CHAPTER 256: FIENDS

Fiends

The Battle at the Arena Gate

The right wing’s ferocious assault caught everyone by surprise. Even the Lord watched in disbelief. He had wanted them to probe and bait the enemy, but they were crushing it. He had never realized how brutally effective a pike charge could be when led by a competent and powerful column against a weaker one. Right now, his left wing was practically demolishing the opposing column.

It had been only minutes, but already hundreds had fallen to the murderous pikes. The carnage was so severe that the new white-haired leader of the rioters had to pull his best men from the center and scramble to stabilize the front.

Clad in armor and running through chaos lit by torches, the new leader was joined by another group led by a young man in robes. Pressed for time, the two exchanged a knowing nod and hurried toward the embattled wing.

While the leader rushed to take command of what was left of the breaking column, the robed youth rallied the battered men. "Victory is within reach! Give it your all. By the love of Saint Nay, if it's blood they want, give them a taste of their own, tenfold!"

His clear voice rang out, drawing everyone’s attention and reminding them of the cause.

But it wasn’t only his allies who noticed. Bolts hissed through the air, and if not for his newly formed honor guard’s shields, he would have died.

For a heartbeat, the robed young man stared death in the face but did not flinch. "We have broken his curse," he shouted in defiance. "His altar lies empty. Show your strength and take the demon’s head for the Living Saint!"

Charged with seemingly tireless and boundless energy, his voice and presence invigorated the rebels, who roared back in response. Their courage flared to life. Chants rose on every side, anger flashing again in their eyes as they struggled to blunt the Lord’s right-wing assault.

Tragedy struck as more and more believers fell in agony, the ranks of the brave thinning under the flash of swords and the brutal thrust of pikes. Yet the sacrifice of the faithful bought the precious time they needed. The new leader brought up another column and stabilized the front by sheer weight of numbers. Steadily, more columns from the rear pushed forward to reinforce the crumbling line, and the Lord’s right wing began to slow as it met fresh resistance.

From the center, more enemy columns were being drawn into the fight.

The rioters had paid the blood price, but now the tide had finally evened.

But the Lord, ever shrewd and resourceful, had already found an opening. He turned to his staff and ordered, "Light it up. Full spread to the enemy's center."

As he spoke, a large bronze plate layered with a thin skin of silver, hammered and polished until it shone like a mirror, was aimed toward the enemy line.

On the other side, the noblemen's hired swords gritted their teeth and fought on despite the bloodbath against the Lord's right wing. With a wave of fresh men arriving, they launched a counterattack, daring fighters in light armor surging forward with swords. After some initial success, the Lord's men quickly adapted. A group of knight-like fighters broke through the formation, hacking and dismembering the lightly armored opponents with brutal ease.

The line on the right had barely stabilized when, without warning, a brilliant white light flashed. Every rioter shielded their eyes in disbelief, as if sunrise had come in the middle of the night.

The Prize of Cascasonne blazed like a false dawn, pouring light over the enemy and bathing them in blinding brilliance. The glare from the grand gemstone, reflected by the silvered plate polished to a blinding white shine, was so intense that it robbed many rioters of their sight and left them reeling.

Not even the robed man could speak. He could only stare and scream at the Black Demon’s magic.

As thousands stood gasping in awe, mesmerized by the new sun's brightness, they could feel its warmth on their faces. The few who had escaped Cascasonne panicked. They recognized the dreaded glow and tried desperately to warn others, but their voices were drowned out by the crowd’s murmurs of surprise. In terror, they ran from their column or covered their heads with anything they could find. Just as they feared, a hail of arrows struck while the rest were distracted by the light.

The attack was devastating. With the field lit up, heavy bolts from steel-prod crossbows, arbalests, and windlasses tore into the front ranks of the rioters with deadly precision.

Blinded and stunned, hundreds were struck by the first salvo. Screams of surprise and agony erupted as bolts buried themselves deep in flesh, limbs, and even faces. Some screamed at the top of their lungs while others whimpered in pain. The masses recoiled in shock, stumbling back in chaos.

As the enemy line contracted, the Lord's veterans on the right wing, already briefed for this moment, tightened their grip on the pike shafts and renewed their charge. They had waited for this chance, and now they threw everything into it. Veterans, recruits, and volunteers, all giving their all.

"Blue and Bronze, advance!" the camp commander shouted, sword raised high.

"How barbaric! They wanted blood, let's give them a taste."

"Get that robed man. I want him strapped to a pole."

"Push!" many officers shouted together. "Kill them all!"

Noticing the separate crossbowmen punishing their uncommitted columns and realizing that their entire line was under great stress, the white-haired rioter leader had no other choice. With furrowed brow and a stern face, he said to his staff amid the fighting, "Order a general attack."

Trumpets blared at once, but that wasn’t all. The leader spoke to three of his trusted aides. "You three, take your groups and command three columns on the far right. Launch a wide envelopment. Swing out to the Lord's blind side, then crash into his side and rear. Move fast, and may the Ancients bless your swords."

"Yes, commander," they replied and sprinted on foot to reach their far right.

As they moved down the length of their lines, they saw just how badly the Lord's attack had mauled their forces. The rioters had few means to protect themselves. Not even a regular army, many lacked shields. Faith and belief could not save them from bolts that pierced ringmail with ease.

With the general attack underway, every column surged forward to punish the crossbowmen. But the false sun still burned above them, leaving their eyes half-blinded by the brightness. As they pressed on, the darkness ahead seemed even deeper, their sight slow to adjust after the glare.

The rioters waded forward, and bolt after bolt punched into flesh. In a harrowing sight, the front rank thinned out, and the rest kept moving only because they were pushed from behind by men who knew nothing of warfare and were just as scared as they were.

Mercilessly, the Lord's crossbowmen pressed their attack, firing until the rioters had come so close there was no space left to maneuver. Only then did they pull back, having played their part in the slaughter. Even so, a hundred crossbowmen meant little against a mass attack from a thousand men.

For a moment, the mass moved forward without bolts threatening their advance. Thousands of boots stomped the ground in thrilled relief. But it was only momentary. As they drew closer, the dreaded hiss of bolts tearing through the air returned, filling the night with sharp whistles, heavy thuds, and pained groans as they found their marks.

"Forward, for the Saint!" the rioters' officer shouted, his voice picked up by the rest.

"It's twenty against one. Win this, and the monastery will welcome you and your family forever!" another rallied as the line braced against bolts.

Amid the crossbow bolts that wounded hundreds with ease, the rioters roared and hurled themselves into a charge. The two lines collided in a frenzy of killing. The dried summer grass beneath them was soon wet with sprays of blood before being trampled by boots.

Men from both lines locked eyes and traded mockery and sharp steel in equal measure. But despite their numbers, the inexperienced rioters were no match for the veterans’ wall of spears. The Lord's center and left fought ferociously, holding the line. Sword, spear, and poleaxe flashed in the chaos, slick with blood, but it was the crossbows that ruled the night. With the gemstone of light blazing on the enemy, the crossbowmen fired from atop their wagon forts while their men beat back any rioters daring enough to climb.

Untold numbers of bolts were spent, with volunteers speedily reloading crossbows at the rear. Meanwhile, the Lord and his guards had personally fended off a courageous assault on the wagon wall, and his men looked at him like a powerful rock, pinning all their future on him.

"This is just like Sabina Rustica," one veteran whispered to another, who responded with a knowing grin amid the melee.

The Lord had indeed used similar tactics in his early years.

Despite the one-sided carnage, the slick ground, and piles of dead men, the rioters kept coming by sheer force of numbers. Yet many among the Lord's ranks began to exchange glances and furrow their brows. The behavior of these rioters was beyond normal. Men did not act like this when facing slaughter.

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As if to prove their concern was correct, the new mass of rioters surged forward.

Their movement was steady. Their eyes were sharp but hazy, yet their grip on their weapons remained firm.

They called themselves The Believer, the most devoted of the Saint’s followers. From sweeping congregation floors, working the monastery’s donated fields, preaching in the streets, or serving the clerics, they did it all. The monastery and its alms money had become their lifeline. In return, they devoted themselves entirely to its will. Yet even they did not realize how absolute that will could become.

“Kill the Lord’s men... Kill the Lowlandians... Kill the Black Demon...”

With their minds dulled by the heavy reek of incense burning on their torches, they marched straight into danger. It was supposed to keep them immune to weapons and pain, but it did much more. Hundreds hurled themselves fearlessly against the wall of spears that greeted them with ferocious thrusts. Their bodies were torn by spears and swords, yet they kept going, swinging their blades wildly until their bodies convulsed in death.

This new onslaught pressed hard against the Lord’s line and caught even his most battle-hardened veterans off guard. The fanatics were baring their fangs.

***

Big Ben

The half-breed’s wild expression shone in the starlight, eyes gleaming with a primal joy, tongue lolling as he ran with Reginald still balanced precariously across his fur-matted shoulders, ringmail clinking with each stride. But even the mighty half-breed was exhausted from the long exertion, especially while burdened and in armor. His leg and arm muscles burned hot despite the cool night air. Worse, for the past few minutes, the wind had carried a thick scent of death.

Instinct kicking in, he slowed to catch his breath. He needed to approach this carefully.

"Are we there yet?" Reginald managed in a tired, shaky voice.

"Close," the half-breed said, still overwhelmed by his senses.

He walked on, not in a beastly manner, as the two approached a corner a few hundred steps ahead. There, as the treeline receded, they could see lights coming from the Lord's fortified camp. Soon, even Reginald could hear faint groans, whimpers, and cries drifting out of the darkness, along with the scent of blood. He clutched the half-breed tighter.

Big Ben responded with a jest, "No need to get excited." His tone shifted, unusually level. "Most are dead."

"What do you see?" Reginald pleaded. His eyes could only make out darkness along the path that led to the camp on the hill and the vast silhouette of the arena beside it.

"Carnage. More men slain here than goats my tribe ate in a year," he said. He stood at the path's edge, watching the unmoving bodies scattered everywhere: on the road, around it, and on both sides of the ditch.

He continued, disbelief in his voice. "You said the Lord needs us? He'll probably laugh at us and punish us for straying from our post without permission."

"It's a special case," Reginald insisted. With renewed spirit, he pressed on. "Come, let's move to the camp and find out."

"No," Big Ben replied firmly. "I smell something odd and out of place."

"What do you mean?" Reginald was instantly alert.

"The stench of death blinded me, but now I can smell the scent of many." He turned to the east, then to the south, uncertain.

"It could be the Lord's men."

"No, there are too many." Big Ben shifted direction at the junction, heading east for a while before suddenly sitting on the ground with his legs spread, still not letting Reginald down.

The man was grateful for a brief rest, trying to catch his breath.

Meanwhile, Big Ben studied the soft ground beside the road and, as expected, found plenty of fresh footprints. "A big army just moved through here."

Reginald furrowed his brow. "But you said the stragglers you met earlier spoke about the Lord winning."

"Different scents. It's sticky, sweet. Burnt wood... Incense?" Big Ben paused, eyes fixed on the ground nearby. "And all the footprints lead one way. Someone came through here before us, and they had a big force."

"But that means... more rioters? Reinforcements?"

Big Ben didn't confirm, but his silence spoke for him.

"How many, can you tell?" Reginald asked again.

"More than I could count," he replied with a rough chuckle, his body shaking with his laughter. "Also, why do you care, former Lord of Midlandia? Want me to drop you here so you can rendezvous with your supporters? Maybe they'll still recognize you."

Reginald let out a long sigh. "I don't have that kind of blind optimism anymore," he answered weakly. "There's nothing left for a deposed lord with a tarnished reputation. They'd say my short rule means the Ancients didn't favor me. And the Saint followers don't particularly like me."

Big Ben let out a low chuckle. "They blame you for the loss at Cascasonne, yes?"

"Indeed." He sighed again before adding, "My loyalty now is to my family, whom the Lord keeps in Korelia, and to my students working in my manor, now confiscated."

"Human conflict and allegiances are fascinating subjects," Big Ben said as he rose steadily, Reginald still on his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. "Confusing, yet pretty as well."

Without another word, the odd pair set off again, moving cautiously at first to conserve their strength. Then the half-breed broke into a sprint once more, much to Reginald’s dismay. Big Ben, being Big Ben, threw caution aside and reveled in the night air and the cool breeze on his face. His muscles ached, but he cared little; the wild joy of running beneath the stars made him feel alive.

But not even three hundred paces away, he sensed something. Something was close. The hairs on his neck rose before he saw the silhouettes looming in the far darkness. And he was running straight toward them.

***

Lansius

The veterans cursed under their breath as the fanatics refused to break or hesitate. Years of battle had taught them to expect fear and panic, to see men recoil from steel and blood, especially those untrained. But now they watched as men already wounded, bolts jutting from their bodies, pressed in without fear, or seemingly without any mind at all. Even with spearpoints buried deep in ribs or tangled in flesh, these new waves kept fighting. Their eyes were vacant, their brilliance lost, but their arms swung aggressively, intent on killing.

Even the veterans flinched for a moment before their brothers in arms stepped forward, swords rising and falling with brutal precision. Still, the problem only grew. The new wave of fanatics, often with bolts protruding from their bodies, lunged at the defenders with no care for their own lives.

Their line began to sag under the mounting weight of bodies that would not fall cleanly. Blood slicked the hafts and gloves, making every movement harder. Many switched to swords, while those behind struggled to free their spears or poleaxes.

By now, bodies had piled at their feet, yet the fanatics kept advancing, blind to the slaughter before their eyes.

“Bolts don't work on them, don't waste it on them,” one veteran warned, and the message spread quickly down the line.

The commotion and warning caught Lansius by surprise as he fought atop the wagon wall. The rioters still stubbornly slammed into the barricade and tried to scale it. Many shields in front, used as makeshift barriers propped by simple wooden frames, were already torn apart and riddled with holes. They even had crossbowmen among them, and bolts randomly struck the defenders who desperately held the line.

Stepping back, Lansius lifted his visor and shouted to his staff behind him, “What happened?”

Before he got an answer, the stench of blood and guts swept over him. The air throbbed with the clash of steel, shouts, screams, the whir of bolts, and the sharp twang of crossbows.

Sterling and the four tall guards glanced over but were too absorbed in the fight to pay attention.

“The new rioter column at the left center is giving us troubles, My Lord,” Dame Daniella reported nearby, sweat running down her face as she took a reloaded arbalest from her squire. Her lithe figure, clad in a helmet and fashionable deep blue brigandine, was a sight to behold. Her task was to target armored men, hoping to take down important figures.

“How bad?” Lansius asked, already striding to the edge of the wagon. Sterling and four guards moved to steady him as he jumped down, drawing brief glances from the men nearby. A veteran and his recruits quickly filled the gap they left behind.

Daniella didn't answer. She didn't know and simply followed after trading her arbalest with a crossbowman at her side.

The melee still raged around them. Their line was thin enough that, even from behind, Lansius caught every cry and clash as he moved toward the troubled front. He saw dozens of injured men being treated hastily by volunteers. With so few in their ranks, each wounded or dead was a great loss. To fill the gaps, more crossbowmen and volunteers took up polearms and stepped into the line.

Fortunately, his investment in armor since his days in Korelia had paid off, and his line held much better than he expected.

“Lead me to the center left. Their troubles should point the way,” Lansius said to Sterling, though he was already picking out where the trouble lay.

Sterling nodded sharply and quickly took the lead.

As they hurried toward the trouble, his guard captain warned, “My lord, you aren’t wearing your usual armor. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

“I know. Just lead me to it,” Lansius replied.

Sterling noticed a troubled section and, with reddened spear in hand, forced a path through their thinned ranks. “Make way. The Lord is here!”

As he reached the front, he saw the ground tangled with bodies, blood pooling at the defenders’ feet as the rioters died with hands still clutching for another kill. Yet a new wave of rioters stepped over the dead without hesitation to launch their attack.

The fighting was so fierce that Lansius’ arrival was noticed by only a few. Everyone was desperately holding back the swarm of mindless rioters.

“Kill the Lord’s men... Kill the Lowlandians... Kill the Black Demon...”

The Believers fought with a self-destructive fervor. They drove forward with such intensity that wounds and danger barely slowed them. The tip of spears punched through flesh and bone, but their only reaction was a twist of the face. Fear or pain seemed to have little effect as they kept surging forward, thrusting or swinging their weapons, or even bare fists with wild, senseless force until death finally claimed them.

Lansius and his group could only watch the incredible scene, gripped by disbelief.

The line was overwhelmed and had already taken several steps back. Against the new threats pressing in, Sterling gritted his teeth, stepped forward, and drove his spear into a bulky rioter who rushed at them. With blood streaming from the wound, the man gripped the shaft tightly but kept forcing his way forward, swinging his sword wildly at the remaining wall of spears.

Sterling managed to keep him at bay but was slowly pressed backward by the man’s sheer weight. The four guards reacted, but Lansius blocked their advance with his arm, curiosity getting the better of him. Not risking anything, Dame Daniella jostled against the surprised veterans, leveled her crossbow, and loosed a bolt that struck the man’s chest.

The bulky man reeled backward, crashing into his fellow rioters and knocking down three who scrambled to get back on their feet. Still, the bulky man drew breath. He didn’t scream, only groaned, and, staggering, began to rise and move toward them once more.

"Ghoul," the veteran next to Dame Daniella said, leaving her wide-eyed.

The veteran left his recruits behind, who had already vomited plenty, to hold his spear. Then he stepped forward with his sword drawn. Amid the blood on his feet and the wall of spears, he blocked the man's sword and cleaved through the man's neck, ending the sorry plight. But as soon as he fell, three more took his place.

"Ghouls?" Lansius demanded as the veteran stepped back into his ranks.

"A folktale, My Lord," Sterling explained as he pulled his spear from the dead body and let it fall face-first.

Dame Daniella let her squire reload while she slipped to the front to check the fallen man’s body.

"Dame, it's dangerous!" the veteran shouted over the din as the masses pressed in without pause.

Noticing this, Lansius commanded, "Pull the dead man. Pull the dead man to the rear."

Amid the melee, the veteran, Daniella, and two others dragged the man's body to the rear for examination. She quickly noticed a strong scent emanating from his clothes. She bent closer, inhaled, and her expression sharpened in alarm.

Daniella turned to Lansius, nerves showing in her eyes. "My Lord. This smell isn't incense. It's powerful drugs."

“They're drugged?” Lansius was startled. His plans were built for normal opponents, not fanatical berserkers.

His mind raced with the possibility of powerful narcotics known only in this world. After all, his world didn’t have an alchemist guild, and the presence of Green Miasma and Volatile Oil should have given him reason to suspect.

Have I been careless?

His expression told his men more than words. The Lord’s usually effective tactics were failing. Tonight’s most important battle, the culmination of their efforts, the one that should have crowned their achievements, was unraveling before them. Victory was slipping, and doom pressed in.

***