The Church of the God of Justice really did have pull—lots of stranded adventurers and believers answered their call and joined the fight.
But Ansel wasn't worried about Rand and the others.
His gaze slid past the chaotic, packed crowds on the bridge and fixed on the Flaming Fist fortress, where the great gate remained firmly shut, showing no sign of opening.
The worst-case scenario had arrived.
Soldiers on the walls stood like they were facing a siege. Ballistae and catapults were ready, but the orders they'd been given were clear: hold the fortress at all costs.
If they opened the gate now and let a swarm of creatures from below chase the refugees straight inside, the consequences would be unimaginable.
Ansel turned to Priest Borg. "You go ahead with the convoy. We'll stay and stall them."
He knew someone had to cover the retreat. As long as Rand's group could get onto the bridge first, they could use the narrow terrain to hold the enemy, fighting as they stepped back. Once they fell back under the walls, the Flaming Fist could cover them with ranged fire.
If the duergar's forces reached the bridge first, the convoy might get run down.
Borg understood the situation just as well. He pointed to four young priests. "You stay and help."
"Yes, sir." The four immediately grabbed bows and stepped out of the convoy.
Seeing this, Bratt's eyes lit up. He jogged up to a wagon loaded with weapons and pulled out a longbow, a quiver, and a shield. "I'll borrow these. I'll return them later."
He knew how to shoot—just wasn't an expert at it.
Borg patted Ansel's arm, gave him a long look, and ultimately said nothing. Then he rushed to get the wagons moving faster.
Ansel scanned the surroundings and pointed at the watchtower at the bridgehead. "Up there."
"Got it…"
They scrambled up to the top and watched from afar as the tide of monsters drew closer.
Even in that short time, Rand's group had lost more people—someone was falling every second.
Ansel tucked all six Goodberries into an inner pocket, noticing his palm was slightly hot and his heart was pounding—not from fear, but from excitement. His condition had never been better.
"They're here."
The choke point was only a few hundred meters from the bridge; in just a few seconds, the mass of fleeing people was within two hundred meters of the span.
Finn nocked an arrow and lifted the bow. With a soft twang, the arrow traced a high arc and fell into the monster horde behind the humans, dropping an orc and causing a small stir.
For a ranger, two hundred meters was still effective range—just with poor accuracy. But with the monsters packed that tight, it was hard not to hit something.
Finn kept firing, and it did ease the pressure on Rand's group a bit.
But they were retreating while fighting, and their pace was slowed. Many duergar slaves were already running ahead of them. If the refugees weren't soaking up so much of the monsters' attention, there might already be enemies on the bridge.
"Target the ones in front. We can't let them reach the bridge first," Ansel ordered.
"On it."
By now, the nearest monsters were under a hundred meters from the bridgehead. Bratt and the priests drew and fired as well, but their archery was mediocre and their hit rate low.
"Whew—"
Ansel took a deep breath, focused, and sent his magic surging. His long hair stirred in a wind that wasn't there; his skin shimmered with a faint metallic glow.
"મેજિકમિસાઇલ!"
(Magic Missile!)
Three glowing darts fanned out, weaving strange paths through the air before punching into three goblinoids at the front.
Three dull booms sounded faintly in the air as the goblins were hurled aside, dragging more monsters down with them.
Casting again, Ansel immediately felt the difference from before.
His mana flowed more smoothly; his casting was faster and cleaner. His aim was sharper—and the range was far beyond what he'd expected.
With Spell Sniper, Magic Missile's base range had gone up to 180 feet (~54 m), but that last volley had flown well over 70 meters. He'd fired early, trusting the spell would reach—and it had.
He figured this was due to his Charisma increase. It looked like just one point on paper, but the real boost was at least 35%.
And Charisma didn't just affect mana, save DCs, and checks. For a sorcerer, it enhanced everything.
Whip, whip, whip—
From their high perch, Finn and the others loosed arrow after arrow, veins standing out on their foreheads, shafts vanishing off their bowstrings in a blur.
They weren't trying to rack up kills anymore; just to keep the monsters from closing in.
Rand's group was down to barely more than a dozen. Seeing someone covering them from the bridge, they all brightened and pushed harder.
"મેજિકમિસાઇલ!"
Ansel's Draconic rang across the bridge, metallic and sharp. Every two seconds or so, another wave of missiles detonated in the monster ranks.
His mind was razor clear. He targeted whatever got closest to the bridge, occasionally dropping a volley deeper into the horde to sow confusion, squeezing every bit of value out of each casting.
After six casts of Magic Missile in a row, even he was feeling lightheaded.
Spreading the damage meant he didn't kill many outright, but the slowing effect was excellent. Intimidated, the monsters at the front involuntarily slowed their pace, which in turn blunted the pursuit.
Rand's group was on the verge of breaking away, now only a few dozen meters from the bridgehead.
For Ansel and the others, though, that distance was starting to get dangerous. Goblin archers were in range now, and arrows were already clattering against the watchtower.
"Fall back in groups—rooftops only. Move!"
Ansel had no intention of dying young. As soon as he spoke, he turned, took a running start, and vaulted from the watchtower onto the roof behind them, then scrambled up onto another roof.
The buildings on Wyrm's Crossing were jammed together, their roofs touching, making it easy for them to retreat over the tops.
The others stared for a beat, then followed suit. The priests pulled back first, then Finn and Bratt.
But the support couldn't stop. Once Ansel had a new firing position, he turned and threw out two Sorcerous Burst – Thunder blasts, using the thunderclaps to stun another wave of monsters.
From above, he could see a black mass packed into the stretch of road in front of the bridgehead—monsters and humans all converging on a single point, with Rand's group trapped in the middle.
Suddenly, Rand broke away from the cluster, raised his shield, and charged forward, bowling over dozens of monsters and planting himself at the very front of the bridge. Then he turned to hold the line.
Paladin Zahir took point as their spearhead, carving a path for the others.
Seeing this, the four priests slid down from the rooftops to help Rand hold the chokepoint.
Bratt watched Rand and Zahir sink into a desperate melee and hesitated for a couple seconds. In the end, he chose not to jump down.
Instead, he raised his shield with his left hand, stepped in front of Ansel, and blocked several incoming arrows. "You cast. I'll cover you!"
Ansel understood and stayed where he was, focusing entirely on his spells.
"જાદુઈવિસ્ફોટ!"
(Sorcerous Burst—Thunder!)
One blast after another.
"Boom, boom, boom—"
Thunder rolled over Wyrm's Crossing like a storm, a crack of lightning nearly every half-second, drawing everyone's eyes.
Occasional chain explosions hurled hulking orcs into the air. The monsters at the front grew visibly wary, their steps uncertain, trampling each other and sowing chaos.
With nothing but a cantrip, Ansel was blasting open a clear lane for the humans.
He wasn't getting many direct kills—just the odd XP notification—but the suppression effect was maxed out.
The price was brutal: his mind was overstretched, his skull throbbed, and twin streams of blood trickled from his nostrils.
"Look out—!"
A shrill whistling and several shouted warnings hit Ansel at once. He swallowed the second half of a spell, choked down the roiling magic, and dropped into a crouch.
Bang—
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bratt's shield shatter like glass. The warrior's body flew backwards like he'd been hit by a battering ram, smashed through the roof several meters behind them, and vanished from sight.
"Bratt!"
Ansel clenched his jaw, blood pounding in his ears, his emotions a tangled knot.
He slid down the far side of the roof and risked a glance over the edge. Zahir and the others were already making it onto the bridge, and the priests were shoving furniture and debris from both sides of the street into the way, both to crush monsters and to build makeshift barricades.
Good…
Relieved, Ansel jumped across to another roof and peered through the hole Bratt had made.
Bratt was struggling to his feet. The broken head of a javelin was embedded in the half-plate on his chest, but there was no blood at the impact point—only blood streaming from his face.
Ansel's heart soared. He immediately dropped down.
Bratt's nose and mouth were bleeding, face red with strain. He couldn't speak, but when his eyes found Ansel, they showed a flicker of genuine relief.
"Don't move."
Ansel slid a leg under his head as a pillow, fished out the healing potion, and poured the entire thing into his mouth.
There was no time to watch the potion work. A quick check confirmed the javelin had been stopped just short by the armor. The external wound wasn't bad; the real damage was internal.
"Armor off first." Ansel grabbed a dagger from his pack, sliced the straps, undid the catches, and roughly hauled the half-plate off.
Armor this heavy could press on broken ribs and make things worse—and if it was too heavy, Ansel wouldn't be able to drag him at all.
"Come on. We can't stay."
He had just gotten Bratt upright when the door slammed inward with a crash, kicked open from the outside.