Chapter 551: Chapter 551

In a small cave barely able to hold the black bear who had been the last owner, six Beastmasters of the Winter army hid from enemy patrols and directed their creatures to attack Rowan Keep. Despite having rations in their packs, their minds were screaming that they were starving. The hunger of the army of wolves fed back to them through their links, and they hungered for fresh meat, not the hardtack bread and frozen vegetables they had brought on the journey. Eating meat would mean their deaths, as the wolves would have smelled the food and gone into a frenzy in their hunger. Nor could they hide successfully from their packs; the links ensured that.

They had little to do as they guided the packs except to bicker among themselves, a favorite pastime.

Heffton was still optimistic, something that annoyed the others. "Take heart, brothers, the time approaches to assault their great keep and show what we can do. Even a minor victory will burnish what we have accomplished. We only lost a tenth of our forces in Hurlsford, and that was a secondary objective of our raid."

Burlo was leaning back, ice and snow packed on his aching head to numb the pain. "Yeah, it was only a secondary objective. Too bad we accomplished nothing there."

"I beg to differ, Burlo. We slew the defenders manning the ballistas and have kept the garrison in the town bottled up. No help will be coming from there."

"Not much of a garrison, Heff. The smell of soldiers was small, and the owls spotted little before they were driven from the skies or killed."

Heffton smiled, but his voice was serious. "I sincerely hope that your report says differently. My report notes that we cleared the walls of defenders, and they were forced to set fire to their own town. We observed nearly a thousand Legion soldiers as they fearfully took shelter in underground bunkers. The owls are dead, blood runs down the towers, and the walls of the town are blackened by fire. Looks like a win for me. I'd truly hate for our reports to differ. It would cause problems for all of us. And I'm sure the minor pain is making you grumpy."

"Minor pain? To you, maybe. You don't have a blinding headache from your link. And Earl's head is flat as a pancake from the sympathetic wounds. He was deeply linked, and now he's barely talking. Just bullshit, I tell you. BULLSHIT! Who the hell has anvil spells?" There was much grumbling about this, from everyone but Earl, who drooled a little. With how his head must hurt, they didn't blame him for taking refuge in the mind of one of his bound animals.

"The anvil said ACME on the side. I saw it plainly when it pounded Earl's Snarlfang into the ground. Who is ACME? One of the weak southern gods?"

"Not so weak, if you ask me. Damn, I need a shot of the rum."

"Don't, it will kill some of the pain in your head, but make it harder to keep your links."

The man ignored the comment and dug out a bottle that had been full an hour ago. "Screw you, Heff. Not like some of you assholes aren't sneaking sips. Doesn't matter, half my dogs will be dead in an hour anyway." He upended the bottle and drank down the last few swallows, tossing the bottle out of the lair in disgust. "Let's begin. Is anyone not in position?"

Heffton chose to ignore the taunts, the mission coming first. Petty revenge would come later. "I have six flights of owls, and three Great Owls of the Far North in position. They don't like the light, but we are blessed with clouds and minor storms that cut the sun.

Dankleg nodded his agreement. "My Snarlfangs know what we ask of them. Send the cannon fodder first to panic the defenders and draw fire. I'll send my dogs up the wall and over the top."

Hoit and Point said together. "We answer the call." The twins had fought over the family pet when they were small, leaving their minds entangled to the point where neither had a separate thought outside of guiding their packs. The flaw in their minds made them well-suited to the work of a Beastmaster. Earl gave a thumbs-up, which was all they expected from him at this point.

"Let's start then. Owls flying high and ready to kill the enemy archers and sweep the walls. Encircle the place with dogs and kill anything outside. If we can't find a way in, we'l make one, even if we have to pile up the dead to make a ramp." It was a good speech, and everyone ignored the fact that most of the Ice Mages could have made a ramp with but a gesture. Sadly, none had been assigned to this mission.

"Sir, the enemy is starting to mass at the treeline. Pretty odd behavior for wolves. Looks like the reports of Winter having people who can control animals in their army were correct."

Praetor Marcus Aurelius had known the attack was coming, and he had faith in his men and this fortress. Now that the moment was almost here, he was both anxious to prove to everyone the might of Rowan Keep, and yet his mind constantly told him he'd missed something. Showing nothing on his face, he stood up. "Let's get to the walls and the tower then, and be ready to give them a warm welcome."

The highest tower in the fortress gave the longest view, but the Praetor needed a better vantage point to see how the invading army planned to get past a set of seventy-foot-high walls. Gates were a weak point, but not to an army without battering rams, siege ogres, or dwarven steam drills. And the gates of Rowar Keep were a foot thick and made of Dark Steel and Ironwood with a facing of Tier Two Granite on the lower ten feet. Magic was always a possibility, even with the wards built into the stone walls. Scouts and Marksmen scanned continuously for concealed mages but saw only wolves. Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on novelFirｅ.net

Above the keep, in the skies and concealed against the pale grey clouds, the flights of owls began their descent, intent on taking out the crews of the catapults and ballistae in their first attack run. They'd dropped half the distance when they heard the honking above them. It was all Heffton could do to keep them in formation as hundreds of ducks dove at them from even further above, where they had hidden in the low-hanging clouds and mist. Only a hundred feet above the towers, the owls sensed their doom, broke the Beastmaster's link, and took evasive action to avoid the pursuing ducks. Across the skies above the battlefield, ducks and owls fought, but the ducks had the home turf, a three-to-one advantage, and needed no link to a Beastmaster to control them. They served the Lord of Ducks willingly and were anxious to prove themselves the superior air force. Ducks died to razor-sharp talons, and owls fell as beaks hit home.

Heffton managed to keep hold of the three huge Great Owls and brought them into play. He'd hoped to save them until after most of the archers were dead. They were more powerful, but slower in the air, and their twenty-foot wingspan was hard to hide. Firing and loading as fast as they could, the ballista crews were now aware of the giant owls stooping on them. Archers fired nearly straight up at the oncoming assault. Heffton had decided to bring all three down on the tallest tower, where three catapults and three giant ballistae fired from. Only a few archers were there to defend them. He was shocked when the ballistae pivoted on gimbles and pointed at his owls. His mind screamed that siege weapons couldn't do that. Jorges had insisted on the capability to do so. "There are dragons and wyverns and other shit that flies. Someone is going to be clever and send them at the highest point in the fortress, and when they do, they'll get a little surprise."

The first surprise was going through the Hermetic Shield. The Shield would mainly stop spells and magical effects, especially those targeting the walls, but it wasn't pleasant for any living creature to pass through. The owls burned as they went through it and took damage, their snowy feathers charring. But they kept coming.

Three siege engines fired at the owls. One shot went wide. It would eventually come down just outside the walls and kill three wolves. A second buried itself in a white-feathered breast and passed through the bird, exiting the back by two feet. The dead bird hit the tower and fell to the roof of the mess hall with a loud thud. The last shot hit a wing, shattering it, and the stricken flyer spiralled down to land in a courtyard, breaking its other wing. Archers quickly dispatched it. Never to miss a chance to cook something new, the head cook ordered the birds brought to his kitchen, where they were plucked and turned into soup.

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The third owl was only twenty yards above the tower, watching the ballistae crews scramble to reload their weapons. Heffton's mind merged with the owl, both of them watching the little mice scurry around, anticipating their taste. Talons spread, it was totally unprepared to find out it wasn't the most dangerous thing in the air. The soldiers stared as out of nowhere, a gigantic yellow and red butterfly appeared, discarding its camouflage. Bigger than the owl, better armored, and with far more combat experience, Princess Squirmy had entered the battle. Rolly was riding on her back, staff in one hand, snacks in the other.

A razor-sharp wing hit feathers, and feathers lost. The owl was sheared in two, blood and entrails exploding from the body, and Squirmie banked in the air, light shimmering off her dragon-scale wings. "Good shot, cookie coming your way, you need to keep your energy up. We need to give my ducks a hand and keep the casualty count down. Those are fierce fowl, and they think about attack, not defense."

Nearly everyone cheered, happy not to be dealing with a gigantic owl. Still, the sight of what had saved them was unnerving, especially as blood and feathers splattered them all. One soldier headed for the stairs but was stopped by a grizzled veteran with one leg. "Get back to your post. That's one of ours."

"First, it isn't killing us, and it killed the stuff trying to get to us. Second, haven't you boys seen the Shepherd? That's only a little stranger than some of the critters he's shown up with.

Below, the wolves surged forward at a command and started running across the open ground toward the keep. Trees and large bushes were kept clear for a half mile around the keep, offering little chance of invading forces sneaking up on them. The last quarter mile was bare ground, cleared of anything but grass and lichen. Twelve catapults fired, hurling barrels of exploding fire at the tightly-packed wolves when they were still a quarter mile away. Wolves died by the dozens to each shot, and many more ran amok as their fur caught fire. After a minute, the leading edge of the packs was closing on the keep, and another twelve barrels of flaming pitch landed in the back of the pack.

Long bows began firing at a distance of a thousand yards, the archers hardly able to miss. Thirty-six ballistae that had an angle for their shots fired as well. Marcus had drilled the four-man crews endlessly in the process of firing and reloading, getting the average time down to ten shots in a minute. In the time it took the wolves to close the distance, they killed over a thousand of the wolves. Fewer had shots after that as the wolves made it to the fortress and were too close to the walls. The wolves spread around the fortress, finding no way in, and a twenty-foot pit filled with metal spikes deterred them from getting close to the walls. Many leaped and fell, the unlucky getting impaled and eaten by those that survived. Rowan Keep was a bad matchup for an army of highly mobile animals with nothing supporting them. Only the Snarlfangs posed a significant threat.

Thirty Snarlfangs leaped over the pit and hit the walls twenty feet up. Dankleg urged them to dig in their claws and climb higher. The walls of the keep gave them little purchase, hardened by the Hermetic Shield. One slip and they would fall. Like gigantic cats, they scaled the walls to the overhanging parapet and had to leap outward and catch hold with their front claws, the rest of them swinging in the air. Some didn't make it. Murder holes were opened and burning oil poured down, making it even more difficult to climb and catching them on fire. Two dozen Snarlfangs fell to the pit. Nine died, impaled by the six-foot metal spikes while still burning. More oil was dropped to ensure their deaths and kill the wolves below. Fifteen survived the fall and went berserk, killing anything near before running off to the forest, burned and crazed enough that they could break their links. Wolves ran with them, forming packs around them. Dankleg let them go and concentrated on the dozen that had made it to the top of the wall.

Legionnaires with axes and swords chopped at paws, dislodging two that fell to their deaths, impaled on the spikes seventy feet below. Other soldiers were ready to push forward with spears and long pikes, forcing the Snarfangs to leap onto their points or be pushed from their precarious perches. Two died as they prepared to leap, ballistae bolts from the towers one level higher, putting bolts into them and knocking them off the walls. Two years ago, eight Snarlfangs versus a fortess of soldiers would have resulted in a victory for winter as the Tier 4 Elite predators hunted the humans through the keep and disdained their weapons.

Once again, Marcus thanked Ares and any other god listening for sending Baron William to this world. The old keep would have been overrun by now, its gates shattered, and its few weapons useless. The Tier one and two soldiers would have had little chance, dying in droves to the wolves. What met the Snarlfangs on the wall were a mix of Tier 3 and Tier 4 soldiers, along with a few greybeards missing an eye or a leg. Many had fought monsters in the wilderness, and some had ventured into the dungeons of Sedgewick and Gadobhra, invited by the Baron and given a 50% discount on entry fees. They had earned enchanted weapons and gained special abilities. And then Ozzy had gathered small squads and invited them to the nightly butchering in Gadobhra.

Marcus had been one of the first to go. He'd fought nightmarish creatures and hacked flesh for a week, getting stronger and learning the special skills of a Butcher. It was eye-opening to see how the Baron secretly trained his Contract Workers to be stronger. The Guild Master had even given them a military discount of 10% on their guild fees. The soldiers had seen that the Guild Hall was blessed by the Goddess Artemis. Word spread quietly, and the 'nightly patrols to Gadobhra' were a special bonus handed out to those soldiers training the hardest. Marcus had slowly formed a core of seasoned fighters, enhanced beyond any regular soldier. When enough of them had made the Third Tier, the Shepherd had escorted them on hunts into the Beastwoods and revealed the shine to the Goddess of the Hunt. Marcus encouraged his scouts and sharpshooters to take advantage of this opportunity. Only a few could go on any night in safety, escorted by the Baron's people. But each night, some were there, and more were butchering. Slowly, they'd gotten better. Some wanted no part of the training, but after today, the doubters would be few, if any.

Met by a dozen spears each, the Snarlfangs pushed forward, straining to reach the soft, chewy humans hiding behind the pointy sticks. Most were pinned in place, and daring strikes were made by Marcus and the other high-level soldiers as they darted forward and struck at the creatures' flanks. Priests of Ares chanted in the background, giving them courage and strength. One by one, the Snarlfangs died, Marcus stabbing one in the eye and delivering the deathblow with his Gizzard Piercing Spear of Spit-Roasting. The jet-black weapon had been won in his only excursion into the Pit of the Butcher, taken from a chest after his squad bested Mignik, Master of Minions, and his attack piglets.

Not all the battles went as well. Twice, Snarlfangs broke free and began killing soldiers with each swipe of their paws, crushing others in their jaws and tossing their bodies aside. The death toll was half a hundred before the night was through, but when one soldier was gathered in by Ares' Battle Maidens, three more stepped forward to fight. The death of the last Snarlfang broke the Beastmaster's mind, and like his companions, he lay in a deathly coma in the old lair.

From high in the air, Princess Squirmie and her Shepherd looked down at the keep. The battle was over there as well as in the air. But wolves streamed away from the keep, still several thousand strong, going into the forests that ringed Sedgewick and the Hamlets.

"We have more work to do. How are you doing for energy? That form must be hell on your metabolism."

"Naw, you'd catch me, I have the food."

"Probably just a bottle someone tossed away, but we need to land. Let's take a look, and I'll cook up some wolf steaks."