NOVEL FROG 227 - The FInal Battle
Lieze struggled to maintain her balance as a foreboding quake rumbled across the forest floor.
“...It’s beginning.” She blinked, “This is it. The final hurdle.”
Great eruptions of soil and grass were flung into the air, dancing like snowdrops on the fearsome winds. From the resultant burrows emerged legions of Rootborne, scuttling about the battlefield like insects as they surfaced in every direction. In one instant, Lieze’s army was surrounded - an eventuality she knew would arrive sooner rather than later.
“Come on! Look alive, you damnable fools!” Roland’s voice broke out over the chorus of shelving mud, “Get the Rot Behemoths around our perimeter! Spare no expense - this is the moment we’ve spent months toiling to reach!”
Lieze’s plans had been thrown out the window. There wouldn’t be time for a diversionary attack of any sort - not when they were surrounded. At her call, the Manticore landed not far from her position. She knew better than to observe the battle from above, wary of the Elves that were no doubt scattered around the canopy. Surrounding herself with powerful thralls was the only way to guarantee her safety.
[Summon Supreme Flesh Golem] Activated
Remaining Heavenly Favours - 5
[Strengthen Undead] Activated
Remaining Heavenly Favours - 4
While in the process of conjuring a [Blood Barrier], the familiar voice of Baccharum rose up from behind, “Lieze!”
She turned just in time to catch a reused glass bottle with a sticky, black substance coating its bottom. It didn’t look to her like something meant for drinking.
“Poison!” Baccharum yelled, “I was only able to make enough for one coating, but it’s powerful! Use it when you need to!”
Drawing his daggers, he vanished into the horde. Lieze dropped the bottle into her Bag of Holding before finishing off her [Blood Barrier], covering herself from any attack launched from the shadows.
Staff of Thraldom’s MP - 2,967 / 3,417
Suffused with dark power by her Heavenly Favour, even humble Gravewalkers were transformed into feral beasts capable of tearing apart the average Rootborne with their bare hands. As the Flesh Golem’s crimson scalp rose above the army, Lieze turned her attention to the skies, watching for any assassins who fancied a shot at her life. Meanwhile, Drayya and the others had muscled their way to the frontline, supporting the Rot Behemoths with flurries of [Blood Spikes], rushing ahead to detonate any weakened thralls with [Corpse Explosions] to maximise their individual efficiency.
“Fire spells - over there, by the space between those Rot Behemoths.” Balancing on a marshy bump in the landscape, Lüngen pointed a finger over the horde, “Form yourselves into a circle, now - I know some of you are capable of taking orders. I don’t want to see a single one of those abominable Fae breaking through our defensive line.”
“Marché!” In the distance, Baccharum’s voice called, “Above you! Get out of the way!”
The rust-haired necromancer would have been dead if his reflexes were any slower. As soon as he leaped back, a blade curved towards the space where his neck once hovered, grasped by a pair of fingers that were all-too-long. The Elf was set upon by Gravewalkers as soon as he landed, making to leap over the horde in a single bound before his attention was captured by another flash of steel in the night, only just catching the edge of his blades against Baccharum’s daggers in time to avoid a quick death.
“...Kinblood.” The Elf’s eyes were covered, but his expression remained furious, words twisting in a language only Baccharum could understand, “I refused to believe it - a Elv, allying with the Order’s cruel dogma!? How could you betray your own people!?”
“I won’t demand your forgiveness - my circumstances are more complicated than you could possibly understand.” Baccharum replied, “If even half of you could grasp the truths revealed to me, you would also be seeking the Head Shaman’s life!”
“You are deluded! The guilds are as one for the first time in centuries - you cannot possibly win!”
When a Gravewalker loomed from behind, arms outstretched and jaw poised to sink deep into the Elf’s flesh, its face was instead split down the middle like a ripe fruit, effluvial ichor splattering to the soil. Its falling cadaver was quickly replaced by another assassin landing without a sound. Then a third. And a fourth.
Recognising his limits, Baccharum retreated from the clash towards his mindless allies. Marché exploited a gap in the chaos to round his way to the Elf’s side, a pair of Stalkers following obediently in his wake. Ten assassins in total had dropped from above, each dismembering a Gravewalker on their way down from the canopy.
“We take no pleasure in raising a hand against our kin, but to ally oneself with the Order is unforgivable!” The lead attacker declared, “We will not allow you to destroy the world our ancestors bled to create!”
“You talk far too much. An assassin ought to be a bit more candid.” Baccharum flipped both of his daggers into a reverse grip, “-Or have you forgotten that opportunism is in our nature?”
He lunged, and the Elf leaned back to dodge the tip of his blade. The movement was performed in such a fashion that Baccharum’s dagger missed him by a hair’s breadth - a common tactic used to stage viciously dextrous counterattacks. What the assassin did not expect, however, was for the tip of Baccharum’s blade to catch against the scruff of his blindfold as it rose to complete its arc. With a flick of the wrist, the cloth was cut, exposing the Elf’s gargantuan eyes to the light of Marché’s lantern burning just a few feet away.
Baccharum had experienced it himself - the searing agony of the faintest light trickling through his contrived measures to avoid the sun. A foul wail croaked from the assassin’s throat as he clutched both eyes, throwing caution to the wind and allowing Baccharum precisely the opportunity he needed to perform a killing blow.
The entire exchange couldn’t have taken longer than two seconds. It was right around the moment his dagger retracted - bloodsoaked - from the assassin’s gullet that the rest of the Elves were upon him, leaping from every angle to prevent Baccharum’s escape.
Having only just comprehended the situation themselves, the Stalkers pounced into the fray. Their lightning-quick jaws were soon tackling and feasting upon the flesh of unprepared Elves, allowing precious time for Baccharum to place some space between himself and the enemy.
“Marché! Stay back!” He cast a glance over his shoulder, “You don’t stand a chance against one of these assassins!”
“I’m hurt.” Unbothered by the prospect, Marché took a step forward, “Did you really think I was just planning on watching you deal with this problem yourself?”
A second later, Baccharum found himself covered in a concoction of blood and loose skin, his sensitive ears deafened by a nearby explosion. When he swivelled his head, one of the Stalkers was gone - reduced to a meaty bud flowering amidst the grass. Surrounding its crimson petals were writhing Elves half-studded with fragments of bone, unable to distinguish their own blood from the veneer of undead ichor coating them from head to toe.
Marché’s chest surged with pride at his handiwork. Even so, Baccharum lunged out to push him away, separating him from the few assassins who had seen the [Corpse Explosion] coming and tactfully moved out of its effective range.
“Go and meet up with Roland! These aren’t the last of them - far from it!” He yelled, “I’ll hold them back, so focus on carving us a path out of this ambush!”
Understanding that any words of protest would be a terrible waste of time, Marché nodded and sprinted off into the horde, losing himself amidst the tide of flesh. Baccharum didn’t check to see if he’d left, knowing better than to break line of sight with assassins.
“Outsmarted so easily… I suppose the guilds accept any old amateurs nowadays.” He muttered, “I’ll test your worthiness myself. It’s been a long while since I last duelled my own kin.”
Marché could only use the earth-shaking stomps of the Flesh Golem to guide him towards the battle’s forefront. Beneath the gurgling, moaning masses of flesh tumbling into battle, he overheard the splintered bodies of Rootborne bending and twisting under the ferocity of their undead.
“Marché!” A feminine voice drew his attention, “Get over here!”
Drayya was crouched down behind the heft of a Rot Behemoth shielding her from sight. Marché scuttled over and lowered himself, “How are we going to get out of this!?”
“Very quickly - and very soon. It’s a good thing you showed up when you did.” She replied, “Lieze should be creating an escape route for us at any moment now…”
He hesitated to question her abilities, “...Can she do that?”
“Just keep your head down and watch. Who knows when those assassins are going to strike?”
“Actually, Baccharum-”
His response was interrupted by a shadow swooping overhead, cutting across the encircled horde. Lieze’s view from the Manticore’s spine exaggerated the peril of their situation - it would have taken her hours to perform a headcount of the Rootborne marching upon them. She knew that fighting defensively wasn’t an option. The army needed an escape route if it hoped to survive.
She had just under 2 litres of Mercuria tucked away in her Bag of Holding - less than seven spells’ worth - to last the length of the entire battle. Her first 200ml was an obvious choice, melding with a steady stream of blood to form an enormous [Blood Spike] aimed squarely at the cluster of Rootborne blockading the army from approaching the Black City.