SerProcrastinate
patreon
Chapter Twenty-Four (TIBK)
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 10:25:46 +0000 UTCGunnar's gaze swept the clearing. Eirik's men swarmed over Garrick's incapacitated knights like ants. Others herded the terrified coursers into the woods.
Garrick himself, stripped to his gambeson, was hauled to his feet by two burly Talons. Kael stood nearby, unhelmed, his expression one of profound shame as he supervised his disarmed men being pushed into a tight group.
And where is the architect?
Gunnar scanned intently. He saw Leif Fenrir barking orders near the weapons pile. Olaf directing the horse wrangling. But Eirik was nowhere to be seen.
He glanced at his veterans. Steady as stone. Shields locked. Spears level. Our turn, Gunnar thought. Now the real challenge begins. Eirik wouldn't charge like Garrick. He'd use the woods, try to lure, rely on those damned jars and tricks.
A subtle shift caught his eye. The stripping and herding wrapped up. Leif conferred with Olaf near the captured knights. A sharp nod from Olaf, then the scarred man grabbed recruits and vanished into the tree line.
Leif turned, straightened his shoulders, and raised his voice. "Talons! Form up! Shields front! Spears ready! On me!"
The response was sluggish, disorganized. Street fighters looked reluctant, eyeing their loot. The Fenrir guards moved with more purpose, forming a front rank and shoving Olaf's recruits into place behind them. A messy, uneven formation compared to Gunnar's perfect block.
The ragged formation began moving. Not towards Gunnar's rise. Instead, Leif led them sideways, skirting where Garrick's force had been shattered, keeping well away from Gunnar's position. They marched diagonally across open ground, angling towards the rise but maintaining distance – easily three hundred paces.
They moved slowly. Painfully slowly. Less a march than a grudging shuffle. Shields weren't locked. Spears dipped and wavered.
They're deliberately showing themselves, Gunnar realized. Bait. His gaze swept the dark Blackroot edge opposite his position. He's over there. Eirik. Setting an ambush.
A cold smile touched Gunnar's lips. Amateur. Trying the same trick twice?
His veterans remained a silent fortress on the rise. He counted the shuffling figures. Fifty had started with Eirik. They'd taken casualties against Garrick – maybe ten? That left forty? A few are missing.
The Talon column shuffled closer, now within two hundred fifty paces. Still slow. Leif visibly sweated despite the cold, glancing nervously towards the forest, then back at Gunnar's position.
He's been pushed onto the stage, Gunnar realized. Eirik's put him out here to fail.
Leif stopped the column. He took a visible breath, puffed out his chest, then stepped forward.
"Marshal Gunnar!" Leif's voice rang out. "House Fenrir... The Talons... we stand before you! Your veterans cower on their hill? Afraid of a real fight? We offer you a chance! Surrender now! Spare your men the humiliation!"
The words landed like stones in a frozen pond. Leif sounded like he was reciting lines he didn't believe. His eyes darted towards the forest, desperately seeking approval. From Gunnar's veterans, no reaction. They stared ahead, impassive.
Leif flushed crimson. "Y-you hide behind your shields! Like frightened children! Is that the pride of Stormkeep? Is that Marshal Gunnar's famed courage?" He trailed off, unable to find words.
A figure shoved forward from the Talon ranks.
Number Forty-Two. His limp from Eirik's nerve strike was pronounced, but his swagger was back. He elbowed Leif aside. "Alright, Lordling, you made a mess of it. Let a real talker handle this!"
Forty-Two planted his feet wide and tilted his head back. His voice, honed in a thousand gutter brawls, cut through the air.
"OY! GRANDPA GUNNAR! YOU LOT UP THERE!"
A faint ripple went through Gunnar's front rank. Forty-Two saw it and grinned wider.
"Nice shiny toys you got! Real pretty for polishin'! Bet they look lovely hangin' on your mum's wall! Shame they're about to get dented when we drag you off that fancy hill!"
He took a limping step forward. "We just finished kickin' the shit outta the Heir's parade dolls! Saw 'em cry like babes! And what do we see now? The famous Marshal hidin'! Scared stiff!" He cupped his hands. "DID THE BIG SCARY MARSHAL PISS HIS POLISHED PANTS?!"
A young guardsman in the second rank flushed beneath his helm. The grizzled sergeant beside him growled low. The desire to charge radiated from the block.
"STEADY!" Gunnar's command sliced through the tension. The veterans locked down hard on their fury.
"See?!" Forty-Two yelled. "They need their nursemaid! A bunch of old women with pointy sticks! COME ON DOWN THEN, GRANNY!"
Gunnar ignored the filth. He scanned the Talon force. They'd halted two hundred paces out, well beyond charge range. Leif looked miserable. Forty-Two looked frustrated. The formation was a mess – gaps in the shield wall, spears pointing different directions. Utterly vulnerable to a disciplined downhill charge.
Too vulnerable. It's a trap.
He raised his voice, projecting calm authority. "Hold position. We. Do. Not. Move."
The Talons shifted uneasily. Gunnar had refused the bait.
"Alright, you useless lumps!" Forty-Two bellowed, turning fury on the Talons. He shoved a nearby recruit. "What? Scared of these shiny tin cans? FORWARD! Or I'll kick your arses myself!"
His raw aggression cut through uncertainty. Fear of Forty-Two proved stronger than fear of distant veterans. A ragged growl went up from Olaf's men. Leif seized the moment. "Talons! ADVANCE! Shields high! Keep formation!"
The column lurched forward. Uneven pace – street fighters swaggering, Fenrir guards moving with stiff reluctance. They covered fifty paces, closing to two hundred yards.
Forty-Two limped ahead, a one-man vanguard of vitriol. "SEE?! Even this bunch ain't scared of ya! They know what you are! Washed-up relics!"
Another fifty paces closed. One hundred fifty yards. Despite its shambling appearance, the formation advanced with clear intent. Forty-Two's tirade whipped them into bravado.
"And YOU!" He pointed at the growling sergeant. "Yeah, you, grandpa! I saw ya flinch! Remember the last time you saw real action? Prob'ly when yer mum slapped yer arse at birth!"
The sergeant took half a step forward before the men beside him locked shields, pulling him back.
Why? Gunnar's mind raced. What does Eirik gain by closing this distance? Even thrown hard, jars wouldn't reach uphill. A downhill charge would catch them easily before they reached woods.
Ninety yards. Eighty. Well within effective range of a downhill cavalry charge. Forty-Two stood barely seventy yards out, hopping on his good leg.
"HEY, GUNNAR! REMEMBER LARKSFORD BRIDGE?! HEARD YOUR MATE TOMMAS DIED SCREAMING LIKE A GUTTED PIG!"
Tommas died while defending Stormkeep, fallen at the hands of the Skarl raiders just a year ago. Pure fury rippled through the veterans. Several men shuffled, shields dipping. The young guard muttered a curse. The sergeant's eyes burned with rage.
Gunnar felt it too – cold fury in his gut. This had officially crossed a line. But what’s the play here? He calculated rapidly. The forest behind them was still two hundred paces away. His could catch half of Eirik’s men before any reinforcements would show up. He's forced my hand.
He wants me to charge? Fine. I'll charge.
He drew his blunted longsword, steel rasping loud. Every veteran eye snapped to him. He raised the blade high, pointing at the Talon formation's heart.
"VETERANS OF STORMKEEP! SHIELDS UP! SPEARS LEVEL! ADVANCE AT THE WALK!"
The effect on the Talons was instant. Forty-Two's sneer vanished, replaced by panic. "FROST! BACK! BACK TO THE TREES!" The Talon line dissolved into chaotic scramble, discipline gone. Men turned, tripping, dropping spears, sprinting towards distant forest safety.
Exactly as planned, Gunnar thought. They run. We run them down.
"HOLD SPEED! MAINTAIN FORMATION!"
Shields slammed together with thunderous impact, forming an unbroken rampart. Spears pointed downhill. The formation stepped forward as one.
"NOW!" Leif Fenrir's voice cut through the panic – sharp, utterly unlike its earlier hesitation. Not a scream of fear, but a command.
The scrambling Talons stopped running.
Men planted feet, pivoted with surprising speed, snapped shields together. Fenrir guards slammed shoulders into recruits' backs, locking shields into a tight defensive wall facing uphill. Spears lowered over shield rims in a bristling barrier. The transformation from fleeing rabble to solid defensive line took five heartbeats.
TRAP!
The realization detonated in Gunnar's mind. But how?! They can't hold us! The woods are too far!
Then the sound came.
FWEET-FWEET-FWEET!
Three sharp, piercing whistles echoed down from behind and above Gunnar's advancing veterans. From the steep, wooded slope he'd dismissed as impossible.
Gunnar's head snapped around, his blood freezing.
Thirty feet up, above the slope that was a near-vertical rock face, five figures stood.
By Frost mother’s tits. How did they get up there?!
Eirik Stormcrow stood at the center of the small group. Even at this distance, Gunnar could see the cold calculation in his eyes.
"SHIELDS UP! OVERHEAD!" Gunnar roared. His veterans reacted instantly, shields angled skyward. The advance stuttered to a stop.
What can five men throw? Gunnar thought desperately. Rocks? Jars?!
Eirik's voice cut down from the heights. "Now."
Three heavy Stormcrow shields materialized directly above the veteran center. Tossed from thirty feet.
THUMP! CRACK! BONGG!
The impacts were sickening. The first shield slammed onto an upraised shield, snapping the sergeant's arm. He dropped screaming. The shield bounced, smashing into the helmet behind him with a ringing BONGG!
Before the screams registered, blunted practice spears were thrown at the rear ranks. Heavy oak shafts with weighted iron tips rained down. One struck a helm dead center. Another punched into an exposed neck joint.
CHAOS.
Discipline shattered. Men shouted in pain and confusion, the solid formation buckling. Shields dipped wildly. The perfect wall became a mess of flailing limbs and panicked shouts.
"STEADY!" Gunnar bellowed. "SHIELDS HIGH!" But his heart hammered. This was witchcraft.
"NOW THE JAR!" Eirik commanded.
Helga drew back and hurled the jar high, directly over the densest cluster of veterans. Gunnar tracked its arc, horror dawning.
THWOMPH-CRACK!
It shattered on a helmet. The explosion was a dense, billowing cloud of yellow-white gas that erupted downwards. Not just vinegar and pepper—heavier, choking grit. It sank like poisonous fog, engulfing the rear two thirds of Gunnar's formation.
Hell erupted. Men screamed from agony. The heavier dust mixed with acidic vapor, blinding, searing throats, clawing into lungs. Soldiers dropped shields to clutch at faces. Some ripped off helmets, desperate for air. The solid block dissolved into a choking mass of terror.
"WITCHCRAFT!" a veteran screamed. "DEMONS!"
"FORM UP! MASK FACES!" Gunnar choked, but it was too late. Half his force was blind and incapacitated.
Eirik's hand dipped inside his cloak. Another jar appeared. "Helga!"
"No!" Gunnar roared. "BREAK RANKS! SCATTER!"
Too late. Helga hurled the jar high. The jar exploded over the front ranks, doubling the chaos.
Below, Leif Fenrir's heart thundered. He'd seen the shields materialize, heard the screams. It was terrifying. Glorious. Their only chance.
"NOW!" Leif screamed, ripping his shortsword high. "TALONS! FOR VICTORY! CHARGE!"
He ran. Uphill. Straight towards Gunnar's dissolving formation. His boots churned frozen earth.
"GET 'EM!" Forty-Two roared. "STAB THE BLIND ONES!"
The ragged line erupted upwards with a collective roar. Olaf's recruits surged forward with spiked clubs and rusty axes. The Fenrir guards found discipline morphing into fierce aggression. They hit the slopes like howling furies.
Gunnar stood amidst carnage. His men were scattered, choking, half-blinded. Panic ruled. And now the rabble was charging uphill.
I underestimated him. Severely.
He saw Leif scrambling over a fallen veteran, shortsword stabbing down. His precious veterans were being swarmed by thieves and farmers.
"VETERANS!" Gunnar bellowed, shoving towards a knot of untouched men near the back—a dozen who'd avoided the worst. "TO ME! SHIELD WALL!"
His voice cut through chaos. Men stumbled towards him. Shields slammed together, a desperate hedgehog facing the charging Talons.
"SPEARS OUT! IGNORE THE CLIFF!" Gunnar ordered, taking his place. He hoped Eirik was done.
He wasn't.
"Bjorn! Goran! Shields!" Eirik commanded. They heaved shields sideways off the cliff edge, letting them tumble down the steep slope.
THUD! WHUMP! CLANG!
The shields bounced violently down the scree, slamming terrifyingly close, spraying rock shards, forcing men to flinch just as the Talon wave crashed into their line.
Leif slammed his shield into a spearman's face. Fenrir guards thrust spears into gaps. Olaf's recruits flowed around flanks, using numbers and brutal savagery. The circle buckled.
Gunnar hacked down a screaming recruit, parried Leif's thrust. Too many! Too close! He kicked another Talon away.
"VETERANS! TO ME! SERGEANT MADSON, LEFT FLANK! HOLD THEM!" His voice sliced through the gas remnants, screams, and panic. It was a lifeline.
Men reacted. Instincts forged in brutal Skarl raids kicked in. Soldiers clawed at streaming eyes, ignored burning throats, and stumbled towards their Marshal's command. Shields were snatched up. Spears leveled. Discipline began to reassert itself.
Leif Fenrir lunged with his shortsword, aiming for a gap in the reforming line. A veteran slammed his shield down, catching Leif's blade with a jarring CLANG. He rammed the shield forward, sending Leif stumbling back.
"CLOSE RANKS!" Gunnar stepped into the gap. His blunted longsword whipped out in a blinding arc. THWACK! A spiked club flew from a recruit's hand as the man yelped, clutching his wrist. "PUSH THEM BACK!"
The veterans obeyed. Shields overlapped. Feet dug into frozen slope. The chaotic retreat halted. The desperate melee solidified into two distinct forces: the ragged, aggressive Talons and the smaller but disciplined knot of veterans forming around Gunnar.
Forty-five of us started, Gunnar's mind raced. We took losses in the gas, but these aren't Garrick's soft knights. These are wolves. He parried a clumsy spear thrust, his riposte a brutal shield bash. They're bleeding and blinded, but they know how to bite back.
He risked a glance upward. Five figures on the cliff. They'd thrown shields and jars. They had nothing left. No more surprises, boy. Your tricks are spent.
"ADVANCE! DRIVE THEM DOWNHILL!"
The veteran crescent took a thunderous step forward. Shields slammed into the Talon line. Spears punched through gaps. Two recruits went down screaming. The Talon advance faltered.
On the cliff, Eirik watched the tide turn. Faster than I hoped. Gunnar rallying his veterans sent cold adrenaline through him. They're not broken. Each one is worth three of mine in open combat.
He saw Olaf trying to rally the left flank, but they hesitated against veteran ferocity. Leif held the center with Fenrir guards, but they were being pushed back by the disciplined shield wall.
Numbers don't mean everything. Eirik calculated ruthlessly. We have forty-one. They have thirty-five veterans still active? But their thirty-five are armored, disciplined, led by a legend. My forty-one are scared, tired, facing seasoned killers who just shook off a chemical attack.
Below, Gunnar saw hesitation in the Talon ranks. He slammed his shield forward, forcing another step uphill. "SEE?! THEY WEAKEN! CRUSH THEM! FOR STORMCROW!"
The veteran roar echoed with brutal confidence. Two more steps. The Talons gave ground, their formation buckling. One of Goran's recruits panicked, dropping his spear and scrambling backwards.
They need a shock, Eirik thought. Something impossible. Something that shatters Gunnar's confidence.
His gaze snapped to the battlefield. Gunnar was the epicenter of veteran resistance, driving his men forward. Break him, break them.
The solution ignited in his mind. He focused on his Storage Ring. He visualized the pile of gleaming Stormcrow officer's gear. Much heavier than shields.
"Bjorn! Helga! Goran! Thirteen!" Eirik snapped. "Forget shields. We're upgrading."
The climbers looked confused. "Upgrading, Lord?"
Eirik's hand reappeared holding a gleaming Stormcrow sallet helmet – polished steel with a razor-sharp visor. He tossed it to Bjorn. "Catch."
Bjorn caught it, eyes wide. "A helmet?"
Eirik was already pulling out more gear. A heavy scale chestplate. Another helmet. Thick vambraces. A kettle helm. The gear piled up on the snowy ledge.
"Targets?" Goran asked, hefting a helmet.
Eirik pointed down. "The center. Where Gunnar is pushing hardest. Don't just drop them. Throw them. Aim for mass, for helmets, for leaders."
He turned to Bjorn. "You see Gunnar? The big one roaring orders? Make him flinch."
Bjorn grinned ferally, gripping the sallet like a throwing stone. "Aye, Lord. With pleasure."
Below, the veterans gained momentum. Another step. Leif was forced back. Olaf's recruits wavered. Gunnar sensed victory. "ALMOST! ONE MORE PUSH!"
He drew breath to roar the final order.
FWEET! FWEET! FWEET!
Three sharp whistles sliced down from the cliff.
Gunnar's head snapped up. What now?! Shields again?
But the shapes falling weren't flat discs. They were bulky, gleaming objects tumbling through the air. Too small for logs… Helmets? Armor?
CRUNCH! THUD! CLANG! BONNGG!
The impacts were utterly different.
A heavy chestplate slammed onto a veteran's shield, crumpling it like parchment and driving the man to his knees with a sickening crack. He screamed, his arm bent at a hideous angle.
Helga's kettle helm struck another veteran square on his head. The BONGGGG resonated like a funeral bell. The man dropped unconscious.
A pair of vambraces spun wildly and smashed into the shield wall, tangling legs and sending two men sprawling.
But Bjorn's throw was art. He put his whole body into a vicious overhand cast, aiming directly for the Marshal.
Gunnar saw the glint of steel arcing towards him. Instinct screamed Dodge! But he was hemmed in by his own men. He raised his shield desperately.
The heavy helmet slammed onto his shield's upper rim with terrifying force. The impact was a hammer strike from the heavens. Pain exploded down his arm. His shield sagged violently, tearing his grip loose. He stumbled back, crashing into the men behind him.
For one horrifying second, the center of the veteran formation was exposed. The Marshal was staggering. The shield wall buckled.
"NOW!" Eirik roared from above.
Leif Fenrir, seeing the opening, acted with desperate courage. He didn't shout. He charged. Lowering his shoulder, he slammed into the gap where Gunnar had stood. "FENRIR! WITH ME!"
The Fenrir guards surged forward with a ragged cry. Olaf saw the ripple and bellowed, "PUSH! ALL OF YOU! PUSH OR DIE!" His recruits threw themselves forward with renewed savagery.
The veteran formation, stunned by the impossible rain of armor, momentarily leaderless, and hit with a ferocious counter-charge, finally fractured.
It wasn't a rout. Not yet. But the unbreakable discipline shattered. The line became pockets of furious resistance rather than a solid wall.
Gunnar shoved himself upright, ignoring the fire in his shoulder. Disaster! Regain control! He saw Sergeant Madson rallying five veterans. "MADSON! FORM ON ME!"
The battle dissolved into brutal free-for-all across the slope. Pure attrition now. Man against man, fury against discipline, desperation against experience.
Eirik watched, jaw clenched. The throwing had given them a critical opening, but it hadn't broken them. Gunnar was still fighting, still rallying pockets. They're regrouping. We need to end this. Now.
His eyes locked onto Gunnar.
Cut the head off the snake, Eirik thought. But how? Gunnar's the best fighter here.
His gaze swept the chaotic slope. Distraction. Leverage. The environment. His climbing skill, agility, his ring – they were tools.
"Hold position!" Eirik commanded his climbers. "Cover me if anyone tries to scale up."
He moved along the cliff edge laterally, seeking the best approach above Gunnar's position. He found it – a point where the slope was steepest, scattered with ice-coated boulders. Gunnar was fighting near these boulders, using them to anchor his flank.
Perfect.
Eirik focused. The icy rock face became a ladder only he could see clearly. He jammed his chisel into a fissure and swung over the edge.
He descended with controlled recklessness, fueled by desperation and boosted agility. Boots scraped ice. Fingers locked onto holds for the briefest instant. He moved like a shadow down the steep face, using boulders as cover.
[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +2]
[MANA FRAGMENT +2]
He landed lightly behind a massive boulder, ten feet above where Gunnar was battling. The Marshal was focused entirely on the threat in front, deflecting spear thrusts, roaring orders. The wind masked Eirik's descent.
One chance. He focused again. The perfect distraction. He visualized a heavy vambrace materializing in his hand, and sent it directly in front of Gunnar.
FWOOSH!
The gleaming armor tumbled down the slope, clattering towards Gunnar's feet.
Gunnar's reflexes were lightning-fast. He saw the sudden motion, the flash of steel falling from nowhere. He flinched back, shield snapping down defensively.
It was the opening Eirik needed.
He exploded from behind the boulder, launching himself sideways along the steep slope. He used momentum and boosted Agility to run across the near-vertical face for three impossible strides. He planted his boot on a rock outcrop and pushed off, leaping into the air.
Gunnar, sensing movement behind him too late, started to turn. His eyes widened as he saw Eirik Stormcrow airborne, descending like an avenging hawk, with a wooden sword raised high.
Eirik channeled every ounce of Strength into the downward blow.
The wooden sword slammed down onto the back of Gunnar's raised shield arm, just above the vambrace.
CRACK!
The shield strap snapped. Gunnar's arm went instantly numb. The heavy oak shield tore free, tumbling down the slope.
Eirik landed hard beside Gunnar, immediately spinning to face the Marshal, sword held ready. Gunnar stumbled sideways. He stared at Eirik with shock and furious disbelief.
Around them, the fighting stuttered. Veterans and Talons froze, witnessing the impossible. Their Marshal… disarmed?
Eirik didn't hesitate. He leveled the chisel, pointing the blunt tip at Gunnar's chest. His voice cut through the wind.
"Yield, Marshal Gunnar." He gestured towards the slope where isolated veterans were being surrounded. "It's over."
Gunnar stood rigid. Pain lanced up his arm, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation. He'd been outthought, outfought, outmaneuvered. Tricked by gas, logs, shields, and now by impossible movement and a damned bastard.
He looked into Eirik Stormcrow's cold, unwavering eyes. He saw no mercy, only ruthless finality. He looked around at his veterans, bleeding, surrounded. Still fighting, but hope was gone as they saw their Marshal defeated.
Gunnar's shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, meeting Eirik's gaze. His voice was stripped of command.
"Yield."
