Inexorable Chaos

Chapter 196: 70 Gaw: Letter

With a single order, the city of Mundus explodes into a frenzy as [Guards] and [Soldiers] were roused and armed. Civilians are rushed behind the safety of the walls, and food and water are seized to be rationed out over a long siege. The commanders serving under Tersus have, ever since they returned from their defeat, prepared for a siege. They have hoarded war materiel, food, and exorbitant amounts of clean water.

Now, as they see the distant army of monsters encamped outside the city, they can’t help but be happy with their preparations. Five years worth of food and enough arrows to pincushion several armies. So long as they can hold out, the enemy will be broken or beaten back. Keeping a standing army fed is far more costly than keeping a city armed and the gates closed. So long as they can withstand the onslaught, they will survive.

Or so the [Captains] in charge of the city’s defense had assumed, all up until the wyverns took to the air and the armored minotaurs lumbered to the front.

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For a trained army, making camp is a simple affair. Upon arriving to the outskirts of Mundus, Rathos had ordered the creation of a camp, which only took hours thanks to organization, skills, and his ability to relay orders to an entire army via aura. He smiles, hands resting upon the formidable throne for which [Emperors] would kill. Granted, an enchanted throne that boosts aura is not unheard of. It is well known that both Cleopatra and Flavion have one in their capitals, but those are immobile things, built deep into the bedrock of their city. What Rathos sits upon can be moved with relative ease.

“Tell me Doreson, do you have any experience with sieges?” Rathos asks after a moment.

The centaur [Strategist Captain] shuffles at the right of the carriage. He looks up, his eyes meeting Rathos upon the throne. “Only as a defender. I’ve never actually attempted sieging myself.”

Rathos nods. “How long do you expect this siege to last?”

Doreson shifts his gaze back on the tall walls of Mundus. The walls are larger than what Sanavil used to have, and even thicker considering the ranks of [Archers] ready on top.

“A month, maybe two,” Doreson answers.

“Three days at most,” Rathos tells him off-handedly, which surprises the centaur.

“But tha-” Doreson snaps his mouth shut. Rathos smiles as the [Strategist Captain] looks at the battlefield again, taking in all the forces available. Levels, skills; they’re earned, not given. Sure, one can study military strategy from a book or instructor, but that’s a slow growth in class. To see the problem in reality and deal with it on your own will always grant you more.

So Rathos waits, allowing the strategist time to see the great flaw in the enemy’s defense.

“There’s no gatehouse!” Doreson finally blurts out, stunned.

The weakest part of any wall is, by necessity, the gate. No city can stand on its own indefinitely, and yet even a single entrance can admit as much suffering as succor. Thus, the gatehouse, as much death-trap as door-frame, serves to check any invader with the temerity to try entering through the front door. And yet, for all its seeming necessity, this ingenious piece of architecture is the culmination of many trials and errors. A modern city with modern enchantments would shrug off Rathos’s monster army. After all, diverse as his corps might be, they are still just a patch on a modern army. But Mundus is not a modern city and has never had to repel a modern army. So in spite of its primitive earthworks, dry moat, portcullis, and iron-bound drawbridge, the city is a ripe target for even so motley a force as Rathos current army.

“Indeed.” Rathos begins, his eyes moving to the armored minotaurs. Thick slabs of chitin armor cover every inch of their skin, making them resilient to most mundane projectiles. In their hands they wield sledgehammers, the heads of which are as large as Rathos’s body. “We only need to get a single minotaur to the gates and the city will be open to us.”

“Or Lilly.”

Rathos tilts his head. He’s heard that name before. A certain gejan? One of the elites?

“Lilly?” he asks.

Doreson points at the gejan section of the camp. “Lilly is the one with the really long tail. You can see it in the air.”

The [General] looks into the air above the gejan camp where he sees a spiked ball bobbing above the tents and throng. His eyes find the tail connected to the ball and follow it down to a petite gejan woman. Rathos frowns as he realizes the ball is as big as the gejan’s body.

“She uses her tail like a flail then? Would it be strong enough to break through the gate?”

Doreson scratches his chin. “I expect so, sir. If I remember correctly, her tail alone weighs more than a fully armored minotaur.”

‘This changes things’, Rathos thinks, planning a new course of action. In a moment, his new maneuver is formulated, and with a lower chance of casualties. Excellent.

“Preparations are almost finished then?” Rathos looks over to Doreson, who nods. “Good. Tell Tessa to deliver the message.”

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With scroll in hand, Tessa estimates the distance between camp and wall. She looks out over the ground, analyzing the environment, mentally determining her path, obstacles, and possible alternate routes.

Once prepared, she grabs her long, oval shield from her back and throws it on the ground in front of her. She hops onto the shield and activates the enchantment on it and her armor.

The dirt beneath the shield vibrates, breaking into grains and drying out in order to mimic sand.

Then, with a kick, the [Sandglide Courier] fires forward, her crouched form slicing through the air. Dirt sprays behind her as she skims across the ground, a smile on her face as she shifts her body to keep balance.

She looks at the wall, keeping an eye on the [Archers] nocking arrows. No one shoots, still uncertain and awaiting orders.

Tessa sways between the earthworks and shreds through the wooden stakes, trailing sand in her wake. The dumbfounded archers continue to stare, deaf to their leaders’ orders.

Tessa snorts, lowers her posture, and the world blurs. Into the moat she drops, and down she rides the earth before veering upward as she reaches the wall. She barely slows as the shield brings her up, up, up the wall, cutting a trail of sand into the white stone, until gravity finally gets the better of her and she rides the wall back down. Back to the other side of the moat she rides, and then straight up into the air, flipping and twirling as she does so. Then down, and back up the wall. Then down and flipping into the air on the edge of the moat, reaching higher and higher each time. Finally, on her third climb of the wall, she soars above.

A particularly twitchy archer lets loose an arrow as Tessa vaults over them. She picks up her feet, spins with a flip of her tail, then lands on her board again with the arrow in her teeth. She favors the defenders with a toothy grin and crushes the projectile between her jaws.

She grinds across the crenellations towards the man with the fanciest helmet.

“Message for your [King],” she calls and tosses the scroll as she passes by. Then she kicks off the wall, grinds down the side of it and flips across the moat before speeding back to camp.

She glances back, waiting to see if the defenders would change their mind, but no volley arrives. After all, don’t shoot the messenger.

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Tersus reads and rereads the letter… slowly. He stares at each sentence, contemplating the meaning. His [Knights] huddle over his shoulder, eyes trained on the letter with as much confusion as their [King].

“Is this from that [General]?” asks one of the [Knights].

“It’s signed by him,” another [Knight] adds.

“But the latter part seems to have been written by the scribe,” a third observes.

As Tersus continues to read and slowly but surely better understand the letter, his brow furrows. Anger and confusion wars within him. Anger at the message threatening his destruction. Confusion over the wording of everything written in the damn letter.

Especially the ending. That… really confuses Tersus.

“Get me a quill and scroll,” he orders.

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The sun begins its descent, its illumination retiring over the horizon. The once proud ball of flame mellows to a relaxing orange, allowing the mortals to watch it set in splendor. From the opposite horizon, the two waxing gibbous moons glow a soft pink in the sun’s filtered light.

Under the crepuscular glow, Rathos reads the reply from Tersus. The message is as he expected. The [King] refuses to surrender and boasts at length about the mighty walls of Mundus which can never be overcome. Rathos even snorts when the letter devolves into a fantastic rant detailing how his unclean army will only sully his walls with their blood, and a detailed explanation of what cleaning supplies will be used to remove said blood before it stains.

Then his eyebrows furrow as he reads the end of the letter mentioning that it is cowardly to have an editor fix his writing.

“Doreson!” Rathos shouts from his throne.

The centaur trots to the carriage. “Yes [General]?”

Rathos leans forward. “When I gave you the scroll that was to be delivered to Mundus, did you immediately give it to Tessa?”

Doreson shakes his head. “I was going to, but I met Grognak on the way and asked him to give it to her.”

Rathos closes his eyes and sighs. He reluctantly stands up off the throne and feels his aura wane. With a grunt, he hops down from the carriage.

“Doreson, keep an eye on Mundus. I need to check on something.”

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When it comes to male minotaurs, they aren’t bothered much by the weather. Most are happy just to sleep near a fire or under the comforting shelter of a tree. They are a simple species whose main focus is on fighting, feeding, and fucking.

But, as with every rule, there is yet a singular exception. A minotaur whose level and intellect exceeds his compatriots’ by a large margin. He is the smartest and most well-educated minotaur of all, the very model of a modern, major minotaur, Grognak, and his abode is most impressive.

The peak of Grognak’s tent rises a dozen meters above the rest, easily dwarfing its neighbors. Rathos enters the tent and looks around. Tall bookshelves loaded with books ring the inside, pushing up against the fabric ceiling. A huge bed, a chair, and a desk vye for the remaining space.

The minotaur sits on the chair, smiling and pointing at a book while two young girls sit on the oversized desk, listening raptly.

“According to the orthodox narrative, the Haven clashed with a militarily, nautical wen and, without aid, trounced the adversary. Accoutred with savage cannons, the vessel bombarded the city’s fortifications relentlessly until the wall’s theurgy fractured under the volleys, after which the wall itself risked pulverization. ‘Twas shy of a day of battle prior to the capitulation.”

“Wooooow…” Izabella says with a one to one mix of wonder and interest. “So you think daddy can do the same? Destroy the wall?”

“Well, it’s not enchanted. I didn’t see any magic on the wall.” Aisha chimes in next to Izabella. The two girls are sitting on the ends of the desk, their eyes glued to the minotaur.

Rathos frowns and walks up, ignoring the sleeping wyvern on the bed.

“Isabella!” Rathos barks as he walks up, causing everyone to look towards the sound.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you know this is a warzone?”

Grognak quickly stands up, raising his hand in a placating fashion. “[General] Rathos, these young ladies we-”

“Silence. I will get to you in a moment.” Rathos orders.

Grognak sits back down as Rathos’s eyes shift to the two very guilty looking girls.

“Well? Why are you here?”

“We’re running away,” Izabella begins, her head turned down and cheeks turning red.

He frowns. “From who?”

“We’re not running away!” Aisha corrects her friend. “We’re tactically retreating.” The gejan child adds with a fist in the air.

Rathos glances at Aisha and sees the child’s tails firmly wrapped around her leg.

His eyes then shift back to Izabella once more.

He folds his arms and waits.

“Volpe,” his daughter finally relents.

Rathos sighs, and prepares to harangue his child.

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Umbra continues his journey south, his body merged into darkness, flitting through shadowed fields and shaded copses. He senses it, the ambient mana has risen far beyond the level it had been at the last time he was here over a hundred years ago.

Why the change, Umbra is not sure, but he bets it is Mimir’s doing. The [Demigod] is tremendously powerful. Changing and shifting nature is well within the apostate’s ability; in fact, it’s one of his hobbies.

Umbra slows as he senses something new of import. The black raven mark on his shoulder burns, informing him that a member of Odin’s [Inquisitors] is nearby.

Umbra swerves, his path diverting slightly as he detours to a city. He senses the member within the city, but he also senses that the army right outside the city gates is dangerous. Not a threat to himself, but a threat to the city.

With a quick thought, he decides his best action is to make contact with the [Inquisitor] for more information.

With his decision made, Umbra moves again and the city’s lights dim as his incorporeal body passes through the walls.