Knights of Bagroth

Trampling friend and foe alike, Malice charged. The screaming infantry and cavalry dispersed in every direction. Somersaulting over a salvo of boulders and bolts, the demonic knight eyed the rows of siege weapons to his flanks. Landing with acrobatic grace, he leapt into the sea of silver eagle standards. Cleaving fissures into the earth, his slashes swept away the fleeing soldiers.

Circling with his band of camel riders, Ingram and his men unleashed a volley at Malice’s visor. The Flying Tiger’s arrows, distinguished by their purple fletching, punched into the black armour with dull thuds. Alarmed, Malice raised a shielding hand and shuffled back.

“Such lethality,” roared Malice. “Marvellous!”

Striking the earth, Malice showered the retreating riders with large chunks of dirt, rocks, steel, and bodies. The projectiles tore through the stragglers, producing a chorus of suffering. Instead of glancing back, Ingram kept shooting, threading his arrows through the armour gaps and finding the knee.

Rather than chasing Ingram, Malice shielded himself with his sword and advanced on Gilvantes, ploughing through the formations. The mages, disorganised, could only watch as their unsophisticated spells bounced off the demon. The surviving catapults and ballistae, fearing errant strikes, had ceased their attack. Gilvantes, biting his lower lip, turned to Ambrose.

“He’s after me,” said the prince. “Can’t we use this somehow?”

The Lamak general, issuing orders, seemed not to have heard the question.

Gilvantes pressed on. “I’ll bait him.”

“Understood,” replied Ambrose curtly. “Joslyn, defend the prince.” He then pointed into the distance. “Ride west and hug the canal. Go with Urzu’s grace.”

Ambrose rode off, bellowing for earth and water mages to assemble. Drawing Skyrend, Gilvantes gave Ursha a squeeze and sped off towards the liquid beltway.

“He was waiting for your offer, Gilvantes,” said Joslyn.

“Then I tarried too long.”

The thundering footsteps had Gilvantes glancing over his shoulder. Malice was coming, chasing the blue glint of Skyrend.

“Sister, if he catches me—”

“I’ll defend you to the end. You don’t know Itoh.”

Scattering the infantry like autumn leaves, Malice vaulted across the battlefield and fell upon Gilvantes. Baying, Ursha turned and tossed Gilvantes off moments before a giant boot crushed her. Dismounting immediately, Joslyn sent her horse towards the Parvoth prince and drew her sabre. Breathing deeply, she turned to confront the Knight of Bagroth.

“Seed of Urzu,” cried Malice in outrage. “You would have a woman defend you while you flee?”

Joslyn unleashed a battle cry, her unbridled wrath almost unhorsed Gilvantes a second time. For an instant, the world froze.

“Come,” she said coldly, “demon.”

Malice cackled with childish glee. “A master in this age. Delightful!”

Joslyn turned aside a flurry of slashes and tipped Malice off-balance. Falling on one knee, Malice swiped at her with a backhand. Flowing aside, Joslyn met the fist, slicing through the gauntlet. Sent flying, she flipped, landing a fair distance from the demon. Malice, grunting in pain, got to his feet. Black tar trickled from his wound.

The two warriors raced to each other once more. This time, Malice swung with even greater speed and savagery. The earth groaned each time his blade tore through it. Joslyn, soon without purchase, flipped onto the giant sword.

“Good bye, warrior,” said Malice, laughing. “Another time.”

With a flick of the wrist, Malice catapulted Joslyn far away before resuming his pursuit of Gilvantes. Lisharotte, racing towards the prince, thrust her spear skywards and yelled to the mages.

“Now!”

A giant crater opened below Malice, swallowing him whole. As the pit grew deeper and wider, the water mages poured the Walthurian Canal into it. Malice clawed at the ground, his fingers carving clefts into the increasingly marshy soil. Pushing himself up enough to free up an arm, he reached for Gilvantes.

Noting the shadow looming over him, Gilvantes turned back in time to see a falling fist. His horse swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding the punch. Malice crawled on only for his massive frame to sink further. Grunting, the demonic knight dove forward, falling on his face before clapping his hands together, determined to squash the prince like a fly.

“Trample!”

Speeding past Gilvantes, Lisharotte took to the air. This blast that always followed this command, the explosive fusion of kinetic force and electricity that promised victory, never came. The moment Mamut stomped down on the giant, Lisharotte’s lightning died. Before she even registered the event, Malice’s hands closed on her. She screamed as the clap crushed her armour and steed. Vomiting blood, she craned her neck, caught a glimpse of Gilvantes, smiled weakly, and dropped her head.

Transfixed, Gilvantes watched as the drowning Malice tossed the Chamzo away. He should flee. He should go to her. He should do something, anything. Instead, he remained rooted, as if his body had turned to granite, as the black knight inched towards him.

“Gil, Run!”

The halo on Skyrend jolted him back into action. But Gilvantes did not follow instructions. Instead, he dismounted. Even with the ghostly halo shielding him from his emotions, he could feel his hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Immediately, he released Wodan’s blitz, slicing through Malice’s wrist. The black knight howled.

The exhaustion that should’ve buckled his knees never came. Gilvantes turned on the remaining arm. Skyrend, like a beam of cerulean flame, melted through the armour, flesh, and bones with sickening ease.

“Curse you!” growled Malice. “Seed of—”

Gilvantes leapt across Malice’s face, dragging Skyrend through the visor. The blinded knight flailed, hurling mud into the air. The prince, walking towards Malice with the confidence of an executioner, pierced the gorget. Black tar burst from the jugular. With a snap of his finger, he injected lightning into the gap. Malice, with a final whimper, sank into the pit.

“Gil…” whispered Lisharotte. “Are you alright?”

He stared at the shimmering light on his sword. “No.”

“Steady now. I’m not the only one who died tonight. A leader must not—”

“Show favouritism,” he interrupted her. “I know.”

He could hear it now, the thunderous chant of Godblade. It was like this with Bronvael too. For the life of him, Gilvantes could not understand why they were cheering. He rode over to Lisharotte’s body and found Linsk already kneeling by his captain. Removing her helmet, the teary Mengot closed her eyes.

“Sorry, Captain,” said Linsk. “Just couldn’t drown the bastard fast enough.”

Vorlat joined them, bowing to his fellow Chamzo.

“She was looking for you throughout the battle,” said Vorlat. “Kept telling me you’d do something suicidal.” The large man sighed. “I’m sorry for your loss, prince.”

Sakim, still plucking arrows from his armour, sprinted over. His wild eyes darted between Lisharotte and Gilvantes. His mouth opened and closed several times before the Najar finally spoke.

“I was…” he whispered. “She n-never… she never chose me.”

Gilvantes gave the man a brotherly hug, not caring whether Sakim was jealous or bitter. Together, they waited until the corpse collectors tossed a cover over her body and carried her away. Sending Joslyn’s horse back to his master, Gilvantes dragged himself back to camp.

“This is so weird,” said Lisharotte. “I can sense things all around you.”

“You seem rather chipper.”

“How many people do you know get to live a second life?”

“I should’ve taken you to a mountaintop, but Urzu never intended for man to see the future.”

Lisharotte giggled. “Oh… can you see me blushing? Can I even blush anymore?”

This banter continued as Gilvantes passed the cheering men. He did as Lisharotte instructed, raising Skyrend high, which inspired another chorus of his name. Joslyn, who had somehow remained unscathed, greeted him with a faint smile. Her father remained stone-faced as the wounded and dead poured in.

“We attack tomorrow,” said the general. “I’ll need you to rally the men, prince.”

Gilvantes saluted Ambrose and returned to his tent. Now alone, he sheathed his blade. All the exhaustion, fear, and sorrow formed a concentrated assault, flattening him against the haystack. He cried.