blueteamnovel Chapter 199: Encore
Chapter 199: Encore
Chapter 199: Encore
Encore
The Shogun's Camp
“Man the walls!” Captain Dietrich’s voice cut through the clamor as men-at-arms and volunteers scrambled to their posts. The palisade groaned under the weight of the defenders pressing against it, their jagged silhouettes stark against the fiery sky. Beyond the horizon, the enemy’s torches flickered like a restless sea, growing brighter as the fanatics surged closer.
The camp wasn’t fully fortified; only the side facing the enemy had been completed. The flanks remained exposed, with no gate installed. Aside from the ditches, the camp might as well have been open ground.
The Korelian volunteer watched as knights dismounted, joining the men-at-arms at the west and east, fortified only by makeshift barricades. Meanwhile, the elite cranequiniers took up positions at the west, the most vulnerable side, while the east was nearly connected to the castle.
Crowding along the palisade, the defenders squinted into the failing light, where shadowy forms in formation steadily marched toward them like a restless tide, half-obscured by the dimming horizon.
“Have you heard? They say our enemy numbers as many as all of Korelia,” one volunteer muttered uneasily.
“That many? By the Pregnant Lady,” another whispered.
“Are you sure?” a younger man asked, keeping his eyes on his crossbow, resting atop the palisade.
“I didn’t march this far into Midlandia to die here,” a spearman murmured bitterly.
"You won’t. Lord Lansius has never been defeated,” an older man replied, though his voice betrayed his nerves.
“How many are we again?” another asked, his voice filled with anxiety.
A grim silence followed until a lieutenant, who had been quietly standing among them, finally spoke. “Last I heard, roughly two thousand. Lieutenant Farkas took the Dragoons and 300 skirmishers, so we’re short a few. But we’ve joined up with Captain Dietrich’s Korimor column, so it evens out.”
“Two thousand,” someone muttered. “But why does it feel like so little?”
“Because our opponents are much larger,” the lieutenant replied casually, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Lieutenant, don’t scare us,” another begged, prompting the officer to chuckle.
“We still have the nomads, you know,” the lieutenant reassured them, but his words felt rather hollow, given that the nomads were camped farther away.
The volunteers exchanged uncertain glances until one asked, “But... I doubt even the nomads can ride in the dark.”
“Oh, right. None of you were in Korimor,” the lieutenant muttered, his tone cryptic, leaving the men looking puzzled.
Before they could press for answers, their attention was drawn to the arrival of several prominent figures at the center of the camp. Lanterns and long torches flared along the paths, casting flickering light on the men in gleaming plate armor who moved purposefully through the gathering. The crowd parted to make way, their faces illuminated in the warm, unsteady glow.
From the center, the figures turned toward the corner where the captain stood guard, the firelight dancing across their polished armor. First to emerge was Sir Harold, his tall, imposing frame sharply defined by the torchlight. Then came Sir Michael, his expression sharp and focused, followed by the formidable Francisca and her kin, shrouded in oversized traveling cloaks that swayed with each step.
Finally, the Lord Shogun appeared, his dark silhouette stark against the lantern’s glow as he moved alongside Maester Ingrid, whose deep blue robes shimmered faintly in the flickering light. Together, they ascended the wooden stairs toward the tower, their presence on the battlement commanding the attention of everyone nearby.
“It’s Lord Lansius,” one of the men murmured. The name spread through the ranks like a calming wind.
From their post, they could overhear the conversation between Captain Dietrich and the Lord Shogun.
“They’re getting close, My Lord,” the Captain reported, his tone steady but urgent.
“Have you prepared the markers in time?” the Lord asked.
“Yes. I’m glad we worked on them in advance.”
“Good. Then at 200 steps, let’s ask our new members to light up the field,” said the Black Lord, his voice calm, as though the advancing sea of enemy formations was of little concern to him.
Hearing his words and seeing him stand resolute among them eased the tension on the volunteers’ shoulders. Their fear started to melt away.
But just as they found a measure of comfort, the Lord did the unexpected. “Sir Harold, Francisca,” he called.
“My Lord,” the two greeted, stepping forward.
“Take the knights and half our vanguard. Proceed with the plan.”
The two exchanged a glance. “But, My Lord, that would leave you with only one mobile column,” Sir Harold said.
“I understand your concern,” Lansius replied in a steady tone. “Half the vanguard, yes, but I still have the main army. Rest assured, this is the best plan we have. Besides, I’ll have Dietrich and Sir Michael with me, not to mention Sir Stan and the nomads.”
“It’s still too risky. At least allow me to stay by your side,” Sir Harold pressed.
“I’m honored by your concern, but the plan needs you. I cannot let such an opportunity slip away,” Lansius said firmly. “This is a calculated risk I’m willing to take.”
Resigned, the two nodded and saluted before turning to carry out the command.
The volunteers watched with growing unease as the knights and half the vanguard were pulled from their posts and led toward the castle. Whispers and murmurs broke out among the defenders. Now the volunteers made the bulk of the defense—roughly 700, supported by 200 cranequiniers and two columns of men-at-arms, just over 1,000 against 6,000.
No matter how they tried to rationalize it, the situation seemed mad. Had the Lord underestimated the enemy’s strength? Or worse, had he miscalculated entirely? Nervous glances passed between them, and some whispered to their lieutenants, who could only offer forced smiles in response.
Questions lingered on their lips, but no one dared voice them. Many, however, drew courage from Lord Lansius’ presence, standing with a calm authority among them, his top retinue by his side.
Nearby, a group of carpenters frantically worked on a wooden structure. More and more materials arrived from the castle, briefly piquing the defenders’ interest. But their focus quickly returned to the enemy's march as the thousand entered their shooting range.
***
Lansius
The front ranks suddenly vanished, swallowed by a ditch they failed to notice. The darkness had concealed it until it was too late. Bodies tumbled into the pit, while others, caught unaware, tripped and fell atop their comrades. Bones snapped, and the weight of the fallen crushed those below, leaving them to die in suffocating screams.
“Moats!” they collectively warned as more attackers stumbled upon the ditches where their brothers had fallen. Some faltered at the edge, trying to stop, but the mass of bodies behind them shoved forward relentlessly. More tumbled in, still clutching their weapons, which undoubtedly drew blood in the panic.
More horrifyingly, the barrage of bolts was now directed at them. Agony rippled through the attackers, momentarily overpowering their chants.
“Push through!” bellowed one, echoed by others. Driven by sheer desperation, the survivors clawed their way out. The trench, now shallow from the mass of bodies, had become a grim bridge of the dead. Those who managed to climb out desperately tried to regroup on the other side, only to find the wooden barricade looming directly before them.
The cheval de frise stood at chest height, bristling with sharpened wooden spikes. Bound together with stakes or ropes, this simple wooden structure was a formidable obstacle. No fewer than ten barricades blocked the western entrance. Some attackers immediately tried to scale it, but the defenders' spears welcomed them mercilessly.
Blood sprayed, and the pungent stench of guts filled the air. Only when brothers with shields joined the fray did they manage to hold, forming a crude shield wall. All the while, bolts whistled through the air, causing wounds or snatching lives seemingly at random. But worse still was the fire attack, which kept even the bravest among them on edge.
Yet they pressed on, their orderly chants driving them forward. Before long their numbers swelled as more climbed over, and the assault began anew.
Like madmen, they surged toward the barricade; the final obstacle blocking them from unleashing the Living Saint's fury.
But then, they encountered something entirely unfamiliar.
"Brother!" one cried amid the assault. "I'm stuck!" His voice was strained with pain as hundreds surged toward the wooden barricade. And he wasn’t the only one. Many more were trapped, tangled against something unseen. The feeble light from torches, whether ally or enemy, failed to reveal the source. Something clung to them, gripping like a predator’s snare, tearing into flesh and refusing to let go. The more they struggled to free themselves, the worse the pain grew.
“Cut it! Cut it down!” shouted many, but striking blindly in the dark was futile. Worse still, their cries only drew the enemy spearmen, who attacked mercilessly, striking down those immobilized at the barricade.
Ensnared, there was little they could do. The debilitating pain sapped their strength, leaving them helpless. Their brothers climbed past or over them, unintentionally crushing them further. Wails of agony pierced the night as their faith and courage dissolved like vapor.
Yet their sacrifices were not in vain. Amid the bloodbath, the attackers managed to cut loose a barricade and gain an opening. In great ecstasy, the first wave surged toward the defenders’ men-at-arms. At last, they entered the camp.
They fought fearlessly. Hundreds poured through the gap with shields raised and weapons brandished. They clashed with the defenders, seemingly gaining the upper hand. They thrust, they struck, and they fought with a near-frenzied zeal.
However, their triumph was short-lived.
Fearless as they were, exhausted and disorganized, they were no match for the battle-hardened veterans of Lowlandia. Wild thrusts and erratic strikes were parried with ease, their crude formations shattering against an unyielding wall of spears and swords. For every fanatic who charged with blind courage, a veteran’s blade awaited with cold precision.
These were the troops who had fought in multiple battles over two brutal years. They understood the rhythm of war and the value of resilience. They neither faltered nor wasted energy, cutting down their foes with grim efficiency. Their formation held firm, stepping back only to counter in a deadly dance of blades.
Soon, the assault devolved into a bloody stand.
Then, slowly, the attackers' first wave was ground to a bloody end.
As the front ranks were slaughtered, those in the rear began to falter. Chants lingered on their lips, but their momentum slowed, and their steps grew shaky. Bravery gave way to dread as they witnessed the fate of their brothers. By the light of fallen torches and the defenders’ lanterns, the horrifying aftermath lay bare before them.
The first wave was gone, leaving behind a mass of broken bodies and silenced chants.
The ditch overflowed with bodies, limbs twitching as flames and shadows danced across the carnage. The barricades told a similar story—bodies hung, stuck, or scattered in unnatural poses. But the worst was beyond the barricades, where the ground was littered with the unmoving remains of the first wave.
No fewer than five hundred of their brothers had reached the camp—only to be slaughtered to the last.
"Midlandians!" a defender bellowed from atop the wall. "We come for vengeance. This puddle of blood ain't nearly enough. Send more!"
The taunt triggered a roar of laughter from the defenders' camp.
So many had died, only for the enemy to laugh. This unnerved those in the rear ranks, halting them in their tracks. Many scattered, seeking cover or gripping their shields tightly overhead. Many hesitated, but the chants from the rear grew louder—pressing, pushing them to take action. Desperation and Saint Nay's promise of salvation drove many forward despite the horrors ahead.
But for others, they had seen enough. They turned and fled into the woods, knowing that brutal deaths were not salvation.
...
New Midlandia Army's Encampment
Thick incense filled the large opulent tent, its cloying scent mingling with the faint metallic tang of sweat and iron. Ten men in black-painted ringmail knelt on the ground, their heads bowed in reverence beneath the flickering light of oil lamps. Shadows danced along the canvas walls as smoke from the burning incense swirled lazily in the air.
“You and your brother are the chosen ones. Your faith equals your martial prowess,” the wiry Saint Candidate declared softly from her seat.
The men merely nodded, accepting the blessing in solemn silence.
“You shall lead your people to salvation,” intoned a younger Saint Candidate, her ethereal voice cutting through the haze as she stepped forward, carrying five clay bottles carefully wrapped in woolen bags.
“This is the alchemist’s burning sands,” the wiry Saint Candidate explained as he rose to stand before them. “Remember what it did to your brothers. Now, we have the chance to return the favor.”
The leading man accepted the gift with steady hands, distributing the bottles to those he deemed most capable without a word.
Another Saint Candidate stepped forward, this time carrying a golden chalice cradling a gem-crusted necklace. The wiry Saint Candidate’s hands trembled with reverence as she took it and presented it to the leading man.
“Behold,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “This necklace belonged to the Living Saint herself.”
The men stared in fervent awe, their lips muttering gratitude incessantly. With ritualistic care, the wiry Saint Candidate placed the necklace around the leading man’s neck.
“This will grant you the Saint’s power when you need it most,” she said. “Use it wisely—and return with it in victory.”
“Yes, blessed Sister,” the leading man replied, his voice filled with conviction.
“Now, join your brother,” she instructed. “They have paved the way for your arrival. It is time to fulfill the Living Saint’s will. Kill the enemy’s reinforcement leader—we have a castle to conquer.”
***