Chapter 335: The Goddess Visage |
The Goddess Visage
Monastery, Courtyard
The cold night wind blew as if it had chosen a side in the battle against the undead. Having unloaded its passengers, the airship, as ordered, climbed higher into the night, wary of iron spears, ballistas, and whatever corrupted power might reach for it from below.
Beneath it, the vast courtyard burned with torchlight and bonfires. Thousands of flames marked the fighting, joined by white beams of light from above. Men shouted. Steel rang. The dead shrieked. Yet the line held, and the men roared to greet the Lord Shogun’s arrival.
As the Lord and his escort made their way toward the Vice’s position, the old Hunter, amid the still-raging battle, began to walk between the third and fourth ranks, shouting counsel to the men. “Heed my words. Forget bolts and arrows. Draw your swords or axes. These undead's weakness lies along the spine. Sever it, and they are finished.”
His words carried down the formation, and even those locked in combat tried to heed them.
The old Hunter went farther down the formation and continued in his strong, confident voice. "Ideally, a fishnet or the Lord’s barbed wire would do best to contain them, but we had none ready, so we’ll have to make do with a blow to the head, the neck, or the spine."
“Do we need to behead them?” a Captain asked.
“Beheading is a sure kill,” the old Hunter confirmed, “but you can also break the neck or the back, and that will stop them. Blows around the waist do very little, so avoid that.”
“My Lord,” the men greeted him, the words rising in uneven waves along the line.
The Vice at once moved near with his shield raised, ready to protect him.
Meeting his men’s gaze amid the battle, the Lord looked upon them and declared in a clear, authoritative voice, “I’m here.”
They were only brief words, but they were enough. Another spontaneous roar answered him. The rest of the line did not need to see or hear him in person. They already knew. Men who had been bloodied, wearied, and shaken by the horror of the undead now felt their hope rise.
While the rest of the Lord’s entourage stopped, one, clad in a traveling cloak, stepped past the others and continued forward. The men muttered in disbelief when they saw that her face was in fact a silver mask, carved so beautifully that it resembled the face of a goddess. Men whispered at the sight of it. The mask was joined to the helm so skillfully that it scarcely looked like a helm at all. It even bore faux hair to complete the illusion.
Befitting the image of a long-forgotten goddess, of a Grand Progenitor warrioress of old, the mysterious lady in the silver mask marched past them without fear.
“Lady,” the men nearest to her warned by instinct.
“There are undead ahead,” another called out.
But their words went unheeded. One of the men caught her arm, only for her to move through his grasp with such force and certainty that his fingers slipped free.
The embattled men in the second and first ranks were stunned as a lady wearing the face of a goddess appeared from behind them and passed through their line. They were even more startled to see that she carried the longest sword any of them had ever laid eyes on.
“An Imperial's claymore?” one lieutenant said in disbelief as the lady advanced alone.
The men’s eyes widened as they watched the thick blade wielded in one hand as if it were a short sword, its pommel smashing into an undead’s head, crushing the skull and hurling it back into the advancing dead behind it.
Before the stunned line, the lady then brought both hands to the hilt and twirled the great sword once, drawing the attention of ten more undead, only to drive forward and swing the sharpened steel with vicious force, cleaving through many in a single blow.
The undead shrieked as they were cut down like dried branches. Their remains were scattered across the courtyard’s trampled grass.
It was such a savage blow that it seemed as though it should have drained her strength, yet she kept advancing, crushing a still crawling undead beneath her foot.
More undead rushed at her, but she rushed at them as well. A wide blur of silver crashed into the horde again, and once more she claimed a dozen. And it was only the beginning. With strength that defied belief, the great sword danced across the field, hacking and slashing through the undead as though they were no more than training dummies.
Undead who blocked the sword were flung aside, crashing onto the trampled grass. They returned to their feet, but with a strange, bewildered stagger, as if the blow had rattled what little remained of them.
“Who is she?” a man in the front line gawked while kicking corpses away from his feet.
“I’ve never seen her,” another answered between ragged breaths, his stained halberd leveled at the enemy's direction.
“Must be one of the Hunters,” a third man said as he took his turn in the front.
Then one man stepped forward and said, “That’s it. I’m going with her.”
“Maintain discipline!” a group leader barked.
His friend warned, “You’re going to slow her down.”
“I’m guarding her flanks,” the man said in defiance.
Eighteen men had the same idea. They went out of formation and formed up on her left and right. As they battled their way forward, their boldness took some of the strain off their original line.
Inside the formation, the Vice had expected the Lord to take command at once. Instead, the Lord spotted a wounded lieutenant and knelt beside the man, careful not to hinder those laboring to keep him alive.
“Apologies, My Lord,” the man grunted between the hands tending him. “A blade came from below. It nearly got my groin, but struck my thigh instead.”
It bled profusely despite the ropes used as a tourniquet and the cloth pressed against it. Without hesitation, the Lord took his gemstone of strength, placed it on the man, and activated its magic for him. “Keep this safe. Can you do that for me?”
“My Lord...” the man muttered in pained disbelief, feeling unworthy of the gemstone. Then a current of warmth quickly passed through his body.
The Vice and the officers knew what it was and grew concerned. Instinctively, they formed a human cordon to better protect their Lord.
Watching the Vice on his side, the Lord asked, “Where are the Bannerets?”
“Sir Morton is in there,” the Vice said at once, pointing toward a surrounded column. “He’s trapped trying to free Sir Stan, who baited the undead toward him. Sir Harold has barricaded himself with the wounded inside the Healing Hall.”
“Barricaded?” the Lord asked.
The Vice nodded, carrying a hint of guilt, knowing it was a flaw in their planning.
The Lord looked troubled, but continued, “Where is this Healing Hall? Can we reach it from here?”
“It must be somewhere over there, as it has windows overlooking the courtyard,” the Vice replied, pointing toward the western part of the Monastery beyond the cloistered walk.
The Lord turned to his entourage. “Francisca.”
“My Lord,” the half-kin clad in ringmail answered.
“Sir Harold needs some help. Something that can pass through a narrow window.” He met her gaze.
Understanding at once, Francisca dipped her head.
“Go with my blessing,” he instructed, and the half-kin at once leaped through the line and charged on all fours toward the building.
The Lord then turned to the others. “Ingrid, stay here in case there’s more of this corrupted magic. Sir Sterling, with me.”
“Yes, My Lord,” they responded.
Watching the Lord move through the ranks, seemingly intent on heading for the front, the Vice reacted at once. “My Lord, you don’t have guards with you.”
Yet the Lord replied with startling casualness, “Well, I can’t leave the kid unattended.”
“My Lord,” the men cried in a mixture of alarm and awe as they watched him pass through them.
He took weapons from a leather case, a pair of beautifully made battle axes that he hung at his belt, and turned to face the line. "The proud, undefeated army of the Blue and Bronze, what seems to be the problem that halts you today?" he asked, his tone calm yet fierce.
The men could not help but feel a measure of shame.
The Captain repeated his warning. “My Lord, we’re facing undead. It’s dangerous.”
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Abandoning strict discipline, many gathered around the Lord with raised shields.
“So?” the Lord replied with such casualness that his men were left speechless. “You already heard the Hunter Guild’s words of wisdom. These undead can be killed. And let me add, they’re not fell beasts like goblins, with their keen eyes in the dark. These undead’s eyes have long since rotted. In the dark, they see even worse than you do.”
That the undead possessed such a human weakness had a profound effect on the men.
Courage did not come easily against so foul an enemy, but his words, and the sight of the silver-masked lady battling ahead, cleaving undead left and right like a greater monster than they were, began to embolden them.
“I don’t see a problem,” the Lord continued, walking along the front of the line while a group of men did their best to protect him.
“All I see is an unorganized mob that fights like animals. They have no formation. No discipline. No leadership. They don’t even use bows or crossbows. So what are you afraid of?”
Realization suddenly struck, and the men and officers felt rather foolish.
“They’re dead, forcibly awakened with only their most basic instincts. Their night sight is as poor as yours. Their movements are no better than those of old men in their hundredth year. Their only advantage is that they do not bleed, but a blow to the neck or the spine will kill them just as surely.” The Lord ended with a laugh, as if finding the whole thing bitterly ironic. “And they are rotting even as we speak.”
“My Lord,” the men responded, their strength trickling back as the line was no longer overwhelmed by the undead assault as before.
Far ahead, the three Hunters and the lady in the silver mask were rampaging through the undead, leaving gaps in the swarm that now seemed slower than ever to refill. One of them had already broken through and nearly reached the surrounded column, bringing much needed relief.
From the start, the Lord guessed that fear and hesitation were the real issue.
In normal battles, if one side kills a hundred out of a thousand, the rest will regroup.
If two hundred out of a thousand fall, they will retreat.
If three hundred out of a thousand fall, they will throw down their weapons and surrender.
But these undead were driven by madness, and that made this battle far more difficult than a normal engagement.
The Lord had reached halfway down the length of the line and shouted with all his strength so more of his men could hear. “Even if there are four thousand of them, there are two thousand of you. If each of you kills two of these mindless undead, then it will be over in an hour. Is that too tall an order?”
The men could not refute this simple truth.
“Is that too tall an order?” the Lord bellowed again. “If it is, then why the hell do I even bother feeding you through the winter?” He spoke like a deeply angered and disappointed father. “If you don't win me this battle, I’ll swear to gut all your pay and rewards. Every one of you.”
The men were shocked to hear that. It struck them like a whip across the back.
“If you’re no better than peasant soldiers, then I’ll put you on the farms and let peasant soldiers carry my banner.”
“My Lord,” the men cried out in alarm, aghast, jaws dropping as they glanced at one another in dismay. Then fury rose in their hearts like water brought to a boil.
The Lord kept lashing out. “Look at your Captains and Lieutenants. They’re grinning. They know they’ll claim all the honors and rewards while commanding peasants in your place.”
Even the young recruits stirred at the insult.
“You are all cowards. I’ll wipe out these wretched dead myself. I am no Lord of cowards.” True to his word, the Lord turned away, drew his axes, and charged, with Sir Sterling at his side. Two squires hastily followed, along with thirty others who stayed with him. The stout bannerman leaped forward with courage, accompanied by ten of his battle brothers.
At the sight of it, the whole line was set ablaze with shame and anger.
“To the banner! To the banner!” numerous Arvenian veterans who had fought longest under the Lord cried as they rushed to join him.
“Fuck the undead!” a Midlandian cursed loudly as he burst out of formation. Dozens followed.
“Let’s just die?!” a Lowlandian shouted as if it were a fine suggestion, prompting raw laughter as he and tens of his brethren marched forward.
Not wanting to be left behind, a Nicopolan bellowed to hearten his brothers. “For valor! For honor!” Dozens answered and rushed out to fight with him.
“Get the cornu. Tell him to blow until victory or dawn!” the Vice ordered, realizing that the Lord was committing everything.
The officers were especially frantic, knowing the Lord had not even his guards with him, nor his gemstone of strength. “Vanguard, find your courage!”
“Go! Drop the shields. Wipe them all out!” The Vice marched out.
Amid the blast of the cornu, the vanguard and officers advanced in unison all along the line. Behind them, two thousand men roared. At last, the entire line surged forward.
With his left-hand axe, the Lord parried a blow and, with the other, landed a clean stroke to an undead’s head, taking it off at once. Another came at him, and he met the rusted sword with the shaft of his axe before countering with a second strike. The blade bit deep into the undead’s shoulder with a nasty crack, breaking shoulder bone and neck. Yet more kept coming. As he blocked a spear thrust from an undead with an empty eye socket and half its jaw gone, another slammed into him, nearly knocking him to the ground.
“My Lord,” Sir Sterling called as he finished off the undead with his spear. A squire and two other men-at-arms rushed to help the Lord.
“Don’t stop,” the Lord said with a grunt as he blocked another suicidal undead. “We must keep the momentum.”
The men around him pressed on, fighting the wave building against them.
Behind them, like a tidal wave, two thousand enraged men hurled themselves in a countercharge against the undead army and immediately wrought havoc on impact. Like men possessed, they fell upon the rotting corpses, hacking and slashing with savage violence. They fought without hesitation, even more fiercely than in their past battles.
A lieutenant raised his sword high after felling several with his bardiche and shouted, “I’ll kill you all!”
“But aren’t they already dead?” a young squire shouted in jest while bludgeoning the back of a corpse that was still trying to rise.
“I’ll chew on their bones and make a cup of their skulls!” the lieutenant roared back, driving his men into a frenzy.
The Captain smashed an undead’s skull until it toppled over and fell, then yelled, “They’re fucking dead. Give them no quarter!”
Incapable of panic, the undead swarm simply hurled its full mass against them. The countercharge crashed against a wall of undead. Many sections collapsed beneath the new wave. Men groaned as their line broke. Dozens fell and were trampled in the crush. Panic surged through the entire formation. Grunts and screams of pain were near constant. But despite everything the undead hurled at them, what felt like almost a thousand more thrown into the fight, the men were not quitting. Even wounded and in tatters, the front line kept fighting with all they had.
Losing his weapon in the chaos, one man smashed an undead with a leg bone before raising it high to get attention and shouting, “Lads, show the Lord what bitches like us will do if a customer doesn’t pay!”
Coarse laughter broke out, mingling with ragged breaths and grunts of pain. Another shouted, even while locked in fierce battle, “We may be cowardly bitches, but we’re his, and we’re damn well worth the money!”
The axe heads of bardiches and halberds whipped left and right against the wave of undead, who thrust, stabbed, and slashed blindly like crazed men.
Even bloodied and broken, despite the undead’s best effort to swarm the living, this army was not stopping.
“Bring the Living Bitch, alive or undead!” one man taunted toward the Monastery.
Only harrowing screeches answered along the line. Blades in the dark kept coming, and so did the punishing strikes of axes and swords.
Seeing the line hold, the Vice shouted, “The Lord is in the field with us! Speed and violence!”
At the cry of the famed SAR creed, of the elite group many wished to join, the fighting turned even more savage. For the first time, the army was hungry for blood, and even the dead could not sate that hunger.
Watching his men fight with righteous fury, the Lord finally caught his breath. His arms were numb from felling more than thirty by himself. He found Sir Sterling beside him and muttered, “We’ve done it.”
Sweating just as hard, the young knight glanced at him, his face streaked with dried blood, yet still gave him a knowing grin. “I never doubted you, My Lord.”
“You should have. We nearly botched this,” the Lord admitted in jest, wiping rotten smear from his face. His armor bore nicks and grazes.
In truth, the odds had been stacked heavily against them. He had made no preparation against the undead. He had three Hunters and their Guild Master, but they had been meant as a contingency against a possible foul creature or two, not a full-blown army of the dead.
Ahead, the three Hunters, beginning to feel the toll of battle, heard a special whistle from their Guild Master. Seeing that the army had rallied under their Lord, the three finally slipped away into the dark. The undead’s weak eyesight was a boon to them, allowing them to move swiftly and vanish into the shadows to recover their strength. Many had already drawn a second or third sword, as fighting undead at such a pace dulled even the finest blades with alarming speed.
They rejoined their Guild Master, who had fought cleverly, completely unseen, felling dozens in the darkness like a ghost.
The Hunters withdrew, leaving the lady in the silver mask alone at the center of the fighting. Yet she kept battling like raging thunder in a storm. Many men who saw her fight were naturally captivated and wanted to fight by her side.
As each side fought with all it had, the living slowly began to overpower the dead.
After nearly half an hour of brutal fighting, they finally tipped the scales, having unknowingly butchered nearly two thousand undead. Now, fewer and fewer foul creatures remained on the field or came forth from the Monastery. Pockets of undead were swiftly surrounded and cut down in great numbers.
When men turned and found no more undead near them to fight, realization finally struck, and many began to weep in sheer jubilance. Against the odds, they had survived.
“We did it! We did it!” men shouted to their comrades, finding no corpses left standing.
They had won against a fell army. Many dropped to their knees in sheer exhaustion and found themselves surrounded by pieces of corpses that now stayed dead.
For the commanding staff, the quickness of the battle, not even an hour after the Lord’s arrival, was no surprise. Against a fully committed and aggressive, even suicidal, enemy, such a battle was bound to end quickly.
They came to the realization that the Lord had led them to victory not through clever strategy or refined tactics, for which he had made no preparation, but through sheer brute strength. It was the only thing left at his disposal, and he used it effectively.
As the men finally retook the courtyard, hunting down the remnants of the still-moving dead, the Lord made his way toward the previously surrounded column. Exhausted faces, smeared black and steeped in rotting stench, greeted him.
“My Lord,” the bruised and battered men of the column greeted, still clutching chipped and even bent weapons.
The Lord, likewise smeared black across his face and armor, approached Sir Morton and Sir Stan and offered his hand with a tired grin.
They hurried to clasp it, not caring whether it was proper or not, only grabbing it and laughing in exhausted relief.
“How did you even join the fight?” Sir Stan asked while his fractured left wrist was being set in a sling.
Even Sir Morton looked impressed. “I never knew you had your airship in the area.”
The Lord simply turned to Sir Sterling, who quipped, “This is the House of Blue and Bronze after all. We have plans within plans within plans.”
The men snorted and broke into laughter at such absurdity, yet it rang true. This was one of the strengths of the Lord Shogun’s House. Bordering on madness and skirting sheer overplanning, it held contingencies within contingencies within contingencies, even against the unknown.
Yet what Sir Sterling and the Lord did not reveal was that they had received a gift from Felicity: another set of dwarven earrings. These could communicate over long distances and were far more capable than the older pair. So capable, in fact, that Ingrid had been permitted to use one of them, despite what had happened with the old earring. The other was given to a trusted agent embedded in the army, not to spy, but as a precaution in case the campaign took an unexpected turn.
Lansius still worried about his Banneret and his army. He could only rest easier knowing he had kept a way to intervene, especially against the Monastery. And now, that precaution had proven necessary.
Now, the Lord turned his gaze across the courtyard and saw the cost of the battle, for the fighting had been heavy and brutal. More and more men were being rushed to the rear, where Ingrid and those with medical training treated them as best they could.
“If only we had barbed wire,” the Lord muttered.
“It is not your fault, My Lord,” the stout bannerman behind him answered. “None of us knew it would end like this.”
“Aye,” the Captain agreed. “If there is blame in this, it falls on us, the officers.”
Others who heard them voiced their agreement at once.
Despite mounting casualties, there was no denying that the army had won its second great victory in a single night. And it tasted sweeter than even Elandian honeyed mead.
From behind, the Vice and the officers approached. “My Lord,” they greeted. “The army awaits your order.”
Ahead, the silver-faced masked woman waited quietly, surrounded by hundreds of admirers. Her claymore was covered in red and black stains, with pieces of bone clinging here and there, yet she did not care. Her golden eyes were fixed only on him.
The Lord drew a sharp breath and began to walk toward the cloistered walkway. Without a word, his retinue fell in behind him. Behind them came the rest of the army.
***