Chapter 13: Defenders of the Vale
It was a storm that The Rose Duelist and his comrades marshaled and unleashed upon the WWESBers. They brought bows and pikes. The Rose Duelist himself wielded a fine sword crafted from platinum; its guard was in the likeness of a rose in honor of his username.
But it was not their weapons that caused such a turn. The thundering of their arrival rekindled the fury of the YSBers and drove from them the madness of fear. Doubt deserted their hearts. It was replace with strong burning that could not be extinguished by either death or pain.
Celtic turned as The Rose Duelist reached her and ran alongside him at a great speed, Shivan's sword held tightly in an outstretched arm. She pointed it forwards and skywards as she ran, and a strange feeling possessed her, so that she released a vivid war cry that further roused her inherited army.
Once more the WWESBers were dismayed by the fury of the defense. No longer had they a leader to guide them, and for the first time, fear of death set into their bones. Some went insane. Standards were lit afire. Arrows went astray. They turned on each other in their madness. The organized strike was gutted and left to die.
And so it did. Crazyace and Templarle, thought wounded, led a successful band of rogues into a larger archer troop and killed them all. Masta Asia and Magna effortlessly slaughtered infantry, while Mysty, Burgess, and Void skillfully led the rest of the YSB's infantry to small but mounting victories over enemy formations.
What little brain was left in the WWESB's strategy was used in one final attack. They dispersed as The Rose Duelist and his horsemen crashed into the body of the battle, regrouping beside the forest. Once more the YSB and the WWESB faced off against each other.
Forming a phalanx, the WWESB led one last hopeless charge into the YSB. The YSBers did not move: gunshots rang out, spears were thrown, and arrows were released. What few members of the WWESB's phalanx that survived fell to the blade.
Then all was settled. A cheer erupted from the victors. Their boiling blood cooled in time, but Celtic did not join them in celebration. Instead she knelt beside the body of her husband, finally releasing her sorrow. She held him in his arms and rocked back and forth, crying.
A hand settled on her shoulder. She looked up to see Ameph looking at her.
"It's only temporary," Ameph assured her. "He'll be back, you know."
"I know," Celtic said. "But I don't know why I cry. Is it instinct, do you think?"
"Probably," Ameph said. "You must be really sensitive."
"Not really," Celtic said. "I didn't think I'd cry this hard." She wiped away a stream of tears.
"Hey, who's that?" Ameph asked. She was looking towards the forest. There, amid the bodies of the slain, walked a man bearing simple brown garments. They were not ornate: a sheet of cloth bound by a belt at his waste. He had a beard and long white hair, and a hood that lay slack on his back. His face looked kind and his eyes vigorous. He calmly walked up to Shivan and laid his hand on his forehead. Shivan stirred and woke.
A joy filled Celtic like she had never felt before. Clutching Shivan, she cried harder than before, occasionally releasing small cries of joy between her tears. Shivan fought to escape her grasp and stood up. He looked the man straight in the eyes.
"I know you." he said.
"You should," the man replied in a soothing but authoritative voice.
"You're."
"CJayC."
"Oh my." Ameph gasped.
"Speak softly," CJay said. "I want not your friends to hear me."
"Why do you come?" Shivan asked.
"I need you to attend a meeting Shivan," he responded candidly.
"A meeting of what?"
"Don't be so hasty. You will see in time. Now come."
He turned and began to walk. Shivan glanced at Celtic, gave her a quick kiss on her tearstained cheek, and turned to leave.
"Don't wait up," he said.
It was a storm that The Rose Duelist and his comrades marshaled and unleashed upon the WWESBers. They brought bows and pikes. The Rose Duelist himself wielded a fine sword crafted from platinum; its guard was in the likeness of a rose in honor of his username.
But it was not their weapons that caused such a turn. The thundering of their arrival rekindled the fury of the YSBers and drove from them the madness of fear. Doubt deserted their hearts. It was replace with strong burning that could not be extinguished by either death or pain.
Celtic turned as The Rose Duelist reached her and ran alongside him at a great speed, Shivan's sword held tightly in an outstretched arm. She pointed it forwards and skywards as she ran, and a strange feeling possessed her, so that she released a vivid war cry that further roused her inherited army.
Once more the WWESBers were dismayed by the fury of the defense. No longer had they a leader to guide them, and for the first time, fear of death set into their bones. Some went insane. Standards were lit afire. Arrows went astray. They turned on each other in their madness. The organized strike was gutted and left to die.
And so it did. Crazyace and Templarle, thought wounded, led a successful band of rogues into a larger archer troop and killed them all. Masta Asia and Magna effortlessly slaughtered infantry, while Mysty, Burgess, and Void skillfully led the rest of the YSB's infantry to small but mounting victories over enemy formations.
What little brain was left in the WWESB's strategy was used in one final attack. They dispersed as The Rose Duelist and his horsemen crashed into the body of the battle, regrouping beside the forest. Once more the YSB and the WWESB faced off against each other.
Forming a phalanx, the WWESB led one last hopeless charge into the YSB. The YSBers did not move: gunshots rang out, spears were thrown, and arrows were released. What few members of the WWESB's phalanx that survived fell to the blade.
Then all was settled. A cheer erupted from the victors. Their boiling blood cooled in time, but Celtic did not join them in celebration. Instead she knelt beside the body of her husband, finally releasing her sorrow. She held him in his arms and rocked back and forth, crying.
A hand settled on her shoulder. She looked up to see Ameph looking at her.
"It's only temporary," Ameph assured her. "He'll be back, you know."
"I know," Celtic said. "But I don't know why I cry. Is it instinct, do you think?"
"Probably," Ameph said. "You must be really sensitive."
"Not really," Celtic said. "I didn't think I'd cry this hard." She wiped away a stream of tears.
"Hey, who's that?" Ameph asked. She was looking towards the forest. There, amid the bodies of the slain, walked a man bearing simple brown garments. They were not ornate: a sheet of cloth bound by a belt at his waste. He had a beard and long white hair, and a hood that lay slack on his back. His face looked kind and his eyes vigorous. He calmly walked up to Shivan and laid his hand on his forehead. Shivan stirred and woke.
A joy filled Celtic like she had never felt before. Clutching Shivan, she cried harder than before, occasionally releasing small cries of joy between her tears. Shivan fought to escape her grasp and stood up. He looked the man straight in the eyes.
"I know you." he said.
"You should," the man replied in a soothing but authoritative voice.
"You're."
"CJayC."
"Oh my." Ameph gasped.
"Speak softly," CJay said. "I want not your friends to hear me."
"Why do you come?" Shivan asked.
"I need you to attend a meeting Shivan," he responded candidly.
"A meeting of what?"
"Don't be so hasty. You will see in time. Now come."
He turned and began to walk. Shivan glanced at Celtic, gave her a quick kiss on her tearstained cheek, and turned to leave.
"Don't wait up," he said.