Chapter 500: Battle Of Dura [3]
The grassland of Dura, once a vast plain of peace, a place one could just stand and stare into the endless expanse, enjoying a view of peace and otherworldliness.
The sound of millions of grass blades fluttering as the wind danced through them refreshed and soothed the mind. A sacred hush used to linger here, like the land itself was holding its breath in gentle awe.
But currently, those same grass were trampled under the hooves of soldiers, hundreds of thousands of them at each others’ throats.
Their war cries shattered the stillness, and blood seeped into soil that had known only dew and sun.
The clouds rumbled thunderously, dark as ash, and bolts were launched from ballistas with screams louder than thunder. The ones from the United North Alliance found their mark in some titans, flesh-ripping projectiles thudding into monstrous forms. Some stumbled, shaking the earth with every falter; others snarled, yanked the shafts from their bodies, and surged forward with wrathful eyes burning like furnace coals.
From the side of Ashbourne, the dragon-head ballistas roared, formidable weapons shaped like beasts, spitting iron with hellish speed. Their payloads tore through the skies, impaling Swiftwings who had been circling above like patient vultures. Splashes of red mist burst in the air as some riders were skewered clean through, wide-eyed in disbelief as they spiraled downward, crashing with thunderclaps of steel and bone.
As Asher and his men drew closer, Aaron squinted through the haze and realized, despite the number of bolts they’d unleashed, the number of men downed on Asher’s side was pitiful.
Only fewer than a dozen titans had fallen... and some weren’t even dead, just angrier.
"Have our Heavy Cavalry meet them. Send the Immortals," Aaron commanded. His voice was low but sharp as steel drawn across flint. Then his dragon, black-scaled with crimson eyes, took a bold step forward, flexed its wings and with a gust that bent nearby pines ascended into the skies.
Garen, wore his great helm, its visor carved with old runes and unsheathed his sword with a metallic hiss. He tugged the reins of his steed, and it began to walk. Behind him, twenty-five thousand heavy cavalry responded, an army of silence. These were the Immortals, undying warriors who could not perish unless their heads were severed. Veterans of forgotten wars, they traced their cursed legacy back to a forbidden army-creating process birthed in the Abyss Age.
Clad in heavy silver armor, their plate gleamed with ancient symbols, and their eyes glowed faintly behind visors. Each rode a towering warhorse, also plated in armour that clanked and groaned with every step. Their lances were iron pikes long enough to skewer three men at once, raised skyward like a metallic forest waiting to fall.
Front walking, their pace became a gallop. The earth trembled under their unified might, quaking with every stride as if the plains of Dura were waking up to a storm older than time. Yet even this awe-inspiring advance was nearly eclipsed by the raw brutality charging in from the north. The black flag.