CHAPTER 257: CHANT OF THE DAMNED

Chant of the Damned

Lansius

At the heart of the battlefield, where the war wagons were stationed, Lansius’ few hundred fought their hardest against the onslaught of a thousand. One column of rioters had gone down, but a fresh column quickly arrived to replace it. In this battle, they were like mosquitoes against giants, but even mosquitoes could be terrifying under the right circumstances. The Blue and Bronze had a plentiful stockpile of bolts, with hundreds of gold coins’ worth stored in their carts. With the help of their Great Gemstone of Light, they sent bolts flying with deadly precision.

Several SAR X-Bows were also in their possession, wielded by their best, unleashing a barrage to fend off any concentrated assault on the wagon wall. Only through the resilience of their men-at-arms and the accuracy of their crossbowmen did they break and blunt the rioters' relentless attacks. Hundreds of rioters were wounded by the bolts and dragged along inside the thick formation until they vanished from sight, trampled by their own. Ironically, weakness and powerlessness inside the crush killed more than the bolts themselves.

Finally, the rioters’ center could not take the punishment any longer and began to withdraw, replaced by two fresh columns. But battlefield maneuvering was a delicate process, especially for untrained columns. Even from a distance, the sound of confusion, mishaps, frustration, and accidents was clear. It gave Lansius’ center and his wagon wall a moment to catch their breath and assess their damage.

In this manner, the fighting on the right wing and at the center showed promise.

Yet the fight on the left side was turning into a nightmare.

Under the bright white light from the Prize of Cascasonne, Lansius watched as his veterans and recruits, shouting and groaning, struggled to hold their spear wall against the swarm of mindless fanatics. Everyone was unsettled by how willingly the rioters fought to their deaths. Men with nothing but layers of linen and ragged wool for armor on their chests charged the spears, flinging their weapons wildly before falling under a rain of thrusts.

His men had taken several steps back to preserve their line, giving ground to the immense pressure of the rioters’ attacks.

Behind the line, Dame Daniella and a concerned veteran continued to search the dead for clues, but they found nothing except some indication that drugs had been used.

"Can drugs do such things?" Lansius muttered to himself, feeling like a fool for basing his knowledge on his world's history, a place that didn't even have an alchemist guild.

The question wasn't even necessary. He had seen it with his own eyes. The rioters who clashed against this section of the line had acted like mindless ghouls, unwavering in their attack despite wounds and pain that would have brought down normal men. Shaking off his thoughts, Lansius saw his men around him, all eager for guidance.

His eyes quickly shifted to Sterling. “Get me the slingers," he instructed. "Tell them to bring everything they have.”

"At once." Sterling ran to the back of the wagon carts where the slingers were last positioned, helping with the wounded.

Lansius turned his attention back to the line and rushed to a weakened section. He gripped a recruit by the shoulder and pulled him back.

"My Lord," the recruit stammered, stunned as Lansius took his spear and stepped forward to join the fight among his veterans.

"My Lord, you're with us!" a veteran exclaimed, sweat streaking his face as he pressed shoulder to shoulder with the others, the line tightening as Lansius' guards joined their ranks.

Amid glances and hurried salutations, Lansius raised his voice for all to hear. "Men, what is this setback? Is this what a gold coin just bought me? I was pleased to see the right wing striking deep into the rioters' flank. Why is this section giving me less?"

Groans of protest and frustration erupted along the line.

"My Lord, there's something wrong with them," one man shouted, gritting his teeth as he jammed his spear into a fanatic pressing against the line.

"No fear in their eyes, not a bit," another called, breathlessly yanking his spear free and stabbing again at a new attacker.

"They lost their limbs and still they fight!" a third cried out, struggling to keep his spear level as a screaming zealot tried to climb over it.

"I count us as stupid, but they are something truly special," someone commented with a bitter wit.

"It's like fighting the dead," came a hoarse voice further down.

"Ghouls," a veteran muttered, and the rest barked it in grim agreement.

"Patience, men. Don't get discouraged," Lansius responded amid the clash of iron and steel ringing through the lines. "If you face problems, don't just take them at face value." He turned to Daniella. "Dame."

"My Lord?" Daniella answered promptly from behind. The men recognized her firm yet endearing voice.

"The center and center-right aren't facing this ghoulish problem, correct?" Lansius asked.

"Indeed, My Lord. They haven't encountered these kinds of opponents," she confirmed aloud.

He pressed on. "How about our far left wing?"

Daniella turned to check, but her view was blocked. A tall veteran answered instead, "No, My Lord. It's easier over there. They're not seeing the same trouble."

"Then this is an isolated case," Lansius concluded.

His men exchanged glances, wondering what the Lord was getting at.

"Powerful drugs are costly," Lansius continued. "They're exotic, worth their weight in gold if not silver. I doubt even the monastery can drug a thousand. There can't possibly be that many. These are meant to scare us, to push us into retreat."

Doubt lingered along the line, but Lansius' words had planted a seed. And for a moment, fear and worry loosened their grip.

"Every fanatic you kill is one they cannot replace. Their numbers are not endless. In fact, I believe there are only a few hundred at most. Hold the line, and we’ll end this madness!" Lansius shouted, intent on keeping their spirits up despite the relentless hardship.

With tremendous effort, the men held the line, thrusting their spears and trying every trick they could think of to fight the fanatics. Lansius’ guards took on most of the fighting themselves, forcing him and Dame Daniella to supervise the battle from the second ranks.

From behind, Sterling waded up to Lansius and said, "My Lord, they're here."

With a relieved breath, Lansius stepped back, Daniella in tow. They saw the slingers, powerfully built but mostly unassuming men in light armor. Each had helpers carrying bags and wooden boxes strapped to their shoulders.

"How many fire bottles do we have?" he asked.

The helpers quickly lowered the wooden boxes, letting the slingers check their contents. "Combined, we have eleven left," the senior slinger reported.

Lansius held his breath for a moment, wondering if it would be enough, before recalling something. "I have given the alchemist guild access to Volatile Oil and a good deal of money. Don’t you have samples of the concoction they're able to produce?"

The two slingers exchanged glances. "But those are recently made, My Lord. Untested."

"And what better moment to test them?" Lansius countered.

The slingers did not argue, but hurried their helpers to retrieve the items from the wooden box.

"How many of them?" Lansius asked as they carefully placed three round clay spheres, protected by nests of hay and each larger than a fist, onto the ground.

"Just these three, My Lord."

The other slinger, already preparing his sling, said to Sterling, "You might want to get the Lord and the men in front to clear the way."

"Wait," Lansius stopped them. The idea of letting his men fight burning, pain-dulled fanatics was a daunting prospect. A column of ghouls was already a lot of trouble, but a column of burning ghouls would be terrifying. "You don't want to target the men in front. Lob it high into the midst of their formation."

The two slingers nodded sharply. Within a breath, the fuse hissed, churning smoke as if alive.

"Slingers! Clear the way," Sterling barked, ordering the men to move aside. Even though the throw would be parabolic this time, there was still a risk.

The two swung their slings overhead several times, building momentum before launching with precision. The projectiles flew in a wide arc. The two new concoctions, still unnamed, crashed into the midst of the fanatics’ formation. In the blink of an eye, the area nearby erupted in flames. At first, it looked like an ordinary fire attack, but the fire spread rapidly and engulfed a much wider area.

The effect, however, was limited, and his men were underwhelmed. Moreover, they doubt that fire would deter these ghouls, let alone stop their advance.

But Lansius had expected as much. He turned to the slingers and said with a steady gaze, "I want you to create a wall of fire in the middle of their formation. Drop them close together, but not overlapping."

"My Lord," called a wounded veteran sitting nearby, clutching his bandaged right arm. "I doubt fire will scare these men. They don't even fear spears or swords."

"That's exactly what I'm aiming for," Lansius replied, leaving the veteran puzzled.

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He returned to the slingers and said, "You'll understand soon. For now, burn a line. Separate their rear from their front. Scorch it. Use all your stockpiles. I want the center of their column burning bright."

The slingers nodded and sprang into action, whirling their slings overhead and launching two more projectiles with precision. Soon, the field was dotted with more blazing fires. They were spectacular to see, but the impact was minimal. Still, they continued with their fire bottles.

Dame Daniella stepped closer and asked in a low voice, "What exactly is your intention, My Lord?"

Their eyes met.

Lansius gathered his thoughts and explained, "If someone nearby bursts into flames, most people will do everything they can to get away from it."

Daniella’s eyes widened as realization struck. "But not these men," she said, her voice filled with sudden understanding.

He turned his gaze to the front as the slingers hurled more projectiles into the air, each one landing with great accuracy. Burning dots blossomed and began to form a line, separating the front of the enemy column from its rear. Some fanatics were struck directly by the fire bottles. Their bodies erupted in flames, their screams cutting through the night. Yet even as they burned, the ranks held and the formation refused to break.

A cold sweat crept down Lansius’ back as he realized it still might not be enough.

Several more projectiles flew, and the slingers finally launched the last of their fire bottles, each landing with astounding accuracy. Still, while the fire attack brought down many, the result was far from decisive. It was not enough to ease the pressure on their line. The strain on their spear wall was immense, and the defenders could not hold for long. This time, just a few steps back would not be enough.

"My Lord," a veteran captain called as he found Lansius.

Lansius turned toward the man and saw the sternness of his gaze and the clenched muscles of his jaw, who wasted no time reporting, "We need to retreat, or the center left will crumble."

"Begin the pivot," Lansius commanded without hesitation. "Left wing, withdraw six times twenty paces. Center left, three times twenty paces. The rest, adjust accordingly."

Forced to relieve the pressure on his battered line, Lansius ordered his entire left wing to withdraw. There was no fanfare, only the steady, almost somber notes from the trumpets counting every twenty steps.

With heavy footsteps, the Blue and Bronze gave ground, careful not to leave their wounded comrades behind.

***

The Rioter's Right Wing

At the southernmost point of the battlefield, the rioters’ right wing battled against the Lord’s left. Even before the lines clashed, their front ranks had been demolished by relentless crossbow attack, followed by a staunch defense that broke several hundred more. Numerous brave and committed rioters died left and right against the spear wall. The rest pressed forward, hunched behind whatever protection they could find. Spears, swords, even scabbards were raised in front of faces and heads, desperate to shield themselves from bolts that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Although the intensity of the crossbow attack had greatly reduced since the two lines clashed, bolts still struck here and there with horrifying results.

Worse, they were half-blinded. Even this column on the far south, which wasn’t directly under the intense glow of the false sun, still found its vision affected. The magical light was bright enough to hurt their eyes with its harsh white glare.

Suddenly, there was much less noise in the field.

The rioters at the back squinted their eyes and, to their surprise, saw the Lord's opposing column withdrawing. The false sun emanating from the Lord's ranks did not shine on the retreat, but its glow was enough for everyone to see the movement. Many were stunned by the sight, and even more grew excited, thinking this was a full retreat. A great host of rioters at the front surged forward in a raucous charge, but their hearts quickly sank as they watched the Lord's line reform.

Just as swiftly as they had fallen back, the Lord's men-at-arms bristled their spears into a new wall, the formation restored.

"Bah! They could do this all night," a hired sword said in frustration.

His comrades, former Midlandian soldiers, were both impressed and dismayed. The Lord's army was clearly better trained and more experienced than even Lord Bengrieve’s troops in the last conflict.

Still, they had no choice but to advance. Their contract with the monastery was to defeat the Black Lord's garrison, and now they were so close to their goal. It wasn’t just the core officers; even the rioters believed victory was within reach. After all, they were far more numerous. Seizing the chance to reorganize, they left behind the first column, which had been mauled and broken, and gathered into a new formation.

With planks of wood torn from the arena as makeshift shields, the hired swords led the nervous but eager rioters and Saint sympathizers behind them. The reorganized column advanced through blood-soaked grass, stepping carefully to avoid trampling their wounded or still-breathing allies.

Yet as they moved forward, a horror was unfolding on their left. Earlier, they had seen the Lord's fire attacks and dismissed them as nothing more than a cruel, desperate tactic. The flames had barely scattered the men in the next column, who kept their ranks despite the danger. But now, they began to notice that the fire kept growing.

"Another fire attack? But I don't hear anything," one muttered, nervousness colored his tone.

"Whose men are those?" another asked.

"The Saint's most devout," someone answered, and the rest muttered about the Believers.

They slowed their pace and watched in disbelief as the column next to them was slowly devoured by flames. They saw men step onto grass slicked with oil and unassuming puddles of fire, their feet instantly set ablaze. The victims were caught by surprise as their clothing and gear suddenly began to burn. They tried to smack out the flames, but that only made the fire spread to their hands.

Yet even more staggering, despite men in their midst completely on fire, screaming and crashing into those around them, the ranks refused to scatter. The column stubbornly kept moving, some even stepping past their fallen and still-burning comrades. And this was only the start of the horror. As men brushed against the flames, they caught fire themselves. With unnatural ease, the flames spread from body to body, catching on linen and wool, climbing up arms and necks. Raw screams rose as skin caught fire.

Yet, aside from a few who broke away, the column trudged onward, heedless of the agony around them.

"By the Living Saint. Are they mad?" one called out in fright.

Nobody had an answer. Instead, more questions arose. "What is happening?"

"Their skin is melting," another exclaimed, voice ragged with terror.

But all they heard from the stricken column was the dull rhythmic chant: “Kill the Lord’s men... Kill the Lowlandians... Kill the Black Demon...”

The sight was so unnatural, so grotesque, that even the brave among them felt disturbed to their soul. Meanwhile, the stench of burning flesh filled the air, thick enough to make even the strongest retch.

This sorry sight made the rioters turn pale. Even the hired swords who commanded them had stopped, doubt spreading quickly through their ranks. Their will to fight crumbled. They saw the other columns behind behaving the same way, clearly disturbed by the burning column and keeping their distance, some even stepping back to avoid it.

Slowly, the men exchanged fearful, nervous glances and heavy doubts. Some began to walk away, unable to bear what they had witnessed. The terror of that night would surely follow them for the rest of their lives.

A dozen men began to move aside and run, and nobody shouted at them. Even the officers were too stunned to react.

More and more rioters lost heart. They had seen enough. Whether it was magic or something else, they were terrified it could happen to them. Nobody wanted to die in flames. With bated breath, they fled, heading for places where the Lord's bright white lights did not reach. Ironically, they ran toward darkness, hoping to find salvation.

It almost turned into a rout.

But seemingly out of nowhere, three rioter columns pressed in, cutting off their path of escape. Commanded by trusted aides sent by the white-haired leader, the columns swung wide in an enveloping move, aiming for the Lord's unprotected flanks and rear.

Now, among the fleeing men, some stopped to watch, their curiosity greater than their fear. Others, who had seen the true nature of war, continued on their desperate flight, minds heavy with regret and hearts yearning for the warmth of home.

The rioters, by sheer weight of numbers, had played another hand. The battle had just turned wild and unpredictable.

***

Lansius

The Blue and Bronze's left wing had barely withdrawn and reformed their line when the fanatics crashed against them. Even dulled by drugs, the fanatics remained nimble and quick, a dangerous combination. Many fell as they recklessly overstepped their own dead, slipping on blood-soaked ground. The two lines collided again with nearly the same ferocity as before. Despite the fire attack, it seemed nothing had changed.

But suddenly, fire appeared in the enemy's midst. It had always been there, but now it grew stronger. Far from creating a literal wall of flames, after the initial blaze the fire attack left only scattered, unassuming oily puddles. Yet the sticky liquid concealed a dangerous effect.

The mixture of tar, resin, volatile oil, and whatever else the Alchemist Guild had brewed spread unnaturally quickly, latching easily from foot to clothing and then to bare skin.

Yet it meant little to the fanatics who stubbornly maintained their ranks. Some might have tried to force their way out but lacked the strength to break free. Almost all were dulled by the drugs, unable to comprehend the danger others faced. Thus, the tragedy unfolded as more and more burned, stumbling and shoving into anyone nearby, engulfing even more in fire.

Like a deadly game of tag, everyone around them rapidly caught fire.

Even as the fight renewed along the line, everyone could not help but notice how the enemy’s middle and rear columns were being consumed by growing fire.

"By the Ancients," one of his veterans lamented at the sorry sight.

Even Lansius was distraught. He had fully expected them to scatter. The smoke and the heat should have driven any human to flee with all their strength. But there was no snap back from their daze. The middle portion of the fanatic column was now ablaze.

But eerily, the chant only grew louder: “Kill the Lord’s men... Kill the Lowlandians... Kill the Black Demon...”

The Black Demon?

Lansius cared little for this new name likely attributed to him. All that mattered was his men could now see hope of relief as fire continued to ravage the fanatics' column. The pressure on his center left would soon slacken.

However, he had no time to breathe. Shouts from the far left alerted him to three enemy columns approaching in a wide envelopment, swinging out toward his unprotected side.

This new development meant someone competent was commanding the rioters.

"Sterling," Lansius called.

"Yes, My Lord," the squire replied, standing a little taller, ready for the task.

"Take the heavy cavalry and go to our right wing. Hit them hard."

Sterling furrowed his brow, but it was Daniella who asked on his behalf, "Don't you mean the left flank, My Lord?"

“No,” Lansius said firmly, ignoring the sweat trickling down his brow. "Right wing. Go and support the Camp Commander. Take the initiative if you see the chance and crush the opponent. Don't worry about our left wing."

Sterling and Daniella exchanged glances.

“Win this,” Lansius added, fixing his eyes on Sterling, “and I’ll make a knight of you.”

Sterling’s eyes went wide with surprise. He knew by merit alone he probably had accumulated enough, but never expected to hear the words tonight. “At once, My Lord,” he answered, putting everything he had into the words.

Daniella patted Sterling's arm, saying, "Don't get reckless. Remember your wife and her mentor."

"Sir Morton...?" Doubt filled Sterling’s tone.

"Yes. If you die, he'll fetch your soul and bring you back just to kill you again for leaving his only student a widow this young," Daniella quipped with a straight expression.

Sterling, usually so reserved, broke into a rare chuckle, prompting Lansius to sigh softly. He said to Sterling, "Go as a lion, but return as a man."

"My Lord." Sterling dipped his head in a crisp salute, then hurried to the waiting cavalry.

"Soon, he'll need a squire of his own," Dame Daniella remarked as the two headed toward their vulnerable left wing.

Lansius snorted softly. "And I'll need a new one."

"Hard to find good talent, but we're in Midlandia. There should be someone you'll like," Daniella said calmly while observing the three columns closing in on their flank.

"Something tells me that Sir Omin already has a list. I’d loathe to pick names from among the Midlandians noble sons."

She lost the sternness in her visage for a moment, replaced by a fleeting, graceful smile. "I believe it’s not prudent to look down on someone just because they were born a noble, My Lord."

"Pardon my uncouthness, Dame," Lansius replied, his apology genuine.

Daniella chuckled softly, waving it off as if it were nothing. "Then," she continued, "with the heavy cavalry now heading north, how exactly are we meant to survive against three columns on our flank?"

"I've made some preparations, but drugged fanatics on one side and three fresh columns on the other." Lansius drew a slow, weary breath. "The Fates have us by the throat."

All around them, their men in the left wing were making what preparations they could.

Daniella gazed at him as they stopped. "Then why are you sending the heavy cavalry north?"

Lansius met her eyes. "Because I know my army, and now, my enemy."

The rest of the cavalry, composed of a dozen light horsemen, Daniella’s and Lansius’ horses, and their squires, were gathering nearby. The remaining guards and volunteers also assembled, along with the wounded who could still wield a weapon. His captain and lieutenant appeared, marching down the line with grim faces as they waited for his battle plan.

While his conversation with Daniella was deceptively calm, Lansius knew that even as a Lord with great battle acumen, if his plan failed to convince his officers and guards, they would drag him away and sound the retreat.

The battle was entering its most critical stage, and everything looked grim.

***