Durst had not been privy to the plans—that was a matter left to the intercessor, the hierarch, and the great prince—
but it seemed clear the signal was intended for them. Kreoss adjusted his posture on his steed but awaited the word of the hierarch, who was unmoving. At last, the agitated great prince raised his spear high above his head and made a circling motion as he spurred his mount to rejoin his soldiers. He turned to charge down the hill at the enemy. The Umbreans followed close behind, cavalry at the fore. Still the Northern Crusade held back.
Watching the charge of the Umbreans, Durst felt torn, for they seemed far too few to matter against the great Cryxian horde.
Already the Cygnaran vanguard was encircled, their forward momentum halted as they engaged the enemy. The Umbreans would experience the same fate.
Hierarch Severius must have a plan, but every instinct in Durst’s being insisted they should attack. Squinting toward the battlefield below, he saw the talon-like outer spires connected to the central necrofactorium light with green balefire. Flames licked out and obliterated the nearest living soldiers. He could see ghostly tormented phantoms as the souls of the fallen left their bodies to be swept up by the spires. He felt his stomach churn—those who fell on that field might lose their immortal souls. They would not pass to Urcaen.
“By the Creator, this is not just,” he said. The words of Grand Paladin Bouridor echoed in his mind, and he considered the paladin code. Yes, those soldiers were unbelievers, but they all shared a united cause; it was Cryx that was the foe here. He could not stand by and do nothing. He was in motion before he had consciously decided to act.
“With me! Advance!” he shouted, sending his Indictors running at full tilt down the hillside. Soon the Flameguard and exemplars were rushing alongside him.
So few of us, he thought, but he was willing to die doing His eye was drawn to sudden activity amid the armies
below. Smoke and distance partially obscured his view, but he could discern the advance of heavy Khadoran warjacks on the far side of the valley. Closer to them a contingent of storm knights in Cygnaran blue was also on the move, together with numerous warjacks lit by galvanic coils.
These forces pushed inward against the necrofactorium, summoning bright flashes of lightning as the clouds surged overhead in response to the call for storm.
Durst lifted Recompense and shouted, “Stand ready to advance! March on my order!” His voice rang, and his orders were repeated by his immediate subordinates Seneschal Horrus, who led his knights, and Preceptor Manter, in charge of his Flameguard. He mentally directed his light warjacks in support of the phalanxes, each machine ready to interpose itself and accept harm intended for the men. The engines of his Indictors rumbled in readiness. Their postures reflected Durst’s own eagerness to engage.
His men were similarly poised, weapons readied, and he knew that the heart of every soldier pounded with the anticipation of battle. He muttered a quick prayer. Feeling taut as a bowstring he turned to watch Intercessor Kreoss atop his steed, his lance in resting position. The intercessor was not far from Hierarch Severius. The warjacks accompanying them stood before thousands of Sul-Menite soldiers. Vladimir Tzepesci also rode with them, apart from the rest of his Umbreans, who were fanned out on the hillside beyond the opening into the valley.
The three leaders surveyed the scene before them, and every soldier awaited their commands.
Tzepesci’s steed stomped impatiently, and the great prince’s posture was agitated as he pointed sharply down to the valley.
Hierarch Severius stood still as a statue. Looking back to the valley, Durst saw that the Cygnaran force had driven deep into the Cryxians but was unsupported by the rest of the army. Most of their soldiers advanced only far enough to fire at extreme rifle range. Several Defenders had been similarly positioned.
“What are they doing?” Norvor asked.
The warcaster frowned and shook his head, not understanding the strategy. This was not the full engagement he had expected.
It was as though Cygnar and Khador had each decided to send a single isolated and inadequate force against the greater foe.
The Cryxians were reacting like ants whose nest had been
FLAMES LICKED OUT AND OBLITERATED THE NEAREST LIVING SOLDIERS.
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART TWO
Intercessor Kreoss gripped his reins but maintained his composure as he saw the signal flare, then watched the Umbreans follow Vladimir in his charge on the right. Not long thereafter Anson Durst’s small force rushed down from the hill to his left, acting on the paladin’s own initiative. They had considerable ground to cross before they would catch up with the embattled Cygnarans, but then the foe would consume them. He looked to Hierarch Severius, who was staring straight ahead through his scrutator mask. Kreoss moved his horse closer to the leader of the Protectorate so he could speak without his voice carrying.
“Hierarch, that was the agreed-upon signal. Should I give the order to engage?” He was aware of his own impertinence.
Whatever the symbolic nature of his new rank, so long as Severius was here, the crusade was his. It was Kreoss’ duty to obey.
The hierarch seemed unconcerned but after a pause answered calmly, “We will not needlessly sacrifice the lives of the faithful to rescue a few godless Cygnarans from their own folly.”
“I understand, Your Holiness,” Kreoss replied. He was considering the earnestness of Paladin Durst and the credit the man was to the faith. He knew how little Severius cared for the Order of the Wall. “Yet we consented to travel here, to fight this foe.”
“And so we shall.” A hint of annoyance crept into Severius’
voice. “On terms of my choosing, not that of a Khadoran great prince, much less their arrogant supreme kommandant. We are not figures on his game board. He withholds his army, hoping the faithful will suffer in their stead. I think not.”
“By your will,” Kreoss said. He watched as Durst and his small group of men crashed into the Cryxians and were swallowed by the dark mass of bane thralls. Above the shadowy forms he saw Protectorate warjacks battling on. Golden runes of invoked holy power seemed pale and insubstantial against the brighter green of the surrounding balefire. After a moment he said, “I fear for Paladin Durst. I will reprimand him for his impulsiveness, if he lives. It would be unfortunate to lose a man of his prowess so soon after joining our crusade.” It was as far as he could go, to remind the hierarch it was a warcaster
they watched go to his death. They did not have so many they could throw one away.
They both watched in silence as the battle intensified. The Umbreans managed to break through the Cryxians to reach Durst’s force, but the Cygnaran storm contingent was suffering heavy casualties. The necrofactorium’s spires pulsed in response to each death like an erratic heartbeat.
After a protracted pause, Hierarch Severius inclined his head, giving Kreoss his leave to act.
The intercessor immediately raised his lance to signal his knights and spurred his horse forward. His warjacks were already in motion and the entire crusade followed his lead.
They charged toward the shadows surrounding the Rock of the Faith.
Lord General Stryker cursed as their advance stalled in a quagmire of muddy ground and Cryxian resistance. Balefire seared through his army, dropping knights one after another.
They retaliated with blade, lance, and lightning, but every thrall or drudge they took down was replaced by two more.
He felt a surge of dread at the sound of a Khadoran hunting horn rising above the clamor of combat from the south. That was their signal to hit their objective with all the voltaic energy they could muster, but they were still too far away.
“Where are the Menites?” he asked under his breath as he spurred his horse forward, aiming uicksilver to fire another electrical burst into the approaching foes.
He knew the answer. They had arrived, but they stood atop the northern hills to watch as their old enemies were cut down.
Had their agreement with the Khadorans been made solely so they could exploit these circumstances? With the threat of Cryx so clear, such a decision seemed impossible, even for a man with fire instead of blood in his veins like Severius.
Stryker’s goal was visible ahead—a centrally positioned spire amid the outer defenses Irusk had indicated they should smite with lightning.
Bloat thralls had come forth from the bowels of the central necrofactorium to fire corrosive blasts into the front lines, while smaller bile thralls surged forward heedless of survival.
Most were annihilated in flashes of lightning, but some few
Swift-moving soulhunters raced to engage his cavalry while banes emerged from the shadowy darkness to assail his knights as they advanced on foot. Stryker frantically directed his warjacks into position to allow them to endure the brunt of the assault, trying to maintain some forward momentum.
His Centurions were helping hold the front, and those knights nearest his Stormclads were weathering the Cryxian counterassault better than the rest.
Flying bonejacks picked at the edges of his force, both Scavengers and Shrikes, the latter sweeping through exposed groups of men with bladed wings, leaving a trail of dead and maimed soldiers behind. He would have given half his force to have Haley at his side, up and healthy again. But that was not to be. In addition Sloan was still missing in action, as was Brisbane, and Kraye was not back to full strength after his recent injuries. The war had taken a bitter toll. Nemo and Darius were directing forces behind him, ready to advance when he succeeded. Perhaps he should not have kept so much in reserve.
At last there was movement from the northern hills, among the gold and white of Sul-Menites. He had to restrain an instinctive and almost visceral reaction to the sight of those colors on his flank. He narrowed his eyes when he saw it was only a small force led by a broad-shouldered warcaster whose shield bore the mark of the Order of the Wall. This group threw itself against the Cryxians surrounding the Cygnarans. Stryker shouted encouragement to his officers and adjusted their tactics to take advantage of this new support. Faster than he would have expected, the Menites broke through the Cryxians and closed on their goal.
“Now! Strike!” he yelled. A torrent of voltaic energy exploded across the intervening space to crash repeatedly against the conduit spire, twisting metal and shattering stone. The onslaught was less than Stryker had planned; two of the Storm Striders had been neutralized and the ranks of the stormcallers were thinned. Still, the spire crumbled and fell.
For a moment they felt renewed hope as the green glow of the Cryxian defenses dimmed, but after a few seconds the spires surged back to full strength, unleashing renewed torrents of necromantic energy and siphoning the souls of the slain.
Either the attack had been too small or they had delivered it too late, their efforts not following close enough to those of the Khadorans. Stryker felt growing rage at the thought of spending so many lives to reach this point only to fail. He
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART TWO
The paladin of the Order of the Wall had fought through to reach them, his own force torn up and tattered, several of his warjacks destroyed. Across the field of battle the two warcasters exchanged a look and Stryker inclined his head.
There, at least, stood one worthy Menite.
In the other direction the Umbreans had helped close up their flank, which might allow them to retreat. “Recover what fallen you can!” Stryker ordered.
It was too little, too late. They had achieved their objective—
but to no effect. With the necrofactorium at full strength and feasting on fresh souls, he wondered if they should call a general retreat. The confluence of circumstances that had brought three armies to the field today might never happen again. He gritted his teeth and looked for Nemo’s lightning-limned form. They had a hard decision to make.
The warjack to which Kommander Karchev’s body was crudely affixed was a poor substitute for the battle frame he was used to. He allowed himself a rare moment of reflection as he stretched his borrowed limbs for the first time since his capture at Point Bourne by the foul wraith witch Deneghra.
The mere thought of the Cryxian’s name flooded his mind with rage. He would see her undead flesh broken and crushed beneath his iron fist. She should have killed him when she had the chance.
“Karchev?” Strakhov’s voice sounded distant to his ears, but his fellow warcaster’s disregard for military etiquette by omitting his rank pulled him from his thoughts.
“Yes, Kommander?” Karchev said.
“Are you experiencing any issues with your systems?”
Strakhov asked.
The one named Alexi had jury-rigged his life support systems to the warjack’s boiler, creating a hodge-podge of tubing, conduits, and cables. Though the mechanik had managed to make the systems work, Karchev could acutely feel that they were operating at well below optimal levels. He was pragmatic enough to know the small miracle the crippled mechanik had achieved given the circumstances, though. He said, “Nothing I cannot endure.”
“Are you sure?” Strakhov nodded his head toward the warjack’s left arm that cradled Karchev’s life-sustaining shell against its torso.
Growling with effort, he craned his head to follow the kommander’s gaze and saw that the warjack’s hand and torso were scorched black where they held him, burned by arcane spillover from his anger.
“I am Khadoran,” Karchev said. He leveled a stare at Strakhov until the other warcaster turned and continued on.
When his two companions were no longer looking, Karchev silently reprimanded himself for his lack of self-control. His power had been kept suppressed by the Cryxians for so long he was finding it difficult to maintain restraint. It did not help that the cortex Strakhov had managed to salvage required constant guidance. The sensation of controlling the damaged warjack to govern his movements was entirely different from how he had controlled his own chassis frame. The process required some acclimation, and his mind was fogged. He felt like a man who had been bedridden for years being forced to run on withered legs.
The muted sounds of battle overhead kept up an unsteady rhythm as they moved through the Cryxian base, becoming louder as the group moved toward the surface. More than a century of military experience allowed Karchev to see the battle in his mind. It was clear the allied forces were making a push.
The thought of his comrades leading the charge without him ignited renewed frustration in his core. He had been helpless as he listened to the last battle, vicariously experiencing the defeat of those who had fought and bled to reach him. His lifelong desire to crush the enemies of the Motherland was intensified by a burning desire for revenge.
By the way Strakhov tilted his head, it was clear he, too, was mentally playing out the battle above. ust as they entered a relatively large chamber dominated by strange machinery, a loud explosion shook the complex. Karchev watched with interest as the great churning and interlocking gears taking up most of the cavernous chamber ground to a halt. The green lights illuminating the chamber then flickered and died, leaving them in utter darkness.
“What’s happened?” Alexi whispered.
“It would appear Irusk has made his play,” Strakhov responded.
After several seconds they felt a vibration through the floor.
The lights restored themselves, and a tortured screech of machinery filled the chamber as the oversized gears and pistons began to churn again.
“Whatever his plan, it has failed,” Strakhov said. He turned to Karchev. “We must move quickly, Kommander. Our escape window narrows.”
Karchev ignored him, instead focusing on the huge machinery.
“No,” he said at last. “We must assist our comrades.”
“How?” Strakhov asked incredulously.
“We hurt the enemy however we can.” Karchev locked his steely gaze with Strakhov’s. “Get clear of this place. I will catch up with you if I am able.”
“Kommander, you can’t possibly hope to do any significant damage here . . . .” Strakhov’s words died in his throat.
Already the air about Karchev radiated with extreme heat.
Concentric rings of runes blazed and crackled with building energy, expanding from the older warcaster.
“Go. Now!” Karchev said through gritted teeth.
He commanded the warjack to take him closer to the heart of the Cryxian machinery without bothering to see if Strakhov followed his orders. Instead he focused on the anger building within him. Piece by piece he let go of mental barriers and restraints he had put in place over the years. Memories flooded him. The anguish of defeat at the Battle of the Tongue in the First Thornwood War—the rage he felt when the High Kommand had judged him unfit for duty—the torment he had endured at the hands of the wraith witch. Power white-hot and burning consumed him, taking away every memory, every conscious thought of regret, pain, or failure. Only rage remained.
Unlike at the Dragon’s Tongue all those decades ago, he did not let the power utterly consume him. Instead he focused it, compressed it, enslaved it to his will. The pain of trying to control it was like nothing he had ever felt before. Karchev felt as if his entire body were being burned to ash. His skin blistered and peeled as the power within him reached a critical point. He poured every last scrap of what it was to be Alexander Karchev into the impending detonation.
The effort of concentrating so much energy into an impossibly small space was like trying to squeeze a stone into dust by will alone.
Karchev released a great howl as the energy reached critical mass and then catalyzed, violently expanding outward in the blink of an eye. With a shriek of tortured and shredded metal, the Cryxian machinery ripped apart
Karchev released a great howl as the energy reached critical mass and then catalyzed, violently expanding outward in the blink of an eye. With a shriek of tortured and shredded metal, the Cryxian machinery ripped apart