Chapter 379: Collision of Unstoppables

“You can hear them from here…” Argrave muttered, peering through the great Redwoods. Ganbaatar and a few other members of the Supreme Myriarch’s Kheshig had carried the royal pair up here, and now Anneliese and he crouched side by side. He watched with his eyes, while she watched with her bird.

The initial meeting with the elves had gone very, very well—that was in large part due to his intense focus on making sure that everything did go well. Meeting Chiteng, bringing Ganbaatar, rousing the elven gods… all of that was prep work for that meeting, and so it went well. Nikoletta’s purpose for coming—finding her father—was being attended to. The berries from the elven realm were shipped back home, courtesy of elven scouts. The elves were their allies, reasonably. All said, a productive meeting.

That isn’t to say Argrave was as confident about achieving that outcome as he acted back there. In the span of minutes they’d been surrounded by tens of thousands of elves, each with bows and deadly skills of their own. Even with the gods at their back, if the Supreme Myriarch wished them dead, they’d probably be dead. Sweat had been pouring down his back like a waterfall.

What remained was attending to the malfeasance in their military-government and monopolizing the well-hidden dryads for the best bows on the continent. Well, the second-best bows—his [Bloodfeud Bow] took the cake for that. He looked forward to placing an enchanted bow of dryad wood in Galamon’s hands when he returned.

And now, Argrave had promised to deal with a threat of similar gravity to the elves. As he said, he could hear the centaurs even now. Their spellcasters set all of the woods that they could on fire, burning away the roots and slaughtering whatever they came upon in their mad dash towards… something. They marched and marched—or perhaps the better term was galloped—intent on turning this place into one big pasture, it would seem.

“How do you halt an army of berserkers committed to fighting until they die? Not just halt them—halt them peacefully? Asking for a friend…” Argrave muttered, using a small twig as a toothpick after their recent meal prepared by the elves.

“You make this difficult, talking as you do,” Anneliese whispered, focused on scouting with the Starsparrow.

Argrave shut up, but his head still whirled. He needed this stupid crusade of theirs to end, and now. If he stopped them by force, killing any of their number, they’d come harder. If he tried to parley, he’d just get shot by one of their gargantuan arrows thicker than his head and taller than his body, Artur’s enchantments or no. And even with three hundred Veidimen, Orion, and a few Magisters, he was far insufficient to subdue them.

“There,” Anneliese opened her eyes, and her bird landed back on her shoulder. “They are tightly organized, but also very foolhardy. No scouting parties or anything of the sort—they rove and raze, tearing down everything they can. Fires never spread far in this mystical forest, but they seem committed to tearing this place down by hand. They leave the bodies of elves and animals alike on the ground and trample them beneath their hooves.”

“Tightly organized?” Argrave repeated.

“Yes. They travel in a tightly knit group, almost a single army, and simply kill anything that moves,” Anneliese breathed a defeated sigh. “I believe there is no hope in a peaceful approach without loss of life. Shameful though it might be, we must call upon the elven gods. Perhaps this is Erlebnis’ doing… and if it is, his aim grows yet more confusing for me.”

Argrave rubbed at his chin, thinking. Anneliese spoke sense. The centaurs possessed tremendous mobility and power. They were far larger than even the Veidimen, and Argrave suspected the average centaur had personal strength enough to rival Galamon. Whether by blade or bow, they were outmatched on the ground. The small fortune remained that centaurs were largely ignorant of magic—the highest rank spells they knew were C-rank. Still, without significant elven support from the trees, there was no hope of a victory, let alone a victory so overwhelming they could preserve the fighting force of the centaurs for the fight against Kirel Qircassia.

But Argrave… he smiled.

Anneliese looked at him strangely, then grew grim. “You have one of those ideas, don’t you?”

Argrave only looked at her and said, “You have another place to scout. Underground. Once that’s done, I’ll need your aid,” he looked back at the solemn warriors of the Kheshig. “How long do you think you can draw shots from the centaurs before being hit?”

“So long as we have stamina,” the elven guard answered simply. “Intense fighting like that… perhaps two hours at best,” he gave a generous estimate.

“Great.” Argrave leaned off the branch and fell.

“Argra--!” Anneliese darted forth, then paused, peering over the edge.

Argrave floated down as though he was made of feathers and not flesh and bone. He tapped the breastplate, then shouted up, “This thing gives us slow fall, remember? I do.”

Anneliese put her hand to her chest and exhaled shakily, still in shock. Then she leaned off the branch, placed her feet firmly against them, fell, and kicked off. Her enchanted boots projected wind, and she soared into a speedy tackle. Argrave curled inwards in shock, and Anneliese reprimanded him as they both fell.

The Kheshig looked to Ganbaatar, questions in their eyes. The elven vampire hunter said, “Don’t mind his facetiousness. The man laughs when he’s puking blood. And he was kneeling before Chiteng whilst doing so.”

Leaving that, Ganbaatar followed after, throwing his knives at the large tree and using the wires at their ends to change his angle as he moved from branch to branch in speedy descent. The Kheshig looked disquieted after hearing what he’d said but followed their duty.

#####

Argrave stood on an upward-angled branch high up in the canopy, once again watching the forests. He could hear the centaurs, indeed… yet now he could see them, and worse yet, feel them. He felt the great impacts as they felled, burned, and desecrated these ancient trees around them, ending a history thousands of years old.

Far below his feet, thousands of foul animals fled from the rampaging horde. The Amaroks, great wolves that they were, resisted fiercely but died or fled before fire and steel. The leonine Mishis fared better, possessing their lengthy spiked tails to ward away foes from a distance, but most thought it more prudent to flee than face harsh resistance. Great arrows as thick as pillars soared up into the sky, leaving wide holes in trees as the centaurs sought to end retreating elves.

Argrave raised his fingers to his lips, angling them in a peculiar yet familiar way. When he blew, a loud whistle echoed throughout the canopy. This was a trick Anneliese had taught him. It was loud, yet quieter than the elven horns—perfect for their needs. Soon enough, the whistle echoed once, twice, and thrice, sending signals to all who needed it.

But really… only those near the ground did.

#####

Orion strode over the wild roots of the forest floor. In his left hand, he carried an axe of Ebonice, lent by one of the Veidimen warriors. His right was empty… but a red apparition appeared beside him, a matrix swirling in its hand. When the spell completed, a maroon greatsword manifested, plummeting toward the ground. The prince caught its handle easily, staring at it even as the centaurs moved forth.

This greatsword of blood… it had been the same spell his father had cast in combat against him. It was this greatsword that he used to cut off his father’s hands and end his career as a spellcaster. Orion held it near his face, examining the edge of it. It brought back memories, though the uneasy familiarity was slightly quelled by the black blood his brother possessed, far unlike the blade in his memory.

When he lowered it, he saw only the rampant horde of the centaurs, growing ever closer in their destructive mayhem. He raised his left hand and pushed down the golden visor of his helm with his thumb, and then bounded over the roots steadily. And soon enough, the horde noticed him.

The first attack came—an arrow as tall as Orion and thick as his arm, headed straight for his chest. He strafed it easily, then took the next step. More arrows came one after the other. Orion raised his foot and stomped down. One of his blessings caused wing to surge, diverting all projectiles upward.

Soon the whole of them came, their arrows shooting one after the other with meteoric strength. He dodged or blocked all he could and held steadfastly against all those he couldn’t. Their projectiles were fast enough to break his steel-like bones, yet still he came, ignoring all pain from wounds received as he walked right into the heart of his king’s foes.

Their van cast aside their bows, reaching at their equine backs to draw swords and ready lances. Spellcasters stepped forth, casting a wave of fire forth to clear the land ahead of obstructive roots. In unified tandem they began to gallop in the path cleared. The armored man-beasts with lances in arms made the charge of heavy cavalry seem pathetic by comparison—half a thousand pounds each, armored in steel head to hoof… they were a roving wall of destruction, ready to roll over the prince.

Orion held wide the Ebonice axe and the greatsword of black blood and shouted, “For Argrave!”

The prince rushed towards the first lance, cutting its tip off with his sword while his axe batted what remained aside. The centaur advanced, thinking to crush him with its body, but Orion braced down, planted his knuckles firmly against his body, and tossed it over his head. The man-beast shouted in surprise but crashed to the earth in an ungraceful sprawl on the other side.

With their charge failed, the centaurs abandoned their lances and took their swords firmly in hand. In an organized yet barbaric fashion, they circled around him, taking turns rushing in and swinging their blades to claim his head. Orion circled about wildly, batting aside blows of strength enough his arm shook.

“For Argrave!” he continued to shout, again and again.

And it was his truth. This was for Argrave. He knew not his purpose for existing now that he learned the truth of the Vasquer pantheon, but he knew this—his brother was a force for good, and someone well worth serving. Perhaps whatever being that conspired to send him here was well worth worship… but until that being was known to him, he would shout his brother’s name until his death, in glorious service. This made him happy, more than anything else. It made him feel alive, feel righteous, and this was all he knew. Even if unhealthy, this was all he could do.

As the centaur’s blades shattered against Orion’s, and as the supporting elves of the Kheshig rained arrows on them down from above, more chargers joined the fray of battle. The fresh blood came hard, rushing at fast speeds and swinging wicked blades to claim his head. But he met them with his blade, with his blessings, and with his battle cry.

But these were but the van of the horde, and the rest was soon to come.

The arrows of unearthly power returned slowly at first—one or two slipping past the charges of the leaders, easily enough blocked by blessings or dodged. But as the ground rumbled beneath the approaching steel-toed hooves of the centaurs, what was one arrow became ten. And what came from the front soon came from the left and right both, targeting Orion and the elves supporting him in the trees.

Orion saw it then, beyond the chaos of battle. The horde writhed around him, splitting like flowing water against a rock in the stream. The horse archers circled around, surrounding him. As first they were two thin tendrils of foes, wrapping around the back and firing arrows as they did. But the whole of the horde soon caught pace, and it was as though he stood in the center of a tornado of arrows and magic.

Arrow after arrow and spell after spell flew so quickly from every direction Orion could think of nothing other than dodging. Each projectile that hit the ground dug into it three feet deep, and even with the wind, fire, and ice of his blessings rising in defense, it was insufficient. He swung his greatsword at one projectile that flew towards his face, and though it cut easily both ends of the arrow struck his helmet, sending him reeling.

Another arrow struck his calf, breaking past armor and tearing through flesh. He fell to one knee, supporting himself with his sword. He slammed his fist down to call wind, but wind was incapable of stopping spells of lightning, and he spasmed as they struck him one after another.

He will help, Orion knew. He will come, just as he came to Dirracha.

Abandoning defense, Orion looked up towards the sky. There, above… he saw eight red figures, hovering just above this spiraling whirlpool of death and destruction. They held vast bows in their hand. And right above Orion’s head, Argrave floated down with bewitching maroon echoes trailed his descent. He mimicked shooting an arrow, and his blood echoes followed this movement exactly.

And then, with force greater than anything Orion felt before, these echoes released their arrows. Eight maroon bolts struck the edges of the spiral, burrowing deep into the earth. The impact spread through the whole ground, rattling Orion’s whole body with its intense force.

With eight points struck roughly equidistantly in a circle… the ground folded, collapsing. As it gave beneath Orion’s feet, he smiled up at his brother.

“For Argrave!” he shouted one last time before the ground gave way into the cavern beneath.

Orion raised the greatsword given to him and released it. As planned, a knife with a wire flew towards him, and he gripped its blade. Though he fell freely for a few seconds, soon the wire was pulled taut. Orion raised his arm pulled himself up, bloody and broken in more places than he thought he was. Even now his body worked at reconstituting itself.

Soon enough he collapsed at Argrave’s side, peering out across the great hole still crumbling even now. The great mass of centaurs had been caught in this trap of theirs. It was Orion’s duty to gather them just above this low-lying cavern. Their equine forms struggled in heaps of rock and dirt, utterly incapacitated. Even with arms, they were not made for this terrain.

“You must like doing this,” Magister Vasilisa noted, staring at Argrave warily. “Collapsing the floor.”

“Ground, this time,” Argrave said, his breathing a little rapid from tension. “Excellent job, Orion.”

“It was my honor and my pleasure, Your Majesty!” Orion saluted, utterly invigorated. “A joyous experience. Your power is unmatched.”

“Whatever you say…” Argrave kneeled down. “That’s most of them. Now… let’s see if those who’ve fallen and can’t get up might listen to a little life advice.”

Orion pulled Argrave back just as an arrow struck the edge of the pit where he stood. The prince stood between the pit and his king, surveying their enemies furiously.

“Something tells me you might have trouble,” Magister Moriatran quipped.