The Battle of Lake Town [3]

Reman stood amidst the remnants of the battlefield, grass slick with blood and the shattered bits of shields scattered at his feet. His breathing was steady, the rush of battle beginning to subside, though the heat in his blood still lingered like a simmering flame. He cast a glance down at the Astad soldier who lay sprawled before him, his chainmail dented and his face twisted in horror.

The man's body trembled as he coughed up blood, his hands weakly clutching at the ground as though he might pull himself away. But there was no escape.

Reman drove his spear into the soil beside him, the blade slicing into the earth with a finality that made the defender flinch. He kicked aside any nearby weapons the soldier might grasp, crouching low so their eyes met.

"It looks like luck is on your side," Reman said, his voice rasping through the golden, bloodstained mask of the Deathless.

The soldier spat blood onto the ground, glaring up at him. "Choke on your pride," he hissed, his words trembling but defiant.

Reman grabbed the man by his chainmail and hauled him up with ease. The soldier groaned in pain, blood dripping down his battered face. The Astad man struggled weakly in Reman's grasp, but it was futile. Reman's golden mask stared back at him—unfeeling, inhuman.

"Do not test my patience," Reman growled, his voice low and commanding. "I serve under the Gahkar herself."

The Astadian thrashed, desperate to free himself from the grip of the Deathless. But Reman held him steady, his fingers curling tighter around the chainmail. The blood-smeared gold of his mask glinted in the sunlight, and for a moment, the soldier stilled.

It was always like this. Men feared what they did not understand, and there was nothing more terrifying than the faceless, unkillable specters of Estil—the Deathless. To Astad, they were not men but monsters, living embodiments of destruction and divine wrath.

Reman leaned closer, the weight of his mask pressing into the soldier's vision. "You will either do as I command," he said slowly, "or I will show you what a real monster can be."

The soldier's resolve cracked, fear bleeding into his voice. "Wh… wha… what do you want from me?" he stammered, his words gurgling in his throat.

Reman's grip tightened as he hauled the man even closer. "Take one of the horses and ride to Astad."

The soldier's eyes widened in panic. "That's months of land to cover! The Lunar Storms will kill me before I make it!"

Reman's lips curled into a grin beneath his mask, though the man couldn't see it. His voice rasped, low and venomous, through the helmet. "I'm not done."

He pulled the man even closer, his voice sharp as steel. "Go to your petty little nobles—the ones who sit in their ruby castles and pretend to rule from safety. Tell them this: the Pickette will remain in Estil's control. Tell them we are done being the child bullied into submission. Astad will burn."

Reman dropped the soldier to the ground with an unceremonious thud. "And if you die in the Lunar Storms," he said coldly, "then so be it."

Behind him, the Warband erupted into cheers. Reman could feel the tension in the air start to dissipate, the boiling anticipation of battle giving way to the satisfaction of victory. He didn't look back at them, his attention still fixed on the Astad man, who scrambled to his feet and stumbled away, clutching his side as he limped toward the stables. If the man survived the storms and the Chalicebreakers' patrols, then perhaps he deserved to live.

Reman turned, surveying the battlefield and the town beyond. His men moved swiftly, piling the dead and preparing for the looming threat of the Lunar Storms. Blood and bodies lay scattered across the ground, a grim reminder of the cost of war.

The highest concentration of corpses was piled near a small hut surrounded by pipes and steel. Reman's gaze lingered on it, the pieces clicking into place. So that's what they were defending so fiercely.

He approached the structure, his boots crunching on gravel and grass. The pipes jutted out from the ground, connected to large cylinders that groaned and screeched as they turned. The sound grated on his ears, but it was clear this machine was no simple construct. Water trailed up the pipes, disappearing into the machinery before being funneled elsewhere.

Reman stopped in front of it, his hands resting on his hips as his golden mask tilted upward to study the system. It wasn't much to look at, but he understood its significance immediately. This wasn't just a machine—it was a lifeline. The Pickette provided water to Astad's farmlands and settlements downstream. By taking control of it, Estil had severed one of Astad's most critical arteries.

This was more than a victory. This was a stranglehold.

"Shut down the machine," Reman ordered, his voice carrying across the clearing.

One of his men hesitated. "How, Deathless?"

Reman's scowl was hidden beneath his mask, but the frustration bled into his tone. "I don't know how to shut it off. My mission was to capture it, not dismantle it. Figure it out."

He cast another glance at the Astad dead, then barked out his next command. "Collect the fallen and prepare them for burial rites. Even enemies deserve that much."

The men moved quickly, carrying out his orders without question. Reman strode away, issuing additional instructions to the Warband. "Prepare the stables for the horses. We'll replenish our supplies for a day. Some of you will stay behind to guard this position. The rest will rejoin the main force in two days."

The Warband scattered, the urgency of the approaching Lunar Storms driving them to work at a frantic pace. Hoofbeats echoed behind him as the Chalicebreakers returned, their horses galloping through the main gate. A few more had fallen in the battle, but the majority remained—a less costly victory than he'd expected.

The head of the cavalry, Sen, rode up beside him, pulling his horse to a stop. His tone was a strange mix of admiration and disgust as he reported, "A small number of men fled the town, but most stayed to defend it. I wouldn't have thought Astad capable of such resolve."

"They knew the importance of this place," Reman replied, his voice calm but firm. "And now it belongs to us."

"And our losses?" he asked, his tone quieter, more measured.

"Enough to be noticed, but not enough to delay us," Sen answered.

Reman nodded, relief washing over him. "You've done well, Sen."

"Only for our Gahkar," Sen replied automatically, the words like a prayer engrained in every soldier of Estil.

Reman chuckled lightly. "A name I can give to her? I'll make sure she hears of your skill."

"Sen," the man replied simply.

"Do I look like a lord to you?" Reman asked, a note of amusement creeping into his tone.

"No," Sen said with a smirk, "you look like shit."

Reman hid a grin beneath his mask. "Then I think Daenys will take a liking to you, Sen."

He turned his gaze back to the town, the Pickette's pipes still groaning in the distance. This was more than a victory. This was the beginning of Astad's unraveling. By taking the Pickette, they hadn't just won a battle—they'd gained control of the water supply that fed Astad's strength. The nobles of Astad would feel this loss like a noose tightening around their throats.

And soon, when the time came to fight the Black Baron, Reman would prove himself again. He was Deathless. He was the Shieldbreaker.

And Estil would rise.