Horizon of War Series

Laying a Trap

Morton shouted defiantly and dashed forward to intercept the charging horseman. The lance aimed straight at him, he parried it with all his strength. The mage knight’s amplified strength enabled him to deflect the force of the lance thrust, but he almost lost his footing.

He recoiled as his momentum wasn’t enough to counter the combined weight of the warhorse and its rider. The mounted knight, lance still unbroken, passed by just inches away. Their gaze met.

Morton had created an opening. He regained his stance, advanced one step forward, planted his foot firmly, and swung his broadsword. The rider was perched too high on the warhorse, so Morton directed his attack at the horse’s neck instead.

The horse’s barding protected the beast’s neck, but the impact was more than it could handle. The horse reared, panicking wildly, and luckily veered off instead of trampling Morton. He knew he had won this gamble and stepped away.

His arms and shoulder felt like they were about to burst, but that was only to be expected. Such an impact would’ve ripped muscle from bone and dislocated joints in a normal man. But the Mage Knight survived with only a nasty cramp.

The second pair of warhorse and rider rushed toward Morton. He readied himself once more. Behind him, his previous opponent had already crashed to the ground.

The incoming rider was without a lance but brandished a sword. Anticipating the rider’s move, Morton crouched low at the last moment and dashed forward, aiming his broadsword at the horse’s front leg.

Seeing Morton went low, the rider instinctively swung his sword toward Morton’s head. The blow landed squarely, causing the top of Morton’s helmet to cave in.

Reeling from the impact, Morton lost his balance and narrowly avoided the panicked horse. Dazed, he discarded his helmet and the padding within. Blood trickled down his face.

He glanced towards the rider who had struck him, only to find the person had crashed to the ground, his leg trapped beneath his own bloodied horse.

The mage knight took a step back and surveyed his surroundings. With blood streaming down his face, he observed the last of his comrades either falling or retreating. The situation was hopeless. He alone couldn’t hold off ten cavalrymen, let alone several dozen.

The next horseman had spotted him. Initially, they approached cautiously, having seen several riders fell, but now they were out for blood.

Morton knew he could do no more but to retreat. As the next riders charged and tried to trample him, Morton jumped, and rolled in the dirt. His hair became disheveled and covered in dirt and leaves.

Clutching his sword tightly, he ran toward the trees.

“You’re not going anywhere!” a cold voice came from behind.

Morton glanced back and immediately raised both of his arms to block the stones thrown at him. His gauntlets protected his hands, but dirt got into his eyes. A moment of carelessness had blinded him.

A knight charged at Morton and lashed out with a blindingly fast horizontal slash.

The Mage knight used magic to force his eyes open. He reacted just in time to block the sword aimed at him, but the force was so great that even with his enhanced strength, the blade slammed into his left elbow.

“Guh,” Morton groaned as he was thrown to the side. The tall knight gave him no time to breathe, relentlessly lashing out with consecutive slashes and thrusts.

The mage knight was hard-pressed; the man fought like a wounded bear and could almost match his strength. Almost. After parrying the last attack, Morton blasted a concentrated jet of wind into the knight’s helmet. As if anticipating the attack, the knight protected his face with his left hand while swinging his broadsword with the other.

“Hrrah!” Morton slammed his opponent’s blade hard, trying to create an opening, but the knight reacted by taking several steps back. Afterward, like a whirlwind, the knight charged again with a thrust.

Morton blocked the thrust, but the knight followed up with a left punch that grazed the mage knight’s cheek. Instead of keeping their distance, Morton used his enhanced physique and head-butted the knight’s helmet with his bare forehead.

The knight staggered but managed to let out a chuckle. “What a fun fight. Against a freak, that is.”

“You’re not doing too badly yourself, for a nameless Midlandian amateur,” Morton retorted viciously.

“It’s Harold, you piece of elven shit!” And just like that, the two ramped up their tempo. They traded blows, grappled, and landed heavy smashes on each other.

Harold landed a solid left-handed hammer fist against Morton’s jaw. But the mage knight smashed his pommel hard on Harold’s hip.

The knight staggered back. There was no penetration through the plate, but his entire left leg was numb.

For the first time, Morton could look at his surroundings, saw more Korelians closing in, and decided to flee.

“Oi, woman, I’m not finished!” Harold taunted.

“You’re too drunk, amateurs should drink in moderation,” Morton quipped as he trekked south. Soon, the dense trees shielded him from sight. He regretted pulling out his head’s padding, as he could have used the linen to bandage the wound on his head.

Watching the mage knight disappear from sight, Harold just dropped to the mossy ground, opened his visor, and took in a big breath of fresh air. He had just fought toe to toe with a mage knight and his entire body was exhausted. However, his heart was full of pride.

To fight against a Mage Knight and survive was such a rare feat, and he had just added that accomplishment to his repertoire. All the mock training and the theories on how to fight against a mage knight had paid off.

As for the mage knight. he continued south and started to find some of his wounded comrades, including his lieutenant and the squire. Without saying a word, he helped carry the lieutenant, and they retreated deeper into the forest.

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***

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Lansius

The clash of steel and the cries of combat had ceased, replaced by the heavy silence of the aftermath. The forest around Lansius seemed to close in, the leaves whispering secrets of the skirmish’s brutal end. He sat on the mossy ground, his helmet beside him, his back against the rough bark of an ancient tree, stunned and lost for words.

Several of his men had helped him up from the fall and escorted him away. His armor felt uncomfortable, pressing against his chest as he struggled to draw breath in the hot and humid air, sweat pouring down his face.

His destrier lay a few feet away, whinnying softly as a rider calmed her down and examined what was likely a bruised neck or flank beneath the barding.

Lansius looked down at his left wrist, encased in metal, as pain shot through his arm with every heartbeat. Yet, the physical agony paled in comparison to the torment in his mind. His plan—what he had envisioned progressing smoothly—had faced a harsh reality.

The black knights, or more specifically, a lone Mage Knight, had become the bane of his plan. The charge, meant to be swift and a clean sweep, had targeted the enemy's ranks that dared to attack Calub's column but had failed, resulting in many losses and injuries.

As the dust settled, the groans of the wounded filled the air. Lansius turned in the direction of the sound and noticed numerous injured men from Calub’s column, indicating another miscalculation in taking the knights from there. He hadn’t expected the Coalition to be able to rally and counterattack a strongly prepared defensive position.

Guilt gnawed at his heart as he watched his men suffer, a mark of his failed leadership. His gaze slowly drifted away from the painful scene.

The nature of war is unpredictable, he lamented. Instead of hardening his heart, Lansius turned off his emotions, a mechanism he had subconsciously learned. Yet, that didn’t numb the throbbing pain in his left wrist from the fall.

“The men are ready,” Sir Harold reported, kneeling in front of Lansius.

His words brought Lansius out of his daze. He noticed his cavalry had come to a halt as the last of the Coalition forces around the barricade surrendered. Unwilling to allow the enemy time to regroup, he summoned his courage and ordered in a hoarse voice, "Get our cavalry to dismount and quickly form a hunting net."

Sir Harold nodded, then turned to his men behind him and said, “Fan out, form a hunting net!”

"But don’t spread too thin. Approach carefully," Lansius emphasized. Although he had started the day with a brilliant charge, his meticulously planned ambush was costing him dearly, leaving him deeply rattled.

“Understood,” the knight responded, and then in a lower voice, “But what do you wish to do with the Lord of the Three Hills?”

“I’ll accompany you. We’ll play this by ear,” Lansius said as another knight’s squire brought him a piece of cloth for an arm sling.

Harold nodded while watching his Lord attempt to wear the arm sling.

“Do I need to wear this?” Lansius stared at them.

“You’ll have to, My Lord. The gauntlet will hold the bones, but it’ll get painful once you start moving around and riding.” Harold couldn’t suppress a smile.

His smile piqued Lansius’ interest, and he asked bluntly, “Have I done well as a leader?”

“You’ve fought bravely, My Lord. For someone with little experience, you’ve made us proud. Just a little unfortunate to stumble into a mage knight.”

Lansius nodded, trying to decipher if the praise was genuine or simply flattery.

“You asked for me, My Lord?” The standard bearer arrived.

“Indeed, I need a herald,” said Lansius.

“Of course. What will be your message?” the standard bearer asked.

***

The Coalition

Quietly, the remaining Coalition knights and squires watched and waited from afar as the Korelians fanned out and moved inside the forest.

Fate seemed to conspire against the Coalition, as their scouts couldn’t find any alternative route out. After all, it had been many years since Lord Jorge last hunted in this forest. His loyal retinue from that era had all perished in the ensuing power struggle.

At this moment, Lord Jorge was taking shelter deep within the forest, with Morton at his side, attempting to organize a final stand. Their numbers had dwindled to less than thirty as the rest of their forces had scattered. Meanwhile, the Korelians probably had a hundred.

They could see Lansius’ men drawing near, but oddly, there was no longer any hesitation. The Coalition patiently awaited the finale.

The upcoming fight was destined to be brutal, and everyone was determined to give their best. For many, their determination stemmed from a lack of trust in the new Lord of Korelia, an unknown foreigner. No knight would gamble on this man’s benevolence or mercy.

For others, it was a matter of logic. The Coalition still had six thousand men just outside the forest. If they survived this forest ambush, then the war was still within their grasp. Even without the cavalry, the Coalition only needed to wait for the catapults to be completed. This thought kept them spirited.

Time passed as the rustling noise approached. Everyone crouched to lower their silhouettes. The smell of decomposing leaves filled the air. Their clothing stuck to their skin as heat and humidity pervaded the environment.

By now, many knights clung to their daggers, having lost their primary and secondary weapons. Yet, fear was absent from their faces. As the old saying goes: a cornered beast is the most dangerous.

This time, the Coalition was prepared. Many even covered their noses and mouths with cloth against possible green fog attacks. However, just as they steeled their resolve, a shout came from the Korelians’ side.

“We’ve come to parley.” The Korelian herald repeated twice as their advance halted.

Immediately, the faces of the Coalition men softened. Even full of suspicion, the word ‘parley’ had its intended effect.

Morton looked at his Lord, whose brown eyes were lost in thought. Catching Morton’s glance, Jorge nodded approvingly.

The Black Knight captain donned a helmet his squire had found for him. It wasn’t a fit, but it would cover his bandaged head. He then stood up and shouted, “We will neither yield nor be taken hostage!”

Morton’s voice was clear and powerful, surprising both friends and foes.

“We do not intend to, Sir, unless forced,” came the reply.

“What’s your offer?” Morton asked.

“Cease fighting. My Lord declares that he has no quarrel with the Lord of Three Hills. He believes that Lord Jorge was provoked to attack Korelia... The two Houses can still make amends.”

“... There will be amends if you let us return to our camp unharmed,” Morton responded without consulting anyone. Politics be damned, he thought. This was a good opportunity to save his Lord’s skin.

“Swear an oath,” the herald retorted after a brief hesitation.

Morton glanced at his Lord, who took a deep breath. Without needing a signal, Morton chanted his verses and a barrier of air and water vapor took shape. It was transparent, akin to looking through solid glass.

Lord Jorge finally stepped forward, his squire ready with a shield in front, Morton by his side.

“I, Viscount Jorge of Three Hills, Protector of Korimor and South Hills, hereby pledge my neutrality in this conflict,” he announced formally with a voice amplified by magic. “Let there be amends between our Houses.”

Jorge had wanted to say more, but his staff was whispering to him that fewer promises were better to minimize political fallout.

A pause followed before the Korelians blew their horns. Then the Korelians slowly withdrew from the surrounding area.

Witnessing this, the remaining Coalition could finally exhale. They knew they almost had it. Although they didn’t like it, they owed their skin to the opponent’s mercy, or stupidity. For some reason, the Lord of Korelia had given them a free pass.

Despite the oath, Lord Jorge’s words could easily be disowned. Even if the Lord himself would honor it, he could simply sit in his tent and let Lord Omin win the siege for him. While the recapitulation would be messy, that was preferable to losing the campaign.

With that on their mind, the surviving knights regrouped and began their trek through the forest. They dared not use the main path, deeming the Lord of Korelia untrustworthy. After a thorough search, someone stumbled upon an old dried-up stream.

The rocky path was treacherous, but it was open, with fewer trees in the way. The Three Hills Knights and their remaining allies moved slowly in their heavy armor. Those who still had horses guided their mounts carefully.

Moss quickly became a problem. Unperturbed for decades, if not centuries, the thick layers of green carpets were tricky to traverse.

Tired men were bound to slip, and many fell unceremoniously. Thankfully, the thick padding under their armor provided a good cushion against impact.

As they navigated the terrain, the forest began to thin. For the first time, they could see the plains. The few horses they still possessed also seemed excited, their nostrils flaring at the sight of the open land.

Renewed in spirit, they traversed the final leg of their escape. However, as the first group exited the forest, their hope quickly vanished.

Gasps rang out as they saw what happened outside the forest.

“This, this cannot be!” one of the knights exclaimed.

Nobody had an answer. They only exchanged looks of disbelief.

***

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