Chapter 34: Glory Barrier
"So the human army has that many mages?" Morgash Bloodhowl’s eyes widened, his gut tightening as he watched his goblin vanguard get blasted into chaos by a barrage of spells. "It’s that undisciplined mob... and they’re all casting elementary magic. A bunch of apprentices?"
Mage apprentices were hardly a threat. Their spells were too weak to cause any real damage to his heavy infantry, and their meager reserves of mana would be exhausted after just a few volleys. Once the goblin fodder had soaked up the mages’ mana and the archers’ strength, the slaughter would begin.
Morgash let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, a confident smirk returning to his face.
On the battlefield, the fighting remained fierce. Alistair, however, was directing the flow of battle with cold precision.
"Sword-and-shield infantry, cover the militia archers and outlander mages! Fall back one hundred paces!"
"Outlander warriors, advance and hold the line!"
The warrior players, who had been straining at the leash, let out a jubilant roar at Alistair’s command and charged eagerly toward the goblin vanguard.
"Stone Skin, activate!"
"Whoa, these level seven and eight goblins give decent XP!"
"Cannon Fodder Brigade, charge!"
"Face the wind!"
The dozen or so yards between the front lines vanished in a heartbeat. The warrior players slammed into the wall of goblins with joyous abandon.
"Eat my slide tackle!"
"Fuck! Who’s stabbing me in the ass?!"
The melee between the warrior players and the goblins was a maelstrom of brutal, chaotic violence. The sheer depravity of the brawl was difficult to describe—a grotesque flurry of eye-pokes, nose-hooks, groin-kicks, and other unspeakable violations of battlefield decorum.
Alistair’s lip twitched in a silent, exasperated grimace. Seeing that the first wave of players was about to be wiped out, he turned and raised a hand.
"All archers, volley fire! Ready—"
"Loose!"
"All outlander mages, Fireball! Level trajectory, prepare to fire—"
"Release!"
Another storm of arrows and a swarm of fiery orbs descended upon the goblin ranks. The volley killed swaths of goblins while also conveniently finishing off the last few players still clinging to life.
"Damn it all!" one player cried, his body bristling with arrows as he collapsed. "On this day, I never thought... the one to kill me... would be a friendly backstab!"
"Cut the drama and start your corpse run!" another nearby player shouted back. "Those are walking experience points!"
Under the cover of the archers and mages, the warrior players—constantly respawning—relentlessly wore down the numbers of the orcish fodder. Soon, the goblins’ morale shattered. They began dropping to their knees to beg for mercy, then scattered in a panic, some even crashing into their own advancing lines.
The players surged forward until they met the orc heavy infantry. But here, against the towering, plate-armored warriors, their wild charge came to a bloody halt.
An orc warrior raised a massive blade and, with a single grunt, cleaved a howling player clean in two.
"That was... messy."
"Hahahaha! Serves that idiot TestosteroneRex right, charging in without looking."
"Running an Inspect... holy shit, level 18 Orc Infantry. No wonder he cut through us like we’re made of paper."
The players quickly conferred, attempting to engage the orcs in groups of five. It was useless. One or two heavy infantrymen would corner them and slaughter them with ease.
Alistair knew the melee players had reached the limit of their usefulness. From this point on, victory would have to be seized by his own hand.
"All outlander warriors, fall back! Form a defensive line around the archers and mages!"
"All knights, to me! Form up!"
Alistair sat tall upon his Drakeblood Steed, raising a clenched fist high. At the signal, every knight under his command rallied to him.
"Glory Barrier!"
With a low grunt from Alistair, a golden light flashed across the gathered knights. An ethereal sigil of a crossed sword and shield appeared above them before sinking into their bodies and vanishing.
It was one of Alistair’s buffing skills—not an area-of-effect ability, but one with a hard limit on the number of targets. Currently, it could cover a maximum of one hundred men.
His hundred or so knights immediately felt their defenses and resilience increase dramatically. Correspondingly, the charging power of their warhorses was also enhanced.
"Baron Hawthorn," Alistair said, casting a glacial side-eye at the noble. His tone was not a request, but a command. "You and your knights will follow my charge. Thorne will be watching you. If you attempt any tricks, I will see to it you die a death far more painful than any orc will suffer today."
Without sparing the grim-faced Baron another glance, Alistair drew the massive greatsword from his back, its tip pointed like a promise toward the distant orc command tent.
"All knights, with me! We charge! Objective: the enemy commander! Sword-and-shield infantry, advance behind us! You will prevent their infantry from encircling us!"
"SIR!"
...
The deep, resonant blast of a war horn sounded the attack. Greatsword in hand, Alistair spurred his mount forward, leading the charge.
The hundred-pace distance was consumed in a flash. The Drakeblood Steed leaped into the orc infantry line, a force of nature. Alistair’s greatsword swung in a great arc, and a spray of blood and severed limbs erupted.
Their morale surging, his knights followed close behind, a thunderous tide of hooves and steel.
CRUNCH!
The deafening impact was like a colossal sledgehammer smashing into the orc lines, sending armored bodies flying.
The players could only stare, dumbfounded, as the Lord of Frostfell and his knights repeatedly carved through the orc formation. Where they passed, they left a wake of mangled bodies and rivers of blood, their ferocious valor making them seem like gods of war.
One player, his eyes shining with awe and adoration, sighed, "Guys... if I went over and offered to defect to the Lord of Frostfell, you think he’d take me?"
"What use are you? Do you have any special talents?"
"I can drink water with my ass. Does that count?"
"...I don’t believe you. Show me."
...
Seeing the human commander rampaging through his army as if it were nothing, Morgash Bloodhowl could finally sit still no longer. Waving his spiked mace, he dug his heels into his warg’s flanks and charged toward Alistair.
"Human! You will pay the price for enraging a warrior of the orc nation!" he roared in Orcish.
Alistair lopped the head off an orc infantryman and, hearing the guttural bellow behind him, turned. A red-skinned orc with a bestial, lion-like face and bared tusks was bearing down on him, astride a massive warg.
Alistair focused his intent, and the orc’s information became clear to him.
[Name] Morgash Bloodhowl
[Identity] First General, 18th Army of the Orc Empire’s Blood of Glory Legion
[Level] 42 (Tribal Chieftain)
[Skills] Legion’s Will, Boiling Blood, Berserk, Pulverizing Crush, Beast Affinity
[Equipment] Bloodhowl Chieftain’s Armor (Masterwork), Bonebreaker (Exquisite)
[Reputation (Orc Empire)] 4245 (A newly promoted general)
[Reputation (Pyrian Empire)] -1749 (His bloody cruelty has devastated Sablewood Creek)
"And here I thought you’d be a challenge."
Alistair sneered, gripping his greatsword and meeting Morgash’s mace with a powerful cleaving blow.
The impact sent a bone-jarring shock up Morgash’s arm. His hand screamed in protest as the mace was nearly torn from his grasp, and the warg beneath him let out a pained whimper.
He stared in stunned disbelief. This human... possessed such terrifying strength.