Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

A riverbed is, undoubtedly, an exceptional defensive barrier by nature.

When enemy troops attempt to force a crossing, they remain exposed and vulnerable in the shallowest areas. Under the lashing of the current, which strikes their legs with force, breaking the lines of a firmly barricaded defensive side proves to be a colossal task. Aware of this, the main contingent under the orders of the Black Duke strategically positioned itself to guard the most crucial crossings along the Saxon River.

The invaders, depleted and weakened after the grueling combat in the mountain range fortifications, suffered from an alarming lack of provisions. Faced with such a crossroads, they saw no other way out than to risk a desperate crossing.

With a colossal roar that seemed to crack the celestial vault, the hosts of orcs began their onslaught.

The orc riders, the most implacable elite faction under the direct command of the orc war chief, launched themselves to cross the water.

“Prevent those beasts from setting foot on the bank at all costs!”

“Archers, draw your bows and prepare yourselves!”

The knights belonging to the House of Saxon, barricaded on the other side of the ford, proclaimed directives with promptness. Having dismounted, they organized containment blocks to resist the imminent onslaught of the orc riders.

Battle axes and bucklers collided violently at the moment the orcs, on the backs of their ferocious wolves, crashed into the heavily armored infantrymen who swore loyalty to the House of Saxon.

Steel clashed fiercely against steel, and the echo of metal lacerating bodies propagated throughout the entire conflict scenario.

In the vast majority of river crossings, the creatures’ offensive was contained successfully. Despite this, in certain sectors guarded by less experienced combatants, some orc riders managed to clear a path to the other bank.

As soon as the most formidable orc warriors managed to secure beachheads and disrupt the defenses, the subsequent ranks increased the speed of their advance through the river.

The turn of events in the conflict shifted suddenly. Despondency spread among the defenders as the tide of monsters began to outnumber and overpower them.

It was in that critical instant when the “Black Prince” of the House of Saxon himself commanded his rapid assault unit directly into the epicenter of the combat.

His maneuver did not originate behind his trapped comrades, but from the rear of the invaders themselves, who were concentrating all their efforts on the water crossing. The strike was directed with pinpoint precision toward the rear section of the opposing ranks, which had thrown all their momentum forward in a desperate attempt to cross.

“Charge!”

“At your orders, my lord!”

Before the directive issued by Dale, the voice of Sir Vale of Baskerville resonated strongly in the air.

“To the attack!”

“For the honor of the House of Saxon!”

“For the glory of Prince Dale!”

The six squadrons that made up the “Black Cavalry,” the most prestigious force of riders of the House of Saxon, spurred their mounts to unleash their fury. The combatants of the House of Saxon, having successfully completed the tactical encirclement, fell implacably upon the exposed rear of the orc army.

That transformed into a carnage.

“It’s Prince Dale himself!”

“The Black Prince has made his appearance!”

“The Black Cavalry of the House of Saxon punishes the enemy from the back!”

Led by the heir of the Black Duke, the feared Black Prince, the unit became an insufferable nightmare for the enemy forces, while for his own men it represented a light of hope and protection.

That is the beneficial facet that dread can have in war.

“Prince Dale leads the resistance for us!”

“The Black Prince’s mounts dismember the invaders!”

“The adversary is trapped at this point! Hold the position! Close the loop with the support of the prince’s cavalry!”

The mere presence of the leader revived the determination of the troop, completely transforming the course of the confrontation.

Six squadrons of riders.

Counting barely three hundred men, they were measured against an enemy contingent that was extremely numerous and focused entirely on overcoming the river.

Making such a massive body of warriors reorient their front demanded valuable time, and the equestrian division commanded by Dale exploited that vulnerability masterfully.

Dale himself demonstrated his worth immediately. At the moment when Sir Vale’s forces fell back after the initial impact, the prince actively joined the second assault block.

Riding with dexterity, his dark attire fluttered in the wind, resembling a cloak of black heraldry.

“Shadow Bullet.”

In full sprint, an infinity of shadows projectiles fell with violence upon the group of orcs.

That burst of pure animated hostility possessed a destructive cadence comparable to that of a rapid-fire artillery piece, causing the thick leather of the monsters to be completely useless in protecting them.

Certainly, a military leader who positions himself on the front line of combat assumes a danger of great magnitude.

However, the moral benefit is undeniable.

“Prince Dale marches by our side!”

“Show no mercy whatsoever!”

A blind and absolute faith ignited in the hearts of the knights faithful to the House of Saxon.

The Night Raven Knights of the House of Saxon, advancing in step with Dale, gave themselves to the battle with a mysticism that bordered on frenzy, holding their spears with an immovable firmness.

Alongside the famous “Black Prince,” Charlotte wielded the imposing greatsword of the House of Saxon from her mount.

The flashes of energy from the black sword propagated in all directions, slicing the creatures in their path.

Crash!

The limbs, heads, and torsos of the orcs fell dismembered as if they were simple interchangeable toy blocks.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this!” exclaimed Charlotte, whose features remained protected behind a dark helmet.

“Dale, if we delay too long in this spot, the orc army will manage to reorganize its lines,” warned Sepia in a tempered voice, which made Dale nod subtly.

“We will withdraw just before they manage to regroup.”

On the other side of the riverbed, the defenders, infected with bravery by the intervention of the assault group, managed to repel the invaders. They shouted Dale’s name with fervor, extolled the Black Cavalry of the House of Saxon, and clung firmly to the illusion of the definitive triumph.

The majority of the fords, provided with robust fortifications, successfully contained the advance of the opponent. Therefore, Dale had few critical areas to watch, limiting the risk to a few crossings defended by militias and landowners of lesser capability.

“The orc riders are changing their front toward us!” alerted one of his subordinates at that precise instant, causing Dale to make a sign of agreement.

“Retreat.”

Strike with speed and evacuate the zone.

There was no obligation to achieve an absolute surrender or to exterminate every last rival. Thus, the mobile squadron under Dale’s command completed its mission and began the return without the slightest hesitation.

Leaving behind a colossal shroud of inert orc bodies.

The reaction of the orc riders to hunt them down was something completely anticipated.

Attracting and dispersing the riders of the opposing side offered tactical advantages, and the group fully trusted in their capacity to neutralize any attempt at pursuit.

Dale controlled the pace to maintain the ideal distance, watching closely the orc mounts that were coming after them.

His plan consisted of distancing them from their main reserves to later flank and destroy them.

However, an unforeseen event altered the panorama.

“Are they horses…?”

It was not a matter of large wolves. Upon focusing his sight on the pursuing group, Dale doubted for a second his own eyes.

Orcs almost never used horses as mounts. However, among the ranks of supposed “orc riders” that were coming after them, several beings of demonic nature were distinguished riding, covered with cloaks that instilled suspicion.

The term demon was habitually used to designate creatures with superior intellect, not only orcs. Although the bulk of the invading contingent belonged to said race, it was not strange to find other dark beings among them.

Suddenly, from the back of their fast mounts, the hooded individuals extended their hands toward the front.

The flashes of “blood-red magic” that sprouted from their fingers possessed an unequivocally human nature.

“Dale! Get to safety!”

“…!”

Sepia, usually imperturbable, exclaimed with a force that broke her habitual serenity. Dale caught the danger instantly.

From the fingers of Sepia, a distinguished sixth-circle elf mage, emerged a torrent of bluish sorcery. The practice of mystical arts holds a close link with the atmospheric conditions of the environment, and the freezing environment characteristic of the domains of the House of Saxon substantially boosts Sepia’s spells.

Whoosh!

Even considering said benefit, the ice structure that Sepia raised exceeded any expectation.

A colossal wall of frost rose from nothing, interposing itself between the pursuers and Dale’s mounts.

Despite this, the beams of “blood-red magic” collided against the frozen protection of Sepia, provoking an even more terrifying outcome.

The flames erupted with fury. It was not an ordinary combustion, but a spell of great magnitude chanted in unison by multiple sorcerers.

Hellfire.

That extreme heat dissolved the frozen barrier created by an expert in the aquatic element of the sixth circle as if it were simple snow in the sun, and the residual thermal wave continued advancing toward them.

“Ahhhh!”

Reached by the gusts of remaining heat, several members of the Night Raven Knights of the House of Saxon were reduced to ashes instantly. The freezing environment of the Saxon territories proved useless to protect them. They did not have a single second to get to safety; their bodies disappeared completely, leaving only gray residues that the wind dispersed immediately.

A total destruction.

“Could it be…?”

Dale’s countenance became completely severe and distant.

“Change course, separate! Stay in constant movement, do not form groups!” he ordered with promptness and without the slightest hesitation.

“We are under the attack of enemy pyromancers!”

In the same way that practitioners of mystical arts of the Black Tower receive the name of necromancers and those of the White Tower are considered clerics.

That was the denomination reserved for the specialists of the Red Tower.

There was no space to conjecture about the motives for the presence of a sorcerer of the Red Tower in that place, nor the reasons for which they collaborated with the demons.

Despite everything, if his suspicions were accurate, the individual capable of channeling such exact fire magic while riding at full speed was not a simple apprentice within the opposing ranks.

Scholars of the mystical arts usually do not instruct themselves thinking primarily of the dynamics of the battlefield.

Even high-level masters are usually defeated by ordinary warriors when the contest is reduced to a direct face-to-face hand-to-hand confrontation.

However, the expertise in horsemanship and the accuracy to conjure on the mount that they were exhibiting, evoking the skills that Dale himself managed to master at the time, did not correspond to the knowledge of someone who merely had studied magic in the isolation of an academy.

They were combatants who had forged and perfected their magical skills having the battlefield as their primary scenario.

“Take extreme care. These are the ‘Purifiers’ belonging to the Red Tower,” warned Sepia, as if she were deciphering Dale’s internal reflections. In her condition as a sixth-circle elf mage and high authority of the Blue Tower, her discernment was indisputable.

Purifiers.

Units of combat mages trained with the sole purpose of reducing to ashes the adversaries of the Red Tower and the Empire, enforcing with severity the ideals of their faction.

These Purifiers advanced camouflaged among the hosts of demons, fixed on their objective of destroying Dale’s equestrian squadron.

Were they looking to end Dale’s cavalry? Or were they perhaps intending to strike the main force commanded by Duke Saxon himself?

“No.” While analyzing the situation, Dale understood the authentic reality.

“They are coming directly for you, my lord Dale!” exclaimed Sir Bale of Baskerville with desperation.

“I will not permit them to achieve their goal,” assured Charlotte, tightening her hands with force on the hilt of her dark greatsword, whose blade emitted a glow of combat aura.

“Keep calm, Dale,” mentioned Sepia to instill tranquility, the sixth-circle elf mage skilled in the water element and prominent figure of the Blue Tower. “Permit me to back you in my role as instructor.”

Immediately after, she began to activate the six sources of power that surrounded her chest, releasing a torrent of her characteristic “blue magic.”

Dale did not find himself helpless in this crossroads. The attire of darkness that he carried over his shoulders, resembling a black tunic, shook with violence, giving rise to multiple dark projectiles that emerged from the shadows projected on the ground.

The fundamental situation remained unalterable. There was a rival in front and this had to be subdued. Even if said opponent turned out to be the influential Red Tower, it lacked relevance. In fact, the circumstances could not be more propitious.

In that precise instant, Dale was face to face with his true and historical “personal enemy.”

The Empire, an adversary whose affronts he would never manage to erase from his memory.

Chapter 43