The appearance of the Blademasters on the field changed the situation dramatically. Grand Marshal Cicera considered the scene that spread before her with a pensive frown. Centurions had been hunted down in the confusion and chaos of the battlefield, disrupting the chain of command and leaving a quarter of the legionaries sent over the bridge blowing in the wind.
It was a deceitful, cowardly strategy that relied completely on the element of surprise and the unique abilities the Blademasters possessed. It was also clever, and effective. Had the Folk announced their presence and stated their intention to defend the Tree, Cicera would have brought another four legions to ensure the job got done.
Her centurions would have also been more hesitant to stand apart from their troops. It was a standard strategy to assassinate officers in the field and the Abyssal Legion prided itself on its record for preserving the lives of not only its officers, but the rank and file legionaries as well.
To do such a thing was close to a declaration of war. There would come a reckoning for this.
For now, her focus had to be on the mission. The tree would fall, there was no doubt of this.
“Focus the barrage on the left side of the trunk,” she ordered. “Tell the Praetorians to find and assist the leaderless soldiers. They must be guided and absorbed into the command of existing groups.”
The commanders passed her orders and within minutes she could see the results play out before her. The constant barrage of artillery and magic continued unabated, but this time focusing on one side of the trunk. The already burning wood began to crack and splinter under the weight of the assault. Thick clouds of smoke already billowed around the tree, rising to the canopy and drifting out into the vast open spaces of the fourth stratum.
She could see glimpses of the soldiers regrouping in the distance. Her superhuman vision allowed her to pick out the determined faces as they reformed their lines and began to advance once more. The praetorians had been notified of the presence of the Folk in the battle and already they had come to blows.
Of course, despite their incredible skill, not even they could stand up to the finest the Legion had to offer.
“The Folk are retreating whenever they see a praetorian approach. They don’t want to engage directly.”
“Not surprising,” Cicera remarked dryly. “That’s not a fight they can win.”
It was a worthy trade off. If the Blademasters spent their time running from the praetorians, then they weren’t interfering with the legions.
“There are reports of more forces from the Folk appearing. Not elites, regular warriors.”
The Grand Marshal frowned. They were bringing a larger contingent at this point of the battle? Why? The tree was crippled, success was close for the Legion.
“Send in the auxiliaries,” she ordered. “It’s time for the finishing blow.”
The situation was relatively stable, but could change if more unanticipated factors were allowed to influence the field. She would commit her reserves and deal a decisive strike before things could tilt out of her favour.
The order rolled down the line quickly and tens of thousands of soldiers prepared to deploy. The auxiliaries were a potent fighting force in their own right, overshadowed by the legionaries they served beside, but competent and strong nonetheless.
It was they who manned the artillery, they who served in the medicus and managed supplies. No fighting force in the Abyssal Legion could operate without them.
There were also more specialised soldiers among their number.
Twenty thousand malformed former prisoners howled and gibbered with delight as the order finally came. They had waited so long, watching as their brothers and sisters of steel had fought on the front line. Now it was finally their turn.
Brimming with eagerness and fury, they rushed forward, over the bridge and threw themselves into the fight with wild abandon. They smashed into the front lines like a sledgehammer, rolling back the tree creatures all the way to the trunk in one mighty, sustained push.
The commanders beside the Grand Marshal watched with detached interest as the first of the hand held ordnance began to fly.
The auxiliaries whirled their bolas overhead before releasing them, their abnormal strength allowing them to cover tremendous distance. The clay balls shattered on impact, spreading their payload across the trunk.
On its own, the stuff would do little, but when ignited, it would burn with incredible heat. Good thing the tree was already on fire.
The conflagration spread in an instant. Fire roared and the snapping sound of breaking timber reached them easily over the distance. Black, oily smoke billowed from the trunk as more and more bolas were hurled into the inferno.
“The Folk are mounting an offensive, more are coming through.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Cicera said with confidence. “Order a fighting withdrawal.”
Over the next hour, the legionaries began to pull back. After spending all of their ammunition, the auxiliaries covered for their fatigued allies as the artillery barrage continued overhead. The tree and its children continued to fight, but they were a spent force. The tree was going to fall and they all knew it.
The last to walk back over the bridge were the praetorians, their armour scorched and blackened in places, but otherwise unharmed. The army gave way as these titans of the battlefield walked through the ranks.
Cicera knew that they wanted to be gone as soon as possible. They had duties and responsibilities below that could not be allowed to wait. It had been difficult for the Legion to spare even this handful of its mightiest soldiers for this campaign.
They approached the command tent and saluted. Without ceremony, she saluted back, fist to heart, and then they turned and were gone, back to the endless war below.
In the distance, the Folk pushed forward, taking up defensive positions, entrenching themselves as their mages began to take hold of the bridge and destroy it. The Grand Marshal watched them, disinterested.
It began as a low groan that quickly grew into an all-encompassing roar. The Mother Tree cracked and crunched as it gave way under its own titanic weight. In slow motion, the enormous trunk split, and the tree began to fall.
So large was it, the wind it stirred became a storm as it fell. When it finally crashed down into the water, the waves it created were dozens of metres tall. The impact resounded around the stratum, heard hundreds of kilometres away by curious people and fearful monsters alike.
“A successful campaign, Grand Marshal,” she was commended by the commanders standing nearby.
Cicera looked down on the Folk, their warriors bushy tailed and ready to continue the fight. Were they demanding that the Legion respect the fallen? Were they trying to protect the remaining tree creatures?
Or was it something else?
“Withdraw,” she ordered finally.
Suspicion was not enough. The legions gathered here were needed elsewhere, there were never sufficient soldiers to do the work that needed to be done. They could delay no longer.
It wasn’t easy to move so many people, even with the renowned discipline of the Abyssal Legion on your side. Nevertheless, six hours later the mighty army of steel was gone.
The bruan’chii turned and looked with sadness on their fallen mother. The great tree was no more, the trunk and its vast canopy had been toppled into the water, already breaking apart without her mana to support it.
Around them a small garden began to spring to life, the flowers and vines writhing with malicious glee.
