Konstantins Crusade English version - E W (ebook reader for comics .txt) 📗

tips together and led them back into the golden mist to nourish the spell. It was a show of power and magical energy that might have been last seen in Simon Belfare's big campaign. At a time when the entire power of the empire had turned against itself. Golden arcs danced across the grass and around the waiting men, dazzling those who watched them for too long, keeping the shooters on the walls from becoming dangerous to them. If they even thought about attacking and weren’t frozen in place as anyone else.

And last, three more men followed the procession of soldiers and wizards. The first was Golden, and wore the armor of a god. Gilded steel that reflected the sun. Sunken crystals glowed in an ominous light, making the air crackle around the figure. A white cloak hung over one shoulder, hiding in part the blade of the sword he carried by his side, a large broadsword, strangely archaic in the age of daggers and muskets, with flaming runes on its blade. The quillons were as split in two as the emblem of the empire, one side ended in the sharp beak of an eagle, the other in the head of a lion. The man who carried these weapons was tall, tall and middle-aged. Green-blue eyes, eying the nearby ramparts of Xihuitzin. The grim look on his face did not change as he slowly turned to his men. Short, dark blond hair showing the first traces of gray was framed by a simple ring of gold on his head. A single, water-clear diamond glittered in it. The crown of Canton was perhaps the oldest artifact that made up the Emperor's regalia. Old enough to trace it  back to the first emperor who had once forged his tribe into the core of a new nation. The rest, however, was much younger, though already owned by the ruling family for centuries. The armor and the weapons Simon Belfare himself had infused with magic and used on his campaign against the Ordeal emperors. This man had to be Konstantin Belfare himself.

Cyrus blinked away the afterimage and lowered the telescope that Macon had handed him. Anselm did not seem to need any help to know what was going on out there. The young magician had begun to shiver as he watched the magic released on the plain.

"I thought you were used to that?" Cyrus asked. He could understand why Anselm was not comfortable with it. He could feel the magic even from afar and he was a Gejarn. His people should not even be able to perceive magic and yet his whole body tingled as if an army of ants were biting him. It was a mere show of power. Why else would the men have teleported to the city wall instead of through it?

"You do not get used to it.", Anselm replied in a gloomy voice. "No way. That ... It's wrong to use magic like that. "He shook his head and Cyrus decided to drop the subject for now. He raised the telescope again.
Glittering bolts of light danced around the golden shape that emerged from the pillar of light, shaking off the aftermath of the teleport spell. A long white cloak embroidered with the double-coat of arms of Canton blew behind him and the afterburn of the spell reflected on the newcomer's armor. The distance made it difficult, but the wolf knew who he was dealing with.

 If there had been any doubt, they were at the latest cleared of by the other figures who stepped out of the portal onto the battlefield. Three wizards of the Order flanking the Emperor immediately, accompanied by a fourth figure in the conspicuous turquoise robes of the wizards. A bullet chased past him, but fizzled away at the magic shield the man had created. Tyrus Lightsson differed only in appearance from the other members of his guild yet enough to recognize him. Were the other mages of the Order often were stunted and leached creatures who ducked in the shadows, their grandmaster was the exact opposite, despite his already advanced age, broad-shouldered and unbowed, the gray hair loosely tied to a braid. Behind the Lord of the Sanguis Order were the men of the Imperial Guards, in their uniforms, whose gilded buttons and stitching glittered in the sunlight, while the remnants of the teleport spell slowly faded. And in their midst stood a giant, not of gold, like the emperor himself, but silver with a war hammer over his shoulder, capable of tearing down the walls of the distant city should it be necessary. Still, he guided the weapon as if it were light as a feather. The man looked as if he had been forged from a piece of iron, with steel-gray hair and eyes. His armor buzzed with every step as countless tiny gears meshed, supporting his movements with the priceless machinery. Dwarf work. Centuries old and although there was no blacksmith who could replace the lost people, still in perfect condition. There was only one complete set of such equipment and Cyrus knew to well who owned it. The High General Canton stepped next to his Emperor. Once more, moments of complete silence passed as the last remnants of the teleportation spell collapsed. Emperor and High General looked at each other for a moment. Then the figure in gold nodded.

Cyrus watched in disbelief as the High General stepped without a word past his ruler and the waiting soldiers. And to the walls.

That was apparently the moment when the numbness of the men on the ramparts fell away. Orders were shouted, rifles that the warriors of the city had stolen from the guard's supply caravans picked up , bows aimed. The bodyguard did not even begin to look for cover when the first salvo was fired. Arrows and bullets rained down on them, finding their targets and piercing bodies. Men fell screaming to the ground, one of the guards' banners pierced by an arrow that felled one of its bearers.

Calmly and unhurried, one of the guardsmen stepped out of line and picked up the banner again. Bullets went down around him, but he paid no attention to them. Bullets exploded against the emperor's armor, or just before where the ancient spells cast in the steel intercepted them. That was madness, Cyrus thought. These men were trapped in the bullet hail and ... just did not seem to care. Only whenever a man fell, the rows were reorganized and closed again with concise, precise gestures, closing the gap. Why didn’t they return the fire?

The  man in the silver armor, who had to be the High General, had now reached the foundations of the wall. Bullets burst around him too, or bounced off his armor with a loud howl where the spells could not stop them. His footsteps were light, despite the weight of his armor and the weapon he wore. The whirring machinery did its job as he raised the hammer .... And smashed it against the walls with all his strength. Cyrus had seen what magical weapons could do. He had seen burning blades rip apart armor, a single man in an enchanted plate armor stopping a cavalry charge ... But not such untamed power.

The hammer touched the wall only once, but the blast that followed could even be felt across the distance. . Stones were torn from their anchorage and simply pulverized, mortar broke into useless dust, which was carried by the blast into the streets of the city. Solid  rock, crushed to sand, buried the buildings below. While men plunged helplessly into the depths where moments before there had been a solid ground and disappeared. Bricks became red clouds, granite gray ones, chocking the screams of thousands of men whose eardrums had simply burst under the pressure.

Cyrus' own ears rang and the dust trickled down even over the camp, covering it all in a fine mist. Months of siege, ended in a single show of imperial power.

Only now that the way was clear, the men of the bodyguard lowered their own weapons and began to advance. With the precision of a clockwork , they began to move forward. Three steps.  Then they stopped, aimed, fired. Then the first row backed away to reload, leaving the next to repeat the process. Three steps, aiming, firing. Gunpowder vapor enveloped what was not covered by the dust cloud.

And now, too, the command that they had been waiting for came into the camp. And that Cyrus had feared. Lord Macon, however, began to instruct his own men.

"Follow your Emperor. Do you  want to live forever. Your Lord is watching you today. So do not shame him. To me!"

And by that he meant him too, Cyrus thought. He rarely thought about just running away. Now, that seemed like a very good idea to him. If there wasn’t Anselm ...

"What are we going to do now?" The wizard asked in a thin voice.

"Now? Now comes the part you wanted to see. Just stay close to me if you want to survi 

Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

Cyrus had known that he would die here since he first saw the city burn in the morning light. And now this probability became more and more a fact. On paper, their goal was simple. Go through the streets of the city and fight your way up the pyramids level to level, up to the big citadel on top. In reality things looked different. The Imperial Guard broke through the first rows of defenders like a hammer blow. At least those that were able to fight after the fall of the Wall. Many were wandering disoriented or unconscious or dead, and dozens of stone warriors had been crushe. Dust drifted through the streets of Xihuitzin, mingling with the humidity in the air. Like cement, it  settled itself in a solid layer over everything, bleaching the shining uniforms of the guards and making breathing difficult. Shades of gray stumbled around tCyrus through the mist, many had tied cloths in front of the faces to have at least a little protection. Gray in gray as everything here was, they seemed more like simple bandits then soldiers.

Cyrus looked back for Anselm, who followed him closely. The young magician was still smeared with mud, which was now also permeated with red and gray dust, coughing and disoriented, they sought their way, away from the ruined walls, from which death rained down on the attackers. The imperial bodyguard had made a breach for them, but now the real battle was raging in the streets of the city. Messengers ran around to deliver orders. The smoke of burning buildings filled alleys and streets.

Most of the buildings along the wall were simple structures of wood and clay, some of which had, thatched, brick towers. Apparently their inhabitants had rather ignited them when the wall came down, instead of leaving them to the Guard. Embers and burning straw were whirled up by the wind and carried on to the nearest buildings, and it soon seemed to Cyrus that the whole city was in flames. How must they hate us, he thought for a moment, that they think it’s better to burn it all instead of surrendering.

The thick smoke