by Jon Bender
The leader of the group, who had held his place throughout the attack, now began to make his way down the hill heading straight for Jaxom. Brenin loosed an arrow at the bearded man, who raised his hand and released a gout of flame that consumed the shaft midair. Jaxom now understood why the pursuers thought they could win. The mage shifted his arm and a ball of bright red flame flicked to life before his outstretched fingers. The flames grew to the size of a man’s head before shooting towards the archer.
Surrounded by the boulders, Brenin couldn’t move fast enough to dive out of the way. Reacting without thought, Jaxom channeled to one of the dead men lying prone on the ground in the fireball’s path. The corpse shot to its feet, taking the full blast of the fire in the chest and was thrown fifteen feet to land on its back. Half of the risen’s face had been burned away, leaving a blackened skull, its chest now a black hole of charred meat and bone. The risen stood again and stalked toward the fire mage.
Half of the attackers still stood and were pressing in on Jerup and Cribble. Jaxom cast again and again, the power of death flowing from his fingers. Everytime a man fell, his body rose again to fight for Jaxom. His risen fighters moved toward the fire mage, who was forced to stop his advance to deal with them. The flames he threw about with abandon only slowed their advance. Realizing that his current tactic was not working, he began to hold a column of flame on each of the risen. The sustained flame reduced the risen to ash, but it took too long. While he burned one, the others got closer.
With the fire mage busy, Jaxom rushed to aid Cribble and Jerup. The guards were too entwined with the enemy to risk casting. Forced to use his sword, Jaxom slashed at a man’s back, cutting deeply to his spine. Screaming, the man fell from his horse and was immediately trampled. In the confusion, Cribble drove his sword through his attacker’s ribs. Seeing the odds shifting from their favor, the remaining two attackers took a defensive posture as they waited for the fire mage to arrive.
A fire ball roared towards them, and Jaxom was forced to cast a shield of smoke to suffocate the flames. Jaxom had to pull the mage’s attention away from his friends. It would be much harder to face the caster while trying to shield the Guardsman. Charging towards the bearded mage with his sword held to the side in readiness, Jaxom was met by a stream of flame. Forcing him to stop and block the magical cast with his sword. Even with the blade absorbing the magical energy, the smell of singed hair and cloth filled his nose. When the flame finally stopped, he could feel the sword pulsing with magical energy straining to be released.
“An impressive enchantment. It’s almost a shame to kill the man responsible for its creation,” the mage said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be the one walking away from this,” Jaxom replied. That’s it? He thought to himself. That was the wittiest retort he could come up with? He decided to work on his life and death banter, if he survived.
The mage smirked. “You don’t have to die today. My master will accept you if you swear service to him.”
“Thank him for me, but I have to decline,” Jaxom said.
“It’s just as well. I’ll be having that sword once we’re done here,” he said. Raising his hand, the mage released a stream of red flame at Jaxom’s horse.
Jaxom smiled and commanded his horse forward into the fire. His mare moved through the flame, feeling nothing, though its neck and chest burned away with every step. Jaxom could feel the heat on his legs but he ignored the pain of the burns. The fire mage’s mocking smile turned to a look of surprise. Casting with his free hand, Jaxom sent the blight to wrap around the mage’s arm, creeping up to his shoulder. The fire flowing from him stopped abruptly, replaced by screaming as flesh fell away from his arm. Jaxom released the cast and thrust his sword into his chest.
As the mage took his last breath, Jaxom leaned into him. “You got my sword after all,” he whispered.
The mage’s horse bolted, throwing the corpse to the ground in a careless heap. Seeing the mage fall, the remaining men turned their horses and fled back up the hill. Cribble and Jerup sat on their horses, panting. Jerup bled profusely from a long bloody gash down his leg which he was holding closed with a hand. Commanding the horse to move to them, the animal attempted to obey but fell forward as its front legs collapsed beneath it. Jaxom was forced to kick free or be crushed. From his positon on the ground, he could see why the animal had fallen. The muscles had been burned away completely, leaving the bones of its forelegs and chest exposed. Jaxom felt a pang of loss for the horse as he cut the flow of magic reanimating it.
His four companions moved to where he lay on the ground. The pain from the burns on his legs made it impossible to stand. Da’san knelt next him, placing his hands over the burns and began chanting quietly. A blue light bloomed from his palms and grew brighter as he continued to pray. As Da’san moved his hands up and down the length of Jaxom’s legs, the pain slowly eased until it was gone completely. Breathing heavily, Da’san leaned back to catch his breath and examine his work. Jaxom tested his legs and found them whole once more.
Cribble and Jerup had dismounted, with Cribble in the process of binding the other man’s wound. Both bore many smaller wounds, scattered over their bodies. Da’san stopped Cribble’s ministrations and healed the cut on Jerup’s leg. Brenin walked over to them. Looking over the archer’s shoulder, Jaxom saw that Brenin’s horse had been caught in one of the fire mage’s attacks. It lay on its side near the boulders where the archer had been standing, half of its hide burnt away.
Cribble offered a hand to help Jaxom to his feet. “You’ve made a powerful enemy,” the guard said.
Da’san had finished healing Jerup. The priest now stood a little unsteadily but otherwise seemed no worse for the effort. “It means we’re heading the right way.” Jaxom said.
“We didn’t kill them all. At least five have fled, and they will be reporting the failure. When their master finds out, he’ll send more to finish the job,” Cribble said.
“Not if we find him first,” Jaxom said. Cribble gave an amused grunt before returning to his horse. Bending over, Jaxom cleaned his sword on the dead mage’s cloak. The blade still throbbed with unreleased power. He considered releasing the flame but decided against it. A fireball may come in handy in the near future.
Chapter 9
Celia waited in the tree line with her two hundred cavalry. She adjusted the heavy plate armor she wore, trying to settle the full face helm into a more comfortable position. The men were becoming restless. Only Graydon was annoyingly calm and relaxed, unaffected by the slow passage of time. He had taken to whittling a small stick and seemed content to continue all day. As they moved south, Nelix had broken the thousand men into five units and spread them out across the countryside. He had explained that the unit commanders would be less likely to take unnecessary risks with so few men at hand, and this would allow the force to cover more ground. Their purpose was to slow the enemy, not win the war.
Early that morning, Celia had received a message from the general that scouts had spotted an advance party in their area. Celia was to determine the strength and destination of the party, and if the situation allowed, to engage the enemy, inflicting as much harm as possible without serious loss to her own men.
“What did the scouts report on the southerners?” she asked Graydon.
The man sighed, never looking up from his whittling. “The same thing I told you twenty minutes ago.” Glancing up and seeing the look on her face, Graydon sighed. “They saw one hundred men on horse moving north on this trade road.”
“Nothing else?”
“What more do you want? Their names?” he said.
He was right, of course. He usually was. When she had tried to make sure every man was maintaining his gear properly, Graydon had taken her aside and explained that if she continued on, she would have time for nothing else. She needed to give orders to the officers, who would in turn tell the sergeants, who would make sure the men were doing so. It had worked just as he said it would,
and she was thankful that Graydon was not the “I told you so” type. He had let her see for herself and left it at that.
“How much longer, do you think?” she asked.
Graydon shook his head in amusement and pointed with the stick. Looking where he indicated, she could just see the enemy soldiers moving into view, riding at a steady pace in ranks of ten across. She nodded to Graydon, and her mentor whispered something to a man next to him. The word spread to await the signal. Time moved with agonizing slowness as they waited for the enemy to move into position. Finally, Graydon nodded, and the horn blew, sounding the charge. Spurring her horse forward, Celia charged out of the trees, deafened by the sound of hundreds of hooves pounding the earth as her men formed around her. The southerners heard the horn and reacted quickly, turning with precision and rushing forward to meet them.
Chaos erupted as the first line of her cavalry smashed into the enemy. Horses and men crashed into each other, steel meeting flesh in sickening thwacks. Celia faced a man in dark leather armor who had gotten past the first line. Meeting her eyes, the enemy soldier swung a heavy mace aimed at her chest. Stopping the strike, Celia reversed her blade to cut the man’s throat only to be blocked by the shield on his other arm. Swinging downward with the mace, he attempted to crush her shoulder under the mighty blow. Gripping the sword in a two-handed grip, her blade met the metal-sheathed haft of the weapon, the weight buckling her arms as she stopped the attack. Before he could recover to strike again, a sword slashed under his arm then again across his back. Falling to the ground, the mace wielder disappeared under the press of horses.
Looking up, she saw Graydon’s back as he turned away to meet another southerner. Taking his cue, she looked for her next target and found one of her men being hard-pressed. His left harm hung limply at his side while he used his right, desperately trying to keep an enemy blade at bay. Urging her horse forward, Celia blocked the next attack meant for his head. As Celia held the southerner’s blade in place, the wounded man thrust forward with his own sword, piecing flesh. She saw the cavalryman’s eyes widen in surprise at something behind her. Turning quickly, she barely blocked the incoming sword meant for her neck. Catching her attacker by surprise with the suddenness of her parry, Celia threw his sword wide leaving the man open. Her counter-strike spilled his intestines across his horse’s back.
As Celia began looking for another opponent, a horn blew in the distance. The enemy soldiers cheered and slowly began collapsing into a tighter formation. The wind whipped around, her sending dirt and dust into the air. Pulling her horse back from the fight, she looked for the source of the horn. Another group of the enemy was riding hard towards them with twenty or so reinforcements. The wind grew stronger and faster until it formed into a cyclone headed straight for her men. The realization struck her like an arrow: A storm mage had joined the fight. The numbers were still in their favor, but killing the mage would have a high cost, if they could even get close enough to accomplish the task.
“Retreat! Fall back to the trees,” she screamed. Graydon heard her and yelled to the signaler who blew a long note on his horn. Slowly, her men disengaged from the enemy, trying to break away without receiving a sword in the back. They were moving away from the southerns at full gallop when the cyclone caught the men at the rear, tossing them and their horses into the air. She turned away from the horrible sight unable to do anything for them.
They were forced to slow once they were amongst the trees, but the cyclone followed, catching more men in a storm of flying branches and trunks. Weaving through the forest, she braved a look over her shoulder and saw the cyclone dissipate, but she didn’t stop. Graydon found her, matching the speed of her horse to ride at her side. As they broke through into a clearing, Celia reigned in her horse. Some of her men were already there waiting for others to arrive. She counted twenty of the two hundred she had started with. She ordered a signaler to give the call to assemble. As he blew a series of short notes, more men filtered in, many wounded and riding double, having lost their mounts in the fight. When they had assembled, Celia counted again: one hundred and twenty-seven. Celia was devastated. Her first brush with the enemy, and she had lost almost half of her force. Graydon said softly in her ear that they should move toward camp. Not trusting her voice, she nodded and led the tattered force away, thinking only of the seventy-three who were not there.
Several hours later, the tired and wounded men arrived back at the camp. Dismounting, Celia removed the saddle from her horse and walked directly for her tent, speaking to no one. She told herself it was only to have a quiet place to think, but knew in her heart it was to hide from the eyes of men she had failed. Collapsing on her small cot, she put her face in her hands and gave into her tears.
Sometime later, Graydon entered. The Weapons Master stood silently at the entrance for several minutes before breaking the silence with a soft, comforting voice.
“You are not at fault,” he said.
“Of course, I am! Those men put their trust in me, and I got over seventy killed in thirty minutes. All because I decided to lead them,” she said.
“Listen to me, Celia. You are not at fault. Every decision you made was correct. Your father could not have done better.”
Celia shook her head. She had played her decisions over and over in her mind. Every time, it seemed so straightforward. She couldn’t see doing anything differently, but that did nothing to ease the guilt she felt. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Your father couldn’t have survived this campaign. Instead of letting someone who doesn’t know these men take them into battle, you risked your own life to make sure they were taken care of.” He sat down beside her. “Men die in war. No matter how much you prepare or how well you plan, men will die. The only way to avoid that is to give up, to let the enemy have everything they want.”
“But maybe if I had planned it differently, so many would not have died today,” Celia said.
“There was no way to know that another group would be shadowing the one we attacked. We thought we were ambushing them, but instead they ambushed us. Not even your father would have predicted that they would risk mages in skirmishes.”
“It was an ambush?” she said speaking more to herself than Graydon. “Of course, it makes sense now.”
“If you hadn’t given the call for retreat, we may all have been lost. You saved us.”
Celia finally looked up. “Knowing that doesn’t stop me from thinking about all the men we lost.”
“That pain will never go away. The day it does is the day when you should no longer lead,” he said standing. “Now, we have just suffered a loss. The men need to know that their commander has not abandoned them.”
Nodding, Celia stood, firming her resolve to do her duty. “Thank you, Graydon.”
“What’s our next move?” he asked.
“The wounded have already been cared for?”
“Yes, but two of them died,” he said quietly.
Two more gone while she had wallowed in self-pity. She decided right then that never again would her men die while she sat and did nothing. “We need to send a message to General Blackburn. Let him know that the enemy has placed mages in their advanced units. Tell him we will be needing bows, and find out who among the men can shoot from horseback.” If they were to fight mages, they would need the extended range. Graydon brought his fist to his chest before turning and leaving her tent. Taking a deep breath, Celia followed. She had much to do before their next fight.
Chapter 10
Da’san led them to a small town called Chams’dell, a settlement of a thousand people surrounded by a ten-foot stonewall. The men at the gate had not been friendly, eyeing the small group suspiciously. The priest explained that bandits sometimes sent spies to search for weaknesses in a town’s defenses. Jaxom rode a chestnut horse, one of two they captured from the men who had attacked them. Passing through the town, he scrutinized the buildings and people going about their day. Most of the structures wer
e made of wood with wooden shingles, and only a few had more than two stories. The people wore simple clothing but walked straight-backed, emanating a sense pride that was lacking in Ale’adar amongst the common people. Everything from the doors of their houses to their carts looked both functional and made with care.
Da’san guided them to the largest structure in sight and the only building made completely from stone. A sign above the front door depicted a man sleeping in a bed beneath white-painted words that named the place The Traveler’s Rest. A young boy took their horses, and they went inside taking seats at an empty table. The common area was clean and well kept, as was the girl who came and took their drink orders, returning quickly with a round of finely crafted wooden mugs.
“So what now?” Cribble asked.
“We need to find someone to guide us into Teriken,” Jaxom replied. “Da’san, do you know anyone?”
“There are many who hunt in the forest, but I do not know of any who go far enough to spend the night within its borders,” the priest said.
“Then we’ll have to ask around,” Jerup said.
Jaxom hoped that they could find someone soon as they could not afford to spend a lot of time looking. The thought of searching the forest without a guide filled him with anxiety, especially since he still wasn’t sure what he was looking for. “We’ll split up and ask around. Cribble, take Da’san and ask the hunters he knows. See if any are up to the task. Jerup, see that we have enough supplies for a long journey.” Jaxom handed him several gold coins. Jerup stood and went to talk to the innkeeper.
“What will you be doing?” Cribble asked.
“Brenin and I will also be looking for a guide. With any luck, one of us will be successful,” Jaxom said.
Cribble nodded and downed his ale in a swallow before getting to his feet and placing a hand on Da’san shoulder, indicating he was ready to go.
