But still no centurions…
“Where the hell have the officers gone?” Rianus growled.
“Oh. I might know something about that.”
A new voice, light but piercing, cut through the roar of the battlefield. He jerked his head to the side to see an ethereal figure step out of the smoke, as if appearing from thin air. Dressed in a soft, muted robe, the newcomer was humanoid in appearance, though its features were twisted with those of a beast. Two long ears adorned the top of the stranger’s head, and short, white fur covered all of her exposed flesh. Her demeanour was polite, almost friendly, yet her eyes were hard, and in one hand she held a curved blade that dripped with red.
“The Folk?” he spat, then his face hardened. “You targeted the centurions…”
“It wasn’t easy,” she confessed, “but your confidence—might I say, arrogance—has given us this opening.”
“Why are you here?”
She smiled toothily. “A new race has been born on Pangera, so the conclave has spoken. As such, we will defend these free peoples.”
“Dungeon born,” he grated, “just like you. You’re corrupted.”
“We must agree to disagree,” she stated as she raised the blade casually.
“HOLD!” Rianus roared. “Folk Blademaster!”
That was all he could say before the rabbit creature flickered and vanished before them. An instant later, a slash rang out overhead, followed by a barrage of sword light, slivers of silver death, raining down from above. Acting on instinct, Rianus didn’t raise his shield to block, but allowed the blows to slash into his helmet and pauldrons as he leapt backward.
He made the right choice.
Barely a second passed before another quiet slash rang out, in front this time, unleashing a wave of sword light that sliced through the air at dizzying speed. Those who judged incorrectly took the blow straight to the chest. Rianus’ arm buckled as a crack appeared in the face of his shield, but he held his ground and stayed standing. When the pressure eased, he leapt to the side to cover his ally who had fallen. With a quick check, he saw that the attack hadn’t pierced the chest plate but dented it, punching the metal into the soldier within.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Hurts like heck, but I’ll be fine,” she gasped.
His eyes scanned around them as the Legionaries began to pick themselves up, the healthier covering for the wounded until they could get their breath back.
“What the hell was that?” the wounded soldier asked.
“Blademasters of the Folk,” he replied, his tone grim as he continued to survey the field. The smoke was thick now, making it damn hard to see. “They almost never leave the conclave.”
“Why are they here?”
“They want the tree to live,” he growled. “Another reason why we need to cut the damn thing down.”
158. Tree Fall, Part 5
The appearance of the Blademasters on the field changed the situation dramatically. Grand Marshal Cicera considered the scene that spread before her with a pensive frown. Centurions had been hunted down in the confusion and chaos of the battlefield, disrupting the chain of command and leaving a quarter of the Legionaries sent over the bridge blowing in the wind.
It was a deceitful, cowardly strategy that relied completely on the element of surprise and the unique abilities the Blademasters possessed. It was also clever and effective. Had the Folk announced their presence and stated their intention to defend the Tree, Cicera would have brought another four Legions to ensure the job got done.
Her centurions would have also been more hesitant to stand apart from their troops. It was a standard strategy to assassinate officers in the field, and the Abyssal Legion prided itself on its record for preserving the lives of not only its officers, but the rank and file Legionaries as well.
To do such a thing was close to a declaration of war. There would come a reckoning for this.
For now, her focus had to be on the mission. The tree would fall, there was no doubt of this.
“Focus the barrage on the left side of the trunk,” she ordered. “Tell the Praetorians to find and assist the leaderless soldiers. They must be guided and absorbed into the command of existing groups.”
The commanders passed her orders, and within minutes, she could see the results play out before her. The constant barrage of artillery and magic continued unabated, but this time focusing on one side of the trunk. The already burning wood began to crack and splinter under the weight of the assault. Thick clouds of smoke already billowed around the tree, rising to the canopy and drifting into the vast open spaces of the fourth stratum.
She caught glimpses of the soldiers regrouping in the distance. Her superhuman vision allowed her to pick out the determined faces as they reformed their lines and began to advance once more. The Praetorians had been notified of the Folk’s presence in the battle and already they had come to blows.
Of course, despite their incredible skill, not even they could stand up to the finest the Legion had to offer.
“The Folk are retreating whenever they see a Praetorian approach. They don’t want to engage directly.”
“Not surprising,” Cicera remarked dryly. “That’s not a fight they can win.”
It was a worthy trade-off. If the Blademasters spent their time running from the Praetorians, then they weren’t interfering with the Legions.
“There are reports of more forces from the Folk appearing. Not elites, regular warriors.”
The Grand Marshal frowned. They were bringing a larger contingent at this point of the battle? Why? The tree was crippled; success was close for the Legion.
“Send in the auxiliaries,” she ordered. “It’s time for the finishing blow.”
The situation was relatively stable, but it could change if more unanticipated factors were allowed to influence the field. She would commit her reserves and deal a decisive strike before things could tilt out of her favour.
The order rolled down the line, and tens of thousands of soldiers prepared to deploy. The auxiliaries were a potent fighting force in their own right, overshadowed by the Legionaries they served beside, but competent and strong nonetheless.
It was they who manned the artillery, they who served in the medicus and managed supplies. No fighting force in the Abyssal Legion could operate without them.
There were also more specialised soldiers among their number.
Twenty thousand malformed former prisoners howled and gibbered with delight as the order came. They’d waited so long, watching as their brothers and sisters of steel fought on the front line. Now it was finally their turn.
Brimming with eagerness and fury, they rushed over the bridge and threw themselves into the fight with wild abandon. They smashed into the front lines like a sledgehammer, rolling back the tree creatures all the way to the trunk in one mighty, sustained push.
The commanders beside the Grand Marshal watched with detached interest as the first of the hand-held ordnance began to fly.
The auxiliaries whirled their bolas overhead before releasing them, their abnormal strength allowing them to cover tremendous distance. The clay balls shattered on impact, spreading their payload across the trunk.
On its own, the stuff would do little, but when ignited, it would burn with incredible heat. Good thing the tree was already on fire.
The conflagration spread in an instant. Fire roared and the snapping sound of breaking timber reached them easily over the distance. Black, oily smoke billowed from the trunk as more and more bolas were hurled into the inferno.
“The Folk are mounting an offensive, more are coming through.”