Battleforged
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Chapter 249 - Deathmarch
🕑 Added 2023-02-01 04:00:01 +0000 UTCEndless moments passed in that trance-like state that ate up the miles as the ground seemed to tremble and shake with a full company of 600-pound revenants ripping through the plains in perfect lockstep. All Eric’s growing worry and anxiety was kept in check with the desperate hope that he just might be able to pull a win with the engagement to come.
Even if the shamans and soldiers he would face would be more than triple the numbers that had almost killed him less than half an hour ago.
Even if all he could realistically hope to accomplish against high level shamans and massive stone throwing giants was to buy his sister the time she’d need to flee for her life.
Even if he was running on adrenaline and fumes at this point, coping with the madness of constant life and death struggles by seeing it all as a lucid dream.
Still he charged on for all he was worth, determined to savor the zen of a precious endless moment of victory… before he set foot in Queensland once more and his madcap grin was replaced by an awful sense of dread when his sister’s panicked desperation washed over him.
For just an eyeblink, he was his sister, clenching tight her trembling fists as tears of crimson agony dripped down her cheeks, choking back a scream as her psyche and soul seemed to tear in twain, desperately holding together an inconceivably complex ritual that the bastard shamans below were doing absolutely everything they could to disrupt… and slowly, one tightly wound arcane filament at a time, they were succeeding.
“Hold it steady and summon forth!” Aurelia’s pitiless gaze, the piercing stare of the Winter Queen herself, dressed in form fitting fabric of ivory white silk and gold, froze the cry from Elonia’s lips. Instantly wilting under the pitiless gaze of a taskmistress who was never satisfied, never forgot, and never forgave a single mistake.
No matter how much Elonia endured, even as she now stood on the balcony of the highest tower of a palace forged of her brother’s madness and living dream, it would never be enough. Could never be enough.
Not when her people who had sworn their lives to her were just hours, perhaps minutes away from being overwhelmed, their surviving wizards slowly crumpling under the assault of massive stone giants able to hurtle endless boulders as deadly as any cannon while the curse mages slowly, insidiously, inevitably, tore apart Elonia’s every attempt at a grand ritual. And worse of all were the two thousand orcs that her mother had calmly informed her weren’t conscripts at all. They were Blood Legion Berserkers and Spearmen, and each and every one of them were armed with exceedingly accurate breach-loading black powder rifles. Because with all the other rules skirted and crimes committed by goblins who now, at this point, had carte blanche to do whatever they wished under the smirking noses of fat bloated politicians turned Earth administrators, what was one more breach of the accords? Clearly it was nothing that the goblins generous beyond precedent with their purses, couldn’t smooth over in their favor.
And Earth, just a single tile on a board spanning the galaxy, as the goblinoid tribes made their move after a thousand years of careful planning, according to her ever chillier mother, their goal nothing less than the eradication of all the tribes of Mer and men. The slaves they took? Deliberately sold to Valorium mines and slave colonies with a 100% turnover rate. Because their goal wasn’t just profit.
It was genocide.
And the fools that passed for administrators in this world were so stupid they just didn’t realize, or couldn’t see beyond their bloated bellies and wallets. Stupid enough to think it was just about capitalism and profit. Blind to the true dimensions of the utterly ruthless contest between the races.
“Hold, Elonia! Please, for the sake of all you hold dear, you must hold!”
She gasped at the panic she almost sensed in her mother’s voice. Eyes widening, she was more frightened to see the concern in her mother’s face, to hear it in her voice, a tiny sliver of panic actually slipping through as the woman flashed the motherly smile Elonia had hoped to see even a glimmer of for months. No… years.
Ever since she first sought to escape along paths she knew she had no right to… desperate to forget the sight of her mother so easily gripping a frantic, struggling man. 5-o'clock shadow, an ill-fitting suit, and eyes wide with panic, swearing he wouldn’t reveal the photos he had taken of her mother in the nude, swearing it would be their little secret, before his desperate screams were cut off with a gurgle, once Aurelia ripped out the paparazzi's throat.
Elonia would never forget stumbling into her mother’s room, catching sight of a naked Lord Drevyn’s worried frown. And her mother, equally in the nude, smiling so brightly, covered in the reporter’s blood. Before eating his heart! My, what sharp teeth you have, mother!
And not one employee of that tabloid had survived the night. All dying under mysterious circumstances. All of the frozen to death in a freak snowstorm more fitting of the arctic tundra than a warm European winter. And not one politician or police chief had lifted a finger to investigate.
Not one.
As all records of that tabloid’s very existence was wiped clean from the internet and physical records both. Because her mother was a far more savvy negotiator with her hands in so many dark bloody pies than Elonia could have fathomed.
That was when she started getting a taste for the sweet bliss of oblivion, and her once loving caretaker had never shown her a mother’s tenderness again. Only nods of cold satisfaction when her movies became blockbusters, her road-to-recovery style autobiography hit the best seller charts, or she actually managed to master the magics she thought she’d love learning to cast. And she had, in fact loved learning magics just as wondrous as those she had once adored reading about in the most numerically challenged of all English wizardry academies, absolutely reveling in the rush of commanding the elements.
It had been a rush that was better than any high, until her mother invoked a grueling 12-hour daily training regimen, as if determined to make even that sweet escape just another trial to endure.
And it still hadn’t been enough, a trembling Elonia now thought, sobbing with pain and exhaustion as her mother held her close, whispering with fierce intensity, revealing a tenderness she should have shown years ago. Fucking years ago! And still, no matter how Elonia wanted scream, and cry, and beat her mom with her tightly clenched trembling fists, she kept hold of the furious howling storm of arcane magics threatening to explode like a bomb of inconceivable potency, and perhaps take out the whole damned territory, if she couldn’t keep her shit together.
“That’s it, daughter,” her mother soothed. “Hold the magic tight to your heart. Never mind the tear, we can mend all that later. Any fractured soul is made whole upon gaining the throne! All you need to do now is survive to that point, my love. So hold. For all that is dear, for the sake of our people, you must hold!” Aurelia’s voice turned hard and cold once more as Elonia felt her spine stiffen. Hating to admit that it was just what she needed to hear.
She flashed her mother a shaky smile, forcing a chuckle. “Thank you… mom.” She swallowed. “I know I’ve been a—“
Then she screamed, feeling something vital snap, her psyche now roaring with the laughter of shamans that should never have been allowed in this world at all.
“Hold, Elonia!” her mother screamed. And how awful it was, thought Elonia and a joined Eric as the two momentarily became one, to see the look of panic on their flawless mother’s features.
Aurelia’s gaze widened, seeing so much with her terrible gaze. “Eric! Your sister needs you! This is the final hour! It is here and now! You must come!”
Before Eric could say a word, he was slammed back into his body once more, privy to so many of his twin’s secrets in that endless terrible moment of crossing the border… sensing as well, just how perilous their situation truly was.
On this world…
And countless others.
It was all Eric could do to quell the screaming panic in his heart. Knowing that his sister was close to expiring, would expire, if she couldn’t channel the magics roaring through her.
Knowing that he’d be a fool to get anywhere near her final bastion, the fortress that could blow up at any minute.
Before racing forward at speeds beyond what even he had thought possible, speeds that demanded the most extreme postures, embracing the Naruto run that no right-minded Olympian would stoop to, when his speed notched up from 120 mph to 140 and beyond, his troops keeping up with him every step of the way.
“Area 51, here we come, motherfuckers!”
When Eric finally crested the rise and caught sight of the shattered marble wall and the besieged brownstone keep beyond, his heart quailed. Of the mystic city that had led to so many wondrous secrets he had seen, there was no sign. Only the remnants of what had once been a picturesque European village of colorful red tiled roofs and beige walls, nearly half the buildings now smoldering ruins, plumes of black smoke still hovering in the air from a number of fires still blazing in that town.
Eric paused, gasping, leaning over pants that were effectively shorts, having torn away everything from the knees below, the rest now stained with blood and linked to his essence, all of it whipped and shredded by the mad pace he had kept, grateful that a certain gift was still firmly pressed against his leg, and that his exotic hilt and scabbard, bound as they were to his soul, showed no more signs of wear or friction than did the mithril blade, still at the ready by his side.
He allowed himself a brief moment of hope, gazing at the scene of battle, perhaps a mile away. No more. Because as tragic as it was to see his sister’s city a smoldering ruin, at least the keep held firm, he thought, for all that he winced as the four massive flint-colored giants dressed in stitched together animal skins continued to hurtle stones they seemed to pull from the very ether.
The air rang with the metronome-like thud of rocks pounding prismatic fields and it chilled Eric to sense each pulse getting just a tiny bit weaker than the one before… and the one before that.
Eric could no longer deny the fact that his sister’s doom was rapidly closing in, as evidenced by the weakening field, the three shamans roaring chants that seemed to peak in pitch and volume with Elonia’s sharp cries in his mind, and perhaps most dangerous of all, at least to the elves preparing for their last stand, were the hundreds upon hundreds of heavily armed and armored Classers holding rifles at the ready, preparing to slaughter every last elf once the ward broke, which Eric feared would happen in minutes.
Unless something drastic was done.
At that moment Eric felt a chill down his spine, sensing one of the orc shamans pause in his echoing chant to spin about and peer Alex’s way, massive lips forming a mocking smile when he caught sight of Eric’s hunched over, panting form, and the clusters of scattered men, also hunched over, for all the world looking like a rag tag band of exhausted soldiers, arriving just in time to die.
The very words Eric’s exquisite perception picked up, even as he forced the pounding surge of anxiety in his heart to cold focused intensity, squeezing tight his fists with ever growing rage.
He gave a quick glance for the revenant tasked with carrying his lead ball, a prize he could summon back where it belonged at will, even a mile or more away. He gazed down at the leather strap held in a sweaty grip as he slowly righted himself, sending a dozen silent commands as he began a stumbling jog down the slight incline, another twenty or so bands of soldiers, scattered haphazardly, beginning their slow decent as well, as if all of them were being drawn inevitably to their death.
“Look at how those fools crawl forward. Broken by terrain, distance, and our superior planning! Arriving just in time to witness the death of their kin, and helpless to do anything about it!” Mocked the largest of the shaman, silver tusks showing as he grinned wide, smirking Eric’s way before spitting black bile.
“Focus, Silvertooth. It’s the bitch queen’s other brat, who can do nothing save distract us, but we are on to Aurelia’s games! The stone slaves have almost broken through. That half-breed harlot’s ritual must not be allowed to complete, not now!” Snapped another. He spared only a single contemptuous glance for Eric’s stumbling decent down the hill slope. “Men, form up in ranks! If those fools do anything more than fall to their knees and pray to their gods, shoot them dead!” the monstrous shaman roared before turning back around, paying no further mind to Eric’s rag tag group as he turned about to glower up at the keep. Then the monstrous orc began to chant once more, his two fellows joining him in awful discordant counterpoint, their grating pitch and volume causing physical pain to Eric’s ears.
It was a discomfort that quickly transformed to horror as he sensed the spikes of white-hot pain the shaman’s counter-chants were causing his twin.
Elonia’s shrieks rang in his ears as he sensed her tormented soul desperately trying to wrestle with magics far beyond her ken, magics the shamans were savagely trying to pull free of her grip.
Eric’s heart began to pound, as his broken jog turned to a loping stride and then a mad, furious sprint just as the last of the shamans turned back around to glare at the topmost keep tower protected by wards of both shimmering silver and gold, the trio having apparently relegated Eric to an unwanted distraction.
Forcing Eric to fight through a massive regiment of rifle wielding Classers before he could serve as even the tiniest of distractions to the Shamans and stone giants now on the cusp of finally breaking through and seizing their prize.
Just as he had hoped they would.
Eric’s teeth flashed in a desperate grin. “Tiger company, vanguard charge!” A command instantly conveyed to every revenant on the battlefield, whether or not they could here his voice, all of them immediately closing ranks.
And what had appeared to be a score of exhausted disorganized bands stumbling down the incline had become a massive, highly disciplined wedge of men, spear-like muskets pointing forward exactly like knights tilting forward and bracing their lances seconds before impact. And how delicious it was for Eric to see the faces of countless hundreds of loosely disciplined orcs snorting and laughing suddenly go wide-eyed and quiet as Eric’s troops closed ranks with chilling speed. Then it was looks of panicked confusion, at least in the frontmost ranks, when Eric gave vent to a roar that echoed across the field as his men accelerated from a charger’s pace to half a dozen times as fast as any knight’s warhorse had ever dared to race, the sudden sporadic firing of smaller lead bullets designed for accuracy either bounced off inhumanely strong skulls or lodged themselves in essence enhanced flesh, without doing any structural damage at all. And closed ranks meant that his troops perfectly covered his flanks, only a small handful of now wide-eyed orcs even managing to send shots his way.
Shots that smacked into his chest, or bounced off his already unsheathed sword blade now guarding his eyes, with a sting no worse harm than a lover’s slap.
And not a single bullet more hit his frame or caused his Tiger Company any harm at all when he leaped to explosive heights at the moment of impact, howling with fierce, savage glee, his blazing sword held high as he cleared countless rows of stunned-looking enemy combatants when the air rang with the din and crash of over half a thousand undead warriors slamming into their mortal foes at speeds far exceeding most highway collisions.
With shockingly similar results, as countless hundreds of reds were sent flying in sprays of blood and ruptured entrails before slamming into the stunned men behind them could even react, most with massive holes in their chests from bayonetted musket shafts that should have surely broken to splinters under a charge many times greater in force and ferocity than a knight’s charge. And many had. Yet for every revenant that had lost a musket, three more had theirs still in firm grips as resilience runes flared to brief brilliant life upon their foreheads as they continued tearing through the tightly packed mass of now panicked Classers.
Nearly three rows of men had been knocked completely off their feet, the first row nothing but mangled corpses, the second’s broken cries and desperate screams quickly cut off by vicious lunges and clubs of bayonet and rifle, the third scrabbling to their feet in confused panic, not even trying to fight so much as claw past further ranks in a desperate bid for freedom.
And Eric could sense it all, laughing with mad, furious abandon as 200+ strength and great cleaving arcs of his mithril blade exploded through limbs and skulls, the air now tasting of powdered bone, ruptured organs, and crimson death as his blade effortlessly shattered enemy muskets raised in futile defense like the twigs they were, at least to him.
And how he savored the expressions of so many pig-faced abominations squealing their horror, so different from the snorts of glee they had once uttered after throwing his sister into the fire pit. Only now it was they who were burning. Burning as Eric’s blade blazed white hot with just the slightest touch of Fire Qi as he weaved past countless desperate thrusts, dipping and darting past clumsy fists and panicked tackles that were so horrifically slow to his hyper-enhanced senses that it was like walking past people trapped in molasses.
Until he freed them all with graceful ribbons of crimson caressing their forearms, thighs, abdomens and skulls.
Rich ruby blossoms that grew and grew in glorious profusion as sleepy orcs crumpled to the ground under the weight of death’s beautiful bouquet, his crimson masterwork giving meaning to the final moments of countless orcs as a roaring Eric carved a bloody swath through his foes.
Then he was suddenly through.
In the blink of an eye, Eric found himself in sight of all three shaman’s still glaring their hate up at the keep, their faces locked in rictuses of furious intensity as they belted out chant after chant.
Then the massive orc shaman known as Silvertooth grunted in surprise, turning down slowly, so slowly, as Eric felt his prize slip free of safekeeping and grace the pocket of his twirling twirling gift… and the shaman sensed it too.
“One...Two...Three!”
Desperate words were then shrieked, above the sound of Eric’s quiet whisper, as a ward began flickering to life.
Only to break off with a surprised spurt of blood.
Silvertooth gazed at Eric for long, poignant moments in utter disbelief.
Before falling to his knees, lips curled in an oh of surprise as his hands slowly reached for the massive hole spurting blood.
Exactly where his heart had been, just a heartbeat before.
“One...Two…Three...”
“Silvertooth!? Silver—“ A second shaman abruptly turned around, gazing at Eric with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Sentinels! Kill the half-blood! Kill the—“
...Four!”
The second largest orc ritualist gazed at Eric with a mixture of disbelief, alarm, and horror as a prismatic ward flared to life around him and he began belting out a desperate shrieking curse… feeling a sudden surge of hope if his widening smile was anything to go by, as the air crackled with lightning and the stench of ozone, Eric sent flying by a blast of lightning that had torn right through him by the third and final shaman.
Which might perhaps explained the shaman's puzzled look of confusion when he found himself crumpling to the ground, a spurting hole in his chest having cratered to over a foot, with bone fragments piercing every organ in his body, if the agony he felt was any indication. And perhaps his lips did curl in humorless admiration of a foe clever enough to sense the ebb and flow of wards his master had sworn no opponent would ever deduce.
Even if that extra second delay had scorched the mongrel bastard with lightning, lightning which seemed to do nothing to stem the tide of growing panic in what had been the greatest fighting force he had ever assembled. Over 2000 Classers with at least a single rank in the Marksman Profession, all of them marked as conscripts, no matter their breach-loading rifles. And with Bloodtear’s credits paving the way, no one had dared to challenge them. Only now, his elite Spearmen were fighting like the most panicked of conscripts, futilely plunging their bayoneted muskets in strangely resilient bodies that didn’t flinch even once after countless weapons were savagely plunged in and out of countless abdomens.
“Axes! Chop off their limbs off with axes, you fools!” The dying shaman could barely whisper as his tongue tasted bloody dirt while his men continued to furiously plunge their bayoneted muskets into the abdomens of soldiers that thought nothing of life-threatening wounds. Monstrous creatures that then proceeded to tear out the entrails of the very men who had been stabbing them!”
“Revenants,” the dying shaman whispered, finally getting a good look at eyes that blazing with eldritch flame. And how the dying shaman’s ruptured heart quailed to see one of those undead soldiers turn to gaze his way, flashing a hideous and far-too-sentient rictus of a grin, as if promising that he, Glicktor, would be joining them very, very soon.
Glicktor gasped for breath as his fibrillating heart flat-lined at last, his final thoughts a condemnation of his own arrogance, his own folly. An exhausted looking boy on the hilltop. Scattered troops mirroring his stance with eerie precision. Five hundred orcs! His men! And both territories, Silvergrove and Dairlyland, had blinked out of his possession in less than two hour’s time.
This mongrel fucker had survived the Queensland ambush, comprised of a full dozen of his Dreadnought assassins armed with Tier 2 Blaster rifles, and a Battlemaster to lead them! Just in case the halfblood actually dared to push that far! The undead men that Glicktor had actually allowed himself to think had been panting for air at the top of the incline had been Glicktor’s own troops, formerly led by Brother Rolic, whose gravity magics should have sent the damned mongrel boy screaming into the void.
How dare he, the great and terrible Glicktor, allow himself to be so distracted as to not appreciate at once the significance of this threat! His gut should have been screaming in alarm. It was those damn elven bitches taunting him with their nubile bodies, teasing him to best them in all the ways that they so richly deserved. He had been hungry to make that half-elf girl squeal in his arms, begging for him to assert his dominance over her, preferably with her mother tied down beside her, that Glicktor had completely disregarded the true threat, the one the goblins had offered... such… a… high… price...to…
You have been critically struck by enhanced lightning blast! You have taken over 1000 points of damage! You have saved versus cardiac arrest!
Eric gasped as his world turned white and the final dying moments of one orc shaman blazed across his mind as he himself was nearly killed by one that had just struck him from behind.
Causing him so much pain in that one instant of endless time that he was more agonized husk with skin charred black and pants a smoking ruin.
As for the crimson jewel a certain commander had had the foresight to gift him, there was no trace. Essence absorbed, and perhaps the only reason why Eric was even alive.
Duck!
Eric didn’t think, didn’t analyze, merely ignored the agony of scorched feet as he dove back into the furious melee still going on all around him, desperate for camouflage, for cover, for all that the milling armies had devolved into tight pockets with hundreds of corpses all around.
Duck!
Eric dodged and rolled behind a pocket of thirty or so revenants and Classers, the latter finally with enough room and, in at least a few cases, the savvy to actually pull free their axes and hack at limbs, since bullets and bayonets to center mass hadn’t done any of them a lick of good.
Yet for all that Eric would, in any other circumstances be cheering on his men’s continued slaughter of their foes, the rapidly dwindling number wasn’t don’t shit for camouflage, especially as a screaming shaman had just directed all four twenty-foot tall giants to bomb the battlegrounds with stone.
“Kill him! There he is! Kill that elf now! Fulgur Pilum!” The final shaman screamed, and Eric’s world turned white once more, horrified to lose another 20% of his health… and that was just incidental damage from a blast that had completely obliterated a pocket of fifteen of his men.
Heart pounding with terror, Eric embraced the only move he could think of that might give him a chance as he darted as fast as he could behind an even larger band of soldiers. That they were technically his enemies meant nothing, happy to gain a little bit of distance as they chased him furiously, though hopelessly unable to match his pace as he sent a command to his remaining company while screaming aloud the words that shook the entire battlefield.
“Surge, centuria! Imperator imperat tibi!”
As first one then dozens then hundreds of fallen orcs started to twitch and shake violently as they began to quite literally pull themselves together.
For just a single terrifying heartbeat, the ebb and flow of battle meant that Eric was locking gazes with the wide-eyed shaman who was pointing a twisted oak wand his way at that very moment.
“Fulgur Pilum! No!” The orc screamed, eyes bulging and shot going wide as several hundred revenants charged him at once. Pounding futilely on the high level ward…
And buying Eric time.
Time to heal himself.
You are deliberately directing Unified Healing!
Skillcheck made! You have avoided self-harm!
Heart and lungs are now fully healed!
And time to bring on the pain.
1024 Orc Classers between levels 21 and 24 have joined your legion!
You have given your legion a complex command!
Eric took a deep relieved breath as the hot caustic burn that made everything taste like ozone in the back of his throat finally left, the ache in his chest only visible in its absence, chilling as it was to feel his heart spasm at over 200 Vitality.
Because 50th level lightning bolts clearly weren’t fucking around, he thought, leaping and somersaulting through the air as a massive boulder crashed to the ground where he had been standing.
“One… Two… Three!”
You have successfully Dodged 3 Boulders!
For long moments Eric could do nothing but dart around the battlefield at a mad pace as boulder after boulder soared through the air, though his foes weren’t hitting any better than someone trying to beam a mouse with a tennis ball, he thought with a hard smile, for all that he was forced to realign his shot, over and over again, the damn giants skilled enough to prevent him from claiming the seconds he needed before he could unleash death of his own.
The shaman had brought himself time, Eric thought bitterly.
Before drawing his blade and charging the nearest giant, glaring stony hate Eric’s way with a roar.
Quickness check made! You have avoided being kicked to oblivion! You have avoided being stomped to oblivion!
And what a dangerous game Eric played, darting under the massive feet of a true monster
But this time, when he drew his blade, it was as a full six foot long pillar of white-hot liquid flame.
Windfire Strike has critically struck Level 57 Stone Giant!
You have cleaved through Stone Giant’s Right Ankle!
You have crippled Stone giant!
The air echoed with the roar of a mighty creature crashing to the ground with a despairing howl, but Eric was already moving forward, zigzagging across the churned earth of the battlefield, taking full advantage of a falling flailing giant blocking line of sight for two of its hooting, clearly distressed fellows, allowing Eric to devote his full attention on dodging the fourth snarling twenty foot tall monster doing all it could to pummel boulders, at his too small target, eyes widening in consternation when Eric abruptly bolted forward at speeds that were utterly beyond it, before zipping past the leg upraised for a stomp as the left leg lit up with a line of white-hot flame and what seemed an endless spray of blood as the howling giant desperately gripped its spurting leg… before its eyes bulged and filled with fire, and it collapsed with a sigh, never to grip anything again.
You have critically struck Stone Giant!
You have killed Level 57 Stone Giant!
You have bested an opponent more than 20 levels beyond your own in melee combat!
Rank 22 Cultivation successfully achieved!
Comments
Goldfish2
Man loved that but more importantly. It seems eric mom has her own harem! Or toys!! And doubly more importantly……..can I get a picture of Eric mom from the paparazzi??? For…….*cough cough* Ahem research purposes?
