Chapter 67: (3)

(3)

As twilight settled over the realm, two-hundred knights stood before the gate. In front of these men was my heavily armed and armored Uncle.

“Hey Uncle, you look quite good with all your armor on.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He would soon be hurtling into a horde of 14,000 Orcs, yet his voice was calmer than ever before. The other knights seemed to share his blissful mien. Their heavy helms obscured the Black Lancers’ faces, yet one could see their confidence by studying their stance. I was troubled by only a moderate amount of tension. Count Bale Balahard seemed anxious to throw open the gates and commence the charge.

“Your Majesty!” A knight sporting many wounds came over to me and handed me the reins of a horse, a great white charger. I mounted it from one side, my ass settling right into the saddle. “This is a precious, pure-blooded horse of the north unafraid of monsters,” the mounted knight proudly stated as he tugged on the reigns, showing off the animal’s head.

“Make sure you both survive. You both deserve medals.”

I nodded sternly, yet I could not help but laugh at how consistent the northerners were at times. The man was Quéon Lichtheim, captain of the Black Lancers, and he snuck his horse through to a spot right beside his Count. “That’s the place,” my Uncle said in a patronizing tone as he looked down at me. He smiled at Quéon’s antics, a smile that did not fit the situation. His breathing became more controlled.

I could feel many eyes boring into my back, yet I did not bother to turn my head. What would the faces of these observers look like, and what would they say? I did not want to know. The aspirations and longings contained within their fawning gazes had only made me dizzy before.

“Your Majesty,” a thin voice broke through the clamor. It was Adelia. Unfortunately, my most adored sword would not be at my side. Her nature did not fit the situation. I had tried to include her in such a charge once when at first, the Warlord had come. Even then, I had suggested that we charge straight at him, yet the northern lords had not one shared my desire. I knew that today, as we made ready to dig into the middle of the enemy camp and kill their leader, there was no place for Adelia.

I could not even ride a horse properly, so how would I be able to stop her if she decided to run wild? No, it was likely that she would get herself killed.

“Your Majesty, please stay safe.” Her expression seemed to alter within every second; her uncertainties were written plain upon her face. I had almost bitten my lip then, yet caught myself just in time and rather let my eyes drop from hers. Adelia was struggling between the feelings of [Caring] and [Servility]. If her [Butcher] or [War Mania] traits had been active, she would doubtlessly have followed me into battle.

However, I did not want her to face her doom here. Not her, who had inherited such a talent with the sword. “I’ll return, Adelia, and that you will see with your own eyes.”

I bowed and patted her shoulder. I could hear wolf-whistles sound from many knights as the men buffeted us with crude jokes.

“Hah! The fine things that certain men get to have, we of the north lack!”

“Yes, I am so envious.”

The knights continued to giggle and laugh, yet their laughter did not last long. The sound of gears turning and pulleys being wound up filled the courtyard. The great pulleys of the gate started to turn slowly but surely, and the smell of lubricating oils stabbed at my nose.

“Open the gates.” The soldiers who reeled in the mighty chains continued their hard labor upon my Uncle’s command. They were all worried, yet to their credit suppressed such feelings to focus rather upon their duty.

The gates groaned as they rose, inch by inch. A snowy field littered with the dead was slowly revealed beyond the gates. “Tug harder,” exclaimed Vincent as he watched from the walls. The soldiers grunted their response as they reeled in the chains with greater vigor.

During this time, great wheels of wicker and rags, drenched in oil, had been put in position. Just as the gates finally ground open, dozens of these wheels were rolled onto the open field before us.

“Ignite them!” Rangers fired blazing arrows, and each rolling wheel caught fire.

“Charge!” shouted my Uncle, and two-hundred knights spurred their horses on by hitting their flanks. The Orcs who had lingered before the gates screamed in terror as the fiery rings slammed into them. Two-hundred horses thundered in the wake of the flames.

“Fire!”

Arrows flew into the sky as the men upon the walls roared. All these missiles thudded into the foe at once, screaming Orcs dying in their droves. Hooves trampled over these fresh corpses as they charged on. At last, we reached a point outside of the Rangers’ and our siege weapons’ range. The fiery wheels had also lost their momentum.

There was no more covering fire to shield us from the awaiting monsters. From here on out, we had had to cleave our path through the horde. I heard the sound of bolts being cocked. The Black Lancers held crossbows. As one man, they shot their bolts from our flanks.

Roaring Orcs were felled under this barrage. The Black Lancers abandoned their crossbows and readied their lances. My Uncle lifted his sword into the sky. A blue flash erupted from it, slamming a bloody path through the green horde before us. More Orcs rushed in as they tried to block us off. The Black Lancers spurred their mounts on into a rapid charge. They readied their lances under their shoulders, hunching forward as they prepared themselves.

One-hundred finely forged cavalry lances pierced the Orcish ranks. Blood sprayed in showers as limbs were torn violently from their sockets. The Black Lancers charged on, trampling the Orcs. By the time our vanguard had lost its impetus, the surviving Orcs had been greatly shaken by this display. The horse that I rode gave an excited whinny as it lowered its posture. It felt like an invisible hand was guiding my mount ever onward. I passed the lancers who had lost their momentum, and soon new Orcs barred my passage.

My Uncle spread his knights out and held his ground. A new wave of Orcs rushed at us but was met by the Winter Knights’ short throwing hatchets. The monster ranks collapsed as these thrown axes thudded into them. Our tactics were organic, and the knights evinced great levels of excitement. Poetry blossomed, and hundreds of rings resonated in response.

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A new path was being paved right before my eyes.

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We continued to advance at a brisk pace until finally, we had reached our destination.

In the center of all these Orcs, the tallest banners flapped in the wind. Here was the king of all the dark green clans, here was the hero of the Orcs.

I had arrived before the Warlord.

Orc guards blocked our passage, and they were determined not to let us pass. With their swords and spears glowing red with their fervor, they roared as they charged at us.

“We’re going to break through!” exclaimed my Uncle. Even before he had said this, the Black Lancers had already readied themselves for another charge. Their mighty spears now crashed into the ranks of Orc guards. They hit a brick wall, yet many Orcs still died. The lancers vaulted off their mounts, spearing Orcs as they jumped. In the next moment, midnight-black horses started to die, some falling onto their riders. The surviving Black Lancers jumped over the carnage, their blue-glowing spears clashing with the Orcs’ red energies. This scene was played out all along the lines.

Slowly, step by step, the red curtain of Orcs was torn and beaten back.

Beyond the battle sat the dark green monarch upon his throne of bones and skulls. He stood as he held a spear, not seeming troubled by our presence in the least manner. A terrible, ominous feeling shook me to my very core. I clenched my teeth and forced my mouth to open, the poem’s verse streaming from my tongue. Numerous resonating rings lent their power to mine.

Once more, my Uncle extended his sword, and brilliant light, brighter than any I had ever seen, exploded from its tip. There followed a tremendous explosion as white snow was scattered under the force of the shock waves. I charged into this new foggy world without hesitation. I then charged towards the point where blue and red lights flickered the most.

The flame of my true soul then began to burn.

I vaulted off my horse and struck out with my blade. One of the red traceries of light slammed back and met my sword. My eyes became blurry at the moment at the shock of seeing internal organs pouring to the ground in a sickly rain. The sky and the earth became as one in the periphery of my vision. I placed Twilight on the ground and raised my body. My ears thudded as if I were many leagues under the blackest ocean. I could not stand that feeling as I swiped at the corner of my mouth. Then, I fixed my sword before me once more and thrust it at the sky.

The blue flame that had been extinguished within me flared up once more. As I readied my blade, something passed in front of me. It was a jet-black horse.

After that, these dark mounts passed me by one by one, countless times. The Black Lancers were charging. One of these men dismounted, and his face shouted so silently into mine. He looked familiar to me… Was he Quéon Lichtheim? The commander of the Black Lancer stared at me with only one eye. I stared at him blankly before I realized something. He did not have only one eye open by choice; no, his other socket was empty. His brow was torn, and his face spasmed at frequent intervals.

He grabbed me violently then, and my mind reeled as his rough hands closed around my neck.

“Your Majesty, the Prince!”

A harsh shout broke into my mind then, and I looked around in amazement. The Black Lancers and the Winter Knights were blocking the Orcs, stemming their tide. In the middle of the chaos and the carnage stood my Uncle and the Warlord.

My breath was almost knocked from me as I watched and felt red and blue fires collide and collapse, time after time, strike upon strike.

“Take this!” My Uncle bellowed as he was buffeted by the great battle fervor of the Warlord.

My confused mind was wrenched into clarity at once. “Go!” Quéon shouted as he slapped the back of my neck.

I staggered away from him, toward the center where the Count and the King battled.

Only

“You’re late, Adrian!” My Uncle chided me. He looked hassled, almost pathetic as he shook the filth from his blade. The Warlord had reeled back after my Uncle had struck it with a rather intense blow. It felt as if I was being flayed alive by the Warlord’s great fervor. I mitigated his overwhelming presence by summoning the maximum amount mana that I could, spreading it over my entire body.

“I’m late, but let’s do this correctly from now on,” I shouted through my clenched teeth.

Then, we created a poem.

[The Poem of Winter] was born from my scant amount of karma, as well as the hopes and desires the Balahards had held throughout their long vigil in the north. My Uncle sang along full-breasted over the clamor of war as his rings rotated rapidly. In an instant, I banished his presence from my mind as a great martial spirit arose in its place. A blue flame enveloped Twilight. At that very moment, the aura of my Uncle’s blade, which had begun to peter out, flared brighter than ever before.

The Warlord slammed his weapon into the ground, a great wave of battle fervor crashing like a tsunami over the entire battlefield.

In that crimson realm, my Uncle and I fought like madmen.

In the end, I was defeated.

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