171 Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-One – The Long, Grinding Road (1/2)

It took eight days to advance eight miles and hold the ground. The Camp actually did not move, the formal base staying near the Silver Worm to have access to water, and secure the trail of supplies and new bodies arriving from behind. Sure, they could labor up along The Ring, but why?

Better to have a fortified base for rest and resupply, before going out to fight again.

The Warped naturally enough mustered and marched over to have a great fun time assaulting the Camp. Since it was a fortification, however crude, they actually massed up to attack.

Instead of fighting from the Camp, they were met out on the field, by just about everyone, and were completely annihilated. A set of Greater Demons from each of the Warp Gods was slaughtered, and the True and Lesser Demons butchered on the field by Void Brothers hunting Karma. Combat magic from the elves swept the field, legions of dwarven longspears boxed them up like hedgewalls, and heavy cavalry smashed into them left and right while lancers and mounted bowmen harried the edges.

Flying monsters were unable to take to the skies, and died on the ground. The Shadowknife hunted Casters like a wraith, severing them from their own lifelines. Commanders, champions, and officers of the Warped went up against grim men with a trembling Song thundering in their hearts and minds, and died.

The array of healing magic saved many lives. Multiple Healing Traps meant more Casters with healing magic could operate near the lines as combat medics, pouncing on those who fell and saving them before they died, to be hauled off by other men using Disks to the Traps to recover and form a wounded reserve and relief force. After seeing the efficiency of the healers at work and the lives saved by them, all those fighting were very much in favor of more healing magic and Disks being allocated to move the wounded. There were only two Healing Harps at work, but a Minstrel or Bard was manning them 24/7, and any wounded who could listen were allowed to stay close long enough to be healed further.

The Warped lost twice their number of troops to the combined forces, tens of thousands of Warped humans, tauren, anthros, monsters, and demons.

A similar amount marched out of the Rift that very night, forming up for battles.

The attackers didn't wait for the Warped. Marching forward quickly, the elves, the swiftest of the attackers, quickly swept through the first warband of anthros to come braying out of the Rift, and then retreated into reserve to support the others.

The Kaldens crushed the next group before falling back, and then a joint force of several knightly Orders had their way, cycle-charging their way through the savage armored troops of the Warped as ranks of spearmen in support kept them boxed.

The dwarves went up next, longspears burning Bane to the Warped, and fairly marched all over the anthros and tauren who tried to deal with them. Autobows and autoballistae drove death at those who tried to use ranged attacks on them, the volume of fire murderous and heavy, their advance unstoppable.

The Ironblood smashed into their camp proper, clearing out the craftsmen and non-combat troops there with merciless efficiency, operating together with a fluid ease that impressed even the dwarves.

Behind them, walls were built, pits dug, spikes of stone put in place, pathways formed. The ground was stained white by vivus, yet slowly reverting as the energy was leeched away by the land, and the blue sky slowly expanded in the direction of the Rift.

----------

The pattern repeated, showing no signs of letting up.

The Warped would flood out of the Rift; beast-men, humans, and/or demons, coming in units of warband size, occasionally with monstrous add-ons. A force of defenders would muster to meet them in series, giving them no chance to accumulate numbers. Battle would erupt, and white fires would stain the dark land.

Every mile behind them, another wall went up. More terrain was prepared, more hedges for mass assault. Companies fought, disengaged, and others moved up to do their duty.

On the seventh day, the first iteration of a road arrived at The Camp.

Behind them, the full force of the Rockborn of Klintskun had swung into effect, outraged by the damage done to their kin. Thousands of dwarves had begun laboring as soon as The Camp started forward in the Badlands and the threat of the invading Warpbands had been dealt with.

From the slopes of the mountains, a ceaseless line of wagons rumbled along quickly-reinforced trails, bringing with them supplies, food... and stone. Thousands of tons of stone.

From the skirts of the great mountains, where the great apocalypse had come up against the earthpower and finally faded away, a road had taken form. It was made of stone that had not been subjected to the power of the tragedy that had destroyed Yle Tyorm, but from pure stone of the mountain's roots, forming a metaphysical connection to the outer world, a conduit of strength reinforced by the vivus from the many deaths of interlopers on the way.

Nobody worked stone like the Rockborn, nor worked so hard and steadily. They were joined by Gnomish lairds who occupied the smaller hills of their domain, handling the extra magic and some of the fine details of what was being built. Precise blocks of stone went down on solid foundations, the wagons rolled farther and faster, and the road had extended by miles every day as they labored, driving the earthpower into the Badlands, on a winding course by the Silver Worm across the Dichromatic Plains, and into the Ring at the Camp.

Overnight, The Camp turned into a fortress, walls wrought from the distant mountains rose with speed and surety, digging into and over The Ring. Along both its base and its peak, trails began to extend out, the layers of low walls were reinforced and further built up by this vengeance-fueled force of Rockborn builders and makers, following the Ring along its arc towards the Rift.

Behind them, wagons bearing dark rock brought from the depths of the mountains, carved by Rockborn artisans and craft-priests, waited to be assembled into the first of the Obelisks, while other loads slowly brought more stone to reinforce and widen the road.

Despite all their oaths of vengeance, these Rockborn never set foot on the battlefield, save to replace those who had fallen. They had been told of the crazy rules this place existed under, and if they massed into an army and advanced, they would only encourage the Warped to do the same, and in greater numbers. As long as they did not take up arms, they could not be used as an excuse for the Warped to flood this place with endless foes, limiting them to mustering forces comparable to those coming to beat them.

Even the forces fighting camped out on the field, coming back to the Camp only to heal and resupply. They were here to fight, not provide convenient excuses to the Warped.

To get stronger. To Grind.