The distraction had worked. The barbarians had focused far too much on trying to take me down once they noticed me. Their inattention proved fatal, as one would expect, allowing the weaker, but more numerous, militia to take them down. With my help, obviously.
As I landed amidst the bodies of the fallen barbarians, I simply shook my head in amazement. This should have been the end of us, of me. They were clearly stronger than we were, but it looked as though they were fighting their own bodies to attack us. In fact, half the time they were unable to do anything except defend themselves.
It had to be the effect of the curse. I had not had any clear idea about what I was asking for when I made the curse, I just wanted them to suffer for what they did. But it seemed like a… well, basic version of the curse magic I knew of. The power of the ritual for just that? And yet, it had affected a lot of people. Most of the power of the ritual must have gone towards spreading the curse to those affected, and making it pass through the blood. Still, I couldn’t say as I was displeased with the outcome, as it had allowed me to survive the fight.
Twice more, groups of barbarians charged our position at the choke point. Each time, we fought them back, and kept the archers behind us safe so that they could continue to rain down death upon the enemies in the valley. But the flesh grows weak, and the strains of battle overtake even the strongest warriors. The first attack cost us three of the militia. Three more fell in the second attack. The last attack, we faced with only myself, and three tired spearmen.
If we had not gone with the distraction plan, as we had before, then we may not have survived. All three groups were more powerful than we were, and the fatigue was growing, despite ourselves. When that last group fell, it was only too soon. Not one of us were without wounds upon our bodies, and I did not doubt that the fourth attack, should one come, would finish us. But, despite all of that, I got a welcome notification from the System.
I smiled as I read over the notifications. It seemed that the System worked as Emeline had told me. Knowing the Icedawn Invoker class existed, and choosing to walk that path, now that I was qualified for it, I was immediately took my next level in it. The bonus of getting two invocations was really nice, though the inability to use fire for anything except cooking my meals would be troublesome. There were plenty of things out there that reacted quite badly to fire, but could shrug off the cold, after all.
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I was distracted from my musings by the cheers of my companions. Of the nine militiamen who had started the day with me on this ridge, only two remained, the last falling to many wounds moments before the battle was done. They had lost most of their unit, despite the distraction, but they were all quite happy to be alive. None of them were so foolish as to think that there was anything but death waiting for us if we’d continued as we started. So, they were not shy about offering me my fair share of the loot. OK, a bit more than my share.
Of course, the war gear of a barbarian wasn’t really suited for my form, or my classes. But there were plenty of arms and armor lying around, as well as some coins and other trinkets, that I was sure I’d be able to sell for quite the price, whenever I made it to someplace a little more… cosmopolitan than the Dale. Using my ability to detect magic, I selected a greataxe, a dagger, a breastplate, and a pair of boots as my share of the loot, all of them magical.
I couldn’t use the greataxe or the breastplate, myself, but I didn’t doubt that I could find someone who would trade for them. Eventually. Probably not in the Dale, not right now. There was soon to be a glut of arms and armor from the Tribes hitting the market, and too few real soldiers to do the buying. I would get better prices if I held on to them until the caravans left for the south.
The dagger and the boots, however, I could most certainly use! However, I was mindful that flashing around an obviously evil blade that dealt damage which could only be healed on hallowed ground was probably not the wisest idea in a town run by a paladin. So, when I switched my boots for the new ones, I slid the dagger into one of them, for safe keeping, naturally.
The immediate threat ended, and the spoils of battle divided, we looked down at the battle that was still raging below. The effects of the curse were even more apparent now. Battle fury and blood lust meant little when one’s flesh rebelled, and magic kept you from freely executing your attacks. The Tribes were stronger, but they were losing.
The warriors of the Tribes had pressed hard on the center of the defenders’ lines, and, at a glance, it looked as though they had managed to pressure the lines greatly, after what must have been a bloody initial exchange, judging by the number of bodies on the ground. But the shield wall had been forced back further into the gulley, troops falling back, little by little. The tribesmen, in their battle fury, had charged in, sensing weakness.
Unfortunately for the tribes, that was exactly what Lord Emberlash was waiting for. Once their numbers were fully committed, walls of ice and stone rose up behind the tribesmen, trapping them within the valley! I didn’t know what spell my mistress and the other mage used to create those walls, but it certainly worked, as the tribes now realized they were in grave trouble.
They did not have time to contemplate their fate, however. For, even as the archers above and behind the line, renewed and redoubled their assault upon the tribesmen, the shield wall that had been falling back suddenly became solid as the stones they stood upon. And then, they began pushing back, driving the barbarians back, towards the walls, where no means of escape was left open to them.
Not that any but the youngest, barely older than I was, tried to flee the battle. From the ridge, I could see Yorlunn fighting in the center of the field, with the other chieftains at his side, one blow in every two halting before it had begun. He was visibly frustrated, but I dared not go down to taunt him. Not only would that be suicidal in my current state, but there was always the chance that more of the tribesmen would try and find their way onto the ridges, and seek escape that way. If I left, and the three remaining militiamen fell, the archers and mages, already low on arrows and spells, would find themselves in a very bad way, to be certain! I would win no favors with the town by allowing them to get slaughtered.
Six hundred men of the tribes came to the pass, hoping to assault the Nine Towns of Frostwind Dale. Six hundred men of the tribes came to the pass, hoping to find glory in death rather than live with the humiliation that had been dealt to them. Six hundred men of the tribes came to the pass, following their leaders, cursed by their elders’ actions. Six hundred men of the tribes came to the pass, and in the pass they died, for there were none who dared surrender, and compound the shame of their curse with that of cowardice.
Eight hundred men rallied to defend Sleetmouth and the Nine Towns. Eight hundred men answered the call of their Lord. Eight hundred men marched into the first true battle that many of them had ever known. Eight hundred men fought that day, and of them, seven score fell in battle, with another six dozen that would require the attention of the healers, but would live to see another day.
In any man’s book, if they were telling the story true, they would say that it was a phenomenal victory for the defenders of the Nine Towns. To face down six hundred men of the tribes, all of whom were larger and stronger than the men who opposed them, and to come away with so few dead and wounded despite utterly destroying the enemy to the last man? Such a tale would never be told in the tavern by the bards, for they would be laughed off the premises! It was a tale beyond belief, and even those who lived it had trouble believing the true scope of the victory.
As for myself? Well, as the fighting ended, and the survivors made their way to where we would camp for the night, I found myself with an almost honor guard as the three remaining militiamen formed up around me. We were all tired, all sore, and all of us were nearly on death’s door, but we had survived the battle, fighting side by side with each other. Whatever else may happen, I knew that I had, at least, won these men’s respect. And, for some reason I didn’t understand, that meant a lot to me.
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