Horizon of War Series

Chapter 199: Encore

Encore

The Shogun's Camp

“Man the walls!” Captain Dietrich’s voice cut through the clamor as men-at-arms and volunteers scrambled to their posts. The palisade groaned under the weight of the defenders pressing against it, their jagged silhouettes stark against the fiery sky. Beyond the horizon, the enemy’s torches flickered like a restless sea, growing brighter as the fanatics surged closer.

The camp wasn’t fully fortified; only the side facing the enemy had been completed. The flanks remained exposed, with no gate installed. Aside from the ditches, the camp might as well have been open ground.

The Korelian volunteer watched as knights dismounted, joining the men-at-arms at the west and east, fortified only by makeshift barricades. Meanwhile, the elite cranequiniers took up positions at the west, the most vulnerable side, while the east was nearly connected to the castle.

Crowding along the palisade, the defenders squinted into the failing light, where shadowy forms in formation steadily marched toward them like a restless tide, half-obscured by the dimming horizon.

“Have you heard? They say our enemy numbers as many as all of Korelia,” one volunteer muttered uneasily.

“That many? By the Pregnant Lady,” another whispered.

“Are you sure?” a younger man asked, keeping his eyes on his crossbow, resting atop the palisade.

“I didn’t march this far into Midlandia to die here,” a spearman murmured bitterly.

"You won’t. Lord Lansius has never been defeated,” an older man replied, though his voice betrayed his nerves.

“How many are we again?” another asked, his voice filled with anxiety.

A grim silence followed until a lieutenant, who had been quietly standing among them, finally spoke. “Last I heard, roughly two thousand. Lieutenant Farkas took the Dragoons and 300 skirmishers, so we’re short a few. But we’ve joined up with Captain Dietrich’s Korimor column, so it evens out.”

“Two thousand,” someone muttered. “But why does it feel like so little?”

“Because our opponents are much larger,” the lieutenant replied casually, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Lieutenant, don’t scare us,” another begged, prompting the officer to chuckle.

“We still have the nomads, you know,” the lieutenant reassured them, but his words felt rather hollow, given that the nomads were camped farther away.

The volunteers exchanged uncertain glances until one asked, “But… I doubt even the nomads can ride in the dark.”

“Oh, right. None of you were in Korimor,” the lieutenant muttered, his tone cryptic, leaving the men looking puzzled.

Before they could press for answers, their attention was drawn to the arrival of several prominent figures at the center of the camp. Lanterns and long torches flared along the paths, casting flickering light on the men in gleaming plate armor who moved purposefully through the gathering. The crowd parted to make way, their faces illuminated in the warm, unsteady glow.

From the center, the figures turned toward the corner where the captain stood guard, the firelight dancing across their polished armor. First to emerge was Sir Harold, his tall, imposing frame sharply defined by the torchlight. Then came Sir Michael, his expression sharp and focused, followed by the formidable Francisca and her kin, shrouded in oversized traveling cloaks that swayed with each step.

Finally, the Lord Shogun appeared, his dark silhouette stark against the lantern’s glow as he moved alongside Maester Ingrid, whose deep blue robes shimmered faintly in the flickering light. Together, they ascended the wooden stairs toward the tower, their presence on the battlement commanding the attention of everyone nearby.

“It’s Lord Lansius,” one of the men murmured. The name spread through the ranks like a calming wind.

From their post, they could overhear the conversation between Captain Dietrich and the Lord Shogun.

“They’re getting close, My Lord,” the Captain reported, his tone steady but urgent.

“Have you prepared the markers in time?” the Lord asked.

“Yes. I’m glad we worked on them in advance.”

“Good. Then at 200 steps, let’s ask our new members to light up the field,” said the Black Lord, his voice calm, as though the advancing sea of enemy formations was of little concern to him.

Hearing his words and seeing him stand resolute among them eased the tension on the volunteers’ shoulders. Their fear started to melt away.

But just as they found a measure of comfort, the Lord did the unexpected. “Sir Harold, Francisca,” he called.

“My Lord,” the two greeted, stepping forward.

“Take the knights and half our vanguard. Proceed with the plan.”

The two exchanged a glance. “But, My Lord, that would leave you with only one mobile column,” Sir Harold said.

“I understand your concern,” Lansius replied in a steady tone. “Half the vanguard, yes, but I still have the main army. Rest assured, this is the best plan we have. Besides, I’ll have Dietrich and Sir Michael with me, not to mention Sir Stan and the nomads.”

“It’s still too risky. At least allow me to stay by your side,” Sir Harold pressed.

“I’m honored by your concern, but the plan needs you. I cannot let such an opportunity slip away,” Lansius said firmly. “This is a calculated risk I’m willing to take.”

Resigned, the two nodded and saluted before turning to carry out the command.

The volunteers watched with growing unease as the knights and half the vanguard were pulled from their posts and led toward the castle. Whispers and murmurs broke out among the defenders. Now the volunteers made the bulk of the defense—roughly 700, supported by 200 cranequiniers and two columns of men-at-arms, just over 1,000 against 6,000.

No matter how they tried to rationalize it, the situation seemed mad. Had the Lord underestimated the enemy’s strength? Or worse, had he miscalculated entirely? Nervous glances passed between them, and some whispered to their lieutenants, who could only offer forced smiles in response.

Questions lingered on their lips, but no one dared voice them. Many, however, drew courage from Lord Lansius’ presence, standing with a calm authority among them, his top retinue by his side.

Nearby, a group of carpenters frantically worked on a wooden structure. More and more materials arrived from the castle, briefly piquing the defenders’ interest. But their focus quickly returned to the enemy's march as the thousand entered their shooting range.

***

Lansius

At several thousand strong, the enemy’s formations moved like a living tide against them. Their armor glinted in the torchlight like tiny flashes of embers scattered across the plains. Aside from several banners, there were no instruments to signal their movements, like horns or cornu, only the sound of feverish chants. The thought staggered Lansius.

“Just how are they going to coordinate their attack?” Lansius muttered to Dietrich.

“I was wondering the same,” Dietrich admitted. “I see no fire signals or anything to guide them. Could they really be rushing us blindly?”Nôv(el)B\\jnn

“They can’t be that incompetent,” Lansius replied, stroking his chin.

Dietrich hesitated before locking eyes with him. “My Lord, I can command this. You should return to your family—they need you.”

Lansius let out a sigh. “No worries. I have several Skirmishers and Sir Omin protecting them. Still, I feel bad bringing them out of the safety of the castle to this half-finished camp.”

Dietrich chuckled softly, but Ingrid’s voice cut through the moment.

“200 steps,” Ingrid reported to Lansius, gazing through the Ekionia optics at the painted stone marker the enemy column had just crossed.

Her words prompted Dietrich to look at Lansius, who gave a nod. As captain, he signaled his men. “Let the fire bottles fly.”

At his command, the slingers, employed by the alchemist from Ornietia, swung their ordnance into action. One by one, the volatile mixtures inside the clear glass bottles soared into the darkening skies before crashing to the ground and erupting into small puddles of flame.

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Meanwhile, at the center of the camp, carpenters worked tirelessly. Sir Michael had arrived with more materials and additional workers. Under a cluster of lanterns, they labored to construct a simple wooden platform, like a scaffold, designed to house a device Lansius had "borrowed" from the castle. The device itself wasn’t a weapon, but it would be spectacular in this kind of battle.

Lansius turned to Ingrid. “Go to Sir Michael and assist him. Or, if the battle becomes too much for you, you may return to the Lady’s side.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the educator replied with a nod before hurrying off.

Outside, the fires at first appeared insignificant; some enemy soldiers even kicked dirt and grass onto them. But the flames persisted, licking hungrily at the ground and spreading as if alive, their orange glow casting a haunting light over the battlefield.

The constant barrage of fire bottles hurled by the slingers caused multiple injuries but did little to slow or panic the enemy. At their size, and in this darkening hour, even a hundred deaths were a mere drop in the river. Still, causing deaths was beside the point.

“Now we have light,” Lansius muttered to himself. The fire bottles acted like flares, giving his crossbowmen the distance reference and depth perception they needed.

Then he turned to face his men. “Men,” Lansius addressed them, his voice firm, dispelling some of the tension in the air.

His troops looked at him with eager eyes, but the dim, swaying light of torches and lanterns betrayed their fear and nervousness.

“Do not hesitate,” he began. “These Reginald's underlings are not to be trusted. First, they sent threats, then assassins, and now they haven’t even extended the courtesy of a messenger. They don’t see any of us as honorable enough for discussion. They want us dead or shackled for Navalnia. And they won’t stop until they have all of Lowlandia under their foot.”

Having reinforced their purpose, Lansius signaled Dietrich to proceed.

“Crossbowmen!” Dietrich roared, and the men snapped to readiness, gripping their weapons tightly. Meanwhile, the slingers continued hurling their fiery payloads.

“Aim to Kill! Aim for the torchbearers! Loose!” Dietrich barked.

Immediately, the air filled with the sound of snapping steel prods and thick strings whipping back as the crossbows unleashed their fury.

“Shower them! Let them taste Lowlandian bolts!” the lieutenants shouted. Hastily, the men reloaded. The first volley landed in the dark, black bolts whistling faintly over the pounding chants of the advancing enemy.

But struck true they did. Torches fell as their bearers crumpled to the ground, and the rhythmic chants faltered, interrupted briefly. Another salvo took flight, then another.

Despite the cover of darkness, the bolts found their marks. Faint cries emerged from the masses, but it wasn’t enough. The fanatics pressed on, stepping over their fallen comrades with wild fervor. The smell of blood and the wails of the injured only seemed to fuel their advance.

Another volley was loosed, faster this time, yet the relentless tide surged forward, closing in as they reached the western entrance.

“My Lord, permission to join the fight,” Dietrich asked, intending to join his tercio’s mobile column.

“Go with my blessing,” Lansius replied. Then, turning to his men, he commanded, “Keep sending those bolts into the air! The more we fire, the more likely they are to retreat and end this madness!”

His men obeyed, launching bolt after bolt, but the sea of torches below steadily surrounded them. Some attackers carried ladders and, despite heavy casualties, navigated the moat to begin their assault.

Some brave but foolhardy men climbed the walls fearlessly, their shouts rising with the chaos, only to be met with staunch resistance. Lansius watched as his Korelian volunteer troops engaged in their first battle. Fighting erupted along the palisade wall, but it was nothing compared to the western entrance, which bore the brunt of the assault. A large mass of fanatics was hammering themselves against it the barricade.

Lansius wiped the cold sweat from his brow. His mind was heavy with concerns. First, his palisade wall had yet to be reinforced with rammed earth; if those thousands attacked methodically, they could potentially dismantle it. Moreover, his men were exhausted—they had just finished a long march, built the fort, and managed only a quick supper before the attack began.

Yet, like it or not, the most decisive part of the battle was about to unfold.

***

New Midlandia Army

Erratic light atop the palisade gave the six thousand bearings on where to go. Now, closer to the camp, they could see the opening. With each step, the exposed side of the camp drew nearer. Despite the hail of crossbows that felled many of them, especially the torchbearers, they stubbornly advanced across the uneven ground.

Another wave to their left went directly to the walls, attacking with ladders. After enduring a relentless barrage of bolts, they finally engaged the Saint's enemies, invoking her wrath against the intruders who dared to defy her holy plans.

More bolts landed among them, peppering them like a rain of iron. Yet even those wounded, with bolts protruding from their bodies, forced themselves up again and kept advancing. With faith burning in their hearts, there was no retreat.

Each death only made their chants grow louder. "Healing for the living, salvation for the dead!"

Their throats, raw from relentless shouting and hard marching, rasped cries of devotion to the 150-year-old Saint, who still looked ever youthful. Her believers claimed that her holy hands could heal any sickness.

As the foremost column charged with spears brandished high, the rest followed breathlessly, hurling themselves into the unfinished side of the camp.

Then disaster struck.

The front ranks suddenly vanished, swallowed by a ditch they failed to notice. The darkness had concealed it until it was too late. Bodies tumbled into the pit, while others, caught unaware, tripped and fell atop their comrades. Bones snapped, and the weight of the fallen crushed those below, leaving them to die in suffocating screams.

“Moats!” they collectively warned as more attackers stumbled upon the ditches where their brothers had fallen. Some faltered at the edge, trying to stop, but the mass of bodies behind them shoved forward relentlessly. More tumbled in, still clutching their weapons, which undoubtedly drew blood in the panic.

More horrifyingly, the barrage of bolts was now directed at them. Agony rippled through the attackers, momentarily overpowering their chants.

“Push through!” bellowed one, echoed by others. Driven by sheer desperation, the survivors clawed their way out. The trench, now shallow from the mass of bodies, had become a grim bridge of the dead. Those who managed to climb out desperately tried to regroup on the other side, only to find the wooden barricade looming directly before them.

The cheval de frise stood at chest height, bristling with sharpened wooden spikes. Bound together with stakes or ropes, this simple wooden structure was a formidable obstacle. No fewer than ten barricades blocked the western entrance. Some attackers immediately tried to scale it, but the defenders' spears welcomed them mercilessly.

Blood sprayed, and the pungent stench of guts filled the air. Only when brothers with shields joined the fray did they manage to hold, forming a crude shield wall. All the while, bolts whistled through the air, causing wounds or snatching lives seemingly at random. But worse still was the fire attack, which kept even the bravest among them on edge.

Yet they pressed on, their orderly chants driving them forward. Before long their numbers swelled as more climbed over, and the assault began anew.

Like madmen, they surged toward the barricade; the final obstacle blocking them from unleashing the Living Saint's fury.

But then, they encountered something entirely unfamiliar.

"Brother!" one cried amid the assault. "I'm stuck!" His voice was strained with pain as hundreds surged toward the wooden barricade. And he wasn’t the only one. Many more were trapped, tangled against something unseen. The feeble light from torches, whether ally or enemy, failed to reveal the source. Something clung to them, gripping like a predator’s snare, tearing into flesh and refusing to let go. The more they struggled to free themselves, the worse the pain grew.

“Cut it! Cut it down!” shouted many, but striking blindly in the dark was futile. Worse still, their cries only drew the enemy spearmen, who attacked mercilessly, striking down those immobilized at the barricade.

Ensnared, there was little they could do. The debilitating pain sapped their strength, leaving them helpless. Their brothers climbed past or over them, unintentionally crushing them further. Wails of agony pierced the night as their faith and courage dissolved like vapor.

Yet their sacrifices were not in vain. Amid the bloodbath, the attackers managed to cut loose a barricade and gain an opening. In great ecstasy, the first wave surged toward the defenders’ men-at-arms. At last, they entered the camp.

They fought fearlessly. Hundreds poured through the gap with shields raised and weapons brandished. They clashed with the defenders, seemingly gaining the upper hand. They thrust, they struck, and they fought with a near-frenzied zeal.

However, their triumph was short-lived.

Fearless as they were, exhausted and disorganized, they were no match for the battle-hardened veterans of Lowlandia. Wild thrusts and erratic strikes were parried with ease, their crude formations shattering against an unyielding wall of spears and swords. For every fanatic who charged with blind courage, a veteran’s blade awaited with cold precision.

These were the troops who had fought in multiple battles over two brutal years. They understood the rhythm of war and the value of resilience. They neither faltered nor wasted energy, cutting down their foes with grim efficiency. Their formation held firm, stepping back only to counter in a deadly dance of blades.

Soon, the assault devolved into a bloody stand.

Then, slowly, the attackers' first wave was ground to a bloody end.

As the front ranks were slaughtered, those in the rear began to falter. Chants lingered on their lips, but their momentum slowed, and their steps grew shaky. Bravery gave way to dread as they witnessed the fate of their brothers. By the light of fallen torches and the defenders’ lanterns, the horrifying aftermath lay bare before them.

The first wave was gone, leaving behind a mass of broken bodies and silenced chants.

The ditch overflowed with bodies, limbs twitching as flames and shadows danced across the carnage. The barricades told a similar story—bodies hung, stuck, or scattered in unnatural poses. But the worst was beyond the barricades, where the ground was littered with the unmoving remains of the first wave.

No fewer than five hundred of their brothers had reached the camp—only to be slaughtered to the last.

"Midlandians!" a defender bellowed from atop the wall. "We come for vengeance. This puddle of blood ain't nearly enough. Send more!"

The taunt triggered a roar of laughter from the defenders' camp.

So many had died, only for the enemy to laugh. This unnerved those in the rear ranks, halting them in their tracks. Many scattered, seeking cover or gripping their shields tightly overhead. Many hesitated, but the chants from the rear grew louder—pressing, pushing them to take action. Desperation and Saint Nay's promise of salvation drove many forward despite the horrors ahead.

But for others, they had seen enough. They turned and fled into the woods, knowing that brutal deaths were not salvation.

...

New Midlandia Army's Encampment

Thick incense filled the large opulent tent, its cloying scent mingling with the faint metallic tang of sweat and iron. Ten men in black-painted ringmail knelt on the ground, their heads bowed in reverence beneath the flickering light of oil lamps. Shadows danced along the canvas walls as smoke from the burning incense swirled lazily in the air.

“You and your brother are the chosen ones. Your faith equals your martial prowess,” the wiry Saint Candidate declared softly from her seat.

The men merely nodded, accepting the blessing in solemn silence.

“You shall lead your people to salvation,” intoned a younger Saint Candidate, her ethereal voice cutting through the haze as she stepped forward, carrying five clay bottles carefully wrapped in woolen bags.

“This is the alchemist’s burning sands,” the wiry Saint Candidate explained as he rose to stand before them. “Remember what it did to your brothers. Now, we have the chance to return the favor.”

The leading man accepted the gift with steady hands, distributing the bottles to those he deemed most capable without a word.

Another Saint Candidate stepped forward, this time carrying a golden chalice cradling a gem-crusted necklace. The wiry Saint Candidate’s hands trembled with reverence as she took it and presented it to the leading man.

“Behold,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “This necklace belonged to the Living Saint herself.”

The men stared in fervent awe, their lips muttering gratitude incessantly. With ritualistic care, the wiry Saint Candidate placed the necklace around the leading man’s neck.

“This will grant you the Saint’s power when you need it most,” she said. “Use it wisely—and return with it in victory.”

“Yes, blessed Sister,” the leading man replied, his voice filled with conviction.

“Now, join your brother,” she instructed. “They have paved the way for your arrival. It is time to fulfill the Living Saint’s will. Kill the enemy’s reinforcement leader—we have a castle to conquer.”

***