CHAPTER 130: DEFEND THE CITY [3]

The wall beneath them lurched violently. Oliver was thrown to his knees.

"What was that?!" Kaelen roared.

Oliver pulled himself up, peering over the edge.

His blood ran cold.

The enemy lines had parted. And walking through the gap, dragging a massive battering ram made of black iron and demon bone, was a Mountain Troll.

It was colossal—at least thirty feet tall. Arrows bounced off its hide like toothpicks. It roared, a sound that shattered windows in the towers behind them, and swung the ram again.

BOOOOOM.

The stone beneath Oliver’s feet cracked.

"They’re breaching the foundation!" Oliver shouted. "If that wall goes, we lose the inner sanctum!"

"We have to stop it!" Kaelen yelled. "Archers! Focus fire on the giant!"

"It’s not working!" an archer screamed back, despair in his voice. "Its skin is too thick!"

Oliver looked around wildly. He needed something heavy. Something explosive. But he had no magic here. No Isolde to cast a nuke. No Seraphine to punch it into orbit.

He only had this body. This sword. And these men.

"The ballista!" Oliver pointed to the heavy siege weapon mounted on the tower to their left. "Is it loaded?"

"The crew is dead!" Kaelen shouted.

"Then we load it!"

Oliver grabbed Kaelen. "Cover me! We need to get to that tower!"

They sprinted along the wall walk. It was a gauntlet of death.

Wyverns swooped down, snapping jaws snatching soldiers into the air. Orcs that had scaled the ladders swarmed the path.

Oliver fought like a man possessed. He didn’t use finesse. He used brutality. He shoulder-charged an orc off the wall, ducked a swinging axe, and severed the hand of another.

Kaelen was a whirlwind of destruction beside him. His hammer crushed skulls and dented plate armor, clearing a path through the green-skinned tide.

"Move, Cap! I got your back!" Kaelen roared, smashing an orc that tried to flank Oliver.

They reached the tower. The ballista was intact, a massive spear-like bolt loaded but not cranked.

"Crank it!" Oliver ordered, jumping into the gunner’s seat.

Kaelen threw his weapon down and grabbed the winch. He heaved, muscles bulging, veins popping in his neck. The heavy gears groaned. Click. Click. Click.

"Faster!" Oliver yelled, swinging the massive weapon around to aim at the Mountain Troll below.

"I’m... trying!" Kaelen grunted, sweat pouring down his face.

Below them, the Troll raised the battering ram for a third strike. The wall was already groaning. One more hit, and it would crumble.

"Almost... there!" Kaelen screamed.

CLICK.

The tension locked.

"Locked!" Kaelen shouted. "Fire it!"

Oliver looked down the sights. The Troll was roaring, its mouth wide open, exposing the soft flesh of its throat.

Got you.

Oliver pulled the release lever.

THWUNG.

The recoil shook the tower. The massive bolt screamed through the air, a blur of wood and iron.

It struck true.

The bolt slammed into the Troll’s open mouth, piercing through the back of its skull and pinning it to the battering ram it carried.

The monster went stiff. Then, slowly, like a falling mountain, it toppled backward.

The impact shook the earth.

A cheer went up from the soldiers on the wall. "They got it! The Captain got it!"

Oliver slumped against the ballista, chest heaving. He looked at Kaelen. The big man was leaning against the winch, panting, grinning like a madman.

"Hah! Did you see that?!" Kaelen laughed breathlessly. "Right down the gullet! My boy is gonna love that story!"

Oliver smiled. For the first time, he felt a genuine spark of hope. "Yeah. It was a hell of a shot."

"Cap," Kaelen said, reaching for his hammer. "We should check the—"

He didn’t finish the sentence.

A shadow fell over them.

Oliver looked up.

Hovering silently above the tower was not a wyvern.

It was a figure in floating black robes, holding a staff topped with a skull wreathed in green fire.

An Orc Shaman.

"Die, insects," the shaman hissed, its voice echoing in their minds.

It pointed the staff.

Oliver scrambled up. "Kaelen! Move!"

He lunged toward his friend.

But the spell was faster.

A sphere of concentrated, corrosive acid exploded right where Kaelen stood.

There was no scream. Just a wet, sizzling sound.

"NO!" Oliver yelled, shielding his face from the splash.

When he looked back, Kaelen was gone.

Where the burly, laughing father-to-be had stood, there was only a steaming pile of melted armor and liquefying flesh. The warhammer lay on the ground, the handle untouched.

And next to it... the silver locket, scorched black, lay open in a puddle of red slush.

Oliver stared.

His mind went blank. The cheers of the soldiers turned into a dull buzz. The roar of the battle faded.

All he could see was the locket.

My boy is gonna love that story.

The voice echoed in his head, mocking him.

If I don’t come back, she’ll resurrect me just to kill me again.

He looked at the pile of meat that used to be a man. A man who loved. A man who feared. A man who was alive ten seconds ago.

Real or simulation?

Data or soul?

In that moment, Oliver didn’t care.

A scream tore from his throat—raw, primal, filled with a rage that eclipsed even the fear of death.

He looked up at the shaman hovering above, his eyes burning.

"YOU BASTARD!"

The shaman cackled, raising its staff for a second shot.

Oliver didn’t think. He didn’t plan.

He grabbed the next ballista bolt—a spear of iron meant to be loaded by a winch—and hefted it in his hands like a javelin. It was heavy, impossibly heavy. His muscles tore. His veins bulged.

Die.

He threw it.

Not with the ballista. With his own arm. Fueled by sheer, unadulterated hatred, forcing his muscles past their breaking point.

The iron spear flew upward.

The shaman’s eyes widened. It tried to cast a shield—

SHUNK.

The bolt skewered the shaman, tearing through its magical barrier like paper, punching through its chest, and carrying it backward out of the sky.

The corpse fell from the air, crashing onto the battlements with a wet crunch.

Oliver stood panting, his arm hanging limp, muscles torn. He stared at the locket on the ground.

He walked over, his boots splashing in the remains of his friend. He picked up the locket. The picture inside was singed, but the woman’s face was still smiling.

He closed his fist around it.

"Reinforcements at dawn..." he whispered, his voice trembling.

He looked at the horizon. It was pitch black.

Dawn was hours away.

And the enemy horns were blowing again.