The next day, Albion's army stirred to life one by one. Soldiers donned their armor, shouldered weapons, and broke their fast with dry rations and water. The three divisions began their advance on La Rochelle. Under their respective commanders, they marched toward the mountain, maintaining tight formation. Upon reaching the base, they started the ascent along the winding, narrow paths.
La Rochelle was a port city, reliant on floating ships for supplies, so its cramped, rugged roads posed no hindrance to prosperity. Those same narrow paths now served as natural fortifications. Traps like falling boulders and strongpoints dotted key passes, turning the city into an armored hedgehog. Attackers from any direction would face fierce resistance.
From the summit, Angel observed their approach and divided his seven thousand defenders into three groups: two thousand, two thousand five hundred, and three thousand five hundred — to counter the enemy forces of five thousand, five thousand five hundred, and eight thousand. Angel himself took command of the two thousand facing five thousand, leaving the other two wings to his generals.
Ten minutes into the climb, Toristine's defenders yanked the supports from beneath massive boulders. Rocks five or six meters across tumbled from both sides of the path, rumbling downward with unstoppable force.
The ground shook. Albion's troops went on high alert. At their officers' barked orders, every soldier halted and pressed against the road wall — like ants clinging to a honey-drizzled crust.
BOOM!
The rolling boulders outmatched second-tier magic in raw destruction, rivaling third-tier spells like [Pyroburst], [Depth Charge], or [Wind Eye] — but without a mage's finesse, they simply barreled ahead, blunt and merciless.
Albion's soldiers watched in terror.
Each boulder was slightly narrower than the path, leaving a gap for one or two men. Sometimes they wedged tight and halted; more often, they careened on. Probability ruled: amid the jolts and bounces, unlucky souls were crushed outright, while others dodged by sheer luck.
Dozens of boulders rained down in succession. Screams pierced the air as men were pulverized — most dead instantly, survivors gasping with crushed torsos, more breath out than in.
"Aaahhh!" BOOM!
Cries mingled with thunderous rolls. Albion endured the onslaught, bloodied but unbroken.
They cleared corpses, reformed ranks. All three divisions had lost hundreds — even thousands — to the rocks. Grief and rage burned in their eyes, fueling a thirst to unleash on the foe.
Pressing on, they soon met the next obstacle: strongpoints.
Dozens, then hundreds of Toristine troops hunkered in sealed bunkers, firing through narrow slits. Explosive-tipped arrows whistled out.
Arrows struck the massed ranks and detonated, claiming a handful — sometimes a dozen — lives per blast.
This time, Albion had a counter. Shield-bearers advanced in layers, hoisting defenses overhead. Arrows clattered harmlessly against wood, falling at their feet.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A secondary line of shieldmen absorbed the blasts below. Concussions staggered them but inflicted few casualties. They pressed forward; fallen comrades were replaced. Albion advanced methodically.
The fort's archers adapted, lobbing arrows high. Power and aim suffered, but enough rained down on the unprotected ranks behind.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! Flesh shredded; lives snuffed out amid the blasts.
After absorbing these losses, Albion reached the strongpoint's base. Shields parted, and sappers dashed forward, explosive packs clutched to chests. They buried charges at the gate.
The archers inside knew their end neared. Desperate to take more enemies with them, they abandoned bows and hurled stockpiled explosives through the slits.
BOOM-RUMBLE!
The earth quaked. The shield wall shattered, killing dozens. Sappers disintegrated. The fort collapsed in rubble, entombing its defenders.
Silently, Albion crossed the wreckage. More strongpoints followed; each cost blood, but they pushed on.
Toristine fell back methodically. Boulders and five or six forts fell to the relentless advance.
The final stretch — the sole wide path, accommodating dozens abreast — awaited. There stood Angel and his two generals, shields and swords to the fore, archers behind.
As Albion crested into view, arrows darkened the sky.
WHOOSH! A volley fell like lethal hail.
"Enemy sighted! Shields up — defend!"
Conquering forts had concentrated Albion's shields forward. Now the mid- and rear ranks exposed, soldiers screamed and toppled.
"Charge! Kill!!"
"KILL! ADVANCE!!"
Roars erupted from Albion's vanguard. Shields scattered; swordsmen and spearmen surged, crashing into Toristine's lines.
"KILL!!"
Melee engulfed them. Blade met blade, spear pierced flesh. Blood misted the air; war cries shook the heavens.
The narrow front allowed only twenty or thirty to engage at once. As front-ranks fell, reserves filled in, holding the line.
Toristine's rear archers loosed ceaseless volleys.
Behind Albion, surviving shieldmen dispersed, raising defenses to shelter comrades. Ordinary arrows lost bite.
"Explosive arrows — loose!" came the order.
Charged shafts arced toward Albion's rear.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Each blast reaped several — a dozen — lives. Scattered shields proved futile. Fewer fell to shafts than shockwaves.
Casualties mounting, Albion carved a breach. Dozens of sappers, explosives strapped on, charged howling.
"For Albion!!" "Victory!!" "GLORY!!"
Madmen slammed into Toristine's stalled ranks.
BOOM-BOOM!!
The blast devoured hundreds on both sides.
Flesh rained down. A gap yawned in the deadlock.
"To me!!" Albion's commander bellowed.
"Rush them — kill!"
Red-eyed Albion hacked forward viciously.
"Front holds! Fear nothing — charge!!"
Toristine's swords and spears met them downhill, murder in every stroke.
Shields gone, steel kissed flesh. The armies flowed like grinding rivers, devouring lives at the clash.
Outnumbered, Toristine crumbled once breached. Angel ordered his vanguard to countercharge as cover, withdrawing archers and rearguard.
All three Toristine fronts — one or two thousand each — were slaughtered. Blood soaked the field crimson.
Albion's blood-mad ranks pressed after — only to meet Longmen Stones at the path's end.
BOOM!!
Twenty meters long, six or seven high, four or five thick — these behemoths, propped on the road, crashed down when underpinnings gave way. They sealed off pursuers.
Beyond lay La Rochelle proper: tiered homes and squares carved into the cliff. Of Toristine's routed force, only about two thousand — archers and sappers — remained across the three fronts.
Albion's divisions, halted by three such barriers, vented fury on unyielding stone. Rage cooled to grim purpose. Commanders rallied remnants, tallied dead.
Two thousand, two thousand five hundred, three thousand five hundred remained — assault troops annihilated, most shields spent. Close-combat men predominated.
The day's grind spanned from ten in the morning till four in the afternoon. Exhausted foes glared across stone, impotent.
Toristine left spotters on enemy movements; the rest clustered to rest, eat, drink by campfires — venting steam, mending wounds.
Albion posted rotating sentries; survivors slumped against walls, rummaging bloodied packs for rations and water — stained with friend, foe, self.
Thus ended La Rochelle's second day. Five or six thousand souls from both nations lay swallowed by three cramped paths — blood tracing rivulets from summit to base.