Chapter 995

The northerners were about to reach the runic golems when the machines changed tactics.

The arm cannons stopped firing mana bullets and shells all at once. For one brief heartbeat, the battlefield became quieter. Then the fire came.

Wide blasts erupted from the golems’ arms and shoulders, not in narrow streams, but in sweeping waves meant to cover the whole approach. Flames rolled across the mud field in a brutal wall of orange and red, devouring the rain, swallowing the corpses, and turning the air into a screaming furnace.

The front ranks of northerners vanished behind it.

“Shields!” someone roared.

Too late for clean formation. The northerners braced however they could.

Some dropped low behind their axes. Others raised broad swords and metal-rimmed shields, hiding their faces behind whatever they carried. A few simply hunched their shoulders, gritted their teeth, and pushed through with the kind of stubborn stupidity that had made the Empire fear the north long before anyone had bothered calling them allies.

Fire washed over them. Rain hissed against flame. Steam exploded across the field. The heat was still savage, still enough to burn exposed skin and set loose cloth smoking, but the heavy rain weakened it. The flames couldn’t cling properly. Couldn’t breathe properly. Every blast had to fight the storm before it reached flesh.

That was enough. Kharnek saw it instantly.

“Charge!” he bellowed.

His voice broke through the fire like a war horn.

“Rain’s choking it! Move, you frozen bastards!”

The northerners roared back and surged forward. Not away. Forward. Into the flames. Kharnek led them. Of course he did.

The chieftain lowered his massive frame, weapon held across his body, and drove through the blazing wall like a man walking through an unpleasant curtain. Fire wrapped around his shoulders. Steam poured from his skin and fur-lined clothes. The ends of his cloak caught briefly, burning in ragged strips before the rain beat them down again.

He didn’t slow. Didn’t even curse. To Kharnek, being on fire was apparently a minor inconvenience. Something to deal with later, preferably after killing the person responsible.

He burst through the other side of the flames first.

Smoke and steam rolled off him in thick clouds. Parts of his clothes still burned. The hair along one arm was singed. Red marks had spread across exposed skin where the fire had bitten deeper than rain could stop.

He ignored all of it. Because what he saw mattered more. The runic golems were retreating. Not advancing. Not pressing the advantage. Retreating. Kharnek’s eyes narrowed.

At first, the movement didn’t make sense. They had hit the exhausted front line at the perfect moment. They had enough force to turn a victory into a slaughter. They had engines, armor, fire, and ranged weapons. With the Lionsguard drained and the northerners still crossing the field, the machines should have continued pushing.

Instead, they were falling back. Then Kharnek saw why. Several of the runic golems weren’t firing anymore because their arms were occupied. They were carrying prisoners. Wounded Lionsguard members.

Exhausted fighters who had collapsed during the retreat. Recruits too drained to crawl away. Healers caught in the bombardment while trying to drag others back. Some hung limp over metal shoulders. Others were clutched in massive armored hands, barely conscious, bleeding, struggling weakly against grip strength that didn’t care about pain or pleading.

Kharnek’s blood went hot. Much hotter than the fire.

Behind him, more northerners broke through the flames, coughing, smoking, roaring. One slapped a burning patch on his sleeve out with his own palm. Another had half his beard singed away and looked personally offended by it.

Then they saw the prisoners too. The roaring changed. It sharpened. No longer battle joy. Rage. A young Lionsguard recruit lifted his head weakly from where one golem carried him under one arm. His face was pale, streaked with mud and blood, eyes barely focused.

“Khar…” he tried.

The rest vanished in a cough. Kharnek stepped forward. Slowly at first. Then faster.

The runic golems continued withdrawing, their flame units sweeping the ground between themselves and the northerners to slow pursuit. The tactic was obvious now. The bombardment had not simply been to kill.

It had been to harvest. Take the wounded. Take bargaining pieces. Take meat for whatever vile leverage the Empire planned to use next. Kharnek’s grip tightened around his weapon until the leather creaked.

“Cowards,” he growled.

The word was low. Then he raised his voice.

“COWARDS!”

The shout rolled across the battlefield hard enough that some of the retreating golems turned their heads toward him. He wanted them to hear.

“You come with armies! You fire from behind metal skins! You burn tired men in the mud!”

His chest rose and fell, steam still pouring off his body.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Then you run while carrying the wounded?”

A few northerners spread around him, readying to charge again, but Kharnek lifted one hand sharply. Not yet. He was not stupid.

The golems still had prisoners. A reckless rush might make them kill the captured fighters before anyone could reach them. Or worse, use them as shields.

The machines kept retreating toward the imperial rear, where more shapes moved in the rain. Kharnek’s teeth showed. Not a smile.

Behind him, one of the northerners snarled, “Chief?”

Kharnek’s eyes stayed fixed on the prisoners.

Far behind him, Arslan shouted orders for the remaining front line to keep retreating, voice hard with anger and control. The field had shifted again. Victory had become pursuit. Survival had become rescue. And the Empire had made another mistake.

It had taken Lionsguard prisoners in front of northerners who still remembered what imperial chains looked like. Kharnek lowered his weapon and began walking after them.

“Bring axes,” he said.

His voice was quiet now. That somehow made it worse.

“We’re opening every metal bastard who touched our wounded.”

When the smoke and steam finally began to dissipate, Arslan saw what had happened. At first, he only saw shapes.

The battlefield was a ruined smear of mud, rain, fire, and bodies. Steam rolled low across the ground where the flames had fought the storm and lost slowly. Broken banners sagged. Shields lay half-buried in blood-dark earth. The dead were everywhere, tangled together in imperial colors, Lionsguard cloaks, mercenary leather, and northern furs.

Then the steam thinned more. And Arslan saw the retreating runic golems. He saw their metal backs. Their burning arms. Their formation pulling away from the battlefield with cold, mechanical discipline. And then he saw what they were carrying. For a few seconds, Arslan said nothing.

The sound of the rain seemed to fade beneath the weight of what his eyes were showing him. Dozens of guild members. Captured.

Some were thrown over metal shoulders like sacks of grain. Others were clutched beneath armored arms, limp from wounds and exhaustion. A few were still conscious, weakly struggling, boots kicking at empty air or hands clawing uselessly against rune-plated frames that didn’t even slow.

People who had held the line until their bodies gave out. People who had obeyed his orders. People who had believed Lionfang would not leave them behind. Arslan’s grip tightened around his sword until his fingers ached. No good idea came to him.

Not one.

War was already a cruel word. Prisoners made it worse.

Together, they created something that stripped thought down to ugly possibilities. Torture. Leverage. Executions. Hostages displayed in front of walls. Broken fingers sent in bags. Screams used as bait. Promises offered and then twisted. Demands made when everyone involved already knew mercy would not be part of the exchange.

War and prisoners. Those words together brought nothing but despair to those involved. For the captured, despair in waiting. For the commanders, despair in choosing. Arslan felt it settle heavily in his chest. Not panic. Worse. Responsibility.

One of the prisoners lifted his head as the golem carrying him turned slightly. For half a heartbeat, Arslan saw the young man’s face. Mud. Blood. Terror. Then the golem carried him farther into the rain. Kharnek’s roar shattered the moment.

“We chase them!”

The northern chieftain stood ahead of the withdrawing line, steam still rising from his half-burned clothes, weapon in hand, eyes blazing with fury. Around him, northerners were already shifting forward, ready to sprint after the retreating machines despite the burns, fatigue, and fresh blood covering them.

Arslan turned toward him.

“No.”

Kharnek’s head snapped around.

“What?”

Arslan’s voice was hard. “It’s a trap.”

Kharnek took one step toward him, teeth bared. “They have your people.”

“I know.”

“They have our people.”

“I know.”

“Then move!”

Arslan’s jaw tightened, but he did not raise his voice.

“They are counting on this.”

Kharnek’s grip on his weapon flexed. Arslan pointed toward the retreating golems.

“They attacked after the front line was exhausted. They captured the wounded instead of finishing them. They retreated instead of pressing the wall. Why?”

“Because they are cowards.”

“Because they want us to follow.”

Kharnek’s eyes burned hotter. Arslan continued, each word forced through clenched control.

“They want us out there. Away from the walls. Scattered. Tired. Angry. Chasing prisoners through terrain they chose while more machines wait beyond the rain.”

The northerners behind Kharnek growled. A few Lionsguard members looked away. Because Arslan was right. And because being right felt like betrayal.

Kharnek pointed his weapon toward the retreating golems. “So you plan to stand here while they drag them away?”

Arslan said nothing. Kharnek’s voice rose into a furious shout.

“Are you planning to just wait while your allies are tortured to death?”

The words hit the field harder than any shell. Several nearby fighters flinched. Tali looked down, face pale beneath blood and mud. Brann’s shield lowered an inch. Jori cursed under his breath and looked like he wanted to swing at something, but had no idea what.

Arslan closed his eyes. For one moment, he let himself feel it. The anger. The shame. The instinct screaming at him to charge. To ignore strategy.

To take every able body and tear through the enemy until either the prisoners were free or there was nothing left of him but blood in the mud.

He wanted to. But wanting was a luxury commanders could not afford when others paid the price. He opened his eyes. His expression was serious now. Cold in the way steel became cold after blood washed off it.

“Whatever happens to them,” Arslan said, voice carrying across the rain, “is on me.”

The words silenced even Kharnek. Arslan stepped forward.

“But I will not sacrifice others for it when we are already exhausted.”

Kharnek’s face twisted. “They are still alive.”

“Yes.”

“And that means we can still save them.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Kharnek barked. “That is all?”

“That is all war gives.”

The chieftain looked ready to explode. Arslan did not look away.

“If we chase now, we lose more. Not maybe. Certainly. The wounded we still have will die. The recruits who can barely stand will die. The healers with no mana left will die. The wall may lose the men needed to hold the next assault.”

He pointed toward the dark distance.

“And if the enemy has another formation waiting beyond that steam, then we hand them exactly what they wanted.”

Kharnek shook with fury. Arslan’s voice dropped lower.

“I will not trade fifty prisoners for five hundred corpses because my heart cannot bear the sound of chains.”