The enemy’s roar rolled across the field, low and thunderous, and crashed into Stephan like a tidal wave. The militiamen were nearly a mile away, and yet they produced such noise before going into a headlong rush towards a straight wall. As if they were celebrating their imminent deaths.
Madness.
There was no other way to describe it. Even if the nobles were mad enough to round up their peasants and throw their lives at a bastion of humanity, why were the men forced into coming along cheering and running at them with everything they had?
Wait… they are too fast.
The regular Commoners were dashing with more speed than they had any right to have. What should have been a ragged, hesitant advance had become an unstoppable horde. Stephan nearly gave the order for the trebuchets to prepare, but the walls had their own commanders who knew their job. Lord Marshal’s meddling would only hinder them.
Lord Harrington wouldn’t have hampered anyone.
The thought stung, but Stephan’s command ability was nowhere near that of the Strategist more than thrice his level. So, he stood and watched, a figurehead to boost morale while archers prepared their bows and drew their arrows.
“Steady!” a sergeant barked.
Bows creaked, strings stretched taut. The breeze carried a faint smell of smoke and exhilarated screams of madmen.
Stephan waited for the order. The bows had a maximum range of around two hundred and fifty yards. And while the odds of causing an injury were slim at that distance, that wouldn’t stop the archers. The trebuchets were more problematic. Their reload times were long, and they were quite useless once the enemy entered their minimum range.
They needed to pick their moment, so the archers were the first to act.
“Loose!”
A storm of whistles followed the symphony of twangs as the first volley screamed towards the attackers. Stephan watched their flight as the surrounding bowmen each notched their second arrow.
“Loose,” the command came just as the first volley hit the charging conscripts, and based on their lack of armor, it was clear they were conscripts.
Arrows struck, most harmless, but even so, a dozen men should have gone down.
One did.
Only one. An arrow to the neck.
The rest kept running with shafts sticking out of their arms and legs. They got close enough for Stephan to realize they weren’t carrying lances. Hafts certainly, but the wood wasn’t sharpened—.
The world rumbled as the trebuchets roiled into motion. Timber groaned as it moved, and the wall trembled beneath Stephan’s feet, then a hail of fist-sized rocks flew towards the incoming militiamen.
Arrows downed men quietly, almost with peace. The shower of stone scattering across the mindless infantry had none of it. Limbs and bodies exploded. Gore showered the sprinting conscripts. Stephan’s guts twisted at the scene, and no few men around him averted their gaze, and yet…
And yet, the conscripts kept running, not a thought or an extra glance given to minced meat that had been one hundred humans not a blink ago.
Something is wrong with them. Stephan finally realized. The sight should have broken morale, but the stench of blood carried on the wind drove the men even more insane as they rushed forward.
The second volley of arrows hit, and then the third. The attackers lost two hundred, maybe three, just by running towards them, closer and closer.
Then Stephan saw it.
Thick white foam around their mouths, sticking to lips and messy beards; the red eyes. They were a dozen yards away, right at the edge of the moat, when they planted the lances into the water and leapt. Not a trace of skill, but pure, monstrous force.
Shafts snapped, men screamed, and the defenders’ minds blanked. They stared in shock. Bowmen gaped as barehanded savages fell towards them, the sight surreal. As poles broke, men plummeted into the moat or slammed against the walls. Others who failed to clear the distance joined them, crashing into the battlements, limbs breaking in echoing cracks and thuds, but about a third of them landed on the merlons and the allure, kicking and pouncing on the stunned soldiers.
Blessedly, the walkway was wide enough, and the men they smashed in didn’t plummet two dozen feet to their deaths, but the fight became desperate right from the start. A crazed savage fell toward Stephan. White foam stuck to his salt and pepper beard, bloodshot eyes bulging as he screamed his throat raw.
Stephan’s arm moved all on its own. The sword was at his hip, then in his hand, then cleaving through the man’s neck. The corpse fell on the ground, painting the stone red, and while many had kept the presence of mind to fight, some were too shocked or terrified by the suicidal charge.
Shrieks and howls mixed with the scent of blood, filling the air. Then, the rush hit Stephan. He had expected no warmth to fill him after slaying a low-level Commoner, and yet it came more intensely than when healing the wounded.
Something was odd about it. Stephan was sure, but before he could consider the matter, another screaming militiaman came at him, then another.
“Stand your ground,” a distant sergeant shouted.
Stephan risked a sideways glance and was met with chaos. Militiamen rained on the walls, a host of them dying almost immediately, but not all. One drove a dagger into a prone soldier’s eye, another pushed his opponent off the wall, suffering a grievous injury in turn, but the terrifying man kept fighting.
“Stand your ground!” Stephan repeated the cry, and the men around him suddenly changed. The fear infesting them disappeared. They moved closer together, closing the gaps and watching each other’s backs, but his presence only helped those two dozen yards away or less. Further out, the formation was crumbling.
“Form groups of four or five! Back to each other, shields and swords at the ready. Move!”
The men obeyed. It was a basic tactic to be used against ambushes in tight quarters, and while the walkway was more spacious than normal, it was certainly becoming too narrow with all the men running up the stairs to reinforce them and crazed militiamen raining down on them.
A surge of warmth entered Stephan’s chest as he ran around the wall. His sword rose and fell mechanically with little more effort than during training as he slew the berserkers and bolstered his men. Where he went, order reestablished itself, countering the terror and chaos of fighting crazed enemies immune to pain.
Light flashed before Stephan’s eyes, but he ignored it, instead focusing on the battle. He didn’t know how much time had passed; it had lost all meaning. It felt like an eternity, but probably a minute or ten, when he caught a new sound in the din. The sharp whistle, followed by the screams of pain.
Arrows?
They fell on the surrounding soldiers. One slammed into his pauldron and shattered. Stephan turned around to see what was going on, slapping his visor down. The enemy had sent archers, letting loose on their own. He thought it yet another idiotic gambit, but the soldiers moved on reflex under arrow fire. They protected themselves with shields, opening gaps for the berserkers to exploit.
They might actually win, Stephan realized when he saw what was happening. The defenders couldn’t abandon the walls. Not yet. The enemy’s numbers were still too great.
They have lost five thousand, maybe six, but we have lost hundreds. Another arrow shattered against his pauldron, the casque’s coif and steel plates protecting his neck. Somehow, they turned their men into non-thinking pieces like in The Art of War.
What about the retreat? The streets were designed to withstand an assault, each house a tower for archers, and bridges collapsible, to crush the fiends rushing beneath them.
Stephan considered the defense plan, another berserker falling towards him. He executed the man, then something slammed into the side of his helmet. He staggered, pain flashing in his temple just long enough to let him know where he’d been hit. Taste, sound, color, all mixed into one garbled mess as the world spun, then everything went dark.
***
“Remember me, the one who lives thereFor she once was a true love of mine.”
Stephan fell down to his knees, gasping, the bard’s song ringing in his ears. He stared at the ground, then at the glowing letters flashing before his eyes.
[Stephan Cobblerson, Paladin level 20
Class skills: In Living Memory XV, Blessing of Healing II, Blessing of Arms II, Smite II, Blessing of Protection II, Inspiring Aura II, Blessing of Conviction II, Blessing of Intuition II, Blessing of Health II, Bane of Darkness I, Mercy I, Chivalry I, Holy Magic I
Attributes: Agility: 27, Charisma: 25, Composure: 30, Dexterity: 22, Endurance: 29, Intelligence: 22, Luck: 26, Perception: 26, Presence: 27, Strength: 30, Toughness: 29, Vitality: 31, Willpower: 29, Wisdom: 27]
He struggled for breath, the weight of his failure suffocating as he looked around disoriented.
Lacy touched his shoulder. “You all right?”
Stephan raised his gaze to meet hers. She was confused, her eyes that of a worried stranger, not of a woman who shared his meals and bed for weeks. He held her gaze with fiery intensity, trying to burn away the fog obscuring her memories. Instead, she recoiled.
She didn’t ask about him getting a class, about why he had collapsed. Instead, she simply retreated like a frightened animal from his grasping hand, then turned around and ran. Stephan’s throat clenched with pain, and he wept.
[Level 20 reached
Skill acquired: Blessing of Health II
+1 Agility, +1 Charisma, +1 Composure, +0 Dexterity, +1 Endurance, +1 Intelligence, +0 Luck, +1 Perception, +1 Presence, +2 Strength, +1 Toughness, +1 Vitality, +1 Willpower, +1 Wisdom]
[Blessing of Health II - You are immune to mundane and magical poisons.]