Chapter Nineteen: Return Engagement

Sir Derren didn't know what to think of the young Bedamin nomad who was leading him and the contingent of Centralian soldiers through the hidden camel paths that ran through the mountains that divided the Mneaphite Empire in half.

The second-in-command of the 1st Element flicked his gaze up towards the eastern horizon as he stepped over a large crevice in the stone path. The horizon was brightening as the sun, hidden away somewhere on the other side of Gielinor, prepared to make its daily trek through the skies. It wasn't bright yet—there was only a faint glimmer of dark blue that was just bright enough to stand out from the rest of the black sky.

Dawn was approaching, which meant that Athellenas probably had the legions up and moving at this moment. Sir Derren and his strike team would have to hurry it up.

Athellenas had set Sir Derren aside and given him direct command of small, mixed force of roughly fifty or so swordsmen and archers from the IV Legion—about half the size of a normal company. Accompanying him were Sir Orestes, the centurion who was second-in-command of the IV Legion—Athellenas would not send in General Sinclair—and ten of Sir Brezhnov's artillerists. These men were explosives specialists—the men who created the exploding projectiles fired by the gunnery cannons.

These men were integral to the Warmaster's plan. None of them were armed—that was because each of them carried a high-explosive cannon shell on their backs, as well as necessary materials to set them off. The engineers' faces were slick with sweat from the exertion of lugging the heavy shells up through the Bedabin camel paths. It was good that they were doing this before dawn—carrying those shells in the burning afternoon sun probably would have killed them.

"How much further, Salameh?" Sir Derren whispered to the Bedabin nomad who was guiding them.

"No very far, no very far," the desert tribesman replied in broken Commonspeak. "Around next bend."

The Centralians moved in a single-file line—the camel path was too narrow to allow larger formations. The soldiers were easing out their nervous ticks as they moved closer to their destination—swordsmen sharpened or polished their blades, archers tightened and adjusted their bowstrings; everyone had his own way of ignoring the stress.

Sir Derren knew that they had already passed the Shantay Wall, based on the amount of time they had been moving, as well as their pace. Stealth was going to be more key than strength. The longer Sir Derren's contingent could go without being detected, the better. Fifty soldiers weren't going to last long against fourteen thousand monsters if they were discovered too soon. Especially if Fel-Ungrroth, the five-tailed demon, heard them.

Eventually, the strike force came across an even smaller path that ran off from the main route, winding down the slope of the mountain towards the valley below. It was a spot where the sheer cliffs were temporarily broken by an earthen slope…probably an old landslide.

"This is it?" Sir Derren inquired.

Salameh nodded. "You go down path, you behind Shantay Wall."

Sir Derren nodded, satisfied. "You've done a good job, here. You may return to your home, if you wish. However, if we win this battle, the Warmaster will reward you for your services. You can return home or to our camp. The choice is yours. Either way, you need not accompany us any further."

The nomad bowed his head, murmuring something in Arrish, and stole away into the shadows. Within seconds, he was gone.

"Move out," Sir Orestes whispered to his men. Sir Derren led the way, silently sliding down the winding path. It took over half an hour for all fifty-odd men to navigate the treacherous trail. It switchbacked a lot, preventing it from getting too steep, but it was still perilously easy to lose one's footing and fall off the side.

The trail never made it all the way down to the bottom of the valley—it just gradually grew more and more rocky and steep until it just plain vanished. The strike team was forced to slide down the rest of the way. This was especially hard for the engineers, but they managed. Sir Derren's respect for Sir Brezhnov's men was increasing by the minute.

Suddenly, there was a snuffling sound, accompanied by tumbling gravel. Something else had been on the hill. Sir Derren spotted two glowing yellow eyes in the darkness and instantly recognized them as eyes of a werewolf. He had seen the same sight over and over when fighting in Iunu.

"Martland!" Sir Derren whisper-shouted to the best archer in the contingent, gesturing at the nearby werewolf. "Before it can alert the horde!"

Martland, an older, red-haired gentlemen from the forests of the Far Reaches in the West, was already nocking an arrow to his longbow. He raised his weapon, took a breath, and released the string with a resounding twang. The arrow hissed as it rushed through the night. There was a dull thud, accompanied by a distinctly canine yelp of pain…and then the thud of a corpse hitting the ground.

Scratch one werewolf.

Sir Derren allowed himself a small sigh of relief. "Good shot," the young knight said to the veteran archer.

"Sir," Martland nodded.

Sir Derren got the men moving again. He could not help but wince every time an armor plate clanked, or a man grunted, or a boot crunched on stone rather than sand. He hugged the cliff of the mountain which Salameh had just led them through, doubling back in the direction of the Shantay Wall. The other cliff face was three or so kilometers distant…and the space in between the two sides was filled with the horde under Fel-Ungrroth. Thousands and thousands of monsters, either sleeping or sitting idle.

Sir Derren closed his eyes and uttered a quick prayer to Saradomin for the safety of his men. If they were discovered now…the plan wouldn't work, they would all die, and Athellenas would never break through the Wall. Thammaron would continue to burn the Menaphite Empire unchecked.

There had been reports of unrest growing in the Hallowlands in the east, the homeland of the Iceyene. Athellenas had not elaborated on the reports, nor had Sir Derren pressed him. However, the seed had been planted. Zamorak's influence was reaching to other places besides this accursed desert.

First the Menaphite Empire, now possibly the Hallowlands and the regions lying to their immediate north…Centralia would soon find itself very much alone if this dark tide was not turned back.

"Patrol!" Sir Orestes whisper-shouted suddenly. "Get down!"

Sir Derren cursed himself for his lapse in concentration as the members of the strike force all hunkered down behind the boulders that lined the bottom of the cliff face. A small force of ten or so death knights tromped by, heading for the wall to bolster the forces there. Or maybe they were just relieving another force, in which case Sir Derren would have to watch for another force of returning monsters.

Once the death knights had passed out of earshot, Sir Orestes got everyone up and moving again. The artillerists muttered a few choice oaths under their breath as they shouldered the burdens of the high-explosive cannon shells while the surrounding soldiers lent a hand to keep them from losing their balance.

Sir Derren led the way, moving through the rapidly-dwindling night towards the Wall. The looming outlines of the great structure were clearly visible against the dark sky, as well as the small figures that were visibly moving around the ramparts.

Warmaster Athellenas hadn't been too worried about the monsters manning the Wall. They would be too focused on watching the 1st Element—the last thing they would be doing was watching the base of the wall behind them.

Sir Derren picked up the pace as he went. Athellenas's legions were bound to be close. They would remain undetected until Sir Derren successfully opened the gate—Paladin Anesti was coordinating with the dozens of mages serving in the 1st Element to throw up a large-scale cloaking spell which would shield the legions from the eyes of the monsters manning the Shantay Wall's ramparts.

That was not the reason why Sir Derren was anxious to get a move on. He wanted to move faster simply because if they took too much longer, the sun would rise, and if that gate wasn't open yet, they were all dead men. The only reason they were undetected now was because of the cover of darkness. Once the sun rose...that darkness was gone.

Although Sir Derren's concerns were legitimate ones, they were unfounded. The strike team reached the Shantay Wall before the eastern horizon even began to turn red. It was still just a lightish blue. The strike team still had time.

Five death knights and twenty werewolves were at the gate. The werewolves were all asleep, snuffling and growling softly as they chased down prey in their dreams. The death knights never slept, however; they stood across the gate in a straight, unyielding line, somewhat vigilant of the area to their front.

And yet, even these death knights, Sir Derren could tell, were far from expecting an attack from behind the Shantay Wall. They had been ordered to guard the gate, and they performed this task tirelessly, but they did not guard it with any sort of zeal.

Sir Derren cursed quietly, anyhow. He hadn't been expecting any company at the gate. The young knight let out a sigh and rolled his shoulders in a resigned shrug. They would simply just have to deal with those monsters.

The catch was how they would go about killing those monsters. They couldn't just charge in there and slaughter them—that would wake the werewolves. If just one of those werewolves howled and alerted the nearby forces of Fel-Ungrroth's horde, the strike team was dead. It would be impossible to silence all twenty werewolves before at least one of them alerted its comrades.

They couldn't just sneak up on them, either, with the death knights keeping a watch. Killing the death knights at range would rouse the werewolves…killing the werewolves at range would alert the death knights… And trying to kill the death knights in close quarters combat was suicide for most men.

This was going to have to be highly coordinated.

"Orestes," Sir Derren slid over to the senior centurion of the IV Legion. "Take the swordsmen. Assign each man to a werewolf—double up if you have to. Once I give the signal, you'll have to take out all those werewolves at the same time, before they wake up."

Sir Orestes pursed his lips thoughtfully, considering the plan. "What's the signal, if I may ask?"

Sir Derren smiled. "The signal will be those death knights dying."

While Sir Orestes organized the score of swordsmen, Sir Derren gathered all of the archers, moving them out and around the front of the gate. They all hunkered down, flattening themselves behind the various boulders that were strewn about the area. There were twenty-two archers in the strike team, all of them handpicked by General Sinclair. Sir Derren and Martland divided the archers into three groups of four and two groups of five.

"I want each group to set your aim at one of the death knights," Sir Derren ordered. "On my command, you will open fire. We will take all five of those bastards down at the same time."

"Aim for the neck…" Martland advised as the archers as they silently nocked their bows. "It is the one weak point on their armor that rewards you with a kill if it is hit."

Sir Derren had no illusions that every archer was going to hit their target. The idea was that at least one man in each group would be able to take down their assigned death knight. Powerful fighters as death knights were, a well-placed arrow felled them as easily as a normal human.

The ten engineers hung back with the archers as well, lying in the sand, clutching their cannon shells. They didn't make a sound.

Sir Derren issued the appropriate commands, hoping that Sir Orestes was ready. He had given the senior centurion ample time, though…so that was that. "Take aim…draw…" Sir Derren took a deep breath and moved to wipe the sweat off his brow before remembering that his forehead was covered by his full helmet. He let his hand fall back to his side and gave the final command. "Fire."

The twang of a bowstring sending its arrow forward rang out as the archers released. The hissing of arrows filled the night, followed quickly by the clanking of the arrows hitting the armor of the death knights.

To Sir Derren's dismay, only three of the death knights fell. Another was wounded, and the fifth got off scot-free.

Martland uttered a harsh curse under his breath and quickly nocked another arrow in a single quick, smooth movement. He loosed the arrow, which thudded right into the unharmed death knight's visor slit. The creature gave a low hiss and crumpled to the ground. The dead death knights' corpses gave off a faint dark mist before their armor violently imploded into tiny balls of crumpled metal.

The early morning was suddenly filled with the sound of the swordsmen plunging their blades into all of the werewolves at the same time. It was a hard sound to describe—the sound of metal sliding through flesh and bone—but Sir Derren knew it well. Some of the werewolves were able to yelp in surprise, but that was it. They were efficiently dispatched.

The lone death knight twirled its blade and plunged it into the side of one of the Centralian swordsman. The man howled in agony and sank to his knees. The death knight recovered from its first blow and raised its sword, preparing to cleave the man from shoulder to waist.

It didn't get far. Sir Orestes swooped in next to the death knight, bringing his own blade slicing down into the crease between the death knight's arm armor and its gauntlet. The creature did not make a sound as the cold steel lopped its weapon hand right off. The sword thudded into the sand, along with the armored hand that was still grasping it.

The death knight hissed and brought its other hand around, backhanding Sir Orestes across the face, sending the senior centurion of the IV Legion flying. The death knight then quickly cut its losses and fled. Its mission had been to guard the gate and—failing that—to alert the rest of the horde of any attacks on it.

Sir Derren's strike team qualified as an attack.

The young knight didn't even bother sending anyone after the death knight; it was too late to stop it. While several of the soldiers pulled their heavily wounded comrade away from the carnage, Sir Derren motioned Sir Brezhnov's engineers forward.

The ten men gratefully obeyed; glad to finally be rid of their burdens. Each man hurried up to the gate, stepping over the strewn bodies of the werewolves, and planted their explosive cannon shell at the base of the massive wooden structure. Once all ten shells had been planted, the engineers then set about fitting them with lengths of fuse cord. The reasoning was that they would light one large fuse cord, which split into ten smaller strands. All it took was for one strand to ignite one of the shells—the detonation of one shell would trigger the detonation of all the others.

As they set about completing this task, a sudden alarm rose up further on down the Pass in the form of a loud horn blast. Several other, more distant horn blasts took up the call and relayed it. The message was clear: intruders.

Shouts and roars rose up from the enemy encampments. Deeper into the horde's camp, a dull red light appeared, silhouetting a dark, wavering shape which was roaring and gesturing for the monsters to get up and move. Sir Derren's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the shape of the five-tailed demon.

Fel-Ungrroth was on its way. They had to hurry the hell up.

"Explosives are set!" one of the artillerists screamed as one of his compatriots struck a flint and lit the fuse, which instantly burst aflame, sparking and popping as the fire ate its way towards the cannon shells.

The engineers leapt to their feet and ran like crazy away from the gate. "Get clear! Get clear!" they were shouting.

Everyone backed up a couple dozen paces, and rightly so. Even though Sir Derren was a fair distance away from the gate, his eyebrows were still singed by the intense heat of the ensuing explosion.

The fuses burned all the way and ignited the ten shells. The combined blast made everyone's ears ring, and anyone who watched the initial conflagration was completely blinded for a few seconds.

A roaring geyser of flame shot up into the sky as the gate was obliterated. The shells did their job a lot better than Sir Brezhnov thought they would, else he would have sent less than ten to do the job. Not only was the gate blown to pieces, the wall above it was also completely pulverized by the force of the explosion. Blackened chunks of the white stone went flying in every direction. Monsters on the wall screamed as they were consumed by the flames or pulped by the flying debris.

Another horn blast rang out, but it was different than the one from the horde's encampment. This horn blast was higher-pitched and more refined than the raw gout of sound from the monsters.

Sir Derren barely had time to clear everyone away from the ragged chasm in the Shantay Wall before rank upon rank of Centralian cavalry thundered through the breach. Sir Haverell was at the head of the mass of cavalry, his green-tinged armor reflecting the torchlight of his men like a chandelier.

As if it were timed, the first streaks of sunlight shot through the sky as the cavalry thundered through. Men drew their swords, hoarse battle-cries rising into the sky for Saradomin himself to hear.

Athellenas's forces had gotten closer to the wall than Sir Derren had expected. He was by no means complaining, though. Had it taken longer for the cavalry to get through, the forerunners of the rousing horde probably would have made it to his position.

After a minute, the entire force of the 1st Element's cavalry was through the wall, and the infantry started to march through in formation. First to emerge were the stone-faced troopers bearing the red hawk standard of the X Legion, led by General Airoh.

At the head of the infantry advance was a familiar gray-bearded figure in rusty red armor, riding a dappled gray and white battlehorse. The Warmaster turned his head and caught sight of Sir Derren. He raised his hand in greeting. Sir Derren then noticed that Athellenas had his own horse—Kicker—on a lead.

Sir Derren hurried over to his superior, taking Kicker off his hands. "Thank you," the young knight clasped his right fist to his heart in a salute.

"No, Derren. Thank you," Athellenas corrected his subordinate. "You did a commendable job here. If we manage to stop Thammaron at Uzer…it will all be thanks to you. We never would have made it past this place if not for the risk you and those men took."

"One of the men was stabbed by a death knight during the raid on the gate," Sir Derren quickly explained, taking the reins of his horse. "Make sure the medics take care of him."

Athellenas nodded. "One of the I Legion's mages is healing him as we speak. Oh, and keep your distance from me," the Warmaster advised. "There is something I am going to have to do…"

The sudden onslaught of the Centralian cavalry caught the organizing horde off guard. They had never fought the 1st Element's cavalry yet—Athellenas had only sent the three legions of infantry in during the first battle four days ago. This was a new experience for them.

The fact that half the monsters were still waking up and the other half was still groggy and uncoordinated didn't help them either. There was still plenty of resistance, especially from the monsters that did not sleep, like death knights or undead. The 1st Element took losses…but nothing nearly as bad as the losses sustained by the legions four days ago.

This time, it was the Centralians who rushed into battle with the ferocious zeal of warriors who knew they were going to dominate.

Athellenas rode detached from the bloodbath. Onyx was moving forward at a light canter, heading straight towards the only other thing on the impromptu battlefield that was paying no heed to the carnage around it.

Fel-Ungrroth, the five-tailed demon, drew its lips back in a hideous grin, displaying rows upon rows of sickly yellow incisors. It wielded no weapon, though it was known to use its tails in combat.

Athellenas, unwilling to put Onyx in any further danger, swung himself out of the saddle and sent the horse on its way, getting it away from the oncoming demon. The Warmaster drew his runite blade and leveled it at the five-tailed demon. He let out a raw-throated battle-cry and charged the greater demon.

Fel-Ungrroth closed the distance between itself and the Centralian Warmaster with three great strides, swinging its claws at the Warmaster's neck.

Athellenas ducked and launched himself forward into a roll, swiping at one of the demon's ankles with his blade as he went.

Fel-Ungrroth hissed with discomfort as the runite cut through its flesh, but was otherwise unaffected. It brought its tailes hissing through the air, striking Athellenas in three different places.

The Warmaster was too slow to dodge all of the hits. He grunted in pain as he felt two of his ribs crack and his left upper-arm fracture. He held his blade in a one-handed grip, now, desperately trying to fend off the five lashing tails. For a few seconds, he was somewhat successful. He was able to dodge the tails, but he was unable to hit any of them until the demon got careless and tried to take off Athellenas's head with two tails at once.

Athellenas sidestepped the swipes, ducking as a third tail followed up on the cut, and flicked his blade through the air. The runite seemed to scream as it cleaved through one of the demon's tails.

Fel-Ungrroth roared as it lost part of itself to the human who had dared to challenge it in single combat. It was now only vaguely aware of the surrounding humans that were slaughtering all of its minions—it had eyes only for the red-armored one. The one who must now die.

Athellenas didn't even have time to appreciate the fact that the plan he had hatched with Paladin Anesti and Sir Brezhnov was coming to fruition. The demon's attention was now solely on him. It was hell-bent on spilling his blood...and its blind rage would cause it to make mistakes. The demon's four remaining tails lashed out for him at the same time as the demon leaned forward and took a swipe with its claws again.

Athellenas knocked two tails aside as well as the demon's hand. The runite screeched and gave off a shower of sparks as it grated against the demon's claws. Athellenas was not able to dodge the last two tails, though. One hit him square in the chest, breaking another rib and causing his breastplate to dent inward painfully in a way that restricted his breathing. The other tail caught him behind one knee, sending him crashing to the sand.

The Warmaster swore and frantically scrabbled back in the sand just as the demon's fist crushed into the ground where his leg had been only a moment before.

This was beginning to get untenable. The Warmaster had to get a move on. He felt he had given Anesti and Brezhnov enough time to get set up—they had agreed that fifteen minutes would suffice. He had been fighting Fel-Ungrroth for at least five, and had been advancing through the encampment for ten minutes before that. It would have to be enough—Athellenas knew that it was only a matter of time before Fel-Ungrroth overwhelmed him. The Warmaster doubted even Jerrod could have brought it down in a one-on-one fight. Not for the first time—and certainly not for the last time—Athellenas sorely missed his old friend.

The Warmaster tasted blood in his mouth and spat it out into the sand. He drew a deep, ragged breath—as far as his crumpled breastplate would allow—and seemed to break off from the fight, half-running half-stumbling back towards the rend in the Wall.

The five-tailed demon—well, technically it was the four-tailed demon, now—grinned even wider and gave chase. Its mistake was that it didn't immediately catch up to Athellenas and finish him. Instead, like a cat with a mouse, it chose to play with its kill. It watched as Athellenas ran away and took its time, almost strolling after the beleaguered Warmaster.

When a passing soldier saw him, they would move to help, but Athellenas quickly waved them off, ordering them away. They would just get in the way.

Finally, Athellenas turned suddenly and attacked once more. The demon had not been expecting this, which would explain the lapse in its guard that allowed Athellenas to stab it right through its left arm.

The demon roared in agony as the super-dense metal slid effortlessly through bone and sinew. It flung its arm back, ripping the sword from Athellenas's grip and sending it flying away. With its other hand, it struck at the Warmaster.

Athellenas had no sword to defend himself with, so the demon was able to easily hit him. One of its claws managed to get into the Y-shaped face slit, taering open a good-sized gash down along Athellenas's left eye and down his cheek. It then attacked again, lazily striking the Warmaster right in the gut.

Athellenas flew at least fifty feet through the air, landing with a painful thud on his shoulder. The Warmaster lay in the sand for a moment, half-blinded by the openly-bleeding laceration on his face, almost every part of his body throbbing in protest. He was getting—no, correction: he had gotten too old for this.

The aging Centralian commander rolled over onto his side, coughing up blood as he moved. Almost delirious with the pain of his wounds, he pushed himself up to his knees, and then to his feet. Athellenas stumbled through the sand, resuming his flight from Fel-Ungrroth.

The demon followed Athellenas, but it now did so with caution. It was not going to allow this infuriating human to surprise it twice. Still…the demon couldn't help but want to keep Athellenas alive a little while longer so it could make his final moments ones of pure agony. Its hearts trembled in pleasure at the thought.

Fel-Ungrroth was already contemplating what horrors he would inflict on the aging human when it noticed that its prey had stopped fleeing, suddenly.

Athellenas turned around and faced the five-tailed demon, but this time he did not charge. He had just accomplished what he had set out to do, and for that he cracked a smile. A low, guttural laugh rose up from the Warmaster's throat.

The demon drew back in temporary surprise. Here this human was, seconds from death, and he was mocking it. Mocking it. The demon growled in sheer anger at the level of insult represented by this human and clenched its fists, preparing to bring them crushing down on the red-armored man.

That was when Athellenas, after he stopped laughing, clapped his hands together and got the demon's undivided attention. "Underestimating me was your last mistake, you ugly son of a bitch," the Warmaster spat, flicking his eyes downward.

Fel-Ungrroth followed the Warmaster's gaze and glanced down at its feet. To the five-tailed demon's surprise, it found that it was standing on the center of a large X that had been drawn into the sand. It had time only to look back up at the Warmaster and see the aging human wave it goodbye before it heard the last sound it would ever hear: roaring cannonfire.

The moment the demon looked back up, Paladin Anesti dropped the light-bending concealment spell that had been hiding him, Sir Brezhnov, and the two rows of field cannons arranged on both sides of the X, all of them aimed at the X's center, right where Fel-Ungrroth was standing. With the spell in full effect, the demon still probably would have been able to see through it, had it been trying to. However, looking for a concealment spell was the last thing on its vengeance-driven mind as it had pursued Athellenas. It walked right into the Centralians' trap.

The moment Anesti dropped the concealment spell, Sir Brezhnov barked the order to fire. The artillerists promptly obeyed and the two dozen field cannons thundered their fury into the demon.

Fel-Ungrroth was silhouetted briefly in the blinding explosion of twenty-four high-explosive cannons shells ripping into its body before the flames burst outward. Everyone was forced to cover their faces to ward off the heat, but the effects of the surprise barrage quickly wore away.

All that was left of Fel-Ungrroth was a scattering of charred bone fragments, tiny pieces of burning flesh, and a single one of its ebony claws. The Warmaster picked up the demon claw and tossed it to the nearest artillerist. "A noteworthy souvenir, don't you think?" he asked the man.

"Thank you, Warmaster," the man saluted in gratitude before tying the claw onto a piece of leather cord, which he then wore around his neck.

Athellenas coughed up more blood and stumbled, falling to one knee. "Well…" he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, after spitting more of his ichor out into the sand. "I'd say that was a job well done…"

As he felt himself being lifted up onto a stretcher, the Warmaster simply smiled. He looked down at his battered breastplate. He could easily get that fixed—the craftsmen accompanying the 1st Element were more than qualified to do the job. But he wasn't worried about that now. He just looked at the one part of his armor that hadn't even gotten a scratch; the area over his heart where he had tucked the spiritweed flower.

The Warmaster rested his head back, content to close his eyes and feel the warmth of the rising sun on his eyelids as the medics carried him back towards the field hospitals on the ridge beyond the Wall.

Shantay Pass was now in Centralian hands. Athellenas decided to declare a week's rest, to give the men a much-needed break after this level of fighting, and then they would resume.

And this time…the next demon who Athellenas intended to have killed was Thammaron himself.