Why does every battlefield I enter turn into a massacre? Nathaniel wondered bitterly when he gazed at his surroundings. The tides of battle had changed with the appearance of his magic power. Well, if one could still call it his. The black magic did not heed any of his commands, regardless of its origin. The only upside was that it did not appear to be on the army's side either, as it just swooped in here and there to eat a few men from both sides. The soldiers were terrified. This was a foe they could not defeat with weapons. If the dark magic picked them, they could do nothing but be obediently eaten.
Still, Nathaniel had noticed that the black power didn't dare come too close to him, so he kept his own soldiers closer. If it was as greedy as usual, Blacky would've turned the battlefield into a swamp of death already. Yet it seemed changed somehow. One change was that it was wary, and Nathaniel could guess why: it was afraid to touch its former host, afraid to find out if Nathaniel could still make it submit. Or maybe, it just feared killing him accidentally.
Nathaniel knew better than to be happy about this discovery. This black behemoth might doubt its competence, but Nathaniel had seen how the small cloud of magic he'd summoned before its appearance - maybe this call was even the thing that woke Blacky up - was uncontrollably drawn in and merged with the bigger power. As small as it was compared to the other, Blacky might not even have noticed.
A scream drew Nathaniel's attention back to the foe before him. Though the enemy army was confused by the appearance of Blacky, their attacks had not creased. Captains hollered as they called their people to order and to squash Nathaniel's small company like insects. Usually, the discrepancy in manpower - almost one to a thousand - would not necessarily mean Nathaniel's defeat. However, that was with his power under his control. Right now, attempting something would only strengthen Blacky. That would be idiotic. But what else to do?
Parrying the blade that was aimed at his side, Nathaniel's heart raced, a feeling he knew from his younger years. For him, it was long ago that a battlefield was a place he could die at. Maybe he had been too reliant on his magic, despite his hatred for it. He had almost forgotten the thrill when his life was put on the line. He, and everyone in his company, knew there was no way back. And wasn't there a price for surviving this battlefield? 'Katherine. I hope you hold on, my dear. I'm on my way.'
"ONWARDS! AFTER ME!", he roared and let his horse rear up to trample the enemy before it while his sword shot through the visor of another. A grin as sharp and grim as his blade emerged below his burning red eyes. The god of slaughter had finally awoken and found a feast before its nose. Opposite to his company, the enemies had no horses. And if Blacky did not dare attack Nathaniel, why should he not drive right into its darkness?
His bloodied sword glinted with murderous intent as it rained down on his foes to forge a road of corpses and death. His soldiers, those brave souls, were right behind him. 'But let's see how many enemies will find the heart to follow us to hell.'
.
On the other end of the battlefield, Dellinger's men had occupied a mountain platform slightly above the one they destroyed before and let arrows rain on the few survivors of the explosion. Reaching there unnoticed had been a hassle, but it was worth it. Now, they were at the back of the army, in a higher position, and they had an abundance of archers of their own, who they'd banded with on their way here. On the downside, Dellinger had lost his post as the highest-ranking member of their group.
With a sigh, he glanced at the icelandic General who had unexpectedly caught up with them and offered assistance. If he did not bear a handwritten letter from Dellinger's master, he would have decapitated this old man. Not that he cared about the icelandic military entering Dragsa, but wasn't this the same General that had commanded an attack on Prince Nathaniel when he tried to cross the border? How could he change his mind so radically? One thing was for sure: Dellinger would keep a close eye on this man. His soldiers, bearing the typical aversion against Icelanders instilled by the Dragsean education system, were just as wary as him, even after a few days of traveling together. Dellinger and the General had to dissolve quite a few quarrels on their way.
It was a surprise that today when it was crucial, the soldiers suddenly worked together seamlessly. Or maybe not, as the General seemed to be everywhere at once, forcing the soldiers to fully focus on their jobs under his heavy gaze. Even Dellinger sometimes felt it, like there was steel resting on his neck. Wait - why did he not feel it anymore?
Irritated, Dellinger looked up from the fire he'd lit for the archers to ignite their arrows. There was the man he searched for, standing at the edge of the cliff with his hands clasped behind him. He seemed to be spacing out in the middle of battle.
Feeling a bit angry inside, Dellinger stood and walked over. The General gazed in the distance, where a strange black mass hovered over the battlefield. Unwittingly, a chill ran down Dellinger's spine. Yet, he was unwilling to be shaken by something so far away. When he turned to the General again, the deep sadness seeping from those brown eyes cooled his anger a bit. He cleared his throat. "Sir, your next orders?"
The General blinked before he turned to him. "We shoot and wait."
"Wait, Sir?" Dellinger's bout of sympathy was gone in a flash. "If we don't move soon, half the army will crawl up this hill and slice our necks! We don't have enough arrows for them all!"
The General nodded. "And I say we wait. We will hold this position."
"HOW?!" The word burst out of Dellinger's mouth louder than he intended, but the General's reaction was unexpectedly mild. He rested a hand on Dellinger's shoulder and his smile somehow seemed too old even for his wrinkly face.
"You will see, boy. There are more to come."
Dellinger's eyes widened, then narrowed. "I hope they come soon or else we will all be dead before."
With that, he turned around, took up a bow, and joined the ranks of archers. Their targets had now shifted. As there were no enemy archers left, they targeted the army below. One platoon of soldiers had already turned and slowly climbed up the mountain, searching for cover wherever they could. Because of their steel armor, these soldiers were harder to hit than the archers in their leather suits. Despite this, the mountain was already drenched in blood. Hell, it would be a mountain of corpses before this war ended. And Dellinger feared that his men would be part of it.