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Ever wondered why anime kingdoms summon high schoolers instead of professional soldiers? Well, this one got smart. Google 'Arcane Exfil'
– –
December 22, 2024
Armstrong Base
"Were you able to ID the culprit?"
Henry frowned at Harding's question. It was the one gap they hadn't managed to fill. The scene of the crime practically gleamed, wiped clean by someone who knew exactly how to leave no trace. The absence of evidence was almost taunting, almost as if the spy knew how to counter forensics – or worse, operated in a way that rendered forensics irrelevant.
Either way, Armstrong had a lot of catching up to do. Modern tradecraft didn't necessarily apply to magical scrubbing, and after only a month in contact with the Sonarans, they had no local assets to tap into – no infrastructure, either. Tough luck for the poor case officer, starting from complete scratch with nothing to lean on.
"No, sir," Henry sighed. "We've narrowed the field, but concrete evidence is still lacking. That said, we have some theories worth exploring."
Harding didn't say anything at first. He hid it well, but Henry could see the impatience beneath the surface. "Let's hear them."
"Given the access to the wards, it's likely an insider; school faculty," Henry explained. The only issue was that despite this, pinpointing the insider was like trying to catch smoke. "Initially, we suspected Professor Valtor ad Stron. But… Kelmithus has some insights that cast doubt on that theory."
"Apparently – and this comes as no small surprise – the ad Stron lineage is bound quite closely to the royal family. It seems improbable that the Nobians could have reached so far, and, were that the case, made no use of the advantages such closeness would grant them. That he should act as their agent is… doubtful."
"Really?" Shock slipped past the General's tonal filter. Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his seat. "Well, okay then. How'd you figure that out?"
"The Duke shared it with us," Captain Sinclair answered. "Turns out, it's not something the ad Strons want out there. I've made a note of it, but our resources are currently a bit too busy to pry open that can of worms."
The ad Strons were likely royal muscle, handpicked to guard those closest to the crown. That explained Valtor's proximity but didn't resolve the nagging suspicion. There was something off about the man, something buried beneath the noble façade. Still, even he had to concede that chasing shadows wasn't worth their time right now. They had the essentials, and their resources were better spent dissecting the rune systems and figuring out what exactly was brewing in the forest.
"Moreover," Kelmithus added, "he has been charged by the Sanctum Arcanum to expose espionage. Were he a double agent, it would be quite the bold stroke to place him in such a role."
It was a fair point, Henry had to admit. Still, bold moves weren't exactly unheard of. Hell, Robert Hanssen had been the FBI's guy for catching Soviet spies, all while stuffing secrets for Moscow. If that wasn't a slap in the face to 'unlikely,' nothing was.
Captain Sinclair knew just as well as he did, but even she had few options. "Boldness doesn't disqualify him. But the logic does check out. Without any way of validating that, we'll have to move him lower on our list."
Harding leaned his head back, reflecting, longing – understandably so. "What I wouldn't give to have a proper spook network here. Feels like we're flying blinder than in North Korea."
It sounded about right. No one could stand being in the dark, and whatever their opinions of the spooks may be, the absence of solid intel always reminded them just how indispensable those operatives were. Henry understood that first-hand, especially given that tradecraft wasn't his specialty.
"We're still working to coordinate with the existing Sonaran network and their assets, sir. The new case officer, Mister Harold Dwyer, is currently prioritizing data collection on the Nobians. Identifying Nobian cells in Eldralore is lower on his tasking, but I can elevate it if you'd prefer."
Harding shook his head. "No, that's fine. Anyway, if Valtor's knocked down the list, then what are we looking at?"
It would've been easier if Valtor was pulling the strings. Now, all they had were suspects that didn't fit neatly into any box. "We've been considering Professor Elwes and the Dean as well. Kelmithus?"
"Elwes and I are well acquainted. She has for many years been engaged in Baranthurian study, and nary a thing has arisen to cast suspicion upon her. Her long tenure and the respect she commands do bear witness to her loyalty."
"She presents a complex case," Sinclair admitted. "Yeah, her long tenure and cooperation are definitely positive indicators, but they don't rule out the possibility of compromise. Maybe she hasn't outright stolen anything, but has she shared intel? We can't know for sure."
Considering Elwes as a possible suspect wasn't the most enjoyable idea, but Henry had to agree; she hadn't been validated just yet. "I remember when we talked to her about the intrusion, she mentioned Nobian obsession with artifacts and previous espionage. What do you make of that, Captain?"
Sinclair tilted her head. "It could be genuine transparency. Or maybe a calculated move to appear forthcoming. Honestly hard to tell. Without more data on her personal life, finances, or things like off-campus activities, it's premature to clear her entirely. But, just logicizing it out, she's lower on our list of suspects."
"By the time we're able to tell, it might be too late," Harding stated.
The General's bluntness hit hard, but it didn't seem to bother Sinclair. "True, but with their arena bombing foiled, it won't be long before they try something new. And that leaves us with the Dean, Lyrus ad Caldwin – the exact person who is in charge of the Academy's security. Ironically, we know more about Valtor than we do Lyrus."
Lyrus. Just the name was enough to bring that familiar irritation to a boil. But Henry knew better than to let that cloud his judgment – being a dick didn't make someone guilty. Still, dealing with him always felt like more trouble than it was worth.
Henry cleared his throat. "About Lyrus, I just remembered something. Kel, would you say that you're 'good friends' with the Dean?"
Kelmithus found it about as absurd as Henry did. "By no means! Our dealings are but professional, and most surely not friendly as with Elwes."
"Quite the discrepancy," Harding said. "What's your read, Donnager?"
"Sir, he's abrasive and dismissive; consistently so. He's just like any other stuck-up bureaucrat type, which makes it harder to read him."
Sinclair hummed. "Well, it's a solid observation, Captain. In my experience, people like Lyrus fall into two categories: people who are genuinely difficult – your 'bureaucrat types,' and those who cultivate that image. The tricky part is telling them apart. Genuine assholes tend to be consistent. Professional spies tend to be too consistent."
Henry shrugged. "With the campus locked down and us conveniently kicked out, I doubt we'll be able to figure that out anytime soon."
"We'll table the investigation for now," Harding decided. "Our immediate priority is preparing for the attack." He turned to Henry. "When is the tournament postponed until?"
"I believe it's January 4, sir."
Harding nodded. "Hmm… The forest will probably hit its logarithmic ceiling before then. Alright. Captain Donnager, you and your team will remain at base until it begins. Be ready to move at a moment's notice."
"Understood, sir."
"Sinclair, I'll leave it to you." Harding addressed the room, "You're dismissed."
– –
December 23, 2024
The downtime dug like an ill-fitting plate carrier: protective, yeah, but maddeningly annoying. Such was the reality of military life. Wanna relax? Sure! Do so while poised on the knife's edge of action.
Still, he'd be damned if he wasted this opportunity. Stringing up Christmas lights and a small tree in the corner was the least he could do to liven up the place after their extended vacation. And seeing Sera after weeks of separation? Definitely a pro, albeit one that played merry hell with his composure.
A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. Time to lock in.
He opened the door, and – well, shit. All that mental fortification crumbled, all of it down the drain. Sera stood there, a model in standard-issue fatigues, her silvery-blonde hair glowing under the fluorescents like some kind of angelic halo. Those purple eyes locked onto his, and the smile; fuck, that smile.
"Sera," he said, steadying his tone as warmth crept up his neck. "Come in."
"Henry," she replied, gliding past him.
He closed the door, guiding her to the common room. "Have you tried the hot chocolate yet?"
"Not yet, though I would fain accept, were you offering."
In that case, Henry would gladly ready a mug for her. "Coming right up. Bit sweet for some, but I think you'll like it."
Sera took in the space while she waited. Henry had gotten used to the sparse common room, but seeing it through her eyes made it acutely obvious how drab it was. The lights were a sad attempt at festivity, the small tree in the corner more depressing than lively, despite his best efforts.
"Those lights…" she pointed. "They're not of the common sort, are they? I've seen their like in the cafeteria and in Lieutenant Nakamura's office."
Henry set the kettle down, glancing over his shoulder. "Nah, not standard issue. I brought these from storage. Christmas decorations."
"Christmas. Hmm." She'd heard of it, apparently. "Is it a sort of American holy day?"
Henry chuckled – yeah, it was a lot more than that. "Not just American. It's celebrated all over Earth, but yeah, it started as a Christian holiday. Celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ, which gets a bit weird since it's not actually His birthday. Apparently, December 25 got picked to line it up with traditions from new converts or something like that. But you're probably better off asking the Doc about that sort of stuff."
"A muddling of traditions, then? Much like the Federation's own way, surprisingly – gathering aught they could smooth the path to unity. It seems this craft of stitching things together spans all worlds alike."
Henry gently floated a few mini marshmallows in the cups of hot chocolate. Latte art was beyond him; it'd have to do. He brought it over, taking a seat beside her. "Pretty much. It's a pretty big holiday, actually."
Sera tried the drink. "Mmm. And these modest adornments are all that bespeak your wondrous 'holiday', then?"
"Oh, nah. This is just the bare minimum," he chuckled. "Back home, people go all out. They put up trees, lights, decorations everywhere, all sorts of stuff to get in the spirit of things. Here?" He shrugged, gesturing toward the display. "SOP."
"SOP." She nodded. "Standard Operating Procedure. And I imagine this is a result of this… OPSEC?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Forsooth, it's a notion hammered into my very bones. Though it's rather droll to see it applied with such zeal even here, to something so benign."
"Benign's a slippery slope. Even a minor cut can turn septic if you don't stay on top of it. OPSEC's the same – nip it in the bud before it spreads like cancer."
She raised an eyebrow.
Whoops, he might've dumped a bit too much. Henry slowed down, "Well, basically you wanna put the fire out while it's still small. Or else it's gonna spread like an infection."
Sera sunk into the couch. "I see. I recall learning of similar arts, akin to your OPSEC. When embroiled in conflict, our fortresses and war camps maintain an everyday mien, even during feast days or holidays. This we do to deny our foes and their invisible eyes any sign of weakness. For when the enemy knows full well where to strike, we indulge in no false notions of peace."
"Yeah, exactly," Henry said, taking a sip from his mug. "Sounds like I don't have to worry about your OPSEC classes, then. You're doing what now? Firearms training, right?"
She gave a quick nod, her whole demeanor changing. "Indeed. And had I known you were concealing such marvels, I'd have sought you out post-haste! These firearms – they make a bow pale in comparison."
Henry smirked. "Yeah, I thought you might like it. It's fun. Dangerous, but fun."
"Oh, I can hardly wait to use one on a quest." Sera mirrored his smile, holding up a finger gun as if yearning for a trigger.
Seeing Kelmithus use a gun back at GB-2 was interesting enough. Just how badass would it be to see Sera using one? "I can imagine. You've been keeping up, though. No complaints from the instructors?"
"Why, nary a whisper of grievance has reached my ears. I daresay they hold my undeniable assiduity in fair regard. Though, it seems they've taken notice of… shall we say, the unorthodoxy of my methods."
Unorthodox? Hell of a way to put it. This had to be magic. Curious wasn't even the word – he had to know what she meant by that.
"What?" she smiled. "It's the nature of magic to confound expectations, is it not?"
Henry chuckled. "I guess. So, what did you do?"
"Well," Sera said, looking pleased with herself. "I've endeavored to rely chiefly upon raw skill, mind you. And yet… There are occasions when I find myself, erm, gently persuading the fabric of reality to steady my aim. Just basic strengthening magic. A trifling matter, surely?"
"'Gently persuading', huh? Mmhmm…"
Sera rolled her eyes. "Oh, come now. I applied a tiny modicum of arcane finesse, only with the M18, and at a full 50 yards, no less. To expect unerring precision at such a distance, without a rifle? Why, it's only just! I assure you, my skill suffices well at shorter ranges."
"Hmm, yeah. Just a little touch of magic; definitely not cheating, huh?"
"Me? Cheat? Surely you jest." Sera couldn't have looked more satisfied with herself if she'd tried.
Henry had to admit though, fifty yards was impressive enough given the circumstances: newbie who just started out, plus a standard-issue sidearm with an effective range at half that distance. That aside, using magic to bump it up to the max firing range opened up quite the applications. A sniper's dream, for one. He'd have to see the grouping for herself, but O'Connor's impression was already worthy of note. That kind of precision and steadiness at a thousand yards? Or hell, take something with real kick. A Desert Eagle, maybe. Most people could barely handle the recoil, but Sera? She'd probably nail bullseyes for fun.
A Desert Eagle. Now there was a thought.
The Christmas lights winked in Henry's peripheral vision. Three days till the big day, and suddenly that flame-enchanted necklace from Eldralore felt about as special as a sweater or regulation sock. But a Desert Eagle? Shit, Sera had probably never even heard of one. The look on her face alone would be worth owing a favor to Cole.
Henry let the idea simmer for a moment. Yeah. Yeah, that could work.
"Say, Sera," he kept his tone carefully neutral, "ever handled anything with a bit more kick than an M18?"
"I once did handle an M7, though only for dry firing. What might you be hinting at?"
The hand cannon, of course. But what surprise would it be if she knew? "Oh, just thinking out loud. There's stuff out there that could pack a serious punch, that's all."
Sera gave a short, amused laugh. "If it be more potent than the M18, I should like to see how well I fare with it. Yet I sense this leads somewhere… perhaps to some matter of your customs?"
"Could be. I mean, Christmas is all about giving gifts, right?"
"These gifts – are they ever as useful as your weapons, or might they serve some other purpose?"
He almost smirked. She caught on quick. "Eh, hit or miss. Really depends on who's giving it, and who's getting it. Some folks go all in on sentimental stuff, or just buy a random pair of socks from the store. Others go for something more… exciting. Like, say, a PS5. It's the kinda gift where you go 'Hell yeah!' rather than just 'Oh, that's cool.' And then there's the best gifts: the ones that do both. Something you'd never expect, but when you get it, it's just perfect."
Sera inclined her head. "Not unlike our own customs, it seems. I suppose feasting and revelry are no stranger to your traditions, either."
Henry finished up his now-lukewarm chocolate, standing up to bring both cups to the sink. "Oh, yeah. That's a big part of it. 'Feasting and revelry', maybe a bit too much eggnog, and even drunken attempts to court a fine lady. But aside from that, the gifts, and the decor, there's also good ol' family time, caroling, slamming Christmas noobs, and so on."
Sera followed him. "I can scarcely conceive how you might partake in your undoubtedly glorious and honorable 'slamming of Christmas noobs', given OPSEC."
He laughed. "Yeah, real sad. Missing out on the new Black Ops right about now, at least until it's cleared for the internal network. It's a party pooper, yeah, but we make do, y'know? Can't go all out, but we've got our ways."
"Oh? And what ingenious methods have you devised to 'make do'?"
"Well, like I said, it's lowkey. But we've got some good stuff. We'll probably end up watching some movies. It's kinda become a tradition on base. Well, on the other side of the portal, anyway."
"A movie? Like the training videos they showed in my classes?"
"Oh, nah. Nah. Not at all. This is way better. Trust." He paused for a second. What's the closest thing she'd get? "You've been to plays, yeah? Kinda like that, but crazier."
She still didn't seem convinced.
"Die Hard," Henry explained, "it's an action movie – guns, explosions, bad guys – but it's set during Christmas. So, it's basically a Christmas movie. Kind of a team favorite."
"Sounds… exciting," she admitted. Because of course, what else would get a hotshot adventurer hyped up if not guns and explosions? "Do you have it here?"
Henry pushed off from the counter and jerked his thumb toward the far end of the room. "Yeah, we've got a stash of movies in the cabinet over there. Lemme grab it."
He brought her to the storage cabinet tucked beneath the archway connecting the common room to the bedrooms, bending down. He pulled open the door and started rifling through the pile of old Blu-rays and DVDs, flipping past a couple classics – Home Alone, Polar Express – before spotting it.
"Ah, got it." Standing up, he noticed Sera looking up. He followed her gaze and voila, there hung a little green sprig, right over their heads. Mistletoe.
"What's that?" she asked. "A sprig? But what meaning has it, hanging here so deliberately? Surely it bears some significance."
Fuck, was he in a romcom? How long had that even been there? The thing basically just spawned in. He was damn sure he hadn't set it up there last night, so it must've been one of the other guys earlier this morning.
Sera's alluring eyes bored into him. Damn, she looked good up close. A warm flush crept up his neck, but he willed the world's greatest poker face onto his face. Should he just say 'fuck it'? It's not like the no fraternization rule had a clause on civilian elves from another world, right?
There was also the option of a lie, but the fragile peace of plausible deniability was on a knife's edge. Nah, why lie? There was no way he'd be one of those MCs from Ron's isekai anime shows. Fuck it. Surely General Harding would understand. And if not, well, that's what the legal gray area was for.
Truth it is. "It's a mistletoe. It's got a tradition around it. Basically, when two people find themselves under it, they're supposed to, uh…" He paused, searching for the right words. "Well, it's customary for them to –"
The harsh blare of an alarm shat on the moment. The moment, whatever it might have been, got completely and utterly fucking atomized. "Ah, for fuck's sake."
"The monsters?" Sera asked.
"Yeah, probably. Let's get moving."
– –
Eldralore Academy
"Hearken all! A monster stampede approaches from the northwest. Students must take refuge and remain therein until this threat is past. Faculty and knights, to the northwestern wall! Bolster the defenses and hold firm! I say again…"
Blast that infernal alarm! Elwes' hand jerked, nearly scoring the delicate runes etched along the Baranthurian heat gun's inner barrel. She had but now begun to unravel its secrets – a most remarkable advance in thaumaturgy. Forsooth, it seemed fortune ever chooses the worst hour.
She set the device down, its heating element exposed. The runes, each of a thumb's breadth, achieved a functional density far past that of current Sonaran enchanting. As much as she desired, there was no leisure now to reassemble it. She secured the dismembered tool within her desk's drawer before grabbing her staff. This mischance would delay progress by days, perhaps even weeks. When, pray, might she next have a moment's peace to study it?
Elwes stepped to the door, locking it behind her with a swift turn of a key. The security runes were now active. That done, she headed for the stairs.
She drew mana to her muscles and bounded down whole flights, reaching the first floor in seconds. Where were the others? Surely, they had tarried not and were already away.
Bursting from the Ancient Magic Studies building, she focused the circulation of mana throughout her body. Her legs responded in kind, fatigue melting as she picked up her pace and crossed the campus with as much speed as she could muster.
"Elwes! Stay your haste a moment!"
Professor Mintor's voice pulled her back. He approached, robes askew, gasping for breath. Three knights in full plate trailed behind him, their armor muddied despite the lack of battle, as though to mimic what she'd heard of the 'dirty' American uniforms. Heavens, what a spectacle. On the wall, they'd scarce draw a blade, let alone get close enough to need all that steel and mithril.
"Have you any word on the particulars?" Mintor gasped out betwixt breaths.
"Only what we all heard," Elwes said. "A monster stampede, in the hundreds. Details are lacking."
"Right, then." Mintor trailed off, panting as they rounded the corner by the alchemy building.
The northwestern wall loomed just ahead, distant booms echoing through the air. Fire magic? Explosion magic? It seems the Americans had already begun their onslaught. Approaching, they gathered at the base of the wall, stepping onto an earthen platform where a sulking mage awaited them.
"Professors!" an adventurer called out, his partner in tow. Tier 6, it seemed. "Might there be room for a couple more upon your wall?"
So they'd elected not to partake in the Ovinne Mountain Campaign. Or they'd not been in a Clan. Either way, it was a wise choice. Wherefore should one risk their neck against a Tier 10 dragon when there was plenty of trouble to be had here in Eldralore?
Elwes nodded and then squeezed to the side, holding the short fence that surrounded the platform. The adventurers joined them, and the dirt platform stirred beneath them. It rose, slowly, with all the vigor of the wilted mage operating it.
At last, they reached the top of the wall. Smoke billowed from the forest, and she finally saw it – streaks of light – like meteors tearing through the sky – arcing above the treeline. They approached with a low rumble, as a flame might crackle at a hearth. No magic stirred the air: none to create the projectiles; none to guide them; none to temper their descent.
Then, they fell.
Flame and smoke rose where the blasts did strike. Each blow tore the earth as though the mages of a great army had channeled multiple Tier 9 spells. The bombardment razed the land, whole swaths of forest laid to scorching, smoldering waste.
Were it not for the necessity of it all, she would have wept at the horrible destruction of the Eldralore Woods, at the loss of their students' training grounds. Of course, destruction was no stranger to her – magic could summon flame and ruin aplenty – but even a Tier 10 mage would falter under such sustained force.
Yet here it raged unlike aught she had seen, without pause, as though stamina and mana were no limitation. How much more could the Americans unleash if they willed it?
Brutal. Terribly so.
"I dare say…" She snapped out of her stupor, clearing her throat. The action spurred Mintor and the others to action, as they, too, returned to reality.
Mintor tipped his hat to her, bidding farewell. "Right, then. Let's not dally. Best of luck, Professor." He joined the knights and adventurers, making their way to a supply tent on the right.
As for her? Well, she'd nearly forgotten her role. Where was she supposed to go? The command tent perhaps, to confirm her orders?
Before she could act on her plan, a figure approached from the ballista platform. His armor was dulled, streaked with dirt, as though the days of gleaming mithril had long passed. It was neither crest nor polish that gave him away, but the ruggedness of his face, the scar running along his right cheek, and his fiery red hair. Captain Orlen. The shine of his stature mattered little now, it seemed.
"Professor Elwes!" he called, raising a hand in greeting. A strange device – a 'radio' much like her own, she realized – remained in his grasp. "The Americans send further word on the hordes that approach. It is most urgent that you hear it."
To have her hear it? Elwes inclined her head. "Has the Dean made his appearance?"
Orlen hesitated. "I… have yet to hear word from him, Professor. I take it he is detained with matters of coordination… though, truthfully, I cannot say for certain."
That placed her at the head of the Academy's efforts. It was a role she would prefer to be rid of, but one she'd reluctantly accept. "A rare stroke of such incredible fortune," she sighed, Captain Orlen no doubt catching onto her exasperation. "What word do they bring?"
Orlen stepped closer. "They report several waves of monsters – goblins, hobgoblins, fenwyrms, treants, and more – all led by Vorikhas. Two large hordes press forward, and a dozen smaller bands follow. The American artillery delays their advance but shan't halt them in full."
Elwes paused. Flames from the latest 'meteor' barrage continued to devour the Eldralore Woods. "Then, we are to face what escapes their barrage. Have the golems been dispatched to the outer wall?"
"Aye. I've diverted most of my archers and mages there as well," he said, his words accompanied by the rumble of a ballista as it rolled across the bridge.
Elwes prepared to acknowledge him, but fell short as an unexpected voice interrupted them. "Professor Elwes, where would you have me?"
She turned around, finding Valtor. Hold – Valtor?
What business had he here? Forsooth, it was his duty as a professor, yet Elwes had long marked him as suspicious. Now, it seemed otherwise. Were he indeed a spy, wherefore would he trouble himself with the Academy's defense? It would have been far simpler to remain absent, unnoticed.
Something was amiss – whether it lay with Valtor or elsewhere, the air still felt wrong. "Professor Valtor," she began, the name near foreign to her lips. "I had not thought to see you here."
His brow stirred but a fraction, as though he wanted to question her comment. But instead he held his tongue. "Where would you have me?"
Where might she station him, that his presence would least interfere – if indeed her suspicions proved true? "Assist at the outer wall, next to Captain Orlen," she said, nodding slow. "The golems will require oversight."
"As you will." Not a flicker of surprise nor protest; nothing to betray his purpose. Still, his presence – it festered, gnawing at her like a wound corrupted by the touch of necromancy.
Once he crossed the bridge, she turned to Orlen. Having Valtor was an excellent force multiplier if his loyalty held. That remained to be seen. "I will join you. Be wary of him."
"Aye, Professor." Orlen understood, though neither said more. They moved toward the wall's battlements.
She crossed at Orlen's side. Valtor had already taken his place before the gate, staff raised in readiness. Most curious, that he should prove so prompt in duty when suspicion hung ever about him. Yet there he stood, channeling mana in proper measure, willing the earth to rise at his command. What emerged was a thing of terrible aspect – nay, eight such terrible things, each rivaling a Minotaur Chieftain in its massive form.
It was a formidable arrangement he made of them, truth be told. The shield-bearers spread in their crescent around the gate, those bearing spears positioned just so behind their fellows. No simple gap remained through which lesser beasts might slip, yet neither stood they so close as to hinder their own motion.
The rattle of wheels drew her eye. Orlen, bearing his cart of mana potions - ah, but there was prudence. Supplies for attrition, though they'd likely not need it.
She stowed one in her coat's pocket, turning as another boom resounded from the forest.
Such terrible magnificence did the Americans display – fresh volleys streaming forth, each star-bright trail hanging lower than those prior. Two score such lights, perhaps more? It was scarce possible to mark their number, for each blazing arc commanded attention unto itself.
The very principles of matter were undone where these weapons struck - ancient trees rendered to naught but smoke and splinters, the earth itself heaving up as though struck by a Tier 9 earthquake spell. The only trace of mana to stir the air was that of the dead and dying expelling their stores. Their bombardment pressed ever closer to the tree line. The monsters were nearing.
She looked to the right and marked Mintor a battlement hence, standing motionless, for once bereft of his usual complaints. Those Tier 6 adventurers who had thought to join their defense stood rigid at the wall's edge – small wonder, for they had likely never witnessed power to rival even a single Tier 9 anything, let alone such a barrage as this. Their hands gripped stone as though it might steady their minds.
But what was this? Movement caught her eye through the smoke - aye, the monsters came forth at last, bursting from the flames. How strange, that they should press onward through such devastation! Either these beasts possessed less sense than a failed golem, or something of greater import drove them hence.
The lesser creatures – goblins and their larger kin – darted through the impact sites like scattering roaches. The greater beasts emerged alongside them: a fenwyrm lord here, a treant there, and the Vorikhas leading each group. Their numbers grew as they spilled onto the clearing that separated the Academy from the forest.
The sight might have proven fascinating, were it not for the growing certainty that far too many would survive to reach the walls. What manner of force could drive such creatures to advance through this inferno? She'd heard of monster manipulation, but never on this scale.
"Mages!" She pushed her voice along currents of wind, feeling the air compress and carry each syllable forward like a horn's blast. "Make ready your bolts and spells!"
How like a great game of Toarce it seemed – pieces arranged just so upon the wall's length. Here stood the Order's battlemages, there the knights, and between them the bowmen and ballistae crew at their positions. Some few adventurers had joined the number, none greater than Tier 6. Some gripped their staffs too tightly, having never seen a swell of monsters this great.
The beasts advanced through lands yet smoking from American fire. Two miles might lie between wall and horde now, if memory of countless drills served her true. And behold, how the monsters spread wide! A tactic too cunning for mindless beasts, though it should avail them little. Yet witnessing proud creatures among the masses, moving in concert, served only a reminder of the strangeness of whatever unknown art did work upon them.
As she readied a shower of firebolts, a sound struck the landscape. Wherefore came such a sound as this? A shrieking howl rent the air, growing louder with terrible swiftness. It was neither magic nor any beast known to her study.
Nothing in her training nor practice matched such a thing, either. Aye, the whistle of arrows sang familiar enough – that pure cutting of wind. And she knew well how the great bolts of ballistae punched through the air, like a hammer's blow upon the winds.
But this noise – it bore the force of a thousand bolts shrieking as one, drawn out endless across the vault of sky. Nay, even that fell short.
Soon, she beheld the cause: two silvered shapes that cut the sky, scarce higher than the cruising of a griffin and swifter – aye, far swifter than a falquor's flight. Like great predatory birds wrought of metal they seemed, as though some master artificer had captured the very essence of speed within steel and glass.
Approaching from a distance, they wheeled apart with grace. Each turned toward its prey, guided by merciless will. And what fell from beneath them? Not spells nor anything borne of Aether, yet these things moved of their own accord, shifting path through the air as though possessed of reason. Four such weapons they cast forth, two from each craft's wings.
Heaven's truth, but what followed! Each impact brought forth such light as might shame the noonday sun, striking with force to match the detonation of a fyrite storehouse! And here these metal birds cast down devastation as easily as a child might drop pebbles.
Nine long breaths passed before thunder struck the very wall. In that terrible instant, circles of earth akin to the main gate's span were unmade, the ground torn deep enough to swallow a house entire.
Of the Vorikhas and their elite guards, no trace remained save smoke and ash. Even the greatest beasts that stood but at the edges of these strikes were devastated, whilst fragments of debris wrought bloody havoc hundreds of paces hence. The very air itself seemed to strike the monsters as a giant's fist – a shockwave that pulverized everything in its path across an area wider than her largest siege spells could affect.
With the battlefield rendered a necromancer's dream, the silver craft wheeled about, climbing unto the heavens. Their fearsome cry grew deeper, transformed – then came such a crack as might split the very skies asunder.
Through the arc of heaven they swept, and never had she witnessed motion of such dreadful beauty. A falquor variant, brought to a hypothetical Tier 10, with all its art of wind and sky, might labor a lifetime and achieve not half such mastery.
Yet what was this? Though the Vorikhas lay unmade, their lesser minions pressed onward still. Had not reason dictated that such devastating strikes must needs shatter their resolve?
It seemed not, and the silver craft returned, sensing the monsters' folly. Descending like great hawks upon their prey, they struck anew. This time, their bellies opened up, releasing a great mass that burst mid-fall, spawning hundreds of lesser forms that fell upon the hordes below.
Then, together, they burst. Where they did, lesser beasts were torn to pieces, while even mighty Treant Guardians reeled beneath their fury. The spectacle was no less inspiring – perhaps crushing for a prideful few – than the massive blasts that obliterated the Vorikhas. For her? It was extraordinarily moving.
Their mission seemingly complete, the silver birds vanished northward, their departure marked by twin cracks like those heard but a minute prior. Blood and dust cluttered the field, sky and earth unmade, yet again still the beasts advanced. Most peculiar, that whatever magic worked upon them should survive even the Americans' strikes.
Less than a mile now remained between wall and beast, with more yet emerging from the treeline. If the American weapons could work such devastation, surely Eldralore's defenses might achieve their own feats. The thought was enough to excite even someone of her stature.
"Ballistae, mages!" The crews tensed as she bid the wind to carry her voice. Such glory awaited! "Fire!"
The great bows spoke their thunder. Each massive bolt crossed the field, landing amidst throngs of enemies. A hobgoblin champion split it twain – aye, there was craft in such a strike. Then, the bolts detonated. Clusters of goblins and other monsters scattered like chaff before wind, naught but broken bodies in their wake.
Elwes let fly her own magic. Like an arrow cart's fury, scores of firebolts flew forth from her staff, bending to her will as they struck down the lesser beasts. For the greater creatures – the larger treants and hobgoblins – she held ready her lightning and fireballs.
From her immediate left came Valtor's work – not mere flames, but carefully shaped streams that caught the wind just so, spreading in deadly arcs like a living Flame Wall. The Knight Order's battlemages joined: great spears of stone rose from the ruined earth, impaling the larger beasts or corralling them. Where they were bunched together, shards of ice and stone rained from above, eviscerating them as a hunter would for trapped game. Though they matched not the Americans' fury, they brought forth their own sweet satisfaction.
The adventurers fought with less discipline – though what necessity of form when any cast was sure to strike? With so many targets, even a child could hardly miss. Just fill the air with death and let the beasts do the work of dying. Good coin for such simple labor.
"Reload and make ready!" Elwes commanded, downing a mana potion.
The range drew ever closer. The horde advanced, heedless of losses that would scatter any natural beast. Half a mile remained, then less. A surviving Vorikha reared up, batting aside a ballista bolt as though it were a reed – ah, but a lightning strike from Mintor rendered it to roast. Not so grand as silver birds and thunder, perhaps, but the flash of lightning itself stood proper proof of what spellwork might achieve!
At last, the monsters reached the killing field. Valtor's work beckoned her attention; how could it not? Despite what she may have thought of him, it was something to witness.
Each construct bore itself like a veteran of a dozen campaigns. That he could maintain such fine control over a full formation! There remained many questions, but any man who could make stone soldiers fight thus had surely worn armor himself. College-bred mages could make golems walk and strike, aye, but only one who'd stood in formation himself could capture such… knowing.
And to see such masterwork spent in the Academy's defense? Well. Perhaps Elwes had been too quick in her judgment. Just perhaps.
Fresh mana now reinvigorating her veins, she returned her attention to the battle. Fresh spellcraft gathered atop her staff as another wave approached the golems. The Americans had their machines – well and good – but Sonaran magic should not be outdone. Let the beasts suffer the full measure of what Eldralore might achieve.
"Fire!"