The Power Of Ten: Sama Rantha 203 Chapter Two Hundred And Three – That Knight, Erran

Errant hewed the head off the last of the minotaurs, and Darkbolt flung the corpse aside. Without pause, his Wrath lashed out and punched through a gorehorn, before splitting to cut down two more wounded ones fighting next to it.

The harpies that came with this group hadn't been at all prepared for a griffon-rider using Wrath, and he had cut them out of the sky, before turning his attention to the minotaurs who had decided not to charge pell-mell onto multiple Spears and were attempting to use the corpses of other mutates to force an opening.

Him diving down into their flanks had really spoiled that idea.

Wrath pulsed through him and down into Darkbolt, who trilled softly as the golden power mended his flesh of half a dozen spear wounds and one glancing axe-blow. In a couple minutes, he'd be fine. His beak and claws were coated in gore, but golden flames were slowly burning those away.

The griffon was very aware of how convenient this was, of course. As long as he fled, or just retreated from fighting for a moment, his wounds would clean up and he'd be fine. It wasn't like when he'd fought the dragon, when one claw and a tail lash had nearly killed him, rendering him unable to do battle!

"You know to not eat them. Corrupting energies flow through them," Errant said, a mental nudge and knee sending the griffon prancing towards the nearest group of gorehorns who hadn't had the sense to stop bleating and die yet. Errant's Wrath ranged out ahead, most of it devoted to healing, but enough was left, combined with Bane and Purity and Soul, to have some serious punch behind it.

With a call and an Oath, he reduced their healing to rip a Wall of Fire down the length of the mutate formation, a hundred feet of perfectly placed inferno that sent furred bodies tumbling this way and that as they were consumed, set others on fire, and generally played merry havoc with any semblance of a battle line they had left.

Darkbolt jumped suddenly as a group of mutates threw javelins at them. Lion-clawed, wings gleaming faintly gold, he bounced away as if he weighed a quarter of what he did, while Errant let the Wall of Fire lapse away and that section of the dwarven Spears rolled over the hapless, doomed brutes.

There was no way these hooved idiots could get away from Darkbolt, who closed on them so fast it seemed magical. The griffon smashed through them, ripping one's head off and tearing open two others, while Errant swept a head off its shoulders and discharged the Wrath in Grace to burn through the skull of a second who was too close.

Darkbolt went right, Errant turned left, and his Scepter Purity blasted one, forked into two others, and all three went flying back with holes through them. Darkbolt mauled the rest with savage abandon, Errant turning back to start killing and Cleaving on the griffon's right side, who responded by moving through the press as quickly as possible to give him more targets.

The mutates could only bleat, baaa, and flee. If they raised their javelins to throw, Errant promptly blasted them dead with Wrath. Darkbolt pounced on a few like a great eagle-headed cat, tearing them apart remorselessly, and then turned to watch the Wrath of Heaven pop them off in burning trios.

---

Errant let up, let the healing come back and continue working on the griffon, while taking a look over the battlefield.

The gnomes and dwarves had dealt with the Shaman of the tribe, the combination of ballista bolts and True Seeking a truly nasty combination, even at two hundred meters. Broad low magic combined with weapons could be just as powerful, used correctly, as mighty combat magic, and the two races knew that well. He'd've been happy to charge it and one-shot it, but no need. No demons were Summoned, and the Shaman's magic had basically been Countered or Dispelled promptly upon casting.

The hulking corpse of the horned cyclops was also proof of that. The lower-Level Gnome Casters had easily neutralized the power of its Runeball with casual Featherweights, bless their oversized noses, giving the ballista teams plenty of time to punch their loads into it. It had died without contributing to the battle at all.

Truthfully, he wasn't needed. The dwarven spear lines were practically impervious in real terms. The soldiers were heavy, strong, skilled, s.h.i.+eldplated, and disciplined. Their Spears were all magical, however lightly, and Baneskulls were abounding, harvested from the heads of the more powerful creatures, the dead's own purified gold used to Infuse them in a slow but steady process.

The only chance for the Warped would be an equally obdurate spear line coming to meet them, and trying to grind them out. Good luck with that, especially with a Heartsong Cantor pounding out a +4 to-hit and damage to every combatant on the field, and the perfect responsiveness and clarity of the Marktell for conveying orders. The Warlord on duty wanted to strut his own stuff, after all, but not having Sama's power, was perfectly happy to let his Cantor contribute.

These Mutates didn't have a chance, and the dwarves knew it, which only further enhanced their confidence and resolve.

There were losses, of course, mainly lucky hits, crits in gamer terms, the law of large numbers coming down and wagging a finger. But the Healers were on everything, the Healing Traps could save anyone who was not dead, and Healing Reserve could get anyone back to top physical shape within a minute, while Soak would return naturally.

---

The last of the fighting was a big blob over there, and Errant sent Darkbolt loping that way, high-stepping and half-gliding along, picking up speed without actually exerting much effort with a striding hover. It was like riding a furry Disk.

Yeah, the dwarves had the conga line going, forcing the beastmen to run the length of their Spears to get away through the single break in their formation... where the arbalesters were promptly shooting them in the back as they fled.

The girls were in there, emptying out the middle with those steely little gnomish b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, not much left for them to do as the Warped tried to get away, and the Rockborn politely put their hopes to rest. The Healers were moving in to attend to the wounded, and he dismounted smoothly, announcing to all and sundry that he was a Healer, too.

Quickly he had a line of those not fighting moving up, with triage happening as they walked, the most wounded at the front. Using the Wrath to heal others was almost exactly like Healing Reserve, with glowy golden flames instead of cool white mist, putting his hands on them and letting the healing power of Heaven burn away imperfections, fixing them up.

He quickly stopped a dozen of them from bleeding out, one after another, saved a couple eyes and limbs before they could further degrade, and then went back to the heavily wounded and started restoring them to the walking wounded. If they were quick enough, even severed limbs could be re-attached, the reclaiming of which was a priority when dragging away a wounded soldier from the field.

He ended up reattaching four arms, a dozen fingers and toes... and three big gnomish noses, bringing tears of joy to the little fellows. The other Healers were equally hard at work doing similar things, while around them the battlefield was being rapidly cleaned up.

The next group of Warped was already on the way, gathering up their numbers as they marched out of the Rift, and making ready to fight. Dwarven work crews and gnomish inspectors were scanning everything, corpses were burning vivic, and sc.r.a.ps were being gathered to be hauled off and dumped onto the increasingly large piles over by the Ring.

Errant eyed the ma.s.sive collection of weapons and armor that had been heaped up by the battlefield cleaners. There was enough there to supply hundreds of thousands of troops... because they came off hundreds of thousands of troops. The ground here had seen an incredible amount of repeated slaughter, vivus burning over it drawn away into the Obelisks, the blue sky extending this way, the Land feasting...

------

His share of loot from the dead was dumped on his Disk by the cleaners, as they hastily vacated the battlefield so the next army could get into position.

No defenses were allowed, be it pits, walls, stakes, fences, Wards, or mounds. Such defenses were excuses for the Warped to send more and more people, and were not worth the price that would be paid to keep them.

It was nonsensical, but totally necessary. The Warped had outnumbered them two to one in this fight, and those numbers were only going to rise. It was kind of a compliment to the dwarves, showing that they were elite and the enemy was treating them as such. However, it didn't take into account the power of the Marktell, the Marks, Soul Magic, or the Heartsong.

The dwarves had chosen the subtler effects of Soul Magic. Boots to anchor them to the ground and make them much, much harder to move, or dark Gauntlets that increased the power of hands and arms, instead of crackling lightning about their Weapons. Feats to heal and toughen themselves up, too.

They had stood, and they had held. They didn't need a wall, because they were the wall!

------

The emergency cases addressed, Errant joined the others in a quick evacuation from the field of battle. The elves were coming up, brightly colored, chanting a musical song that stirred even Rockborn blood, saluting dwarves and gnomes as they marched by.

In a short amount of time, it would be them retreating bloodily from the field, getting saluted by the next to march up.

They withdrew the full three miles to The Camp, making use of the plentiful Healing Traps there to walk all the wounded over them, and all the Healers gathered in the hospice at its center to treat the wounded. Others listened to the musicians playing the Healing Harps, getting back more Soak more quickly, while those who were lightly or not wounded at all reformed their camps and lines outside.

Errant joined the healing effort, and wasn't much surprised when the girls came traipsing up to him for some mending action.

They had been involved in some very intense fighting, and all of them had multiple injuries. That obviously meant they'd blown through their Soak, Vigor Uses, and Combat Vigor, and even having Doc handy didn't keep up with their injuries. Behind them, Feist looked fine, revolving that Tier Two Moon Dragon Healing Technique to restore his Health and injuries easily, and his Soak would replenish itself with time.

Their Vajras had cleaned them up, so although their attire was a bit shredded, it wasn't all that b.l.o.o.d.y or gory. As for the pain, well, their Con scores were all in the mid-20's at least, and how could it compare to the Ritual? They just accepted it and waited for the healing.

Nevertheless, all three were very happy to giggle when he took their hands one by one. They pulled in their Nulls, and the golden fires of Heaven's Wrath washed over them. Cuts, sc.r.a.pes, gashes, gouges, rips, and tears that sometimes went right down to the bone mended up, and they all sighed despite themselves.

"If you go to the brownies, they can fix up your clothes so you don't have to bug Hazé," he winked at them. They were the last of his patients, waiting patiently until the other wounded were taken care of, so he got to his feet and walked away with them.

They sort of rolled their eyes and looked at one another. "Tremble can fix them quick, too, big brother!" Veis chimed up at him. But of course, Tremble was rather busy right now...

He made a face of acquiescence. "Are you all ready to go out there tomorrow?" he asked calmly.

"Yes!" they all nodded together, grim determination on their faces.

He glanced over at Master Feist. "Your a.s.sessment, Master Feist?" he asked calmly.

"They'd do better as elite shock troops, skirmishers, or scouts," the hyn admitted firmly. "Then again, so would I. We are here to learn how to be something other then what is natural for us."

"Goals?" he inquired of them.

"Bracers!" the girls all announced, faces twisting. "We were getting hit way too much. If it wasn't for our Crystal s.h.i.+elds, we would have had to run!" Verd complained unhappily.

Errant had to chuckle. "You walked onto a battlefield with no armor, stylish clothes, fought through the whole thing, got your clothes a little ripped and your hair out of place, and you complain you were hit too much." He rolled his eyes theatrically. They were all sitting on at least DR 5/- and +4 Nat AC, hitting them was like hitting wood. Those little wounds he'd been mending on them would have crippled normal folks, especially women, who couldn't normally use the Crystal Dragon disciplines.

No such problem for Hagchildren...

"Says the living target on a griffon jumping about like a rubber ball!" Amber shot right back without hesitation.

"Oh, Darkbolt was getting hit way too much, too. If I hadn't been healing him, he wouldn't have made it beyond the harpies," Errant a.s.sured them. "He's definitely considering the finer aspects of some well-made barding, but only the best will do, of course."

"Of course!" all four of them agreed together, as that only made perfect sense.