BOOK 2

  CHAPTER 3

  Blitz

  Nearly eighty enemy soldiers approached.

  By the latest count, they were evenly split between infantry and archers. Behind them, the same twenty cavalry from before were in reserve.

  The only real unknown was two casters standing in the back ranks. But Bash wasn't worried. He had killed a goblin shaman before. Hell, he even puppeted it to lay waste to a hundred of its companions. He was damn sure they could take out a pair of scrawny spell slingers.

  Patrick and Jack had both wanted Bash to stay back. Too valuable, they said. Too important to risk, they said.

  Bash had argued, and even threw a tantrum, but in the end, he reluctantly agreed. Even with Rewind on cooldown, it wouldn’t matter. In an open field like this, with Prediction, Reflex Surge, and his insane Dexterity, he was untouchable.

  But fine. He'd stay back. Be a good leader. Let the others handle it.

  Around him, the Beastmasters readied their weapons, and the wolves prowled back and forth, letting out low growls.

  Bash watched his people prepare. Some of them moved with calm efficiency. While others seemed nervous, unable to hide their fear.

  He wondered what they'd been like before. Back in the real world, before they got uploaded to this hellhole. The heavier-set guy near the gate was probably an accountant. The one with a patchy beard reminded Bash of his manager when he was an intern. On second thought, that dude was an asshole, while this guy seemed nice enough.

  An enemy drum began its beat, snapping his attention back to the field. The enemy sped up, beginning their charge. It was time to get serious.

  The roar grew louder, and louder, as the distance closed. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty. Patrick's hand dropped, and several levers were pulled. Pit traps opened up all across the battlefield. They caught more than they hoped. Four horses and their riders fell into the pit, screaming. Fourteen infantry followed, disappearing into the earth mid-stride.

  The other soldiers recovered fast, even speeding up. Advantage of being scripts, Bash supposed. The opposing archers formed and loosed their first volley, sending up arrows that dotted the sky like a swarm of locusts.

  “Down!” someone down the line screamed.

  Everyone hunkered behind whatever protection they could find. Stone outcroppings. Ditches. Makeshift wooden shields that wouldn't stop much but were better than nothing. Prediction lit up Bash's vision with trajectory lines, dozens of them arcing down toward his people.

  He spotted a younger Beastmaster frozen in place, eyes wide, staring at the incoming death. Bash sprinted forward to shove the kid sideways. The arrow that would have split his skull punched into the dirt instead.

  The main volley hit a second later. A man too far for Bash to help took a shaft through the shoulder and went down in a fountain of blood, gasping and clutching at the wound. Another caught one in the thigh and crumpled with a scream. A third took a glancing hit across his scalp, blood sheeting down his face.

  As the last of the arrows smacked into the earth, nurses and triage teams rushed forward, keeping low. Beastmasters too injured to fight but healthy enough to carry started dragging the wounded from the field, leaving smears of red in the dirt.

  The second volley came before everyone had fully recovered. More screams. A woman took an arrow through the hand, pinning it to the man she'd been helping.

  To make matters worse, one of the mages had launched a fireball this round. Bash watched as it arched well over the walls, overshooting their position. It smacked down in an open area further back, mostly harmless, except for two tents that caught on fire.

  “Bash.” Shai's voice cut through the chaos. “This is worse than I projected. Their ranged superiority is going to decimate our forces.”

  He knew that. He could see it. But Patrick had told him to stay put.

  The third volley was even worse. The archers had found their rhythm now, loosing in staggered waves that kept everyone pinned. A Beastmaster tried to peek over the barricade and caught an arrow through the eye. He dropped without a sound, the first to go completely silent.

  “Bash. We need to do something.” Shai insisted, her usual calm voice actually sounded panicked.

  Bash listened, conflicted. But if Shai was this worried, things were much worse than they looked.

  The infantry finally arrived. They threw themselves against the barricades, nearly toppling the makeshift walls on their first go. Beastmasters pushed back, matching the enemy. Both sides shoved against the wooden barriers, trying to poke each other through gaps. Spears thrust. Swords slashed. Blood sprayed.

  And still the arrows kept coming. They had adjusted their aim, lobbing volleys over the infantry to rain down on the defenders from above. Another Beastmaster went down. Then another. Most got back up and continued pushing, but he saw at least one more that wasn’t moving.

  Screw this.

  Prediction painted a path, mostly clear, straight to the archers. Bash popped up from his position and began to sprint. He launched himself up and over the wall, continuing his mad dash. The field blurred beneath his feet, wind rushing past his ears.

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  A pair of horsemen, seeing him, broke off from their position on the right flank and angled to cut him off.

  Bash didn't slow down. He angled directly at the riders and jumped. For a moment, everything went quiet as he sailed through the air, fist charging with red energy. He hit the first rider square in the chest. The psionic charge punched through armor, through ribs, through spine.

  The man came apart at the torso, top half spinning one direction, bottom half staying with the horse as it ran past.

  Momentum carried Bash into the second rider before the first had even registered they were dead. This one attempted to bring up their shield. It didn't matter. He caught the rider in the neck with a knife-hand strike. Their head was sent flipping up into the air, throwing an arc of blood in a perfect spiral.

  Bash landed on the other side without breaking stride. Jumping was actually faster, he thought. So, he jumped again. From his vantage, Bash looked down and could see some of the archers watching him, panicked as they realized what was coming.

  Halfway through the leap, right as he bore down on the enemy, a wall of air materialized out of nowhere and smashed into him. Bash ricocheted sideways, tumbling in a direction he definitely hadn't intended. Hitting the ground, Bash rolled and sprang back to his feet.

  What the hell was that?! One of the casters. Had to be. Okay. So jumping made him an easy target. Bad tactic. Circling around, Bash looked for another angle.

  Nearly a dozen bowmen had turned and aimed, strings drawn. Prediction painted the trajectories across his vision, a web of death with precious few gaps.

  Bash moved. Weaving left, ducking right, slowing down to let one pass his face, speeding up to outrun another. An arrow glanced off his chest armor with a spark. Another came in low, and he let it graze his thigh because the alternative was taking one to the knee, and he knew how that ended. No more adventuring for him.

  The volley tapered off as the archers scrambled to nock again. In that brief window, four more riders were charging him, thundering across the field with lances lowered.

  Overlays screamed warnings, offering only shitty options.

  Option one: Jump through the air again. Get hit by another wall of air. Get trampled. Die. Okay, not that one.

  Option two: Cut one of the horses down. Riders fall and get hurt.

  But he didn't want to hurt the animals. Even scripted animals. God, what a weird priority. He'd kill all the humans without a second thought, but not the damn horses.

  While he was distracted by his own moral inconsistency, he ran face-first into another wall of air. Bash bounced off with a grunt, seeing stars. “God dammit!” The shimmer of the barrier hung in front of him, barely visible.

  The riders hit him before he could recover. A lance caught him across the ribs, not a direct hit but enough to send him spinning. Then hooves. Lots of hooves. He curled up instinctively as the horses thundered over him, iron shoes slamming into his arms, his back, his head.

  When they passed, Bash lay in the dirt, vision swimming, momentarily dazed. Four archers had broken from the main group and now stood in a semicircle around him, bows drawn, arrows aimed at his face.

  Okay. Maybe Patrick was right... No. Screw that.

  Bash activated Reflex Surge. The world slowed. He could see their fingers beginning to release, the arrows starting to crawl toward his arm, chest, and face. He whipped his legs up in a spinning kick, using the momentum to flip himself vertically. His feet connected with two of the bows, knocking them aside, sending the arrows wild. He landed in a crouch, one arrow sprouting from his shoulder.

  “Ouch, that HURT!” Bash lunged for the one who landed the hit and took out his throat, a fountain of blood, painting his hand and arm. The other three fumbled to nock more arrows, but they broke the first rule of ranged fighters, ‘don’t get within melee.’

  The other three died in two seconds, to a spiral of flashy corkscrew and tornado kicks.

  “STOP SHOWING OFF!” Shai shouted in his head, more annoyed than concerned.

  Bash grinned and spat blood. “Never.” He glanced back. The cavalry had wheeled around and were charging again, horses frothing. Ahead, the main cluster of archers still had their backs to him, focused on the barricades.

  “Too late, assholes,” Bash whispered, and blurred forward.

  He was among the main group of archers now. Most had been so focused on shooting over the barricades that they didn't see him coming.

  One who had turned to face Bash caught a psionic strike through the face. Their skull caved inward. Another never got the chance. Bash's hand went through their back, piercing the man's spine and exploding his heart and lungs into a spray of red chunks.

  The next minute was a massacre. The backline was packed too tightly in formation for anyone to run. Bash moved through them without stopping. A throat opened here. An arm separated there. One man tried to block with his bow and lost both hands for the trouble, standing there in shock as his stubs painted the battlefield red.

  By the time Bash stopped moving, he was soaked. Blood. Bile. Things he preferred not to think about. Thirty bodies lay around him, most of them in several more pieces than they'd started.

  He glanced back toward the village barricades. Without the arrows pinning them down, the Beastmasters had surged forward. The wolves were among the infantry now, dragging men down, tearing at throats and hamstrings. Outnumbered, the enemy line had buckled, and several attempted to flee.

  See? He was right. Patrick was wrong.

  Something sharp punched into his side. Bash staggered, looking down at the shaft sticking out of him. “Oh, come on, not again!” He snapped the arrow in half, leaving the head in for now. Three more riders were charging him, coming fast.

  They never made it. Three massive shapes exploded from the tall grass, wolves launching themselves at the horsemen. A rider went down screaming as a wolf caught him by the arm and ripped him from his saddle. A second tried to wheel his horse around and took a set of jaws to the throat for his trouble. The last managed to barely escape, with a wolf nipping at his heels. Bash watched, impressed.

  Moving, Bash faced the only threat left on the battlefield. Two of the remaining bowmen and a man in robes stood in a tight group, encircled by wolves. The mage held them at bay with shimmering barriers of air while the archers loosed arrows at the prowling pack. The wolves dodged most of them, leaping aside with animal grace, but one caught a shaft in the shoulder and let out a sharp whine.

  Bash rushed forward and pushed his hand against one of the magical walls. It wavered slightly but held. Backing up a step, he charged his fist and slammed it forward with a Psionic Strike. The wall of air shattered like glass. “Ohhhh.” A grin spread across his face. “You’re screwed now.”

  Bash shattered another. Then another. The mage's concentration was soon split between Bash and the wolves, and the last few barriers flickered.

  The wolves didn't wait. They launched forward, breaking through, and took down the softer targets in a tangle of teeth and screams.

  That left the mage. The man's eyes went wide, and he raised both hands to beg or cast. It didn’t matter. Bash's hand slashed across their throat, deeper than intended. The head didn't fall so much as slide off, tumbling backward while the body stood there for a moment, confused, blood fountaining from the stump.

  Bash stood watching the head roll away. Satisfied. Smug.

  Out of the corner of his eyes he saw movement.

  A fireball hit him square in the face. “FUCK!”

  Magical fire was melting his skin. He could smell himself cooking. Could feel his flesh bubbling and splitting. His hair was gone. One of his eyes might have even popped. Hard to tell when everything was pain.

  He sprinted back toward the barricades, vaulted over the wall, and kept going. Still on fire. He stopped, dropped, and rolled. It didn't work. Of course, it didn't work. This was magical fire.

  Someone tackled him and started shoveling sand onto his body. Then more sand. Then enough sand that he couldn't breathe.