The Battle of Lake Town [5]

The clang of steel and the guttural cries of men filled the air, drowning out Daenys' thoughts as the battle raged on. Dust and blood clung to her skin, and the pounding in her head had only grown worse. Each breath burned, but there was no time to falter. The middle town of the Pickette had to fall, or this entire assault would collapse.

"Send the troops into a diagonal formation," Daenys commanded, her voice hoarse but firm. "Strike the main archer towers. The center force must hold off the Astadians until the towers are captured."

Tengri, standing at her side, glanced down at her, his expression unreadable behind his six glowing eyes. "Chaos has taken the men, Gahkar. Formations are broken."

"Are the Relights still standing?" Daenys pressed, gripping her throbbing head as she fought to stay upright.

"They are," Tengri replied. "Their scales protected them from the worst."

"Good. Send one to the left archer tower and the other to the right. They will be the beacon the men rally behind. Tasha leads the left assault. You'll take the right."

Tengri didn't move. "No. I will not leave your side."

Daenys scowled, blood dripping from her nose as she turned to glare at him. "If I don't have someone commanding the other forces, they will fail. You must go."

Tengri's voice was sharp, snapping back without hesitation. "You can barely stand. I will remain here."

"Are you ignoring a direct order from your Gahkar?" Daenys demanded, her tone venomous despite her shaking hands.

"I will accept the punishment after we win," Tengri declared, his glowing eyes steady as stone.

"Blast it all, you fool man. It's just a headache," Daenys hissed through gritted teeth, but the blood smeared across her lips betrayed her lie.

Tengri remained unmoved, so Daenys turned to a limping Drome warrior stumbling toward the front. His presence immediately caught her eye—the Drome were impossible to miss on any battlefield.

The man's horned helmet was a twisted thing, adorned with faint carvings that marked him as one of Estil's oldest warbands. Though blood and ash stained the steel, the distinct reddish gleam of Drome-crafted metal shone through. His armor was layered in segmented plates that clinked softly as he walked, the style far simpler than the jagged, ornamental armor favored by other Estil warriors. Strapped across his back was a curved Estil sword known as a "thorn blade," designed to dig into flesh and shred it apart upon removal. The plates of his armor were cracked and dented, his tabard torn at the edges, but the man himself stood upright despite his limp, unbowed and steady.

The Drome were fighters of ancient tradition, quiet but unyielding. Unlike the showy Ironbloods or the berserk Deadites, the Drome embodied pragmatism and restraint. They were the warriors Daenys called upon when precision was needed, when survival mattered more than brute force.

"What is your name, warrior?" Daenys asked sharply.

"Aloden," the Drome replied, his voice calm, carrying the deliberate cadence of a man who had survived countless battles.

"Take a group of men, those you've seen fight well, and head to the right with one of the Relights," Daenys ordered. "Pull down the far tower. Form a triangular formation to seize it. If men remain, send them to reinforce the center battle."

Aloden saluted, his horned helmet dipping slightly. "It will be done, my Gahkar."

Even in the chaos of battle, Daenys couldn't help but notice how methodically Aloden moved. He scanned the nearby warriors with sharp, calculating eyes, selecting those who bore the least visible injuries or carried themselves with confidence. It was a skill the Drome possessed in abundance—an almost unnerving ability to assess and adapt under pressure.

As Aloden gathered his troops, Daenys glanced at the sky, dread pooling in her chest. The sun was slipping dangerously close to the horizon. Soon, the Lunar Storms would sweep across the land, and anyone caught in the mist would be lost.

She wiped the blood from her lips and pushed herself forward, forcing her body to obey. "Where is Tasha?"

"Daenys, you should return to camp," Tengri said quietly. "Let us handle the rest of the battle."

Her blistering glare silenced him. "Where is Tasha?"

As if summoned by her name, Tasha strode through the aftermath of fallen bodies and retreating skirmishes. The fighting in the outer sections of the town had calmed, but the center still raged.

"You need me?" Tasha asked, her bloodied sickle resting against her shoulder.

Tengri turned to her. "The Gahkar orders you to spearhead the left assault with your Reavers and a Relight. Strike the archer tower."

Tasha's gaze flicked to Daenys, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Will it end this faster?"

"Yes," Daenys gritted out, clutching her ribs. "Once the towers fall, we can surround the rest of their forces."

Tasha smirked. "We'll speak of this later," she said, motioning toward Daenys before turning to gather her troops.

Daenys clicked her tongue as Tasha disappeared. "She'll need to get in line. Her, and every other Gahkar, will want words with me after this."

Tengri sighed but said nothing, though his disapproval was palpable.

Daenys ignored him, notching another arrow into her bow as she forced her way to the front of the warband. Her men needed to see her fighting. They needed to know she was still there, still leading them.

The warband clashed with the remaining defenders in the heart of the settlement. The noise was deafening—a cacophony of clanging steel, guttural roars, and the dying screams of men. Dust and blood filled the air, mingling with the heat of battle as Estil and Astad forces collided.

Tengri moved ahead of her, his seven-bladed sword carving through the chaos like a flame through dry grass. His movements were fluid, precise, and deadly. Each strike cut down a man before he could react, the glowing edges of his blade leaving trails of light in their wake.

Around him, Estil's warriors rallied, following his lead as he cleaved through the defenders' ranks.

Daenys loosed arrow after arrow, her aim steady despite the pounding in her head. "Hold strong!" she shouted, her voice rising above the fray. "Victory is almost ours!"

Her words lit a fire in the warband. They surged forward with renewed vigor, bolstered by the sight of their Gahkar standing among them.

But the battle dragged on, the defenders refusing to break. Both sides fought like cornered animals, each clash of steel a desperate bid for survival. The sun dipped lower, and time slipped through Daenys' fingers like sand.

Then, at last, the defenders' flank crumbled. Tasha's Reavers struck from the left, their sickles slashing through the enemy with brutal efficiency. On the right, Aloden's group surged forward with the Relight, the monstrous beast tearing through the archer tower as if it were made of paper.

Daenys barely had time to feel relief before the roar of an Astad soldier snapped her attention back to the front.

A hammer-wielding warrior charged toward her, his shield raised high. His armor was splattered with blood, his face twisted with rage. Daenys scrambled to draw another arrow, but the man was too close.

The hammer came down in an arc, and Daenys twisted her body desperately. The weapon caught her in the chest, the force of the blow sending her sprawling. She heard the sickening crack of bones and felt the searing pain radiate through her torso as her lungs struggled to draw breath.

"Some leader you are!" the soldier spat, standing over her with his hammer raised. "You can't even protect yourself! Your raids are meaningless! We have the Highlords and the Black Baron behind us!"

Daenys coughed violently, blood spilling from her lips as she dragged herself to the side. Her vision blurred, but she could see the man's back as he turned to face her warband.

"Look at your dead leader, dogs!" he bellowed. "Remember my name! I am the one who slayed a demigod! I am—"

Daenys gritted her teeth, her bloodied hand gripping the arrow she had drawn moments ago. With the last of her strength, she rammed the shaft into the back of the man's head.

He froze, his words dying on his lips. A moment later, he collapsed, his body crumpling to the ground.

Daenys leaned over him, her breath ragged as blood dripped down her face. "I die when I let death claim me," she rasped before her body gave out and darkness consumed her.

The inky void enveloped her once again, the thick liquid clinging to her limbs as if it were alive. It dragged her down, its tendrils pulling at her, whispering promises of rest. But Daenys' mind burned with defiance, even as the blackness threatened to swallow her whole.

Back on the battlefield, Tengri stood over her fallen form, his six glowing eyes locking onto the remaining Astad forces.

The atmosphere shifted.

And Tengri moved.

Where Daenys fought to inspire, Tengri fought to destroy. His seven-bladed sword became an instrument of annihilation, carving through the enemy with unrelenting precision. Each swing left a trail of blood and broken bodies, his strikes faster than the defenders could react.

The Astad soldiers, already faltering, broke completely under the onslaught. Tengri's presence was like a shadow over the battlefield, and the remaining Estil warriors surged forward, emboldened by the sheer carnage he left in his wake.