275 Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy-Five – Klawing for Ground (1/2)
Behind us, the whole approach area was covered by low stone mounds, about four feet high, spaced in what looked like an irregular pattern. It was in truth designed to break up anything resembling a charge lane, and form a serpentine road that had all been pre-sighted in by the siege engines, or in the case of the anthros, a lot of giants.
As the cavalry fed into the mounds, they naturally deviated towards the wider gaps between the stones, while the infantry was relegated to the lesser ones. Catapult loads and auto-ballistae came screaming in to drive through multiple targets, while the arrow fire naturally condensed on the lanes where the infantry was bunched up and bottle-necked.
In the thickest clusters and lanes, spells occasionally went off, each being expended to maximum effect, used lightly and murderously when so. Blooming balls of fire, thundering bolts of lightning, howling gales of utterfrost, and flesh-searing rains of acid were only cast if they could inundate an entire area of the enemy. Walls of flame cut down the middle of lanes and lines, roasting dozens of the Warped at once, adding to the havoc.
Cursing, the Warped hurried on steed and foot, ignoring momentous losses as they did, cresting the first small hill... and went screaming into the trench directly on the other side, unable to help themselves. Like lemmings, whole lines of Warped were impelled over the side and into the fall on the other side.
Yeah, the trenches were twenty feet deep, and at the bottom waited some grimly efficient gnomes, hyn, and Rockborn to end any pain they might have.
On the other side, goblins and kobolds were performing that service. While they weren't nearly as efficient, they made up for it with numbers and huge enthusiasm for the job. Sure, a slender neck was often crunched in a gauntleted fist, but that just meant his kin could insert a rusty cat-gutter into an eye slit, or wedge a nail between the legs, or other similar entertainments. Screaming warriors and beasts continued to fall from above, crushing those beneath, and all watching parties no doubt got a good chuckle at their antics.
After a bit of mutual discussion, it was decided not to link the trenches of the two sides, as there might be some enthusiastic misunderstandings. A few goblins had indeed tried to dig out a hole to go over and slit some throats for some funsies, and dug themselves right into a waiting group of gnomes happy to receive guests. A round of puree was served, the tunnel was closed after some rampaging elementals were sent over to reciprocate the party-crashers, and the goblins decided to find other entertainment forthwith.
All in good humor and understanding on both sides, of course.
In normal situations, this would have a been a ”Fill it with the dead and walk over the corpses” situation, but, you know, vivic fire makes that much more difficult, especially when you're chock full of unnatural energies which vivic fire just loves so much, and even most of your gear is infested with the stuff and burns away with the meat and bone.
It cost the anthros some meat, but there were hobgoblins with enough discipline there to set the fires. If the anthros wanted a snack, they could chop a limb off and chew the burning stuff as it was purified, since chewing the raw, Warp-infused stuff was a repeatedly demonstrated, head-cleaving no-no for all concerned.
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Ah, but there were ways across between lengths of the trenches, narrow bridges wide enough to accept single lines of cavalry, leading to other stretches of stone mounds and inclined slopes...
Never let it be said we didn't give them a road to advance. It wasn't like they could back up and go make siege bridges or something. The most athletic and superhumanly strong (or just plain tallest) of them could make it over the trenches with jumps or long strides, the rest had to cluster up and hurry across the thoughtfully provided choke points... pre-sighted by the auto-ballistae, of course.
The next slope didn't have a trench, just a fifteen-foot drop. The natural desire of the infantry was to hang and drop, but lo, the arrow fire there was simply murderous. But!... the sharp-eyed cavalry found two lower areas they could flood across, and so the cavalry were cutting across the paths of the infantry trying to make it to those areas were they could leap across, generally fouling up the progress of everyone even more.
They reached the range of the champ-ka, and so heavy metal started dropping at them at speed. The normal ones were like incoming shotputs, the ones with Elder Arg's bloodline were like incoming bowling balls... with spikes. Metal dented, helms crunched, necks cracked, skulls broken, bones were crushed... and then those Runeballs vanished from the ground and zipped back to their throwers, ready to be thrown again. Gibbering, mocking calls rained down upon the Warped as the uncannily accurate heavy fire continued.
And then they reached the range of the Reserve Casters.
Spell attacks had been rather few and far between, used for mass slaughter. Even the hulks and Warp giants and cyclops were being targeted by ballista instead of spells, right up until they hit that hundred foot or so range, and came into the range of the Reserve Castings.
All at once, the Casters on the thirty-foot walls were free to unload, and that's exactly what they did.
Dozens of balls of fire exploded, arcs of lightning hissed and crackled out, rays of cold and spikes of force interplayed between balls of acid and thrusting caltrops of stone. Once, twice, and again, and again, and again!
These advocates of Klaw had never seen magic used so much, and so freely, and were completely out of their depths on how to deal with it. They could try hurling javelins or blood-seeking axes, but shieldbearers were there to ward the Casters, and the assault of energy didn't let up at all.
Behind and above them on the wall, the archers continued their work, drawing their targets down, loosing steadily, once every six seconds, One Arrows finding deadly homes with regularity. Keen-eyed spotters painted targets into the Marks-Up Display, arrows converging on Champions, Commanders, and dangerous beasts, and making of them demonically-praiseworthy armored hatracks.
Few of the true demons got anywhere close to the trench lines or walls, drawing our attention as high Karma value, and the greatest threat to the normal troops there. Those that did make it into the mound zone ran into the same movement irritation as the normal troops, and if they hacked a few of their own apart to clear the path, well, that just made them more obvious targets as they made it into the arrow lanes and Banefire returned their sentiments on relative worth to them.
There were a lot of these guys. Seriously, this was not a small attack. The Warp Gods had an idea of the amount of power on our side, and didn't skimp on the numbers. Still, their vision was really obfuscated by having so many Nulls around, so they hadn't really seen the ExLites on station, and didn't realize their true power at this point.
Which was totally fine by us, of course. When they got to the tops of the walls and found out what was waiting for them there, that would be enough.
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”Drink, idiot.”