I Became the First Prince

Half and Half (3)

Maximilian closed his eyes as he rotated his ring.

Even if he had prepared for it in advance, he could not escape its full effects as his consciousness began to fade.

He inhaled deeply to calm his frantic heart. When he stopped channeling mana, his blurred vision became clear once more.

A great many orcs were in front of him. The knights and infantry threw javelins at the orcs, and some of the monsters covered their heads while others dropped dead to the ground. Still, things looked bad. The archers had been decimated, and many of the survivors were now sobbing.

The whole scene looked apocalyptic, and this was before the main battle had even started!

‘Drooomp!’ ‘Drooomp!’ ‘Drooomp!’

Maximilian heard a great drum’s beating echoing over the battle.

The orcs were beginning their great march across the river. Many of the infantrymen were still completely confused, many of them so terrified that they were not willing to form a line of spears and swords. Those who stood still instead of rushing to the front now began to turn tail and flee the battle.

‘”Soldiers, stand fast! Be focused!” the royal champion, Count Richter Lichstein, shouted at the soldiers as he raised his blazing sword high. And as he shouted, an ethereal, red thunderbolt arced through the sky.

“Hjat!” Richter cried as he cut into the thunderbolt. Red and blue energies clashed in a shower of sparks that exploded in the air. The famous knight rolled out of the way as a spear struck the spot he had occupied moments before.

His face was pale after barely avoiding the attack and seeing the huge spear that had almost cut him in twain.

The wielder of the spear had taken a step back as he wrenched his weapon out of the ground.

It was a dark green giant. It was the Warlord.

The King of the Orcs arrogantly looked down at the champion.

Maximilian groaned as he watched the battle from afar.

Why had the Warlord not pursued the soldiers who retreated from Winter Castle? Why had the Warlord entered the battle upon the Rhinethes so late?

Maximilian now knew the answer to both these questions. There was nothing under the Warlord’s left shoulder. His arm had been cleanly severed under the clavicle. The Warlord had needed time to recover from such a great wound.

Even though it had lost an arm, the situation did not seem hopeful at all.

A wounded beast does not immediately show up, yet it will eventually do so.

You can always be certain that an injured leopard will slink from its cave once its hunger becomes too much to bear.

The Warlord had come to feast today, and before him stood a silver lion. In the Warlord’s eyes, Richter was not cold soup; no, he was a prime slice of meat. Even a big chunk of meat could be eaten with only one hand.

Maximilian saw that his judgment of the champion had been correct.

Count Richter Lichstein was, without a doubt, the strongest warrior in the central army. The brilliant aura of his blade proved that the reputation of his prowess was not false.

Still, the champion would not be strong enough to hold the Warlord back. Maximilian could see this.

Richter’s sword struck at the Warlord, who swiped his spear to casually block the blow.

Time after time, the weapons of knight and orc clashed, and with every clash, Richter’s sword aura became duller as his sword encountered the Warlord’s red battle fervor.

Maximilian was exhausted and covered in blood, yet he watched on as the champion and the orc squared off.

How can someone survive a battle against such a monster?

Someone grabbed the prince’s shoulder; it was Bernardo Eli, mounted and accompanied by three riders.

“The lines have collapsed. We need to fall back to a defensible spot and plan for the future.”

Maximilian strongly opposed such a course of action.

“If ten thousand soldiers cannot hold this single bridge, do you think we’ll be able to defeat the monsters anywhere else? Retreat is impossible! We have to hold!”

“The nobles have different plans than Your Highness,” Bernardo replied in his thick voice. “Look, they are already pulling back!”

Hearing these words, Maximilian studied the distant hill. All the flags still fluttered, yet half the nobles had already disappeared with their core forces. The other half were frantically moving about, probably planning to retreat at any moment.

“Have you ever seen such cowardly pigs! The bastards have no honor or pride!” Maximilian shouted, his normally mild manner giving way to his vexation. He ground his teeth.

“This is not the time to lose our tempers,” Arwen stated calmly, managing to ease the prince’s anger. “Now, Your Highness, I have to rally my troops,” she added.

“We prepare for retreat, then,” said Bernardo.

Maximilian once more burst out in anger.

“We have double the forces than we had at Winter Castle! We cannot run from this again!” he shouted as he gestured at the battlefield.

“The former Count Balahard and my brother had led a small force of knights directly into the center of 14,000 orcs! And now? Now a few brave men stand and fight while cowards flee or just watch on!”

The champion was beaten back by the Warlord’s terrifying spear, rolling to the ground to avoid a vicious jab. Knights were staying back, none of them showing any intention of aiding Count Lichstein as he fought the massive orc.

The old knight gained his feet and readied his sword, yet his continued resistance was futile. Blazing red fervor flowed through the red spear, and as the spear struck Richter’s aura blade, the ethereal sword shattered like broken glass.

The champion vomited blood as he staggered from his foe, yet he managed to raise his sword once more.

The Warlord stepped forward, and Richter was forced to stagger back, out of the spear’s range. Count Lichstein still gripped his blade, but it was plain to see that the old knight had lost his fighting spirit. Having created some distance between himself and the Warlord, Richter looked to see who still fought with him. Many of the infantrymen had not regained their senses under the Warlord’s overbearing presence, some of them swaying uncertainly on their feet.

Once more, Richter readied his blade in a two-handed grip, yet his face showed that he only fought due to his duty as a knight. His lust for war, his fighting spirit, existed no more.

“Why is everyone so cowardly, so helpless?” Maximilian lamented as he took in the grim sight of the faltering lines.

“No, why have I been so incompetent?”

Maximilian had awoken, then, and instead of mounting a horse, he drew his sword and raised it to the sky.

“If we lose this bridge, it will be as if we have lost the kingdom, for it will collapse! We shall never fall back!”

A sharp, whistling noise then sounded over the chaos of battle.

Maximilian found its source to be something that had speeded from the human lines into that of the orcs on the opposite bank.

He enhanced his eyes with mana and saw that it was a specially crafted arrow that had been fired. He turned back to find its source and saw that it had come from the hill where the archers were deployed.

Several archers in black tunics, embroidered with black falcons, were drawing their longbows’ strings with steady hands.

They loosed their arrows, and the strange, sharp noise cut over the din of war once more.

It is the screeching of hawks!

It was the unique sound of the whistling arrow, the use of which had given the Iron Hawk Archers their name.

The hawkish screech of the arrows was heard only twice or thrice at first, but then dozens of the missiles filled the air with the piercing sounds of their flight.

“Draw, Iron Hawks! Steady! Steady! Fire!” shouted the commander of these elite archers. Dozens of screeching arrows were loosed from their longbows upon the order, and it sounded as if a great hawk was flying over the battle in search of prey.

So great was the sound that soldiers who were still enchanted by the Warlord’s roar snapped awake.

However, so tormented were they by their fear that about half of the infantry that had regained their senses turned tail and fled from the battle. Dust was seen in the spots that they had vacated, yet braver soldiers rushed into the gaps, picking up the spears and shields of their craven comrades.

“Those who will fight with me, step forward and form your ranks!” Maximilian ordered as he channeled his mana.

Soldiers whose squads had been thrown into disarray by the Warlord’s great roaring now ran to take up their positions as a new defensive line was formed. At that moment, Maximilian heard a great thundering of hooves.

One-hundred cavalrymen of a high lord, believed to have escaped, now thundered alongside the bank of the river, rushing past the ranks of soldiers that had become entangled in the chaotic melee.

“Knights of the Red Iron Chain, forward!”

When the knights in red armor gained the bridge, they came to a halt. If they were fated to die, they would die on the bridge instead of in their beds.

“Knights of the Red Iron Chain, divide! One half rides to aid Count Lichstein!”

Upon this order, knights charged at the Warlord.

“Your Highness, we are here!” said the overall commander. Other lords were with him, including Count Brandenburg.

The remaining central army had followed their lords, and they now surrounded Maximilian.

“I thought you had all run from battle,” Maximilian said, and the faces of the lords grew sterner at his words.

“My estate is but two days from here, Your Highness. Where will these orcs go if we don’t stop them?”

It turned out that all the remaining nobles were those whose lands were the closest to the Rhinethes.

Half of the entire army had fled, and the remaining soldiers barely numbered more than a single legion.

The nobles who chose to stay were only half of those who had planted their banners on the command hill.

Still, even if their numbers had been halved, their fighting spirit had increased twofold.

However, the situation had become too grim to overturn with a rise in spirits.

The Knights of the Red Iron chain, who had rushed in to defend the bridge, were already being pushed back. Many of them were trampled to death as the ravening orcs charged over them like rabid bulls. The regular archers and the Iron Hawks continued to fire into the great green mass, but the effect of their missiles was minimal.

The cavalry charge had crashed into and trampled the orcs that had already crossed the bridge. However, the knights had now forced themselves into a narrow space and could no longer maneuver their mounts. Their charge had lost its momentum, and they had come to a forced halt. The orcs now tore into horse and rider alike, pulling many knights from their mounts and to their deaths. The infantry had not been given enough time to reform their ranks.

The fact was clear: It was impossible to hold off the orcs with what remained of the central army.

More and more orcs continued to cross the bridge. Spears glowing with fervor pierced the armored knights, who toppled to the ground, dying in an ever-increasing ocean of blood. In a matter of seconds, ten knights had lost their lives.

The champion and the knights who aided him were struggling against the fury of the Warlord, and soldiers were locked in a chaotic melee after the orcs had smashed into their newly formed lines.

It was a battle that could only have a grim and gory end. Maximilian strode into the chaos, and Arwen followed him without hesitation.

“Hah, Your Highness, you like to fight in the thick of it, just like your brother!” Bernardo hollered over the din of battle and the anguished cries of dying men.

How long can we continue to hold them?

A quick study of the field told Maximilian that he had a thousand or so remaining troops, and this while most of the orcs had not yet even joined the battle. The Warlord was still unharmed.

“Your Highness! The danger is too great, you have to get out of the melee!” the commander urgently cried. Maximilian ignored the man. “Your Highness, you have not listened, so now I must act to keep you safe!”

Two knights approached Maximilian from behind and grabbed him by the arms. He struggled but couldn’t escape their strong grips. At the very moment that the knights started to drag the Second Prince away, the sound of a horn washed over the Rhinethes.

‘Bawooooo! Bwoo woooo!’

“Fuck, they came early!” shouted Bernardo in a sarcastic fashion, the first to react. Maximilian was next on the uptake.

“Our reinforcements are here!”

The great sound of the war horn sounded once more; it’s every note ringing out with a terrifying timbre.

‘Bawooooo! Bwoo woooo!’

The sound was getting closer and closer, but soon it was heard no more. Instead, the screams of orcs in peril started to fill the air. The sound of dying orcs had come from afar at first, but soon enough came from the very center of the bridge.

Orcs were falling into the river, and among the greenskins could be seen the blur of green cloaks – the green cloaks of the elven swordsmen who were cutting down the orcs or pushing them off the bridge and into the rushing waters of the Rhinethes.

And then, a young man with a flaming sword appeared, flanked by his elven guard.

“Brother! Oh, brother!” Maximilian laughed and shouted out in joy as he saw Adrian.

The lords heard the Second Prince’s shouts and instinctively followed his gaze.

They knew that if Maximilian was calling to his brother, then it meant that the shame of the royal family had arrived.

It meant Adrian Leonberger, the idiot, and the lecher, had somehow found his way onto the battlefield.

They did not instantly recognize the First Prince, for it took them some time to discern his face on a body that was muscular instead of grossly obese. The boy was so very different than the creature that they had known.

“Brother! Adrian, over here!” In fact, if the Second Prince had not been calling his name, the nobles would not have known that it was the First Prince at all.

“Brother, I am glad to see you!” Maximilian cried out.

The First Prince did not even turn his head to look at his younger brother; he just kept on walking with a confident stride.

For the nobles, the scene was surreal, a strange sight indeed.

Elves were gathering silver light across their blades as they danced.

A prince who walked across a field of blood as if stepping on a crimson flower, and the cacophony of the battle that did not lessen for a single second.

It was only around the First Prince himself that silence reigned.

The King of the Orcs had noticed Adrian’s presence and had turned to him.

The First Prince finally came to stand before the Warlord.

“It’s good that my uncle has left half of you intact.”

The First Prince was here to claim the other half as his own.

“We finally meet,” Adrian added and started to laugh in the face of the Warlord.

The nobles watched as the First Prince laughed at such a terrible monster.

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