The earlier confidence with which the knights started this foolhardy expedition have evaporated under the fires of war.
This was more so for their leaders, the seven Radiant knights struggling to accept the drastic losses they'd incurred over the course of the day. Thirty Spellbreaker knights and almost six hundred witcher knights. All dead.
They were feeling a lot of things, guilt and shame being the most prominent. They shouldn't have done this. They should've waited. Now, they each had to bear the weighty responsibility of all these pointless lives lost.
Eager to prevent any more bloodshed and preserve the men they had left, the Radiant knights led their juniors in a slow march to return from whence they came with the hope of incurring no more burdens on their conscience.
Unfortunately that included the hungry, thirsty, tired, and wounded, which was a significant portion of them. In their impassioned journey here to root out the offending heretics without leaving, the knights had only packed three days worth of food and water.
Normally, this would be okay since not even a day had passed since they barged in, however, the numerous, intense, non-stop battles they'd engaged in with the voodoo beasts and Adepts had left their water stores a little dry.
They had more than enough food, just not enough water to wash it down and refresh themselves. Since they were in a forest, one might then ask, why don't they drink from the winding rivers and flowing streams that littered it?
Simple. Even these knights with their smooth brains could tell the water bodies they came by (all of them mind you) that had a voodoo beast corpse or an undead or two wading in it had to be unsafe for consumption.
And even if that wasn't enough, the numerous traps and sneak attacks many of them had fallen prey to convinced them that the Adepts had somehow turned the entire forest against them.
Spontaneous fireballs that appeared out of thin air, patches of ground shifting into pools of ravenous acid, bursts of invisible poison gases… the endless variety and creativity that went into the traps would be beautiful and commendable were their purposes not so heinous.
When it came to devising new and increasingly cruel ways to administer torture and death, no other race was quite adept at it like humans. Even Greem, who'd killed more of these knights in ways more brutal than the last, found himself astonished at the enthusiasm and effort that went into the traps.
Unlike those who chose to go that route in answering the forward base's order to slow down the knights' retreat, he engaged his stealth abilities and flew above them, dropping down in random locations to kill as many as he could before a Radiant knight noticed and intervened.
This and other attacks thrown into the formation by other Adepts made even the center of it unsafe.
Being so close to the action, Greem got a front row seat to the mental toll he and his colleagues' actions were taking on their targets.
Their gazes when they passed by their dead companions, their bodies burnt to crisps, their bodies half-eaten, or missing their heads or other body parts entirely reminded him of Edwin when he was tied up and discarded like trash in the camp he destroyed a month earlier.
They had lost all hope, and though some part of him imagined Edwin's smile at this scene and even felt it fitting, another side of him, the more human side he surmised, found it all unsettling and disturbing.
Granted, he didn't enjoy this… not in the least. It was the ease at which he executed the kills, how good he was at straight up mass murder, and how he didn't feel bothered in the slightest at the hundreds of lives he'd taken… that bothered him.
'I mean… I resolved myself to do this… I just didn't expect it to be so… easy.'
In his musings, Greem failed to notice that the sun had started to go down and the snail's pace march had stopped, the Radiant knights gathering for a discussion. He could attack again.
Looking down at the practically defenseless prey below him, there were many spots he'd singled out. He could just drop down and slap a few heads with his wings and snap the necks they were attached to. The damage he could do with Allerdyce didn't have to be stated.
Yet, he simply turned away and looked into the distance, his vision zooming in on the fresh batch of Keoghan and the forward base's work. At least with him, their death would be quick and painless.
Unluckily for them, he wasn't in the mood. They would have to deal with the horrors cooked up by his co-workers. He had a vampire to find and cuddles to enjoy.
☀☀☀
If one ever needed a reason to understand why Adepts were so feared and infamous in the multiverse, this was a perfectly good one.
Just like Greem saw before he vacated the battlefield, a fresh batch of voodoo beasts had been sent over to terrorize the knights. However, unlike what he assumed, they didn't attack right away.
The Adepts in control of the beasts waited until the sun disappeared over the horizon, when visibility, the alertness and the energy of the knights was at an appropriate lowness before removing the leashes on the hounds.
Since they were not idiots, they didn't simply spectate while they waited for the sun to take a break. They directed the beasts to slowly and stealthily surround the hill and position where the knights rested on all sides.
So when the evening slowly took hold, the knights who felt a little hope creep in and therefore thanked their lucky stars or prayed to whatever deities they worshipped, did a complete 180 and fell into even deeper despair when the rapidly darkening forest around them came alight with a multitude of bright red, yellow, and green eyes.
At the very top of the hill, a makeshift infirmary had been constructed and the wounded were all funneled there, their safety ensured by the Radiant and lower ranked knights in fighting shape.
Having learnt their lesson and as such, anticipating such a move from the Adepts, the knight leaders had strategically positioned themselves and those still in fighting shape, allowing them to repel wave after wave of the horrid beasts.
For more than four hours, they swung their swords about, cutting down nightmare after nightmare, and even though they came out "victorious," one third of the witcher knights that participated in the battle had lost the ability to fight, while close to a hundred had died.
Apart from the seven Radiant and four Spellbreaker knights, only hundred of the witcher knights realistically had a chance of making it home… if nothing else happened.
In the infirmary, the knights that had taken the roles of doctors and medics had no proper tools and medicines on hand, so they'd resorted to cutting off any infected and necrotic tissue, washing the wound and applying bandages.
However, even they knew this was mostly a stop gap, as a plethora of the wounds came from the claws and fangs of the voodoo beasts, and they were riddled with a host of diseases and toxins.
The only reason the injured hadn't succumbed to whatever abominations the heretics had cooked up was due to them being knights. Their physiques were an order above that of normal people. Regular citizens would have long turned into rotten corpses had they suffered these scratches and bites.
All in all, a grim atmosphere filled the camp, though the victory over the beasts had lifted one or two spirits. Those spirits were tight to feel that way. Their group had unknowingly and singlehandedly reduced the population of voodoo beasts by more than eighty percent.
However, they were also wrong, because the real surprise… was about to start.
☀☀☀
The white haired knight who gave the order for the men to retreat to the valley also happened to be the one responsible for this whole mess, his order being the deciding factor that led to this situation.
Charles stood at the farthest edge of the hill slash infirmary and stared into the distance and sea of green, his mind almost crumbling under a whirlwind of overwhelming guilt and shame.
His wizened and sharp eyes combed the forest below him like a hawk, looking for any trace of the dastardly Adepts and their demented beats, wondering when the next attack would come and from where.
He had to know, because the current state of his men was not enough to overcome another round of relentless attacks. He and his fellow Radiant knights would most likely make it out, and maybe the Spellbreakers. As for the witcher knights, he'd all but given up on them.
The clang of footsteps behind him brought him back to reality, yet he didn't turn around to see who it belonged to. He didn't need to, having known and fought beside the owner for decades.
"The beasts have ceased their attacks and retreated. We have begun treatment of the wounded and should be done soon," said Meusel, his voice strong and dependable.
The white haired knight's low-spirited expression worsened as he waited for a few seconds before responding in a tone noticeably lower and more sullen than his friend's. "How many did we lose? How many can still fight?"
Mimicking his friend, Meusel himself maintained his silence for a bit before delivering the bitter news in a somber tone. "Apart from the four Spellbreaker knights, we only have 109 regular knights able to pick up a sword and ride a colt. As for the rest…"
Meusel's words went unsaid, yet Charles' and the other Radiant knights who'd joined their little impromptu meeting heard everything clearly. Out of the thousand they boasted when the day started, barely ten percent were still among the living.
Thinking about the witcher knights made their chests even heavier. A whole ninety percent of them were gone. Dead. Simply because of their pride. Because they couldn't bear the thought of a heretic being so powerful.
Charles, who'd been appointed the leader, had it the worst. He had to make the tough call he knew was on everyone's minds but somehow absent from their lips; break through the encirclement with those capable of riding and leave the wounded behind.
His jaw and snow white beard quivered, seemingly fighting to keep him from giving the order. He struggled, thinking of the knight's motto, wondering when his fellow protectors turned into numbers he could subtract and write off at the slightest inconvenience.
It had never been that way. And it was never going to be that way. He swallowed the cursed words he nearly uttered and turned to face the other Radiants. They had to find another way to get everyone home.
Thankfully, Meusel showed why he'd been chosen as the second in command in the first place. He interpreted their leader's struggle and came up with a plan. "Not everyone can make it through the encirclement. That is the truth. Leaving the sick and wounded behind won't change that either.
You saw the kind of traps the heretics deployed. There's no reason to assume they haven't left more of them on our path of retreat. We need help, and you can get that for us, Charles.
I'll stay here with the others and guard this location. You will break through with those who can fight and return to Windsor and the others. They won't abandon us if you ask them for reinforcements."
On any other day, Charles might have banged his head against a tree than accept to lower his head before his conservative compatriot, Windsor. However, desperate times…
After painfully digesting the plan put forward by his second in command, Charles managed to calm the twitching muscles in his face and settled on a decision. "No. You will be the one to return Meusel. I am the one responsible for today's bloodshed… so I'll stay.
You, Collier, Aneos, José lead the hundred men back and make the request for help. Tell Windsor I'm willing to hand over all my authority in exchange."
Silence fell on the group as they dealt with the implications of Charles' words. Before they could properly process their thoughts and feelings about what their future as radicals would be like, a sharp scream tore through the camp.
Like it had been a rallying call, more of them followed, one after the other, all of them unceasing and conveying a sense that the screamers were in a state of maddening agony.
"What's all the…" Meusel drew his longsword and shouted, pausing when he and the others arrived at the spot where the wounded were… well, supposed to be resting.
The knights who were too weak to move a few seconds ago had gained strength from somewhere and clawed at their own skin with such frenzied motions that they left deep bloody rents with each swipe.
Instead of the normal red, the blood that flowed from their wounds was a deep mixture of purple and black, and it flowed from their eyes, ears, nose and mouths too.
One of the witcher knights serving as a medic stepped forward to stop one of them, but made a hasty retreat when he got bitten on the hand and the sound of bones snapping began to resound in the camp.
****
Author's note:
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