Angel Fall's-Chapter 17 The siege of Cordoba part 5

Rain poured down on the city of Cordoba, the heavy downpour mixing with the chaos of battle. The sky crackled with lightning, illuminating the horrific scene unfolding on the battlefield. In the middle of the dust-filled Eastern wall, Jesus faced off against a towering rat warrior wielding a massive glaive. The rat's beady eyes gleamed with malice as it swung the glaive toward Jesus's head with terrifying speed.

Jesus, shield raised high, blocked the incoming strike with practiced precision, but the force of the blow sent shockwaves through his body. His sword came down in retaliation, slashing toward the rat's armor, but it bounced harmlessly off the hardened metal plates.

"Kikiki! Stupid human," the rat taunted. "Underhive armor is impenetrable! Yes, yes!"

The rat's words cut deeper than any weapon, but Jesus was undeterred. He knew that armor could be the difference between life and death in these brutal battles. Marino's foresight in purchasing this superior armor—a gift funded by his inventions—was not just a practical choice, but a lifeline.

As the rat swung its glaive again, Jesus saw the opening he needed. With a quick motion, he bashed the rat in the face with his shield, stunning it. The rat staggered, and in the same instant, Jesus thrust his sword toward its chest. The blade struck, but it was stopped short by the thick leather and chainmail beneath the rat's armor.

The sword sank a few centimeters into the rat's chest, and the creature let out a high-pitched squeal of pain. But it wasn't enough. The armor had held. It wasn't the sword that failed—it was the rat's protective layers that absorbed the blow.

Before Jesus could react, the rat swung its glaive again, this time aiming for his head. With a sickening crack, the weapon collided with his helmet, sending a jarring shock through Jesus's skull. For a split second, everything went black. His ears rang violently, and he tasted iron in his mouth. He staggered back, half-dazed, his vision blurring.

But through the ringing in his ears, he could still hear the battle around him. His helmet had taken the full brunt of the strike, but the high-quality steel helmet—an investment from Marino—had absorbed the impact. By some miracle, it had spared his life. The rat's blow had not pierced through to his skull. It was only the armor, crafted with Marino's wealth and ingenuity, that stood between Jesus and death.

With adrenaline surging through his veins, Jesus grabbed the glaive's shaft with both hands, forcing the rat's weapon away. His vision slowly cleared, and his body regained its strength. With a swift, powerful kick, he sent the rat sprawling backward, disarmed and stunned.

Taking a moment to gather himself, Jesus ripped the glaive from his helmet and walked toward the rat, which lay in the foul, multicolored water. The rat looked up at him with disbelief, its mouth agape. Jesus stood tall, his shield and glaive in hand, his gaze unwavering.

"Whose armor is superior now, you fucking rat bastard?" he spat, before driving the glaive into the rat's stomach.

As the rat's life faded, its last sight was the victorious man, standing tall, alive—because of the armor that had saved him. The armor that Marino had provided, a symbol of the hope and support Jesus had never expected to receive but would fight to honor with his very life.

The battlefield was a maelstrom of noise and chaos. Jesus, still gripping his newly acquired glaive, scanned the dust-filled horizon, his eyes sharp despite the ringing in his ears from the earlier blow. Everywhere he looked, men and Ratmen clashed, with no discernible lines or tactics—just a sprawling, chaotic massacre of bodies. There was no order, just violence and desperation.

His eyes fell on the spot where his sword had been left in the sunken rat's chest, a grim reminder of the moment when his life had nearly been claimed. His armor had saved him, but the fight wasn't over yet. The battlefield was still alive with movement—rats skittering over men's fallen bodies, making the ground appear alive with their crawling figures. Without hesitation, he slid his sword back into its hilt and swung the mighty glaive high.

"Rally to me!" Jesus bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise like a clarion call. "To me, men!"

His words were like a spark, and the Jesuits, with their disciplined ranks, quickly began to form behind him. Slowly, others followed, their eyes burning with a mix of fear and determination. With a mighty roar, Jesus surged forward, the glaive swinging in wide arcs, cutting through Ratmen and soldiers alike. His anger-fueled strikes cleaved through armor, bone, and flesh with ease. The once-chaotic battlefield was now a wave of bodies falling before him, each cut a release of the pent-up fury he felt.

The dust was thick, but Jesus's resolve was unwavering. His blood boiled as he cut through the ranks. Each swing of his glaive was a testament to his strength, to the belief that he would not die this day, not while Marino's investment, his armor, was still protecting him.

But then, amidst the carnage, a familiar voice broke through the storm.

"Master Jesus! We need to stop and get to new defensive positions! If we stay here we will die! There must still be at least 35,000 of them out there!" Ledo's voice, always steady, was filled with urgency as he grabbed Jesus's shoulder.

For a moment, Jesus's fury flickered, and his breathing slowed. He looked around at the devastation, the bodies of fallen soldiers and rats. His men had fought valiantly, but the tide of battle was shifting.

With a deep breath, Jesus calmed his mind, and with a few commands, the surviving soldiers and peasants began to form a new defensive line. The peasants, their faces grim, formed the front. The Jesuits and trained soldiers took positions in the back, ready to defend the choke points of the city.

But just as he was about to order the retreat to more defensible positions, something caught his eye.

With the dust finally beginning to settle, Jesus saw the full scale of the disaster. The gatehouse and parts of the surrounding walls had collapsed in a massive explosion, creating a wide, gaping hole in the city's defenses. Through the cloud of dust and debris, he saw the Duke and his men—wounded, struggling to hold their ground. And just beyond them, like a black tide, a swarm of Ratmen poured toward the hole, charging with ravenous hunger.

Jesus's heart sank. He could see the end was near for the Duke and his men unless something drastic happened. Without a moment's hesitation, he lifted his glaive high and stepped forward.

"No!" Ledo shouted, his voice filled with desperation as he grabbed Jesus's arm. "Don't do it! It's too late! We have no chance of victory in the open! It's madness!"

But Jesus only laughed, the sound full of defiance. His eyes gleamed with a fiery determination that only he could muster in such dire circumstances.

"We have no chance, you say?" he shouted, turning to face his comrade with a fiery smile. "Hahaha! I say there is no such thing as chance! All there is, is adventure!"

And with that, he broke into a full sprint, charging toward the chaos at the gate. His voice rang out above the din, rallying his men. "For Iberia! Charge!"

His cry was echoed by the Jesuits, their fierce loyalty to him igniting their spirits. They surged forward, cutting down anything that stood in their way. The peasants hesitated at first, unsure, until the words reached their ears—shouted by their own kind.

"For Cordoba! For our homes!" the peasants shouted in unison.

With that, the floodgates opened. The peasants, once hesitant, now charged alongside the Jesuits, the cry of their people ringing in the air. From the back, Bispo watched proudly, a quiet smile crossing his face as he whispered to himself, "Too easy."

The ground shook beneath them as both armies charged toward the collapsed gate. The thunderous noise of battle filled the air, and the skies above seemed to crack open with the sound of missiles and stones flying from rooftops and the sea. The city had become a battlefield, and its people, united in a common cause, fought like lions to defend it.

With their hearts burning with determination and their bodies aching from the battle, Jesus and his men would push forward, against all odds. No matter the cost, they would fight for Cordoba—for Iberia—for their homes. The fate of the city rested in their hands.

The battle had reached its peak. The clash of metal, the shrieks of dying rats, and the thunderous sounds of war filled the air as the two forces collided. Amidst the chaos, Jesus and his three loyal followers shot forth, propelled by the Force. With a surge of energy, they were upon the enemy lines before most could even register their movement. Their senses and reflexes were heightened, allowing them to cut through the Ratmen with deadly precision. The rats, once so sure of their victory, faltered as they faced the fury of these men, their weapons cleaving through their ranks like a hot knife through butter.

"Charge!" Jesus shouted, his voice carrying across the battlefield, galvanizing his men. With a roar, the soldiers and peasants, now emboldened by the strength and prowess of their leaders, charged headlong into the fray, their battle cries rising up to meet the storm of death that loomed before them.

The battlefield became a nightmare of blood and gore. Unlucky men and rats who stumbled during the charge were trampled beneath the weight of their comrades. Rat-ogres broke through the lines, sending men flying with each crushing blow. Spears impaled rats, while Halberdiers sliced through their ranks with practiced precision. Moles, riding atop massive beasts, tore through men with their enormous claws, and their riders stabbed at eyes and heads, delivering brutal and merciless deaths.

Yet, despite the overwhelming odds, there was resistance. A boy with a scythe hacked his way through the unarmored rats like he was reaping a harvest. His skill was unmatched for one so young, and his scythe sang through the air as he severed rat heads, limbs, and bodies with terrifying accuracy. But one rat, a seasoned warrior with a dagger, saw the scythe coming and swiftly blocked it. The force of the blow sent the rat's weapon flying, but the boy's scythe cleaved through its torso and stopped at the spine.

With a grunt of effort, the boy tried to pull the blade free, but only succeeded in dragging the limp, lifeless body along the ground. Just as he was about to be overwhelmed by the incoming tide of rats, a man, sickle in hand, stepped in front of him. With brutal force, he cut through the rats that surrounded them, defending the boy with his life.

But fate was cruel. A rat, seeing the man distracted, hurled a stone hammer at him. The hammer struck the man low, right between his legs. His scream of agony echoed through the battlefield. "Aaaaaaaa! My balls!"

The boy, seeing the man in distress, quickly moved to his defense. He stomped on a rat's face, his scythe finding its mark and cutting the rat in two. Yet, as more rats began to close in on them, they fought back with stones, throwing them with deadly accuracy. The boy and his defender were overwhelmed by the sheer number of rats and their relentless assault.

But just as the two were about to be stoned to death, new soldiers arrived, cutting the rats down with brutal efficiency. The battle raged on, and the tide was turning, but the price had been high. Blood stained the cobblestone streets, the bodies of both men and rats littering the ground.

Then, like a beacon in the chaos, the Duke of Segres joined the fray. With his sword in hand, he fought side by side with the Jesuits, pushing back against the overwhelming force of the Ratmen. Despite the overwhelming numbers of rats and the brutality of the battle, the defenders held their ground. But the enemy was relentless. More armored rats and Rat-ogres joined the fray, pushing the defenders back, step by bloody step, toward the city's streets.

Crossbows fired as fast as they could, but the ammunition was running low, and with each bolt that flew, a Rat-ogre was one step closer to breaking through their lines.

"Om, guys, we have trouble!" Karl's voice rang out as he saw the monstrous form of an armored Rat-ogre charging toward them, a massive two-handed sword swinging through the air.

"We can take it," Bragi scoffed, cutting down an armored rat with a single strike. He was calm, almost too calm.

Ledo, however, was more pragmatic. "Jesus, we need to pull back to the castle!" he shouted, his voice filled with urgency.

"What? And let the rats slaughter the entire city?" the Duke said in anger, his eyes wild with the desperation of the battle.

"I think Ledo has a point," Jesus interjected, his voice firm. "Duke, you need to get those men off the walls and retreat back into the city. Lord Bispo has set up barricades. We'll hold there for as long as we can."

The Duke hesitated, his pride battling with the reality of the situation. But as he turned to see the Rat-ogre closing in, his resolve faltered. "Fine! Just hold them back a little bit longer! And don't die, we still need you!"

With that, the Duke made his retreat, followed by a small group of his men. The Jesuits, now surrounded by the carnage of the battlefield, formed a shield wall. Blood soaked their once-white tabards, and the air was thick with the stench of death. They stood firm, unyielding in the face of the oncoming onslaught. The ground was littered with bodies, both human and rat, and the air was filled with the sounds of battle—yells, screams, the clash of weapons, and the desperate cries of those fighting for survival.

Karl stood at the front of the shield wall, his eyes locked onto the approaching Rat-ogre. The beast's yellow eyes gleamed with malice, and as their gazes met, Karl felt a shiver run down his spine. The ogre seemed to single him out, its massive form charging toward him.

"Seriously! Why me, man? Just my luck!" Karl thought to himself, panic rising as the ogre charged. His heart pounded in his chest as he felt the Force surge through him, empowering him. This time, they wouldn't falter. They wouldn't move. They were determined to hold the line.

With his shield raised and his sword gripped tightly in his hand, Karl steeled himself for the coming onslaught.

The rats parted, making way for the towering figure of the Rat-ogre. It charged forward with a ferocity that shook the ground beneath it, its evil grin widening as it neared Karl.

In an instant, the massive sword of the ogre swung with terrifying force, crashing against Karl's shield. The sound of metal striking metal rang out like a thunderclap. Karl's shield buckled under the weight of the blow, its wooden frame splintering, and the force of the impact knocked him to one knee. Blood poured from his mouth, his hand broken from the impact, and the pain surged through his body as if a 200-kilogram barbell had been dropped onto him.

The Rat-ogre paused, stunned. No human should have survived such a blow. But Karl was still alive, his body shaken, but not yet broken.

Taking the chance, the Jesuits—Jesus, Bragi, and Ledo—pressed the attack. They moved with precision, finding the gaps in the ogre's heavy armor, and struck with deadly accuracy. Each blow drew blood, each cut causing the ogre to roar in frustration and pain.

Karl was quickly dragged away by the remaining Jesuits, his body still reeling from the blow. But Jesus stepped forward, his expression determined. He wasn't going to let this monster continue its rampage.

With a grunt of effort, Jesus stabbed his glaive into the ogre's exposed leg. The creature howled in pain, but Jesus was quick to step back as the ogre retaliated, swinging its massive sword in a deadly arc. Jesus dodged, using his agility to avoid the strike, but the ground around him exploded as the ogre's sword smashed into the earth. Dirt and rocks flew in all directions, taking out several peasants unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast.

Then, with all the strength he could muster, Jesus thrust his glaive into the ogre's neck, driving it deep into the creature's flesh. The ogre let out a deafening roar, its mouth opening wide in agony, but before Jesus could withdraw the weapon, the ogre surged forward, its muscular frame kicking out toward him.

In an impossible display of speed, Jesus moved his shield into place just in time to absorb the full force of the ogre's kick. The impact sent him flying through the air, crashing into a peasant woman with such force that her ribs cracked. The collision sent them both tumbling, and as Jesus hit the ground with a sickening thud, he felt the woman's body beneath him. Her skull splintered against the stone rubble, her brains splattering across the dirt.

But Jesus, though stunned by the blow, quickly regained his senses. The pain in his body was excruciating, but he rose to his feet, offering a brief, silent prayer to Sighard for the fallen woman. With a quick sign of the hammer, he gritted his teeth and rejoined his men.

Meanwhile, Ledo seized the opportunity created by the ogre's momentary distraction. With swift precision, he thrust his sword into the creature's left back knee, cutting through the patellar tendon. The ogre howled in pain as its leg buckled, and it fell to its knee, the strength of its legs failing it.

Bragi, ever the opportunist, leaped onto the ogre's back, climbing up its massive form. The ogre struggled and thrashed, trying to shake him off, but Bragi held on tightly. He stabbed his sword into the same wound that Jesus had created, his blade slicing deep into the ogre's flesh. Blood sprayed out in torrents, soaking Bragi in the creature's life force.

The ogre, now choking on its own blood, grabbed Bragi's sword hand with a strength that seemed to defy nature. Bragi fought to pull free, but the ogre's grip was unyielding. In a final, brutal act, it hurled Bragi away like a ragdoll, sending him flying through the air. He managed to land in a roll, softening his fall and springing to his feet, ready to face the creature once again.

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The ogre, weakened and bloodied, staggered forward, holding its throat as it gasped for air. Its strength faded with each passing moment, its life force draining away. Finally, with a final, gurgling roar, the ogre fell to its knees and collapsed, dead at the feet of the Jesuits.

Jesus, his body aching from the brutal fall and the strain of battle, stood up slowly. The pain was unbearable, but his resolve remained strong. He looked around, his eyes falling upon the body of the peasant woman who had cushioned his fall. He whispered a quick prayer of thanks for her sacrifice, before returning his focus to the battlefield.

But the battle was far from over. Three of the Jesuits had died in the chaos, giving their lives to create space for their comrades to fight. Now, there were only a few Jesuits left, and Karl had been taken to the castle to recover.

Elsewhere in the city, the defense lines were beginning to crumble. Rat-ogres, emboldened by the fall of their kin, tore through the remaining peasants, breaking through barricades and pushing the defenders back. The Jesuits knew they had little time left. If they didn't hold, the city would fall.

But Jesus and his remaining warriors were undeterred. With their armor stained in blood, their weapons gripped tightly in their hands, they stood their ground. The rats might be numerous, but they had something the Ratmen didn't: the will to fight, the strength to endure, and the belief that they would not let Cordoba fall.

The final push had begun. And with it, the fate of the city would be decided.

On the hill overlooking the city, the Duke of Cordoba stood, his eyes wild with panic as he watched the battle unfold below. The city that had been his pride, his stronghold, was now being torn apart. The rats overwhelmed the streets, and every scream, every clang of metal, seemed to push him further into the depths of despair. His hand trembled as he bit his nails, his once pristine appearance now reduced to a disheveled, broken man. His hair was a mess, his eyes swollen with sleepless nights, and his thoughts a whirlwind of regret and fear.

He muttered to himself in a voice tinged with hysteria, his words almost incomprehensible. "It, it, it's over. The city is lost. I have been betrayed. Father, you, you... you liar. You told me the rats were defeated, gone! You said not to worry. You said focus only on managing the domain. You said I'd never have to fight a war in my life! You said there were no enemies, no threats. You lied to me! Curse you, Father, and curse the King of Aragon. Where are my reinforcements? They've betrayed me... They're jealous. Of my wealth. My power. Damn them all!"

His voice cracked as the weight of his despair overwhelmed him. The city he had once ruled with pride was slipping through his fingers, and all the promises of safety, of control, had crumbled. The rats, relentless and savage, had broken through his defenses. He felt trapped in his own fortress, surrounded by enemies both outside and within.

Daroba, his only son, knelt beside him, trying desperately to keep his father grounded. His voice was gentle, pleading. "Father, please! Don't lose hope. The Iberian armies are coming. They're our allies, and they won't abandon us now. And even now, we are not alone. Our men are fighting, down there in the city, for us, for the city—"

The Duke's trembling hands clenched into fists as he slowly turned towards his son. His gaze softened for a moment, but only for a fleeting second, before it hardened again. "Please, Father, let me lead the men into battle. We can't just sit here and do nothing! They need us, they need you—" Daroba's voice was filled with desperation as he spoke, but his father cut him off before he could finish.

"Absolutely not!" The Duke snapped, his voice sharp with fury. "I will not let you sacrifice yourself on the battlefield. That is the job of lesser men. Not you, not my son."

Daroba froze. He felt a cold wave of frustration sweep through him as his father's words stung him to the core. But the Duke wasn't finished.

The Duke stepped forward, his anger growing. "Look at you, my son. You are small. You have no muscles. You are short. You are no warrior. You are a thinker, and we thinkers think. It is our job to think while others fight. That's how it works. Do you understand?"

His father's words hit harder than any sword could. Daroba's face flushed with a mixture of anger and shame, the familiar sting of rejection that had followed him his entire life. He wasn't tall, he wasn't strong. He wasn't a fighter. He had been raised to believe that men like him, men with sharp minds, were above physical labor, that it was beneath them. And yet, he longed to be more—he wanted to train, to be strong, to wield a sword and lead his men with honor.

But his father had always shut him down. His father's obsession with intellect, with status, had left Daroba feeling like nothing more than a pawn in a game he didn't fully understand. He had asked, over and over, to train with swords, to practice the art of war. But his father had only ever laughed at him, dismissing his desires as foolishness.

And now, standing before him, Daroba finally understood why. It wasn't about being a warrior, it was about keeping him safe, locked in the shadows of a legacy that Daroba had never asked for. The Duke of Cordoba was terrified of losing his son to the very thing he had feared—war. And yet, in his fear, he pushed his son away, denying him a chance to prove his worth.

Daroba clenched his fists, his eyes burning with frustration. "Yes, Father." His voice was low, strained, as he fought to keep his composure. "I understand."

And with that, Daroba turned on his heel, his face set in a grim expression. He stormed off, unable to stand one more moment in the presence of a father who had no faith in him.

Behind him, the Duke stood silently, his own mind spinning in a vortex of confusion, regret, and fear. He had never wanted this for his son, but in his own way, he had doomed him to this fate—the fate of a ruler who could never fight for himself.

From the castle walls, Daroba's gaze swept over the city below, his heart heavy with the weight of what he saw. The once-proud walls that had guarded the city were now abandoned, the defenders having retreated into the streets. There was no longer any order, no battle lines—just a chaotic, desperate struggle for survival. In the narrow streets, men, women, and children fought to hold their ground against the ever-advancing ratmen. Some fought bravely on the rooftops, seeking the high ground, while others found themselves trapped in their homes, forced to fend off the relentless tide of rats that broke down doors and windows.

The stench of blood and death filled the air, mingling with the acrid smoke that began to rise from burning buildings. Fires had started in the chaos, sparked by abandoned candles, and now the flames spread unchecked, threatening to consume the city entirely.

Daroba watched in horror as the rats grew bolder. With their hunger stoked by the carnage around them, they began to feast on the human corpses scattered in the streets. The Granadan forces, those who had fought so hard just hours before, were now watching in terror as their comrades were consumed by the rats. The soldiers' resolve cracked, and one by one, they began to flee. The rats, sensing their loss of morale, did not hesitate. They turned on the Granadans, slaying them with brutal efficiency, chanting their macabre battle cry as they killed: "Death to all Humans! Meet for the feast!"

The Granadan army, now reduced to a shattered remnant, was either slaughtered or taken captive for later consumption. From the ranks of ten thousand, only twenty thousand rats remained to continue the slaughter, now fully in control of the city.

Daroba could hardly stomach the sight. The rats tore through homes with gleeful cruelty, slaughtering anyone in their path—old, young, women, men, and the disabled—none were spared. Families were torn apart, and children were dragged from under their beds, consumed alive by the rat horde. In the midst of the chaos, the fires grew larger, consuming the buildings and adding to the already overwhelming destruction.

His heart heavy with grief, Daroba's stomach churned. He felt helpless, watching as the city was consumed by madness. The screams of the dying filled the air, and the flames danced in the distance. His mind raced, torn between his duty and his own inability to stop the madness unfolding before him.

But then, as if in response to the unbearable weight of it all, the sky began to shift. The dark clouds that had loomed over the city for hours began to part, allowing rays of sunlight to pierce through the gloom. The light spread across the battlefield, banishing the shadows and bringing with it the promise of a new, brighter world.

Daroba took a deep breath, feeling the weight of despair lift just slightly. It was a sign—he had to act. Rallying his father's men, he made the decision to leave the castle behind. The city was lost, but there was still hope for something greater beyond the walls.

As the gates to the castle opened, Daroba mounted his horse, his resolve steeled. A force of 100 horses thundered forth from the castle, their hooves echoing against the stone ground. Behind them, a thousand men followed, their armor glinting in the first light of dawn. They rode out of the gates, leaving the castle nearly unmanned, a decision driven by desperation and hope. The city was lost, but perhaps they could still turn the tide for the future.

As Daroba led the charge, the sun blazed behind him, casting long shadows on the blood-soaked streets below. The battle for Cordoba may have been over, but the fight for Iberia had only just begun. And Daroba, in this moment, was determined to make his mark on the future of his people.