Chapter 70 - The Breach
The battle wasn’t looking good. I had not expected to hold the walls, but I had not thought it would happen this quickly.
At least we were prepared.
All around me, men were retreating in good order, only a few crossbowmen and archers remaining to pepper the enemy until the last moment. Most went to their assigned postings further inside alongside Bastan, while some followed Cyril to the breached section. Monck, still invisible, went with them.
The spell would still last for ten or so minutes, and the great increase in combat potential more than made up for the cost.
I ducked behind the ramparts and moved along the walls, hopefully hiding from the enemy’s sight.
With the walls already breached, defending them further was not worth the necessary Power.
Especially with my true foes still hiding behind their army. I had little doubt that the enemy mages would target me sooner or later.
It was unfortunate, but the best course of action was to conserve my strength.
Monck’s memories of the before were hazy. He knew he had been a soldier, and he knew he fought for his daughter. This had seemingly remained the same, but there was an odd disconnect in his mind that told him his conclusion was somehow wrong.
However, he could not figure out why. He was still a soldier. He still had to fight for his daughter. All he had to do was obey the mage, and all would work out.
She would take care of everything.
The hulking creature jumped down from the wall, leaving two indentations in the ground beneath. Soldiers around him - his allies - looked at the spot in confusion, before moving on, for they had no time to spare for oddities. The Gods knew Dreadhold was filled with them.
With care, Monck made his way to the breach, a sword on his shoulder. As he tried to push to the front, confusion started spreading through the ranks, before a voice resounded, “MAKE WAY! THAT’S ONE OF OURS!”
Monck vaguely recalled that the voice belonged to someone important, but neither the voice nor its owner had anything to do with his mission, and so he ignored it.
It did make getting to the front a lot easier.
Xanthia var Goet, the first disciple of Braathens, now quite used to the nickname Ironveil, watched the battle progress in cold rage.
From what she could tell, it was going quite well, but she couldn’t care less about it.
Everything had been going so well. Her plan had practically gone without a hitch, though she had admittedly miscalculated - she should not have sabotaged the Nazairi at all. The Cintrans had been much more capable than she had expected.
Still, her primary objectives had been achieved. The Nazairi were crippled, while the Black Company was utterly annihilated, and Cintra weakened, even if not that much. Slithering her way through Gauthier’s mental defences without alerting him had been tricky, but the man trusted her enough that gaining access to his sleeping form had not been overly difficult. Too much tampering would have been noticed regardless - the man was not a complete incompetent - but hiding a tiny compulsion deep inside his mind? That had been possible, and the best way to ensure that the illusionist would not manage to slink away.
The rat had been quite talented at that, as her newfound companions would agree.
Xanthia glanced at the four armoured mage-hunters waiting with her and Fringilla, though a few metres away from the sorceresses. Just the knowledge of the amount of dimeritium these men possessed made her uncomfortable, though the fact that Gauthier had managed to evade them did not exactly instil her with confidence. Still, she was rational enough to acknowledge her bias there - an illusionist like Gauthier was uniquely capable in that regard.
The dimeritium was another piece of evidence pointing towards Degurechaff being mad. What sort of self-respecting mage carried around a dimeritium dagger?!
She gritted her teeth while one hand drifted towards her empty eye socket, before remembering the mask in the way, and falling limp by her side.
Soon, their troops would seize the walls, and then they would enter.
Revenge was near.
Though the Cintrans were decently trained, with many amongst their number possessing ample combat experience, and their armour augmented with monster parts, they could not quite match up to their Nilfgaardian counterparts.
The Blacks were fresh from the Metinna campaign, each and every soldier part of the Emperor’s elite vanguard, and equipped to match. Monster parts had nothing on Nilfgaard’s manufactories. At least, most of them. Though there were some monsters with hides tougher than steel, they were quite rare.
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Thus, the breach should have been the beginning of the end.
The black tide surged in, eager to establish a foothold, yet failed to do so.
As new soldiers moved in, they quickly realised what had gone wrong as they were greeted with a barely visible giant, seemingly made out of blood - indeed, if one looked at some of the clean spots on its body, they would see nothing underneath.
Then, its massive greatsword descended, pulping the front ranks as the Cintrans cheered, vigorously assisting the behemoth with their spears.
While the Nilfgaardians had procedures to deal with monsters, they also had procedures to deal with cowardice and insubordination. When the Emperor himself ordered a charge, you charged. Normally, this worked in their favour. Many barbarian kingdoms had already learned to fear the unstoppable black tide.
Here, it worked against them for quite some time. Eventually, the invisibility faded, revealing a crudely armoured creature.
After that, it was just a matter of time until someone of importance noticed.
Cyril stabbed forth, his spear slamming into the enemy’s hastily raised shield with a thud, quickly followed by a massive sword swung with far too much strength. The former merely distracted the Nilfgaardian - the poor soldier could not see over his tower shield, and thus could not even attempt to evade the disgustingly powerful strike.
The tower shield dented, and the force sent the man backwards, before he stumbled on a corpse and fell to the ground, leaving himself exposed.
Two more spears shot forward, aiming for the Nilfgaardian’s joints. One entered the back of his knee, the other, an armpit. The man screamed, his voice joining the chorus of death and pain resounding across the battlefield, while Cyril stepped back with a grimace.
How he found himself on the front line, even he barely knew.
Degurechaff’s orders practically repeated inside his mind, but no matter how he looked at it, he could not yet order a retreat.
The breach in the walls was quite defensible, barely wide enough to fit four men abreast. With Degurechaff’s creature taking the brunt of the enemy’s attention, the chokepoint was turned into a slaughterhouse, with dead and dying black-armoured soldiers scattered all over.
Cyril may have been a simple guardsman, but his experience under the sorceress, as well as her lessons, told him one thing - the enemy could still be bled more.
Three more stabs, another dead Nilfgaardian, and Cyril managed to rotate out of the fight, an eager young soldier taking his place. The commander did his best not to let his true feelings show - while he trusted Degurechaff, their own dead and injured were mounting as well. This would not be a clean victory, if a victory at all, despite what such youngsters believed.
Outside of immediate danger, Cyril had a moment to take his breath and assess the situation.
Or so he had thought.
Suddenly, the giant staggered, a spear of rock shattering against its shoulder.
Squinting, Cyril could barely make out a robed man a few ranks deep, protected by heavily armoured Nilfgaardians.
Already, the robed sorcerer was mumbling again.
“Fall back!” Cyril shouted, only realising his mistake when the mage’s eyes instantly locked onto him, somehow noticing him over the roar of battle.
The rock spear appeared mid-air the very next second, already hurtling straight at the commander.
Faced with certain death, Cyril froze. It barely took a few seconds for the spear to reach him. He only managed to close his eyes and dedicate his last thoughts to his family.
Then he opened them again, patting his still intact body with mild confusion, before noticing Degurechaff’s creature standing in front of him.
Another spell came flying towards it, but the monster swung its greatsword almost faster than the eye could blink, slamming it into the rock spear and deflecting it away.
Cyril blinked, before resuming his shouting. The Cintrans began slowly moving backwards, while the black-armoured soldiers stayed put.
The purpose of the enemy’s stalling became quickly apparent, as the mage began slinging fireballs towards the armoured giant. The creature tried to deflect them with its sword again, but that only caused them to explode earlier.
Cyril’s troops sped up, his shouts barely keeping them from routing completely as they did their best to escape the heat.
Fortunately, despite its singed armour, the creature remained unwavering. Cyril could only imagine the horrific burns it must have sustained.
As the walls emptied out, Monck, alongside Cyril and his troops, began their retreat. I stood some distance away from the walls, partially hidden in a makeshift ‘alley’ - one of the funnels with sides made out of rubble and barricades. Only Aevinne and two of the royal guards, Edwyn and Ambrosi, were with me out in the open.
I wanted to be close enough to see when the Nilfgaardians would seize the walls, to unleash the fruits of my labour, as well as keep watch for the enemy sorcerers.
None were brave enough to cross into Dreadhold yet, but they’d have to if they wished to make progress. All three of my healthy War Hounds were prowling the fort’s insides alongside their handlers, the barricades not truly hampering their movement, ready to massacre any invaders.
Isengrim and his elven troops were scattered all around, ready to support either me or the ordinary troops manning the barricades.
The somewhat lacking output of the Nilfgaardian mages had reassured me. Their leader was clearly formidable, but so far, he didn’t seem keen on advancing with his troops. This made sense - the flaming phoenixes he was capable of conjuring were akin to guided missiles, making him a tremendously useful artillery piece. To risk such a person in close-quarters combat would be quite foolish.
However, from what I had observed, the more standard mages amongst the enemy ranks were nothing special, mostly making use of standard elemental spells. Still dangerous, but not existentially so. If they entered, I didn’t rank their chances high against the War Hounds, at least if they didn’t group up.
Unfortunately, there was still Ironveil, and possibly another mage - the metallic needles that had pierced my shields certainly weren’t some standard spell.
My thoughts were interrupted a moment later, with another section of the wall exploding.
I couldn’t help but wince as another hole appeared in my fort. It wasn’t near me, at least.
A moment later, a flash of light in the sky caught my attention.
“A signal,” I muttered, as Nilfgaardian battle cries resounded throughout the battlefield, the black tide surging forth with renewed vigour, this time through two openings. It wouldn’t be long before they’d get the gates open as well.
“Back,” I commanded, and began moving. It wouldn’t do for us to be caught by the enemy advance.
Something about the sky had felt off, though. I frowned, slowing, turning my gaze back up.
I squinted, trying to figure out what I had seen.
Then I saw it again. A shimmer, where one should not be.
“Above,” I spoke up for the benefit of my guards, before resuming our retreat, though I did not move my eyes away from the sky.
Perhaps realising that the game was up, five distinct shapes appeared in the sky, flying, or perhaps falling, rapidly to the ground.
Before I could do anything, they landed with a thud, and the reason for their haste became apparent.
Four of them were heavily armoured knights, a golden sun prominent on their black plate, each wielding a halberd. The fifth was a sorceress with short black hair, wearing a black riding dress. Two green eyes stared at me from her pale face, assessing.