Horizon of War Series-Chapter 250: No Room to Flee

No Room to Flee

Saint Candidate's Hideout

Oblivious to the latest developments and confident the Lord wouldn’t act on his one-hour threat, Sir Hohendorf chose to remain in his hideout. He was accompanying the Saint Candidate and checking on his second-in-command, Sir Bielstein, who had been injured in the arena. Even without them, he still wouldn't have gone out. He didn’t want to exhaust himself before the big day. By tomorrow, he expected to have enough scaling ladders to storm the camp. Then, he would lay siege to the Lord’s fortified camp. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

Kneeling beside the feverish man on the litter, Sir Hohendorf said, "They tossed some kind of alchemist’s weapon at him. Your reverence, could you be generous enough to grant him a heal?"

The Saint Candidate glanced at the knight before replying in a sultry voice, "I'll do it for you."

"My gratitude," Sir Hohendorf said with a knowing smile, offering his hand to help her down.

She adjusted her tight-fitting purple garments first, then took his hand and knelt to examine the wounded man.

The area around his eyes was swollen, almost glued shut by thick, oozing fluid. She pried one eyelid open and found bloodshot eyes rimmed with a sickly yellow hue. "Get him clear water first. I need to clean his face."

Sir Hohendorf stepped to the door and commanded his men to do so.

Before long, a jug of clean water and a wooden basin were placed beside her. She began wiping the man's eyes. While she wasn’t particularly skilled in healing, she knew that water would help. Proper examination and treatment involved many lengthy steps that rarely looked impressive. Worse, they often made her appear incompetent. So when left unsupervised, she rarely bothered with the full process.

After rinsing and dousing the eyes, she extended her hand over the patient’s face and began to chant, letting her magic flow.

She never understood the fear surrounding healing magic and believed most of the procedures and precautions were unnecessary. Just another burden that dragged down individuals like her.

So she maintained a steady flow of power to her patient, hoping for a recovery, though without real concern. Whether the healing took effect or not, she believed that was the patient’s fate, not hers.

***

Canardia Outskirts

The sudden commotion roused the rioters’ main force, nestled around the intersection that led north, south to the arena’s entrance, or west toward the city. Thousands began to rise as their officers ran about, shouting orders and telling them to be ready.

Wiping duck grease from his hands after finishing his meal, the most senior of the followers emerged from his humble tent and hastily climbed into his small cart, pulled by his helpers. His aide stood beside him, holding the Specter of Power as their standard. About the size of a human child, it was made of gold and crafted in the likeness of the Saint herself, hands clasped in prayer.

“Courage! Saint Nay will watch over us. Assume battle formation,” the senior leader called out and rallied the two columns under his command, each with a strength of a thousand men.

While the Saint Nay followers were still forming, another column approached from the north. This force was more disciplined and better trained, consisting of the nobles’ private soldiers and hired swords with a strength of one thousand.

The three columns, driven by a shared resolve to kill the Black Lord and his underlings, began their march toward the camp. Their smaller force, though twice the size of what the Lord was believed to have stationed there, had likely already been overwhelmed by his assault.

Panicked shouts and screams mingled with the blare of trumpets and cornus, echoing from the battle at the narrow path leading to the hill where the camp was situated. The sound began to drain the color from the men’s faces. Doubt and fear spread. Even with their superior numbers, many knew how powerful the Black Lord’s army was. In retrospect, Saint Nay’s decision to mark him as a Black Demon, a new and unfamiliar concept, was only making the men more uneasy.

"Let us chant! The Saint's chant will weaken even the Black Demon. Victory will soon be ours!" a preacher cried out, his belly full, his voice fierce and unwavering.

"Do not falter. She will lead us to salvation!" shouted another aspiring leader with similar conviction, rising from his full belly.

Both had eaten well, having claimed duck from the arena and roasted it over the bonfire.

The thousand under them answered with louder, more fervent chants, steeling their hearts for the coming battle. The chants of Saint Nay rose into the air, and with them, courage spread.

There was no Saint Candidate among them, but there was no shortage of zeal in their ranks. With renewed conviction, they marched with steadier steps. Their faces were stern and solemn as they approached the dark, grim battlefield. Then, ahead of them, they saw hundreds of torches advancing.

"Is that the enemy? Or one of ours?" the most senior leader asked, demanding an answer from his men, who could only trade glances.

A brief confusion followed, but the trumpets of the nobles' private army answered their question. It was indeed the enemy.

"Strengthen your faith! The enemy has come. Eradicate them all!" the leader shouted to his men.

The combined forces of three thousand marched in tight formation against just a few hundred.

"Stay in formation!" the private army’s commander barked from the right side. He wanted his column ready to flank the Lord’s incoming force.

Less than two hundred paces separated them when the commander shouted, "Lower your spears!"

His men obeyed, forming a wall of spearpoints aimed at the approaching enemy.

They tightened their grips as the Lord’s men advanced and came to a halt.

Amid the glow of torches and lanterns, the commander squinted and screamed, "Shields!"

Not a breath later, a high-pitched whistling filled the air. Bolts erupted from the darkness, striking their position. The Black Lord's steel prod crossbows used thicker strings, launching heavier bolts with bone-shattering force.

The Saint’s followers were late to react and took heavy damage. Yet amid the groans and screams of pain, the most senior leader commanding the center and left columns shouted, "Attack! Give them the Saint’s punishment!"

Horns sounded at once. Lacking the crossbows to trade volleys with the Black Lord’s column, the combined force of three thousand fanatics and noble retainers surged forward to close the distance. Mercilessly, the Lord’s men kept firing, wave after wave of bolts striking them. It was relentless. Each volley hit dozens and left untold injuries, yet sheer numbers kept the attackers pressing forward.

The two sides finally collided with brutal force just below the narrow path leading uphill to the Lord's camp. The only light came from torches, lanterns, and faint starlight, barely enough to reveal faces or banners. Yet spears lunged with murderous intent. Raw screams tore through the clash, mingling with curses and the wet crunch of iron piercing flesh.

The Lord’s men fought with courage, but they were outnumbered, and their flanks lay exposed and within reach.

"Advance, push them away!" shouted the most senior leader to his followers as the two forces clashed, the momentum clearly favoring his side.

"Flank them, flank them!" another in his ranks cried excitedly.

Curses flew as often as thrusts and slashes. The stench of blood, piss, and spilled entrails filled the air, choking every breath. Yet it didn’t stop men, blinded by rage and fanatical devotion, from pressing forward. With superior numbers, the attackers began to overwhelm the line.

Slowly, the Lord's men began to give ground. They had no answer for the fanatics advancing in dense formations of spears and locked shields.

Then the unthinkable happened. The Lord’s men, victors of multiple wars and the very force that had terrified the Midlandians in the last campaign, broke under pressure and were routed in shame after only several chaotic minutes.

"They're fleeing!" the followers shouted, rallying their brethren to give chase.

"Do not let them escape!" the most senior leader cried frantically, and horns sounded.

Driven by the euphoria of victory and the thrill of overcoming their greatest fear, the center column surged forward, pouring over the trampled ground. The Lord's men fled in disarray, many not even looking back, further emboldening the rioters. With brandished swords, they charged uphill toward the camp. The other two columns soon joined the rush.

It was a chaotic advance. The road to the camp was narrow and steep by troop standards, just wide enough for a dozen men abreast. As they climbed higher, sudden drops opened on both sides, falling into a dangerously deep dry moat.

While the Lord’s men had been routed, halfway up the slope the crossbowmen atop the camp’s palisade began loosing their bolts with terrible effect.

Dozens were injured, had fallen, or slipped, yet the center column persisted and kept up the pressure. They advanced with shields held overhead, swords in hand, chants on their lips, and zeal burning in their hearts. They marched to avenge their fallen brothers from the last war, and many still regarded the Lowlandians as lesser men.

Aided by the crossbow barrage, the Lord's rear guard managed to form a solid line in front of the camp. Saint Nay’s followers, undaunted, met the challenge head-on. Another clash erupted, and with it came brutality. Spear drove against spear, sword clashed with sword, and curses filled the air. The fight devolved into chaos, and to their shock, many perished after underestimating the strength and resolve of the Lord’s rear guard.

This time, the defense held firm. Worse, the ranged attacks were far more devastating and frighteningly precise, shaking the attackers' momentum. Bolts flew almost without pause, and despite their raised shields, many were drenched in blood. The front ranks could advance no further.

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Yet, completely oblivious to their comrades’ plight, the middle and rear ranks behind, along with the two other columns, continued to flood and crowd the narrow path with excitement. The euphoria from their earlier success lingered. Numbering no fewer than three thousand, the momentum to advance was staggeringly high.

The men in front were horrified when they looked back and saw thousands of their allies clogging the narrow hill road, making any maneuver or retreat impossible.

"Back off, back off!" those in the front ranks shouted in desperation.

Yet the crowd behind them remained unaware, too numerous and too high-spirited to understand the shifting situation. The scene had turned into a nightmare.

Completely robbed of any chance to react, the front ranks couldn’t regroup or reorganize the assault. They were simply pushed into the slaughter. The Lord’s rear guard, men-at-arms in heavy armor, displayed exceptional skill and brutality, cutting down man after man without flinching. Combined with the crossbowmen atop the wall, they formed a lethal force.

Hundreds had fallen, their blood and guts gushing across the ground, leaving it slick with gore. Bodies piled up and were forced aside, many spilled into the deep moats below. The stench was unbearable, as vile as the scene was gruesome.

"What’s going on? Why are we slowing down?" the most senior leader demanded, his voice rising in frustration, still blind to the slaughter ahead.

Without anyone noticing, the packed center began to feel the strain. Unable to move forward, yet still pushed from behind, the ranks were crushed tighter with every heartbeat. Many began to gasp, bodies pressed together, swept along by the motion of the crowd. They were packed so tightly they could barely raise their arms.

Shouts and pleas rang out as more men were nearly crushed by their own.

Worse, unaware of the worsening disaster, the two smaller columns on either flank eagerly joined the climb from the rear.

"Stop the march! Halt the advance!" the senior leader shouted, watching his men fall to the crush of the crowd, to no avail.

As the front ranks were annihilated by blades and bolts, a deadly crush swept through the middle. Ironically, it was made up of the private army, the very force expected to pose the greatest challenge to the Lord’s men-at-arms, but they were pinned in a suffocating mass. Pressed from both front and rear, they pushed to the sides in desperation, and dozens fell from the narrow trail into the gaping dry moats below, screaming as they landed with broken limbs.

Suddenly, the Lord’s crossbowmen stopped firing.

The front ranks roared their war cries in renewed defiance.

As if in reply, at one corner of the camp’s palisade, a group of men waved the rioter's banner and shouted loudly to the masses below, “Victory! Victory!”

The rioters were stunned for a moment, but anyone not near the front erupted into jubilation.

“We found the Lord’s hoard!” one man atop the palisade shouted, tossing dazzling coins down to the crowd below.

“Gold, there’s gold everywhere!” another added, his voice soon lost in a great cacophony of laughter.

Those at the front watched in great confusion, still unable to break through the rear guard’s defense. The middle cared little, trapped in a growing crowd crush, but the rear was instantly agitated. Spurred by the promise of riches, they redoubled their efforts without hesitation. Many had risked their lives in the rebellion for gold, and this was too tempting to ignore. They shoved forward, elbowing through the mass without regard for order or injury. Each man was now on his own. Greed had taken over.

“Stop! Stop them!” the most senior leader shouted in desperation, but even he and his staff were being crushed within the crowd.

Thousands gasped for air, trapped within a surging mass of bodies. What had begun as a victorious charge had turned into a disorganized pursuit and ended in disaster.

The most senior leader stood atop his cart, panicked, as the crowd swarmed around him, climbing aboard for a chance to draw breath.

“Do not come to me! There’s not enough space!”

He had no chance. In the fight for survival, men would do whatever they could. Soon, everyone was squeezed together. In the face of death, preacher, golden specter bearer, or leader, none of it mattered anymore.

The leader, still gentlemanly and charming in his mid-fifties, gasped. His mind drifted to his last meeting with Saint Nay. He had promised to sever the henchman’s head, and to punish the unworthy Lowlandians along with any who collaborated with them. In return, Saint Nay, in a tender voice, had promised him the right to marry the henchman's wife and claim the barony of Korimor as his prize.

But fate had decided otherwise. Now he was pinned in a pitiful state, unable even to draw a shallow breath. All he could do was watch as the sea of men desperately clung to life. There were no more chants, only screams for help, agonizing groans, and gasping breaths.

Even in his final moments, he never realized they had fallen victim to the Black Lord’s trap.

Suddenly, from behind, the coup de grâce arrived.

The pounding of heavy hooves and the neighing of warhorses marked the return of the Lord’s heavy and light cavalry to the base of the narrow path. They had slipped away after the first skirmish and remained hidden, just as instructed. The waving of the rioter's banner atop the camp was both a ruse and the signal for them to rejoin the fight.

Fresh from rest and with scouts already deployed, the fifty-seven cavalrymen advanced in a tight wedge formation, confident and unhurried.

With fright in their hearts and no understanding of how it could happen when they had already won, a great panic swept through all the columns. Like buffalo being pricked by sharp barbs, the rioters at the rear panicked the most and, ironically, pushed uphill harder in a frantic attempt to save themselves, escalating the crowd crush even further. In the span of a few breaths, hundreds lost their lives in the chaos.

The situation turned hopeless. Their courage broke, and men began to leap into the moats in desperation. Even the better-trained and more experienced private army could do nothing. As the cavalry approached from behind, many more suffocated in the crush.

They feared the cavalry charge.

But the cavalry didn’t attack. They didn’t need to. Like the crossbowmen stationed atop the palisade, who no longer bothered to unleash their bolts, the cavalry understood not to interfere when the enemy was already making a mistake. There was little reason to risk themselves or exhaust their horses by attacking uphill.

Their role now was simply to ensure a more favorable result.

Without fanfare, Lord Lansius appeared beneath the camp’s gate, flanked by his trusted command staff. He surveyed the carnage, then turned to Dame Daniella at his side. His order was brief. “Two Green Miasma to their rear.”

“Two Green Miasma to their rear,” she repeated, then personally ascended the stairs to the palisade to instruct two slingers to launch the attack.

Moments later, two bottles arced through the air and crashed into the enemy's rear ranks, releasing a sickly green cloud.

Gasps and screams followed immediately.

It was not cruelty, but mercy. The other option was to use fire bottles, burning with a force somewhere between molotovs and napalm.

Those two green miasma were worth their weight in gold. The effect was immediate. Where there had once been a slow, painful crowd crush, now, with the dreadful green miasma burning their nostrils and lungs, the collapse came almost instantly.

"Sound the buccina," the Lord commanded.

The signaler obeyed, blowing into the bronze mouthpiece of the buccina.

Upon hearing the signal, House Lansius' men reformed their column with ruthless efficiency and began their assault downhill. At the top, their crossbowmen resumed firing, targeting clumps of survivors. As grim as it was, they couldn’t afford to let these men regroup. There were still several thousand more enemies left to fight.

As they launched their counterassault, the fate of the three large columns and the smaller ones alongside them was sealed. A stampede broke out, where weakened and exhausted men were trampled by their own comrades, all for the chance to take a desperate leap into the deep moats, already filled with broken bodies.

In this manner, a force of over four thousand was annihilated.

Hundreds crawled out of the moats, shaken, broken, and barely clinging to life. They fled in a daze, their minds shattered.

Their proud leader was dead, and Saint Nay’s golden specter of power lay smeared in the trampled mud and blood.

***

Lansius

The battle on the hill path was over, leaving a heavy air and a stench that not even the chill night wind could erase. Shrieks of pain, low groans, and sobbing cries still emanated from the path and the moats. Even now, many still climbed the moats, slick with mud and blood.

Lansius had ordered his crossbowmen to stop their attack. Whoever made it through would never think of war the same way again. They had seen the horror and would carry it for the rest of their lives.

He too, would carry it. Lansius stood, wrapped in a weathered, fur-lined cloak over his armor, gazing over the aftermath of battle. He had seen so many that he no longer bothered to keep count. Even shrouded in darkness, the sound and stench still weighed heavily on him. He knew that no matter the reasoning, it was his plan that had killed them. The only difference was, he was a much stronger person. His responsibility, and the hope his followers placed in him, made him so.

Not even the dead of several thousands reached him as deeply as they once had.

His crossbowmen were out with daggers and axes, collecting bolts from the ground and from the dead. They would need to recover as much as they could. Bolts with sharpened steel tips and fletching were expensive. Even broken ones were gathered to salvage the materials.

Not even an hour had passed since the battle began, yet Lansius sensed a change in how his men looked at him. Even those who had followed him since Korelia now watched him with a different weight. The awe in their eyes had turned sharp, edged with renewed fascination and even a quiet fear.

He was the man who had delivered a battlefield miracle, defeating four thousand with only a few hundred and suffering almost no losses.

The strategy was unlike anything they had seen. Not even seasoned soldiers or veteran officers could find it in their training or memory. More astonishing was that it hadn’t even been part of the original plan. Lansius had decided on it only after seeing how easily the enemy could be baited. They were overconfident, undisciplined, desperate for a quick victory, and blind to the terrain’s danger.

He had used all of it. Their arrogance, their numbers, their greed. He guided them to destroy themselves in a deadly crowd crush.

Even Lansius had not expected them to be so reckless. But they were, and they paid the price for using poorly trained mobs in large formations.

Military movements are not for amateurs.

"My Lord, what shall we do with the wounded?" the rear guard commander asked. His voice held nothing but respect. His armor was caked with the blood of his victims.

"Don’t dwell on them. These men are not rioting for any honest cause. They are rebels in disguise," Lansius answered, controlled.

"These men... they are oath-breakers," one officer muttered, and the rest murmured in agreement.

From the direction of the hill path, the camp commander who had led the cavalry rode in, accompanied by six riders. Before the gate, he dismounted and delivered his report. "My Lord, the riders have secured the path down. Sterling is currently leading the light cavalry to secure the route to the arena."

"Great work," Lansius replied, already turning his thoughts to the next step.

Yet his staff had another thought.

"My Lord, you should return to the castle," Dame Daniella urged, her eyes as soft as her voice. All knew the Lady Baroness was in labor.

"She's right. You should go, My Lord. We’ll manage the rest," the camp commander agreed, his voice firm but warm. "With this major hurdle behind us, it’ll be much easier."

"We shall accompany you to the castle, My Lord," the rear guard commander stated proudly.

Lansius looked at his officers one by one, then turned his gaze to the men. They all wanted him to go. And indeed, he had already shared the details with his most trusted. There was no single, fixed plan. Everything depended on how the enemy responded and how strong their resistance would be. He had even prepared for the possibility of a fighting retreat, if it came to that.

Watching him hesitate, his men spoke up to encourage him. "Go on, My Lord. Take care of the Lady for us."

"Leave some of the glory for us. You should be carrying your firstborn," another called.

"Go before the Lady gets mad."

The last remark drew raucous laughter. Even with the carnage still in plain view, the men laughed in earnest. They had seen enough battles to know there was no better moment than now, for death could come without warning.

"No, it's still too risky," Lansius answered. "If I go now, she'll probably send me back to finish the job."

Laughter broke out again at the unexpected reply. Some men leaned into their friends, tears in their eyes, and their stomachs aching. Even Dame Daniella laughed softly, and the officers around her couldn’t help but glance her way. She was a sweetheart, noble-born, high in the hierarchy, and, more importantly, still single.

Meanwhile, the camp commander gave a relaxed, fatherly smile as he stood a little apart, content to watch their reaction. The laughter lifted their spirits and drew their minds away from the grim aftermath.

Lansius motioned for his horse, and they brought it to him. It wasn’t his destrier, but his Lowlandian rouncey, the horse he used for daily riding. She wasn’t bred for heavy charges, but she was calm, tireless, and steady. That would have to be enough.

Without needing orders, everyone began preparing to march.

Lansius mounted, looked over his men, and commanded, "Those who aren't injured, with me. Those who are injured or exhausted, stay and defend the camp."

He turned to the camp commander and said, "We'll march as planned to the arena."

"Yes, My Lord." The commander then faced the rest of the troops and barked, "Men, march out! We have a battle to win. And if you know what's good for you, we'll win this quickly."

"We'll win this quickly!" one answered.

"For the Lady!" the rest reacted in unison.

"Sound the trumpets," the camp commander said.

The trumpet blasts rang out into the night. Torches and lanterns were lit as Lansius’ troops marched down the bloodied hill path. There were horsemen, men-at-arms, crossbowmen, and volunteers armed with spears or crossbows. In the center, several horse-drawn carts moved.

With Lansius at the front and cavalry flanking both sides, they advanced toward the arena at a pace that would not tire them.

They had destroyed a force of four thousand with minimal losses, but the battle was far from over.

With over thirty thousand rioters, and a third likely rebels in disguise, they could still face another six to seven thousand within or outside the arena. Worse, a hidden force might yet appear and ruin their only chance at victory.

Now, his force stood exposed, with no terrain to aid them. Even a committed thousand could tear through his ranks and shatter their chance at victory. There was no magic to summon more men, and not even the finest troops could hold against superior numbers forever.

***

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