Horizon of War Series

Chapter 200: The Last Bow

The Last Bow

Lansius

Lansius kept his gaze fixed on the western part of the camp. Despite the relentless assault, they had withstood the first wave, and the situation remained under control. The combination of ditches, cheval de frise barricades, and barbed wire was proving its strength.

Deep down, Lansius pitied the fanatics who fought against the coiled barbed wire in the dim light, unaware of what they were up against. For them, it was certainly a nightmare. The sharp barbs clung to fabric, pricked, and tore the skin. The wire, intentionally kept loose in coils, was bendy and refused to snap.

The more they tried to climb, the more they became entangled, until pain eventually halted their movement, trapping them in place. While some fanatics managed to breach the barricades, it came at a great cost. And those who broke through were met by Lansius' mobile column, comprised of his battle-hardened veterans.

In the end, the mobile column held the western entrance with only light—if any—casualties, not needing reinforcement from the main army.

The palisade wall also held firm. Despite Lansius' concerns about its unfinished construction and the absence of rammed earth for support, the volunteer troops, armed with crossbows, spears, and swords, managed to repel the assault. Moreover, they had greatly thinned the first wave, forcing the attackers to reel back from their wall.

Now, Lansius watched as Dietrich sent his men to secure the loose barricade and add several more strands of barbed wire—they would need it for the next attack.

Everyone understood that despite their early success, this was only a taste of the main attack.

With the main assault seemingly waiting in the dark beyond the range of their crossbows, Lansius turned his gaze toward Cascasonne and beyond but thought it too early to see any movement there. From the castle gate, he noticed Sir Stan personally overseeing the delivery of the borrowed item from the castle.

Lansius shifted his attention to the carpenters and Sir Michael, who were finishing the wooden platform for the borrowed device. He also spotted Lady Ingrid there, accompanied by three others—

A streak of fire tore through the sky, leaving a red trail in its wake before arcing overhead. It landed with a sharp crack of clay shattering.

Lansius held his breath, and soon enough, a small but violent fire erupted from the impact site.

“Alchemist bottle! Bury it!” the nearest lieutenant howled, spurring men into frantic action. But as they scrambled, a puff of white smoke hissed ominously into the air.

“Burning Sands!” Sir Stan shouted as he sprinted toward it. “Bury it now, or it’ll spread!”

“Put dirt on it!” Lansius added, descending the stairs two at a time.

“My Lord, it’s dangerous! Let us handle it,” one of his guards warned, rushing toward the growing blaze.

Before they could act, another projectile streaked through the sky, landing inside the camp with a fiery burst, followed by another that slammed into the palisade wall. The last impact sent shards of clay and flaming liquid outward, igniting a section of the wall in a smoky blaze and forcing the crossbowmen to reel back.

"Move away from the smoke!" Lansius called out, moving toward them. Tens of men hastily abandoned their posts, frantically searching for water to douse their stinging eyes.

"Wash your eyes and face, and remove your clothes if they have the white dust on them," Lansius added before returning to check on the first bottle. As it turned out, his men had buried it, and the smoke had fizzled out.

Elsewhere, Sir Michael and his men scrambled to deal with the second. Lansius had barely sighed in relief when noises from the western entrance caught his attention. There, he saw Dietrich's men facing the same threat. One of the burning sands had ignited somewhere in the barricade, cloaking them in a choking cloud.

With pained breaths and teary eyes, the vanguard and men-at-arms stumbled back from their position, coughing violently. Some clutched their throats as if trying to expel the burning sensation.

The sight unnerved Lansius as he frantically searched for Ingrid, but his gaze caught Audrey and Margo instead at the center of the camp. Audrey was using her magic to summon wind, forcing it toward the enemy's position in an attempt to scatter the suffocating fumes.

This might work, Lansius thought.

But clashes and shouts erupted from the opposite side—the east. Lansius spotted a daring surprise attack and knew instinctively it could undo all he had worked for. "Guardsmen, with me. It's time to join the fight!"

There was no hesitation in Lansius' tone, prompting his four guards to follow without question, each carrying a different weapon suited to their preference. To Lansius, they were as good as his Varangian Guard: exceptionally talented in combat, royally paid, and fully devoted to his cause.

***

The Living Saint's Side

Two brothers acted as diversions, hurling their burning sands into the enemy camp. The first throw sailed cleanly over the wall, shattering somewhere inside, but his second throw arched too low and struck the palisade, scattering sparks across the ground. The second man sprinted toward the western entrance and hurled his clay bottle at the column beyond the barricades. It erupted into a choking cloud of gas, spreading chaos among the defenders as they reeled from the sudden attack.

Meanwhile, the leading man, Andras, led seven of his brothers to the east, where a column of men stood in defense behind wooden barricades. He smirked; it was easy to see that the defenders were overconfident in their proximity to the castle, believing that the crossbowmen stationed there and the dreaded new weapon would protect them. They relied too heavily on their allies and grew careless.

One bottle of burning sands was all it took. The clay shattered within the column, and panic seized them as acrid smoke billowed. The defender's formation unraveled as they stumbled back, abandoning their position. That was the opening Andras and his men had been waiting for.

Familiar with the cheval de frise, they began their climb with practiced steps. However, they were caught off guard by the sharp, barbed wire coiled around the structure, which quickly ensnared many of them. With cool determination, they used their small numbers to their advantage, assisting one another to break free. Moreover, unlike their common brothers, they were better equipped.

Their ringmail was crafted with tightly woven, riveted rings, fine enough to stop even a metal toothpick. As a result, the jagged metal thorns around the barricade could do little more than slow them down. And they had ample time, as the burning sands worked in their favor.

After leaping over the barricade without losing anyone, they pressed forward into the dense gas cloud without hesitation.

"Andras," a brother called out, his voice muffled by the mask, “May the Saint’s blessing reach your deceased family!”

“Her teachings will save us all,” Andras replied, smiling faintly behind his mask. “What she did for my brother, she will do for us all.”

While the defenders had little experience with such weapons, the attackers were all too familiar with often being on the receiving end of that vile gas. Through harsh lessons, they had developed some methods to counter its effects. The brothers under Andras had slathered their limbs and faces with a thin coat of tallow and wore masks dampened with a posca-like concoction of water and wine vinegar.

Well-prepared and experienced, they pushed through the choking fog as it burned their eyes and nostrils. Soon, the gas began to thin, and with great fervor, they launched themselves at the column, blades first.

Earlier, the column was bristled with spears and shields, their formation tight and disciplined. But now, their ranks were scattered and relaxed. Men gasped for breath, helmets discarded, splashing water from their waterskins over their faces in a desperate attempt to soothe the burning. Suddenly, eight men in black ringmail broke through the fog.

One Korelian soldier never saw Andras coming. His sharp, curved steel blade swept in a tight arc, slicing deep into the man’s jugular. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as the soldier’s mouth fell open in shock. To his left and right, Andras’ brothers charged the startled defender, delivering the Living Saint’s wrath upon the unbelievers.

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But their opponent were not levied troops. Amid the chaos, a blade thrust toward Andras. He sidestepped with the agility of a man forged by countless fights. His eyes locked with his attacker’s for the briefest moment before he drove the rondel dagger in his left hand deep into the man’s ringmailed chest. The ice-pick-like nail pierced through, striking the man down. Nearby, one of his brothers swung an axe, cleaving a soldier’s arm in a single, brutal motion.

The defender's column was completely unraveled. Its members fled in panic, disoriented by the gas and unsure of the number of attackers. They tripped over one another in a desperate attempt to escape the black-clad killers, who seemed immune to the smoke. Shouts and screams filled the air, the chaos working to Andras' advantage as he struck down another man and slipped deeper into the camp.

But the cost was steep. One brother fell—a crossbow bolt struck him point-blank before a spear finished him off. Another was captured, wrestled to the ground by sheer numbers. Yet, the remaining brothers were more than enough to sow chaos, cut down commanders, and make their escape. Andras led the charge, his black-painted ringmail melding seamlessly with the shadows of the night.

Amid the flickering light of lanterns and torches, Andras spotted a figure clad in fine armor, standing taller than the rest. His gilded breastplate marked him as a nobleman, while his commanding presence and the several men flanking him left no doubt that he was the commander.

The target shouted orders, seemingly directing his men to move a mule-drawn cart out of the way. Andras launched himself toward him, sprinting. His brothers followed without question, leaving a trail of blood in their wake.

Suddenly, Andras felt the Living Saint’s blessing surge through his veins. The strength was so overwhelming that, for a moment, he faltered, unsteady on his stride. But with his next step, he found himself moving faster, each pump of his legs propelling him forward with inhuman power.

The Living Saint had saved Andras' brother, who was badly burned—his skin, even his hair and eyebrows, completely scorched in the house fire. Now, the recovering boy was a devout gardener in the Saint's monastery. When the Saint learned that his mother and father had also perished in the blaze, she said she would find their souls and bring them to the Garden of the Ancients.

Since that moment, no clouds had lingered in Andras' soul. The former street brawler turned cutthroat had found his purpose. He lived now as the Living Saint's blade of justice.

"Watch out! The leading one is a mage," a female voice rang out. Her warning unintentionally sparked further panic, giving Andras a good opening.

One of the nearest guards who moved to intercept hesitated. Without breaking stride, Andras hurled the rondel dagger in his left hand with all the strength he could muster. The weapon flew blindingly fast, hitting the guard’s shoulder with such force that it sent him stumbling backward.

The surprised nobleman and his remaining men readied their sword stances. But Andras had the momentum. "In the name of the Living Saint, I command you: Perish!" he roared as he pounded his heavy boot on the ground and brought his blade down in a vicious overhead slash against the nobleman. His brothers were close behind him, flanking from both sides.

***

Lansius

He saw only five or six figures, all clad in black armor. Such a small number, yet they had wreaked havoc on his column stationed behind the barricade. Still, nobody had expected burning sands attacks, and certainly not with this level of ferocity.

"One of them is a mage!" Ingrid warned from the crowd behind, surprising Lansius.

"Good!" Lansius bellowed without hesitation as he kept his pace. "I’m getting bored."

His four guards broke a smile at his words and doubled their pace toward the intruders, who were focused on Sir Stan.

"In the name of the Living Saint, I command you: Perish!" the likely assassin mage roared, launching toward Sir Stan.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Lansius caught sight of the arrow as it momentarily distracted the mage. It lasted only a blink, and the arrow strayed harmlessly, but the broken focus was enough. The two blades clashed with a resounding ring, and Sir Stan swiftly followed with a sly counter aimed at the opponent’s face. His blade nicked the cheek, smearing first blood across the black mask.

"What’s with the mask? Did Saint Nay say you’re ugly?" Sir Stan taunted with a childish grin. His answer came in the form of a powerful diagonal blow, which the baronet was forced to block.

The duel had begun when Lansius and his guards arrived, just as more black-armored men appeared on the other side. Two of Lansius' guards leaped into the fray, while the others moved to intercept anyone attempting to target him. Reinforcements began to converge, but one attacker slipped through and charged directly at Lansius.

Lansius readied his stance, but another arrow sliced through the air, striking the attacker. It failed to penetrate the ringmail but staggered the man just long enough for Lansius to quick step forward and deliver a swift sword strike to the side of his head.

The attacker’s ringmail coif protected his scalp, but the blunt force was enough. His eyes rolled back as he crumpled to the ground, preventing Lansius from delivering a follow-up strike.

Nearby, one of Lansius' guards had fell another attacker, while the men gathering around had overpowered a second. A third lay pinned to the ground, choking from suffocation—likely Ingrid’s handiwork.

The black-clad killers were strong and experienced, but the Shogun's men proved to be their equals. Worse for the attackers, Lansius' personal guards had been handpicked and trained by Sir Harold, outclassing the killers in nearly every way. Their fatigue soon became evident, and the guards cornered them as their fight grew increasingly desperate.

Fierce fighting continued, but the center of attention was the fight between Sir Stan, two guards, against the mage assassin. For the first time, those outside the Toruna household witnessed Sir Stan’s prowess. Physically, he was a first-rate knight, and his connections to Bengrieve likely afforded him rare artifacts or relics that few could rival.

A powerful parry by the guard, followed by Sir Stan's swift counter, sent their opponent stumbling backward. Meanwhile, the other attackers were being cornered as more defenders converged, cutting off their escape.

"It’s not a mage," Ingrid corrected as she approached, a squire by her side. "It’s a gemstone of strength."

A smirk spread across Sir Stan’s face. "Leave him to me," he said to the guards beside him.

"But Sir—"

Sir Stan did not respond. Instead, he lunged forward, wielding a spear taken from a fallen man. Sparks flew as the spear clashed against the assassin’s blade in a fierce duel.

The assassin unleashed powerful parries and masterful counters, but Sir Stan dominated the exchange. There was a certain beauty in his near-reckless fighting style. He didn’t bother dodging shallow cuts, allowing grazes to land on his full plate armor without hesitation, completely ignoring them to maintain his edge in attacking. In this way, his speed, feints, and superior technique allowed him to control the fight.

As the duel raged on, the remaining black-clad killers were defeated. Yet Lansius couldn’t afford to let his guard down. The western entrance was under heavy attack. A few hundred enemies had already swarmed through the barricade, with likely another thousand advancing behind them. Their chants now drowned out all other noise from the west side.

Lansius’ mobile column, still wary and reeling from the effects of the burning sands, fought fiercely to plug the gap. Crossbowmen and cranequiniers fired relentlessly in a desperate attempt to halt the onslaught.

Lansius dared a glance toward Sir Michael, who was frantically assisting the carpenters in installing the device brought by the mule cart. He felt a flicker of relief that they kept working despite the chaos surrounding them.

It’s almost ready.

A cry erupted, drawing Lansius' attention back to the duel. Sir Stan had struck a spear into the opponent's belly. The man knelt, clutching the spear to prevent it from penetrating deeper.

"All that extra strength, and what did you achieve?" Sir Stan asked, his tone half-mocking, reminding Lansius of their training days in Toruna. "You seem poorly trained for this kind of fight. Tell me, is this your first time using the necklace of strength?"

When the man gave no response but a pained grunt, Sir Stan, in a show of dominance, lifted him off the ground with his spear. Then, with a wide vertical swing, he slammed the man several steps away, crashing to the ground.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

Everyone was stunned by the feat of strength, and Lansius seized the moment. "Don't just gawk! Return to your stations. We have a war to win!" he shouted.

Driven by Lansius' command, the men hastily returned to their posts, leaving the failed assassination attempt behind.

The man began to gurgle blood from the impact and the wound in his belly. Slowly, he reached for the spear tip, but the pain was so excruciating that his muscles refused to obey.

"Don't even try. That spear is the only thing keeping your guts from spilling out," Sir Stan said, stepping closer.

The man stared up with bloodshot eyes as Sir Stan knelt and forcefully removed the lower part of his black ringmail coif.

"Be careful. He's still powerful," Lansius warned.

"Not to worry," Sir Stan replied calmly. "The gemstone is working hard just to keep his vitals up. Right now, he's as harmless as a dying man."

Lansius recalled his own experience with his gemstone of strength. Sir Stan seemed to know much more, suggesting he likely owned one and had secretly trained extensively with it. While Lansius trusted Ingrid, it appeared the gemstone of strength wasn’t as rare as she believed.

But then again, Bengrieve even had muskets...

"Oh, what do we have here?" the baronet mused aloud, removing the necklace from the man’s neck. As soon as it left his body, the man convulsed violently and vomited blood.

One of Lansius' guards drew his dagger while two others stepped forward. "My Lord, we’ve captured three alive," one reported.

Lansius observed the man silently for a moment before giving a single nod. The two guards, each grabbing an arm, hauled the dying man into a sitting position. As the leading guard unfastened the straps of the black ringmail coif and removed it along with the padding and mask beneath, he asked, "What's your name?"

The man's strength was nearly gone, but he muttered through bloodied lips, "Andras, son of Varsovia."

"Well met—and goodbye," the guard said as he delivered a merciful stab to the back of the neck. Andras slumped forward, his struggle finally over.

"Lord Shogun," Sir Stan called. Lansius turned to see the baronet holding out his palm, revealing a gem-encrusted silver necklace.

"Not the prettiest, but it’s still a functional gemstone of strength," Sir Stan commented. "Have you heard of it?"

Lansius opened his mouth to deny it, but Sir Stan already continued, "Well, you have a mage who sensed it, so this will be easy."

"What will be easy?" Lansius asked, resting his sword on his shoulder.

Unexpectedly, Sir Stan held the necklace up, offering it to Lansius.

Lansius frowned. "But you won it in a duel."

"It’s a gift, take it!" he insisted. "You raced all the way from Lowlandia to save Cascasonne. And I even heard you sent a detachment to free Toruna. For that, I’m grateful."

Amused, Lansius sheathed his sword and quickly accepted the necklace. "Gratitude for this remarkable gift."

"Don’t be. We’re in-laws, remember?" Sir Stan quipped, unfazed by the deaths around him.

However, there was little time for respite. The western entrance had been overrun, and the wooden barricades were pushed aside. Meanwhile, the enemy had renewed their assault on the palisade walls, where more fanatics were scaling them, swarming the defenders’ positions like endless waves of ants.

"Any brilliant ideas on how to survive this mess?" Sir Stan whispered, leaning closer. "Or do we need to use the new weapons?"

"No," Lansius replied confidently, though a hint of nervousness crept into his voice. "The plan is ongoing. Now, it’s time to turn the tables on them."

***