Chapter 749: Yarzat rules the waves! (2)

Chapter 749: Yarzat rules the waves! (2)

Thud—Thud—Thud.

Each impact rattled through Edric’s arm, the blows traveling from his shield into the bones of his shoulder. From above, the enemy’s arrows hissed down in a relentless rain, the sound sharp and splintering as they struck the planks of the longboat or clanged off the iron rims of shields. The sea heaved beneath them, the boat rocking in slow, sickening lurches—leaning left, then right—forcing every man aboard to sway in unison to keep their balance.

The sensation was wretched: trapped in the open water, unable to move forward or back, the salt spray stinging his lips while shafts of ash wood sought the gaps in his armor.

Edric looked around and felt relief to see that no man in his boat had yet fallen. The brief comfort of that thought settled in Edric’s mind as he made himself ready for the butchery he was to lead.

His heart held no fear for enemy steel, nor did it flinch at the cold, unseen fingers of death brushing against his neck, caressing him as a long lost lover..What he felt instead was the steady, unshakable weight of duty pressing him forward.

He had been given the honor of leading the assault, a privilege rarely granted to a legate, reserved only for moments of utmost importance. In most campaigns, such a role was forbidden to men of his rank, their place being behind the lines, commanding, not charging.

But fortune had favored him. His prince had not only permitted it but bestowed upon him the blessing to stand at the very tip of the spear.

This was to be the first battle ever recorded in his legion’s history, and his name would be the one leading the page.

He could perish on that day, but he would be damned if they would not deliver victory upon those salty waves, leading them forward.

Lowering his head for a heartbeat, he then risked a glance, raising it just enough so his eyes peeked over the rim of his shield. Through the narrow slit of vision,he saw what awaited them, the harbor stones looming nearer, the line of defenders arrayed at its very edge. Shields locked tight, their rims kissing in an unbroken wall of wood and steel; spears thrust forward, angled to strike the moment the attackers set foot on the quay.

They were still as statues, silent but for the faint clatter of armor in the wind, the tips of their weapons glinting like cold teeth in the morning light, a barricade waiting to greet them.

The bastards think we’ll fight on their terms, Edric thought, a flicker of amusement threading through the weight of the moment.

He harbored no doubt about what was coming. Every man on those longboats knew this was the battlefield the defenders would force upon them, and every man also knew their prince had prepared for it.

The plan had been forged months ago, for exactly this kind of reception, and right now it had just been launched..

The answer came in the form of a sound that seemed to split the very air, deep, resonant, and heavy with promise. It was a noise every Yarzat soldier had been waiting for, and every defender would always pray never to hear.

Lowering his shield, Edric drank in the sight that unfolded before him.He held no more fear of the enemy arrows, as he knew no more would come from the foreseeable future.

The reason the Yarzat warships had followed behind the ninety longboats now revealed itself in full. Mounted on their decks, their great torsion catapults reared like mechanical beasts already loosing their payloads toward the enemy line.

With a thunder of snapping sinew, boulders the size of barrels tore into the sky, spinning wildly as they arced toward the harbor. Against the pale sun, they looked like the wrath of the gods themselves, descending upon mortal flesh.

The first stones hit with a wet, ruinous crack. Shields splintered. Bones snapped. Men vanished beneath the impact, some crushed flat, their bodies folding like broken dolls; others reduced to little more than unrecognizable heaps of flesh and armor.

A spray of blood and shattered wood painted the air, mingling with the thick, acrid dust that erupted from the cobblestones.

Dust was everywhere that Edric turned around to see, of course, it did little to hide the mangled corpses resulting from the barrage.

It all happened in a moment, and for the first half of a second, there was only an uncomfortable silence, soon to be broken by the screams of men like the enemy lines were soon to be by the Fourth.

Screams soon followed , ragged, high-pitched, animal sounds from throats that moments ago shouted orders and curses. The tight formation of the defenders wavered as gaps appeared where men had been standing seconds before. The lucky ones were dead. The unlucky lay writhing, clutching ruined limbs or crawling blindly in the haze, choking on dust and blood.

The smell hit next, dust mingled with the copper of spilled life and the faint, sickly sweetness of opened entrails. Edric’s knuckles whitened on his mace shaft, not from fear, he had none of it, but from the knowledge that this was the moment the enemy’s wall would falter and they would come in action.

The catapult barrage had done its work far better than Edric could have hoped.

What had once been a flawless, by-the-book shield wall was now little more than a sieve, riddled with gaping holes where men had once stood. Like a bucket full of cracks, it could no longer hold anything, least of all any hope of victory for the enemy.

From the longboats, a roar of savage delight erupted.

Edric wasted no time. With the enemy line shattered and screaming, hesitation was a luxury they could not afford. He thrust his arm forward, signaling the oarsmen.

"Faster! Close the distance!"

He rose to his full height, having no fear of the arrows whistling above him, letting his voice carry above the spray and the clash of wood on waves.

"Men of the Fourth! Men of the Prince!" he called, his tone ringing with the authority of command. "The hour of truth is upon us! Be true to yourselves, to your brothers, and to your duty. In your hands rests the destiny of our Legion, lift it high with a victory worthy of song!"

The men answered with a thunderous cheer, their voices mingling with the groans and cries from the broken enemy line.

"Hear them!" Edric shouted above the noise. "Do their screams not sound like music to your ears?" Another cheer surged, fiercer than before.

"My order is simple, so mark it well!" He lifted his mace, its head glinting in the pale sunlight, and pointed it toward the fractured knot of defenders.

"There stands the enemy. There stands your glory. Kill them all, and seize the sweet fruit of victory! Lay it at your prince’s feet!"

With that, Edric did not wait for another word. He hurled himself from the prow of the boat, not even waiting for the boat to fully track, crashing down with a resounding thud of iron on stone, mace in hand, claiming the title of being the first to breach the bloodied shore.

As he came down he saw no spearheads flashing toward him, no wall of shields bracing to meet his charge.

The line that had once stood defiant was gone. In its place lay a broken, quivering mess of men, the survivors staggering back in horror at the mangled heaps their comrades had become under the catapult’s merciless stones.

He did not waste a heartbeat.

With a maddening roar that tore from deep in his chest, Edric moved forward, keeping his shield tight to his neck as he raised his mace high. The iron head caught the weak morning light before descending in a brutal arc to reap the first victim.

A boy was the one chosen for it, he stood frozen, his eyes wide and glassy, fixed not on Edric but on the twisted remains of the man beside him. He only seemed to notice the charging legate when it was far, far too late.

The mace connected with a sickening clang against the side of his helm. The metal buckled inward with a deep dent, bone shattering beneath. The boy’s body dropped instantly, knees folding as though the strings had been cut, his weapon slipping soundlessly from his fingers. Blood leaked from beneath the crushed steel, pooling dark and warm on the stones.

Edric did not pause to watch him fall. He drove himself into the gaps left by the dead and the fleeing, his shield slamming into ribcages and his mace breaking bone with every swing. He smashed through one man’s teeth, caving his jaw to the side, then spun to hook his shield rim against another’s throat, shoving until he heard the brittle crack of a windpipe.

For the last five years he had been a sub-centurioo and had been fighting on the frontlines in each battle.

Who then had the advantage of experience? The veteran of six battles? Or men whose biggest challenge had been to find coins to pay their whore?

The answer was clear as he reaped more bodies for the grinder, while behind him, the thunder of boots grew louder. His men pouring from the longboats, one after another, their own war cries joining his, crashing against the already shaken Oizenian lines like a tide of iron in black and white.

The defenders tried to hold, but close combat showed no mercy. Maces splintered shields, axes punched through mail, and every time an Oizen soldier fell screaming, the attackers surged forward into the space his corpse left behind. Blood sprayed the stones in great crimson fans, mixing with the saltwater sloshing over the harbor edge.

Step by step, meter by meter, the defenders were forced back. Their line bent, then broke, and still the White and Black Stripes came, pouring off ships now landing freely, unopposed, each new wave adding fresh weight to the assault, adding water to a dam that could no longer hold its weight.

Whatever slim advantage the Oizenians had clung to was gone. The harbor stones were of the invaders now, wet with seawater, slick with blood, and echoing with the relentless roar of Alpheo’s legions as they roared for the first victory of the Campaign.