CHAPTER 255: THE ALTAR OF FEAR

Horizon of War Series

The Altar of Fear

Arena

It was the hour when families gathered for dinner, the warmth of the hearth lingering from the day’s cooking. By the light of simple rushlights, people studied, mended clothes, or talked as the day faded. It was a time for calm, rest, and comfort. But for the thousands trapped in the arena, there was only agony. The wails of the wounded, their shrieks of pain, and the stench of death were suddenly everywhere.

Of the three gates, two were hit by surprise attacks. Survivors kept stumbling out, many collapsing the moment they reached safety. Their comrades outside drenched them with water from barrels meant for fighting fires. It brought some relief, but their breathing remained short, labored, and harsh as their throats burned with pain.

The scene was pitiful, harrowing. Those who took longer to escape were practically incapacitated, sprawled on the ground, and paralyzed by the loss of breath.

With three hundred people affected to varying degrees, the air turned thick with coughing, vomiting, and ragged, wheezing breaths. It wasn’t just bodily harm; many were shaken to their soul, haunted by terror. The alchemist’s burning sands in an enclosed space were a horror they had never imagined possible.

Fewer than a hundred had died, but five of their highest authorities were missing. Effective command was paralyzed.

Against the odds, one last man emerged from the smoking corridor.

The tall, armored figure was nearly blinded, every orifice on his face swollen, dragging an unconscious leader by the foot. Outside, his comrades doused them with plenty of water. He slumped to the ground, groaning and muttering incomprehensible words, unable to breathe properly.

Watching this tragedy unfold, even the thousands of devout Saint followers halted their advance through the main corridor. Despite there being no sign of attack, they drew back in fear. Suddenly, their entire plan to march outside and face the Black Lord faltered. Their very survival was at stake, yet nobody seemed capable of acting. They were stunned, too scarred, and in denial about what had just befallen them.

As if by dark magic, the Black Lord had wrought untold destruction upon the rioters, reaching far beyond the confines of the corridors.

Like torn fabric, the situation unraveled. Hundreds scattered into the dark, desperate to find a way out of the arena. Some made for the farthest reaches and began hacking at the walls, frantic to open a hole big enough to escape. But the double wooden walls were beyond sturdy, built to bear the weight of the massive viewing platforms above. Despite being built as temporary structures, they were a marvel of engineering. Solid as bridges or wooden forts, with proper upkeep, they could have lasted for years.

It would have taken hours with proper wood axes, but those gathered had none. Battle axes, with their narrow blades and lighter heads, were useless for chopping timber. Some tried hacking with their swords, using them like machetes. In the dim glow of lanterns, they swung until their arms ached and splinters flew. Still, the walls were heavily reinforced and would not give way easily.

Others, driven by witless desperation, turned to the quicker, riskier option. Many leapt from the seating platforms, some with help, some without. The fall was high, and the ground below was hard-packed to support the walls. Plenty landed badly and broke bones.

But not all were turned witless by the string of tragedies. In the midst of chaos, among the sea of wounded and broken men, a hotheaded young man in monastery robes found himself one of the few left in command. His immediate superior had been injured, knocked aside by the withdrawing guards fleeing the burning sands.

Full of youthful nerve, the robed man knocked an empty barrel over, climbed on top, and shouted, "The Lord has made a mistake!"

His conviction drew dozens of eyes.

"He didn't seal all the gates. There's still one within our control. Come with me before it's too late!"

The crowd merely exchanged uneasy glances.

The robed youth had watched his seniors give rousing speeches and sermons, and he had practiced hard to mimic them. In empty yards, in shadowed corridors, or to anyone who would listen, he had rehearsed every line. Most people looked at him with pity, thinking his voice too loud and his manner too dramatic. But now, he finally had his chance. "Come with me. Let's face the Black Demon, or do you want him to burn this arena down?"

Now, the crowd was finally piqued.

People looked around and realized the arena was made entirely of wood, dried out from the summer. Even with the vast open space of the horse track, the heat and smoke would surely annihilate them all. ȐΆ𝐍őΒЕＳ

"Do you want to die? What the Black Demon will do to you is far worse than death by fire."

More and more heads turned toward him.

"This arena is an altar. Everyone who dies here will be sent to hell and live as the demons' accursed dogs forever!"

His twisted logic and shallow understanding, shaped by half-heard radical sermons and wild tales, had fueled his imagination. By some uncanny stroke of fortune, this struck deep and true, tapping into the rioters' fear. Hell was a terrifying new idea to the Saint sympathizers. Instead of the Ancients’ eternal hunting grounds, they now faced judgment, their fate determined by faith and obedience.

Still, the men there had seen enough terror. Some turned away, dismissing it as nonsense.

But others were interested. Many gathered nearby to listen closely; some wanted to ask, but one shouted first.

"Is what you said true?" a strong-looking man challenged, his brothers standing behind him.

"I speak only the truth, the truth my seniors are too afraid to reveal. They fear the Black Demon’s power. But the Saint has spoken, and I heard it myself: the Black Lord is just a mortal and can be wounded. Kill him now, before he ascends into a demon and makes you his eternal slaves!"

Roused by a new fear, the crowd began to stir, restless and uncertain.

Arguments and debates broke out among them. But those who wanted to flee had already done so, joining others trying to find another way out. Most of those who remained were Saint sympathizers, people who had seen or believed in the Saint’s miracles of healing and promises of a better world.

Whispers started to spread that Saint Nay herself had spoken through the young man. Eyes turned to him with a mixture of wonder and hope, as if he were some living sign. The sermons rushed back into their collective consciousness, words of deeds, judgment, and the long shadow of the afterlife echoing in their minds. Soft chants took hold, one voice joining another, weaving through the press of bodies.

Slowly, the crowd’s composure returned, and their numbers began to swell as more rejoined the ranks.

Still, no one moved. They watched, waiting for a sign, waiting for a man to take the lead. One hired sword finally stepped out, approaching the old leader sprawled on the grass, surrounded by those tending him. Beside him, his tall armored guard sat slumped, struggling for breath, vision blurred, but refusing to leave his post.

Under hundreds of watchful eyes, the old leader who had paid for the Krakusa hired swords seemed to whisper something. The man quickly relayed the message to his comrades. "The leader says to attack, and for us to carry him outside. He does not want to die here."

"Then we continue the attack!" his comrade, a stoic man with white hair, declared, knowing time was already against them.

The crowd watched him, hope flickering back into their eyes.

This man was the Krakusa rear guard leader, purposely kept at the back and untouched by the burning sands. He radiated authority and seniority. With a capable officer now taking command, the men-at-arms quickly reformed their columns, and the tide shifted once more. Where before there had been only the hopelessness of defeat and terror, now even men who wanted nothing more to do with the riots began to feel a semblance of hope.

Ever the fickle thing, the crowd watched as a formation began to take shape, and hundreds more decided to rejoin behind it. They flocked together, seeking protection in a herd like their own.

With his men ready, the rear guard leader led his three columns toward the last open corridor, which had yet to show any sign of attack. Behind them, the crowd continued to swell. Finally, the young man in robes leapt down from his barrel podium and joined the leading ranks. This was the moment they had all been waiting for.

The rioters surged forward once again to follow their new leaders. The first ranks vanishing boldly into the dimly lit corridor, and thousands pressed on behind.

Everybody was desperate to escape the place they now dreaded as an altar. And many still believed their side could seize victory, for they were numerous, and there was strength in numbers.

Ironically, it was all built on a lie. The hired sword heard nothing but shallow breaths and broken groans. The old leader wasn’t even a believer. He had inhaled so much burning sand that his mind was dulled past reason.

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Unaware of the lie, the rioters surged headlong into their most dangerous hour, driven by fear and blind conviction. Outside, the Black Lord waited.

***

Arena, Outside

Lansius finally reached the area near the entrance. His cavalry, led by Sterling and Dame Daniella, had already arrived to scout ahead. He saw that the rioters had tried to harass his smaller cavalry, but as soon as he appeared, they retreated to their column. These weren’t panicked rioters who had a change of heart and fled. These were the core of the rebels, made up of disgruntled minor nobles, mercenaries, and monastery followers.

He veered his army east, off the road, into an open field that led toward the now-abandoned sea of tents so he could deploy his battle line. While he should have anchored his right flank to the arena walls, he didn’t want to risk the rioters having someone with good military instincts. They could simply post several dozen crossbowmen on the seating platform above, which would ruin his formation.

With the stakes this high and his forces greatly outnumbered, he couldn’t afford a single mistake. Thus, he stayed off the arena and prepared to fight on the open ground, with both sides risking exposure.

He quickly took in his surroundings as his officers barked orders, forming the men into a solid, three-rank formation facing the arena entrance. On the far side, the rioters’ column was still forming, with groups arriving in staggered fashion. Ironically, he could crush them easily right now, but that would only introduce a wild element into play.

Lansius didn’t want them using the arena as a fortress. That would be a dangerous development. He would rather let them form up and then break as many as he could, forcing them to abandon the riot. But that plan depended on there being no other hidden forces in the area.

From the side, a few riders approached, their horses cantering before coming to a halt. Two of them dismounted and came forward on foot, guards close behind.

“The SAR teams have successfully secured two gates, My Lord,” the first rider, Dame Danielle, reported.

“The attack must have struck a nerve for these rebels to come out staggered and late like that."

“They might have found an opportunity and struck at some of the leadership.”

Lansius nodded. The SAR had grown out of his early instruction. Without even indoctrination, they had developed a goal-oriented professionalism and a culture he hadn’t thought possible. They were simply obsessed with results and prided themselves on being the few who could hold against hundreds.

“Have the SAR returned from the gates?”

Dame Danielle instinctively glanced back but saw none. “No, My Lord. They must be escaping through a different route.”

Lansius turned to the second rider.

“No signs of a hidden army or Francisca,” Sterling answered, having just returned from a scouting trip beyond the arena.

Lansius breathed sharply and declared to his staff, “We’ll proceed with the plan.”

The camp commander immediately turned to face his men and shouted, "Gentlemen, it's time for blood!"

The troops, in response, let out high-pitched, trilling war cries. The camp commander walked in front to inspect them before taking his post on the right flank, where Lansius wanted his hardest hitters to go in order to block the rioters from fleeing toward the town. He wanted them to head west or south instead.

From the outside, Lansius appeared to be deploying his troops in a conventional line: hardened veterans in front, recruits and volunteers behind, mobile crossbowmen as support, and cavalry held in reserve. It was a shame he couldn't deploy and test his tercio formation, but he was without his main army. With only five hundred veterans, recruits, and volunteers, he barely had enough to form a proper battle line.

That was why Lansius had integrated eleven carts into his ranks.

The carts would serve as battle wagons. Their presence was needed to extend his thin center column and stretch the line wider across the field. Against thousands, his few hundred men could easily be surrounded. That was why the wagons became makeshift bulwarks and crossbowmen platforms. And they came loaded, carrying almost the entire camp’s bolt stockpile for the fight.

Lansius dismounted and made his way to the carts, which still had their pack horses tied to the inner side. The carts were anchored together with thick ropes, stakes, and knots. Since they weren’t designed as battle wagons, there were no wooden walls on the sides, but a simple fence-like contraption had been built for protection.

Currently, a group of volunteer craftsmen was still working on one cart fitted with a special contraption. It was likely the only cart designed for something beyond hauling supplies. On its bed, a sturdy wooden platform had been built, and now the men were hauling a heavy wooden structure upright.

His staff and officers watched him, ready for any command. Around them, guards watched the perimeter.

Meanwhile, from a higher vantage point, Lansius observed the battlefield stretched before him.

The rioters had gathered in force, their columns lined up in a broad, uneven front that spilled across the open ground. Their line stretched slightly wider than his, and each of their columns was denser, possibly around 120 men, maybe even twice that. Gaps and swells marked where discipline faltered, but the sheer weight of their thirty-plus columns was unmistakable.

And this wasn’t even two thousand. There were still another three to four thousand inside.

Such a disadvantage sent a chill down his spine.

Are we really doing this? Is this really going to work?

At the very front, Lansius counted six columns. Behind them, certainly more. But he knew the vanguard would be the main problem. If he broke it, the rest might flee. In the poor light, he could see that not all wore armor, some lacked helmets, and only a few carried shields.

“Pretty impressive for rioters to even form a large, cohesive formation,” he commented to his staff gathered around the cart.

“Looks like they had some training,” Sterling answered.

“Or they have a few trained men in each column to guide them,” Dame Daniella responded.

Lansius nodded; either could be true. He turned to them and asked, “What do you think about our enemies?”

“At least two columns in front of us are untrained,” Sterling observed.

Lansius looked to Dame Daniella. “I have the same conclusion. I’m also worried our left flank could be exposed once the battle starts, but I suppose the cavalry will handle that.”

“Can’t help it. We’re badly outnumbered,” Lansius commented without revealing too much. Even with the darkness, the glow of their lanterns and torches made the difference in strength painfully clear.

He turned to his officers. “We’ve waited long enough. Are your men ready?”

“Center ready.”

“Right wing ready.”

"Left wing still needs time," the officer responsible reported.

"No worries, it's to be expected," Lansius replied, waving off the other staff's concern. As a precaution, he had them prepare countermeasures.

With his men ready, Lansius stroked his chin, pondering one last time before deciding. "Send our right wing forward. Two columns. Let's test their cohesion and bait a reaction."

"Yes, My Lord." The officer ran to his horse and rode hard toward the right wing.

Lansius added, "Tell all the officers to expect the lines to pivot with the carts as the fulcrum. We don't know just how crazy our opponents are."

"Understood, My Lord," they answered eagerly.

A different voice emerged from the side. One of the veterans near him remarked with an easy grin, "It should be easy, My Lord. Evidently, it's hard to smuggle in arms and armor without being detected, and now we see that not even all their front ranks are fully armored."

"You're right, but it's their stamina I fear," Lansius replied.

"We'll show you our courage. You won't regret that promise of one gold coin and a silver badge of honor," one man quipped, and the column chuckled openly, as if taunting the enemy.

Lansius let out a knowing grin, proud of his men's boldness in the face of battle.

Suddenly, trumpets blew from his right. The right wing, led by the illustrious camp commander, made its move. Two hundred men pounded their greaves and boots, marching with polearms held at an angle. Crossbowmen in their midst, ready.

Now was the culmination of their battles. Every victory they’d won hung in the balance.

Lansius observed as the enemy column reacted, tightening their formation. Shouts and cries rang out.

Sensing the enemy was distracted, Lansius turned to his officers and staff. “Bring the rest of our crossbowmen forward. Tell them not to bring torches, and warn them to withdraw if engaged. And make sure they know what the second part of our plan is.”

“At once, My Lord.”

Lansius watched as all around him, even the crossbowmen on his side, gathered to form a separate line and advanced into the darkness, clutching their iron-prodded crossbows, arbalests, and windlasses.

His attention shifted to the enemy’s column. Their wing had reacted, moving several columns to intercept his right.

Holding their breath, Lansius and his staff watched as hundreds of men closed in on a collision course. The sound of war echoed out as both sides hurled taunts, curses, and mockery.

With only tens of paces left, his right wing expertly leveled their polearms. These weren’t just halberds or poleaxes, but long pikes made to break cavalry. Their reach forced the enemy to miscalculate.

Shouts broke out, and from their tone, Lansius could sense surprise, perhaps even panic, as the two sides closed in.

The enemy column staggered. That was the signal: crossbowmen from the right wing unleashed their attack, catching the enemy off guard. Blood was drawn, and a wave of chaos erupted among their ranks.

The battle had truly begun on the right with a ferocious pike charge.

Lansius turned to observe his separate crossbowmen slipping through the shadows. Their advance was mostly unseen, or the rioters mistook them for irregulars and chose not to take the bait. Finding this situation favorable, he shifted his attention to the cart with a wooden structure erected on it and found a master craftsman. "Are the bronze plates ready?"

"She’s ready now, My Lord. We even managed to polish her one last time," the man answered proudly, his hands and clothes stained from labor.

He gave a curt nod. "Stand ready, and hold. When I give the word, show them what it means to battle House Lansius."

***

The Battle at the Arena Gate

The Lord's right wing drew first blood with a volley of crossbow bolts, then followed up with a charge, two hundred men with pikes crashing into the enemy’s left. Though fewer in number, they held the advantage in reach thanks to their longer pikes and pressed forward in a murderous assault. For the rioters, the impact was catastrophic. Screams echoed as the heavy stench of blood filled the air. Their formation quickly strained and threatened to break apart in confusion.

Things worsened for one column of rioters, made up of barely trained men led by desperate rebels. The attack threw them into disarray as the hired swords in front began to fall under the relentless assault.

They had greater numbers, but little training, and most had no idea how to react. Worse, their equipment was poor, their courage thin, and with plenty of doubts. Despite the chants in their midst, many were still hoping to stay safe or slip away from the arena, not be herded into a battle.

By contrast, some of the Lord’s men had seen six or seven battles before tonight’s skirmishes. For them, this was their bread and butter.

Loyal to a fault and hardened by good diets, warm shelter, and constant competition, the Lord’s men proved unstoppable. The two hundred, led by the bravest, thrust themselves into the hedge of spears and pressed on, showing the difference in quality. Despite fresh wounds, screams of pain, and exhaustion, driven by the promise of gold and silver, they gave everything they had.

“Hey, rebels, is this the best you can do?” Jeers and mocking laughter rang out as they pressed forward, mercilessly trampling the fallen underfoot.

Amid screams and pleas, they kept their pace, thrusting their murderous pikes. “Where’s the Saint? I want to meet her!”

“This is far easier than Korimor,” another veteran boasted.

“Let’s show the Lord that just because we didn’t join the SAR, doesn’t mean we’re weak, just a tad stupider.”

A roar of laughter followed, and the rioters’ morale crumbled. Eyes narrowed and jaws clenched, the rioters understood the Lord’s men saw this as nothing more than blood sport. Under crushing pressure, the men reeled. War cries and shouts of encouragement from their ranks grew faint.

Individual strength was powerless against a solid wall of men who knew every trick of battle. Rioters, hired swords, and devout Saint followers stumbled back as more and more fell to the savage hurl and thrust of the sharp pikes. With neither strength nor hope left, one of the two leading columns of the twenty-nine rioters finally broke ranks.

***