פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

Chapter Twenty-Nine: First Day

Manetheren city disappeared in the veil of rain. The tall spires and victorious towers became faint shadows until they too fell away from vision. The night's bloody events too were washed away by the steady downpour.

General Diest Arcanum looked forward and resumed his walk through the ankle-deep mud, already feeling the wetness seeping into his boots. He would have very much preferred to be riding at that point. But he'd also have preferred that the catapults arrived at the front on time, so he gritted his teeth and slogged on towards Captain Blake of the leading team.

"Captain! I'm going back to check on the cargo. For now, the fleet is at your disposal. On arrival, get all the teams set up." He yelled over the rain.

"Acknowledged." Blake gave a short nod, the water flowing around his visor, "Good luck."

Arcanum gave a thumbs up, and circled around the train of catapults, heading back to check on the status of the Special Armaments.

"Everything checks out?" He asked as soon as he saw Tirium.

"It took all of your influence and mine to get the Marshall General to release the iron we needed." Tirium patted the load on the nearby cart. "He doesn't seem too fond of you. If this plan of yours doesn't work out, we're in hot water."

"Aye, a Trolloc's pot." Arcanum replied dryly, "Did you get him to relinquish the other?"

"Yes, we got them all bunched and stacked ready back at the South Gate. After we unload the rods, we'll need to make several trips with these horses to transport them here. But from the looks of this weather, we're not going to be able to use them for a while."

"Alright, the front's near. I can trust you to distribute these?" Arcanum motioned forward to the affirmative. He quickly outdistanced the wagons to arrive at the catapults' dock zone. Prefabricated platforms were already in place, to give the cats elevation in the otherwise flat plain. Arcanum shook out his newest watch-glass and took his first peek of the battle. The river Tarendrelle stood between the two forces, swollen to almost double its size by the constant rain. Tendrils of Trollocs extended from the main body, attempting to ford the river, but most were swept away downriver.

"Map here!" Arcanum called out. This was as good a vantage point as any to command. Two soldiers hurried up with the makeshift post, staking the stand into the ground. A cured canvas relief of the battlefield was nailed securely onto the board. Arcanum ran his fingers over the smooth map, then procured two oil-soaked torches to provide sputtering light.

"Message podium up, sir!" Someone shouted to Arcanum. Arcanum raised a hand, signaling for a test flare. The signaler on top circled his fingers in acknowledgement, and raised his torch. It flickered under the assault of the rain, but it should be able to be seen by all the cat teams

"Sir, how goes the front?" Captain Blake yelled from atop one of the catapult platforms.

"Stalemate. This storm they cooked up is actually working against them." Brief flashes of fire and explosion sprinkled through the watch-glass. "The river is overflowing and they can't do anything until their storm lets up. Although the Dreadlords are taking a number on our men. How soon can we start firing back?"

"Right now! But we have no vision, so we'll need some ranges."

"Five waves of naphtha at maximum range then work your way to dry ordinance. Remember, better to overshoot than undershoot." Arcanum replied, waving to the message platform.

The signaler unfurled his torch again, raising it high in the air. Sparks of fire waved in reply, and there was a hum of catapults firing simultaneously. Glowing red missiles arched across the air, wavering in visibility through the rain. They curved almost beyond the horizon, slamming down to create a massive arch of fire, heedless of the waterlogged land.

"By Caldazar, these are beautiful engines." Arcanum watched the second wave flare across the sky. And a third. But this one was drowned out by the flash of blinding lightning.

A platform collapsed in fire, sparks dying on the smoldering heap of burnt timber and flesh. In a never-ending chain, lightning lashed the battlefield, burning a swathe of ashes across the landscape. But the men of Thunder Legion were disciplined and their shots never hesitated.

"What's going on, General?" Blake suddenly called.

Arcanum turned to see engineers climbing aboard the platforms. "Lightning rods. Solid iron tip and center, and twice the height of a man. If the Dreadlords intend to strike with lightning, then we will give them something to strike, in place of ourselves."

The rods were mounted and grounded quickly with chain anchors, and throughout the battlefield, similar contraptions were affixed to soak the Dreadlords' ire. Assuming that the Dreadlords did not have complete mastery over the storm, especially over such a large area.

"Metal attracts lightning, then? Fire!"

"Yes, at least from personal experience." Arcanum could see the tall spikes rising across all the battlefront, like the back of a bristling spinerat.

"Cut range! Then why are we wearing steel helmets?" Blake shouted.

"Your sharp wit is wasted on us, captain!" Arcanum saw a messenger riding towards him. "Yes?"

"The Trollocs are landing bridges across the river. The Marshall General wants you to take them out." The messenger steadied his panicking horse as another lightning crackled down near, coursing down one of the rods in the vicinity.

"That's too risky!" Arcanum replied, "Half of our misses would hit our own men."

"Then don't miss. The Dreadlords are raking through our front lines. If the Trollocs get a beachhead, we might not be able to stop their advance. This river is the only thing we've got! You know what you need to do!" The messenger saluted, and spurred his horse onwards.

Arcanum did not return the salute, "Blake, you see those bridges he was talking about?"

"Barely. Looks nasty. It's going to be tough shots."

"You think you can hit them?"

Blake replied with the firing crack of his catapult. Arcanum watched its descent, slamming squarely into one the dark log-bridges milling with Trollocs. It split its spine and the advancing Trollocs were dragged into the watery depths.

Other skilled catapult teams followed suit, raining boulders into the river, snapping wood and bones alike, sending geysers of water nearly twenty feet into the air. However, one unlucky –and to Arcanum, inevitable- shot missed its target range, bowling into the soldiers guarding the bank, killing half a dozen before they even realized they were dead. Arcanum grimaced, closing his eyes. Trollocs in front and catapults in the back. The foot soldiers' lives hung on the balance of a knife edge.

For a second Arcanum thought no one had seen it. Then, the catapults all became silent.

"Your posts, gentlemen!" Arcanum screamed, "They did their duties. You will too!"

There was a dangerous silence that even drowned out the crash of thunder. Arcanum breathed into the mist, holding his breath. Come on. This is not the time. Do not force this.

There was a single crack of a catapult. Another missile ascended, and the rest fired their acquiescence. Arcanum sighed as the staccato barking of catapults filled the air once more.

"Thank you, Blake." Arcanum spoke into the rain.

"Wasn't me." Was the curt and barking reply.

Arcanum turned his face upwards, letting the cool rain tap against his skin. Was the storm letting? The fierce storm had subsided to a hard drizzle, although the darkness still remained. He could see faint stars through the sheets of water. How fast the day has gone. The drizzle slowed to a gentle mist, before the storm clouds passed them lazily towards the west. The rumble of thunder was still ominous but distant.

"General!" Tirium appeared beside him, the torch in his hand lighting a face wet and brimming with exertion.

"Is everything prepared for our show?" Arcanum greeted him.

"There have been some minor setbacks. Dampness issues, but I think ninety-eight percent are in working condition. An excellent yield, given the conditions."

"Good, I have a feeling. Be prepared to give the signal." Arcanum stared across the field of battle. Like fireflies, torches were lit against the approach of night, blooming until the entire riverbank ran with ember lights. Beyond the river, there were no torches, only crawling and seething darkness. "They are planning something. I do not know how long before the river falls to a fordable level, but I do know they have something planned. It's a waiting game. Until the river lowers, we can only simply gaze across the black sea and fear the weight of numbers closing on us. How did the lightning rod dispersal go?"

"We managed to seed most of the ranks. They took a heavy beating from lightning strikes already. So in other words, a complete success." Tirium peered down at the General's Map. "How recent is this?"

Before Arcanum could reply, he felt the soil shifting almost imperceptibly beneath his feet. Like a feeling of change of altitude felt deep inside the guts but almost unrealized by the eyes. He grabbed on to the wooden stand for balance, "You feel that?"

"Yeah, feels like the ground is changing shape, like something is under us." Tirium answered, "Something big."

At those words, images coalesced in Arcanum's minds, images of the ground belching forth worm-creatures like those they had fought at Thakan'dar. Images of their flanks crushed beneath the heel of earth demons. There was a stir in the legions, as each felt the rumbling of the ground, each imagining and remembering the possibilities.

"The river!" Arcanum shouted, as he stared through his water-glass. "It's the river. Something's happening there!" Right before his eyes, the river quivered in black sloshes, circling in a rippling maelstrom of froth and spray. A line appeared across the center of the river, a chasm that sunk below, pulling and draining the water down. "By Caldazar, they're forcing the water underneath!"

As soon as the water began its descent, the entire Horde front stormed into the water, heedless of the violent suction that had appeared. They splashed across fierce knee-high water, and slammed into the first fortification. The battle had been met in earnest.

The men were taken by surprise. First the river had seemed crazed and possessed, and now the Shadowspawn were on them, striking from the darkness into the sphere of their torches. The lines bulged and broke, as soldiers retreated back behind fieldworks and fieldworks. They could not be stopped, breaking and spilling over men and steel like the flood they had passed. Arcanum could only stare across as the torchlights were extinguished by the wave of blackness. This was night. This was not their element. They had to make it their element or be broken.

"Tirium, how soon can you start them?" The lines were buckling and torches were falling dead by the droves.

"Now." The engineer nodded grimly, an Arbalest in hand. He dipped the bolt head in the torch until the steel point glowed orange, and raised it toward the sky. The bolt traced a gold-red path up into the sky, burning into ambers until it faded from the vision.

Arcanum stared after it, into the dark water-logged sky, staring and waiting. Below them, the battle was joined between night and day, and the light was diminishing. Then from the horizon came a white shooting star that was no star at all. It streaked above the battleground, appearing to float there before its fire was extinguished.

"The tracer." Tirium whispered. "It is a good sign."

Five more glowing embers followed the first, their trails slicing glowing wounds through the darkness. Then they exploded in a glittering shower that for one moment lit the sky and earth. One thunderclap. Arcanum sensed the ponderous pause. Men and beasts turned their faces skyward at the brilliant gems.

Then came the torrent of fire. The sky was split asunder by the white trails that assumed from the horizon. Light and sound bloomed into being, cinders descending like the boughs of a million-tendriled weeping willow. Four thousand tons of fireworks shrieked into the sky, enough to light the battlefield with a second sun. The black frothing river became a shimmering white glow.

Five Fire Blossoms sowed the sky as Thunder Howlers shook the fiber of every being, leaving vibrations scoring through Arcanum's nerves. There were Blue Lances, Angel Flares, Silver Skates, Droomalongs, Daggerfall, Sky Python, and even a Red Heart.

The explosion of the fireworks drummed a steady beat into their eardrums, a pulsating that stirred the blood and awakened the thousands of chemicals flowing through the bloodstream, charging the heart. This was the Feastday, their days of days. This was their element again, light and sound and fire, and the rippling sea of torches solidified and expanded outwards.

The Trolloc ranks fell immediately into panic and then rout under the assault. For Trollocs had never seen a fireworks show, and it must have seemed that the heaven was on fire, the embers appearing to fall right onto their very heads. They were blinded by the searing light, their cloak of safety torn away by the Engineering Corps' devastating attack.

If the world was a stage, then this battle was the centerpiece. Arcanum had been an avid fan of the theater in his youth, with a box seat in the Coratheren Philharmonics, but this spread before him was the drama that could never be matched. At first glance, the lightshow of the sky might be seen as the production, but it was only the orchestra in the deep of the pits, its music and vibrance only to serve the true tragedy and comedy. For below, men fought and died, their lives intermittent torches that burned ever so small and insignificant, but together made a stand so vast that it was a field of blaze. It was a terrible song and a terrible dance, but Arcanum was trapped in the stage, his eyes frozen to the choreography. This was what it was to be a god, to watch the rise and fall of mortals, the passion trapped and unleashed, the magnitude of infinity.

That was their stage. This was their orchestra. Arcanum let the wash of life sweep over him. Let the Great Alliance watch the skies and wonder at the maelstrom that centered over Manetheren. Let the world see that they are completely alive. Let them see that they would not go gently into that good night. No, for in that play, the finale yet waits.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ