Path of Dragons 12 - Chapter 18 - Waging War (Patreon)

Hate had no place in war. 

Certainly, there were some who managed to harness that all-encompassing emotion in an effort to push themselves further than they ever could have otherwise.  In those instances, it was undeniably effective.  However, in General Kinsax el’Turon’s experience, it was a sign of irrevocable weakness.  Overcoming it was the height of self-control.  Of true strength of character. 

Still, the war elf general could not deny his hatred of Earth’s natives.  They spread across the planet like a grotesque and ugly plague, with the feeblest among them hiding behind their stronger brethren.  The need to protect those ineffectual weaklings weighed the truly powerful down.  They held the entire planet back from reaching its potential. 

All the while, they continued to breed.  They continued to spread, building ugly cities filled with even uglier people.  Oh, how he longed to return to true civilization, to the precise angles and brutal symmetry of his home.  But he could not do so until he’d accomplished his mission.  Or better yet, until he could conquer the planet and remold it into a proper elven outpost. 

He didn’t even want to kill all the humans.  They had their place, after all, and someone needed to perform the manual labor.  Many wouldn’t even notice a difference.  Being enslaved to war elves wasn’t much different than toiling along in service of Earth’s pretenders to power. 

But many would still need to die.  That was inevitable.  None but elves could be trusted as combatants.  Other races simply lacked the discipline.  They were inferior, and undeniably so.  Kinsax would not allow them to sully the ranks of his army.  No true elf would. 

“Has there been any word from the Third Army?” he asked, glancing at his assistant.

The man shook his head.  “The communicators have been silent since they were reactivated,” he replied. 

“Eight months,” the general growled.  Vaguely, he hoped that the communicators were simply faulty.  However, he knew just how unlikely that was.  After all, they had been artificed on the elven home world of Esseltion, and they were as close to infallible as those talented Tradesmen could manufacture. 

It was far more likely that the Third Army had fallen.

But to what force, Kinsax had no idea.  From everything he’d seen of the natives, they were a disorganized people prone to pointless infighting.  They could scarcely work together long enough to address the planet’s excisement, and Kinsax had often considered simply assigning that task to his own people. 

That was not his charge, though.

He was there to conquer.  Not to play around in Primal Realms.  If the natives managed to overcome the challenges of integration, then he would return to Esseltion having subjugated a viable and valuable outpost.  If not, then he and his armies would still have proven themselves worthy of more impactful tasks. 

In any case, the fact that there was another force on Earth capable of destroying the Third Army was troubling.  Still, losses were part of waging any war.  The fall of an entire army was far from ideal, but General el’Turon felt confident that the First, Second, and Fourth Armies were more than capable of taking the human city of Seattle.

Already, a massive contingent of Warcallers had infiltrated the city and were presumably wreaking havoc among the locals.  As a former Warcaller himself, he knew well how much damage they could cause via Inciting Flames. 

Inciting Flames

Create a fiery eruption, fanning the wrathful flames of your enemies. 

The simple description did not do the ability – or its varied evolutions – justice.  General el’Turon had personally seen a single Warcaller incite a riot that destroyed an entire army.  He’d also felt those effects during training, and, even now, decades later, he could still remember the anger coursing through his veins.  Back then, he’d completely lost control as he targeted anyone and everyone in range.  He didn’t care if they were allies or enemies.  He only wanted to vent his rage on everyone in sight. 

And he’d been expecting it. 

The people in Seattle had not.  Already, the evidence of the Warcallers’ efforts was obvious.  All across the city in the distance, fires had erupted, and according to the scouts, the residents were busy killing themselves.

It made them a soft target for the true assault.

The combined might of the First, Second, and Fourth Armies marched forward, finally stepping free of the concealing arrays they’d erected.  They made haste, but they did not hurry.  Instead, their march was one of inevitability. 

The first mile was uncontested, leading General el’Turon to believe that taking the city would be easily accomplished.  Using similar tactics, they’d managed to conquer three other major cities in the years prior.  The general had never even bothered to learn their names, though. 

They were inconsequential, save for adding fuel to the fires of his force’s progression.

But Seattle was different.  If it wasn’t the most powerful city on Earth, it was close enough that the distinction didn’t matter.  If it fell, it would throw the entire population into upheaval.  Perhaps it would also force the few reasonably strong among them to respond, but the resultant clash was inevitable.  They would need to be put down, one way or another, and General el’Turon believed his forces were more than up to that task. 

The enemies were mostly humans, after all.  Numerous but unremarkable, the multi-verse over.  Their only true talent was adaptability.  Like a virus, they were difficult to completely eradicate. 

Either way, the general didn’t fear the planet’s so-called elites.  Even if they banded together – an unlikely prospect, given the fractured nature of their civilization – they would be incapable of defeating the combined might of the war elf armies. 

Victory, as far as General el’Turon was concerned, was inevitable – as was right and proper when a war elf army came to conquer.

“We have lost communication with one of the Warcallers,” announced the assistant.

The general nodded.  As inept as they were, even humans could overwhelm their betters.  A few casualties were expected, even with all of their preparations. They’d waited until the perfect moment to strike.  The city had given their peasantry too much freedom.  Too much hope.  And they’d gotten ideas of equality in their heads.  The resulting riot – or rather, the chaos it caused – had given the war elves the ideal opportunity to attack. 

Even so, General el’Turon knew his people were far from infallible.  They could make mistakes.  Often, they were far too self-assured, their confidence bordering on hubris.  It was usually warranted, but rarely, they took it too far and were forced to pay the price for their arrogance.

It was one of the chief lessons any young war elf soldier needed to learn.  For all the power of their birthright, they were not invulnerable. 

  As the combined army marched forward, the city’s defenses activated.  Massive balls of roiling energy erupted from their cannons.  The defenders were too impatient, though, and the cannon fire fell well short.  To combat their effect, General el’Turon ordered evasive maneuvers, and the army broke into multiple groups, spreading across the desert on approach. 

That would minimize the devastation wrought by those cannons.

As befit their training, the soldiers reacted to those orders with mechanical efficiency.  With their movement bolstered by assigned Tacticians, they marched quickly, erecting mobile shields along the way. They wouldn’t hold up to cannon fire – not completely – but any protection would minimize casualties. 

Only a moment later, General el’Turon saw the effect of those shields when a ten-foot-wide ball of energy slammed into one of the squads.  An explosion of earth erupted into the air, and the few soldiers at the immediate point of impact were obliterated.  However, those at the periphery survived intact. 

The assigned Healers went to work, mending any damage. 

From afar, el’Turon watched, and when the dust settled, he asked his assistant, “How many?”

The man – an Administrator by archetype – had an ability that let him track the army’s disposition and numbers, so he answered without hesitation, “Seven.”

Given that each squad featured a thousand men, that was an acceptable loss.  Still, the general was impressed by the power of those cannons.  If these people, after only a few years of development, were capable of building such weapons, then perhaps they could prove more useful than he’d previously supposed. 

It should not have been surprising.  Ever had humans attempted to overcome their deficiencies through crafting, in which they tended to excel.  Not through any innate talents, but rather through the sheer industriousness that came with their nature.  They weren’t as bad as insectile races, who often worked mindlessly in service of their hives, but they were not far off, either. 

And they were far more creative, which in many ways, made them more dangerous.

El’Turon vowed to stamp that out at first opportunity.  The benefits he might gain from having a few industrious and creative craftsmen working for him were far outweighed by the dangers of letting them run amok. 

As the armies drew closer, his assistant announced the loss of more Warcallers.  A troubling number that forced him to ask, “What is killing them?  The locals are not powerful enough.”

“I don’t know,” admitted the assistant.  The man just didn’t have those sorts of abilities.  Not yet, at least.  Perhaps when he reached an appropriate level, he would gain access to such skills.

Alarmingly, the Warcaller casualties continued to mount, and at an accelerated rate.  By the time the army reached the halfway point between their hidden staging grounds and the city, all but a few had been killed. 

“Is it the city lord?” he wondered aloud.  Predictably, the assistant didn’t answer the rhetorical question.  As far as el’Turon knew, Isaiah Roberts was a non-combatant, and not a remarkably strong one at that.  His little machines had proven difficult to circumvent during the initial infiltration, but that was just more proof that his focus was surveillance rather than combat. 

And the city hadn’t gotten any reinforcements, either.  That was why the Conclave Spires had been their first target.  That teleportation network was further evidence that humans could not be allowed to exist uncontrolled.  Such a thing was not unheard of on settled worlds, but on a recently integrated planet, it was more than just an anomaly.  It should not have been possible.

But human industriousness knew no bounds.

Thankfully, they couldn’t back that up with real power.  Not yet, at least.  Better to nip them in the bud than to let them develop into a civilization that could threaten even the mighty war elf armies. 

From his post more than a mile behind the advancing army, General el’Turon watched as the cannon fire reached a crescendo.  With the Warcallers having been subdued – or more likely, killed – the city put the entire weight of its power behind their defenses. 

Using an ethereal scope, he could see soldiers manning the walls.  Thousands of them, each one armed with those curious ranged weapons.  Many functioned like wands, hurling various elemental – or purely ethereal – energies at their foes.  However, others were more like bows or crossbows, shooting projectiles at enemies. 

They weren’t particularly notable, at least in terms of power.  But they were usable by any archetype, which meant that even non-combatants could put up a reasonable fight. 

An insulting concept, allowing them to contribute to battle.

Only true fighters belonged on the field of combat.

Just as the army reached the base of the walls, something ascended from within the city.  At first, el’Turon had no idea what to think of it, but it was only a few stunned seconds later that he realized what he was looking at.

And it made no sense.

“Dragon?” he muttered to himself.

The creature was clearly wild, as he saw when he focused his ethereal scope.  Fifty feet long, and with a wingspan to match, the creature was an intimidating presence.  Especially considering the spread of its antlers and the tree-like nature of its wings.  But more than anything, the general was troubled by the emerald scales.

He was no expert on dragons.  Few outside of the Empire of Scale were.  However, he knew enough to recognize the significance of those scales.  Color didn’t always indicate a dragon’s attunement, but the lone exception was when it came to green scales.  The more lustrous – or gem-like – the stronger the attunement.

Which meant that this dragon was obviously so close to nature that it was almost assuredly wild. 

And no one wanted to deal with a wild dragon.

The civilized ones were imposing enough, but they practiced some measure of restraint.  Meanwhile, a wild dragon was a natural calamity that could – and would – destroy anything in its path on nothing more than a whim. 

“Power all defenses,” he ordered, his voice betraying none of his panic.  “Focus all attacks on the dragon.  We must not –”

The second it reached the apex of its climb, it reoriented itself, flapped its massive wings, and rocketed across the battlefield. 

“Brace for –”

The creature bypassed the army and targeted the command cluster.  There were nearly thirty-thousand high-level fighters surrounding el’Turon, but even so, his breath caught in his chest.  After only a second or two, the massive thing slammed into the shield. 

It held.

As the dragon rebounded, a spiderweb of barely visible cracks spread across the blue shield.  Dozens of Wardwrights collapsed under the strain, and the blue barrier flickered.  The dragon was almost entirely unharmed, though what damage it had suffered mended in only a second.

It was like it had the regeneration of a troll.

The dragon flapped its wings, once again gaining altitude.  Ranged fighters loosed a series of spells and projectiles at the dragon, but most glanced off its emerald scales.  Once again, any damage they managed to inflict was entirely healed within seconds. 

After reaching a height of a few hundred feet, the dragon dove.

This time, the shield shattered.

Hundreds of Wardwrights cried out in unison before going limp.  In the distance, Seattle’s defenders unleashed a barrage of fire upon the charging army, but General el’Turon no longer thought of conquering Seattle.  Instead, with a dragon bearing down on him, he could only concern himself with his own survival. 

The dragon landed with a thud, and the slaughter began.  The creature used no spells.  It did not breathe destruction upon them.  Rather, it destroyed the command force with nothing more than tooth, claw, and the power of its muscles. 

They never stood a chance.

El’Turon shouted for a retreat, but only for those closest to him.  The others, he ordered to attack.  A massive wave of spells slammed into the dragon, and at last, they managed to inflict real damage.

A surge of ethera announced a spell, and for a moment, the general believed the dragon would finally loose its breath upon them.  Yet, it only resulted in a wave of vitality. 

That was when his heart leaped into his throat.

This dragon was a Healer.

Or given its scales, perhaps a Druid. 

Which meant that they had no chance of victory.  The thing was too strong, and with healing on its side, completely unconquerable.

That only cemented the general’s decision to flee.  Not retreat.  That word implied a tactical withdrawal.  Instead, he ran for his life, and those closest to him did the same.