Chapter 412: Frontier in Flames

Black smoke rolled off the northern ridges of the Kovura Pass, choking the pine valleys in a sulfurous haze.

Down in the rocky gorge below the pass, the frontier market settlement of Olaro was burning.

Timber roofbeams collapsed into the muddy streets in sparks as civilian families fled southward toward the fortress roads.

Heavy iron boots drummed against the frozen riverbed in a synchronized rhythm that shook the valley floor.

Advancing through the freezing mist came the vanguard of Glacial Lanka—five thousand frost-plated Soulless in iron-braced columns.

Their faces were concealed behind featureless iron visors, moving in eerie silence.

Only a twisted alliance could birth such an abomination to invade the sovereign territories of Tagayia.

They carried eight-foot pikes and bronze-plated shields, marching through burning fences without breaking stride.

On the high limestone bluffs overlooking the gorge, three hundred warriors from Galka War Academy and the northern garrison held the bottleneck.

Senior Instructor Lotaga stood on a jagged outcrop, his tactical cloak whipped by the biting gale.

His weathered hands moved with fluid speed, nocking broadhead arrows to his recurve horn-bow and releasing shafts in rapid succession.

Each iron-tipped arrow punched clean through an enforcer’s throat joint, dropping them into the freezing slush.

Yet the Soulless behind them did not pause, stepping over the fallen without breaking rank.

"They don’t bleed and they don’t scream," Lotaga muttered, spitting onto the rock. "Just hollow bones and dead meat."

Beside him on the lower shelf, Captain Fuwuka slammed his massive bronze-headed war mace against his shield, his voice bellowing across the ridge.

In the absence of Grand Marshal Senraki and Marshal Salka, who were still south in Alika, Captain Fuwuka had taken command of the academy forces.

He had not led the cadets out to wage war alone, but to march north in support of the northern tribes.

Grand Zorath Zaka Asakana might have lost to Sagiri in their duel, but he was still very much the chief of the northern clans.

Protecting the northern tribes and their ancestral lands remained Zaka’s highest priority, and his veteran warriors were already locked in combat on the primary northern ridges.

Fuwuka had brought the cadets north to bolster their numbers, hold the secondary passes, and secure Zaka’s exposed mountain flanks.

"Nonagon formation! Lock shields and hold the bridgehead until the last cart clears the southern cut!"

Fifty third-year Galka cadets in obsidian sashes slammed their rectangular bronze shields together in a seamless wall.

Behind them, second-year spear-cadets leveled ten-foot ash-wood lances through the shield gaps, anchoring their heels into frozen soil.

The Soulless vanguard slammed into the shield wall with the brutal force of an avalanche.

CRACK.

Bronze groaned against iron as three-pronged pikes drove into the shield seam with terrifying, mechanical weight.

A cadet on the left flank grunted in pain as a pike grazed his shoulder, but the warrior beside him immediately braced his own weight against the bronze.

"Hold the line!" Fuwuka roared, leaping from the ledge and driving his heavy mace down onto a Soulless commander’s iron helm.

The skull caved with a crunch, the kinetic impact blowing two nearby pikes away from the shield wall.

Fuwuka spun on his heel, sweeping his mace in a horizontal arc that shattered three knee joints in succession.

"Second rank, thrust!" Fuwuka commanded, his breath billowing like white steam in the sub-zero wind.

The Galka cadets drove their ash-wood lances forward in unison, piercing chestplates and unbalancing the front rank of enforcers.

From the cliffs above, junior archers released coordinated volleys of whistling arrows into the enemy’s rear ranks.

Dozens of Soulless fell into the rocky riverbed, but hundreds more continued to surge through the burning village like rising floodwater.

Further up the gorge, three heavy alchemical ballistas mounted on iron-studded sleds emerged from the pine forest.

The Lanka crews pulled back the massive bronze ratchets, loading four-foot iron bolts tipped with corrosive green fire.

"Heavy siege bolts on the northern trail!" a cadet scout shouted from the watch-rock. "They are targeting the bridge!"

Lotaga’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the lead ballista crew locking their firing pin into place.

He reached into his quiver, drawing an armor-piercing iron needle arrow wrapped in dried pitch.

He struck the flint toggle at his belt, igniting the tip, and drew the bowstring until the horn limbs creaked under tension.

THWIP.

The flaming arrow arced across three hundred paces of freezing air, striking the open powder cask beside the siege sled with pinpoint precision.

BOOM!

The alchemical kegs detonated in an emerald fireball, tearing the ballista into shrapnel and scattering its crew over the cliffs.

"Good shot, old hunter!" a cadet yelled from the shield line.

"Don’t celebrate yet, boy!" Lotaga barked back, already drawing another arrow. "They’ve got two more sleds behind the ridge!"

Across the lower valley, the last caravan of ox-drawn refugee carts rumbled across the narrow stone bridge into the southern tunnel.

A young mother carrying an infant looked back toward the burning settlement, tears streaming down her soot-stained cheeks as warriors held the pass.

"The bridge is clear, Instructor!" a sentry signaled with a yellow flare from the tunnel mouth. "The civilians are through!"

Fuwuka parried a double-spear thrust with his mace handle, driving his elbow into the enforcer’s throat before stepping back half a pace.

"Phase two!" Fuwuka bellowed. "Collapse the bridge and initiate fighting retreat to the second cut!"

Two third-year cadets rushed to the center of the stone bridge, driving iron chisels into the keystone wedges beneath the arch.

With heavy sledgehammers, they struck the iron pins in rapid succession.

CLANG. CLANG. CRACK.

The central keystone gave way, and the stone bridge collapsed into the churning mountain torrent with a thunderous roar.

The severed bridgehead halted the Soulless vanguard’s advance, trapping hundreds of mechanical enforcers on the northern riverbank.

"Move! Up the ridge path!" Fuwuka ordered, ushering the bruised cadets up the narrow stone stairway toward the cliffs.

The Galka warriors moved with disciplined speed, maintaining rear-guard spear screens as they climbed into the rocky defile.

Lotaga remained on the high rock until the last cadet had scrambled past, picking off approaching Lanka scouts with lethal precision.

When enemy archers finally gained the lower ridge, Lotaga leaped down onto the trail, running with the wolf-like endurance of a western hunter.

Half an hour later, the detachment reached the high plateau of the Kovura Watchpost.

Cadets collapsed against granite walls, panting heavily as field healers in green robes moved through the ranks, bandaging wounded warriors.

Fuwuka leaned his back against a stone pillar, inspecting his dented bronze mace while drinking water from a leather canteen.

"How many did we lose?" Fuwuka asked the squad leader.

"Four dead from the vanguard, eleven wounded," the cadet reported, his hands shaking slightly as he cleaned his sword. "We held them for three hours."

Lotaga walked to the edge of the watchtower parapet, staring north through his bronze scouting spyglass.

Beyond the smoldering ruins of Olaro, the mountain passes swarmed with endless columns of iron-armored troops.

Behind the five thousand Soulless vanguard marched heavy siege automata, alchemical supply trains, and frost-wolf cavalry.

"That wasn’t an army," Lotaga said quietly, lowering the glass. "That was just the point of the spear."

Fuwuka joined him at the parapet, his weathered northern face darkening as he took in the massive scale of the invasion force.

"Grand Zorath Zaka is holding the primary ridge with the Asakana and Bami veterans," Fuwuka rumbled, his grip tightening on his mace.

"Our job is to secure his flank and bolster their numbers with these cadets. The invaders know if they can break this pass, they can encircle Zaka’s host from behind."

Lotaga adjusted the horn limbs of his bow, his eyes scanning the endless iron ranks moving through the distant snow.

"Zaka has thirty thousand seasoned clan warriors, but Lanka has double that number in monsters," Lotaga said grimly. "We hold this watchpost until Salka’s shadow blades arrive from Alika."

A cold northern gust swept over the watchpost, carrying the faint, ominous rhythm of thousands of war drums beating in the glacial passes.

The frontier was burning, but the lines had held.

Far to the south, beyond the jagged peaks, the message of mobilization was already spreading through every tribe in the realm.

The storm had struck the gates, and the warriors of Tagayia were bracing for the clash.