Frostbound

Marcus(cont.)

Christopher's aura, wild and flaring, disappeared abruptly. The once smothering blanket of otherworldly cold and fury left so quickly it made it seem like it hadn't even been there in the first place.

It was such a stark difference Marcus had to strain his own tired aura to make sure the man was still there and his eyes weren't deceiving him. The only other time he'd seen such an abrupt difference from flaring to gone was when someone died.

Reining it in manually didn't result in such whiplash, even if Chris was in a state of mind to do it. From the pummeling he'd just witnessed, Marcus doubted the shift was manual.

Chris stepped to get off the decapitated Orc and faltered. His strength had left him. Marcus moved before he registered what he was doing and caught him before he fell.

His body was freezing to the touch and his fingers burned but he held the man upright through the pain.

"Thank... you," the words were nearly inaudible, but they were enough.

While that was all good, and Marcus was glad to be of help, there was one thing on his mind after watching the Orc die.

What now?

There were three more out there somewhere. He couldn't feel them anymore and by the notifications rolling in and the essence transferring, the fight was over, but was it?

When in a prolonged fight, the System usually delayed any distraction until the fight was over, but it had done so now. Did that mean that all the other War Leaders were already dead?

For some reason, Marcus doubted that. He wasn't so arrogant to believe that others didn't have the ability to kill them, but not nearly as quickly. The fight had lasted only a couple of minutes and Chris did most of the work, killing it any faster would be a challenge he didn't believe every other Faction could accomplish.

One, he could believe. Two defeating the Orc more quickly was pushing it, but all three? The odds of all three War Leaders getting killed faster than they had killed their own was astronomical and Marcus didn't believe that was the case for a second.

Lightning still boomed. Rain still pelted the ground. The Wind still howled. Something was still going on.

But it was going on elsewhere. There wasn't an Orc in sight where they stood. Not a living one at least.

Marcus had enough strength that carrying the other man wasn't difficult, but it did force him to circulate the dregs of mana he had left. He'd spent all he had in the battle and could only use what little he'd already regenerated to defend against the cold.

Christopher's body was like holding on to dry ice without gloves.

It wasn't long until Abigail came running up breathing heavily. Marcus recognized a healing skill flare but it was paltry at best. The mana used was tiny and he could see the skill falter before activating.

Abigail was worse than he was to have such a weak skill falter.

The energy did essentially nothing to Chris's body. The Blight still waged war inside his wounds and his skin blackened and festered around the bleeding. It would take a dedicated healer with a lot more mana than anyone here had to cleanse the wounds.

"Ho- How many this time?" Christopher's voice was weak. Without the perception boost from stats it would be impossible to hear.

Marcus's face tightened. He'd had the same thought and he still wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He'd seen many get cut down and knew that plenty more perished outside his gaze.

Friends he'd fought with for years met their end and his heart ached. Part of him wanted to rush back and count right this moment but another part knew his heart wouldn't be able to take it.

Abigail's face remained emotionless, "Two that I know of."

Two? There were a lot more than- Oh. Oh, no.

They were out here speaking of family members. Not Faction members. Two of their family were dead and they were acting like it was nothing!

'How many this time?'!! How speaks so casually about the death of family?!

"Mom and Gabriel?" Hope was the last emotion Marcus would say Chris had right now and that somehow made it worse.

"Alive." Abigail also didn't hold the right notes. It was like all emotion, good or bad, was stripped from them.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Jon and Austin?"

"Alive."

"Who?"

"Alice and Allison."

Two names were spoken and the only thing Chris did was close his eyes. Marcus had even met Alice when she'd attempted to forge a Core and even he showed more emotion at hearing that she had died.

Marcus was struck silent at the interaction but something else caught his eye. The three helpers were all huddled together off to the side talking softly about something. Something Marcus was sure he wouldn't like.

"Abigail, can you take him?" He asked.

The woman nodded and scooped up his other side while Marcus extradited himself. In any other situation, seeing such a small woman holding up his large body would be humorous, but not now. Not after...

The two continued their limp back toward the walls while Marcus went to go have words with their... friends.

"If you're thinking about doing what I think you're doing, I'd advise against it." Marcus wasn't in the mood to sugarcoat his words. He was too tired for that. He was so tired he didn't notice he was weaponless and manaless approaching three potentially hostiles.

The three turned toward him but Marcus didn't see the calculating eyes he expected. The ones contemplating something better left alone.

Was I wrong?

"We heard that his pylon is in Northern Canada?" Patrick said. "And yours is in Minneapolis?"

The question threw him as he expected an entirely different interaction. One a lot more heated. "Yes, my Pylon sits where Minneapolis and St. Paul once did. His," he gestured at the two departing backs, "is in the Far North."

His Faction was well known enough because of talk from The Reservation and the Heartlands Alliance that most people knew, or could find out, where it was there was no point in hiding it.

Frostheim, though, was harder to find but it being in the Far North was well known.

"Do you think he would be open to... talks?" The man hinted and Marcus finally understood what was going on.

Ha, it was the other side of the coin. Good.

Lightning streamed around one man with eyes alight with electric fury. From his hands flew bolts so thick and destructive that those watching equated it to the Wrath of God himself.

The Orc hit by such fury could do nothing but stand there and take the punishment. Every move it made to quell the storm was met by ravaging members of its own kind. Hundreds of Orcs launched themselves at what was once their leader and pinned it in place.

They were ants to an elephant, but they kept the War Leader occupied long enough.

They moved with mechanical, jerky movements but there were too many of them for that to matter. When one was cut down, another jumped in to take its place with an unnatural lack of self preservation.

The sea of the deathly Orcs was endless and the tactics of the test were turned against itself.

In the back was the orchestrator of such a tide as death mana flowed around him in waves. The occasional spell landed on the War Leader that deadened the already Blight-touched skin.

Lightning and Death were used interchangeably and while most of the horde of dead gave their second lives, the War Leader perished.

Rain evaporated and turned to steam well before hitting the ground. A thick fog built around the fight but that didn't hinder the group fighting.

One stood encased in dense stone wielding a shield and mace that took any hit the War Leader could conjure. Pillars, shields, domes of stone both intact and smashed open riddled the field from her efforts.

A man with Lava coating his hands dished out powerful, staggering punches while his comrade held the Orc at bay.

Last of the powerful trio was a woman literally ablaze. Fire lashed out from her hands and burnt everything near to cinders.

A dozen Archers and Mages, emboldened by their Leader's ability to keep the Orc occupied, took the time to empower arrows and spells hoping, wishing to be of assistance.

It was long, arduous, and rife with danger, but the Stone held firm. Cracked and weakened it was, but stout enough that the attacks against it couldn't crush it completely.

The land was burned black with still-flowing Lava hissing and popping as it flowed into water or blood. What had dried left a scar of jagged black rock in place of the once beautiful forest.

The War Leader was filled with too many arrows to count, burned in more places than unburned, and hit with so many spells that its only option was to perish, all the while unable to break through the woman of stone hemming it in place.

It died slowly.

Hundreds surrounded the War Leader while they watched their Leader do what he could. His Halberd taking on power unlike they'd ever seen. Anyone wishing to intrude on the fight was blown back just by the shockwaves generated.

The thousands at his back were all pushing their hopes for their Leader's victory, but it was more than just their hopes. They gave something much more tangible.

Drawing on the thousands of strings connected to him, their Leader, the mighty Admiral, held off the powerful Orc. Those surrounding the battle took this time to land any and all attacks they could.

But none were as powerful as one woman. Dark skin twinkling in the dark, stormy sky, drew on the very stars themselves to launch spells. Spells of Starlight landed upon the Black-spotted skin of the Orc and it roared in fury and pain.

With a Halberd filled with the power of thousands, spells wrought from the stars themselves, and thousands adding what little they could, the War Leader was chipped down one attack at a time until it could stand no longer.

The cheers echoed through the Land as the last War Leader perished.

The last Orc sent to test the Defenders fell and the chimes informing the inhabitants of their victory sent waves of palpable victory through the masses. They hooted and hollered, cheered into the stormy sky until voices could be heard from miles away.

The moment of exuberant joy at their victory lasted but a moment.

Until the sea of the dead centered their minds. Then, instead of exuberance, it was sorrow that filled the defenders. Sorrow for their family. Sorrow for their friends. Sorrow at the scale of death that most had never seen before.

Of what once was a resplendent sea of Defenders numbering nearly 300,000 strong, none still shone so brightly and eager like they had just hours before. That glow was long since lost and the eagerness destroyed.

Of the once great armies of countless Factions, combining into a force not seen since the Change, half were dead.

Some Factions destroyed utterly and completely. Leaders and followers alike lay together near broken walls and torn-apart fortifications staring up at a sky they would see for the last time.

Half.

A number so large the defenders had trouble wrapping their minds around the death toll. A number large enough for some to question themselves. Question if it was worth it.

Over three-fourths wounded. Some graver than others.

A Pyrrhic Victory if there ever was one.

A Victory won at one Obelisk.

One Obelisk of 13.