On the front opposite the barbarians, the battle was pitched to the point of hopelessness. The army of Relizeans outnumbered their foes, true enough… but the garrison in Castle Cookpot had one advantage over them: spellcasters. They were not of grandiose rank or stature, but they had many. That, alone, was enough.
The crossbowmen, numbering near four thousand, were largely invalidated by the presence of mages. Wind elemental magic, wards… their bolts were deflected or neutralized with ease, and the marksmen had no such defense to the retaliation that came. They had slaughtered the bandits and minor lords upon their march here, yet now true resistance came harder than they could handle.
This was in large part due to the constant skirmishes from the Unhanded Coalition. Though small in number, they were fierce, quick to move, and nigh impossible to punish. They used the hills and nearby forests to their advantage. They set fires, traps, and all manner of deterrents.
What few spellcasters were in the Relizean army were heavily pressed to defend, and from their results, they were found wanting. The lightly-armored infantrymen, though well-trained and capable of holding their own, could not achieve a decisive victory over the army as they had in the past. And without decisive victory, thousands could die—deaths Argrave’s faction could not afford to take. Even if victory came, their grip over Atrus would be weak, and the other forces in the war would decide the terms, not them.
Elenore knew all of this to be true before the battle began. She could not see the field of battle, but her knowledge of the opposing force was deep. In her time as the Bat, she came to believe a good business mind knows what it can and cannot handle, and tackles what it can do while avoiding what it cannot. She believed long-term success relied not so much on relentless opportunism as it did avoiding folly. And engaging with these foes? It was folly.
Argrave wished for her to stall for time, awaiting the arrival of the spellcasters he’d brought from the far north. But whether they fought the foes or ran from them, time flowed the same.
So Elenore ordered again and again simply this: fall back. Abandon the tents, the supplies, the encampment. Abandon the soil they had laid claim to, abandon the siege. It was an order not many commanders would be willing to give. But Elenore did not consider herself a commander.
This plan of hers… it was a simple one, but Elenore was not certain she would have been able to make it a few months ago. After all, it relied too much on someone else. It placed her future in the hands of another, trusting Argrave and his coterie would handle things and come to help. Yet strangely… she was never once nervous.
Elenore noticed the situation changed not from seeing what was coming, but from perceiving the change in the men around her. They told her what they saw: a writhing star of electricity took shape in the sky like a great beacon for the weary retreaters. She could not witness it, but she felt the hopelessness and despair from the forced march veritably melt away as people recognized what came to their aid. The rumors of their king and his legion of ghostly snakes were reborn anew, recited to explain what they saw. She heard the morale rising from the depths as men called out in relief… and knew, then, that their king marched to defend.
Elenore saw nothing, but she remembered well her brother’s figure. Argrave’s steps were not certain, nor confident, nor indefatigable. Indeed, he had a rather unremarkable air. But he always took those steps, moving from place to place to fulfill pledges he had made. And to his army, taking the steps was all that mattered in that moment.
A vision took form in Elenore’s mind to substitute her lack of sight. It was as though a great giant had come to the head of their army, wielding a torch to ward away the monsters biting from the dark. Argrave’s legion of ghostly snakes—electric eels, Elenore knew—was his torch. Try as they might to advance, none of the beasts wished to throw themselves upon the sword.
Elenore knew, then, the fortunes of war had reversed. And she was certain it was just the beginning.
#####
Durran stood with his hand held to a railing, staring out into the darkness of the night. He was atop one of two towers far before Castle Cookpot. These places had tunnels heading all the way through the mountain—impregnable from the front, but wide open in the back. Durran had forced his way through the tunnels, seeking to force out the residents of the tower. Six royal guards came with him. The other six went with Melanie, seizing the other tower. The resistance was startlingly frail, and Durran realized only once they occupied this place that it was because the defenders had sallied out.
“You’re seeing this?” Durran turned his head. “That’s your king’s work, you know.”
The royal guards stood one and all, watching the battlefield transfixed. Ruleo, captive and bound, desperately craned to see without success. King Argrave, together with Anneliese, slowed the advance of an army of thousands. But Durran was far more interested in another spectacle beginning opposite the king. There, distant spell light flickered through the dark night, barely perceptible beyond the veil of an illusion. He furrowed his brows.
It seemed a force of a few hundred came. Were they friend, or foe?
#####
“For Quadreign!” Vasilisa shouted.
Her war cry was the signal to a devastating onslaught. Magic burst from the fingers of eager hunters, tearing through the unsuspecting enemy force with a terrifying boom that heralded their allegiance. Fire, frost, lightning, wind, water, blood… it fell upon their foes in droves, as though all the resentment in their night march poured forth as a wave of mystical destruction.
The sudden arrival of rampant devastation from the rear sent panic through ally and enemy alike. The earth shattered, the wind howled, and the trodden grass became alight with fire and sparks. No matter the method, the outcome was the same: unrelenting defeat for Argrave’s enemies.
In the span of minutes, what had been a pursuit of fleeing foes turned into a desperate defense. The spellcasters grappling with Argrave’s legion of ghostly snakes attempted to head to the back to offer resistance, but in quantity and quality both, they were overwhelmed at once. Commanders on the enemy’s side blew horns calling for retreat. As though attempting to drown it out, a far greater noise split the air—though horns all the same, they came from Argrave’s army. And they signaled a unanimous charge.
Their enemies were hounded on one side by magic users bringing the cold resentment of the north. Concurrently When the Relizeans were given leave to charge, they drove into their opposition with bloody vengeance in mind. And trapped between these two… the outcome for the Unhanded Coalition and Castle Cookpot’s garrison was inevitable.
Complete defeat.
The last bastion of resistance in Atrus, its every advantage torn away, shattered. They had overextended far beyond their fortress. Retreat was no longer an option at their disposal. The force of soldiers and spellcasters came together like a hammer upon an anvil, crushing what lay between without mercy.
When that deed was done, they rallied, merging into a cohesive if disorganized force and advancing forward to Castle Cookpot. The two towers—once formidable bastions for archers to fire upon them—already bore the sun-and-snake heraldry of Argrave’s house, and the gates to the towers rose to receive them.
Their force soon reached the main castle. Argrave prepared to deliver the command to attack… and yet before the words could leave his lips, the gate rose. The flags atop the parapets sunk, lowered. In their place was a clean white flag, showing total surrender.
And so… their force advanced. It was a cautious push at first, but as they saw their foes laying down their weapons, the men cheered and celebrated. These remaining few that had the sense to yield were taken prisoner, hauled off to their own dungeons in a matter of minutes.
“People!” Argrave shouted, his voice loud and booming. He had come to stand atop the battlements, overlooking the great many of his soldiers in the castle’s courtyard. Everyone paid attention to him, and cheered when they saw who it was. Some—the spellcasters in Quadreign—recognized the man, though were puzzled by his reception. Soon, the images of Silvaden and King Argrave overlapped.
A commander handed Argrave his horn, and he blew it. A silence set over the crowd, waiting for his words.
“All of you… I am proud to have fought beside you in battle,” the king declared. “This was our greatest test yet, but you have endured many more before this. We fight to secure a future far better than that which we experience now. I will live or die amongst you all to fulfill my pledge to lay down the prosperity we deserve!”
The cheers were so deafening that even the king took a cautious step back from atop the battlements.
“For now, celebrate!” his voice rose again. “Let us enjoy well the fine foods stocked in this castle!”
Their voices came again, louder yet. Their fervor had never been higher than in that moment. The men had been doubtful of their king while marching through the taiga. The easy spoils had contented them, but there was a fire in their hearts that died by the day during this stalemate. Yet then, on the hour of their need, the king himself took the field, moving from front to front in avid defense of his people. And so that flame of loyalty burnt the brightest yet.
#####
“You certainly know how to create a spectacle,” Elenore spoke to Argrave, standing at the doorway. She stepped within and shut the door.
They stood in a spacious room—the previous commander’s quarters. Anneliese picked up a candlestick that had been tossed to the ground, where two uneaten yet decadent meals sat cold on a table nearby.
“Just seized the moment,” Argrave dismissed, pacing about the room and examining things. “And there’s more of that to do. I had planned on being diplomatic with the barbarians… but now, I think we have an excuse to be more forceful. If we march into Vysenn with righteous anger, they’ll have to abate our wrath. Doubtless rumors of that tribe’s demise will spread rapidly. I was upset at letting some escape, but now I think it’ll come in handy.”
“On that point… rumors already are spreading everywhere,” Elenore continued. “Of you. The king who headed to the far north, disguised. The king who brought all of Quadreign under his heel. The king who arrived like a guardian angel at the last possible moment.” She pointed at Anneliese. “They speak of her, too. The Stormdancer, hunting hundreds through the basalt storm like a demon. Defending her king from assault as he held back thousands of troops.” She shook her head. “It’s sickeningly positive. You have a cult on your hands, I’m afraid.”
“They should be singing your praises,” Argrave dismissed, uncomfortable with this whole debacle. He pulled off his silver bracer that drew his blood and set it on a dresser. “You did all the hard work. I really just swung by and stole your glory.”
“True,” Elenore nodded without argument.
Argrave laughed. “Ah… I missed you, I hope you know.”
Elenore fidgeted in hesitation, then decisively stepped forward and hugged him. “Well, you can stop doing that now.”
Argrave said nothing, holding her for a moment. Then, she pulled away.
“I regret that,” she admitted. “You should wash.”
“Thank you. Very touching reunion,” he said wryly, unable to muster indignation.
“Rest, now. I am going to go find Durran, get caught up on the last of things. On top of that, we have to prepare to consolidate the rest of Atrus. Given your display here, I believe the whole of them will be willing and able to surrender in an orderly fashion.” Her eyeless sockets rested upon him. “You look liable to faint from exhaustion, so I will leave you be. For now.”
Argrave rubbed at his face. “Long day.” As he spoke, Anneliese walked up to him, resting her head upon his chest tiredly. Whether it was to seek or offer comfort, he didn’t know or care—he embraced her all the same, glad to put the battle behind him. They had much to talk about, but sleep awaited them both.
“Then, rest well,” Elenore dipped her head, perhaps seeing their embrace as her cue to leave.
As Elenore turned to walk away, Argrave called out, “Elenore.” She turned around, waiting for his next words. “I want you to come with me to Vysenn, tomorrow. Durran, too. And when we leave… you’ll be able to see across the verdant hills with your own two eyes and feel the grass beneath your own two feet. I promise you that.”
Elenore inhaled deeply. “I… see.”
“So you should rest well, too,” he told her, staring at her squarely.
The princess stood there for a few moments, doing nothing. With a nod, she swallowed and stepped out of the room somewhat clumsily.
