He had always had an affinity with warjacks.
He discovered early in life, that when he poured his magic, his willpower into the war machines, they became more responsive, more alert. It was partially why he was so good at controlling them. Even more interesting, was when he poured enough of his power into the jack, the results would often be as unexpected as it would be spectacular. Other warcasters could also call upon an affinity, but that required years of experience and working with the same warjack through many campaigns. Eventually the bond would become something more than just a simple relationship between controller and the controlled, and the affinity would develop, some sort of nascent power that could only be used with that specific jack. For him, it was natural. He had always suspected it had something to do with the warjack's cortex reacting to his own magic, somehow mixing to create this unnatural fusion. This secret he had told no one, not even his fellow warcasters when they fought by his side.
For the Crusader, his affinity with it was fire. Wrathful, vengeful fire.
It made sense in a way. The Protectorate of Menoth forged their war machines with holy flame, sanctifying each in the purifying embers of their temple factories. Day in and day out their vassal mechaniks toiled and slaved at their stations, singing praise to the Creator of Man as they shaped metal into engines of destruction. Fresh from the assembly line and into the parade ground the warjacks would march, standing in rigid ranks to await the Choirs of Menoth who would bless them with the divine words of the one true god. On the battlefield, this translated to a righteous hatred for all things heretical, alongside the mechanical anger that all warjacks innately possessed.
He could feel that hatred now, throbbing in his head, pulsating through the mind link as though it were his own. The anger was there too, a bestial thing of raging emotion that involuntarily made him snarl. He let the emotions wash over him like a wave, relishing in the Crusader's bloodlust, delighting in the way it wanted to maim and destroy. And then he inundated the link with his own magic, flooding his power into the warjack like pouring water into a reservoir.
Anger and hatred were, by themselves, volatile emotions. His magic lit them up like a bonfire, fanning the flames until they became a raging inferno.
The Crusader roared as its body caught fire. Flames shot from the crevices of its armor, spread into its arms and legs, washed over its shoulders and draped down its back. Jets of fire blasted from the vents that loomed above its frame, spewing through the holes in the heavy pipes, contorting in serpentine motions. From afar it almost looked like the warjack had grown wings, fiery pinions that jutted from the iron edifices towering over its spine.
The Khadorans shrank back. The heat from the war machine's frame emitted outwards in suffocating waves, buffeting the gathered soldiers like a tempest gale. Even the Iron Fangs, whose powered suits were normally proof against such things, flinched as the Crusader drew near, their shield wall wavering as the paint on their armor crinkled and flaked in response to the heavy jack's advance.
The Crusader did not charge into combat. It walked. Striding forward like some indomitable giant, it shouldered itself into the Khadoran ranks, unmindful of the blasting pikes that poked and stabbed at its armored skin. Those spears that did detonate, it shrugged off, the blasting charges exploding harmlessly off thick, ablative plate. No mere light jack this monster was, no mere engine that was to be used and discarded. It was a god made into machine form, righteous anger caged in a metal frame, fed by magic that fueled its fury into a towering rage, and its wrath was terrible to behold.
Every swing from the massive inferno mace it in its hand was a kill. The heavy spiked weapon belched fire wherever it struck, and those not slain outright by blunt force trauma was consumed by magical flames that melted armor and ate flesh with equal vigor. Where the mace struck ground, plumes of fire would erupt, setting alight those that were near it, turning them into screaming, flailing torches. With its free hand the Crusader continued the slaughter, slapping aside armored and unarmored men alike as though they were toys.
Through it all, it laughed, a steely, booming sound, bellowing its war bred mirth for all to hear.
A particularly vicious blow crushed into an Iron Fang's chest, impaling the hapless man onto the weapon's cruel spikes. Before the warrior could so much as cry out, his killer had already lifted the mace up, the smoking, punctured body still attached, dangling like a broken doll. Heedless of the new ornament that adorned its weapon, the warjack resumed its rampage, wading deeper and deeper into the Khadoran lines.
He saw the Iron Fangs giving way to the Crusader's brutal assault, the shield wall now broken and disorganized. He saw the gap opening, a corridor of bloody, burnt corpses left by the engine's relentless advance. He saw the opportunity, and he grasped it.
A mental command and the Cyclone was striding forward, gatling cannons whirring in anticipation. Twenty paces before the Khadoran lines and the warjack opened up, heavy guns flaring repeatedly with discharge. At this range, there was no missing. Entire ranks of men were scythed down in an instant, shredded by rapid-firing cannon, turned into blood-red mist as explosive shells found their mark. What the Crusader did with its mace the Cyclone copied with its guns, carving great, bloody channels into the Northmen ranks. And then it was in them, the Cygnaran jack surging deep into the lines of red, battering aside the opposition with its gun-limbs, tearing men from their formations, pulping them in its fists and hurling the crushed remains back into the faces of their comrades.
The same command sent the Berserker rampaging towards the melee, hot on the Cyclone's heel. Not exactly a creature of subtlety, this beast was. The earliest Khadoran jacks were more experiment than finished product, and the Berserker could be counted as one of the oldest. Its armor was lighter than engines of the same weight class, an echo to an age when Khador was still in the midst of reforming its army. The cortex that it relied upon was all but obsolete and prone to malfunctioning when under stress. Yet amongst these drawbacks lay the Berserker's strength. Lighter armor meant it could add speed to its charge. An obsolete cortex meant only simple orders could be relayed to its primal intelligence, but that was all that it needed. For that's what the Berserker was. Simplicity in itself. It was a machine that required next to no direction from its warcaster. All that it required was an enemy it could unleashed upon, and it would do the rest.
The Crusader's hatred could be directed. The Cyclone's anger could be tempered. Even the Reaper, which he still kept by his side, could be controlled, though the Cryx engine occasionally fought with him to sate its unholy hunger. Not so, the Berserker. In comparison, it was a howling storm, a raging tempest of emotion powered by an intelligence more beast than man. And all that held it back was the thin line of magic that tethered the beast's cortex to his own will.
He severed that connection the moment the Berserker slammed into the Khadoran lines. A guttural roar blasted from the engine's throat as the chains that had kept it in line, kept it pacified, was broken. Without control, without a leash to hold its primitive mind in check, the warjack reverted back to its most primal form.
It charged forward.
There was no élan in its movements like the Crusader, who despite its heavy bulk, still fought with a semblance of knightly grace. There was no mechanical precision in its decisions like the Cyclone, who picked out targets from the crowds of soldiers that surrounded it and killed those that were more threatening. It was simplicity defined. It charged, and men died. It ploughed into the Iron Fangs whose braced formation of shields might as well been paper. It crashed into their lowered pikes and weathered the ripple of explosions that followed without a hint of breaking stride. It swept into the Winter Guard who shot at it with rifles in close range and hacked at it with axes of their own. It charged, and charged, and when there was none left to bloody the ice axes it clutched in its fists, it plunged again into the next formation. It charged, and the Khadorans fell back.
The Crusader had created the breach when it first smote into Northmen. The Cyclone widened it. The Berserker bulldozed another path and joined the first two. Together, they smashed a hole into the Khadoran ranks, forcing the lines of men to bend back to accommodate the warborne giants in their midst.
He could feel the atmosphere changing. The confidence that had been prevalent as the Northmen marched to attack was long gone. In its place was trepidation, uncertainty, and a little bit of fear. They had expected their superior foot soldiers to engage tired and worn infantry. They had not expected a sudden charge by warjacks, an attack that their own infantry were ill-equipped to deal with. A good commander would have rallied the men while they were still semi-organized at this time. A good commander would have withdrawn the savaged Winter Guard and depleted Iron Fangs to reform behind the Man-o-Wars and heavy jacks. A good commander would have used these fresh forces to contain the breach and then order the infantry back in once their formations were dressed. The Khadorans had good commanders, great ones even, and no doubt this field army contained a significant amount of them. What they didn't have was time. Time to countermand the initial orders. Time for the new orders to reach frontline captains and lieutenants. Time for the infantry to actually reform. They didn't have time because he didn't give them any.
He flung his light jacks into the fray, blasting the command into their conscience with all the subtlety of an oncoming freight train. They jerked into motion, dashing from their defensive circle around him, weapons raised. Halberds swept in great disemboweling arcs. Hammers smote down and turned men into smears on the churned ground. Swords cut and hewed. Lances in gauntleted hands thrust and impaled. Like jackals the light jacks descended on their prey, tearing great chunks from the distracted formations of red-clad warriors.
The line buckled. The Khadorans wavered.
Then the Cygnarans were there, surging around him and into the breach, a deep, joined hurrah rolling from their throats. The drab brown uniforms of Trenchers flooded forward, bayonets lowered in rows of gleaming knifepoints. Stormblade infantry charged alongside them, great two-handed swords swinging over their shoulders, each a nimbus of cackling lightning. Precursor Knights, silver armor polished to a terrible sheen, lumbered for the Khadoran line, chanting litanies of devotion as they advanced. And then the jacks, towering beasts of metal and steel. A Defender class, stepping over fur clad corpses, cannon discharging fire and smoke as it poured fire into the reeling mass of red. An Ironclad, Quake Hammer carried in both hands, shouldering past the infantry, eager to get to grips with the foes its master so hated. The hulking behemoth that was a Centurion, shield held resolutely in one arm to deflect bullet and shell, a Piston Spear clutched tight in the other poised to stab and rend. And the light jacks, numerous as they were varied, hunchbacked frames loping forward like packs of feral wolves.
He smiled. He could not help but be caught up in this oncoming wave. Haley had chosen her timing well.
In a great blue wedge the Cygnarans slammed into the gap made by his warjacks and everything dissolved into chaos.
Perception faded, as it often did in war, replaced with a series of flickering images that came moment by moment. All around him men in blue and red grappled with one another, their bodies made indistinct by the close press of melee combat. Bayonets flashed as they stabbed into fur and then the flesh behind. In return axes cleaved down, biting into shoulders, arms, and heads. Mighty war engines reaved their way through the tight mass of struggling men, leaving trails of carnage behind their destructive wake. Vaguely he was aware of his own warjacks returning to him, maintaining the protective cohesion of a battlegroup now that they were no longer required in the vanguard. It hardly mattered. No longer was this a general's battle of formations and soldiers in neat, tidy ranks. It had turned into the grunt's scuffle, a brawl of raw strength against raw strength. It was hectic, chaotic, and above all else, a warcaster's worst nightmare.
Magic was the lifeblood that connected a warjack to its master, but magic required concentration, and to maintain that link doubly so. When combat raged around you, it was so much harder to focus, so much more effort required to concentrate. He knew this. He had experienced it all before. Junior warcasters often made the mistake of trying to keep their focus on the jacks they marshalled, concentrating solely on the war machines they commanded. It was a fatal error. To be in the midst of battle meant that one had to be aware of one's surroundings. All too often he saw warcasters being picked off by solitary soldiers or specialized assassins, their attention diverted on the battle their warjacks fought instead of the battle at large. He had been guilty of doing the same himself on more than a few occasions. The scars on his body attested to that. Even now, after a lifetime of battle, it was hard, hard to stay detached and wary while his jacks did the fighting. But it was not without its benefits.
From the corner of his eye he could make out Iron Fang Uhlans careering for him, skirting around the masses of soldiers embroiled in combat. Spikes adorned the armor of their steeds, steel ornaments studded on blood red carapace. Their blasting lances were held high in resting position, spear tips pointing to the sky. Their aim was clear. Their intent, more so. They would charge him with lances couched while he was unaware and if that did not finish him, at least they would have the vulnerable backs of his warjacks as a target for their explosive spears. It was a sound tactic, and one that was not limited only to Khador. Cygnar employed their Storm Lances much to the same effect, and even the zealous Exemplar Vengers of Menoth knew the method of 'Hammer and Anvil'. After all, cavalry were fast and agile. And unlike the considerable bulk of a light jack, they could maneuver through the tight spaces between troop lines with relative impunity.
Fifty paces away and he could see their lances drooping until each was held horizontally, pointed tips fixed upon him. Their plate encased steeds broke out into a full gallop, hooves thundering across the ground. He kept up the illusion of not noticing, keeping his head facing straight and away from the oncoming horseman. Twenty yards away and the lead Uhlan let out a victorious shout, a sound his fellows mirrored. He could almost see the triumph in their eyes. Then he gave the order, and the Cyclone that had been so busy slaughtering its way through a platoon of Winter Guard abruptly stopped and swiveled on its chassis. The gatling cannons flared into life, multiple barrels stuttering with repeated discharge. The Uhlans didn't register its presence, so intent they were on him, and when they did, they were already riding into a hail of lead. Man and horse jerked and twitched as multiple shells found them, falling and tumbling together in intertwined jumbles of broken limbs as the Cyclone walked its fire through them. Blood misted in the air as the bodies that held them ruptured and split. Armor became nothing more than a redundancy. Less than that. Not even jack-grade plate could protect its wearer when the very air seemed to be alive with buzzing rounds. Swiftly, the formation ceased to be, disintegrating as the warjack raked the charging Uhlans with its chain guns.
The last rider was catapulted from his steed, his horse smashing into the dirt as bullets ripped its forelimbs from its torso. The Khadoran fell heavily and rolled to a stop before him, blood seeping from holes rent in his armor. From the cracked faceplate he could make out a solitary eye staring up at him, wide in shock. Then, he stepped over it, over the convulsing body, moving forward without a backwards glance. The sound of splintering plate a second later told him the Reaper had crushed the man underfoot.
Dimly, he followed the flow of battle, reacting to every change and hurrying to act when said change threatened to turn the conflict against them. A faint throb in his head and the sudden disappearance of a mind link told him he had lost another one of his light jacks some time earlier. He disregarded this information. It had been one of the mercenary engines he took from Llael's armories. The arduous journey to meet with Haley had taxed the already worn machine. He was honestly surprised it had last this long.
Gradually, the Cygnarans were pushing their opponents back, the sheer momentum of their charge giving them the advantage over superior numbers. Not even the arrival of the Man-o-Wars who had finally reached the beleaguered Winter Guard and the Juggernauts who tried to engage their Cygnaran counterparts through the tight press of men, could turn the tide. The Northmen were being overwhelmed, slowly but surely, and as realization of that fact struck, panic jolted through their ranks. He was not sure when it first happened. Even in his heightened state of awareness some aspects of the battle still escaped his attention. But the sudden lessening of pressure to the front of him told him all he needed to know. They were running. A few at first, then a slow trickle as it became apparent that the Cygnarans had the upper hand. That trickle became a flood as their opponents pressed the advantage, cutting swathes through the Khadoran ranks, weakening the already crumbling resistance. And then the lines of red collapsed, fully collapsed, overtaken by surging waves of blue, entire companies disappearing as they were overrun. It was too much. Just too much. The flood turned into a full on rout, and he saw soldiers throw down their weapons, their armor, anything that would weigh them down as they ran.
A thundering cheer broke out from around him, lifted from each and every Cygnaran's throat. They roared their victory to the sky and he saw that some had tears in their eyes. And then Haley was there to the front, her personal warjacks surrounding her, armor dented and scarred from recent blows. She pointed her spear in the direction of the fleeing army, lightning coursing across the span of the blade.
"After them!" he heard her shout, "Pursue them! For the King! For Cygnar!"
The cheers sounded again, and then they were surging forward once more, the Cygnarans, chasing after their hated foes with weapons clutched in vengeful hands.
He was about to join the pursuit when a wheezing gasp stopped him.
"Abomination!" the man's chest was a bloody ruin, weeping lifeblood onto the muddled ground, "You… You do not belong here…"
The arcane sigils inscribed over the Khadoran's robes told him he was a Greylord, the sorcerer-equivalent to Cygnar's own Tempest Mages. Through some inhuman effort, the wizened man was still standing even as his life left him in pain-wracked coughs.
"Anathema! Monster!" the Greylord continued to rant, "Begone from Khador's blessed soil! Go back to your own realm, demon!"
He shrugged, for it was all one could do when faced with a madman.
"And yet here I still am," he could not help but say.
The sword in his hand was aimed for the Khadoran's heart and balanced to thrust. He stepped into range.
The man's eyes lit up with victory. He started and looked down at his feet. The crimson glare of hexagrammic runes told him all he needed to know. They crisscrossed the area encompassing where he stood and where his personal warjacks stood.
An uncharacteristic growl erupted form his throat. He lunged for the Khadoran sorcerer and felt the blade connect.
The Greylord grinned at him through blood-flecked lips.
"Begone!"
And everything disappeared in a flash of white light.
++++++
They should have known that the death of Emmeline Vance was more than just a warning.
The Order had dispersed after last night's meeting, with half including Dumbledore heading back to their own homes and the other half deciding to continue the meeting at the Potter residence. The only warning they received was Severus flooing in, disheveled and panting.
"They're coming," the man had said, eyes filled with dread.
And then the wards had come crashing down.
It had been a blur ever since then. Lily recalled ushering a confused Rose up the stairs even as she demanded to fight alongside her parents' side. And then she had rushed out onto the yard, intent on defending her home and family. The odds were poor from the very beginning. The Death Eaters outnumbered them by at least five to one. Voldemort had risen and the Dark Lord was keen on finishing what he had started all those years ago.
Lily was dueling alone with three of his followers, exchanging spells and hexes at frantic speed. None amongst the Order could help her. The Death Eaters had ganged up on them from the very start and what they lacked in experience and power they made up for in numbers. Powered up Diffindos blazed past her and she was forced to swerve aside to avoid a hastily cast Reducto. Before she could fully turn, one of the masked men smashed into her Protego with a high-power Blasting Curse.
Her Shield Charm could not take the full brunt of the blow and shattered. Magical backlash ripped into her. She staggered and fell to one knee. Her wand fell from nerveless fingers.
One of the Death Eaters advanced. Behind the mask, his eyes gleamed with triumph.
"Avada-"
Lily heard James screaming her name, but found herself too exhausted to care. Perhaps it was better this way. If it ended like this, maybe she could see him again. To hold him again.
"Kedav-"
The explosion of magic threw them all off their feet.
Lily gasped as she felt herself land. The light blinded them. Vision returned in blotches of rearranging color. What she saw made her stare, made all of them stare.
In the epicenter of the blast, colossal forms loomed. They were giants of metal and steel. Massive hulking golems that belched fire from the smoke stacks on their backs. Iron wrought jaws and snarling faceplates discharged gouts of hot steam in great shuddering breaths. Armored hands grasped killing weapons far larger than they had any right to be. Predatory malice emanated from the group like a thick miasma.
Lily ignored all of them even as Order members and Death Eaters alike were rooted to the ground in shock. Her attention was riveted to the lone figure standing in the golems' midst, small and seemingly inconsequential compared to the giants around him.
Emerald eyes, her eyes, flickered back and forth between the two sides. Then they narrowed.
The boy barked an order, in a foreign tongue she could not understand.
The golems moved and then all around her Death Eaters began to die.