CHAPTER 262: FALSE LIGHT

False Light

Saint Candidate's Separate Army

Hundreds of meters long, the line of five thousand marched forward. Crossbow bolts hissed out of the darkness, trying to repel them, but despite the wounded and the dead, they kept their stride. Weapons in hand, these newly arrived rioters were bent on bringing carnage to the Lord's men, whom they believed were led by a Black Demon. Shoulder to shoulder, with lines sweeping from north to south, they moved as one, hunting for their prey.

But even as they rushed on, they found nothing but bolts from the dark.

"Shields! Take cover!" a man on the right side warned as more men fell victim to bolts that seemed to appear from nowhere.

Despite the warnings, two more men staggered. One screamed at a bolt protruding next to his collarbone and left the line in panic. The other simply lurched, took a few steps, and dropped to the ground. With each fall, two or three men left the line, either caring for the wounded or simply finding an excuse to remove themselves from the fight.

Without discipline, none could stop it. The shouts of appointed officers could only do so much.

The same scene played out again and again along their right wing, bloodying the advance, but in the grand scheme of things, it was nothing more than ant bites to a giant.

They were still five thousand strong and could afford to lose dozens with every step they took.

Amid shouting, urgent warnings, and screams in the dark, as only the center of their line was showered by the white light, the men stubbornly pressed their attack. But even as they advanced more than a dozen steps, they had yet to find their opponent.

At the center of the formation, bathed in white light, Sir Hohendorf walked surrounded by his men, all holding their shields as a precaution. Several dozen bolts had struck at them, but nothing substantial, and he took it as a favorable sign. Still, progress was excruciatingly slow. Meanwhile, tension ran high, and suspicion was ripe.

For the third time, Sir Hohendorf heard his staff demand, "Have we not found anything?"

"No, we've yet to find anything," came the weary answer from the men in front.

"This is utterly pathetic," Sir Hohendorf growled at everyone within earshot. With the Saint Candidate in the rear line, he had no reason to remain gentlemanly. Gazing over his men, he commanded bluntly, "Find those crossbowmen and keep your eyes open for an ambush."

His staff responded by ordering the bloodied right wing to send out small groups of men to hunt for the hidden crossbowmen.

Without waiting for results, his staff consulted with him as they moved.

"Sir, the attack only hit our right wing. Wouldn't it be prudent to send support?" one of his old comrades pressed.

"No, that might be a ruse to draw us in. I do not wish to assume their intent, but if we keep our path true, then it will not be an issue."

His comrade of many years nodded, as did the rest.

But an esquire from another city spoke up. "Sir, we keep marching but find nothing. What if the Lord is trying to mount an escape?"

"Our line is wide enough to catch them, and our advance is fast enough to deny them the opportunity."

"But what if—"

"Then we should have seen it. Do you see any?" Sir Hohendorf retorted.

The esquire was slow to respond, allowing Sir Hohendorf to explain, "The white light is likely caused by a powerful gemstone of light. Such an extravagant device, the Lord would undoubtedly keep at the center of his formation."

"A strong point, my knight commander," the esquire admitted.

Even as they spoke, the line of thousands pressed on with their westward assault. Their shoes steadily and rhythmically pounded the grass. Despite their confidence and frantic effort, they had yet to find anything.

Their wide front had cast a net, but nothing was caught.

On the contrary, something else had found them.

Suddenly, screams and panic rose from the right, this time much closer.

"Find out what caused it," his staff bellowed to their subordinates, who rushed toward the scene.

There was so much noise and murmuring that Sir Hohendorf couldn’t ignore it.

The line advanced ten more careful steps as the men grew weary, before someone was finally brought forward.

"What's the cause of the commotion in there?" Sir Hohendorf asked the man directly.

"Sir, the men. They're stepping over plenty of dead men."

Sir Hohendorf sighed, not finding it worthy of his attention. When they arrived, they had already caught glimpses of the battlefield before the white light swept over them.

His squire, already a leader of men, turned to one of the subordinates and said sternly, "Accompany him back there. Calm the men and keep them moving."

But the man from the scene hurriedly spoke. "T-there's more. There’s some kind of trap."

"Trap?" the squire asked, voice sharp.

"Yes, there are sharp thorns on the ground. They're strong, jutting out from wooden stakes, almost like iron," the man explained, leaving everyone confused.

"They catch men by the ankles and ruin their legs," he continued.

Sir Hohendorf turned to his father's old aide, who needed no orders and quickly strode toward the troubled section. Fortunately, judging from the men's reactions, this odd thing was not widespread. Turning to the man, he said sternly, "Return to your line and do not spread fear."

"Yes, Knight Commander." The man, joined by another, returned to his place in the line.

The advance continued, slower than before, as the initial assault yielded nothing. Despite the bolt attack that threatened their right, all they could do was keep probing the darkness. The reality of fighting at night against an opponent who seemed to vanish into the darkness was starting to sink in. There were no big fires, no lines of torches or lanterns, not even camps to orient themselves. There was only the bright, blinding light.

Worse still, more and more sections reported finding and crossing over a field of dead.

More reports poured in, and someone finally voiced the dreadful question, "Are the dead ours?"

Sir Hohendorf listened as the reporting man replied grimly, "They found articles of faith."

A collective, shuddering sigh swept through the ranks.

To his left, his old comrade wrinkled his nose and muttered, "This stench. It's burning flesh."

"The Lord has drawn us onto his battlefield," Sir Hohendorf muttered, seemingly to no one, yet his words caught his men's attention.

"He wants to break our morale," he clarified in a lighter tone as he watched his men's faces. "But it won't work. The night is vast, and our men are stretched so wide that not all will see and be horrified by this desecration."

Affected by their leader's confidence, many of the staff nodded in quiet agreement. In general, they accepted his take.

However, for those who experienced it, it was a brutal and sickening ordeal.

First came the insidious traps that gouged unwary men's ankles, and now a carpet of blood and scattered bodies. The rioters had expected a war of righteousness and fields of glory. Instead, they found death everywhere, giving them a bitter taste of harsh reality. Many men along the line vomited, and more were about to. Many marched with their eyes half-closed, muttering prayers for the dead, but the stench was overpowering, assaulting everyone's nose.

Even as they tried to avoid stepping on bodies, their shoes stuck in blood, and the sickening squish underfoot told them they were treading on human flesh.

There was no mistaking it. This was a vast, bloody battlefield.

And the men knew, without a word, that the dead were rioters just like themselves. Morale began to falter. But it was not enough to break them.

...

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With sweaty faces, tired limbs, and aching feet, the rioters line continued its advance, a dozen more steps at a time, with the officers doing their best to keep the formation intact. Yet, the Lord's men remained elusive.

Frustration, understandably, welled up.

Questions, complaints, and curses erupted along the line.

Worse still, word came from their right wing. Despite sending out separate groups, they were struggling even harder against phantom crossbowmen who now seemed able to attack from the rear, threatening the entire formation.

"Either they're hiding well, or our men are the pinnacle of incompetence," Sir Hohendorf scowled in great displeasure.

His staff wore the marks of guilt and shame.

"Has any of our line made contact or seen anything? Torches? Lanterns?" Sir Hohendorf demanded. He no longer cared to keep pace with the line, letting it move on without him and the commanding staff.

Nobody could answer.

"Where is our scout? I want their latest reports," he snapped.

Instead, his father's aide returned to his side with news. "The crossbowmen are on horseback. I heard the beasts' hooves myself."

"Horses?"

"The men just heard bolts and reported it as a crossbowman's attack. They didn't bother to mention that horses were also present," the old aide clarified.

"Bunch of fools," Sir Hohendorf lamented, knowing this wouldn't happen if he had well-trained men.

"But now it all starts to make sense," his squire remarked. "There aren't any hiding crossbowmen. They're just horsemen with crossbows."

"And yet, we have no answer for that," one of the staff commented grimly.

Sir Hohendorf quickly cut in, "Forget about that. Where is the opposing army?"

Murmurs of possibilities broke out, some offering suggestions, but none were satisfactory.

"Are we walking into a trap?" one asked, suspicion heavy in his voice.

Everyone tensed. The possibilities were turning real.

"We can't wait any longer," Sir Hohendorf muttered, striding forward with haste.

"Knight commander, what is your intention?" his staff called after him.

"I'm going to see for myself whether there's an army or not," he replied. Reaching the line again, he rallied his men. "Midlandians, those who have a speck of iron in their blood, walk with me!"

His outburst drew his men to him, many eager to break the stalemate. They had waited too long and found nothing, only to be harassed by mounted crossbowmen.

"Sir, what about the center line?" his squire called out as they moved.

"If this is a trap, then is it not better to spring it early?" Sir Hohendorf answered.

His answer emboldened his men further.

Noticing his men were with him, Sir Hohendorf drew his sword and raised it high. "Men of Midlandia, with me!"

"With the knight commander!" his squire bellowed, and the center line erupted with a roar.

***

Wagon Crew

A single cart crewed by ten was moving southwest in the dark, going only as fast as their beasts of burden could across the treacherous ground. They had trekked straight through a literal battlefield. The cart’s heavy wheels rolled over limbs and crushed bones. More than once, they had to give a merciful end to the wounded, whose pained whimpers and sorrowful cries echoed in the night. Often, the horses reared in fear, refusing to move, spooked by the sounds of pain and death all around.

The horses' hooves, the cart wheels, and even the men's shoes were all coated in red, sticky liquid.

Ten men were needed for this grim mission. The coachman was helped by two men in front, leading the powerful draft horses. Two more walked ahead, clearing the way with spear, shield, and lantern. The rest flanked the cart, ropes in hand, struggling to keep the wooden tower crowned with the Prize of Cascasonne from toppling.

With no road, only torn earth and corpses, and burdened by the massive gemstone’s weight, the cart threatened to tip over more than once. Only the men’s steady hands and grim focus kept it upright as they inched their way through the carnage.

Only through the crew’s stubborn persistence did they manage to cross the gruesome field.

Now, they could breathe easier as they crossed into open grassland. The arena loomed to their side, and the rioters they had battled before had all fled southward.

One of the men with thick ropes coiled around his arms suddenly shouted from the back, "They did it, they finally did it!"

"What?" his weary comrades called, turning first to the speaker, then to the east, where the enemy line surged toward them. "Oh, fuck me," he muttered.

The first man, having already tossed his rope aside, ran to warn the others. "The rioters are getting near!"

"By the Ancients, they're coming for us for real," another blurted out as he found out.

The one closest to the coachman quickly slapped the cart hard. "We need to move. Now!"

The coachman yanked the reins, bringing the horses to a halt, and shouted, "Detach the horses!"

As the horses came to a halt, the crew scrambled to unstrap them from the cart. The Lord had ordered them to leave the horses, but nobody wanted to leave the poor beasts to be eaten by hungry rioters. Only after they finished did they, together with the horses, hurriedly begin their desperate flight northward. To take part in this mission had been voluntary, but the Lord had promised them rich bounties.

Thus, the Prize of Cascasonne, a grand gemstone and priceless Dwarven artifact worth more than several thousand gold coins, was left behind in an empty field. There was no way to evacuate it, and even lowering it down would have taken too long. Instead, the Lord had turned it into a ruse to avoid destruction. Even now, abandoned, its magical light still shone brightly toward the center of the rioters' formation, continuously giving them a false sense of guidance.

It was an incredibly expensive tactic, but the Lord would gladly sacrifice it to save his loyal men from slaughter.

One man gave a final look at the glorious prize lying alone in the field. Like the rest of the crew, he still couldn't believe they were surrendering such a treasured artifact, the very heirloom of their nascent House, into the hands of the rioters. Tears were shed as they continued their escape.

...

Lansius

In a short span of time, they made as many preparations as they could to save themselves from utter destruction. The heavy cavalry, both by their own choice and Lansius’ instruction, had removed half, if not most, of their horses' barding and some of their armor to lighten themselves. Those trained as dragoons now served as mounted crossbowmen, while the rest acted as rear guard.

Three groups of twenty-odd riders were formed, each led by the Camp Commander, Dame Daniella, and Sterling.

To these nimble and agile light cavalry, Lansius entrusted the task of harassing the enemy and keeping the nearest rioters at a distance.

He hoped these three groups could break a section of the enemy's right wing, but it was likely a hope born of desperation. They were too few, and since he had forbidden them from launching a melee charge, they lacked the destructive power needed to shatter the enemy’s morale.

Still, Lansius knew that despite the men’s willingness, both they and their horses were already spent. He would not gamble with their lives.

Even so, spirits lifted when the first part of his deception began to work. Earlier, Lansius had noticed the new rioters' army was, perhaps unknowingly, using the light from his great gemstone as a guiding beacon. Thus, he had scrambled to move the great gemstone cart southwest to draw the enemy away from his escape route, and now the new rioters' army seemed to veer more and more to the south.

Before they left, his craftsmen had set the highly polished silver reflector to flash directly into the center of the rioters' line, hoping to blind the enemy’s commanders and disorient their ranks. Everything was done to further the deception.

With such brightness pouring down, almost as strong as summer noon, their eyes grew dull to the dark. They would have a hard time spotting feeble lanterns and torches moving far off to their right.

In such a situation, Lansius made his move. In complete darkness, except for a few covered lanterns, he began evacuating his troops northward.

The deception was working, giving them precious time to put distance between themselves and the enemy. But the cart, burdened with wounded, moved painfully slow. Even on open ground, progress was a struggle. His weary men were almost constantly pushing the cart, desperate to make it go just a little bit faster.

"How far are we from the road?" Lansius asked from the rear, his gaze fixed on the rioters' army to the south.

"Just a bit more, My Lord," his captain answered, weary and sweating all over.

Despite their victories, it had been a brutal night. There was almost no respite between battles. Even his veterans looked utterly spent. Not even banter was heard, only the occasional cough or grunt from pushing the carts.

Everyone, even Lansius, did their part to make sure the cart and the burdened beasts moved as quickly as possible.

The only chatter came from the wounded inside the cart, men telling anyone who would listen to just leave them behind.

“There’s no chance. The rioters wouldn’t recognize us without our armor.”

“We’ll just lie in the grass until sunrise, then head home.”

To their talk, Lansius once barked, “Oh, be quiet. I’m not paying you extra for more bravery. You’re already as bold as Lowlandian mountain goats.”

That drew chuckles and brief laughter from the men.

But now, the careful march had to end.

“My Lord, the rioters have found out. I saw dozens of torches surging toward our lone cart,” his scout warned.

All eyes turned to Lansius, and he looked at his captain, dead in the eye, and said, “We need to go. Make the best speed to the Hill Fort!”

The captain strode down the length of the column, barking, “Turn up your torches and lanterns! Move! They’ve spotted the ruse!”

A lieutenant’s voice cut through the chaos. “Move, give it everything you’ve got! The rioters will be upon us soon!”

“The cavalry won’t cover for us. They’re spent!” the captain added.

The news raced through the ranks. Men grabbed whatever water or drink they could find, knowing it might be their last for a long time.

As the columns around them began to pick up the pace, Lansius instructed his signaler to sound a special whistle. The man took it from his leather pouch, raised the small bronze whistle to his lips, and blew with practiced force. A sharp note sounded, maybe a tune, and anyone nearby could feel its faint vibration in their bones, even though it was inaudible to their ears.

After he finished, Lansius asked, "Do you think it's enough?"

"Yes, My Lord. Any half-breed between here and the city should sense the signal," the signaler explained based on his experience with the device given by one of the half-breeds.

Lansius nodded. Now all that remained was to signal the three rider groups, but he would only do so if it became critical. Even then, he doubted he would need to give the signal; the riders should recognize it themselves when the rioters began to turn their gaze on this column.

From the side, his guard brought his horse closer, along with a few others who walked to conserve their mounts’ stamina.

"Not yet," Lansius said to them. "I'll walk a little longer with my men."

"Yes, My Lord," the guard replied crisply, though he was wary for his lord's safety.

A commotion ahead drew their attention. "Look, I’m already doing all I can! The horses can’t go any faster," a coachman exclaimed in frustration at the men near him.

“Then fuck the horse!” one man roared. “We’ll pull the carts ourselves!”

His bold cry drew a round of rough laughter, but the men wasted no time. They gathered around the horses, grabbing the traces and pulling alongside them. Behind, boots dug deep into the ground as others pushed the cart to lighten the load. Some threw their shoulders against the wheels, while those too tired to push walked ahead with lanterns, calling and waving to urge the horses on.

With one group pushing from behind and another pulling, the cart moved much faster.

"Just put us down and leave us. The rioters won't even find us in the dark," one wounded man grumbled from inside.

"Oi, shut it. I know your fat wife would cook us alive if you don’t return," came a sharp reply, and even in desperation, laughter erupted.

Lansius, followed by his guards, approached the cart. Without a word, he joined his men and put his shoulder against the back of the cart.

"My Lord," they murmured in surprise, though they had seen him do it several times already.

"Someone give us a count. Let’s push together," Lansius said, feeling the weight of the cart press through his pauldron and armored arms.

"Then, on my mark," the young man in front called out. "One, two—"

"Push!" Lansius commanded. The cart began to roll a little faster, picking up momentum. The horses, feeling the sudden slack, surged forward with renewed energy.

With the Lord among them, everyone gave their all. The fortified hill camp was now their only destination. The palisade walls would offer days of protection, even against thousands. It was not as ideal as Canardia with its sturdy stone walls, but there was little confidence they had the chance to escape into the city in their condition.

Even many of the veterans were limping, exhausted from the fight. They had given their all and had not an ounce of stamina left for anything but to keep walking.

Still, no one would be left behind. With grim resolve and bitter desperation, the whole column surged into a race for their lives.

***