The survivors on the surface, straggling desperately to their feet, watch the rock face above the fortress' entryway, battered by the full force of the shockwave that the walls saved them from, begin to crumble and fall. In fear, dragging those too crippled to run, they flee the rockfall, passing through the broken gates as rubble fills the courtyard behind them, the dust and displaced air of its fall throwing those closest a dozen feet.
The fortress entrance, whatever the state of its interior, is thoroughly buried. At least fifty people are dead, soldiers and serfs alike. The great howitzers and other courtyard defenses are ruined, as is much of the surface crop. Admittedly, that which had not yet grown, or which was already nearly prepared for harvest, may likely be salvaged.
Fire is everywhere, and the golden ichor still spatters from the sky at random, doing strange things to whatever it touches. Another stray Arrow lands, this time perhaps five hundred meters from the fortress, tearing apart a hillside and throwing dust into the air.
Lord Porkins rallies several of the surviving troops amidst the chaos and sets them, and himself, off into a perimeter, one swiftly joined by others. What remains must be protected. Against what, or if mortal dwarves could protect you from it, is unclear, but the gesture, the confident action in the face of madness, sets a standard. Reigniting hope, ending confusion, raising spirits from the brink.
Magus Patham, trapped with the survivors, taps the sudden massive upturn in arcane power to heal the wounded, a spectacular display of sorcery performed by a largely mundane person, with the brilliant geometric lights of his technomancy weaving together torn muscle, rebuilding shattered bone, soothing seared skin.
A moment later, half-delirious with adrenaline and long-lost power, he sends himself skyward, a rising bluish-white spark amidst golden ruin. As his great leap tops out, ten thousand feet up, eyes both newly aided and long-ago-augmented scan the area, searching. Even this new vision cannot quite penetrate the thick clouds and thaumic flux of the Death's fireball, but its location, epicenter, approximate yield, height of cloud, and emission spectra are logged by small, lightning systems of circuitry and thought. The many smaller fires of the fallen Arrows are memorized too, a myriad worthy points of consideration, a grand reference group for their power.
A dancer's golden form slices past, closer than even dead Zha, passing close and away in an instant, a hail of smaller sparks lashing out against the mortal Magus. Arcane power and calculating knowledge avoid the worst of the attack, hasty shields absorb and deflect more, but three of the sparks, themselves tiny, fierce points, far from the terrible Arrows, pass through all defense.
One passes to the right, the heat and wind of it tearing clothing. Another skims the edge of the arcanic construct maintaining flight, warping the myriad patterns of energy beyond repair. The last strikes true, impacting latent personal wards directly. The forces of the reaction strike Patham from the sky amidst a storm of blue and gold threads, trailing flakes of ash and droplets of crimson mortal blood, cells whose work is done by the death of stars.
Other wards, perhaps. Or a final instant of consciousness throwing up a savior. The storm of magic around him also slows him enough to save him, leaving him to skip along the ground rather than simply strike and shatter.
Chaotic Skies, a slight flickering of crimson and violet shadowing his movements, sprints after his falling form with speed a little beyond normal, catching up to it and retrieving it before it skips into the nearest of the Arrows' impact sites. Laying an injured ally to rest, he finds himself mere feet from the edge of the fire, the heat of it terrible.
Mayor Murdoc, trapped inside the fortress, runs through halls filled with smoke and dust, calling orders to damage control teams and prospective search parties. The exterior defensive sector is a ruin, along with the mountainside that held it, but industrial vents will provide air for the time being, and there are several prospective emergency exit tunnels with their endpoints less than an hour's work with explosives away from usability.
Author
Topic: If Bay 12 was a fortress Part 3: RETURN OF THE CHAOS (Read 235112 times)