The arrival of Delath to the battlefield was no less upsetting to the armies of the Brotherhood of the Castigars than a fire in a theater, or perhaps a tapeworm on one’s digestive system. Like a great, armored mole the mighty earth dragon burrowed a channel at great speed, the ground above it rupturing earth and crust like a shark’s ten feet before striking the first catapult. Delath erupted from the ground in a great muddy eruption, a maelstrom of fangs and claws and horror splintering and obliterating the support ballast and lever arm of the great siege weapon, rendering it utterly useless. While men jumped back in exasperated horror, the spectacular dragon disappeared back into the earth no less rapidly.

“The FUCK is that thing!?” Storm was momentarily stunned before his memory recalled the great familiar of Philomel. Pulling on the sleeve of his chained armor nervously, the electromancer was frozen. He stared at the broken mound of earth for answers as his army continued to fire upon Radasanth, the steady rhythm of catapults, archers, cannoneers and trebuchets pumping wave after wave of terror down upon the walls and city alike. It was only moments before history repeated itself, and Delath completely erased a large trebuchet as a sharp knife can cut taut canvas.

He’s going to take ALL the siege weapons. Can we peel back?

Storm stood atop the great Attila aside Shinsou as he looked at the smoke-pouring city before him, and looked back at the desolation behind him. If they retreated, Radasanth would be summarily reinforced, and there was no replacing the siegecraft lost or men that would flee a failed siege. This was the only time to strike.

“We’ve got to hit those gates hard and heavy. If you’re still worn, peel back for now and get the second batallian to attack that fucking dragon. He has laid his plan; we need cover for the siege-craft. Let’s whack that mole hard the next time he pops up. “

Still fatigued, Shinsou nodded and sat upright his own steed. “Is that all, then? Just slay the magical disappearing dragon in the four seconds he pops up to eat our beautiful catapults? Anything else, m’Lord?”

The wizard smiled at his friend, understanding the absurdity of their situation. “Put my mead on ice; looks like I’m going to need a tall glass when this is said and done.” Riding off with a nod, Storm gestured to his lieutenants, who immediately rallied the throngs of soldiers into formation.

My Gods, they move well. You’d think they actually liked us if you didn’t know better.

The footmen, some cavalry, archers and cannoneers formed long ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder some thirty wide in a long row. Although focused and ready, they were far from fearless; many eyes popped back with each successive explosion of the dragon behind them eviscerating the battlefield, wiping another weapon from the world. To their left, nearly splitting them, the thin magician and General boomed his noble voice from atop his enormous horse.

“It’s alright men, I’m scared too. Soak in the fear. It quickens the pulse, and focuses the eyes. Let it sharpen you, make you lethal.”

“Death is coming for us all, and for some we meet him today. For some of our brothers, we bring the chance to free the greatest city in the world of tyranny. Breathe for just a moment, and relish in your legacies.”

Smiles and nods, men beginning to puff their chest and flare their nostrils.

“Today, you have a choice. You can fight hard and live forever, or lay it down, dying as sweat-stains in a history book. Pretty fucking easy choice, you think?”

At this, the front squadron of soldiers began hollering, clanging shield to sword in thumps and bangs. Fear had no place among the terrified.

“Shields up and cannons at the ready. Radasanth only thinks they’re ready for the Castigars; it’s time to bring hell to their fucking doorstep!”

At this, Storm and Attila charged ahead, the mighty black steed pumping hooves into the earth. The men broke from a walk into a charge as he pumped his sword forward, joined by Commander Brackett’s identical signal opposite him on the right flank of the great line of men.

As they entered a range of four hundred yards, the distant command of Radasanthian Army leadership echoed faintly, and a barrage of arrows littered the dark sky like little stars, flickering as they moved through the light paths of assaulting fireballs, moonlight, and the ominous red star growing before them all.

There’s so many. So goddamned many.

“Shields up!”

In a single motion, a ceiling of iron and wood emerged above the batallions, as shields were raised to stop the oncoming arrow fire. Metal-tipped barbs, Storm was able to easily wave off the two dozen arrowheads that had been positioned for him. The majority of arrows aimed at Seamus bounced off his horses armor, although one barb struck between his thigh and knee plates, forcing a furious roar from the old man.

Between them, the shield-covered men were not so lucky. The arrows largely found purchase upon shields, however the vast numbers were far too heavy. Errant shots snaked between gaps in the shield ceiling or upon the sides, dropping men as though they fell through thin ice. The roars of horror were drowned by the larger cry of charging men, and the falling soldiers left large gaps for more arrows, which quickly fell as the charging wave trampled the just dead.

Gods…

Knowing he could not protect his beloved mount, Storm reared Attila and hopped off, shooing the beast back to the tent-grounds as he effortlessly flipped away the second wave of arrows. Some men hesitated as Lord Veritas had stopped, and he pivoted his icy gaze towards them venomous. “Move! What I’ve got behind you is much worse than the men before you!!”

The wave of men hit the gates fast, thumping headlong into a steady wave of pike and sword wielding Radasanth guards. The defense buckled but did not yield, the screams of unidentified men lost in the madness of cannon fire, dragon assault, and battle cries.

“Cannons! The Wall! Hit the battlements!” The great Commander Brackett boomed from his horse, blood forming below the arrow he had snapped above the knee. For no less than two hundred yards from the gate in each direction, archers continued to pepper the wave of men, now bottlenecked at the gate and dying by the dozen with each progressive round. The old commander was shielded by the massive tower shield he held above himself, but was felled as a stray bolt struck above the hoof of his beast. Sad and furious, Seamus limped up on his weak leg, holding the tower shield high and listening to the ting-ting of countless thwarted attacks.

“Storm, we’re pinned! We need you!” Brackett backed into the wall of men, who moved to surround him as a human shield. Desperate eyes sought out to the wizard, irate with the terrible turn of events. A singular thought dominated him, one which his stoic visage refused to share with his men.

We’re completely fucked.

Eyes on the wall, he grew weary of waving away the ceaseless barrage of arrows heading his way. Without a word, he broke hard left, his hand raised to the wall as he moved in a full sprint, breaking across the perimeter of the battered defensive wall as archers shot wildly at him. In the center, blood was pooling a the feet of the soldiers as their own men died around them, and they struggled to move the dead to their own perimeter to serve as makeshift meat-shields for the helpless.

“He’s running away!” A Castigar troop uttered, despondent in his fate, stranded without hope at the gate as more and more men fell, and the front line surged forward into Radasanth so impossibly slowly.

“No, he’s going to hit them. Haven’t you heard about him before?” A grinning fool pointed towards the seemingly suicidal adventurer as Storm Veritas was sprinting towards the wall now, wider than the men had been positioned. There were still a few men where the lunatic was heading, however they couldn’t hear the shouts from their commanding officers. With a single pulse of electromagnetic energy upon his metallic gear, Storm Veritas was propelled high and gracefully at the wall some two hundred and fifty yards from the gate.

These men don’t need a gambler or a trickster; they need a god. I can’t be merely GOOD, I must be godlike.

Storm’s maniacal idea was what he configured as his only hope, a desperate and reckless idea to save his men from the trap he had charged them into. As he vaulted to the top of the wall, he was met with two men pulling their arrows towards the surprise invader. They almost made it, before a twin pair of electric blasts ripped through them with a loud CRACK-BANG that left his signature odor of ozone in its wake. They fell peacefully to the ground, innocent children laid to rest one final time. To his left, there were no men in sight, but to his right, a tremendous row of archers that had never expected his arrival.

There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. They were men no better or worse than his own. They were men with parents and brothers and sisters and wives and children. Storm was able to suppress his humanity as the first line of four or five had pivoted to fix their arrows upon him.

An arrow carved through his right shoulder as his eyes flashed white, the projectile cutting through his thin chain from this distance without much effort. The fury magnified the rage of the legendary wizard, who proceeded to unleash hell like never before. With a scream, he erupted an enormous, pulsing beam of white and blue lightning down the length of the passage upon the wall’s top, fragments of energy splintering off effortlessly in it’s hate-fueled wake.

Get down. Get down. Get down.

Completely exhausted, Storm saw only smoke before him, the thick fumed obfuscating him from the horror his incredible attack had unleashed. Had he killed ten men? A thousand? There was no time to examine the wreckage. If even one lived, they could claim him if he collapsed atop the wall. His eyes on smoking Radasanth, Storm witnessed a thatch-roofed building that had yet to catch fire. Before the smoke cleared, he tripped as he tried to jump to the roof, crashing through the thatch into the darkness of the building below.

What he had done would be remembered, but certainly not completely by his own accord.