Chapitre 88: Chapter Eighty-Eight - Survivors
Grey washed across the land. Sighs and gasps sounded from everyone around as they watched the world disappear about them.
There were exactly fifty-seven of them left alive.
Those closest to the Loot Stash, a Disk I made that held the valuables salvaged from the fighting, surrounded it quickly, before the waves of unmaking could hit it. They literally fell in around it, claiming their spoils and making sure they weren't lost in the Renewal.
A new day blew past like a cold wind, and then cleared away.
Lieutenant Markov and the others who survived slowly removed their helms and looked around.
Their wounds were gone, cleansed away by the turning of the day. They were ready and fit to fight, despite just having gone through a great and bloody all-day battle. The sudden transition from bloody combat to total serenity was jarring, to say the least.
"Line up to greet your brothers," I said aloud, and they fell in together. Lieutenant Markov stood next to the Disk full of loot, the others in a line behind them. The clinking of armor and the sound of marching men spread through the fading mist, and then our company came out of the fog in random clusters, blinking and looking at us all there assembled.
There were over two thousand of them now, the clearing was now basically a mustering field. I had advanced my Warlord Mastery to /5, ranking me at 15. My personal command could thus reach fifteen squared, times ten, soldiers of my own command who could benefit from my Warlord bonus.
Twenty-two hundred and fifty soldiers, in total. With attendant logistical support, in a real, not Dream, world.
Twenty-twoish hundred men lined up before fifty-seven, who all stood straight and proud at attention before them.
-They made it to the end.-
The whole group of soldiers moaned almost as one. They hadn't died! They Had Not Died! They were all shaking, trembling at the feat.
It wasn't just me standing there to greet them as they came out of the mists, came out of death, back to fight again.
It was their own!
They could beat this! They could win!
Private Gorski, who was the impetuous type, let out a bull roar and charged forward, grabbing up the Lieutenant, dancing around with him. In no time, the whole host of men had poured forward, and the first fifty-seven survivors were being hoisted on shoulders, and a general party would have started immediately if there was any booze to be found.
Tremble and I led them in a Salute to the Silver Queen, for my Renewal was at midnight, even if the light around us was kind of hazy pre-Dawn. We immediately followed with a Salute to the Morning, since the Curse would not give us time to have a proper one when the 'day' actually started.
But they were here. They were ALL here, now, all Marked… and the day had not yet begun.
-I, and the survivors, need two hours of rest,- I /said calmly, as I went over to the stack of loot. My army gathered around, watching with fervent eyes.
I had told them, and they knew. They knew that people surviving would change everything, because survivors could keep the loot.
The loot would accelerate the gaining of magical equipment, because they, the army, could then use it to Invest their gear, instead of just one person, me, doing it all.
I had hard limits I couldn't pass. To do this right required people.
Needed Survivors.
The Disk piled high with magical weapons, armor, gold jewelry and adornments, glittering power comps, even coins and jewels that could be stripped, was a ramshackle mess of stuff, but the fact was, the stuff was there.
It was the first time they'd been able to look upon the plunder of their foes after they died. The plunder they had earned, through so many deaths, so much fighting, watching their friends and eventually themselves dying over and over again.
It was all there. Feet shuffled and eyes stared intensely at the haul.
I went over to Forge. Piled on top of it were thin layers of metal, dropped and cast, polished and detail, virtually identical to one another. Made from armor and weapons plundered from the enemies we killed, melted down, and cast into Investing Patterns.
There were twenty of them. Enough to invest forty goldweight worth of swag a day, more if we let men do that while we were fighting. Twenty suits of armor that I had reworked to ensure they were Master's Craft and could hold at least a basic +I Enhancement.
-Three of you on every Pattern. You will swap each person out every two hours, faster if someone falters.- I picked out my trios mentally, they flowed together in a line and lifted away the Patterns reverently, one by one.
We could spare the equivalent of eight hours, and then the day had to start, the fighting begin again.
Only twenty suits of armor. It would have to be enough for now.
The Powered lined up next. They didn't need an Investment Pattern, they need Infusing Patterns, which were smaller, easier to make. There were only thirty of them, and I had made Patterns for each of them. They were the most powerful of my people, and the soldiers knew it, and didn't begrudge them.
Twenty-four of the fifty-seven survivors were Powered. They had to rest, to meditate for two hours at the very least, then work on their own Gear. They wouldn't have time to do a full eight hours work, but unlike the Primos soldiers, they would be working on stuff for themselves.
I allocated out the stuff, goldweight on goldweight, items that would be reduced to raw energy and refined into essence that could be directly imbued into the waiting gear. Valuewise, it was a considerable sum, because killing hundreds or thousands of folk tends to garner a lot of loot. Powerful stuff would have to be reduced and split up, and I allocated them to the Powered who would be using them over multiple days.
We split up, and we rested. The soldiers, who might otherwise be bored, split up and sat down, waiting.
I composed myself just above the ground, arranging my thoughts, and as I slid into Seven Dragons meditation, I opened the outward gates to all the people who weren't working on Patterns.
The grassy clearing fell silent as 10 Ranks of Meditation rippled across the army. Thoughts calmed, bodies fell still, and even the most recalcitrant and distracted psyches relaxed.
For a precious couple of hours, there would be peace. Those who had survived could digest their accomplishment in their subconscious, bring it forward, and use it to strengthen themselves.
Levels would rise, Masteries tick over, guided unconsciously by my desires and expectations. They were, after all, still wholly within my control, they existed because I was here and the Curse had to follow the rules, for good or ill to it.
Today, I would make more Patterns. Today, I would make another Disk to hold those Patterns. I would also make the first half of a wagon to hold more loot and Power Comps, to sit on those Disks. The many crystalline hearts of the Mechans made fine power comps, but I had 2,250 soldiers to equip!
The amount of wealth required was obscene. They couldn't Name their Gear, they were just Dream soldiers. Likewise, I couldn't teach them Soul Magic, because they didn't have Souls, nor even ki, properly. Feats, Masteries, Levels.
It would have to be enough. Even the Powered were restricted to magical effects the Curse could infer and replicate. No Chi-wielders, which would have been awesome, instant Champion for the army in the making.
I had long made Healing Traps, so everyone got a healing spell at least once during the day for nothing. Likewise, the Bard that was attached to the troop, instead of playing up near the front lines where a normal one did, was playing at the back where the wounded were with a Healing Harp. Listening to it for an hour was another 'free' Healing spell of some potency, enough to send them back to fight.
The six Clerics had long cast enough Healing magic to qualify for Healing Reserve, and Amana had allowed them to learn it. Pure Health damage was mended quickly and tirelessly under their hands, and so the wounded came out, and went back in.
They had died many times and come back, and they were aware of it. It sufficed to train both Soak and Health, long maxed out by everyone, so I had the toughest bunch of dream soldiers imaginable. When they hit Four, they could take Human/2, and their Health would double. Their staying power would rise accordingly, endlessly replenished by the divine Casters. The Traps were for emergencies or rapidly getting some Soak back.
I had put Tats on them during the fighting, and double Tats on the Primos during down time. It had taken weeks, sure, as I scrounged the time. But time was what I was working with here, all that I had.
==========
-Two minutes!-
Time.
Men walked, ran, were carried or dragged over to the Healers. Bloody wounds would slowly vanish, and they would run back to their positions, knowing the enemy was coming.
Looters dove into the piles of the dead orcs, as the Casters urgently pointed out magical doodads, weapons, armor, and the like here and there. Trophies of gold, silver, ivory, and rough gemwork were torn off the dead, and stacked on the Disks.
The bodies of our dead, still low after our fifth battle, were carried away and arranged around the Disks. Why? Some of them had magic armor now, and that armor had to endure at Renewal.
My Hammer pounded as I worked. Soldiers gave me their weapons, and I reforged them, rebalanced them, handed them out as something new and ready to be made even better. Even non-magical masterwork armor given out to everyone helped with stamina and endurance. I was re-equipping everyone with better stuff at monstrous speed, which they were turning into magical stuff by themselves.
-Thirty seconds!-
Last hauls were made, lines reformed, those freshly healed returning to the back of the formations, some of those seriously low on Soak in the healing circle, listening to the Harp, weapons at the ready if they were needed… and working on the Patterns, switching off as new wounded came in, doing double duty even as they recovered from injury as Investors and potential Reserves. Orcish lines in the distance were coming clearer, different formations and lines as the terrain shifted ahead of us and changed the way we needed to advance and posture up.
It was frantic yet disciplined. Things had to get done. Shirk your job and I noticed, which meant everyone noticed.
Nobody shirked.
+1's and time. Tremble began to Sing, song swelling in every ear, and they took up Stand's beat with pride.
"TREMBLE, WE COME!"
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone