CHAPTER 252: REAPERS IN THE DARK

Reapers in the Dark

Northbound Road

A hulking creature, massive and wolfish, rushed down the northbound road in complete darkness, angling southwest toward Canardia. Balanced awkwardly across his broad, fur-matted shoulders covered in ringmail, a man of wide girth clung tightly, more baggage than rider. The night air whipped past, thick with the scent of wet earth and the heavy musk of the beast’s pelt. Every pounding stride sent jolts through the rider’s bones, each lurch in the beast’s gait making his teeth rattle.

The creature was called Big Ben, from Umberland. Originally, he and his kin had been stationed northeast of Canardia to guard against a possible attack from the monastery. Yet today, they had been alerted by a wave of travelers returning home with news of riots in Canardia. They also received reports of looting and raids on farmland north of the city.

Big Ben and the small garrison could not decide what to do, but they agreed it was worth investigating. Or, more precisely, someone convinced them to do so.

The half-breed’s wild expression shone in the starlight, eyes gleaming with a strange joy, and tongue lolling out as he ran. Each breath came as a heavy huff, each leap filled with boundless energy. Madness flickered in his eyes, as if simply running under the stars brought him delight.

“Ah, to see the night sky and carry a fat meat, ready to eat at midnight,” Big Ben sang, sounding utterly unburdened by the distance.

“I’m not here to be eaten,” the much slimmer but weathered-looking Reginald protested, his thick coat offering little comfort. The cold air bit at his cheeks, and the coarse fur beneath made his skin itch. Every time Big Ben surged forward, Reginald’s stomach lurched. The rhythm was nothing like a horse’s gait, more an unpredictable, jolting ride.

Big Ben’s laugh rang out, heavy with saliva that sprayed across the road. Without slowing down, he squinted ahead, nose twitching. “I see a junction. We take the west fork, right?”

“Yes, straight to the Lord’s camp,” Reginald managed, voice wavering as he bounced with each thunderous stride.

“Why not head into the city?”

“The gate will be shut because of the riot.”

“Right. Not even I can jump a wall that high, especially with a fat meat on my shoulder.”

"Don’t even think about it," Reginald pleaded, clinging tighter as another jolt sent his stomach lurching.

The large male half-breed only laughed louder, voice echoing off the trees. He broke into song, words slurred by his heavy tongue. “Roast rabbit is delicious, roast duck is a treat, but how about a man’s thigh? Just a little bite won’t hurt.”

A few miles on, Big Ben suddenly slowed his stride.

"I smell something," he rumbled.

"I'm sorry—"

"Not your vomit. I figured that out a while ago," Big Ben said, flashing his fangs in a grin. "But don’t worry. If this goes well, like you said, we’ll both enjoy a hot bath in Canardia. If not, I’ll take a bath alone wearing your skin." He let out a deep, rolling laugh and veered off the main road.

Reginald flinched. "You think the Lord would skin me for a mistake? And why are you walking in the grass?"

"We have company."

"Armed men?"

"Might be. Too far to tell," Big Ben said. He set Reginald down and raised his big water skin, drinking deep until the glug-glug echoed in the night. Meanwhile, Reginald sank into the soft, tall grass, breathless from the ride.

Satisfied, the half-breed turned to the man, his predatory eyes wide and wild in the darkness. "You asked about the Lord skinning people? Want to hear a story?"

The former Lord of Midlandia swallowed hard but nodded.

"I’d rather not, or you might vomit again." Big Ben laughed, the sound low and ominous. "But he does love torturing people. I heard he even whipped a knight on the field of Korimor just because he didn’t like being handed several odd-looking rings." He left out the fact that the rings were still on chopped fingers. Teasing Reginald had become one of his favorite pastimes.

Reginald went squeamish. The words made his skin crawl, but he pressed on. "No, the Lord will need a proper night fighter like you or your kin."

"And what if he doesn't?" Big Ben teased.

"I'm never wrong," Reginald said boldly, before correcting himself, "Well, I mean, I’m rarely wrong."

The half-breed chuckled and returned his gaze to the distance. He mumbled, "Human conflict is so confusing. This sudden riot. And you, and your change of heart, are confusing too."

"I'm only doing this to survive. I want to live."

"But you’re alive as my lovely pet." Big Ben chuckled and added in a colder tone, "Do you think just sending me to assist the Lord in the fight will make him pardon you? You sent assassins after him, and one nearly took my eye too. You know, maybe the Lord wouldn’t care if I took one of yours."

Big Ben’s predatory stare and sudden bloodlust made Reginald shrink back, but he was used to this sort of cruel play and knew how to respond. "Please, spare my eyes, my good and benevolent master. Your humble servant still needs both to remain useful."

The half-breed turned away slowly and spoke in a flat, unreadable tone. "One day, I’ll find a big cauldron to boil you."

Reginald, sweating despite the cold, managed to reply, "Until that day, follow my lead. We can both benefit."

Big Ben was amused at the old man's stubbornness. "And if the Lord gives you what you want, will you leave me behind?"

"No, I'll ask you to be my number one assistant," he replied in one breath.

"Oh, you lying old fart," Big Ben said.

"As if you couldn't tell a lie," Reginald retorted.

Big Ben laughed, the sound rolling through the night and startling the poor souls on the distant road, who now had one more reason to fear the dark.

"Well, we’ll reach the Lord soon enough. Then I’ll find out if I get a cane across my buttocks or a word of appreciation." He stared at Reginald. "Stay quiet now, my dear tender meat. I’m off to pay our new friends a visit."

After only a brief respite, the half-breed began to move again. This time with exaggerated caution, knees high and arms bent stiffly in front of him, trying to be stealthy but only looking ridiculous as he disappeared, swallowed by the shadow and night.

From where he was, Reginald couldn’t see anything but faint silhouettes under the stars.

Suddenly, a ruckus erupted. Hair-raising shouts cut the night, followed by screams and then that wild, unhinged laughter. "I love violence! Now speak or you're going to end up in my belly."

Reginald frowned. "That beast is actually enjoying it."

"I heard that, Reggi-man!" came Big Ben’s voice, booming from somewhere out in the dark.

Reginald could only grin, embarrassed at being caught and at how easily he’d forgotten what half-breeds were capable of.

After a moment, the tall half-breed returned.

“Who are they? Whoa! Careful, careful,” Reginald pleaded as the half-breed’s big hands reached for him, lifted him, and swung him onto his shoulder.

“Not good,” Big Ben replied, his tone subdued. “They’re rioters who deserted. They told me of a big fight, and we’re close.”

Reginald could hardly believe it. “A battle? Then the Lord has come out?”

“Yes, the Lord has come out and given his sharpest greetings,” Big Ben replied proudly.

Reginald stared in disbelief, then muttered, “Then we are correct to head this way.”

“Looks like it,” the half-breed said, exhaling a heavy breath.

“So, what happened to them?”

“I let them go,” Big Ben replied. “They’re already too broken. They better change their ways. Violence isn’t the key to happiness.”

“How ironic— Ahh—!” Reginald’s protest turned into a startled cry as Big Ben suddenly sprang ahead.

The half-breed broke into a sprint, his laughter echoing through the night as he returned to his old self, relishing the cool breeze on his face. “Oh, this is fun! Another war, more heads to bash. Joining the Blue and Bronze is so much fun!”

Despite his vigorous bravado, even Big Ben was weary from all the exertion and could only maintain a steady pace. He badly needed rest.

***

Lansius

The flicker of orange flames played over stern faces, polished armor, and drawn swords as a hundred men-at-arms, supported by four hundred recruits and volunteers, stood in near darkness after taking formation. Lansius had just given the order to attack, and the men felt relief that the waiting was finally over. For the veterans, waiting and inaction strained their nerves like a blade hanging over their heads, so the order to attack came as a welcome release from misery.

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With his staff beside him, Lansius walked from behind the column to their center. He met their eyes, and they met his, faces somber and stoic.

"My Lord," many greeted him in hushed voices, mindful of the enemy lurking close and the danger of an attack from the darkness.

Lansius acknowledged them with a steady gaze, then addressed those nearest in a clear, calm voice. “Men, pass my words to your comrades."

Without breaking formation, the men listened for his words.

“We are running out of time, but do not be hasty. Fight, thrust, and swing your swords true as you have trained. Do not let time rush you, or you may endanger yourself."

His message rippled through the column, passed from man to man.

Lansius continued, "For this skirmish, I'll keep it simple. Do not be alarmed even if I sound the cornu. Trust that I will neither endanger nor abandon you. Fight to your hearts’ content. That is all."

"Men," the camp commander called out, rallying them, "show your courage. Let’s show these bastards that our blood is blue and bronze."

The column let out a bold, defiant laugh despite the tension. In high spirits, veterans, trainees, and volunteers alike listened for the final shouted checks, making sure every group was in position. Then, the first rank began to pound their greaves against the ground.

The general attack had begun.

Five hundred advanced through the darkness, pressing forward against the enemy column that blocked the road to the arena.

Carrying only a handful of torches, they relied on rock oil lanterns with polished brass reflectors. These lanterns allowed them to spot movement at a distance and were less likely to give away their position to enemy crossbowmen.

With steady breaths, they marched toward the faint lights, keeping slightly off the main road to avoid taking the full brunt of a possible volley of bolts.

Lansius, standing beside the cavalry and the rest of his volunteers, watched the march with a solemn gaze and deep concern. The remaining men with him had only limited battle capability. In all, he had just over two hundred veterans, including cavalry, men-at-arms, and crossbowmen. Now, he had committed a hundred men-at-arms, along with one hundred recruits in lighter gear and three hundred volunteers armed with spears, to the attack.

This left him with roughly a hundred camp helpers and two hundred volunteers to assist with the horse-drawn carts.

While they had crossbows and spears, the only true fighting force left at his side was his fifty horsemen. Lansius knew he could not risk them against a possibly entrenched enemy, but he also could not afford to linger. He needed a quick victory and had to find another way to support his men-at-arms and bring about the enemy’s swift destruction.

"Dame Daniella," Lansius called.

"Yes, my Lord," she replied, stepping forward.

"Get the alchemists to launch fire bottles, but aim for the trees. It might do some good."

"Right away." The Dame turned and left in a hurry with her two riders.

"Sterling," Lansius called.

His loyal squire stepped forward. "Yes, My Lord?"

"Take the light cavalry and move to the left side, but do not flank or engage. Give them something to fear, and report back if you find anything unusual."

"Understood."

Lansius added, "Even if we sound the cornu, do not engage."

"Should everyone carry torches?" Sterling asked.

"Just a few lanterns should suffice. The sound of hooves and horses will do the job and spook them," Lansius replied, his tone hopeful.

"Yes, My Lord." He turned to the cavalry, and a moment later, a dozen horsemen broke from the line, their mounts snorting and stamping as they moved out. The sound of hooves echoed through the night as the riders guided their horses toward the left.

After a short while, Dame Daniella returned. She slowed her horse and dismounted with practiced ease. She didn’t need to report; two fire bottles had already struck the trees near the enemy column. The flames hadn’t done as much as hoped, but they left a mark and likely added to the enemy’s confusion.

The marching column took heart from the fire bottles and the chaos they stirred in the enemy’s ranks.

Soon, the crossbowmen who had advanced earlier, along with the slingers, loosed their last salvo before clearing out of the way. Without good lighting, the crossbowmen had little more to offer. The last fire bottle, like the flare before it, sparked panic but still failed to provide enough illumination.

"This is starting to look like a costly endeavor," Lansius muttered to himself, thinking of the alchemists’ items he had spent with little result.

Dame Daniella returned to his side, her eyes following the advancing column and the cavalry, marked by their lanterns and torches. "My Lord, the cavalry is already near the enemy’s position."

Lansius glanced at his signaler and instructed, "Blow the cornu and make it sound as if a thousand cavalry are descending on them. Send our enemies home to their mothers’ embrace."

"Acknowledged," the man replied quietly, his palms sweaty and his heart heavy with responsibility. He and his aide stepped forward and, in unison, blew their cornus in short bursts, as if signaling a great cavalry charge toward the enemy’s position.

Lansius and Daniella could only watch as the battle unfolded. They had no further support to give, except for their last twenty heavy cavalry.

Unaware, Lansius gritted his teeth. The odds were against him. His men not only needed to win this skirmish, but they also had to do it without breaking, with enough strength left for another fight. Another battle still waited around the arena, and that troubled him deeply.

***

The Cleric's Column

A peculiar sound rang out again before the treetop burst into flames, sending the men cowering in fear. The column of nine hundred had suffered attrition upon attrition.

"Another falling star!" several cried, thinking it was another flare.

"Crossbows! Everyone behind your shields!" a group leader shouted, desperate to keep these rioters alive.

Another volley of bolts struck their position. The whistling from the darkness, the sudden impacts were terrifying. Echoes of groans and shrieks of pain rose from the line.

"Dragon’s breath," muttered the second son of a basket maker, staring at the burning tree and spreading more panic. The column had bled, and one by one, men began to turn and slip away into the dark.

"Where are you going?" asked a drunkard with missing fingers, here for easy money.

His newly made friend, a laborer turned rioter, whispered hastily, "I'm getting out of here. Better to starve than face this."

On the center line, their leader, a male cleric chosen by the Saint, was still in denial about his predicament, but he had to face the reality of war.

Noticing the cleric’s distinctive white garment, his aide called out, "Cleric," as he hurried over from his post.

"What is it? An attack on your side?" the cleric asked, alarmed.

But the man, breathless, whispered as he drew nearer, "We've lost too many men. They're running away. I see groups disappearing."

Instead of blaming their lack of devotion, the cleric massaged his temple and asked in a much calmer voice, "How many?"

"I- I don't know. Nobody knows. It's too dark to make out anything," his untrained brother answered, clearly panicking. "We need to flee."

"Retreat, not flee," another brother of the faith corrected, standing next to them.

"Yes, that's what I meant," the aide insisted before turning back to the cleric, pressing him, "Brother, do you think you can win this?"

"Know your place," the other brother barked, but the aide stood his ground, feeling he was speaking for a group of men.

"There's movement in the dark," a lookout cried nervously from the front, raising the tension further.

"Men marching toward us," another confirmed, voice tight with fear.

The cleric climbed above the roots and brush he used as cover and saw moving silhouettes. They were already too close. His lookout had been utterly careless.

From the low tremor in the ground and the shifting shapes, they understood the Lord had sent his men-at-arms against them. This was an assault.

"We must retreat," his aide begged again.

"Not enough time," the cleric said, jaw clenched. He turned to his men, their grim faces lit by covered lanterns, and cried, "Prepare yourselves, men of faith! If you seek answers to your prayers, stand with me in this fight. Every drop of blood brings you closer to salvation. Make the Saint’s enemies bleed!"

"Spears and swords!" his brothers roared, leaving the aide to exhale deeply.

Without being told, chanting rose from the ranks.

The few crossbowmen among them loosed their bolts at the advancing column, but the volleys had little effect.

Under the feeble starlight, hundreds surged toward the defenders’ line. There, the bulk of the Lord’s men found the defenders' right wing.

With quiet ferocity, the Lord’s veterans advanced in steady formation, blades drawn. Those carrying torches hurled them onto dry patches of grass to light the battlefield as they closed in on the rioters. They saw their opponents standing in ragged lines, with thin, long faces and patchwork armor. Some had no gambeson or helmet, clutching only shoddy-looking shields. The veterans flashed ruthless grins.

Separated by only a dozen paces and strained by the mounting pressure, the rioters’ fear finally boiled over. The men surged forward in desperation, shouting war cries and swinging swords and axes.

The veterans met them with brutal efficiency. Blood sprayed as men fell after their first wild swings, their bold but clumsy attacks easily parried and countered. Within minutes, war cries turned to pained groans as the first wave was cut down in a one-sided slaughter.

Yet darkness shielded the rioters’ eyes from the slaughter, and more pressed forward only to be mercilessly hacked down and left writhing in their pools of blood.

Suddenly, repeated blasts from the cornu tore through the night.

"Horsemen on the right!" someone screamed from the flank, panic rising at the sound of galloping hooves.

"They’re coming around us!" another shouted, desperation clear in his voice.

Whatever conviction the rioters had left was shattered. The men on the right flank stepped out of line and scattered in panic.

"We’ve angered the Black Lord," muttered the grandson of a poor squire, tossing his spear aside as he ran.

"He’ll drown us in blood," his similarly aged neighbor replied, just as shaken, before sprinting into the darkness with the rest of his group.

With such a difference in skill and experience, the Lord’s hundred veterans, followed by recruits and volunteers, pushed deeper, sowing chaos as they went. They killed anyone who stood before them with ruthless efficiency. To them, these rioters were nothing more than ungrateful rebels and oath-breakers.

As the lack of light remained a problem, a few set the dead’s clothes alight with their torches, both to illuminate their surroundings and to spread greater fear.

The rioters could only watch helplessly as their numbers were butchered, and pained screams rose from every direction.

Like blood-maddened warriors, the Lord's men-at-arms swept toward the center, hunting for more to kill. Their Lord demanded a swift victory, and by the Ancients, they would deliver.

For the cleric and his brethren, the defense had become a nightmare.

"We’ve lost the right wing," his brother reported, tears streaming down his face, helmet missing, hair wild and soaked in sweat. "The followers were slain to the last. And the unbelievers have fled."

"Such cowardice," another brother spat in frustration.

The cleric was at a loss for words. Now, even his blessed spear and ringmail seemed inadequate for the task anymore.

The sound of iron against iron, violent jeers, and raw shouting drew closer to their position, along with men running past in the dark.

"Brother, we must flee," the aide urged for the last time.

When the cleric gave no answer, the aide took several steps back, then ran alone into the night.

Only now did the leader seriously decide to flee, his mind already searching for excuses to offer Saint Nay for his failure. But it was too late.

The clanking of armor and swords striking bone, along with horrified screams, heralded the arrival of the Lord’s men-at-arms. These veterans’ breaths were ragged, their cuirasses and helmets caked in blood. They paused only to wipe the slick blood from their weapon handles before advancing into another foray.

There was no introduction, just a sniggering voice as they spotted the cleric and the last of the center column: "I smell sweet incense."

A dangerous chuckle followed.

Defiantly stomping his foot, spear leveled and white cloth standing out in the gloom, the cleric countered with zeal. "The Saint has blessed us with protection from the sinners. She will deliver us from pain and fear. Her words of healing shall lead us to victory!"

Roused by his words, the Saint’s followers, still outnumbering the enemy, crept forward with snarled insults. "Lowlandian filth, go back to your goats and sheep!"

"We’ll kill you and your lord, and piss on your cheap blue banner!" another howled.

A third joined in, "This isn’t over, even when you’re in your grave. We’ll march south and take your wives as slaves!"

But a single cold reply cut through their jeers: "I’ve buried thousands like you. The only miracle I’ve seen is your kin’s blind stupidity."

Angered, the cleric shouted, "By the living Saint’s grace, strike these sinners and tear the Black Demon’s head from his shoulders!"

His brothers and followers rushed toward the new threat, blades gleaming in their hands. The fight erupted into chaos as hundreds of the Saint’s followers hurled themselves at the bold yet weary and outnumbered veterans.

...

Lansius

Encouraged by Sterling’s report of progress, Lansius moved his reserve closer to observe the fight. With the battlefield now revealed, he felt more confident about deploying his knights if an opening appeared to hasten the enemy’s fall. Still, his mind remained in turmoil.

Despite favorable reports and the possibility of turncoats inside the arena, he couldn’t afford to assume that every plan would succeed. His new allies might be lying. One cunning enemy could still unravel everything. Thus, Lansius chose to act as if he had no support at all. Only a handful of infiltrators should be reaching the gates by now through hidden worker passages and builder corridors.

They were waiting for him to act. Without his small force to secure the entrance, they would be powerless against the thousands of Saint fanatics still inside the arena who wanted them dead.

Even if he managed to win this skirmish with few casualties, his numbers hadn’t changed. If the fanatics burst out before he took control of the gates, all his efforts would amount to nothing more than noise before defeat.

***