‘I would first like to preface that I had no intention of releasing this information to the wider public until recently. Certain circumstances have led to my decision, in the interests of our nation’s security, to release evidence that absolves me of any accusations against my character.’

‘It has been suggested by many a noble in court in recent times, that I, Lucien Blodyn, and the Intelligence Service falsely accused Horyd Coeden of assassinating Cardinal Peace. That we forged evidence to prove such a case to see him charged guilty of treason and heresy.’

‘However, these accounts should prove enough to acquit me of such malicious charges. Ladratta Masarn voluntarily signed on behalf of Horyd Coeden the purchase of Chadau Honnen’s talents as an assassin. He was required to assassinate Cardinal Peace, and he fulfilled his obligations duly, on the night of Horyd’s imprisonment.’ - Excerpt from a letter submitted to Parliament by Lucien Blodyn in response to an inquiry, January 1263.

———

“I challenge your Chieftain to a duel.” Cythraul commanded, ignoring the horse riders that encircled him. Nervous breaths were snorted out of the noses of human and beast alike, forming white mist in the space before them. All who stood before feared Cythraul’s presence. He knew that if he moved, they would all attack.

‘Best not to upset them further…’ Cythraul inwardly smirked.

A voice rang out from behind him, shouting into the tent to the chieftain inside. The Berserkers that he could see in front turned their gazes towards her direction. Their eyes contained obvious looks of disbelief.

‘Behind me, to my right.’ Cythraul made a mental note of where the woman stood.

His attention was taken away from the riders as movement occurred before him, inside the tent. The tent’s flaps flew open, swishing in the air, as a bulking man stepped out from within.

His face was hidden behind a war mask. The expression carved onto it was fixed in a creepy nonchalance. Attached to his waist was a brutal battle axe and the severed heads of a woman and a man.

‘Stylising himself after the Creator? A Warlord…’ Cythraul noted.

“I challenge you to a duel. No interference. Standard rules of Perdita’s Coliseum.” Cythraul issued his request, quickly setting the rules for their combat.

The woman’s voice resounded from behind him once more, speaking in Tereum to the chieftain in front of him. The man made no reaction to what she said, of which Cythraul could see. His eyes never left Cythraul, staring straight at him. He was unmoving.

“Accept, I.” The man spoke in broken Cymorthian. He raised a hand. The riders whipped their reins at his signal and dispersed back into the network of tents. He returned his focus onto to Cythraul, though he never actually stopped staring at him. He nodded, which Cythraul returned.

They turned, and ran into the distance, moving anti-clockwise around the star fort, crossing over the river. None of the armies could support them if they fought in the planes of the north-western quadrant. The light of the flare extended its gaze to their arena, they would fight in the light.

A gust of wind bombarded them with its icy chill, though the grass was the only one that took notice of its presence. It folded against the earth once more, refusing to straighten in opposition to the wind. Their arena was set, and the fight commenced immediately.

They pushed off the ground, their boots slick with wet mud, charging at each other. They kicked away clumps of wet sludge as the mud squelched beneath their weight. Firm footprints were left in their wake.

Cythraul was the quickest, severing down with a diagonal cut from right to left. The Berserker reacted instinctively, using the curved moon blade of his battle axe to whip the sword away like a pendulum.

Cythraul struggled, his blade rattling between the metal head and the shaft of the axe. The Berserker flicked the sabre away from his body and cleaved down at Cythraul’s carotid artery. Cythraul took a step forward to his right diagonally, rotating his body. His blade cut up, following an inclined path that ended at the Berserker’s arms.

The blades whistled in the air, one ascending, the other descending. The air roared like thunder while the dissonant piercing of metal scraping metal combated each other. The Berserker’s battle axe missed its target, only severing air, while Cythraul’s sabre cut against the gauntlets of the Berserker.

Sabre’s Rigour ricocheted off the gauntlets, leaving an indentation of its penetration into the metal. It followed up, the sabre’s blade forming a tight arc that descended at a blistering speed onto the chieftain’s neck.

The chieftain grunted, shifting his balance by kicking his back leg out anti-clockwise, pivoting on his right leg. He defended with offence, swinging the axe up diagonally from right to left to Cythraul’s open side, with all his strength.

Cythraul jumped backwards, not risking the initial strike, instead choosing to wait for the follow up. The crescent blade passed his body, scraping metal sparks off his breastplate as it continued its arc. Cythraul stepped forwards just as the axe made its return journey, cutting horizontally towards Cythraul from left to right.

Cythraul adjusted his grip as he moved forwards. He gripped his hilt with two hands for the additional strength. He punched out with the sword, blade vertical, aiming at the chieftain’s exposed, layered arms that held the axe.

The Berserker’s eyes widened as he watched Sabre’s Rigour sever towards his arms. In order to protect himself, he flinched, pulling the axe towards his chest while still swinging. A hollow, wooden thunk resonated from the impact of the strike. Sabre’s Rigour was embedded into the shaft of the battle axe. The Berserker had managed to defend himself. Just.

Cythraul saw his advantage. He was in a much stronger, more dominant position. He clenched his muscles, forcing out every ounce of his strength to flick the battle axe down towards the ground.

His blade separated from the wood, splinters scattering from the hilt, as it cut upwards. It passed through flesh, entering the chieftain’s shoulder, cutting straight towards his clavicles. Just as Sabre’s Rigour was about to sever the Berserker’s artery, he barked out a chant in Tereum.

“Fire.” Embers licked the metal battle axe, then exploded into a bonfire. It crawled up his right hand, coating it in flames. With his mind, the Berserker controlled the formless fire to coalesce into a whip that lashed out at Cythraul. Cythraul pulled back his sabre and jumped to his right to avoid the explosion that lacerated the earth.

“Heh. Round 1 is mine.” Cythraul croaked out, rubbing his left cheek which was singed by the fire. The rest of his body was fine, though the left side of his clothes were slightly burnt, tainted black.

———

Seismic fractures peppered the earth like shattered glass. Clumps of earth and dust were discharged into the air, while severed limbs and splattered blood dyed the mud red. In the moats, motionless bodies floated to the surface. Their heads and limbs were submerged, though their backs buoyed above the surface.

From them, cadmium wisps rose, drifting like fireflies towards the opposite bank of the moat. They entered the wounds of the Berserkers, fuelling their assault. They moved with enhanced vigour, crossing over the dune like glacis to reach the moat.

As they charged, some Berserkers crumpled to the ground, their lamellar armour breaking as attacks penetrated through into their flesh. They writhed in agony on the muddy ground of the battlefield, their war masks scattered carelessly around them.

There were oddities in parts of the battlefield. Some Berserkers stood still, looking horrified at the empty air. Though there were others that fought madly, shooting out formless spells that destroyed everything but the Cymorthian army. Once spotted, a barrage of arrows would be fired to eliminate these pitiful brigadiers from the soldiers upon the walls.

The passive defences suggested by Cythraul had been incredibly effective. If the spells didn’t explode those who made contact with it, they locked them in an illusion that would temporarily paralyse them.

Rupert was still atop of the outpost, watching the battle take place outside the walls. He infrequently channelled Malevolency, casting spells that erupted past the shoreline killing those who were too close. He lowered his longsword, Marwolaeth, which still crackled with excess energy. He quickly turned his head, looking into a different direction.

He heard a huge explosion detonate, even from where he was. A mushroom cloud of black smoke billowed furiously into the sky. Protruding out from beneath it was heaped mounds of mud. This time, it wasn’t from a passive Malevolent mine.

Networks of tunnels had been uncovered from the explosion, unveiling men and women from both Praeteritum and Cymorth dressed in mining wear, pickaxes in hand. A brutal melee ensued, and they danced with and in between the red orbs. Pickaxes hacked men and women alike to bits. They bludgeoned deep into their opponent’s flesh and bones.

The Berserkers’ channelled Malevolent energy into their pickaxes, creating formless fire that charred nearby soldiers. However, they were swarmed by others, who pummelled their pickaxes into their skulls. The Baron and Knights fought as well, using their Malevolent energy to overpower the remaining Berserkers.

Outside of the tunnels, a swarthy woman who had been staring in space, hallucinating, had been startled out of the illusion. She stood just metres from the impact zone of the explosion. Its force had rippled through the earth, breaking her stupor. A second woman on horseback charged towards her, grabbed her, and threw her into rear position. They rode away to the tents.

Rupert knew that not all cases were to be this favourable to his army, with previous units of miners having been on the receiving end of the butchering during the night. But right now, his soldiers were performing impeccably.

He turned in another direction, focusing on the tip of the crownwork walls. Soldiers suited with breast and backplate, a pike attached to their back, strained their longbows waiting for their command.

Their Viscount raised his hand, briefly shouted, and thrust it down. A volley of arrows cascaded from the sky like a hailstorm upon the few lone Berserkers that had tried to cross over the moat. They had end up stranded and defenceless.

A man on horseback galloped above the water, weaving between bodies, using its beast’s inherent Malevolency to supernaturally walk on water. He heard the air whistle, and he looked upwards to see the bombardment rain down upon him.

He yelled out, chanting a spell through his spear and shield. A wall of flames appeared before him, burning the arrows before they reached him. The warhorse continued charging undeterred by the shrapnel remains that dropped blackened around them.

The archers readied their bows once more, preparing a follow up volley on the last survivor that stood upon the moat. All others had crumpled into the water, arrows pierced through their bodies, sinking into its dark depths.

This time, the two Viscounts that controlled the crownwork’s regiments channelled their Malevolent energy. They stood opposite each other, creating a ball of lava with their combined strength. From the sphere of fire formed the tips of arrowheads. They shot out, targeting the lone rider.

A volley of molten arrows formed twinkles in the sky, like distant shooting stars flickering across space. They began their descent. They showered down upon him, bathing him and the warhorse in molten lava, as they exploded on contact.

He tried to defend himself behind his shield, but it was no good. The metal shield melted within his hands, fusing with the molten flames. He was both burnt and buried alive by the spell, dying an excruciating death.

The moat below bubbled and burst from the heat of the man casted from lava. The water cooled, and he turned into statue shrouded by igneous rocks too dense to float in water.

A smile tinged the corners of Rupert’s lips. He was impressed with his Hepa legion’s current defence. He was worried that some commands from the strategic division would be ignored today as the majority of the scab officers had filled in positions for the Hepa legion.

However, any difficulties that had appeared in the past hadn’t occurred now. He couldn’t blatantly punish flawed success, but he could certainly threaten it back into line. He hoped that the battle’s status quo would continue.

Their ability to follow the orders that adjusted the legions with the flow of the battle was a core component for their current success. Their flexibility was outstanding. To win without an absurd number of causalities, they would maintain this flow.