Book 5 - Chapter 48 (Patreon)

The first few moments of the battle were an explosion of blazing light and firing Skills. Galan’s personal Lance was the best of the Order of the Long Sleep, and even with Ectar down they weren’t a force to be taken lightly, not even by a [Paladin].

Lothar punched a fist of golden light that separated into a hundred beams of energy to fly at them from all directions, but an [Untiring Protecting Knight] caught them all with the same Skill that Rhun had, assuming all the damage onto his invincible tower shield the size of a door. Three of the light beams struck Brin, and he didn’t feel a thing. 

A [Knight of Arms] returned the volley, throwing several dozen swords, spears, and axes at the [Paladin], some real and some pure constructs of mana. Lothar swung his sword into the ground, and the shockwave knocked them out of the air. The same shockwave would’ve ended Brin, but Rhun jumped in front of him just in time and weathered the effects. His own exhausted Lance couldn’t hope to help against someone of Lothar’s power, but they wouldn’t be a liability. Well, maybe Cid could still fight.

His [Untiring Knight Captain] charged towards Lothar along with three of Galan’s men. Now that he was looking for it, he saw the same perfect form and the same trails of white from some of Galan’s [Knights]. They’d also mastered the blade, as Cid had. 

Lothar met them all. He didn’t use any visible Skill to block and parry their [Knight’s Charge], but countered them with raw steel and a strength beyond imagination.

Then Galan’s [Knight Lancer] charged. The lance itself was clearly a masterwork of magical technology and the [Knight] himself was built like Hedrek. Lothar threw up his giant golden shield. The [Knight Lancer] charged straight into it.

The shield broke. Jagged pieces of holy force broke off, falling to pieces and then erupting in flame.

For the first time that Brin had ever seen, Lothar dodged.

“Lothar! What is the meaning of this!” Galan roared. “Why have you turned against us? Hold fast, please! It’s not too late to–”

“Why have you turned against me?” Lothar yelled in response.

He leapt, and then in midair seemed surprised when the force of gravity began to take hold of him again. He rejected it, kicked off the air and reversed his course. He moved straight towards Brin.

Rhun held his shield to block, Cowl ran forward to help meet the blow, and Aeron pulled Brin out of the way with such force that he felt some bones break.

Lothar’s sword fell. Rhun held fast, supported by Cowl and no doubt the other [Protecting Knight]. Lothar brought his arm up again for another blow, and Rhun separated his hands to show that his tower shield had been split in half.

Galan’s [Knights] moved in, and managed to harass and distract Lothar long enough for the [Knight Lancer] to get in place for another charge. Again, Lothar dodged it, though this time he jumped back, glided far into the air and landed lightly on a jutting beam of wreckage. He looked perfectly at ease, though that really shouldn’t have supported his weight.

“You’ve betrayed me. You’ve betrayed the gods and the light. Traitors.” Lothar called on his power, and a giant golden sword formed in the air above them. That was a dragon-killing Skill. This entire area would be devastated.

Looking around, he noticed that Sir Ectar was still alive and stable. When stabbing him through the chest, Lothar had hit a lung rather than the heart. He’d given himself away; if he really thought they were traitors he would’ve gone for the kill. He was already beginning to doubt.

Brin didn’t think that Arnarra had really meant for Lothar to turn on the allies after the battle. No doubt she’d given that order as a negotiating tactic, and meant to revise it to something more plausible afterwards. Maybe if the Lance hadn’t shown up, that’s what would’ve happened. Brin would’ve gone invisible and retreated, and Lothar would still be confident in his captivity. No doubt Brin would spend the next several years or decades going over which outcome served the greater good and whether Anwir’s sacrifice was worth it.

It wasn’t time for that now. Now, Arnarra was dead and Lothar was left with nonsensical orders. He was already seeing the cracks. Brin just had to stick his grubby fingers inside and pull them even wider.

“You’re the traitor!” Brin shouted. Absent his illusion magic, his voice came out quieter than he would’ve liked, but Lothar still heard it.

The giant sword above them lost some of its luster. Some of the holy energy around the edges became corrupted and turned to flame.

The [Knights] scattered. Lyssa pulled Sir Ectar onto her shoulders and jumped away. Brin tried to run as well, but he moved too quickly and his ankle snapped with the sudden force. It was Govannon who noticed first and carried him away.

Only Galan didn’t flee. When the sword fell down, Galan rose to meet it. He swung his mace from the side, as if to break the giant magical weapon. There was a flash of light and a crack that overwhelmed the ear protection in Brin’s helmet and left his ears ringing. When he blinked the sunspots out of his vision, he saw Galan on the ground, unmoving.

Dead, if he were any other man, Galan groaned and rolled to his feet. He felt around for a weapon, and finding nothing, caught one out of the air, thrown to him by his [Knight of Arms].

Lothar turned to Galan, an odd mixture of feeling in his eyes. Relief that his friend wasn’t dead, and sorrow, because now he would have to kill him again. He leapt into battle, and Galan fought with his men to keep  him at bay.

“Listen! Listen to me, Lothar! Use the [Light of Truth] and tell that I’m not lying. You’ve been a traitor from the beginning. You’re Arcaenean, by birth. You were tortured, twisted, and formed into the perfect spy,” shouted Brin.

Lothar pretended not to hear, but his power responded. What once were pure spears of light were now blistering missiles of flame. Where before the world itself seemed to support and protect it, now he lashed out against it as viciously as the men around him.

“You have to listen. You–”

“Lies,” Lothar said confidently. He punched another golden fist, and again it separated into many beams of power, but this time the beams belched and smoked in the air. Also, this time every single beam was aimed at Brin.

The [Protecting Knight] came from behind and wrapped Brin in a hug, the tower shield in front of them. Brin felt the hot wind as the power crashed into him, but nothing else. When the [Protecting Knight] stepped back again, there was a pained tremble in his steps.

“Not lies. Use [Light of Truth]! You know–”

“I know that you believe it,” said Lothar. “You’re mistaken. The gods put the truth in your very name, so that I could not be misled.”

The [Knight Lancer] charged again. This one wasn’t [Inexhaustible] and every [Knight’s Charge] cost him its price in stamina. This time, he was just a tad too slow. Lothar parried the enormous lance with his forearm. Then, when the [Lancer] got to him, he punched the great weapon out of his hands, and then grabbed him around the helm and pulled him down into his knee. Once, twice, three times, Lothar drove his knee into the man’s face, until others from the Lance attacked from all directions at once.

Lothar fought them off again with supreme Skill, but the temperature was rising. The armor on Lothar’s arm where he’d blocked the lance was now burning freely, and all of the Skills he unleashed were now more flame than not.

Lothar’s power was dimming, moving from pure and holy to mundane fire, but he was also losing his restraint. This fight had started out as a disaster and soon it would be beyond recovery.

The worst part was that Brin knew he could be doing better. He was dancing around the edges, not willing to say the full truth. Because how could he? He’d basically be saying these things to Aberthol, and that kid didn’t deserve any of it. He didn’t deserve to live with the memory of what had been done to him. He deserved to be the [Paladin], running around acting like a big dumb hero.

He closed his eyes, not willing to watch the reaction of the man he was ruining. “You’re not a [Paladin]. You’re nothing. You’re a victim. You were pushed to the edge and then past it. She hurt you until you gave up. You suffered, and it was too much. You surrendered, you failed, you lost, you–”

“Lies!” Lothar cried, but there was little boldness remaining in his voice, and a lot more hurt. Brin still couldn’t watch, but he could feel the heat rising. It was like sticking his head in the oven, only then and again there was a big burst of heat like a firecracker going off near his face. He smelled burning hair.

“And then she used you even after that. Throughout all the good you thought you were doing, all the while you were being used. You were guided by your enemy. Your [Witch]. Your mother. You’re a [Broken Doll], Lothar.”

Since Brin had his eyes closed, he didn’t see what happened. He only knew that Lothar shouted. Then there was a wave of force that knocked him off his feet. He hit something, and then something else.

Both arms were broken. His ribs, his ankle, and who knew what else. There was nothing wrong with his magic, though, so he called upon the glass in his armor. He tightened it, to hold himself in place, and then used the armor to climb to his feet.

Lothar stood in the center of a ring of [Knights]. Fewer than there used to be. The [Knight Lancer’s] helmet was broken open and his lips had been torn away so he grinned a skeleton’s grin. Another [Knight] nursed a badly broken arm, twisted and bent backward, with a bone visible through the armor. Sir Ectar was still prone, and another [Knight] had joined him with a stomach wound. All of them were alive, and with a good [Physician], they might all make a full recovery. Of Brin’s own Lance, none but him had wounds they hadn’t arrived with. Galan was a better leader than him.

Lothar himself stood defiant. His armor had greatly dimmed, his helmet was gone, and his long golden hair had been burned short. His sword was broken, but he gripped it with both hands. Even as Brin watched, his body seemed to lose its strength, and he sagged, nearly going down to one knee before forcing himself up again.

“So it’s true,” Galan said sadly.

“I-I’m sorry,” said Lothar.

He drove his sword up to his throat. Galan used [Knight’s Charge] for the first time this battle. He arrived in time, and stopped the sword with a closed fist around the sword.

Brin had been wondering if evolving [Inexhaustible] into [Inextinguishable] had removed his ability to use [Knight’s Charge] over and over without tiring. He still didn’t know. Galan didn’t show an ounce of tiredness, but he also might’ve just been that tough.

“I see it now, Galan. I remember who I was. Who I am. My name…” He laughed, but it was really a sob. “My real name is Lionel. I’m just as he says.”

“You are my friend. Whatever your name,” said Galan.

“Still? After all this?”

Galan glanced at his [Knight] without lips, who said, “Ih ahhi ah ih.”

It was a horrible display. Saliva mixed with blood and dribbled down his chin, but he endured it with aplomb. High Vitality might be as much a curse as it was a blessing.

Lyssa stepped forward. “It’s not for the guilty to decide if they can be forgiven. That’s for the injured parties to decide.”

“Is it truly?” Galan asked.

“It is,” Lyssa nodded. She looked at Lothar through the sides of her eyes as if he were interrupting a private moment. “I care not about this wretch’s fate. If any among you deem it necessary for this man to die as recompense for your injuries, then step forward and slay him at once. Otherwise, we will find another path.”

No one stepped forward to take Lyssa’s offer. Even Ectar raised a weak hand to shoo the question off.

Lothar shook his head. “We can’t take that chance. They might still be able to catch me again. They can turn me again. I won’t go back to being a slave.”

“We’ll find another path,” said Galan.

“You don’t understand. You don’t understand her power,” said Lothar.

“Arnarra is dead,” said Brin.

“I’m talking about Arcaena. I met her, after a manner of speaking, many times. You do not fear her enough. None of you do,” said Lothar.

“I think I do,” said Brin. “But you have all the best minds in three nations on your side. We’ll find a way to keep her out of your mind.”

“I think…I think I’d rather die,” said Lothar, voice growing weak. There was a childlike quality to it now, as if little Lionel were finally speaking up.

Galan gazed at Lothar for a long moment, then slowly, he unwrapped his fingers from around the jagged edges of Lothar’s broken sword.

“I won’t force this choice upon you. But I hope… No, let me say instead that I believe in you. Even now, at your lowest moment, or rather, because it is your lowest moment, I still believe in you.” Galan took a step back.

The entire group held their breath while Lothar made his choice.

Lothar huffed out a despairing laugh. “And if this isn’t my lowest moment, what then? I have so much lower to sink. Will you still stand by me when I no longer have a Class that bends all my thoughts to the good?”

“Always,” said Galan.

Brin saw what was happening; he needed to stop it. He wasn’t sure what would happen to Lothar’s Class now that Arnarra was dead, whether he would stay a [Paladin] or revert to [Broken Doll], or something in between. But he was nearly certain that Arcaena’s control over him was over. They could have the best of both worlds. He said, “You can keep your Class! All we have to do–”

“No. If you keep a [Witch’s] gift then you are always in her power. I can do this instead. I, too, swore an Oath of Last Resort, you see. Two words, repeated three times, that I thought I would never say. I surrender. I surrender. I surrender.”

Lothar fell to the ground, unconscious, like a puppet with its strings cut. That metaphor became more apt the more Brin thought about it.

You have won your second war. You have been instrumental in your faction’s success. Two achievements have been upgraded.

Warbound (Legendary)

Range penalties for casting light, sound, and glass magic are reduced. In battle, you can cast near any allies as easily as from yourself.

Knightly (Epic)

+20% to all attributes while fighting without subterfuge -> +15% to all attributes while in combat.

[Call Light through Glass] leveled up!

[Shape Glass] leveled up!

The bonus to [Warbound] was either only marginally useful, or a complete game-changer. He’d need to figure out the System’s definitions for “allies” and “In battle” before he could say for sure.

As for [Knightly], it only served as a reminder that he’d been getting a big bonus to his stats ever since they’d thrown down that Eveladis. Now that combat was over, he felt himself grow suddenly weaker, something he hadn’t even believed was possible.

[Battle Fury] had picked up to its maximum during the fighting as well, which meant that after thirty minutes passed, he would be utterly wrecked.

Brin lay on the ground, willing [Scarred, But Healing] to work as quickly as it could before the timer ran out.

Galan’s Lance didn’t seem overly eager to get moving, despite how they had wounded to tend to. The battle was still raging all around them; no one had told the undead horde around them that the war was over. None of the undead approached them, however. They must’ve seen how their fellows were swept away in golden fire the moment Lothar approached, and now the rest were seeking easier meat.

About two minutes before his [Battle Fury] timer ran out, the Eveladis finally wore off, and Brin summoned Invisible Eyes to scout the surroundings again. It was difficult to concentrate with all the pain in his body, but it was even more difficult to do nothing but dwell on it.

The three armies had engaged the undead in full now, and they were systematically marching through the city and destroying every trace of resistance. Galan had made the right call to wait; it wouldn’t be easy to get through that.

He found Davi, almost by accident. He was in the center of a small group of a hundred soldiers, singing them on to victory and glory. His face was stained with soot and streaked with sweat, but his voice didn’t tremble. 

While the armies marched in orderly lines and established areas of control, a few risk takers and [Scouts] had gone ahead. Zilly was with those.

Just as his eye found her, a level 37 Vulkovek burst from hiding and pounced on her, but she got away with a [Dodge] and a [Dash] and a hearty laugh. The undead worked together with the wolfman to run her down, and she led them on a merry chase down the wrecked city streets. She turned a corner, and three men pounced on the Vulkovek, chopping it to pieces. Three [Scouts], and Gerin among them. His half-brother really had kept his promise to look out for her.

Brin swept his eyes onwards, scouring the city, and soon they found the place that he was really looking for. Near the base of Arcaena’s citadel, there was the crater where they’d found the tunnel, and the little pass where Hedrek had made his last stand.

There were bodies on the ground, but none of them wore armor of Meaty’s make. Brin swept his eyes onward. He strained his consciousness to summon more. Until…

No…

“What was that, Brin?” asked Cid.

Brin tried to speak, but [Battle Fury] had run out. He couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, damnit! He’s suffocating in his own armor! Help me get this off him!”

Brin loosened his grip on the magical glass in his armor, but his attention was on the scene in his Invisible Eyes.

No, no, no, no… they’d left him behind and…

“Breathe, Brin! Breathe tell me what’s wrong! Did you see something? What did you see?”

“H…” Brin started, but it was too much effort. He had to get this out, but he couldn’t even breathe. His ribs were pushing into his lungs.

No, no, no… way. No freaking way. How in the actual hell, Hedrek?

Brin took a deep breath, ignoring the piercing pain, and then pushed it out, as loud as he could.

“Hedrek’s alive! He’s still fighting! Galan, you have to help him!”

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Hedrek POV chapter up next.

Translator's Note: In the Theranorian dialect in which Lothar speaks, "I surrender" is one word. From this a reader may deduce that Lothar did indeed follow the tradition of choosing an Oath of Last Resort that involves uttering a single word three times. His dialogue was adjusted to reflect the necessities of the English language.