Chapter 26: The Team Fights

Tristan

October 29, 1786, Realm Timeline, The Danube, between Slovakia and Hungary

The only positive was that the enemies were advancing in small groups. The negative was their abysmal survival chances.

"Die with honor. Kill as many as you can," Tristan yelled, the hair rising on his head.

The Tatars at the front, maybe fearing their enemies had numbers, slowed down, waiting for some in the back to catch up. A minute later, the charge continued, with fifty or more raiders in the front. Surprised that no musket or arrow volley met them, they stopped again, a hundred feet from the thicket. More Tatars caught up, and the numbers grew to over a hundred. Behind, a second formation formed, ready to follow.

A sergeant, or whatever officer rank the Tatars had, barked an order, and the horsemen drew their bows. Simultaneously, Cedric pulled his bowstring and released an arrow. It landed in the middle of the Tatars. Vines sprouted from the ground, spreading, latching onto the horses' legs. At the same time, Pops yelled something, clapping his hands. A strong gust of wind shot forward, intensifying as it went, colliding with the hail of arrows. At that point, Pops' spell was as strong as a storm. Leaves, grass, earth, and even little rocks were thrown back. The Tatars' projectiles landed back and exploded in clouds of greenish gas.

Looks like we found our delivery System...

The screams and neighs were horrifying. Skin and flesh melted and boiled, eyes flew out of their sockets, and hair burned. Burnt hair and nails smelled the worst.

"Twiss!" Pops shouted, showing two raised fingers, and Tristan understood the old man was saying he could do that spell two more times.

Waiting for the enemy to regroup again under similar conditions was wishful thinking. The Tatars were going to spread out and fire in salvos at irregular intervals. It didn't matter. Tristan was fed up. In a matter of two weeks, he had become a Vampire, left the Emperor's service, and the Outworlder, the Eliza lady, couldn't care less for all his efforts. On top of that, the barbarians who had ruined half the Empire were daring to threaten its heart, Vienna.

What am I doing? Tristan asked himself, and then the bloodlust and the hate took over. He raised his spear, inserted his left arm behind Dorian's backpack straps, picked the young man up to use him as a shield, and charged ahead, running faster than ever. Pops' speed boost was still active. The sun was still up, but the hills made the day turn into dusk, and his buffs activated as well. Three seconds later, Tristan had covered the distance to the Tatars, running around the formation.

About half the enemies had been affected by the gas. Many others were still caught in the vines or, in panic, bumping into each other as they tried to run away. Tristan swiped his spear on the way, killing a horse in one stroke. The animal fell, bringing the rider to Tristan's level, and the backhand sent the Tatar's head flying.

+20% Endurance

Still running, he thrust his spear into the neck of another horse, ducked under a saber, and stabbed the Tatar on it. Horse and rider fell together.

+40% Endurance

Cap reached

All that remained to maintain the buff was to kill someone every ten seconds. It was not hard. The Tatars were getting in each other's way, a chaos of buckling horses and screaming people intermingled with those who tried to fight. There was still gas floating around, but it was heavier than air and already descending toward the ground. Tristan avoided the concentrations, dancing around the horses and using Dorian as a shield to intercept spears and swords.

A faint whiff of poison reached his nostrils, and his lungs felt like they were burning. Tristan focused on delivering wounds, rather than kills, siphoning health. From overhead, he stabbed, stabbed, and stabbed. For a while, there was a battle between how fast the poison could kill him and how fast he could regenerate and siphon health. Tristan had gained two levels from all sources combined and invested three points in Endurance and the rest in Blood Power. The tide turned, energy flowing through his veins. He was resisting the poison.

Dorian shouted profanities, all bleeped, sometimes becoming limp and inert, at other times remaining conscious. Three Tatars dismounted, trying to attack from the rear, but Cedric arrived from behind, jumping in strides of five yards or more. He was able, it turned out, to break a man's neck with a single slap. In under two minutes, half the enemies had been killed by the gas, twenty-something by Tristan and his team, and the rest were running back toward the second group.

"Put me down!" Dorian yelled. "I'll run to them and discharge the damage I stored."

Tristan nodded, releasing him. The Tatars were debating, keeping their horses at bay, but it was only a matter of time before they tried to spread out and shoot from a distance. Some of them also had muskets, and bullets were sure to go through Pops' storm.

This tale has been pilfered from NovelPhoenix. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

A raider noticed the incoming running man and shouted a warning. A few Tatars pointed their weapons at Dorian.

"I surrender! I surrender!" Dorian screamed, running on, waving his hands above the head. That bought him a few more seconds. "I lied, mother bleepers!"

The most terrifying aspect of the man's powers was their invisibility. No physical manifestation at all, except for the Tatars and horses falling around him like flies. Those in the front were either dead or knocked out cold; those in the rear were vomiting and screaming.

"Forward!" Tristan shouted.

Cedric followed, but Pops passed him, flying above their heads, surrounded by a tornado. The old man clapped his hands, and the loudest thunder Tristan had ever heard resounded. That was the final straw that broke the Tatars' spirit, and their formation as well. They ran into the forests on their right. About half of the initial bigger group had survived, Tristan noticed, but there were also many unconscious Tatars on the ground, some returning to their senses. He plunged his spear into one's throat.

"Kill some!" Tristan shouted to the rest to speed up the process.

"Oh, man," Dorian complained. "Can't, Sir, I'm sorry! This is against the Geneva Convention."

"Yeah, this feels wrong," Cedric said. "Killing in a battle is one thing; murdering defenseless people is another."

"They razed two villages to get rid of witnesses," Tristan yelled, stabbing a wounded Tatar who was trying to crawl away. "Show no mercy!"

"I forgot something," Dorian blurted, running back toward the copse they had landed in, gagging on the way.

"I'll take a look at the barge," Cedric said. "I don't detect any people on it, but just in case."

Both were finding excuses not to finish the wounded.

Wimps, Tristan thought, killing the last of the Tatars, before directing his attention toward Cedric, who was struggling to catch a horse, and it was not the animal's fault. The horses were gelded and broken a long time ago, and they had witnessed the massacre placidly. Tristan found a rope on a saddle, then another, and tied them together, a few at a time, pulling them aside and tying them in groups of three.

"What's on that boat?" he asked, because Cedric was approaching.

"Nothing, really. The engine, lots of empty space, and an engraved device with 'Obscurans'written on it. I think it means—"

"Obscuring in Latin. The Obscuration device. Is it big?"

"Not so big they couldn't carry it on a horse."

"That's bad... No gas arrows?"

"Nope. A dirt bike, with an engine attached, very crude stuff, and that's all."

"What are the rest of the Tatars doing? Are they still around?" Tristan asked.

"Yeah, I'm smelling them... Some are watching us from the forest. On it."

Walking toward the forest, Cedric howled, raising an arrow picked from a quiver and smashing it on his head. The green gas flowed over him, and he inhaled deeply, with no visible effect.

"Coooome!" Cedric beckoned and howled. "Cooome... Hey, what do you know? Now they're not hanging around anymore," he said a second later. "Hm..." he examined the arrow. "A metallic vial. Like in those Rambo movies."

"You're immune?"

"Only if I keep my Cleanse active. Man, I'm tired," Cedric complained, lying down. "Must be Mana exhaustion. How are you, sir?"

"Dandy," Tristan said. A notification had told him he was level twenty, and either it came with benefits, or it was the overall excitement of being alive.

"Boss, Cedric!" Dorian yelled from the copse. "Come quickly!"

"What's up?" Tristan yelled on the run. Cedric followed in his steps, dragging his feet.

"The guy who shot at you, he's still alive."

"Unalive him, for bleep's sake!"

"Sir, stop!" Dorian interposed in the face of Tristan, as the latter arrived, spear at the ready. "Remember the gun he used? He's a Renegade... We need to gather information, remember?"

"You're right," Tristan realized, letting go of his anger. The stranger was unconscious but still breathing. Tristan examined the wound. The bullet had gotten in and out cleanly, but had nicked the lung.

"Cedric, you have healing skills, right?" Dorian asked.

"I do, but I'm very low on mana, and I'm still fighting against that poison," the elf said.

"I'll turn him," Tristan decided on the spot, remembering that level twenty came with the perk of turning others. "He'll be obliged to obey me."

Without waiting for the others' comments, he knelt near the Outworlder. Using his spear to give the man a cut on the arm, he bit into the wound. It felt gross, and despite what was expected from him, he had no fangs, but it worked nevertheless. He got a notification:

Unknown male, magic user of the Second Order, turned into Thrall. Target unable to accept the turn. Accept overridden. Status: Stable. Time to full health recovery: 1 hour.

We don't have one hour. "We'll take him on a horse," Tristan decided. "We're leaving in five. Cedric, do you want to come with us, or go talk to your elven friends, see what's going on on that side?"

"I'll go talk with them, sir," Cedric said.

"Oh, kay. Take care." Throwing the unconscious man over his shoulder, Tristan hurried back to Pops and Dorian.

"Dorian, take two horses, hurry after Isolde."

"Pops is better at riding."

"Yes, but he doesn't understand us."

"Me do," Pops said. "I run for a girl, these horses," he showed three fingers.

"Fine, take three," Tristan said.

"Yeah, Emilios is there too," Dorian said.

"The horses will be for Isolde. She'll change when the mount is tired. Pops and Emilios will follow on foot."

Pops gave Tristan a thumbs-up and galloped away. In less time than a normal person would have taken to put on their shoes, he was already a tiny spot in the distance.

"Dorian, I need you to be brave," Tristan said.

"We're going to attack them again?"

"I don't know what we'll do yet. It's wait-and-see. We'll try to ride as fast as we can. Your butt will hurt a lot."

"I'll put my free points into Constitution. It should give some Endurance as a side effect."

"How many points do you have?"

"Fifteen. I'm level ten now."

"Any evolution?"

"No, only a passive that reduces my pain and damage by a small amount."

"It's still something."

"What do you think is on that boat?" Dorian asked, looking at Cedric putting up the small central sail.

"Who knows? More arrows? I don't care. We should go. Take those," Tristan pointed to three smaller horses, tied together with a long rope.

He threw the prisoner on a horse, lying on his belly, tying him to the saddle, then mounted another, the first of his line. Dorian did the same, and off they went. The mounts' gait was fast but soft enough for Tristan to relax and inspect his stats.

His XP bar was almost full, nearing level twenty-one. There were self-improvements everywhere, but the most impressive was a plus ten in Constitution and a passive, making him toxin-resistant. Fighting off the gas, Tristan realized. He pushed all his free fifteen points into the Constitution stat, following Dorian's advice, and spurred his mount.