“Mervin! Above!”

Without conscious thought, Mervin Cors lifted his shield, Mana sizzling atop it in a sporadic show of blue light. Thankfully, the Skill—or more likely, the thick slab of steel on his arm—was enough to stop the gleaming Fire Arrows.

Shield Mastery is level 32!

Force Barrier is level 22!

It did not stop the charge of another Initiate, in whose hand glowed a conjured sword of light. “Diurnal Rupture!”

“Drilling Thrust!” Mervin cried out in response, and the sword in his hand lit up with streamers of blue and bright yellow, before forming a whirling, buzzing cone. Force and heat propelled his strike farther, skewering the Initiate’s broadsword near its tip. The blade shattered, and Mervin pressed his advantage, batting aside the pieces and committing to the attack. He thrust, and felt soft flesh and hard bone split, but not before the bastard stomped on his boots.

You Have Killed An Initiate Of The Inviolate Inquisition!

XP Earned!

Drilling Thrust is level 42!

Warning!

Stamina Is Less Than 10%!

Health Is Less Than 50%!

Status Condition!

Broken Foot: Severe!

Mervin shoved the dead Inquisitor off his sword, and fumbled for a yellow and red potion at his waist before biting off the corks and quaffing them together. They tasted like sour piss, but Mervin was beyond caring. The battlefield around him was a mess of dirty armor and flashing Skills, too wild and incoherent for him to parse much, but his team had cut out a moment of silence. He breathed, and flexed his grip as he fought to ignore his broken foot.

Things were going poorly.

He was surrounded by Blades, Bones, Fists, and the blue-coated Haarguard by the dozen, but they had been met by overwhelming numbers. After the initial volley from the Hierocratic forces, the warriors led by Commander Reed had been in trouble, and Commander Kastos had ordered them onto the muddy battlefield to bring the lot of them back to the wall.

Explosions ripped across the field, blooms of fire and ice and shadow, and Mervin barely ducked. How long had he been fighting?

Days prior, Mervin had started off eager to prove himself. He hadn’t passed muster months back when Lady Aren and Commander Kastos had tested the Legionnaires. Before the Lord Autarch had vanished. He’d figured it was his time to show off the Skills he’d sharpened to a killing edge in the Foglands, clearing that Domain and hunting the various monsters in the thick forests. With an entire city’s powerful defenses to fall back on and an army bigger than anything he’d heard the Guilders ever fielding, Mervin had been confident. This, he had thought, was to be his chance to be noticed.

It had devolved into a horror almost immediately.

First had been the spiders—Orbweaver Minions—whose legs were sharp as daggers and whose fangs dripped with Apprentice Tier poison. Then came the Lamellan hordes and their nightmare spores. Mervin had seen too many people die, choking on blood and vomit as mushrooms bloomed upon their soon-to-be corpses. He had cheered the loudest when the mages had burnt the last of them.

Now, the Hierocracy had attacked, and Mervin was learning what a real army was like. The orderly ranks of the Inquisitors and Paladins were like freshly oiled gears, moving in perfect sync as Skill after Skill was lobbed at his head. In comparison, all Haarwatch had was enthusiasm, and that was a dim copy of the enemy’s zealotry.

Pathless…why? Why send your armies against us? Order rules us, gives us Strength. And our Purity of purpose cannot be denied. We have survived! Would you rather us to die?

Mervin’s prayer went unanswered, as it always did. Yet the entreaty was all he could do as his Stamina refilled and his foot throbbed like mad. The Status Condition wasn’t going anywhere. He simply had to endure the pain.

In the opening blows, the prowess of Commander Reed had stymied the Hierocracy’s attacks, slapping them out of the air with contemptuous ease before cutting through their rank and file. The Legion and Haarguard had rallied behind the man, roaring their defiance at pristine armor and bloody cloaks. It was thrilling, until the numbers of the redcloaks overwhelmed the Commander’s ability to cover. The fog that was their ally mattered less in close combat and broad, sweeping volleys of sizzling light magic. Commander Reed’s retreat to the city walls had been stymied by those Inquisitors in huge, summoned armor—armor that shrugged off all but the mightiest of magic and physical blows. With the armored Inquisitors at their back and the advancing army at their front, their band of warriors were trapped. All they could do was fight for their very lives and hope for a miracle.

City shield’s still holding, Mervin thought. His Mind felt numb and sluggish. He hefted his sword and shield, tightening the straps. Just gotta get to the wall. Get through the Inquisitors. Get them back. Do it, now.

Just as Mervin lurched forward, one of his fellow Blades fell with a cry, brought low by a burning arrow to his eye. Flowing over his twitching corpse, two Initiates bared their glowing swords, edges aimed at Mervin’s throat.

“Force Barrier!” Mervin threw up his shield behind the flimsy layer of force Mana, but the first sword only skittered off its surface before falling limply to the ground. “Uh?”

You Have Killed An Initiate Of The Inviolate Inquisition!

XP Earned!

“Hoo, they almost got you, there Mervin!” Thaddeus Thangle asked, stepping from between the two collapsing Initiates with a long, curved dagger in his grip. Holes had been neatly punched into the back of both of their necks. The Gnome looked a bit singed, but better than most. “You okay, kid? Need a morale boost? I got a few Rallying Cries left.”

“Keep it in your back pocket, Thad,” Mervin said, dropping his shield with a relieved sigh. Chaos reigned all around them, separated by only a few ranks of their fellows. Mervin set his jaw and moved toward the gap. “Do you have enough Mana to do an Obfuscation on me?”

Thangle grimaced, fingers playing with the empty jars at his waist. “Not for a while yet, even with that Mana potion at your side. Got enough to keep myself a bit foggy, but it wouldn’t do much for a Human, even one that’s your size.”

“Damnation.”

A sharp whistle caught their ears as a man with a flame-red beard leaped over their heads. His woven leather armor flowed with him as he spun, performing an incredible roll in mid-air as he loosed his bow. Green-gold arrows flashed outward, striking the earth only paces from the nearest redcloaks. Vines burst from their impact point, filling the sodden earth a dozen, thorn-lined snares that tangled legs and weapons. The orderly forces fell, trampling one another, and the archer landed among them, breathing heavy.

“Mervin! Thangle! We’re making the push! Go now!” Karp lifted his bow, manifesting more arrows upon the bowstring. “We’ll hold them off!”

Sentinel’s Regard is level 49!

Mervin could hear others spreading the same word, and his Perception Skill snagged on the vague details only strides away. Bodie. Vivianne. Kelgan. Yan. And here, Karp. Companions of Lady Boscal, who trained with the Autarch himself. Warriors ran past them like rocks in a stream, fleeing the final strides to the city gate as walls of sand, vines, steel, and sigaldry put pause on the Hiercracy’s advance.

“Karp? You’re staying?” Thangle blinked his big eyes at the Human archer, as if he really were just some old man that had gone too deep into this war. “You’ll die, boy!”

“Maybe. Or maybe I got the Fiend’s own luck, eh?” Karp grinned before letting another six arrows fly in the span of a breath. “Now run!”

The field had cleared, their forces having fled and the redcloaks and Paladins held for a few moments longer. Thangle started moving toward the city, but stopped when he noticed Mervin had not. “Kid, now’s not the time to play hero. Get to the gate, we can make a difference on the wall!”

“No. I’m not getting far on this foot, and even if I did, I’m no mage or archer. I’ve got my sword and that’s it.” Mervin stepped forward, standing next to a surprised Karp. “I’m with you, sir.”

The man’s flame-red beard split in a wild grin. “Good on ya! Just aim for the ones I miss!”

Mervin heard a pained groan, and Thangle stumped forward to stand at his side, hair wild and unkempt. He snapped his fingers. “Gimme that Mana Potion, then.” He grabbed it from Mervin’s outstretched hand and chugged it down in three hearty swallows. “Eugh! The things I do to keep you kids safe.”

The sand wall burst apart, vines snapping, and sigils blown out as six Inquisitors in golden armor charged through it. Behind them, the orderly ranks of the Hiercracy followed in a terrifying rush, a wordless cry upon their lips.

Mervin raised his sword. “For the Fiend!”

Sword watched the battle unfold below them through heavy-lidded eyes. A chair had been brought to him, and though he didn’t need it, he lounged indolently. The enemy could not see his face through his smooth helmet but they could certainly read body language, and Sword wanted all of the heretics to know that they weren’t a concern. Not to him, nor by extension the Hierophant.

Truthfully, he was bored. The battle—if one could call it that—raged in sputtering volleys and wan Skills. Few hits landed from the Inquisitors thanks to the accursed fog, though the Paladins were having better luck up close. Fewer still were actually reaching Haarwatch’s walls. There, though he could barely see it, ancient wards rippled with every stray attack, a patchwork shield that seemed dredged from some ruin. It was holding though, despite the assault by spiders and mushroom monsters his people had urged before them. Sword clucked his tongue, his boredom easing by the smallest of increments. The weaklings were no doubt fueling their wards with cartloads of monster cores and would run out sooner or later.

The entire battle was a farce. He wanted nothing more than to end it, but they weren’t here to murder the trash. They were here to teach them a lesson.

To defy the Hierocracy was to defy the Pathless Himself.

Yet the heretics refused to back down. Worse, they were picking off the weaker among the orders, slaying them through cowardly tactics and Mana Skills that were flung from the walls with little regard for conserving their energy. He had counted at least two hundred mages there, and more must have been rotating in—or else these children had more Mana at their disposal than was possible.

They’ve clearly trained to fight in large groups as well. The heretics possess a meager amount of skill. More than that, the salvaged monster cores indicated they had able alchemists and inscriptionists to hand. To recover so many usable cores to run an entire city that had been stripped of its defenses only months prior? Sword wouldn’t be surprised to learn that every warrior was trained in the recovery of such things, foolish as that was. Few would waste their resources in such a way. To teach disposable meat shields how to craft was akin to instructing an Avum to dance; all the bird was required to do was run when commanded.

Tome hummed to himself, flipping a page in his overly large book. The silver filigree flashed in the afternoon sun as his long-time ally peered over the prow like a curious bird. “They are strong, but not strong enough. Were we to concentrate our efforts, I predict a five percent chance of our loss.”

“That’s too high.” Spear asked. “I could end this with a single spell, Tome. There’s no chance of us losing, if we actually were allowed off this damn boat.”

“Explain, Tome,” Sword demanded, not bothering to look away from the battle. Together, the four of them could best any Grandmaster—and they had the record to prove it. Spear had the right of it; were they to apply themselves to this paltry conflict, it would soon be over.

“Because we haven’t seen their leader yet,” Mace growled. Tome in that languid way of his. She gripped the thick weapon at her side and leaned against the thick span of her tower shield. “He better show soon. I want to see how this man likes the taste of his own blood.”

“Patience,” Sword ordered.

“This Autarch is a coward. Hiding behind his fog and his walls while his people fight.” Spear sniffed, her voice faintly metallic behind her helm. “This would be over already were he simply to surrender.”

“The lessons must be taught,” Tome said before looking at Sword. “But perhaps we can speed up the process?”

Sword tapped his chin. “Very well. Arm the Mana Cannon.”

Mace yanked her huge shield from the deck with a single hand. “Yes! Let loose the cannons!”

“Target, my Lord?” asked an Inquisitor with an exacting bow.

“Ahmm.” Sword leaned further back, stretching his back needlessly. The image was all that mattered. “Aim for the gates.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”