottontail adjusted her hat. “Let’s be off. We wouldn’t want to keep the guests waiting.” Straightening her ears and back, the witch opened the door and waited for both ladies to exit before closing it behind her.
Together, the thorae, the cottontail, and the halfbreed navigated through the manor’s magically repaired halls and made for the venue, the venue where they would greet the hundreds of guests that awaited the lady of House Augustus.
___
Far away from the Cadrian capital, in the neighbouring land of Kryddar, Natalya Vernelle placed a hand on her sword as she looked over a rocky cliff. Her slit eyes were cast on the confident enemy force marching through the cliffside valley below. Of the roughly one hundred mismatched men and women that lined its ranks, half were of centaurian descent, and as such the lines varied drastically in size. The moose centaurs were twice as tall as their donkey and deer-like counterparts, who were in turn several heads above the cottontail and thoraen troops. Their formation was based not in form, but function; soldiers of completely different heights were placed shoulder to shoulder as if it were the norm.
Had the Duke of Death not stood at the unit’s forefront, Natalya would have assumed the army a hodgepodge arrangement of soldiers, with many of their number recruited at the last minute just to inflate their ranks. Even with the distinct, oversized cervitaur present, she was tempted to write off the group as an insignificant threat. There weren’t enough of them to put up a fight against the fifty thousand troops gathered in the surrounding mountains. She was confident that, one by one, they would be worn down and slain.
The higher ups were much less assured of their victory. Having guarded the command tent the previous night, the young and foolhardy Ms. Vernelle was well aware that most of the generals were cowards. More than half of them had wanted to call off the attack, but the top brass had deemed it necessary to risk the troops on an all out offense. They claimed that Meerfog Gorge was one of the only two places they could mount a defense capable of stopping the Cadrian advance.
Knowing of the generals’ fears had led Natalya to expect a vast army with numbers perhaps double their own. She had been incredibly excited for her maiden voyage, for the chance to prove herself more powerful than any Cadrian warrior, so she was disappointed to find the enemy unit to be only a hundred strong. The years she had put into training, into becoming a level 500 blademaster, would culminate in nothing but a tiny skirmish. She was confident that there would be a few hundred casualties at most, even if the Duke of Death was truly the aspect the rumours described. She and everyone else knew that he was Vella’s chosen, but that was no guarantee of his might. It had been over twenty years since he fought his last real war; everything known of his strength may very well have been overblown.
The joint Kryddar-Paunse force had nearly a dozen individuals approaching level 1000. Case in point was Natalya’s elder twin sister, her pride and joy and the woman in charge of her squad. Alina was level 984. She needed only another sixteen milestones to become an aspect in her own right, and she was only the army’s second best fighter.
“Are you scared?” With a twitch of her large feline ears, Alina spun around to meet her sister’s gaze.
“Not at all.” Natalya smiled confidently as she placed a hand on the hilt of her blade. “I know we’ll win.”
Alina’s smile faltered briefly as she returned her eyes to the enemy lines. “Yes, we will.”
Natalya opened her mouth to speak again, but she was cut off by the sound of a horn. The deep bellow rang through the mountains and signalled the troops to spring the trap. The air about Alina changed. Her eyes sharpened and her smile flattened as her tail rose straight into the air.
A tsunami of troops descended upon the duke and his men, but the Vernelle unit was not among them. Like most other elites, they stayed hidden and awaited their turn. They were meant to be a part of the fourth of five waves, as was decided by central command.
The many veterans in Alina’s unit thought the outcome unlucky and the strategy ridiculous. They saw no purpose in attacking in waves. Taking turns meant nothing but giving up an opportunity for glory, to wait as their competitors snatched it from right under their noses. A belief that held only until first contact was made.
Duke Augustus did not order his troops to stop or react. They continued to march, leisurely, as catgirls, cat-siths, and moths descended upon them in droves. Not a single soldier flinched, even as they were bombarded with a wall of arrows and a hail of spells. It looked as if they simply wished not to acknowledge their demise, to proceed with pride until they were taken and forced to accept death’s kiss.
But it was not a bluff, nor a final attempt to keep up appearances.
The silvery-white cervitaur that was the force’s commander raised a hand in front of him and clenched it into a fist. That was all he needed to do, the only action he needed to take to command the crimson tide.
Every single enemy soldier within a thousand paces of him erupted into a fountain of red. Their bodies were squeezed dry, drained of vital fluid, and turned to empty husks. Even the vampire corps was wiped out in an instant. Despite their innate mastery of hemomancy and their iron grip on their own blood.
The cardinal current was formed into a veil; Virilius crafted a powerful barrier that warded off all the incoming projectiles without so much as the slightest hint of difficulty.
Natalya gasped in horror. The troops began to falter as they bore witness to the massacre. As much as she didn’t want to believe it, the catgirl was made to realise that everything she heard was true. Virillius Augustus was every bit the freak of nature that he was so often described. In just one attack, he had caused the army’s morale to crumble.
Some of the joint forces began to reel back, but they were not allowed to escape. The bloody currents swirled around the battlefield and consumed all, near or far. It took no more than five minutes for the infamous Cadrian to exterminate the first wave of assailants. The battle was over. The war was over. By his hand, it was already decided. Natalya gulped and awaited the sound of a drum, the signal to retreat, but what she heard instead was another horn. Another order, for another wave of troops to march.
It was then that she finally came to understand why the army had been divided into five smaller parts. It was to seek victory through attrition. High command had judged that the best way to defeat Virilius was to deplete his mana. The first few waves of troops were fodder. They existed only to lay down their lives, so that the path to victory could be paved with their corpses.
It was a disgusting scheme, but an effective one. Or at least that was what she wanted to believe. The possibility of losing, even with so much blood paid, was one she refused to entertain. But the distinctive white moose appeared nigh unstoppable.
Both waves two and three were dispatched in a similar fashion. Natalya couldn’t help but shake in her boots when the horn was blown a fourth time. A grim look on her face, she looked towards Alina, who raised her blade and led the charge. Natalya followed her sister’s lead, but with much less vigour. She didn’t think that victory was within their grasp. Not anymore.
Fear stopped her from advancing as quickly as the others, but she couldn’t abandon her sister. With that earnest thought, she charged on all fours, sword in mouth and tail held high.
For once, he didn’t immediately cast a large-scale spell. It appeared that the brass’ strategy had worked, that he had finally run out of mana. The thought spurred a burst of acceleration. Before long, she got close enough to see the pores of his skin, the lack of sweat on his brow, and the blank stare that sat atop his face.
It was like he didn’t care that he was being attacked, like he didn’t care that he was being starved of mana, and like he didn’t care for the lives of those he reaped. Looking him in the cold, dead eyes brought nothing but terror.
Her steps began to falter. She couldn’t push forward. Falling to her knees, she could only watch and pray as Alina engaged him in combat.
Her sister was a master duelist. She was specialised in close quarters, and she was far better at single combat than just about everyone else in the army. Her instructor, one of the men in command of the operation, was the only one she couldn’t consistently best, and even then, the score was roughly even, barely skewed in the colonel’s favour.
There was no way a mage could possibly deal with her, once she got within range. That was the assumption Natalya made. But she had failed to consider one thing. Virillius wasn’t a mage. He was a battlemage, a type of caster specialised in the use of weaponry.
It took only a single exchange for the winner to be decided. Three quick slashes; Virilius only swung his spear once and his shieldlance twice.
But that was all it took.
The first blow sent Alina’s sword flying. It flew through the air and landed a few feet away from Natalya, its blade embedded deep in the ground.
The second attack skewered the retreating catgirl through the chest.
And the third removed her head.
Natalya couldn’t believe it.
She trembled uncontrollably as her eyes shifted between her sister’s head and the man’s blank stare.
He had thought nothing of killing her.
He had thought nothing of killing the second best warrior in all of Paunse.
She wanted to cry, to grieve the loss of her beloved elder sister, but she was unable. The only thing that filled her mind was terror. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she grabbed Alina’s blade, turned tail, and ran. She didn’t care if she would be tried for treason or branded a coward. Her life would be forfeit if she was unable to escape the monster that served as Cadria’s sword.
The battle of Meerfog Gorge was unwinnable.
Fleeing and seeking refuge was the only way to survive.
