“Your Highness.”
“What is it, Rollo?”
In that simple exchange, an invisible battle was happening. Their choice of words, tone of voice and honorifics. Whether to speak from your titular position, or your real place in the world. And the name or title used to address the other person. It was a social game older than nobility itself, meant to slowly and nonviolently wrestle for control and establish a tacit social hierarchy.
“The fiends’ advance force has arrived. It appears they plan to exhaust our store of missiles before sending in aerial skirmishers. We may need... Unconventional techniques to repel them with appropriate haste.”
“Treacherous as always, aren't they? If the defense force needs my help to thin them out, please get authorization from the Grand Duke.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
A shark-like grin, half-hidden by his mustache, bloomed on Rollo’s face. He had not imagined, in his wildest dreams that the Granfells’ second daughter would grow up to be excellent in anything. Without the benefits of parental love, or the gifts and privileges other scions received from social climbers and ass-kissing aristocrats... She'd somehow reached unimaginable heights, in both mind and body.
He was overcome with joy at the sight of this woman, whom he'd remembered as a dark and miserable child. A pariah whose social circle was no bigger than fifty people should be unable to keep up with such a subtle power game, or even realize the poison in his words. And yet, she'd managed to attack twice - indirectly pointing out his intentions, and his lower standing. He couldn't help but acknowledge it.
'Magnificent... She is a Granfell, after all.'
Rollo was old for a soldier, and had the bearing of a predatory animal - as though he'd been born on the battlefield and never parted with his home. But this couldn't be further from the truth. As an invaluable asset in the kingdom's military, he often took shelter at the royal palace during his prime. It was under the guise of teaching the new generation, that he was ordered by the king to wait out his attackers there. And though it did prevent high ranking nobles from openly ordering for his death, Rollo found this solution to be worse than the problem itself. The palace was a truly boring and corrupt place the warlord found repulsive. Therefore, instead of socializing with shadowy courtiers, he'd spent most of his stay at Granfell's capital training endlessly at the lesser palaces, occasionally visiting a certain church to find peace of mind.
There, he had time to observe and interact with the royal offspring - and he had seen through their true nature, from childhood to the prime of their youth. Neither the common people, nor government officials or high aristocrats could find fault in Marielle's siblings. And yet, to Rollo Nagan, they'd always been no more than a disappointment. The first son was well-bred, carrying the blood of both the Granfells and a neighboring royal dynasty. He was an upstanding man and unmatched in combat prowess. But in all other aspects, he was no more than a muscle-brained moron. The second, who was frail and too absorbed in history and art to amount to anything, wasted away in the Royal Archives. And the first princess, beloved for her acts of charity, was excellent at appeasing courts and plebians, but worthless for any other purpose.
Only when compared to the riffraff – bastard children, uncles and nephews, who buzzed around Granfell's palace like carrion flies - did these scions seem to shine. Among all of her siblings, Marielle was only overshadowed by her third brother - the Grand Duke Anthelm's - power and achievements. The same brother she humiliated and defeated the same day she'd arrived in Granica.
“Your Highness. I will certainly request aid if you wish to vent some steam before the real battle.”
“…”
Marielle didn't deign to answer his words as she walked away. Now that she'd established the difference in their rank, no one could fault this action as breach of etiquette. A countenance that couldn't be further from Granfell's three virtues: humility, piety and dignity. But one that was unassailable, and forced her enemies to stoop lower and lower in their attacks, until she had the full rights to trample them.
It wasn't as though she had this flawless defense from the start. Instead, it was the result of a gruesome tempering, through years of cruel treatment, that turned the second princess into a sword that was both flexible, and hard as steel. Discontent with staying still, she continuously campaigned until the royal family couldn't stand the sight of her growth and sent her on one last, impossible journey. And yet, she survived.
It was a story that gripped the hearts of adventure-seeking vagrants and common soldiery. And this warlord wasn't much different, either. Rollo was a man whose heart had stopped. It did not move unless commanded to move by a general’s orders. And excitement was an unknown delicacy for him, who jumped into the jaws of mortal danger many times throughout his life. And yet, even at his age, where ordinary men would fall ill and slowly rot in the care of their grandchildren... The mercenary captain’s chest threatened to explode at any moment, as he imagined just what kind of future Marielle could unlock.
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Outside the meeting room, a strange noise reverberated all around. Even before the deafening sound of their collective cries and footfalls reached the fortress, they might've chased away or slain at least a hundred people. A strange, dissonant chorus - the voices of a tsunami of demons, minutes away from washing against Granica's outer wall.
Strange beings with deformed, vaguely humanoid bodies, trampled and engulfed Granica’s indefensible outer districts, flowing in a disorganized, but terribly dense wave. Horn-like, tumorous growth erupted from their flesh in odd places. Their eyes glowed with hellfire, like burning coals embedded at random in their animalistic skulls. And teeth, like hydrangea petals, flowered out from their mouths, dripping with fresh blood and spittle. Fiends. They were a being common folk referred to as ground demons.
'GUGUGUGU'
Hideous giants, more than twice the size of a human being, ambled amidst the smaller monsters, giving commands. They wore no armor, as their skin was thicker and more robust than chainmail, and they held black wood clubs, spears and makeshift bows as big as ploughs in their rugged hands.
All together, the fiends numbered in excess of six thousand. And it was up to Baronet Rollo Nagan, and Granica’s guardsmen and citizen volunteers, to repel these monsters at the fortress' gates.
It was unrealistic to expect less than eight hundred people to defeat ten thousand demons, even with the benefits of being on the defense. And even when they fought against an enemy who didn’t take provisions with them. Moreover, the majority of Granica's defense force had no equipment to speak of, and used gardening tools - the blades of pruning knives and hand axes attached to long poles - as weapons.
To underestimate the power of numbers would be folly. A general once said that, against a single defender, two enemies had the strength of four. And against two defenders, four enemies had the strength of six. But it didn't end there. An exceptionally powerful blood power practitioner, or a student of Rollo’s, still had their limits. Eventually, they would expend the energy that gave them superhuman strength and dexterity - they would exhaust themselves to death trying to kill as few as one thousand fiends, let alone six. Even before that, they could be killed by a stray arrow.
The role of powerful individuals in a pitched battle was akin to that of cavalry. It was their job to appear suddenly and destroy many enemies before running away, out of harms’ way. In other words, they were shock troops, employed to quickly kill the enemy's elites and cause a break in their ranks. With all of that in mind, Rollo assembled his men at the walls, and spoke.
“Unit commander William. You will take charge of the main front. Elzear, Berthold. You will assist William and form a detached force in case another front will open.”
“YES!” x 3
“I will take the 2nd and 4th for precision attacks on the giant fiends. Once their chain of command is broken, we will join up with His Excellency the Grand Duke's men.”
In reality, there was no need for words. But the mercenary troop valued procedure highly enough to perform redundant show-briefings. It was a feature of their mentality, hammered into each mercenary's head by Rollo's harsh training regiment. But more than that, it was a handy way to raise the morale of ordinary soldiers, who greatly admired the peasant warriors, who rivaled superhuman knights in power. In a siege battle, it was more important than ever to maintain morale - Rollo could only hope that the guardsmen and volunteers that assembled by the walls would feel at ease seeing their boisterous, overly performed battle preparation and incessant saluting.
"Be sure to assist them as necessary - the Duke's life is more important than Granica's fortress."
Using the mysterious technique that allowed him to speak without using words, he sent such a message to all of the mercenary troop's unit commanders. He really did pity the rank and file. But, on the other hand, Rollo Nagan only had so much pity to spare, and when distributed evenly across the less-than-thousand defenders, he held as much consideration for each of them as he did for a summer ant.
It was when he thought that, that the enemy's ranks suddenly parted.
With the full force of an erupting volcano, Anthelm Granfell’s great, ocean-like aura field spread in the midst of the enemy. Instead of riding into battle on horseback, he and his shadowy court leapt from the walls. For anyone else, such a tactic would be suicide. But for the Duke of Dusk’s men, it was routine.
“Good... Watch out for his Excellency’s position, but don’t come too close.”
Rollo’s labored breathing and the straining of his armor sent shivers up his own subordinates' backs. In a truly bizarre expression, the corners of his mouth drew up, and his fish-like eyes bulged with a look of someone who was on the verge of dying from fear. But, contrary to his demonic appearance, a dense and pure, heavenly energy gathered around his body, erupting in palpable flares of hot air.
He disappeared. Elsewhere, a giant fiend’s burning corpse fell. Like a mirage, or a trick of the light, he darted through the demons' ranks, followed by disciples wreathed in strange and foreign light. A power that earned him the resentment of countless knight families, and the lofty title of Sinister Flame Blade. It was finally unleashed after being in disuse for several weeks.
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Marielle Granfell stood, amidst the chaos, watching great bursts of energy wash through the monsters at Granica’s gates. Guardsmen and volunteers beside her threw stones and pots at the enemies’ heads, firing arrows, throwing javelins, and sticking impractically long lances down from the safety of the walls. From her lofty vantage point, the fiends seemed to blend into an incomprehensible amoeba of wailing faces and clawed arms. Bristling with spears, like dense hair, it extended its formless limbs out to envelop abandoned barns and granaries with one side, while the other repelled the knights and mercenaries. Anthelm and the warlord, Rollo, seemed no different than insects compared to its sheer size. Just as expected, several knights expended most of their blood power in the first few minutes and were ordered to retreat. Likewise, Rollo's men couldn't maintain a strong front against enemies that stampeded forward like wildebeest, afraid more of being trampled than being stabbed with swords. Though, given enough time...
"That dreadful aura field will kill them given time, but..."
She judged the skirmishers would rout, or face complete extermination. This was because her third brother's power wasn't some kind of fanciful technique. Instead, he simply let his blood power spread out. In a way, it was more tiring for him to condense its vastness inside his body than to let it out like this. And so, he could defeat vast armies by just walking towards them. Rollo, likewise, was strong enough to quickly defeat every serious threat, and corral the rest straight into Anthelm's clutches.
But there was a wholly different issue to their strategy. Overhead, behind the constant rain of giant ogres’ arrows, the silhouettes of flying monsters showed over the province’s everlasting fog. There were many more winged monsters than yesterday’s report suggested - in all, no less than a thousand. And, in the absence of a strong ranged attacker, like a knight who specialized in archery, or a true living saint, they were simply unreachable.
It was up to the second princess to deal with them. Using a power that not only the rest of her family, but Marielle herself, found despicable. But, at such a time, when hundreds of lives were at stake, she could do nothing but clench her teeth and use it. With a weary mind and overcome with unfamiliar, discomforting emotions, Marielle raised the half-molten blade that was baptized in her Starfall’s energy, and pointed it at the sky.
Winged fiends usually foretold the Dragon of Calamity’s arrival. The princess couldn't imagine having to face that thing with Granica and its people in range of the beast's lightning. And, if it really came, she wouldn't have the time or energy to protect the fortress town from the flyers, too.
And yet, underneath all of her worries and reluctance, Marielle Granfell felt no fear. She knew it well. No matter how long she fought, or how much she trained, she couldn't possibly defeat six hundred flying demons with blood power and swordsmanship alone. Even if she used sorcery, the current her stood no chance against the Dragon and the army that just arrived at the fortress' doorstep. But, somehow, her heart felt mysteriously still.
"..."
She couldn't quite put it into words, but that peaceful feeling was already spreading in waves throughout her body. She didn't agonize about what would happen if she failed. She didn't fear that a powerful fiend, or the dragon itself, would come for her head in a moment of weakness she'd always felt after using sorcery. Whatever happened, would simply happen. The strange liberation that came from surrendering herself to fate lifted Marielle's spirits somewhat, and let her clear her mind enough to attempt something that, by all accounts, should've been impossible.
The electric buzz of sorcery spread through Marielle's brain. Coursing through channels made of raw, condensed energy, droplets of sorcerous intent condensed, forming into a hard lump. And when she willed it, the ball of raw magic shot out with great force, fueled by her resolve, and the stagnant energies that laid at the bottom of her soul.
“Ah…”
A simple, single target magic, like what she’d done to bring Anthelm back to his senses, was formed from imagination and intent. It was a toddler’s sorcery attempt. But even that had its cost. She had learned early on that the fundamental structure of sorcery was that of a transaction. One had to offer something in exchange for a desired spell. Without a clear offering, blood or lifespan, would be spent automatically. But as the scale of magic doubled, the cost quadrupled instead.
To use primitive means against nearly a thousand targets was impractical. It wouldn’t work. At best, she'd lose most of the blood in her body. At worst, the young princess' body would instantly shrivel up into a century-old corpse. Regardless she'd already accepted her role as Granica's protector, and Marielle resented the thought of giving up.
It was... Inevitable. And though she loathed to admit it, her next actions were guided not by sanctioned mentors, the hand of the Heavens, or her own enlightenment, but by the Dragon of Calamity - the only other sorcerer she'd ever met, her senior in the arts. They'd only exchanged blows twice, but she could feel the movement of power within its body. Indeed. Each time it used sorcery, the dragon's power slightly depleted.
Offering the blood power within her as sacrifice, Marielle fuelled the grand imitation she was about to cast. Crimson light erupted from the thin line that followed in her spell's path, terminating at the epicenter of the flying demons’ swarm. Fueled by inhuman reserves of blood power that detached from Marielle's body along with it, the phenomenon swelled like an overripe fruit, until the red string that connected the princess and her spell sputtered and snapped.
‘CRACK!’
The irregular sphere of reality-warping matter stretched vertically, up into the Heaven’s unknown heights, briefly painting the world white. A series of explosions blew away every glass window in the fortress town, and Marielle Granfell stumbled backwards, clutching her head in pain. Soon, the fog that covered Nagan Tal parted in a circle, displaying a gruesome scene.
Whomever dared to look before the spell took full effect, would forever remember what they witnessed. A garden of warped crimson spears that splintered and twisted the air around them. A nightmarish vision that dissolved before their very eyes in seconds.
The great outburst of sorcerous power displaced air for several miles, blowing away many terrestrial fiends in the process, and flattening a quarter of Granica’s outer districts. The flying skirmishers the princess had targeted were even worse for wear. Gone. They had disappeared. Quite some time passed before their final traces reached the battlefield below - mysterious soot that fell from the sky for ten whole minutes. With just one attack, they were reduced to carbon, vapor and fine metallic dust that mixed with atmospheric water, returning to the earth as black raindrops.
On Rollo’s command, his men, strategically placed amidst the ordinary soldiers, cheered loudly. And just like that, the whole of Granica’s defense force was shouting at the top of their lungs in joy, still unaware of the ominous shapes that circled the fortress.
