Lans
Three years in this world, filled with near-constant fighting that had blurred together like a chain of fevered dreams, had taught Lans things he had never imagined he would need to learn. With death no longer final, he had climbed, leaped, and vaulted like a madman whenever survival demanded it. Those desperate movements had allowed him to evade wraiths and liches lying in ambush or tear himself free from their grasp.
The same skills had also helped him spear fish along rocky shores simply to survive.
His body remembered the movement well.
As Lans drove the lance down with all his strength, the manticore’s many eyes locked upon him.
He came within a breath of driving the iron point into the fell beast’s horn-crowned head. But despite being pinned and wounded, the manticore had already wrenched its forequarters around and, with sudden, unnatural violence, swung one massive front leg at him.
Lans was too focused on his target to see it coming. The manticore’s foot struck him with the force of a speeding carriage. His mind went blank. The impact hurled him through the air like a thrown stone before he crashed heavily into the snow and rolled several times.
A groan escaped him as he desperately forced himself upright. Blood streamed down the side of his head and past his ear. One side of his face, along with his arm and chest, throbbed from the blow. He shook his head, struggling to bring the spinning forest back into focus.
He spat a mouthful of blood and watched the white snow turn red.
“Fuck...” he cursed, realizing just how hard the blow had struck him.
Were it not for the strengthening gemstone and the thick snow cushioning his fall, he would have broken his neck or cracked his skull open.
His lance was nowhere to be seen. Lans reached behind his waist with his left hand and caught the lower end of the scabbard, pulling it down as his right hand drew the claymore from his back. He tested his grip and took a shallow breath through the pain. All the while, the manticore was struggling to wrench itself free from the wooden stake.
Knowing the odds were against him, Lans advanced again.
“You ugly fuck,” he growled into the manticore’s direction, picking up speed despite the pain tearing through his body.
All four of its eyes turned toward him in fury. It had finally sensed that he was the mind behind the ambush.
Lans closed the distance, teeth clenched and claymore at the ready. If he could not strike from above, then he would meet the beast face-to-face. But the manticore just did the impossible. Its massive body jerked sideways with the suddenness of a spider, and its many tails swept toward him at once.
His eyes widened. Lans ducked beneath the first tail, then brought the claymore around with all the skill and strength he possessed to meet the next. The blade cleaved deep through the scales, sending dark blood across the snow, but the tail was too thick to sever completely. Still driven by its full momentum, it lashed into him, slammed him to the ground, and pinned him beneath its weight.
The impact drove the breath from his lungs. Before he could wrench himself free, the manticore raised one enormous hind leg to crush him.
Still, Lans wore a defiant grin.
“Thunderforged,” he whispered as if in prayer.
Lightning erupted from the battered golden scepter clenched in his left hand and surged into the nearly severed tail pinning him.
For all its immense size, the manticore convulsed as the powerful current tore through its enormous body, wrenching a roar of pain from its throat. For several long seconds, violent spasms twisted through its limbs while smoke rose from its scales and hide. Blackened burns spread across its body. Yet even through the agony, it managed to bring one massive foot crashing down upon its prey.
Blinded by the scepter’s light, Lans never saw the foot coming. It crushed him into the thick snow, its unbearable weight bearing down upon his chest and shoulders. The snow gave way beneath him, sparing him from the worst of the impact, but only until his back slammed against the frozen ground below.
The foot pulled back and came down again. Instinctively, Lans curled inward and raised his arms to protect his head. Pain exploded through his body as the blow hammered his ribs and drove his forearms into his chest. Before he could draw breath, the manticore stomped on him again and again, each impact shaking the frozen earth beneath him.
As the foot lifted from its final stomp, the churned snow collapsed around Lans and partly buried him. He lay deep in the hollow, motionless.
The fell beast left him there and turned its strength against the stakes embedded in its body. With one violent heave, it forced the deepest stake back out through the wound in its belly. Freed from the point that had pinned it, the manticore lurched forward, dragging several other shafts still lodged in its flesh. Dark blood poured from its belly and left a broad trail across the snow.
Its many eyes beneath the crown of horns darted wildly, searching for fresh threats and the missing mage.
But it failed to look beneath itself.
From the broken snow beneath its body, one trembling hand clawed its way to the surface. Then another followed. Hidden beneath the manticore’s immense bulk, Lans dragged himself free from the shallow hollow. Even its many eyes could not see him there, and the senses in its tails failed to notice the movement beneath its own body.
Before the fell beast realized, steel flashed in a savage arc.
The claymore’s honed edge tore into its exposed belly. Dark blood burst from the wound and poured across the snow. The manticore recoiled with sudden violence, wrenching its enormous body sideways as it tried to escape a second strike.
Even broken and half-crushed, Lans had managed to carve a deep wound across the manticore’s belly. But the effort left him on his knees, his battered body trembling beneath him. Dark blood covered his clothes and skin, thick, oily, and foul-smelling. Its warmth seeped through the cold fabric and made his stomach turn.
His brigandine had done little against a creature the size of a house, with limbs as thick as ancient trees. Only the gemstone of strength and its healing effect had kept his battered body from giving out entirely.
Blood poured freely from his crooked nose. His ribs throbbed each time he drew breath. His left arm hung nearly useless.
From several paces away, the manticore turned toward him. Dark blood continued to pour from the open wound in its belly, gushing harder across the snow as a growl rolled from deep within its enormous chest.
Lans tried to stand, but pain burned through his chest and legs. All he could do was remain kneeling in the snow. He had thought he could hold the manticore off for several minutes, perhaps even rob it of some of its senses. Instead, he had only managed to inflict a few shallow wounds.
The trees shuddered as the manticore charged, shaking snow from their branches with every thunderous stride.
Lans watched death bearing down upon him. But he was not without a plan. He threw himself toward the trail of dark blood running across the snow. His weakened legs gave way almost at once, forcing him to crawl as the ground trembled beneath the manticore’s approach.
The fell beast did not slow. It saw no other threat.
He slammed the golden scepter into the dark, slippery trail of blood.
“Thunderforged,” he rasped.
Lightning burst across the snow. In the blink of an eye, the current raced along the trail of blood, reached the open wound in the manticore’s belly, and ripped through its enormous body.
The beast convulsed in mid-charge. Its tails lashed without direction as their false eyes blinked shut one after another. The current surged through its body and erupted across its horn-crowned head.
Lans held the scepter in place even as the current bit through his innate barrier and ripped into his body. He forced every last trace of power from the weapon. Unlike the first strike, this time the current drove deep into the manticore’s body.
One ember-bright eye burst beneath the force, while another blackened and closed. The manticore crashed sideways through the trees, smashing trunks aside and ploughing through the snow as it howled in agony.
The golden scepter went silent. Lans had spent all its enormous power.
Heat and smoke rose from his clothes and hair. Even through the pain, he dragged air into his lungs and shouted hoarsely, “Sagaria!”
***
Sagarius
Some distance from the fight, hidden behind the barrier that had sealed her magic away from the battle, Sagaria heard the signal. The barrier shattered around her. Already standing on a thick branch, the high elf sprang upward and climbed swiftly through the snow-laden canopy.
She reached the treetop and saw what she had feared. Lans was badly wounded and lay close to the manticore.
Through her far sight, she saw him raise one hand and beckon her to strike. Within a single breath, Sagaria took hold of five prepared wooden stakes with her magic. Like those in the first wave, each was as large as a young tree. Runes had been carved into every shaft, allowing her to sense and guide them even when they were beyond her sight. Five was the most she could control at once.
Her mind strained as she commanded a vast amount of wind magic to lift and balance five massive stakes. Though precious time was slipping away, she took care to position them between the manticore and the sun, concealing them within its blinding light.
They soon reached the necessary height. Sagaria released her hold and let their immense weight pull them downward. A moment later, she drew upon all the magic she could command and drove them forward at a steep angle. The five enormous stakes plunged toward the forest at terrifying speed as she guided each one toward the wounded beast.
The manticore sensed the sudden surge of magic, but the scepter’s power had left much of its body paralyzed. It could do little more than growl in defiance and raise its massive front feet to shield itself. The five stakes struck within moments of one another, their sharpened points tearing through scales and hide before driving deep into its enormous body.
Blood burst across the snow. Two stakes struck bone and shattered, their broken shafts tearing the wounds wider, while the remaining three stayed buried deep in its flesh.
One stake struck the manticore’s goat-like head and destroyed another of its ember-bright eyes.
Sagaria did not pause. She raced down through the branches and rushed toward Lans.
Against all odds, the plan had worked. Her heart pounded with a fierce rush of triumph.
Sharpened tree trunks and common wind magic. Why had no one thought of it before?
The scale of what they had accomplished still shocked her. Last season, bringing down the manticore had required hundreds of men, days of fighting, and terrible losses. Yet the two of them had done it with what little they could find in the forest.
Lans was no mage, yet he had shaped a plan from the barest resources available to them and turned trees into weapons capable of bringing down a fell beast. The changes he had made to the stakes seemed almost too simple. He had carved a broad, flared end into each one and told her the shape would give her wind magic something to catch and hold. It had worked. She had never imagined wind magic could give her control over such massive pieces of wood.
But her triumph did not last.
As Sagarius drew closer, she saw the manticore still writhing beneath the many stakes impaling its body. Its one remaining eye was open, its gaze fixed on her. A terrible sound rose from the beast’s throat, filled with defiance.
It can’t be...
Fear tightened around her heart. It was not that she had been unprepared for this possibility. Lans had warned her that some of the stakes could miss or strike poorly. But nearly all of them had found their mark, and the creature was still alive.
Only then did she realize how much stronger this one was than the manticore she had fought before.
Without slowing, under the hateful glare of its single ember-bright eye, Sagarius dashed toward Lans.
Seeing her approach, he reached out his arm, and she seized it and dragged him away. As she pulled him through the snow, a grim suspicion rose within her. This fell beast had likely found the wounded manticore and devoured it. She needed to kill it before it recovered, but her Lightning wasn’t ready.
“One stake left,” she whispered to Lans, careful not to let the fell beast hear. It might understand her.
Lans nodded, his face bruised and bloodied. “Hand me the rope," he said.
His words stopped her cold. “You’ll die.”
“Remember the plan,” he replied.
“That only works if you’re not wounded like this.”
As they argued, the manticore’s body convulsed with unnatural force. Its flesh rippled around one of the earlier wooden stakes, then violently expelled it in a burst of dark blood. The heavy shaft shot free, struck the snow, and rolled several times before coming to a stop.
The sight drew their attention back to the fell beast.
“We’re out of time,” Lans urged. “Now, help me up.”
“But you have no lances left, and your scepter has run dry—”
He met her gaze. “A sword is plenty.”
Against her wishes, Lans grabbed the rope. As soon as he grasped it, strength flowed into his battered body. For reasons she still did not understand, he responded unusually well to this kind of magic. His trembling legs steadied, and he managed to rise.
He tightened the rope around his left wrist. But before he could walk away, Sagarius caught his arm.
“Something isn’t right.” Her voice was tight. “The stakes should’ve killed it.”
“From the start, it looked different. It was already wounded.”
Sagarius’ heart sank. “It may have found the first manticore and eaten it.”
Lans said nothing for a moment. “Could it have become stronger because of this world? Like us?” he finally asked.
She had no answer.
Again, the manticore’s flesh rippled around one of the stakes buried in its body. It convulsed violently and let out a deep, pained growl as another thick shaft began to slide free. Then its body contracted with such force that the stake shot out in a burst of dark blood.
Lans took labored steps toward his claymore. He bent down, snatched it from the snow, and forced himself onward.
Sagarius followed some twenty paces behind him quietly. She was doing three things at once, lifting the last stake high in the air, concentrating on her Lightning, and making sure enough magic continued to flow into Lans. Even for her, maintaining all three at once was beginning to take its toll.
“Oi, goat-face,” Lans challenged the manticore as he began circling the beast in a wide arc.
The manticore could not resist following him with its one remaining eye, even as it continued to struggle beneath the many stakes impaling its body.
Still moving sideways to keep its attention away from Sagaria, Lans found the lance he had lost earlier and pulled it from the snow. He forced his trembling left hand to hold it while his right kept hold of the claymore.
The manticore answered him with a horrifying growl that rolled through the shattered forest.
Undeterred, Lans continued across the ruined field of snow. The once-white ground had been torn apart by their struggle, churned into deep trenches and broken mounds, all of it smeared with dark blood.
When he came close enough to launch his attack, the manticore’s lips slowly curled into something resembling a smirk.
Lans saw it, but too late. The beast had gathered its six limbs beneath its enormous body and launched itself into the air. The sudden movement ripped the buried ends of the stakes from the frozen ground, while the blood-soaked shafts remained impaled through its body.
“Oh, clever bastard...” Lans muttered as its shadow swallowed him.
The fell beast had outsmarted him.
...
Manticore
From the beginning, the manticore had possessed the strength to wrench itself free of the stakes pinning it to the ground. But the sudden, unfamiliar wounds and the loss of three eyes had left it confused and frightened. Only after its panic began to fade did the fell beast understand what had struck it.
The things impaling its body were not made of magic, but sharpened trees.
And once it understood that, it forced the most painful stakes from its flesh. But when the wounded warrior approached, the manticore stopped and allowed him to believe it remained pinned and weakened. It lowered its body, feigned pain, and waited for him to come closer.
The moment the warrior entered striking distance, the trap was sprung.
Even with heavy wooden stakes still impaling its body and face, the manticore launched itself forward. The warrior could do nothing but raise his weapon in a desperate attempt to block as its massive feet came crashing down upon him. The impact smashed through his guard and hurled him into the snow.
The manticore landed over him and let out a deep growl of satisfaction.
It stomped the warrior again, then lowered its goat-like head and seized him between its jaws. He struggled weakly as the beast lifted him from the snow and began forcing him deeper into its mouth.
Then its remaining eye caught sight of the mage descending toward them.
The manticore feared her magic. Still gripping the warrior in its jaws, it sprang away on all six limbs, ripping through the snow as it opened a wide distance between itself and the greater threat.
It began to bite down, intending to finish him before turning on her.
A wet crunch sounded between its jaws, followed by the warrior’s broken groan.
Keeping its last eye fixed upon the remaining threat, the manticore suddenly saw a blur rush into view. A lock of horsehair fluttered beneath an iron lance point as it drove straight toward its face. The fell beast barely had time to understand what it was seeing before the lance plunged into its final eye.
A broken howl burst from its throat. Its jaws sprang open, dropping the warrior into the snow as its enormous body thrashed in blind panic. All six limbs kicked and clawed without direction, tearing apart the ground beneath it while the stakes still impaling its flesh twisted deeper with every violent movement.
Without sight, it crashed through the forest, ploughing into trunks and snapping branches as it struggled to escape.
Amid its pain and panic, the manticore finally sensed why the warrior had not fled. Every other wounded creature it had hunted had turned its back and tried to escape. Even the other manticore had done so.
This warrior had not.
He had planned it, and it had cost the manticore everything.
That drove the blinded beast into a frenzy. It thrashed wildly, desperate to escape the one who had taken its sight. Trees toppled beneath its weight, crashing against its body and sending it recoiling in terror. Mistaking every impact for another attack, the manticore lashed out with its tails, splintering trunks and tearing through everything around it.
...
Sagarius
The high elf saw Lans bracing the lance and claymore across the manticore’s jaws, using both weapons to keep the beast from swallowing him whole. When the manticore sprang backward to create distance, the rope tied to Lans’ wrist was torn from Sagarius’ grasp.
Lans groaned as the flow of her strengthening magic vanished from his body. Sagarius raced after him. She tried to bring the final wooden stake down, but aiming while running through the torn forest proved impossible.
But Lans surprised her. Still trapped between the manticore’s jaws, he strained to turn the lance toward its face. Then, with one final effort, he thrust the iron point into its last remaining eye.
Sagarius stopped short as the fell beast howled and began thrashing its enormous body in blind panic. Its six limbs tore through the snow while its many tails lashed wildly through the surrounding trees.
“Lans!” Sagarius shouted when she saw him lying amid the churned and bloodied snow.
No response.
She rushed to his side, caught him beneath the arms, and pulled him away from the thrashing beast.
Only after reaching the shelter of several trees did she stop. She dropped to her knees and settled him in her lap, cradling his upper body against her as she searched desperately for any sign of life. Blood continued to seep from the crushing wounds across his body.
Lans suddenly gasped. One eye slowly opened. In the living world, the blood loss and sheer pain would almost certainly have killed him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Sagarius said, holding him tightly against her. She pressed one hand against the worst of his wounds, but blood kept welling between her fingers. When she tried another, she found yet more beneath it, then another still, until her hands and sleeves were slick with his blood. There were too many wounds, too much blood.
For all her centuries of knowledge, she could only stare at the ruin of his body and feel helpless. “This should have been my fight,” she muttered bitterly.
“Hey,” Lans rasped. “Stay focused. Kill the beast.”
“I can’t.” Her eyes grew wet. He had done everything she asked of him, endured the beast’s jaws, and given her the opening she needed, yet she had failed to do her part. “I’m such a useless fool. My Lightning still isn’t ready.”
Despite the bruises and blood covering his face, he managed a faint, almost charming smile. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
After everything the manticore had done to him, with blood still pouring from wounds across his body, he was trying to comfort her. Sagarius stared at him, unable to answer. Then the tears came, slipping silently down her cheeks.
Lans might lack the polish of the nobles and the broad shoulders of the Royal Knights, but to her, this man with black hair threaded with silver and a rough beard over his tanned face was the sturdy wall between her and harm. He had made her feel safe. He had given her hope. And he had led her to the brink of victory.
Now, even with one arm ruined, Lans raised the other and gently wiped a tear from her cheek.
Warmth spread through Sagarius as she caught his hand and pressed it against her face, while her other hand remained pressed against the worst of his wounds to slow the bleeding. Only then did she realize that escaping this world was no longer the only thing she wanted.
She wanted more time.
She wanted Lans to remain by her side.
With a man like him beside her, she felt she could face any threat, great or small.
She poured all the mana she could spare into keeping him alive. Her concentration was stretched to its limit. Sweat ran freely down her face as she struggled to maintain three spells at once, her Lightning, the final stake still waiting high above, and the healing magic sustaining his battered body.
“Even blind, it can still sense magic,” Lans warned, his mind still fixed on the fight.
Even with so much demanding her attention, Sagarius listened to his words.
“Hit it with a blast of wind. The sudden burst of magic should disorient and stun it, giving you a chance.”
“Meister Lans, you seem to know a great deal about magic,” she said, trying to lighten the grim mood.
She divided her concentration once more, summoning wind magic around the manticore before unleashing several violent bursts against it. The trick was well known among mages, but Sagarius knew how to make it more convincing. She disturbed the air at several points beyond the beast as well, making it seem as though unseen figures had suddenly surrounded it. The assault startled the creature, and it froze in fear.
Without needing to move a finger, she called down her final stake, the training stake she knew better than any other, and sent it hurtling from the sky.
The battered length of wood plunged downward. Sagarius closed her eyes and felt the rune answer her. Without the other stakes to guide her, her precision only sharpened.
The stake struck the manticore squarely on the head with the force of a charging bull. Its crown of horns shattered part of the sharpened wood, sending splinters spraying through the air, but the thick point drove through. The beast’s skull snapped downward under the impact, and the stake slammed it against the frozen ground.
Sagarius let out a heavy breath as she released the wind magic that had burdened her concentration, then met Lans’ gaze with a faint smile. She had succeeded.
“Well done,” he said, then glanced toward the sky. “I see the sky has darkened.”
“Indeed.” She followed his gaze. “That spell is almost ready.”
“Strike it. We can’t give it any chance to survive."
The manticore lay bleeding and motionless, but the faint twitching of its tails betrayed that it was not completely dead.
“Close your eyes,” she asked as she called upon her magic in its fullest form.
[Κεραυνός]
The forest was suddenly bathed in a light whiter than the sun. The first bolt struck the manticore with a deafening crack. Another followed before the thunder could fade, then another, each tearing into the beast in relentless succession. Its massive body convulsed beneath the barrage as scales split, flesh blackened, and blood burst into steam around the wooden stakes still impaling it. The earth shook under every impact, and the air filled with the stench of scorched meat as the sky raged against the creature without mercy.
When the final bolt faded, the sky seemed darker than before. The wind rose through the trees, carrying thickening snow as the blizzard began to gather strength.
Across the battered ground, the snow had melted into rushing streams, as though spring had come all at once. Smoke poured from the fallen beast’s massive body. The thunderbolts had torn it nearly in half, exposing blackened flesh and splintered bone. Flames crawled over the charred carcass, feeding on fur, flesh, and the shattered wooden stakes.
Even the nearby trees and undergrowth had caught fire despite the snow.
“Pity,” Lans said as he gazed upon the manticore’s fate. “It's dead, and we’re still here.”
“You’ll return to your world, and so will I,” Sagarius said, trying to comfort him as the light in his eyes began to fade.
“I had hoped to have someone beside me when spring came, but perhaps that was too much to ask.”
She forced a smile. “You’ll get better. I’m healing you. Trust this high elf, would you?”
Lans let out a weary chuckle.
Sagarius looked toward the ruined beast. “That last thrust... Tell me, did you plan all of that just to strike its eye?”
“Well...” His voice had grown faint. “I don’t fight undead and liches for nothing.”
They both chuckled, though tears still slipped down her cheeks.
“Don’t shed tears for me. I’m not going to die.” He managed his usual faint, gentle smile. “I’ll wake up on some beach somewhere, cursed to wander this accursed place.” Then, as though trying to spare her further sorrow, he added, “But say, if you escape this place, could I trouble you to find me?”
“Of course. What was the place called? Canadia?”
“Something like that.” His brow furrowed before he added in jest, “Look for some man of great renown, perhaps. I'll likely be lying in a coma somewhere.”
Sagarius chuckled. “I’m sure you’re a renowned mercenary. Or perhaps a sword master.”
“My swordsmanship is pathetic.” Then, as though he felt the end approaching, Lans said, “Since an ordinary farewell would be misplaced, let us never meet again in this place, O Lady Sagaria.”
“Lans...” She clutched his hand tighter. "It's Sagarius."
Lans already turned his gaze toward some distant point and whispered, “I can hear dogs barking... I lost them in Umberland fighting the half-breeds.”
His eyes drifted farther away. “My men... They’re whispering... They still wish to fight beneath my banner... Outrageous.” He chuckled, but the sound broke into a weak cough.
Then, with what little strength remained to him, he murmured to those only he could see, “Fine. I concede... Let us march into the afterlife.”
With those words, his grip loosened around her hand. His battered body no longer responded to her healing. Lans was dead.
Sagarius had tried to remain calm, but now she broke into tears. The composure she had forced upon herself vanished. Her grief surged free, and she bowed over him as sobs tore through her. Her long silver hair, stained with his blood, clung to her tear-soaked face. Even her long ears drooped beneath the weight of her grief.
Lans had been a friend in her hour of need, a savior who had appeared from nowhere and sacrificed himself for her. Across the centuries, Sagarius had travelled beside many who later died for their own causes, but Lans alone had died for her.
They had faced a corrupted beast, a manticore and prevailed, only for the sweetness of victory to be torn from them.
What she would have given to save him.
As sorrow closed around her heart, her vision began to darken without her realizing it.
Lans vanished from her lap. Then the forest, the snow, and the manticore’s burning carcass disappeared with him. Everything was gone.
Darkness closed around her. Suddenly, the air felt hot and stifling, and sweat clung to her skin. Her limbs were stiff and heavy. The bitter cold had vanished, along with the acrid stench of the manticore’s burning carcass. In its place lingered the faint fragrance of flowers.
Sagarius drew a shallow breath. Warm fabric pressed damply against her body. Her thoughts began to stir, slow and confused at first. Then awareness struck her all at once.
She jolted awake with a violent gasp. The sudden movement sent the girls gathered inside a chamber shrieking in alarm. Several fled through the doorway, calling frantically to those waiting outside.
“I’m back...?” she whispered weakly as her eyes adjusted and she recognized her chamber within the Imperial Armouries of Vindebona.
***
PS: This concludes the mini arc. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.
So, what do you think about Sagarius and Lans?🤔
Stay tuned for the next chapter.🔥
As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆