Overwhelming Firepower

The march continued onward without much of a problem. The usual monsters that roam around the area could not be found, and neither were the normal animals.

This was something that happens when a monster wave approaches. Even the warlike barbarian tribes, reckless as they were, had already pulled back, leaving the path clear for the tide of horrors to come.

But unlike the tribes, who could vanish into the wilds at a moment’s notice, the people of the kingdom had no such freedom. Their homes, their fields, their very lives were bound to the soil they worked. They could not run. They could only endure what was coming.

This was why Stellhart was an important location to the people of Norvaegard, as they were the ones who stood between the monsters and the people of Norvaegard.

By midday, the land before them split open into a vast gorge, a wound in the earth carved by ancient glaciers. Its walls plunged down in jagged cliffs of black stone, veined with ice that glittered like pale glass.

At the bottom, a frozen river groaned under the weight of snow, the faint rumble of water still moving beneath the ice echoing like a heartbeat through the gorge. There it stood, just ahead of them, the walls of the First Fortress.

It rose at the narrowest point of the gorge, its walls carved into the cliffs themselves, towers like frozen sentinels staring down from the heights. Ballistae jutted from the walls, their silhouettes stark against the snow-filled sky.

The banners of Norvaegard snapped in the wind atop its battlements, blue and silver of Stellhart, black and steel-gray of Thornehart. A bastion of stone and ice, built not only to defend the north, but to stare down the abyss itself.

This was the fortress built after the first monster wave that General Richard Vaelgard, Edric Thornehart, and Lunavere Aeromont faced.

This place has withstood every monster wave that came after. In this place, many a warrior, mage, and devout believer have died.

The fortress had been rebuilt several times, but not once has a single monster from any monster wave been able to pass.

Lucen reined in his horse, eyes narrowing as he took it all in. This location was a place not accessible in the game.

In the game’s timeline, this fortress had long fallen, and mighty Ironhold had also disappeared from the map.

The majority of the North had become infested with monsters, many of which were too powerful to repel without the help of an army.

The fortress gates groaned as they opened, heavy with frost and age. From the battlements, the garrison soldiers looked down.

They were lean, scarred men and women, their armor battered and their furs patched a hundred times. These were not soldiers of parade-ground discipline, but of survival. Their eyes, sunken with sleepless nights, yet sharp with vigilance, took in every detail of the arriving force.

They had seen the signs first. The silence of the land. The snow carried no animal tracks. The way the ice in the gorge groaned too often, too deeply, as though something stirred beneath.

Vardon rode at the front, his presence cutting through the men’s fatigue like a blade. Sir Thalos followed, stern as ever, the knights of Stellhart behind him. Then came Thornefang, their war wagons rattling, their strange weapons glinting with cold promise.

These people have been in this fortress guarding for years; most of them had no family to worry for them. This fortress was the only home they knew.

The people of the first fortress were also people of Stellhart of Norvaegard, and they had made the greatest sacrifice of defending this fortress, and alerting the Duke of Stellhart if a monster wave was to come.

The veterans of the First Fortress lined the inner yard as the gates finally shut behind the marching host. Their eyes, sharp but hollow, swept over the newcomers.

They bowed their heads respectfully to Vardon, saluted Sir Thalos, and watched the knights with a soldier’s weary admiration. But when their gazes fell upon Thornefang, something changed.

At first, there was silence, measured, heavy. The eyes of the veterans lingered not on the men, but on the weapons they bore. The gleaming arquebuses, the heavier Thunderstorms strapped across broad backs, and the war wagons with their Thunderspears.

They had been briefed as the commander had received news about these new weapons. They understood that these things would help them kill more monsters without the need to sacrifice many of their own lives.

The silence broke, not with doubt, but with a grim kind of relief. A few of the weary soldiers allowed themselves small nods, as though the sight of Thornefang’s new weapons had eased a weight pressing on their chests. Others whispered low, the words carrying only far enough for those beside them.

”Those are the new weapons.”

”I heard that anyone can use those, and they are all ranged weapons.”

”Maybe... Maybe this time we’ll hold with fewer dead.”

Their voices weren’t loud, but in a place where hope was rare, even the faintest spark spread quickly. Shoulders eased. Backs straightened. The fortress, so long silent with grim anticipation, seemed to breathe again.

The murmurs died down when the fortress commander stepped forward. His beard was thick with frost, his shoulders stooped but unyielding, the weight of decades of defense carved into his frame.

He was a few years younger than Vahn, but he, too, had served the former Duke, who was Vardon’s father. He bowed deeply before Vardon.

”My Duke. I’m glad you’re able to have arrived before the tide.”

Vardon dismounted in one smooth motion, his boots striking the frozen stones with finality. His gaze swept the yard, taking in the garrison, the walls, the chains across the gorge. He nodded once.

”You’ve held well, Commander Roderick. Do not worry, in this upcoming battle, as always, we will emerge victorious.”

His voice, deep and ironbound, left no room for doubt. He turned toward Thornefang’s wagons.

”Bring the Thunderspears forward.”

At his command, the war wagons creaked into motion, the ground shuddering beneath their weight. Men strained at the wheels, chains rattled, and the great cannons, black iron throats rimed with frost, were pulled into the yard.

”Set them on the battlements,” Vardon ordered. ”Once the wave of monsters comes, we will annihilate them.”

Despite Vardon’s voice not being that loud, everyone in the fortress could hear it. It was brief, but some of them felt the immense killing intent Vardon emitted.

The members of Thornefang, alongside the soldiers of the first fortress, moved as ordered to set up the Thunderspears in the battlements. While they were doing that, Vardon signaled Lucen to come over. Lucen approached Vardon and Roderick.

”This is my son, Lucen.”

Upon hearing what Vardon said, Roderick did a knight’s salute. ”It is my honor to meet you, young lord. I am Roderick Asran, the commander of this fortress.”

Lucen responded with his own knight’s salute. ”The honor is mine, commander.”

”I have heard reports of your accomplishments, young lord. I hope these new weapons you have created will help us in the upcoming battle.”

”I promise they will,” Lucen replied.

Roderick nodded his head. He then lowered his arm and let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting toward the northern horizon. For a moment, the only sound was the wind sighing through the battlements. Then his jaw tightened.

”They’ll be here soon,” he said gravely. ”The scouts I sent had reported back that the monster wave this time is moving fast. They will arrive before nightfall.”

Vardon’s eyes narrowed, but there was no hesitation in his voice. ”Then we waste no time. Every man, woman, and weapon must be ready.”

Roderick nodded and barked an order. The courtyard erupted into motion. The knights of Stellhart and Thornefang also started moving.

The people quickly placed the Thunderspears in the battlements, and the boxes with the metal balls that would be loaded later next to the Thunderspears. There was also, of course, the gunpowder, which was handled with care.

Robert supervised the moving of gunpowder that was going to be used for the Thunderspears.

Harlik was making sure that the equipment of every member of Thornefang was properly maintained.

The various clerics present started praying for different blessings. The more experienced battle priests were already raring to show their valor in battle.

On the walls, the first watchmen already had their eyes fixed northward, staring into the pale haze where the snow swallowed the horizon. The silence there was heavy, unnatural, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Lucen stood on the battlement and turned his gaze towards the area where the monster wave would be coming from.

He thought he could almost hear it, the faint, distant thunder of countless feet, the low tremor running beneath the ice like a buried drumbeat. The sound of something vast drawing nearer.

Lucen’s breath fogged in the cold air as he leaned forward, staring into the endless white beyond the gorge. The snow blurred everything into a shifting veil of gray, but the sound beneath it, the rhythm in the ice, was growing louder, steadier.

Then, at the edge of sight, the haze stirred. A shadow rippled within the storm. Not just one shadow, but many.

Shapes moved in the distance, black against the white, countless and crawling. Horns, claws, spines that pointed at the sky, it was an advancing tide of nightmares. It was like an endless stream.

The watchtower horn wailed, long and shrill, echoing across the area. Lucen held his arquebus ready to shoot. He was trying to calm himself down. The monster wave had arrived.