Chapter 62 - The Emperor
Ironveil walked towards the dying Nilfgaardian, then kicked him in the stomach.
Fitz-Morne gasped in pain as blood flowed out of his wound.
“The Emperor sends his regards, Gauthier,” the masked sorceress spoke. At his widening eyes, she tilted her head, “Oh, did you think we forgot about you? Honestly, you’ve been a great help, Gauthier. You neatly gathered so many of our problems into one company. I ought to thank you, it’s made everything much easier,” she kicked him again.
“Nothing to say? You were always witless when it mattered,” she concluded, before stomping on his head with her armoured sole. Then twice more, until the corpse stopped twitching.
I debated attacking, but decided to wait. There was a decent chance she’d just leave, unless she was an idiot. I could worry about Nilfgaardian plots after the battle proper was over.
Ironveil wiped her boot on a bit of grass, turning to me, “Why so tense, Tanya? Can I call you Tanya? Don’t worry, I am not going to attack. Not that I don’t want to kill you,” she added, voice almost thoughtful.
“My chances weren’t that good even with my friend still breathing. Coehoorn certainly fucked your dossier up, ‘young and inexperienced’ my ass.”
“Then leave. Nilfgaard’s business is not any of my concern,” I lied.
“Ah, well, but have you considered that the longer I stay, the more your army bleeds?” she chuckled.
I stared at her for a second, already preparing an incantation.
“All right, all right, no need to stare a hole into my soul,” she raised her hands up placatingly, “Still, the idiot’s offer stands. Surrender,“ she spoke.
I frowned. Her words didn’t make much sense.
“I refuse,” I spoke up.
Ironveil shrugged, clearly not caring much, “As the elves say, n'aracche aen woed endicen,” she responded, before flying away, over the Nazairi force and further.
Let sleeping arachasae lie.
I rode my horse closer to the corpse, then I decapitated it just in case it was some trick, already chanting the incantation for Saggita aurea.
From what I could see, the energumen was already on its last legs, almost literally, though still fighting my Hounds fiercely. Large gashes were everywhere on its body, with huge chunks of flesh missing, alongside the leg I had torn off. The creature moved less like something alive and more like a marionette, but even with its prodigious strength, it had to obey the laws of physics.
The golden arrow materialised in the air before shooting towards the demon with an audible whoosh.
Slowed, wounded, and bogged down by two of my War Hounds, it couldn’t dodge the spell.
The golden missile entered its body, and the horse slumped, dead.
It took a second for the Hounds to realise that their enemy was dead, then they set upon the fighting infantry, their bloodlost enough to ignore their wounds.
I could almost feel the Nazairi morale plummeting, see the calculations going through their minds. Victory was ours. The only question left was how many of them would have to die.
Then, the deep, booming sounds of warhorns resounded from the distance.
I turned my head towards the sound.
My eyes widened.
At the mouth of the pass, a tide of black was surging forth. Ranks upon ranks of black-clad infantry marched forth in neat formations, while cavalry trotted along the flanks. The mass of soldiers practically blocked the entire pass, and more were still pouring through.
Already, there were thousands, with no end in sight.
This was preposterous, even for Being X.
I gritted my teeth. I should have known that the false god wouldn’t let me have an easy victory. Where these soldiers came from, or who they were, didn’t matter. We had to retreat. Yet, disengaging from a pitched battle might very well cripple my force if I didn’t do it carefully.
Then, something unexpected happened. The Nazairi noticed the approaching soldiers, and they panicked.
I blinked, my mind working rapidly to compute what my eyes were seeing. This wasn’t a trap meant for me. Or, not just me.
“Retreat! To Dreadhold!” I shouted, sending the appropriate magical flare up into the air.
“The ashen-haired rider will herald death,” I recalled Pavetta’s words, the visage of the illusion popping into my mind. A coincidence, surely. Besides, it had been an illusion.
Another horn sounded then, and the black cavalry charged forth, while war cries shook the pass and fireballs shot up from the black host, falling amidst the Nazairi, setting grass and men aflame.
I spurred my horse, moving quickly to rejoin my disengaging troops.
Ortagor watched the Nazairi with a grim countenance. Degurechaff had given her orders, the only sensible ones she could have, but he could already see it would not be enough.
The battling soldiers had disengaged, and even now, their own infantry were trying to distance themselves, but the Nazairi were not so fortunate. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, clearly as confused about the turn of events as Ortagor himself, they could not even afford to fully reposition to face the enemy at their rear, for fear of Cintra’s forces. Nor did they have anywhere to retreat to. The Amell mountains through which the pass led blocked them in quite well. The result was a hodgepodge of confused soldiers, everyone pointing their too-long pikes in whatever direction their hearts fancied. At least those currently not on fire.
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The cavalry group he had been keeping in check with his own much less numerous force reacted much more decisively, moving quickly to countercharge the sudden enemy at their rear.
It was that decisiveness which spared the Nazairi command post from the steel-clad hooves of the Blacks, the two forces colliding in a cacophony of screams, both men and horses.
Ortagor could already see it would not amount to much. Even at a glance, the new arrivals outnumbered the Nazairi. He was proven correct soon after, as a second cavalry formation charged unopposed, utterly trampling the Nazairi command post before plunging into their split infantry.
He grimaced.
His men, alongside the King and the War Hound, were keeping pace with their own retreating infantry, but they were all still far too close.
Perhaps if the enemy did not possess cavalry, they might have stood a chance.
“Looks like we’ve come to the same conclusion, Dalibor,” the golden-plumed man next to him spoke.
“Your Majesty,” Ortagor responded, “Your life is much more important to the kingdom. You-”
“Ts, ts, we’ve fought together, Dalibor, you may call me the Titan’s Bane,” the King winked, leaving Ortagor’s mouth hanging open.
“Besides, this little isn’t enough to kill me,” he added. “Men! TO ME! TODAY, WE SAVE CINTRA!” Roegnar of Ebbing shouted, “IF ANY OF YOU KILL FEWER THAN THREE, I WILL FIND YOU IN HELL AND KILL YOU AGAIN!”
I ground my teeth together so hard it hurt as I realised I’d have to do something drastic if I wanted my men to live. The sound had grown deafening - the black infantrymen had crashed into the disordered Nazairi like a tide, while half of the new sorcerers had reoriented their fire, largely towards my own troops.
Luckily, the spells were fairly simple and without much power, if numerous. I suspected they were conserving their stamina. My enhanced reflexes gave me ample time to shoot them out of the sky or deflect them, but they still added pressure.
The Nazairi were no longer my problem, but that was no improvement.
The black cavalrymen had finished off their Nazairi counterparts, as well as their command, and were now flowing around the infantry clash. Thousands of horsemen, a golden sun prominent on their banners.
Nilfgaard.
If nothing was done, they would crash into my men, and turn our retreat into a massacre.
Yet, before I could act, I spotted that damnable golden plume on the move, all of my cavalrymen pivoting with the King at their head.
I suppressed a curse. This time, the death the man intended to charge towards was not illusory.
My previous hesitation was gone, as my options dwindled to a single one.
My eyes strayed towards the fires burning near the fighting.
“You cheap piece of shit,” I muttered. Apparently, I didn’t even warrant a divine relic this time. Unfortunately, my situation was no less lethal than during my brief yet memorable stint as Doctor Shugel’s test subject. If the King died under my watch and I didn’t do my best to save him, I could not only wave goodbye to a peaceful retirement, but also to my head.
I glanced at my guards, eyes cold, but did not speak up.
Then, I focused on the nearest fire and reached for its Power.
Instantly, I felt my reserves replenishing. Faster and faster.
It felt euphoric. I stared at the battlefield, as the fires around me grew brighter and taller one by one, and as the Nilfgaardians finished off the Nazairi, their screams growing quieter and quieter, while the black-clad warriors reoriented their formations towards my own retreating men.
Yet, this would not be enough. I still needed more.
The world slowed down, and a laugh bubbled out of my throat. The compulsion to venerate that fraud that called itself a god did not come, but I almost did it anyway.
I saw Roegnar of Ebbing lower his lance, nearing the enemy cavalry. Though his helmet hid his face, I saw the mad smile he wore underneath it as well.
I saw Baron Ortagor doing the same with quiet resignation. I saw their men, their fear, pride, excitement, and terror.
The Power filled me up to bursting, and I directed it to my foci, filling them up one by one, almost without thought.
I saw the Nazairi, their formations disintegrating and their men running for their lives.
I saw the Nilfgaardians, moving with grim purpose, their armour heavy and standardised, their officers skilled and well-groomed.
In the far back, I saw a man with a golden crown, sitting on a majestic horse, radiating smug satisfaction. Next to him, another rider, a tall, nearly skeletal man, with green eyes equally sad and calculating, a blue rose on his chest. On his other side rode a man in a hooded robe with the eyes of a bird, a staff in hand, while the sorceress Ironveil led his horse by the bridle.
My eyes met the bird-eyed sorcerer’s.
His own widened, and he opened his mouth to scream something.
One of my rings burst like glass, the metal shards digging into my hand under my gauntlets.
The pain was the best thing I had ever felt in my life.
More of the fires grew, turning the battlefield into a convincing image of hell, while I floated into the air, not having to calculate a thing. I released my hold on my staff, the unnecessary weapon falling to the ground with a thunk.
Molten lava moved through my veins, making them glow along with my eyes.
“Why had I resisted this for so long?” I spoke, staring at the approaching ants.
They were less than nothing.
I raised my hand towards the charging cavalry for the second time today.
A beam of pure heat erupted from my hand, wider than a horse. The Nilfgaardians barely had the time to register what was happening before their black armour turned red, and the front ranks fell, charred nearly to charcoal.
Horses reared and men screamed, as thousands of soldiers sought to understand what was happening.
I’d like to say that it was the optical formula, but there was no formula. I willed their deaths, and the world obeyed.
I laughed more, before my jubilation was abruptly cut short as the beam splattered over a purple dome, protecting the remaining knights.
On the opposite side of the battlefield, sweat started beading on the bird-eyed sorcerer’s face.
Then, the shield cracked, and my beam passed forwards - only to be thwarted by another, different shield. The Nilfgaardians nearest to me were panicking, trying to retreat, while the King’s charge hit the unlucky stragglers outside the shield, then quickly reversed course, re-joining the retreat.
My eyes darted around. Sorcerers and sorceresses raised their staffs and hands all across the battlefield, casting their meagre protections in a pathetic attempt to stop me.
The most central of the fires, burning straight in the middle of the pass, grew even more. The inferno was about as tall as a ten-story building, now.
A figure of a woman was visible inside it, her arms outstretched, the welcoming gesture betrayed by her cruel smile and eyes. Black hair cascaded upon her naked figure, and I understood the offer intrinsically.
“Take my hand,” she whispered, “Together, we can do anything. No more fear, no more pretend for the sake of barely-literate primitives. The world is ours.”
And then, I saw.
The Rhine.
I saw myself float above the battlefield, but there was a difference. Instead of an ace, I was a goddess.
Where my gaze landed, the ground erupted in flames so hot the trenches melted. Entire battalions of the François tried to stop me, but they only lasted until I turned my gaze towards them, reducing them to ash.
This was to be the fate of my enemies.
The beam winked out.