Angel Fall's-Chapter 15 The siege of Cordoba part 3

A fierce battle raged across the walls of Cordoba. From the 18 siege towers, ramps dropped open, spilling Granadan peasants onto the battlements. Some were struck down instantly by arrows and musket fire as the ramps descended, their bodies dropping like sacks of grain. Others found themselves in brutal duels, where peasants clashed with peasants in a fight that could go either way.

For the defending peasants, the situation was dire, but not hopeless. The defenders had the advantage of their fortifications—defensive towers providing crucial support as the siege intensified.

Amid the chaos, one Granadan peasant found himself in a vicious duel with another. He kicked his opponent's knee sideways with brutal force. The sickening crack of bone echoed, and the man's knee buckled at an unnatural angle. The defender screamed in agony as he collapsed to the ground.

Seeing his moment, the Granadan lunged with his sword, but an arrow zipped past his shield, striking him in the knee. He stumbled, yelling in pain. "Aaaaah, fuck me! Just like my father! I, too, have an arrow in the knee!"

The defender, gritting his teeth through the pain, pushed forward, seizing the opportunity. He thrust his sword into the Granadan's exposed stomach.

The Granadan reacted instinctively, grabbing the blade with his left hand, but it cut through his fingers and buried itself in his forearm. Screaming in agony, he slashed his own sword at the defender's arm, severing it. The man's arm fell limp, and the Granadan's fingers followed suit, blood splattering the cobblestones. Both men screamed, writhing in agony as new combatants surged into their place, the battle continuing unabated.

The first wave of Granadan peasants had been butchered, their attempts to scale the walls quickly snuffed out by the defending warriors, their armor proving an insurmountable barrier.

On the wall, Tao and the Jesuit locked in a furious combat, their swords clashing with brutal force. Shield blocked sword. Sword hit shield. After several exchanges, Tao sent a vicious kick to the Jesuit's shield, knocking the man off-balance. The gap in his defense opened up, his chest vulnerable. Tao thrust his blade forward, aiming for the exposed spot in the Jesuit's leather armor.

But the Jesuit dropped his sword, reaching out with surprising speed to grab the incoming blade. With a grunt of effort, he stopped the thrust just as Tao felt his blade begin to bite into his skin.

Tao's eyes widened in shock. Shit, he has plate gauntlets. Before Tao could react, the Jesuit slammed his shield down with tremendous force, striking Tao's sword hand. Tao cried out in pain as the sword slipped from his grasp, and he staggered back, clutching his injured arm.

Quickly, the Jesuit seized Tao's weapon, driving it deep into his left shoulder. Tao gasped as the sword dug into the soft flesh, the pain nearly overwhelming him.

"Now! Push together!" a voice shouted from somewhere to Tao's left.

Suddenly, an invisible force surged through the air. A powerful gust of wind blasted across the battlefield, and every Granadan peasant within range was hurled two meters into the air. Tao, sword still embedded in his shoulder, felt himself being lifted off the ground. The Jesuit, frozen in shock, watched as Tao flew over the wall, his body crashing down out of sight.

As Tao fell, his voice was barely a whisper, but his words echoed through the chaos. "I'm sorry, Xixi..."

And then he was gone, his body disappearing over the wall with the rest of the Granadan men, their screams of horror fading behind the battlements.

Jesus and the three force-wielding warriors, standing at the front lines, struggled to catch their breath. The exertion had left them winded.

Warrior Karl, panting heavily, said, "Let's not do that again. I feel like I'm gonna faint."

Jesus nodded, his face tired but resolute. "Indeed. Let's save our strength for the more formidable opponents."

Ledo, wiping sweat from his brow, added with a grin, "Agreed. That felt like I just set a new bench press record."

Around them, the defenders watched in awe, their eyes wide with wonder. Whispers spread like wildfire. "Are they the chosen of God Sighard?" one man murmured. Another nodded eagerly, his voice rising in fervor. "This is a sign! God is with us!"

The words spread, quickly gaining momentum. The men around them shouted in unison, their voices growing louder with each passing moment. "God is with us! God is with us! God is with us!"

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The battle, it seemed, had shifted. The defenders' spirits were lifted, their resolve strengthened by the faith that God himself was watching over them.

The battle raged on as a new wave of Granadan peasants climbed the siege towers and charged the walls. From their throats, a battle cry rang out, full of hatred: "Die, Conservatives! Die!" Their voices echoed across the battlements, but they were met with a deadly volley of musket balls and arrows, cutting through their ranks. Undeterred, the attackers pressed forward, eager to meet their fate.

The Jesuit warrior, now standing alone, picked up his sword with grim resolve. He faced a new peasant, one who lacked the speed and skill of his previous opponent. As the two swords collided, the Jesuit's expert wristwork twisted the peasant's blade aside. In a fluid motion, he sliced through the man's fingers, sending them flying to the ground. The peasant's grip loosened, and the Jesuit took the opportunity, pushing past the blade and bringing his sword down with a heavy slash. Blood poured from the wound as the peasant collapsed to the ground, shocked and bleeding to death.

Elsewhere on the walls, Jesus stood side by side with his comrades, a formidable wall of shields and armor. Together, they formed an unbreakable line that the peasants could not pierce. They thrust their swords forward with precision, cutting down any who dared approach.

The air was thick with screams and curses. "Fuck! Shit! Aah, my dick! You stabbed my dick! Mamaaa!" The air was saturated with the sounds of pain and panic. Blood splattered across the white armor of the defenders, the once-pristine metal now stained crimson. Some attackers were so overwhelmed by fear that they urinated themselves, and one unfortunate soul, paralyzed by terror, soiled his pants, adding a putrid stench to the already rancid air.

The battle continued relentlessly, with more Granadan peasants charging forward, heedless of the carnage. At the base of the siege tower, the Jesuits and their allies formed a tight defensive ring, blocking and stabbing with brutal efficiency. The spearmen stood behind them, thrusting their weapons into the fray from the rear, while missiles rained down from above, striking down any who dared climb.

A Jesuit warrior crouched low as an enemy mace swung down toward him in a vicious overhead strike. He lifted his shield to intercept the blow. With a brutal clash, the mace collided with the shield, but the Jesuit was quick, using the moment to slice sideways at the man's exposed stomach. The blow cut through his flesh with ease, spilling his undigested meal across the ground. A foul stench wafted up, and the Jesuit's stomach lurched. He fought to keep his composure, but it was no use. The smell was too much. He gagged, choking back the bile in his throat, but it was inevitable. With a muffled retch, he vomited inside his helmet, the sickening stream flowing out through the visor. Some of the others around him followed suit, while others struggled to hold their own.

Just then, a new wave of enemies surged forward—twisted, deformed creatures, half-human, half-rat. These grotesque abominations were the children of the unholy union between man and rat, born from the dark and depraved depths of the Underhive. Their limbs were distorted, their faces a horrific fusion of human and rodent features, their eyes wide and gleaming with madness. Unarmed but driven by an insatiable hunger for blood, they charged, their savage instincts pushing them into a frenzy.

One of these monstrosities pounced on the Jesuit who had just vomited, sinking its sharp, rat-like teeth deep into the man's lower neck. The creature's bite was like a vice, a terrible gnashing of teeth, tearing into flesh with horrifying force. The Jesuit gasped, unable to react in time as the creature's rancid breath filled his nostrils. Blood poured from the wound, staining his armor and the wall beneath him as the rat-child clung to him like a parasite, its claws raking at his skin.

The air around them seemed to grow colder, the noise of the battle drowned out by the sickening sound of the Jesuit's life force draining away.

As the Jesuit screamed in agony, his struggles grew frantic, but before the rat-faced creature could sink its teeth any deeper, a spear thrust through its back, piercing its twisted form. The rat-man's grip faltered, but it didn't relent. With a final, desperate roar, it clung to the Jesuit, its teeth now gnashing violently against his collarbone. In a burst of fury, the spearman stepped forward and stomped down hard on the rat-man's head. The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the air as the creature's skull shattered beneath the weight.

The rat-man's jagged teeth dug into the Jesuit's collarbone with brutal force, snapping several of his own teeth in the process. He reeled back, clutching his broken jaw, his mouth a mangled mess of bloodied teeth, howling in pain. His grip on the Jesuit loosened, but the Jesuit's breathing was still ragged from the shock.

The spearman, seeing the creature's broken body collapse, smirked and taunted, "Yeah! Get stomped on, bitch!" His cruel mockery was short-lived, though. His eyes suddenly widened with fear as he noticed another rat-faced warrior, armed with a spear, charging at them from behind.

The Jesuit, enraged by the pain and the madness of the battle, gritted his teeth and, with a violent roar, thrust his sword upward through the body of the rat-faced man above him. The blade slid effortlessly through the creature's flesh, and with a sickening squelch, he pushed the body upward, hoisting the limp carcass off of him. As he did so, the charging rat-man barreled forward, his spear aimed at the Jesuit's heart.

The rat never had a chance to stop. In a brutal twist of fate, the rat-man impaled itself on the Jesuit's sword, the sharp point tearing through its chest with a satisfying squish. The Jesuit felt the weight of both rat-men hanging from his sword, their bodies dragging down with sickening weight.

The spearman, standing behind them, burst into mocking laughter. "Hahaha! Stupid rats! Can't even get a good charge off!" His words were cut short, however, as the reality of the situation started to sink in. The battlefield around him was full of chaos, but the one thing that was unmistakable was the Jesuit's growing rage—and the sheer number of rat-faced enemies still charging toward them.

Below the wall, next to the siege tower, a monstrous rat-ogre loomed, its four bloodshot eyes scanning the chaos unfolding above. The stench of death, the screams of dying soldiers, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground filled the air. Seeing the bodies of its fallen comrades being thrown off the tower, the rat-ogre's fury grew, its heart pounding in its massive chest. A beast of pure rage, it couldn't stand idly by any longer.

Though the rat-ogre was not a skilled climber, its strength and sheer size allowed it to disregard such limitations. The fire burning near the base of the tower repulsed it, but the holes left by the cannonballs provided the perfect footholds. With a loud growl, it began to scale the back of the tower, using its claws to latch onto the jagged edges.

The tower was already teetering under the weight of the soldiers occupying its levels. The ogre's bulk only added to the strain. The wooden structure groaned and cracked, but with its great strength, the rat-ogre continued to ascend. The defenders above could hear the growing tremors as the tower shook with the beast's every movement.

And then, with a final, resounding creak, the rat-ogre made it to the top, its hulking form towering over the defenders. With a deep, guttural roar, it bellowed, "Ski ski, RAAAAAAR!" The sound was deafening, a primal scream of rage and pain. The ogre's massive fists pounded the ground, shaking the walls as it charged forward, indiscriminately throwing soldiers and fellow rats alike to the side. Some were sent flying off the edge, their bodies disappearing into the abyss below. Others were sent tumbling into the spears and swords of the defenders.

"Brace yourselves!" Jesus shouted, his voice filled with urgency as he locked eyes with the oncoming terror.

The rat-ogre lunged forward, diving through the air in a monstrous Superman-like pose. The force of its impact with the defenders was like a tidal wave. Karl, Jesus, Bragi, and six spearmen were all sent flying, their bodies colliding with the ogre's bulk as it barreled through them. Shields were splintered, and men screamed as they were flung from the wall.

The world spun in a blur as they were launched from the wall, over the cobblestone street, and toward the rooftops below the wall. The impact of their bodies against the two-story house was deafening. With a sickening thud, their backs hit the roofing, knocking the air from their lungs.

Karl, dazed but still conscious, gasped for breath and yelled toward the ground below, his voice a mixture of pain and humor, "W-What sort of follower are you, Ledo? If you don't follow the master's orders—"

Jesus, struggling to sit up and wincing in pain, let out a strained laugh. "I guess that's not how you face a creature like that. The more you know, hahaha."

Bragi, still groggy, shakily got to his feet, his eyes wide with fear as he surveyed the situation. He pointed below them, where the mangled, twisted bodies of their comrades lay strewn across the street. His voice dropped to a low, worried murmur. "Master, I think the others... they're dead."

The sight of the twisted bodies confirmed their worst fears. Six fallen warriors, broken and unrecognizable, littered the street below, their lifeless eyes staring into the heavens.

Back at the wall, while the Jesuits battled the regular rats off, Ledo and the others faced down the monstrous rat-ogre.

The beast lay on its stomach, still recovering from its fall, but the humans wasted no time. Spears and swords stabbed into its thick hide, and maces swung with all their might. Warrior Ledo, his muscles straining, thrust his sword into the ogre's massive shoulder, but it barely even left a mark on the creature's tough, leathery skin. He gritted his teeth and glanced around, seeing that every other strike was just as ineffective. All that came from their attacks were shallow cuts, minor flesh wounds, and a trickle of blood.

Ledo cursed inwardly, his eyes widening. "Ohh shit."

Enraged by the assault, the rat-ogre roared and pushed itself up with an almost unnatural strength. The ground shook beneath it as it swiped its massive tail, sending a spearman flying against the wall of the defensive tower. With a sickening crack, the man's skull exploded on impact, the splatter of his brain matter painting the walls. The ogre's claws tore into the soldiers around it, grabbing them and smashing them to the ground with terrifying force.

Spears, swords, arrows, and musket balls rained down on the creature, but they were little more than an annoyance. The ogre swiped and crushed with its fists, decimating anyone in its path. It grabbed a man with both hands and bit down, the sickening crunch of bone and flesh tearing filling the air as it tore the man in half, blood flying in all directions. His screams mingled with the other cries of pain and terror, and men scattered in fear as they tried to find cover.

Ledo, not one to waste his energy, stayed on the outskirts, waiting for an opening. This thing was unstoppable, he thought, But there had to be a weak point.

Above the fray, Jesus and the others were making their way back into the battle, climbing down from the roof. As they reached the ground, they were greeted with the sight of the rampaging rat-ogre and the chaos it was causing.

"Get back in the fight, now!" Jesus yelled to Bragi and Karl, as the ground trembled beneath the creature's every move.

Lord Segres, standing tall on the wall, saw his chance. He barked orders to his musketeers, commanding them to form a firing line. His son, alongside him, took aim with his musket, setting his sights on the beast.

The rat-ogre's four eyes scanned the battlefield, its senses keen as ever. From one eye, it saw the humans retreating, but a few brave ones still stood their ground, their spears and swords aimed at it. From the other, it saw the line of 22 muskets forming. Even a creature as dumb as the ogre understood the threat. Muskets meant death.

With a wild roar, the rat-ogre charged forward, its massive body barreling through everything in its path. "Ski ski, RAAAAAAR!" it screamed, its bloodlust overwhelming its senses. The gap between it and the musketeers was closing fast, and there were still spearmen in the way.

"Wait, there are still men in the way!" the Lord's son shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

The Lord's face hardened with resolve. "No, it's too late. Fire at will!" he commanded, his voice steady despite the fear in his chest.

The muskets cracked in unison, their thunderous shots ripping through the air. The first volley tore into the rat-ogre's thick hide, but it didn't stop. The creature staggered, its limbs trembling from the barrage, but still, it pressed on, its rage blinding it to the pain. Bullets flew through its body, but they only seemed to fuel its anger.

With one final, desperate leap, the rat-ogre launched itself at the line of musketeers. Lord Segres had no time to react. His body froze as he saw the beast descending upon him. The creature landed with a bone-shattering thud, crushing his legs beneath its immense weight. He screamed in agony as his limbs twisted unnaturally, his legs snapping with a sickening crack.

"Aaaaaa!" Lord Segres howled, his face contorted in pain. He looked back, but the scene was one of pure carnage.

The rat-ogre, still roaring in triumph, seized Segres' son by the body, lifting him with one clawed hand and slamming him down onto the ground. The conquistadors who had tried to protect the Lord were now fighting for their lives. The ogre tossed his son's limp body aside, like a ragdoll, and moved toward the Lord.

One brave conquistador stepped forward, sword raised. "We won't let you take him!" he shouted, his voice trembling with both fear and defiance.

The rat-ogre laughed, its mouth widening in a grotesque, toothy grin. "Kikikiki!" it cackled, its voice like gravel scraping on stone. The ogre swung its massive left arm in a wide arc, but the conquistador, with nerves of steel, ducked and rolled under the blow. As it passed, he thrust his sword into the ogre's gut, his grin spreading across his face. "I got you."

The rat-ogre howled in pain, but instead of retreating, it grabbed the conquistador's head with its other hand, its claws digging into the man's neck with horrifying force. The man struggled, but it was no use. With one brutal yank, the ogre ripped his head off, spine and all, the body collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

The ogre, holding the man's head and spine like a grotesque whip, swung it around, cutting two more conquistadors in half. Blood sprayed the walls as the men fell, their bodies torn to pieces.

The remaining conquistadors hesitated, horrified at the carnage. The rat-ogre crouched down, its huge maw opening wide to devour Lord Segres. The lord could do nothing but watch, terror in his eyes. "Help me, you stupid fucks!" he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation.

Just as the rat-ogre's jaws snapped shut, a blade drove through its open mouth. Warrior Ledo had seized the perfect opportunity, jumping onto the ogre's back and driving his sword deep into its skull. The beast let out a guttural scream, its body trembling with the force of the strike, but it was too late. The sword had found its mark, and the rat-ogre's lifeless body slumped forward, crashing heavily to the ground.

Ledo stood triumphantly atop the dead creature, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he wiped the blood from his blade. "You can thank me later, my Lord," he said with a grin, his voice dripping with satisfaction. The ogre's blood was thick and dark, staining his hands and blade as he took a moment to relish the victory.

Lord Segres, barely clinging to life beneath the weight of the fallen rat-ogre, could only stare up in disbelief. The battlefield around him was a blur—chaos, blood, and smoke filled his senses. His chest heaved in desperate attempts to breathe, but the pain from his crushed legs was overwhelming. He struggled, every movement an agony as he tried to crawl toward the battlements.

As Jesus, Bragi, and Karl arrived on the scene, they found their Lord barely able to move, pinned beneath the carcass of the rat-ogre. Without hesitation, they rushed forward, using all their strength to free him from the heavy weight.

Once the creature's body was removed, the Lord's bloodied form was revealed, and the sight of him—broken, battered, and barely conscious—stirred something deep in Jesus's heart. Lord Segres's defiance and pain were a haunting reminder of the battle's toll. Despite the crushing agony of his body, the Lord managed to lift his head, gazing toward the battlements, his face twisted in pain and determination.

"Get me up there," Segres gasped, his voice barely a whisper, raw with desperation. "We've lost this battle... but I will not die here."

The words stung Jesus, but there was no time for grief. With the help of the remaining soldiers, they lifted Lord Segres, his broken body swaying with every step. The weight of his loss, both physical and emotional, was too much to bear, but the Lord's will to survive was stronger than his body could handle.

As they struggled to carry him toward the safety of the walls, Lord Segres let out a guttural cry of pain. Blood soaked his tunic, and his legs twisted unnaturally beneath him. The sight of his suffering was unbearable, and Jesus's heart tightened with the reality that this was a man who had led with honor, only to fall in such a pitiful state.

Jesus's Inner Struggle and Leadership:

Jesus could feel the weight of the situation crushing him from all sides. He had always believed in strength—physical, mental, spiritual—but now it seemed insufficient. Watching Lord Segres break before his eyes felt like a failure in itself. If only I had trusted the Force more... If only I had been stronger... His thoughts spiraled into doubt, regret, and a helpless longing to turn back time.

"Take him back to the castle, for immediate treatment," Jesus ordered, his voice hardening with resolve. His hands clenched at his sides, fingers trembling with frustration. There was no room for weakness now. The remaining soldiers, though few, rallied to the command, lifting the Lord and his shattered form away from the battlefield.

As Lord Segres was carried away, his broken body leaving behind a trail of blood, Jesus's gaze turned to the battlefield, where the remnants of Segres's forces still fought valiantly to hold the wall. But it was clear—this battle was slipping from their grasp. With Lord Segres incapacitated and his son dead, the leadership had crumbled. Most of the Lord's personal men lay dead or dying. Only a fraction of the defenders remained.

The small section of the wall, once defended by 230 men, now had only 130 left.

Jesus felt a gnawing weight in his chest as he surveyed the carnage. It was as if the very soul of the battlefield was drained. The sky, dark and oppressive, seemed to mirror the hopelessness that clung to the walls. And then, the rain began to fall, cold and relentless, washing away the blood that stained the earth and extinguishing the flames that still flickered in the distance.

Jesus's Resolve:

He turned to the remaining soldiers. Their faces were grim, their bodies battered. Some held their swords loosely, others gripped shields that had been reduced to splinters, their faces etched with the pain of loss. The quiet desperation was palpable, but there was no turning back now. There was no time for hesitation, no time for second-guessing. Jesus took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing with determination.

"I will take command here," he said, his voice like iron, cutting through the noise of the storm. His eyes swept across the soldiers, meeting their weary gazes. "We hold this wall, or we die trying. For Segres! For Iberia!" His words were sharp, forceful, a rallying cry for the last stand.

The remaining soldiers nodded grimly, their spirits bolstered by his command. They were still men of honor, still warriors at heart. They might be broken, but they were not yet defeated.

As the rain beat down harder, a somber silence fell over them, save for the distant cries of the wounded and the sounds of battle still raging beyond the walls. In this moment, the sky wept for the fallen, for the bloodshed that had stained the earth, and for the men who had fought and would continue to fight despite the odds.

Jesus stood at the forefront, his face set with grim resolve. His thoughts were no longer clouded by doubt, but focused solely on survival. The battle was far from over, but they had no choice but to keep fighting.

There was no other way.