The core of Veylin's tactics was brutally simple-use the magical beast's strongest weapon against itself.
Your bite is strong, isn't it? Good. Help me drive that bolt a little deeper.
"Hold on, brothers!" a mercenary shouted at the top of his lungs. Behind him, a dozen militiamen hauled on the rope together.
At the other end was a Gray Swamp Crocodile driven utterly mad. The bolt's barbs were buried deep in its lower jaw, and every snap of its jaws, every wrenching movement, tore the wound wider.
Like a fish impaled on a harpoon, it rolled and thrashed uselessly in the mud, blood mingling with saliva as it streamed from the corners of its mouth.
Barrett's single eye gleamed. He felt as though he were back on the empire's frontier battlefields, his blood boiling.
"Beautiful work! Everyone, learn from that! That's how it's done!" He waved his arms, his roar drowning out the beasts. "Don't fucking save your bolts! Hang every one of those long-snouted bastards on the wall!"
Veylin's strategy completely turned the tide of what had been a defensive battle fought on the back foot.
The mercenaries and militiamen were reinvigorated, their movements becoming brisk and precise. They stopped trying to shoot the crocodiles in the flanks and instead waited patiently for an opening-the instant those monsters opened their mouths.
"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"
Volley after volley of rope-tethered bolts whistled through the air.
A scientific defensive strategy needed no blessing from the goddess of luck. Once the numbers passed a certain threshold, chance became certainty.
Before long, two more bolts successfully struck inside the giant crocodiles' mouths.
The hooked crocodiles became living targets. The harder they struggled, the tighter the ropes attached to the battlements stretched, and the more hideously their wounds tore.
One crocodile, frantic with pain, tried to claw the bolt out of its mouth, only to be struck by a companion's Death Roll. The two enormous creatures tangled together in a bloody, chaotic mess.
The pressure on the wall dropped sharply.
The remaining crocodiles finally sensed something was wrong. They slowed their gnawing at the wall, a trace of fear showing in their orange-yellow, slit-pupiled eyes.
The wall of vines before them was becoming almost as threatening as the creature that had driven them out of the swamp.
"Now!" Veylin called. "Second group, rotate in! Fire at will! Fill them with holes!"
At his command, long-suppressed fury became a rain of vengeful bolts.
"Thrum-"
The incessant vibration of crossbow strings merged into a symphony of death. With their charge broken, the Gray Swamp Crocodiles had become living targets pinned beneath the wall.
Thanks to the fortress's angular design, Armor-Piercing Crossbow Bolts struck them from every direction. Most still bounced off their thick hides and scales with sharp metallic clinks.
But a few always found their way into an eye socket, a joint, or a wound left by their earlier collisions with the wall.
"Roar!"
Howls of pain rose one after another.
The tide had turned. The defensive battle had become a one-sided slaughter.
At last, the instinct to survive overpowered hunger.
The lead crocodile gave a defiant roar. It took one last look at the impregnable wall and its companions hanging beside it, their struggles gradually ceasing, then turned first and dragged its battered body back into the murky floodwaters.
With their leader retreating, the "pack's" morale collapsed. The remaining crocodiles turned as though granted a reprieve.
Two crocodiles that still had strength to spare ripped themselves free of the bolts regardless of the damage and fled that place of death in panic.
In little more than ten seconds, the clamorous battlefield fell deathly silent again.
Only the first crocodile remained suspended from the wall by ropes, swaying feebly like a master angler's trophy.
At some point, the downpour had stopped.
As their adrenaline slowly faded, everyone atop the wall slumped to the ground, utterly drained, and gulped down great lungfuls of air.
The mingled smells of earth, sweat, and blood, once enough to make them cover their noses, now felt profoundly reassuring.
They stared blankly beyond the wall at the receding floodwaters and retreating crocodiles, then looked back at the entirely unscathed wall of vines. The dazed bewilderment of survival slowly became incredulous shock, then fervent adoration.
As one, their gazes settled on the young knight who had remained calm from beginning to end.
Every one of them burst into deafening cheers!
Night fell.
Flames licked the skinned hind leg of a giant crocodile. Fat dripped onto the glowing firewood with a sizzling hiss.
The Maillard reaction made the crocodile leg give off an irresistible aroma, dispelling the swamp's damp chill and the smell of blood.
A huge bonfire blazed in the clearing at the center of camp.
The settlers and villagers, two groups that had been hostile to each other not long before, now sat shoulder to shoulder around it. Laughing heartily, one settler shared the ale in his cup with a villager from Graymist Village beside him.
The villager, in return, skewered a piece of golden-brown crocodile meat on a wooden stick and handed it over.
One boisterous mercenary even broke into a rough war dance, drawing cheers from the crowd.
In a corner, Xiao Lan was changing the dressing for a villager who had scraped his arm while carrying crossbow bolts.
She was still timid, but her hands were wonderfully deft as she dressed the wound. Firelight danced across her long flaxen hair, bathing her in a soft halo.
The injured villager had long since forgotten his pain. He gazed dreamily at the lovely, radiant angel before him, his thoughts racing.
I wonder if there'll be any more crossbow bolts to carry tomorrow.
Once she finished the dressing, she hurried back to the wall to bring food to the soldiers keeping watch.
Veylin did not join the revelry. Holding the ale the villagers had offered him, he stood quietly in the shadows and watched the joyful scene.
He felt little joy himself. What he felt most was the satisfaction of seeing a theory perfectly validated.
Just then, a tottering figure made his way through the celebrating crowd and approached him.
It was Old Walker.
Emotion surged in the old man's clouded eyes. His lips moved, but in the end, all his words became a single gesture.
He raised his wooden staff in both hands, his knees giving way as he began to kneel.
But Veylin reached out and stopped him.
Old Walker looked up in surprise and met those almost cold eyes.
"Old Walker," Veylin said, his voice carrying over the crackling fire, "put away that useless display. Your repentance has no value to me or anyone else."
The cold words instantly silenced the people nearby. Everyone turned to look.
"You clung to that worthless poisoned well and that ridiculous 'Swamp Spirit,' and nearly took everyone to their deaths with you. That is a fact." Veylin's words stabbed into the old man's heart like knives.
"But," he continued, changing tack, "at the most critical moment, you didn't lead the others in crying and fleeing. You shouted those cowards down and held the defensive line together. That is also a fact."
He released his grip and swept his gaze across the villagers' faces.
"I don't need your tears or your kneeling. I need ears that listen, hands that work, and the courage to hold your weapons tight when the next crisis comes, instead of throwing them away and running. Can you do that, Walker?"
Old Walker understood. This lord did not want cheap loyalty. He wanted obedience and value.
He abruptly straightened his stooped back and shouted with all his strength, "I can, my lord!"
Old Walker's answer voiced what all of them felt.
The villagers of Graymist Village rose one by one, then silently knelt in turn.
Then came the second, the third... Soon, every local was prostrate on the ground, bowing to the savior who had dragged them back from death time and again.
The settlers exchanged glances, then stood straight in unison. With their right hands over their left breasts, they bowed deeply to Veylin-the sincerest respect followers could offer their leader.
Clang! With a single, synchronized thud, Barrett and his unruly mercenaries expressed their respect in their own way. They knelt on one knee, clenched their right fists, and struck their breastplates hard.
Three different gestures from three different groups, all directed toward the same man.
Veylin motioned for everyone to rise and raised his cup.
"To a new beginning!"
After a brief silence, a thunderous response erupted.
"To a new beginning! To our lord!"