Foreword of the author: A few months ago a reader posted a long comment on this Fanfic under the pseudonym of "Guest". He touched on many points. However, he was particularly critical of the fact that magic was so little used in battles. According to him, the cast of spells should radically change the clashes and he did not understand that my fights remain also "traditional".
Those who have the curiosity to look at my profile saw that I practiced strategy games in a "professional" way. The reflection of "Guest" had nothing new for me; it is the classic debate between the "New School" (which believes that a new technology radically changes the art of war) and the "Old School" (who thinks that the new technologies do not render obsolete the methods already known).
This debate comes up again and again in human history. It took place with the invention of the oblique phalanx by Pagondas, that of the stirrup, the long lance... and more recently with the tank.
To understand the problem, you have to understand the magic... of the Elder Scrolls world.
The spells are imprecise, have a useful range of about fifty meters, propagate in a straight line, and can be dodged by ordinary individuals.
So, for mages to participate in a battle, they must be on the front line to avoid touching allies (friendly fire is not). Nor must there be any obstacle between them and the enemy.
Imagine the following situation: Two armies with an identical budget each hire a fighting force to fight in a bare plain, without obstacle. The first spends all its money to create a force of 80 beginner mages. Opposite, for the same price, the holder of the "Old School" hires militiamen armed with crossbows... 2000 militiamen, because shopkeepers who spend a day each week training with crossbow are much cheaper than mages who have studied the magic for years with masters paid at top dollar.
The fight begins... arrived at two hundred meters, the crossbowmen open fire on the mages and begin to retreat (a row shoots, a row step back while reloading). The Magi are too far away to fight back... the crossbows are accurate... before reaching range all the Magi are dead!
So the magi are useless in battle?
No, not at all, but I took a silly example to demonstrate the absurdity of the "New School" position.
In my Fanfic, the Magi fight at the Battle of the Bjoulsae, where they intervene over the Bjoulsae River in response to orc shamans. Other magi defend the walls of Wayrest, during the siege, and they slaughter hordes of orcs...
In both cases, the magi are relatively safe from bowmen and operate in support of more traditional forces. They have proven to be very effective.
In the world of Elder Scrolls, magic has a very important role in battles. When Tiber Septim invaded Morrowind, the Dunmers (Dark Elves) fought a decisive battle with the Cyrodillian legions on the shores of a lake. The Living God Vivec had chosen the site very well. The marshy banks of the lake considerably hindered the legionnaires in heavy armor. While the more lightly equipped Dunmer troops moved there much faster. Entrenched on the other side, the Black Elves waited for the Imperial, thinking that they would have to divide their forces to attack them in pincers. The Dunmers could then take advantage of their superior mobility to harass the enemy on one side while concentrating their forces on the other branch of the pincer to crush it.
Except that the Imperials left the lake to land in the middle of the enemy formation! They had walked on the bottom thanks to potions of Aquatic Breaths.
Even a "simple" potion can become a decisive advantage in a battle.
This does not mean that the use of great spells is totally unknown on the battlefield.
The Falmers (the Ice Elves) invariably began all their battles by unleashing an ice storm on their opponents, freezing them, blinding them, dispersing them... making easy targets for the Falmers, naturally resistant to the cold.
Most of the time, however, the use of battle magic remains discreet, the knights (in the world of T.E.S.) learn the magic of illusion, in particular, the spell "Courage" that allows them to stop the rout of allied units. The War Magi of the Legion cast protective spells before attacking their opponents with swords.
However, when magic comes more directly, especially when a powerful magus is in an army, he must expose himself... Knowing when and how to bring in the asset that a mage represents is the very essence of the art of war.
Art of War
The confrontation for Koeglin's control had been going on for months.
The forest around the harbor had been cut by the defenders, as much to raise the wooden wall that now surrounded their city, as to clear the surroundings and discern the movements of the goblins.
Amidst the stumps that emerged from the dirty snow trampled by thousands of feet, humanoids clung around their shamans. The medicine men danced among the circles formed by the warriors who accompanied them by striking their coarse weapons against their shields.
It was a dreadful sound, tam-tams and flutes mingled as excited people beat like deaf people on Bretons helmets, some of which still rested on severed heads.
The shamans, in the midst of hysteria, grotesquely twisted and glared. They wore fur robes adorned with bones, feathers, skulls of small animals, and had their faces hidden behind hideous masks.
The Grand Shaman Grutbug stood squatting in a dirty fur nest on a shaky tower of trunks attached by vegetal ties. He was an old goblin with a painted face, wearing a wolf-skin cape, and a wolf skull covered his head.
He suddenly stood up and began to howl, foaming:
- Bronk... uglakush! Gûl! Gorgol mluuk goba muluk malikob sheg glob skai ya hoi!
In view of the hateful cries that answered him and the goblin warriors who were wielding their weapons, he probably had not just issued an invitation for the 5-hour tea party.
The assault on Koeglin was eminent.
The goblins gathered just beyond the reach of the Bretons. They were already two or three thousand, gathered around the totem of the different tribes participating in the siege.
The crowd of warriors made a terrifying spectacle. Their rusty weapons, their armors mixing corroded iron, rotten leather, dirty skins, furs and bones gave them a barbaric and repugnant appearance. Some rode giant wolves with dark and bristling fur. They accompanied the screams of their masters with sinister howls.
Elsewhere, goblins had parked durzogs. The fearsome sauroids trained like war dogs were also caught in the war frenzy of their masters. They jumped over the fences of their enclosures, growled, and sometimes came to fight among themselves.
Like a sea shaken by the storm, this crowd grew from several rivers of goblin warriors who poured out from the nearby camps abandoned by their garrisons.
More and more warriors were converging. Skirmishers armed with bows, Boxers, Berserkers, warlords, witches... Here and there, among them, we saw a different creature. Sometimes a sort of three-eyed gorilla chained and pulled by gesticulating goblins that scared him by waving torches. These enslaved trolls, however, were less terrifying than the knobby-muscle giants walking among the crowd. Their skin was dirty white, they had no hair. Their round head, their limp mouth opened in a stupid grin gave them the appearance of complete cretins. Their clothing was limited to studded leather bracelets on the wrists and a fur loincloth decorated with a belt of human skulls. As their only weapon, they held a huge club... almost a tree trunk.
The later chronicles estimated that the goblin army was 7000 humanoids strong.
A tense silence reigned over Koeglin. The militiamen squeezed cold against each other. Sitting in their coats, some were asleep. The vast majority were just waiting.
Two knights were kneeling among them. One of them looked through a spyglass towards the goblin crowd and commented on his findings to his neighbor. He sighed:
-I hope this hellish noise will soon stop!
- It is the shamans who pray to the god Malooc to grant them courage and invincibility in battle. When they stop, the assault will begin...
- This expectation is unbearable. The sooner the attack begins the better.
Many militiamen approved.
However, all were aware of the desperate nature of the battle that was about to begin. The beleaguered garrison, mainly of levies and mercenaries, was only 2,000 men. The "army" of Artoria Pendragon - their only reinforcement since the beginning of the siege- counted only two hundred fighters.
It was the two mangonels of the Koeglin garrison who opened hostilities. The lookouts installed on the lookouts that dominated the outer defenses had established a series of landmarks. When a troop of goblins crossed those who reported that they were within the range of the mangonels built by the defenders, they issued scoring instructions.
At their feet, the gunners pressed around, turning their war machine. Then, two big guys activated on the winch capstan to stretch the arm before lifting a stone ball covered with pitch and placing it in the spoon.
An officer carrying a torch set fire to the projectile, and then pulled a lever. Brutally released, the arm comes to hit the stop... and the flaming ball left the spoon. Its igneous trajectory passed over the rampart before falling back in the middle of a mass of goblins, crushing several small monsters, projecting around it stones, smoke, flames... it bounces, falls back further, bounces again... killing, injuring each time, sowing terror and disorganization.
The mercenary archers were veterans. They wore cloth armor under a steel chest. Helmets of various models: skull cap with nasal, burgonet, chapel-de-fer protected their heads. Their yew bows, almost as big as them, were powerful, but not very precise... but they did not need them, they were content to aim at the mass of the enemies. They were so numerous that their chances of touching were important.
"Ready to notch!"
The order had been shouted by an officer standing among the gunmen. He had drawn his sword and was looking at a lookout on one of the watchtowers. The latter had raised a hand...
"Notch it up!"
Together, each archer raised his arm over his left shoulder to shoot an arrow from the quiver beating in their back. They placed it on the rope but remained the bow lowered... anxious. The following order was not long in coming:
"Ready for hight-angle fire!"
They raised their bows almost vertically.
On the observation tower, the lookout had just lowered his arm. The officer turned to the mass of goblins running towards them. Some wore ladders, others pushed rams.
"Fire!"
The archers stretched out their bows in a great crackling, and released the rope... within a few seconds hundreds of arrows lit out, leaping towards the sky before gravity did its work, folding them down to the ground. They fell vertically on the invaders. Less than half of the strokes killed or wounded goblins... the others poked themselves in the ground. However, even these arrows were not useless, for they created obstacles, as did the dead and wounded who rolled to the ground.
The goblin assault was slowed down where the shots had claimed the most victims, creating an accordion phenomenon that disorganized the advance of the besiegers.
On one of the watchtowers stood Shiro, he watched the battlefield. He held out the right minute and blue prana butterflies condensed into an arrow which he placed on Archer's large black bow. The arrow flew, mortal, unstoppable...
There, far from the maximum range of ordinary bows, a goblin warlord riding a mighty wolf uttered a cry of pain and surprise... By reflex, he carried his hands to his breastplate where an arrow protruded. Then his eyes blurred and he slipped from his saddle.
The amber-eyed blacksmith was already looking for a new target.
A goblin witch was advancing with the warriors of her tribe. Dressed in a dirty grey dress, she resembled the other humanoids and her gender could only be guessed by the two small bumps on her chest. She wielded a big staff finished by the mummified head of the warlord of a rival clan... She brandished it in the direction of the rampart and immediately a whirlwind of frost appeared, striking the battlements, wounding and freezing the defenders.
Shiro fired and the witch was thrown back, an arrow between the two eyes.
The Magus continued, without rushing, calm, focused... an arrow on another warlord, on a standard-bearer leading an assault, a flaming arrow for a troll, a Daedric arrow against an ogre.
The goblins had also had war machines, tractions trebuchets. They were rather primitive ancestors of the trebuchet. It took dozens of gunners to operate them by back and forth movements. Although the projectiles had neither the range nor the weight of the balls thrown by the Bretons mangonels, they were accurate and aimed at one of the doors.
The latter was already beginning to vibrate under the blows and would probably break soon. Hundreds of goblins were already gathering in anticipation of the rush - necessarily victorious- that awaited them.
Except that a Magus wearing a red turtleneck sweater and combed with twintails had just come running, her legs illuminated with lines of blue light. She stopped at the door and raised her left sleeve. Her Magic Crest radiated, forming a labyrinthine pattern. With her eyes closed, focused, she reached for the damaged leaves:
"Das Schließen Vogelkäfig Echo."
A thin membrane of red light covered the exterior of the doors. The Boundary Field raised by Tohsaka did not even vibrate when a rock bounces on it. The young Japanese girl crossed her arms with a satisfied air, then lifted her nose with a haughty sigh: "Have fun, it is not by throwing rocks that you will break one of my spells!"
The tactics of the Great Shaman Grutbug were simple but effective, the goblin used tractions trebuchets and rams to simultaneously attack two doors at the ends of the wood wall, forcing the defenders to divide their attention between these two hot spots.
In addition, smaller groups of humanoids used ladders to invest different points of the rampart. This forced the Bretons to keep manpower all along the wooden wall... and thus deprived them of men where they were most needed.
Fortunately, the path was narrow. Only one man could hold him against the goblins... well, in theory, because there wasn't a man who could kill dozens of them by himself... right?
In recent months, Gonderic de Bel-Amant had developed an increasingly defensive style. Although Shiro gave him - once again- a traced copy of Durandal before the start of the battle, the knight had more confidence in his armor and his fairy shield.
His shield raised, he patiently waited for the goblins that could not circumvent it. He pared the attack, bending his knees slightly to take it... and retaliated when his opponent screamed with pain after receiving the damage returned by the Noble Phantasm. On Durandal attach was enough to finish the creature.
As he stopped the mass of the goblins, the archers on the watchtowers and the defense platforms of the second line of palisades could quietly line up the humanoids... Their arrows killed or wounded at least one opponent per minute, slowly decreasing the number of attackers. Unfortunately, most bridgeheads could only rely on ordinary humans to show down the humanoids and they survived only a few minutes the rush of the little green monsters. Nevertheless, even there, the defenses created by Mordane Hawkstone proved very effective and enemy losses multiplied.
However, the goblins that had just climbed the ladders deployed against a section of the wooden wall discovered that an individual in heavy armor and wielding a two-handed sword was eagerly waiting for them:
"So, you little bitches? Did we stop by on the way to talk? I hope for your sake that it was with a cemetery dealer and that you have reserved a place, my darling runts! Anyway, I have a friend who wants to meet you... "
In his hand, his ebony claymore ignited...
A few moments later, the goblins began to flow. Some even throw themselves into the void despite the stakes planted in the ditch and embankment. It could seem unbelievable that one man would trigger such a panic... But most of the people who met Estienne de Vignonne whispered that it was actually a daedra of Oblivion disguised...
The northeast gate was where the wooden wall met the cliff that dominated the harbor and under which the smugglers' caves lay.
Violent fighting was taking place there. The doors were now bristling with arrows. Many dead and dying goblins testified to fearless assaults each time repelled.
Nevertheless, the enemy did not give up. A new attack was preparing. A ram protected by a roof of solid wooden planks advanced towards the door. At the end of the chains oscillated a trunk of squared wood, the tip of which was covered with coarsely hammered steel.
Between each goblin pushing the siege machine moved another that raised a large shield to protect it.
The Breton archers started shooting and their arrows did some damage... only, the small monsters responded with arrows volleys that forced them to duck their heads to the shelter of the battlements.
"Fall back; I'll take care of it."
The defenders turned to the little woman who had just spoken... She seemed disarmed, but her armor, and especially her right gauntlet, was stained with blood. No one dared to contradict her, they had seen her fight. Ordinary humans would only interfere to her.
Left alone on the section of the rampart overlooking the door, Saber firmly camped, holding Excalibur in her hands. Her eyes narrowed, revealing a firm and determined mind. The wind suddenly began to swirl around the knight woman, making her hair dance, clasping her blue dress on her legs and clicking the armor blades that covered her limb.
Her Noble Phantasm now appeared as a fluctuating blue light as the multiple layers of Excalibur's air sheath crumbled. The sword vibrated, transmitting its vibrations to her arms, but Saber managed to remain motionless despite the power that condensed around her:
- O wind...
Artoria Pendragon brought the sword close to her ear while backing a foot to slit. Then, suddenly, Saber split as if she wanted to cut an opponent in front of her:
-Strike Air: Hammer of the Wind King!
A whirlwind sprang out of the blade, like a horizontal twister that ran toward the goblins that surrounded the ram. Clods of land lifted up by the mighty blast bombarded the suddenly immobilized humanoids that were desperately raising their arms in a childish attempt to defend themselves... for the wind was forcing again... and again.
A first goblin tore itself to the ground in an overactive howl immediately swallowed by the storm. He preceded his comrades who left the ground to be projected at tens of meters of height. The ram itself could not resist. It found itself dismantled by the power of the hurricane, boards, trunk, chains, wheels, disassembled, broken, were carried away...
When Saber lowered her Excalibur - once again invisible- the debris fell. The ram was no longer a threat. As for the goblins... let's say they were much less solid than a siege machine.
Pushed back first time with heavy losses, the goblins had gathered to attack again... and be pushed back again.
The battle had been going on for four hours when the third assault saw the tractions trebuchets break down a section of the ramparts. Immediately the enemy converged through the breach. Of course, depth's defense played its part. The attackers lost people in ambushes or by attacking the barricades. Yet the trolls, the ogres, and the wolf riders overcome this resistance... even if (again) it cost them heavy losses.
The militiamen armed with spears and shields had formed a hedgehog that now painfully contained the attackers. Nevertheless, isolated and attacked by many enemies, they were only selling their skin dearly.
However, a young-looking man, dressed in a white mage dress adorned with colored ribbons, came forward with a joyful air... about as comfortable as picking mushrooms. As trolls, ogres, and goblins turned on him, Merlin smiled:
"I'm just passing by, don't bother of me".
He held out his staff and a golden rain fell on the exhausted Bretons militiamen, closing their wounds and restoring their vigor.
The goblin leading the troupe wielded his sword and pointed it to the magician:
- Mllugulu garri mug duc, zaï.
Although he did not understand a goblin word, Merlin strongly approved:
- Yes, yes... Garry has a duke's mug! Thank you for teaching me, I didn't know it, my friend.
The humanoids had understood them and rushed towards him to kill him according to the order that their leader had given them. But none reached him... the half-incubus had hit the ground with his heavy magician's staff... and roots as thick as human arms came out of the ground to immobilize war wolves and warriors.
Merlin looked up at the top of a house transformed into a fort. He smiled at the young woman crouching on the roof:
"I leave the rest to you... His Majesty has ordered me to treat the wounded, not to take part in the fighting".
Annoyed at having been seen while she thought herself discreet, Toksaka stood up without a word. On her right forearm, her Magic Crest once again lit up, as she accessed the magical archives stored in these Magics Circuits bequeathed by her ancestors:
" Fiexiering Eile Salve!"
The Gandr shot was a runic curse among the most used by the Magi of the Earth. When Rin Tohsaka used it, she could concentrate enough magic energy for the curse to become capable of physical interference, giving it a stopping power comparable to a revolver bullet. It was called a Finn Shot. Nevertheless, some of Rin's ancestors were even more competent than her and the "Red Devil" had just appealed to their knowledge stored in the Crest of her family. Their Finn Shot matched a machine gun in power and fire rate...
With her finger outstretched, she focused a veritable barrage of black projectiles haloed in red on the monsters immobilized in the roots. One after the other, they collapsed in a bloody mess...
The noise was like thunder, the goblins occupied to attack the posts of defenses bristled with stake did not pay attention to it until they got into the alley which they were trying to conquer...
The knights in heavy shining steel armor had the invisible face behind armet helmets with visors and colored horsehair plumes. A shield with the arms of some noble house on the left arm, a lance several meters long on the right, they mounted powerful flank on steeds. Above them floated a banner showing a gauntlet squeezing a sword, all topped by a crown.
At their head, Baron Mordane Hawkstone lowered his long spear:
"For Koeglin, for Alcaire, and for the gods of Hight-Rock"
His war cry was taken to heart by his knights who charged the goblins in the mass. The spears pierced, enemies were thrown to the ground, trampled by the mounts of the gallants knights of Alcaire. Now plunged into the horde that was pouring into the fortifications, the knights dropped their useless spears to grab the weapon hanging from the hip of their saddle: axe for some, maces for others.
Leaning on the neckline of their steeds, they struck right and left, blushing the floor of goblin blood.
The Baron de Koeglin, however, continued to shout with his sword held over his head:
"To me, to me, o my people, rally to me, for victory!"
And his men heard it. The desperate levies, the disillusioned militiamen, the surrounded mercenaries, all heard it and the courage returned to them. They launched a general counter-attack.
The battle reached its apotheosis; everything was going to be played there.
At least they believed it...
A few hundred meters away, the Great Shaman had followed the whole battle through a crystal ball placed on a pedestal in front of his fur nest. He then leaned towards an impatient individual who was waiting for the opportunity to act:
- Now!
The individual with grey-black skin and completely red eyes winced with a predatory smile:
- Those dirty N'gwah will pay.
And the Dunmer uttered a short magic formula, waved his staff and... disappeared... literally. At one moment he was there and the next only a whirlwind of violet energy remained. He had just activated a Recall spell.
The Great Shaman Grutbug nodded slowly.
Most warlords attack their enemies from the periphery and strive to advance towards the center, which gives the enemy time to build a shell. It was silly... and as difficult as breaking a nut between two fingers.
It was unnecessary to break the outer defense of an enemy if we attack directly is core.
No one ever praised the goblin's intelligence. With good reason, most of them were complete fools... most of them, because the goblin society was pure meritocracy. Thus, to reach the rank of war leader, a goblin had to beat his predecessor in single combat and all those who would challenge him after that. However, cunning and assassination were the path of the shamans... the stupid shamans did not live long... and especially they did not become Great Shaman.
Cunning and cruel, the Great Shaman Grutbug had sacrificed thousands of his fellows' life for a mere diversion.
Only we didn't make more selfish people than goblins. And if they were not so cowardly and weak individually, there would never have been any Goblin tribes...
Shiro swore, it rarely happened to him... He had spent the whole battle with the unpleasant impression of having forgotten something.
Then he felt a very strong prana current. He had turned towards the source and strengthened his eyes to discover what was happening.
And he recognized him.
Erebel R'en, the Dark Elf mage who was supposed to be the traitor who allowed the goblins to attack the city the day before yesterday. It is true that the Hand of Glory-shaped tattoo on Erebel's cheek helped a lot, it was an infrequent feature.
The Dunmer cast had just materialized just behind Artoria. He wore a very bright yellow and orange dress and a giant insect chitin stick from Vvanderfell. On his neck was a jade amulet depicting a beetle.
He threw a crystal sphere to the ground and whispered an incantation.
Humanoid creatures materialized. They wore black and red daedric armors and helmets depicting howling faces adorned with short curved horns and a mane of red hairs acting as hair:
" Dremoras!"
Of all the inhabitants of the Oblivion plan, the Daedras offered the best compromise between power and discipline. People of mages, blacksmiths, and warriors, they formed the main legions of the Daedrics Princes.
Saber's instinct was like some sort of precognition. Even attacked by opponents who appeared magically behind her back, she managed to dodge the assault of the first Dremora and to jump remotely to get back on guard.
Her eyes quickly crossed the ranks of his new enemies, four individuals in armor as horrible as strangely beautiful. They all looked alike... except that each had a different weapon: a Daedric no-dashi (1), a sword and a shield, a mace and a shield, a katana... but with his left hand, the last threw a spark of fire that Artoria dodged.
Behind them was a dunmer mage, visibly their invocator.
As for her allies... the ordinary soldiers were fleeing. Nevertheless, she saw Gonderic and Estienne pull up the panicked crowd.
The no-dashi warrior went forward, this was a brief engagement, Saber's invisible sword and the long katana colliding with each other throwing sparks. As they remained blocked in crossada, each weighing to give way the other an electric arc arose from the two blades crossed before hitting a wall two meters away.
Seeing the opportunity to strike, the Dremora, armed with a sword and a mace, threw himself forward. Saber pivoted on a hip with the grace of a dancer, releasing his first opponent with a kick. She was planning to attack the second enemy... but not completely... her left arm covered with ice.
Saber's mouth corner rose in a smile... she loved challenges; she was going to be served. Each opponent was stronger than a human, with weapons and enchanted armor and at least one of them used magic.
The spell caster wanted to attack, but at that moment an arrow pierced his chest. The attack was not enough to kill him, but it hurt... Above all, he ran to shelter, looking for the opponent who had attacked him.
Artoria's smile increased. She knew that the arrow had been fired by Shiro, the precision and speed exceeded anything humanly possible.
Erebel R'en, who was watching the fight, was starting to find it a little too balanced. He touched the fetish on his neck, a powerful magical object called "the Admonition Amulet". A ray of ice appeared and struck Artoria.
Saber was instantly transformed into an ice statue. The frozen case completely immobilized her and slowy drained her vital energy.
"Finish her before our enemies wake up, you fools!" Swore Erebel R'en.
The Dremoras disliked their summoner, but fate left them no choice but to obey. They approached, lifting their weapons to strike the motionless form.
However, Artoria was not defenseless. She had reincarnated herself in the flesh of a Breton girl, the race most resistant to the magic of all Tamriel, and the Dragon's Blood further amplified this gift. Her resistance to magic remained inferior to that which she had had as a Servant with a prana body...
Yes, but she had reclaimed her greatest asset...
"Avalon"
The shape of Excalibur's golden sheath appeared before Saber, floating in the air. It radiated a golden light that enveloped the shroud of ice. The next moment it began to crack while a dazzling golden glow filtered through the cracks. It exploded then and Artoria appeared free, haloed of light...
Erebel R'en swore and held out his magical staff. An impressive electric shock came out and ran towards Saber... disappearing before touching her. Because Avalon, the Everdistant Utopia is a Bonded Field similar to a "portable fortress" making its carrier invulnerable to all forms of Magecraft and even to the Five True Magic.
The Dark Elf Wizard retreated, frightened...
"No mortal can... its impossible... I..."
A flock of gandrs struck him at that moment. The ostalium armor he wore under his dress saved his life. He recovers one hand on his injured hip, taking out a healing potion, absorbing it before turning on Rin who looked at him furiously:
"Why don't you go after a magus, renegade?"
As Gonderic de Bel-Amant and Estienne de Vignonne had joined the fight, the confrontation suddenly became so complex that it became impossible for an outside observer to follow. Four Dremoras and a Dunmer Mage faced Artoria, Rin, Shiro, and the two Breton knights.
Magical spells and weapons clashed in demonstrations of amazing talents and power. None of the adversaries could be described as weak and the fight brought terror and admiration to all who saw it. However...
Saber alone had been able to play even against all opponents. Supported by her friends, the King of Knights could easily win.
After a quick exchange of blows against the Dremora armed with a sword and a shield, she blocked the assault of the one who used a no-dashi and focused on this enemy while Estienne took her previous opponent.
The Dremoras felt fear... and respect. Though cruel and contemptuous towards humans, they were honorable in their own way. Grasping his long katana with firmness, the demon of Oblivion saluted with his blade. Saber replied likewise.
With a brutal cry, the horned humanoid rushed forward in an attack, betting everything on a single movement. One might think it was a mistake... a brutal bet... In fact, it was a thoughtful choice and its only chance to win.
The Dremora understood that he had no chance of winning in a prolonged fight. Nevertheless, Artoria understood the maneuver... anticipating it with her superb instinct... and center it with taking a side step aside before making her sword whistle horizontally.
The movement, however simple, had been perfectly timed. She had struck at the moment when the opponent was unbalanced and his blade carried away was whistling in the void.
The helmeted head of the Dremora bounced in the snow as the demon fell to his knees before collapsing.
Shiro had some difficulties against the Dremora war mage. Not only was his katana poisoned- he had to thank Structural Analyse for noticing it- but most of his own weapons were ineffective against him. As a daedra, it was a supernatural creature invulnerable to all weapons that were not made of mithril, ebony, adamantium, daedric or orichalcum.
Determined to fight fire with fire, he then traced the Daedric Crescent, a powerful weapon originating from the plans of Oblivion that looked like a crescent moon almost as big as a man. This weapon proscribed by the Empire recalled bad memories, especially the assault of Batlespire by the legions of Mehrunes Dagon.
It was of a strange weapon since it was necessary to hold the Crescent in the middle and fight while dancing with the blade. However, the particularity of Unlimited Blade Work was that Shiro can handle every weapon stored within it as if he was the original owner.
When he first struck the demonic war mage, the enemy was paralyzed as his armor corroded, defeated by the curse of the weapon.
Shiro felt slight remorse in killing the Daedra but... the reading of his katana had taught him that he was a brutal warrior who had the blood of countless innocents on his hands. In fact, the weapon itself had been forged by sacrificing one of its kinds to give it its power. Moreover, like all his peers, his death would only be temporary. One day or another, he would be reincarnated.
Shiro raised the Daedric Crescent, creating a sphere of green light between the two blades. The light enveloped the demon who screamed before disappearing... expelled to the Outer Realms.
Fast and nimble thanks to Reinforcement, trained in martial arts since childhood by Kirei Kotomine himself, Rin was much more than just a Magus.
She whirled around Erebel R'en, assailed him from any angles, performed a backflip to send him one of her soul gem, and then fell back to the ground to move away quickly.
The Dark Elf threw fire and lightning after her, he froze the ground and created poisoned clouds... but never his spells touched the "Red Devil". She literally mocked his efforts, laughing at him as she escaped his attacks... and then punched him in the back.
He had tried to hypnotize her, to curse her... except that her Magic Circuits drove his influence away under a flood of prana.
Erebel R'en had used all his potions of healing or magic restoration; his rings, his staff, and his amulet were discharged.
Rin had waited for this moment, she jumped... her elbow plunged into his sternum and he collapsed as if he was hurt by the charge of a rhinoceros.
The last two daedras had been held by the Brétons knights. Gonderic had wounded his enemy several times... but Estienne was rather in trouble when Shiro had arrived to cut his opponent in two. And the last demon falling, pierced by Excalibur.
The Great Shaman Grutbug had followed the confrontation in his crystal ball. Opening a box, he drew a potion and drank it. The heat that invaded him drove away for a moment the effects of age.
Descending from his platform, Grutbug gathered a group of ogre around him and began a prayer to the god Malooc...
The Dunmers weren't the only ones who knew about teleportation. During the war against the Redguards, the goblins made ample use of this power granted to them by their god, especially to supply their besieged fortresses.
The Great Shaman Grutbug disappeared with the ogres and reappeared behind the Bretons troops fighting against the goblins coming out of the breach in the wood wall.
Leaving behind the troops he had brought, he disappeared to reappear behind one of the doors of the wooden wall.
Before the defenders recovered from the surprise, he began to dance and jump, twirling and brandishing his staff... flames came out of it. Rising, they formed a sphere that grew, grew... reaching a volume of a meter wide:
"Gash!"
At this order, the projectile of fire fired and collided with the door. The explosion was very violent, throwing trunks, earth, and corpses in all directions. Having lifted a magic shield to protect himself, Grutbug was barely shaken. He smiled at the sight of the enormous crater which had replaced a part of the fortifications. As the smoke and dust fell, he heard the trampling of thousands of feet. Shadows came out of the clouds of ashes... the goblins entered through the second breach.
(1) Two hands Katana.