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Book 5: Chapter 36 - Holy Warriors (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-03-20 12:59:48 +0000 UTC“The masters of old once observed that the journey of self-discovery is not found in idle reflection alone, but in the footsteps taken across countless roads. One must venture beyond the familiar hearth, meeting the diversity of humankind and absorbing the lessons each path has to impart. In bearing witness to the struggles and triumphs of others, the traveler learns to temper arrogance with humility, to exchange pride for compassion, and to transform curiosity into wisdom. Only when these many roads have been traversed, both outwardly in the world and inwardly within the heart, will one truly stand face to face with the person they are meant to become. Thus, as the ancient sages teach, the road to finding oneself is paved not merely with distance, but with virtue and reflection at every step.”
- The Human Question by Gideon de Salavia 378 AC.
“I have come,” she repeated, her voice no louder than the hush of a gathering storm. “One blessed by Her light found us and bade we come at once.”
So, one of my minions had succeeded.
“Your timing is most fortuitous,” I said, the words slipping from my tongue as though I had spoken them many times before. “The Goddess works in ways beyond our ken, and I am thankful for your aid, Cordelia. But first”—I paused, my gaze sweeping the battlefield—“we must have a tally of the wounded and the dead. And what of my messengers who brought the holy word?”
“It shall be as you command,” she replied, her tone reverent as ever. “But, it is with regret, that all found their way to the bosom of the Goddess save for one.”
An expected result, I realized. The Whispering Wastes was a dangerous place and the people inhabiting them, more dangerous still.
Time had left no mark upon her. The red-haired woman looked the same as when I’d first laid eyes on her—untouched by the sun’s relentless glare, flawless in a way that seemed almost unearthly.
I seized the arm of a passing soldier of Al-Lazar. The fight still burned behind his eyes. “What of Tikirit?” I demanded.
He clenched his jaw, embers of anger flickering in his voice. “Captain Tikirit has fallen, First Tamkar.”
I shook my head as if in a dream. Had I asked this before? Memory felt distant, blurred by pain and dust.
“Who commands now?” My voice was steel.
“That would be…you, I suppose,” he answered, hesitant.
“Very well,” I said. “I will take command, and you shall be my acting second. Your name?”
“Haidar, First Tamkar.” He snapped to attention with a soldier’s briskness.
“Then listen well, Haidar,” I continued. “Relay my orders to the men. We must strike while the iron is yet hot against the desert tribes…”
“But, sir,” he interrupted, “the men are in no condition. And there are no reserves.”
“Nor does the enemy have strength to spare,” I retorted, fixing him with a hard stare. “They reel from the blows we have already dealt. The walls of Al-Lazar cannot shield us from their monstrous eagles. Gather a small contingent to carry our gravely wounded back to the city. Any who can yet bear arms must fight. We cannot retreat now. One of their fortress ships must fall to us, or all this bloodshed will have been for nothing. Do I make myself clear—or shall I find another second?”
A small thrill coursed through me, a savage pleasure at spending lives that were not mine to spend.
“It shall be as you command.” He struck his breastplate with a mailed fist.
“Then we move,” I said, pointing toward the nearest beached leviathan of a fortress ship. “Cordelia, you speak for these followers?”
She bowed her head. “They are the willing, come to do the Goddess’s bidding. Yet we have no means to siege that stronghold. The lesser Guardians are not strong enough to bring down their walls.”
I almost laughed aloud. Cordelia had returned with a devoted flock, all prepared to kill or die under my banner. Thick walls would be little protection from the fires I intended to unleash. Avaria, the belief in her, had delivered a weapon into my hands. An idea flared in my mind like lightning across a dark sky.
“It is time to cleanse this place of the unclean with scouring flame and holy light,” I pronounced. “We will wipe away their stain. Bring me two score men of the purest faith. Tell them that I—the living word that dwells among them—shall speak the Goddess’s own glory to them. With faith, we shall destroy our enemies.”
Tears glimmered in Cordelia’s eyes, shining with holy fervor. This was her purpose, her bliss. Let her bask in rapture, I thought, and know the Goddess’s touch as it moves through me.
***
The sun blazed high in the unforgiving sky, scorching the sands beneath our feet and casting hard shadows. A ragged line of Al-Lazarian soldiers, those who remained of the once-mighty two thousand, encircled one of the elven arks along with the warriors of the desert tribes. Fewer than one in four had survived, and their worn, haunted eyes spoke of the bitter horrors of war.
Even at this distance, just out of bowshot, the ark looked more like a fortress hewn from stone than any vessel meant to cross the bitter seas. Its massive bulk rose intimidatingly from the sand, shimmering in the brutal sunlight. How such a heavy construction had voyaged across unknown oceans was a mystery as deep as the magic that no doubt surrounded it.
The Nas Al-Rimal, the men of the desert tribes, were wiry, their dusky skin lined with dust and sweat. They pressed their palms to the backs of their heads, a reverent gesture, and bowed low. They were younger than I had expected, barely more than boys—but their grim determination filled the air with a solemn hush.
“You have been chosen to be the Blades of the Goddess,” I proclaimed, my voice echoing in the emptiness. “I will grant you a prayer. You must obey completely, you must not doubt, and you must not question. Paradise shall be yours if you take upon you this most holy of tasks. You will become instruments of Her will.”
One of them, startled and uncertain, ventured, “What do you mean…?” The words barely escaped his trembling lips.
I exchanged a look with Cordelia and shook my head. “He is not worthy,” I said coldly, my tone final. “He cannot obey a simple command, and so the Goddess finds no path to his soul. Send him away.”
The boy’s eyes filled with terror. He fell to his knees, pressing his forehead against the gritty sand. “Please! I did not know!” he begged, his voice cracking.
“Go, and know that you have been judged unworthy,” I pronounced. The others cast him fleeting glances, a mixture of pity and contempt, and he slunk into the distance.
Now came the difficult part, the truly perilous moment: imparting the words of the First Spell. I knew I had to speak slowly. To recite the chant in its entirety would call forth devastation. Would call forth Cataclysm.
“These,” I began, voice reverberating with the weight of a most ancient power, “are the words of the Goddess.” Carefully, I recited the first verse of the spell—syllables from a time when the universe was still formless. The air around us vibrated with a strange energy that buzzed through my bones. Only when it subsided, did I dare speak the next part, allowing it to settle before continuing. I repeated this ritual three more times, each incantation weaving a tapestry of unseen forces.
“And this final word,” I warned, lowering my voice ominously, “must not be spoken aloud until you stand at the walls of your enemies. It is the final exaltation, and to utter it before your duty is done is blasphemy.”
They nodded fervently, understanding that they held in their hearts a fragment of creation itself. Then I whispered the last, forbidden syllable—barely more than a breath—and felt the tension coil in the still, scorching air.
Cordelia smiled, an expression that seemed to radiate divine approval. I saw of them look upon her longingly and I knew then the true source of their devotion.
“The Goddess is Great. Allaha Akbara,” I declared, raising my arm and pointing at the foreboding walls of the fortress-ship. “Peace and praise be upon you all, for you are the chosen. Go, for paradise awaits those who do Her will!”
With that command, they leapt for their mounts—the sleek, manta-like Lirkud that floated over the desert sands. Youthful zeal coursed through them, and they vaulted onto the creatures with graceful, practiced ease. Our combined armies parted to let them pass, and like arrows freed from a bowstring, they sped toward the ark.
Failure came swiftly from the fortress walls to claim their lives. A flurry of arrows rained down on the riders, and three fell instantly, their flames extinguished. Zig-zagging to evade the shafts that darkened the sky, a few more tumbled from their mounts, mortally wounded.
But despite the barrage, some reached the walls. There, in the chaos and screams, the gifted one among them found the resolve to speak the final word—finishing the holy verse of the First Spell. And in that single, cataclysmic moment, destiny itself seemed to tremble.
A heartbeat later, the roar tore through the sky. The faithful who had completed the First Spell ignited in an explosions of raw energy, bursts of flame and searing light that ripped apart stone. Magical wards shattered and the air quivered with the backlash, and debris showered the once-sea floor in a storm of jagged rock and glass.
So bright was the spectacle that our men had to look away, unable to witness the glory.
A gaping breach soon yawned in the fortress-ship’s side, great chunks of stone. Choking dust billowed in the wind, and through the haze, I could see stunned elven faces atop the walls peering out in disbelief.
“The way is open. The Blessed have made us a path!” I shouted, raising my arm high. “Forward! Seize the moment, in the Goddess’s name! Allaha Akbara!”
My order crackled across the dunes, and the combined army of Al-Lazarians and Nas Al-Rimal, moved at speed toward the breach with a disciplined fervor. Shields lifted above their heads, the columns advanced at a measured yet relentless pace, boots crunching on broken rock. We braced ourselves for the deadly shriek of arrows, certain the elves would rain death upon us at any second. Instead, silence clung to the air, interrupted only by the stomp of marching feet and the crackle of small fires smoldering in the rubble.
Upon the ark’s walls, I glimpsed movement—ashen-faced elves stumbling away from the carnage, shock etched into their pale features. They seemed too staggered by the devastation to remember their bows, let alone draw them. It was a lull, a single heartbeat in the storm, but I knew better than to hesitate. I rushed ahead, pressing the advantage while the defenders still reeled.
There is a magnetism to a leader who charges into battle at the head of his forces, compelling others to follow in his wake. That pull becomes doubly powerful when that leader is an invincible hero, chosen by the Divine.
However, once through the breach, the respite ended. The elves, rousing from their stupor, scrambled to form a defensive line. Spear tips glinted in the dusty gloom, and the ring of swords clashing against shields echoed in the remains of the corridor. Our own men fanned out, forming a wedge around me and Cordelia. I barked commands over the din, forcing order onto the chaos.
A pair of elven warriors lunged at our front ranks, their eyes wide with anger and fear. They fought desperately, hammering at our shields with ferocious strikes, their god-metal weapons taking a terrible toll on the armor and weapons of mortal men. The melee grew thick with swirling dust and sand, blood, and sparks from clashing metal.
Cordelia fought like one consumed by a ravenous spirit, her eyes blazing with a fervor that bordered on madness. In the whirlwind of dust and carnage, she met the elven swordsmen blade to blade, her every strike swift and lethal. More than once, I watched her drive an overhead cut through an elf’s perfectly executed guard, shattering the weapon and the hopes and dreams of its wielder in the same crushing blow.
Her weapon left sparks dancing in the air, slicing through defenses that should have held. It was as though her blade drank in her zeal, transforming it into destructive force. Sweat and blood clung to her beautiful face trapped in an expression rapture, and yet she never faltered, never hesitated—her relentless attacks reminiscent of a storm that refused to abate.
For a fleeting moment, I stood transfixed by the sheer impossibility of it. No ordinary sword could wield such devastating power, slicing through the best-trained warriors as if their parries were mere illusions. My heart pounded in my chest, half in awe and half in alarm. Whatever fire burned within Cordelia, it fueled her every stroke, turning her blade into a force no mortal steel could contain.
The smell of burning ozone and scorched stone coated our tongues, but together we pressed forward, overpowering the elves, step by resolute step.
I stood as the tip of the spear, unbroken before all who dared oppose us. Feeling the destined hour upon me, I summoned the Holy Aura and fused its power with Overboost. In an explosion of radiance, golden light poured from my very being, spilling out in searing streams. I was Justice incarnate, manifested in mortal flesh, and Justice demanded retribution. My hammer rose and fell relentlessly, obliterating the unclean in its path. Across my vision, holy numbers flared, each proclaiming the rightness of my divine purpose.
But I was not alone in the Goddess’ favor. She strengthened the warriors at my side. They fought with unbridled fervor, shrugging off injuries that would have felled lesser souls. In the glow of my golden aura, in the shadow of my raw might, each became a minor saint—reborn in faith and fueled by unshakable devotion.
Somewhere within the depths of the ark ship, trumpets sounded a warning. A desperate and pathetic call to arms. The elves, at last, had shaken off the last of their shock; the real battle was about to begin. Undaunted, we forged ahead with the divine momentum granted by the sacrifice of young men drunk on a holy lie.
The elven warrior advanced, sword held in a textbook guard, feet planted with impeccable stance and distance, as though following the strictest of warrior manuals. Under normal circumstances, his structure would have been flawless—enough to stop any mortal blow by intercepting the strike at just the right angle and measure. But nothing could prepare him for a Holy Strike infused with extra Mana from Overboost.
More numbers. I was drawing closer to the most inevitable of conclusions, that of greater power.
My blade crashed down, radiating divine force, and his parry—no matter how perfect—was blasted apart. Sparks flashed against the Saint’s Silver of his armor, which might have saved him from mundane steel. Instead, the sacred power tore him limb from limb, leaving no time for a second thought or a final breath.
A wild laugh tore from my throat, echoing off the damaged walls of the fortress-ship. They still fought, still resisted despite the ruptured walls and the utter shock they had endured. Excellent. Their willful defiance would make the next moments all the sweeter—more satisfying, more of a challenge to truly test my invincible might.
