by Neven Iliev
How they pulled it off was a complete mystery to Thomson, but he honestly didn’t care. He was a simple footman, and this unpleasant business was beyond his pay grade. He only cared that a talented Imperial citizen had been gruesomely murdered, and that he would make those responsible pay. That was all the motivation he needed. He was itching for a fight so much that there was nothing his commander could say that would rouse him further.
“-and so it falls to us!” the Sergeant wrapped up his speech. “We shall show those cowards what it means to threaten our way of life! For truth, justice, and the Emperor!”
“Ooorah!”
“For the glory of the Emperor! All hail!”
“Hail! Hail! Hail!”
If their cheers were any indication, the rest of the unit ate up those words up like mad. Similar ovations came in in from the surrounding units. Things were getting so heated that the soldiers could scarcely even feel the chilly weather. Up in the distance, Thomson could barely make out the enemy forming their own defensive lines along that wall, the gatehouses, and the turrets.
*HAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU*
A tense few moments later, a war horn much louder than the previous ones washed over the Imperial soldiers. Unlike those morale-fortifying magic items dubbed Echoes of War, this was nothing more than a simple instrument whose primary function was that of a signal.
“Advaaaance!” came the command.
“Oorah!” responded the soldiers.
Thus begun their march. For some, it would be their first. For many, it would be their last. Yet none of them showed a single sign of hesitation as they strode forward, shoulder to shoulder with their comrades-in-arms. Their greaves sank into the muddy ground still wet from yesterday’s downpour. The nearly pure-white wall gradually became taller with every step. Slowly but surely, the three hundred meters between the two armies grew smaller as the Empire closed in from the south. The Republic made their move when the front-most row of humans separated from the forest’s cover around the two-hundred fifty meter mark.
Sergeant Smith reacted immediately upon seeing suspicious movements atop the wall.
“Porcupine!”
That single word from the commanding officer caused his men to spring into action. Ranks were tightened and shields raised as the eighty Warriors and Paladins of Thomson’s vanguard unit assumed a defensive formation. In the blink of an eye, the ten loose rows became a steel box as their overlapping rectangular shields hid them almost completely from view, providing physical cover for themselves as well as the magical support troops between them. The numerous spears poking through the gaps in the shields created a shape resembling the composition’s namesake.
Thomson peeked through the gaps in the formations and spotted numerous flashes of red light coming from the top of the enemy ramparts. A sea of arrows that rose up in the air, threatening to blot out what little sunlight poked through the clouds.
“Brace!”
The entire unit hunkered down behind their shields, with the magic users taking cover in the gaps between the heavily armored soldiers. However, the latter did not deploy any defensive magic because the order to do so had not been issued. As someone who had taken part in assaulting a series of smaller Republic fortifications along the border, the Sergeant knew full well that the incoming projectiles were a threat. However, they were not dangerous enough to expend MP. The true battle would begin once his unit was thirty to fifty meters from the wall, since that was the effective range for most offensive Spells. It was important to preserve his Casters’ energy for that magical exchange. Therefore, all the Imperials had to do at this stage was to close the gap while receiving the elves’ ‘hospitality.’
Just as expected, the first volley of steel-tipped projectiles crashed against the porcupine formation doing little-to-no-damage. Some arrows embedded themselves in the metal shields and a few others broke through some of the gaps, but the majority of them were deflected without issue. Mere seconds later came the second volley. The third and fourth followed soon after as the Republic Legions’ vaunted Scouting corps pelted the Imperial soldiers in a literal hail of arrows.
“Company! Forward!”
Moving as one, Thomson and his fellow soldiers rose from their semi-kneeling position and started walking forward with a steady, practiced pace without breaking formation. For the next two hundred meters their world would consist of nothing but the sight of their comrades’ backs and the sounds of arrows banging on the shields overhead. However, their lateral movement created gaps in their defenses, allowing more and more arrows to find their way through. Some of the errant shots got lucky and struck a lightly armored magic user while others bounced off the vanguards’ steel plating. Healing Spells were thrown about as the unit endured the onslaught. Even if their attacks appeared lackluster to a layman, the enemy Rangers weren’t to be taken lightly as they turned the advancing porcupine into a pincushion.
Private Thomson, being at the front of the formation, was extremely aware of this. Numerous pointed dents were visible on the inner side of his shield, which steadily grew heavier. It was impossible to tell whether that was due to all the impacts his left arm bore or the combined weight of the arrowheads lodged in it. He couldn’t tell how far he’d walked either and it wasn’t worth the risk peeking out from behind his shield.
It was a lesson the man to his left had learned the hard way, as an arrow had struck him just as he did so. It flew through an open space barely a few centimeters wide, pierced his helmet, and struck his forehead. If the armor didn’t lessen the impact, that shot would’ve bore clean through his skull instead of merely leaving him with a head wound. The injured man promptly received healing from the Paladin behind him and kept pushing forward while groaning about the ‘lucky shot.’
Thomson didn’t believe it was a lucky shot at all. His skirmishes with those twigs leading up to this point were indicative of their skill with the bow and arrow. Indeed, judging by the impacts transmitted to his shield-bearing arm, the twigs were aiming almost exclusively at the edges of his shield at around eye level. The power behind each shot was no joke either. The barrage would have shredded the sheet of metal on the Private’s left forearm if it wasn’t magically fortified. The man therefore kept his head firmly hidden from view, trusting in his Sergeant to lead him to the enemy.
Just then, there was a brief, unnatural pause in the near-constant barrage. The momentary lapse of incoming projectiles caused the unit to pick up the pace for several steps before they were stopped dead in their tracks by the Sergeant.
“Braaaace!”
The unit hunkered down as one, much like when they first assumed their formation. The soldiers at the edges firmly planted their shields in the soft mud while those in the middle tightened the ‘ceiling’ as best they could.
*DODODODODONNN*
A series of explosions rang out all around the Private as the Republic’s newly-developed Boom-tubes augmented by their Rangers’ Multishot peppered the Imperial forces. Various shock waves rattled Thomson’s bones and metal fragments pinged fiercely off his shield while a burst of heat and flame overwhelmed his senses. Countless jagged shards found their way through the cracks in the formation. Most bounced harmlessly off of plate armor, but some inevitably pierced what little exposed flesh there was to find.
“Group heal! Group heal!”
The Sergeant ordered for large-scale healing magic as soon as the explosive onslaught let up. The unit’s Priests began working their magic just as the rain of standard arrows resumed. Thomson shared a few sideways glances with his comrades, silently confirming what all of them wanted to ask: what the flying fuck just hit them? The Empire trained its soldiers with an emphasis on obedience and discipline. The downside of that approach was that unexpected adversity had a far more pronounced effect on their morale. The upside, however, was that soldiers could overcome their fears and doubts by simply trusting in their commanding officer.
“Forward, men! Double time!”
&
nbsp; Thomson’s unit uprooted from their position and moved towards the enemy at a significantly faster pace than before. It was risky as the added bobbing and weaving loosened their formation more than usual, but the Sergeant couldn’t afford his men pinned so far away from the wall. He didn’t know what those munitions were and was inwardly relieved he made that judgment call when he spotted the enemy behaving oddly. His shield withstood a direct hit from several of those projectiles and was currently in a state best described as mangled. He didn’t know if the enemy had more of those, nor could he tell how many his squad could take before they were ripped to shreds. So, he made the decision to quicken their advance while keeping a trained eye on the enemy.
Sure enough, he noticed another break in the arrow onslaught followed by a volley of unnaturally thick projectiles.
“Brace!”
*DODODODODONNN*
“Hold! Hold! Hold! … Forward!”
After getting the timing down, the Sergeant led his men through a number of stop-and-go motions as they were pelted with explosives. After four thunderous volleys and thirteen casualties, the enemy finally seemed to run out. The elves tried to pull a few feints by pretending to take extra time to reload in order to make the attacking side halt their advance. This stalling tactic worked once or twice, but the Imperial soldiers caught onto it pretty fast.
This was all the defenders could achieve with the limited number of Boom-tubes they had on hand. Ideally, they would have pelted the enemy with nothing but explosive projectiles, suppressing their advance to a crawl. The Empire would have to choose between deploying large-scale defensive magic early or persevering through sheer grit. Either way would have gradually exhausted their fighting power long before they got close enough to the wall to actually do any serious damage.
Unfortunately, the manufacture of Boom-tubes required skilled labor and special materials. They were impossible to mass-produce, especially on such short notice. The explosive-tipped arrows’ design and the idea of using the Multishot Martial Art to conjure copies mid-flight were barely a few weeks old. Admittedly, the duplicated material would disappear mere seconds after impact, but the damage caused would not. The Republic defenders wouldn’t have any Boom-tubes at all if a certain high elf Ranger hadn’t officially requisitioned them shortly before his death. Some senior officers within the 2nd and 3rd Legion naturally had some reservations about these newfangled projectiles, but they trusted Milo Faehorn on matters of ranged combat.
Indeed, it was hard to dispute the merits of this ‘saturation bombing’ idea when one witnessed the tremendous psychological and physiological effect it had on the enemy. Even if it was short lived, the innovative assault certainly didn’t feel that way to Private Thomson. The man’s shield arm creaked, sweat poured from his forehead, and his breath was ragged and uneven. The explosive barrage blew away a quarter of his shield, allowing an arrow to lodge itself in his shoulder. He had otherwise lost count of the number of wounds and healing spells he had received.
Under such duress, the simple grunt’s head was filled with distractions and doubts. The wall was supposed to be only three hundred meters away, right? So how come he felt like he had just run a marathon through the desert? Why was he even out here in the first place? Was he looking for glory? Was it just because it was his duty? Did such things matter in the slightest?
“Steady men! We’re almost upon them!”
The Sergeant’s loud, powerful voice snapped Thomson out of his stupor. The same voice he cursed and dreaded during basic training was now his sole sliver of hope, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. All of a sudden, his awareness of the battlefield expanded. He saw bizarre lights flickering in the distance out of the corner of his eye and heard the sounds of yelling and clanging as units elsewhere engaged in mid-ranged magical combat.
The lowly Private steeled himself as his unit began the deadliest portion of the assault.
“Alright, people, this is it!” the Sergeant rallied his men. “I want bubbles, buffs, and legs on my mark! We move in three! Two! One! Now!”
The unit flew into action like a well-oiled machine. First came the ‘bubbles’ – various defensive barriers to ward off both magical and physical attacks. A series of bolstering and healing effects enveloped the troops, the last of which was Step of Wind. This Primal Spell provided a sizable but very short-lived burst of speed to everyone around the Caster. Having received their ‘legs,’ the shield-bearers broke the porcupine formation, charging forward in a blind rush that relied entirely on the magic users for cover.
Thomson’s nostrils suddenly filled with the familiar stench of war. The unnatural lightness in his step pushed him forward despite any exhaustion or mental strain he was enduring. He wasn’t sure how far they were from the wall by now, but judging from the shards of ice, bolts of lightning, and plumes of flames flying at them, they were most definitely closer.
“Incoming topside!”
The Private threw his gaze skyward. A house-sized Meteor Spell – the biggest one he’d ever seen – hurtled straight towards him and his unit. His mind went blank, but his thoroughly drilled body reacted accordingly. He crouched down to one knee attempting to cover himself with his battered shield. In hindsight, not the best decision, but it was the only thing he could do in the spur of the moment. He wasn’t fast enough to run out of that thing’s blast radius before it fell, so his only option was to hunker down and hope for the best.
“Mind Hand!”
Suddenly, the gigantic Meteor was engulfed by a dense purple miasma and instantly changed course. It did a sharp upward turn and flew high into the air, towards a man draped in an ashen robe with a blue tabard covering his chest. His arms were stretched out and palms spread as if he would catch the incoming molten boulder like a kickball. He swung his hands sideways and the Spell followed their motion. It did a splendid half-circle as he spun it around and flung it towards the enemy wall.
“De-spell!”
A wave of anti-magic crashed against the redirected Meteor, and it evaporated into sparks and ash. Thomson and the rest of the foot soldiers were caught up in that effect as they lost all the strengthening effects of magic. The one who unleashed said De-spell was a female elven Wizard flying under her own power. She wore a set of deep red robes under a lavender coat that had the Republic’s black-on-gray flag proudly stamped on its back and chest. The pure-white metallic bracers on her forearms were nearly identical to those of the flying human leering at her.
“Imiryl!” he shouted with a joyful tone. “So good to see you haven’t kicked the bucket yet!”
“Do I know you?” shot back the high elf Wizard while power gathered in her hands.
“Don’t you worry! I’ll make you remember, bitch!”
“I’m not in the business of paying attention to insects!”
The high elf clapped her hands as the human threw his own in front of him.
“Thunder Lance!”
“Mana Void!”
Imiryl shot out a blinding bolt of lightning, but it was deftly ‘caught’ by her opponent inside a small, invisible bubble. The bright-purple colored sparks lingered around for a few moments inside that confined space before they died away into nothingness. The hooded man swung his hand through the air in a sweeping motion. A gigantic impact threw Imiryl to the side as if an invisible boulder crashed into her. However, whatever the attack was, it did little damage to her Mana Shield and merely pushed her around. Rather than waste time on this peculiar foe, Imiryl flew off and found another Imperial unit to harass.
“Oy!” shouted the hooded man. “Come back here so I can properly sock you in the cunt!”
He was raring to chase after her before noticing something below.
“Huh? Woah there!”
The Republic defenders atop the wall targeted him with arrows, spells, knives, axes, and anything else that could be thrown upwards. He waved his hands in a few grand circles, and all the projectiles aimed at him to alter their
trajectory and orbit around him. He pointed at the elves atop the walls as if instructing the various projectiles flying around him to return to their owners. This was precisely what they did, prompting his targets to evade or block them as best they could. Without a care for the results of his counter-attack, the hooded man looked down at the regrouping Imperial squad that the high elf had nearly annihilated. He gave a heavy sigh as if to say ‘what a pain’ and decided he might as well lend them a hand.
Literally.
The man called Hook was, at that point in time, the highest Level Psionic on the continent. That wasn’t saying much given the Job’s rarity, but his power was the real deal. Hook demonstrated it by raising his open palm above his head before swinging it downward in a grand, sweeping motion. A massive invisible force perfectly mimicked the gesture, albeit at a significantly lower elevation and on a much larger scale. It smashed into the wall from above, flattening dozens of defenders and instantly killing most of them. The fortification itself nearly buckled, but it remained remarkably intact as a testament to the dwarven architecture and elven ingenuity that went into its construction.
Hook was a bit irked that he hadn’t blown off the wall, but he was nevertheless pleased with the damage he caused. He flew off into the distance, eager to settle his grudge against that snarky bitch. Though she did not remember it, Imiryl was responsible for Hook’s capture and subsequent imprisonment decades ago. He would have been left to rot there if the Gilded Hand hadn’t recognized his talents. He only had to play along with their schemes, and they’d give him both his freedom and the means through which he’d get payback on that pointy-eared bitch. Therefore, it was rather fortunate for Hook that the military ‘changed their mind’ about allowing him to ‘focus on eliminating the enemy VIP’ while planning the attack.
Back on the ground, Private Thomson had no idea about any of that and was simply thankful for the aid. Thanks to the allied VIP’s interference, his unit was able to reach the five-meter-tall wall with minimal further resistance.