4.05 K (1/2)

Venith heard the messenger out in silence. His teeth ground together and the mounted soldiers watched him cautiously. They were eighteen, and though Venith’s own soldiers were present in the courtyard, they would have the advantage in the seconds following.

But Venith Crusand had a hand on his sword. He gripped it with knuckles that slowly turned white as he glared at the man who had delivered the demand.

“This was not what I agreed to.”

“Your oath was to prevent the King of Destruction’s return. All you must do is stand aside.”

Venith heard something crack as his grip tightened even further on his sword’s hilt. He relaxed his grip slightly. Too much strength would dull his thrusts. If it came to that.

“Those are my subjects you intend to slaughter out there!”

“They abandoned you, did they not?”

It was true. They had left. So had Mares. His wife. The very thought made Venith want to lash out, but he couldn’t. The soldiers standing before him had come in peace, and offered no insult he could claim. And he had sworn an oath.

Even so.

“It is not honorable. If you want to kill Flos, take your army and lay siege to his capital. Using tricks is the act of a coward.”

The messenger’s face didn’t change, nor did those of the soldiers behind them. Venith knew his words had little sting for them. They were from Hellios, and their hatred of the King of Destruction ran deep.

“It is one plan. If it fails, the coalition army will crush Flos and burn Reim to the ground. But it would be simpler if his head could be taken before so many lives are lost. Is that not the best result?”

It might have been. But Venith’s soul revolted at the thought.

“It is not honorable.”

The mounted man’s face twisted in annoyance. He snapped down at Venith.

“Honorable or not, all you must do is not interfere. If your patrols had not clashed with ours, we would not be having this conversation!”

“Had you decided to avoid cutting through my lands, I wouldn’t have paid attention. But even a small army is my business. And your forces didn’t cover their tracks well enough. They were sloppy.”

Venith relished the flash of anger in the man’s eyes. But the messenger controlled himself. He shook his head coldly.

“You have sworn an oath, Venith Crusand. Your wife, Lady Maresar—”

He paused. Venith’s blade had inched out a bit from his scabbard. The men tensed. The messenger continued, choosing his words carefully.

“Your subjects have renounced their homes and joined the King of Destruction. But you fought and attempted to uphold your oath. The kingdoms see you as an ally, which is why your lands have been spared.”

Ally? The word was insulting. The other kingdoms saw Venith as someone they could ignore. They didn’t need to waste men on him if they could just let him be.

“This ambush will fail. All it will do is slay more innocent lives. Those refugees are not soldiers.”

“One day they might be. It has already begun. Do not interfere.”

The messenger was tired of the argument. He wheeled his mount. The escort followed him, keeping together, watching Venith’s soldiers warily.

Now would be the time. To stop them, to call out their dishonorable actions and fight. Venith knew it. He felt the blood pumping through his veins. His hand was on his sword.

He let them go.

—-

Half an hour later, Venith was in his war room. It was just a small cubicle in his keep really, a place for him to survey the terrain. It wasn’t as if he had ridden to war since he had taken his oath against his former King. All he had ever done was slay the occasional monster or crush a group of bandits.

Now Venith stared at a map covered with small flags. A vast army was on the march, to the north east, winding down the long road towards Reim. But his eyes were on the patch of land to the west of the capital, where a second road led to other crossroads and kingdoms.

There were more flags there. Venith could only guess the ambushing force’s location, but there were only so many places they could hide. They were camped in the foothills, waiting for the King of Destruction to ride out to save the refugees being attacked by raiders. They would swoop down on him and encircle his position.

And kill him. It was a sensible measure. Without him, his kingdom would fall apart, despite Orthenon, Mars, and Gazi. But it was not honorable. Those butchers would kill hundreds of men, women and children just to kill a single King.

But Venith had sworn an oath to do just that. So he could not do anything about it.

Venith had a cool drink of grape wine from his cellars. He was not thirsty, but the thought of drinking himself into a stupor was enticing. He had never done it, but now—

The door to his small war room opened. Venith turned, about to curtly dismiss whoever had opened the door and paused.

“Calac.”

His son stood in the doorway, armed for war. The plate armor had to be hot in the sun’s rays, but Venith had ordered every man and women to ready themselves for battle when he’d seen the armed force approaching. He wondered why Calac hadn’t taken off his armor yet.

“What’s the matter, son? Is there news?”

“No news. Nothing’s happening here. The soldiers are leaving.”

Calac’s face was blank. He stared at his father, eyes searching Venith’s face. Then he shifted his attention to the map. He looked at Venith.

“Is this the kind of man you are?”

Something about his tone made Venith angry. It was insubordinate, the prelude to a fight. He glared at his son. But Calac didn’t flinch.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You heard what they’re going to do. They’re going to kill the King of Destruction. Lure him out by killing innocent people. And you didn’t stop them.”

The words twisted into Venith’s heart. He turned away roughly, staring down at the map.

“So? I swore an oath—”

“Is that the kind of man you are? The kind of man who hides behind oaths when injustice is done?”

Those words. Venith spun. He hurled something—the cup of wine. Calac flinched as the liquid sprayed across his face and armor. But he didn’t back down.

“I swore an oath. Are you suggesting I break it? I have never gone back on my word, never lied. That is the kind of man I am!”

He snarled at his only son. But Calac just wiped away dripping wine from his face.

“So it’s fine if everyone else breaks their oath, just not you? That man—Hellios is sending an army out to kill our people. If they’re on the road, they’ll die. They’d dishonor themselves and break the rules of war just to kill the King of Destruction. And what happens if he dies? Does that mean mother and everyone else get slaughtered too?”

“It won’t come to that. They’ll lay down their arms.”

Venith felt the words twist in his mouth. Calac made a sound that wasn’t a laugh.

“Mother? Never.”

That was true too. It was true. But Venith had—he clenched his fists.

“The King of Des—Flos broke his oath long ago. I owe him nothing.”

“You told me that all my life. Every time mother told me about him, you’d always say he was a fool. An oathbreaker. A coward who abandoned his kingdom. And I believed you. I thought he didn’t have a shred of pride or honor.”

Calac’s voice was quiet. He stared at his father.

“But now I see the truth. These kingdoms, and these other [Rulers] have no honor either. Less. At least the King of Destruction was willing to fight his own battle. And he spared you.”

“I was prepared to die. I did not ask him for mercy.”

Venith wanted his son to shout back at him, to make it an argument rather than—but Calac’s voice was level. It wasn’t angry; there was too much of his mother’s voice, Mares’ voice in the way he spoke.

“I admire my father. The man who raised me taught me how to be honorable, to keep my word. He taught me to defend the innocent and never bow to injustice. He taught me to do what was right.”

Arrows at his heart. Venith’s voice rose and he shouted at his son.

“Not to obey orders, apparently! You disgraced yourself in battle not a day ago!”

It was a petty thing to say. Calac’s head lowered, and then he looked up at his father.

“I did. I thought I could end things easily, even if it meant being dishonorable. That was the wrong thing to do, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It was dishonorable. There is no excuse for such actions, regardless of the reason.”

Finally, something Venith could say with conviction. Calac nodded slowly.

“Then why are you lecturing me and not stopping those men?”

Silence. Venith searched for words, and found none. Calac turned.

“I’m going. Me and some of the soldiers are going to ride to the King of Destruction’s side. We’ll probably die, but at least we’ll die doing the right thing. Like you taught me.”

“You cannot—you’d abandon your post?”

Venith forced the words out, a gasp through his suddenly tight chest. Calac nodded.

“It’s the right thing to do, father. Mom was right.”

“Then you’re a traitor too! You—abandoning your home, your people!”

“What people, father? What home? There’s just you here, and some soldiers. Everyone is with the King of Destruction. Flos. Mother’s King. Our King. Your King.”

Calac turned and began walking down the narrow corridors of the keep. Venith stumbled after him. He felt drunk, disoriented. He shouted at his son’s back.

“You swore to obey my orders! Come back!”

For a second, Calac turned. He stared at his father and Venith felt a surge of hope. But then he spoke.

“I’m sorry. You taught me how to be proud, how to keep my word. How to be honorable. But father, I guess I never learned what loyalty meant.”

Then he turned and walked away. Leaving Venith with nothing at all.

—-

The air was hot. Uleth, the [General] leading the coalition army of six nations, stared ahead at the small army barring their way.

“Not even five thousand soldiers? Is the King of Destruction mad?”

“Drunk on his own fame, perhaps. But he’s not even with this army, so perhaps it’s his [Steward] who’s made the decision.”

One of the strategists from Germina commented as he squinted at the army ahead of Uleth’s forces. Uleth shook his head.

“I’ve studied the battle tactics used by Orthenon. He’s no fool. Regardless of their reasons, they’ve come to us. Ready yourselves! I want [Mages] and [Archers] to begin firing as soon as they come within range!”

“And the formation?”

The [Strategist] frowned. Uleth glared at him.

“As I ordered.”

The man hesitated, which annoyed Uleth. But he wasn’t one of Uleth’s subordinates. The [General] wouldn’t have worked with him at all, save for his level. But the orders were passed down and Uleth saw his forces begin to rearrange themselves out of the long column they’d been marching in.

The [General] had a Skill. [Battlefield Eye]. It allowed Uleth to see, or rather, create an image of the battlefield from any angle based on his own line of sight and the reports he received. With it, he saw his army spreading out, encircling his position while his mages and the siege weapons he’d brought moved into the center.

They weren’t all bunched up in the center; that was an invitation for a mage strike, and Uleth wasn’t about to risk it, for all that Flos wasn’t supposed to have any strong mages in the field. Rather, his valuable units such as [Mages] and the two trebuchets were scattered around him, buffered by soldiers. At the center of what was a giant ellipse of soldiers lay Uleth’s command and the [General] himself. From there he could issue any order and the dozens of [Tacticians] and [Strategists] he’d brought could assume command of individual groups of soldiers.

Uleth knew it was not an orthodox formation. He didn’t care. Against an army of equal size, his deployment would leave him understrength if the enemy committed to any one side. But he was up against an army a fraction of his size.

“The instant the enemy comes within range, bombard them. When they attack, we will seal their exits with cavalry and envelop them.”

He repeated the plan to his gathered officers, making sure they could move even without orders. Uleth had [Sergeants], [Captains], and so forth, but his [Strategists] could provide incredible benefits to a battalion by using their Skills at the right moment.

That was what would tip the scales here. Not grand strategy but Skills. Uleth knew he was outmatched in terms of levels by Orthenon, known far and wide as the King of Destruction’s Left Hand. But he was only one leader. Uleth had brought dozens to match him.

And he had the numbers on his side. So many it wasn’t a fair battle, however many of the King’s Seven were on the field. Uleth kept repeating that to himself. His plan was solid. Overwhelm with sheer numbers. So long as Uleth kept his most valuable assets shielded by his soldiers, he would triumph, regardless of the King of Destruction’s superior individual might.

But the army of four thousand wasn’t moving. Uleth squinted at them. He could have had a [Mage] use a spell to enhance his sight, but they were visible in the distance. A good deal of cavalry; far less foot soldiers than Uleth had expected. Were some defending the city? Why? Why split up forces?

They weren’t moving. That wasn’t what Uleth expected of Orthenon. The man should have launched a surprise attack while Uleth’s army was on the move. Fast, lightning strikes were what he was known for. Why was he—

Someone blew a horn. A warning. Uleth saw a distant figure move in Orthenon’s army, but saw nothing happen. He turned to the [Strategist] from Germina.

“What’s happening?”

“Someone’s firing an arrow.”

The man had a Skill and he was shading his eyes to see. His gaze traced the flight of the arrow—Uleth, watching, saw only a blur and then heard a scream.

“A lone archer? Are they targeting someone?”

“No—they didn’t aim at any of our [Mages].”

“Well then, send a volley back! Have our highest-level [Archers]—”

“Look!”

The man cried out. Uleth turned and saw fog. It was billowing up. Fog. Despite the harsh sunlight, it rose out of the ground to the surprised shouts of the soldiers. From where the arrow had landed.

“More arrows!”

They were falling amid Uleth’s army, releasing fog which obscured all vision. Uleth gritted his teeth. He turned his head and roared.

“[Mages]! Lift the fog!”

For a few minutes he heard no response. Then one of his messengers ran towards him.

“The [Mages] are attempting to lift the fog, but it will take them several minutes! The arrows are high-Tier magic—”

“Attack!”

Someone shouted it. Uleth’s head turned as he heard the horn calls from the side. They were unmistakable.

“The army has charged us in the fog! They’re engaged with our left flank!”

“I will move our forces out to engage—”

“No!”

Uleth stopped everyone with a word. He stood still, heart pounding. But he was certain.

“Do not move. Let Orthenon attack. He is attempting to force us to break formation. But we will hold position.”

“[General], the casualties—”

“We will hold position until the [Mages] lift the fog. Even if Orthenon charges his army, he will only be fighting a fraction of this army. When the air clears we will encircle him and destroy his army. You, you, you—go and reinforce the battle zone. Everyone else will hold position.”

There was no argument on the battlefield. Not with the [General]. Uleth saw men and women running and waited. Minutes until the mists cleared. All he had to do was wait. Orthenon was famous for mind-games, for striking an enemy’s weak spot when they reacted to his provocations. All he had to do was wait—

The sound of clashing arms was distant, and Uleth could hear shouts, screams, horn calls in the distance. He fancied he could even smell the blood pouring already, metallic. Sharp.

But then he heard something. It wasn’t loud, but it was deep. So deep it cut below the sounds in the distance. Uleth began to rub at his ears.

“What’s making that sound?”

He turned his head, but could barely see his command, let alone the soldiers in the dense fog. He could see faint shapes in the mist, but they turned into shadows and then nothing. But the sound continued.

“I said, what in the name of sands is—”

And then it grew louder and Uleth realized what it was.

Humming.

Ahead of Uleth, the fog parted. A slim silhouette emerged from the white oblivion. A stranger holding a huge sword in one hand. She walked forwards, humming that haunting melody under her breath.

Dark shadows ran towards her, and Uleth heard the voices of men and women shouting. The figure swung her sword. Shadows fell to the ground. She walked on.

“Enemy attack!”

Someone shouted. But more voices were yelling the same thing. And the soldiers weren’t moving. They couldn’t see in the fog and they were a force of many nations. If they rushed to attack, they might find themselves locked in combat with their own forces.

Some were. Uleth heard the clash of arms behind him, where no one was attacking. But he only had eyes for the advancing shape. No one could see in this damned fog. No one. Except perhaps someone who had earned her title for doing just that.

Uleth felt a chill. He knew she was on the battlefield. He knew she was here. But it was one thing to hear of her, and another to see her. He whispered her name.

“Gazi the Omniscient.”

The half-Gazer walked into view. Her sword was red. Her armor was dyed crimson. Her central, main eye was closed, but all four of her smaller eyes were focused on him. On Uleth.

He drew his sword. His command formed up, [Tacticians] shouting, Uleth’s elite soldiers forming a wall between him and one of the King’s Seven. Two [Mages] strode forwards, grasping wands nervously. They were all staring at Gazi.

She could not hope to kill them all herself. Uleth’s mind babbled it as he froze, trying to think of orders. But all he could remember were the tales of entire commands slain in the middle of battle, of night ambushes that left no one alive.

“Ch—char—”

His men were staring at him. But Uleth couldn’t form the words properly. How had she come here? They were at the heart of his army! She would have had to cut her way through all those soldiers? Alone?

And then Uleth heard galloping horses and more screams. He saw a second figure appear out of the fog. A man on horseback, a spear in hand. More shapes broke out of the mist behind him. Mounted soldiers. They had cut their way through the stationary troops, led by the leader of the army himself.

Orthenon. Uleth stared at him. The King’s [Steward] raised his spear, and Uleth tried to make his mouth work.

“Char—”

“Charge!”

The King’s [Steward] kicked his horse forwards, and his entire army, cavalry and screaming soldiers, rushed out of the fog straight towards Uleth.

—-

There was a war going on. Trey knew he should be hiding in the city of Reim, away from it. He was no soldier, no fighter. He could barely use a sword. But he rode across the barren ground, following a King.

Flos rode like the wind. No—the wind was weightless. In that case, Flos rode like thunder. He was mounted, riding hard and fast down the road, past groups of people.

And bodies. Some were collapsed, bundles of rags on first glance, until you saw the blood. They flashed past Trey, but he could smell the death as he passed.

And then he saw the people on horseback. He must have turned past a mound of dirt or else there was some gradient to the landscape, because there they were. Trey saw it in a flash. A huge crowd of screaming people fleeing. A knot of armed men and women—barely armored. Flashing swords, and the riders breaking away from the fighting to ride down on some of the fleeing refugees.

They barely saw Flos before it was too late. A man wearing scale armor and holding a spear was riding towards a young woman who’d fallen. He raised the spear, and his head turned as he spotted Flos, riding towards him.

He tried to turn his horse. But too slow. Flos’ sword cut up, through the man’s armpit. The arm holding the spear fell; the second cut went halfway through the man’s neck, between the gap of helmet and armor.

Flos yanked his sword away as the man fell. He turned and rode at the other riders without pausing. They paused, uncertain. Then they recognized him. The King of Destruction.

Some tried to flee. Flos rode down on a slimmer shape on horseback. A female warrior? His sword flashed and one of the riders fell, headless. Flos turned and his sword shot out, stabbing at another rider’s chest.

The man or woman blocked, but the thrust carried them out of the saddle. Flos rode his mount forwards and trampled the fallen rider as he cut at the third man on horseback as he rode at Flos, curved scimitar raised, screaming.

The man was wearing armor, but Flos’ blow knocked his sword aside and smashed into the pauldron the man was wearing. The armor bent around the blow. So did flesh and bone. Trey heard the man cry out in agony. He died reaching for his crushed shoulder as Flos’ second blow crushed his skull and helmet.

Seconds. Trey was still riding towards the dead rider as the last toppled from his horse when he realized he was riding straight into the battle. He pulled desperately at his horse’s reins and the horse reared.

Trey had to clutch desperately at the horse to keep from falling off. He heard someone shout his name.

“Trey!”

His sister rode past him, only managing to slow her horse after several more yards. She turned and he saw she’d drawn her sword.

“Don’t—”

He reached for her. Trey couldn’t have said why. He just knew he couldn’t let his sister, Teres, ride into the heart of that battle. She stared at him, and then turned her head.

There was no need for Teres. Flos was enough. He rode at the group of fighting men and women, aimed straight at the attackers on horseback. They too saw him too late.

It was like a red whirlwind. Flos’ sword moved in flashes, each time slicing through skin, bone, and even armor, or crushing the very same. There were two dozen mounted soldiers—Flos rode into them from behind and they began falling from their saddles. In pieces.

Trey saw the blood. He saw people dying, in ways he couldn’t have dreamed of. He saw a man raise a shield and Flos’ blow split his helm and expose his shattered skull.

Trey leaned over and threw up on the ground. That felt appropriate. There wasn’t any glory in this, any excitement.

But there was vengeance. And there was hope, when the fleeing people and those who had tried to fight looked up and saw their King, holding his bloody sword in the air.

“My King!”

The twins couldn’t bring themselves to ride towards the carnage, but Flos rode back towards them. Trey flinched when he saw the blood spattered along his arm and chest. Flos just looked at him and nodded.

“This is my world. See it with your own two eyes.”

Then he turned to the people who were flocking around him. They shouted his name.

“My King!”

“Our King has come to save us!”

“Long live Flos!”

Flos said one word.

“Silence.”

And there was. He turned to one of the few refugees holding a weapon. Trey was surprised to see it was a balding man, hair white and wispy, with a wide hat on his head. He didn’t look like a warrior, but the there was blood on the short axe he carried, and none on his body.

“You. Tell me what is happening.”

This man wasn’t weeping. He stared up at Flos with a huge, face-splitting grin. He bowed his head, but spoke clearly.

“My King. I don’t know how many of ‘em are out there, but there’s dozens of these fiends chopping anyone on the road to bits. We were marching when they came out of the blue, like. We tried to fend them off, but they were choppin’ us to bits before you charged into them.”

Flos nodded. His eyes found the other people holding weapons. They were all older men and women, Trey saw. Some were much older. Grandparents. An elderly woman had a shortbow in one hand. But what was surprising was how natural it seemed in her grip.

“There are elite warriors among you. Few, but I see it. I know you, don’t I?”

The man looked startled and then grinned, exposing a few teeth.

“I was an [Axe Guard], a [Sergeant] in your army, my King! I retired after you went into slumber, but I kept my levels and my axe.”

“I remember you. I remember not your name, but your face. You have more levels than these soldiers did. How have these raiders managed to overwhelm you?”

The man bowed his head.

“My King, there is a [Leader] of some kind out there. His Skills are aiding them. Without a commander of our own, we cannot match their tactics! And they outnumber us, us that can fight, that is.”

Flos looked surprised.

“There are no [Strategists] among you? Not a single one?”

There was a shaking of heads. Flos closed his eyes.

“Of course. [Strategists] may find work regardless of age.”

He turned, looked about the steep inclines. There were hills, rising out of the ground, obscuring vision. Flos’ eyes narrowed.

“More of my subjects are trapped in these passes. I must find them. Those of you with arms who can fight on horseback—mount up! You will ride with me! The rest of you—hold this position.”

He looked down at the retired [Axe Guard], the old man.

“Tengrip? Is that your name?”

“My King. You remember.”

Flos smiled. He reached down from his horse and Tengrip caught his hand. Flos turned and pointed at the twins.

“These two are my sworn followers. Trey and Teres. Guard them with your life. They can tell you what passes. Hold this spot, Tengrip. I will return shortly.”

He turned. The attacker’s horses had scattered, but someone in the crowd raised their fingers to their mouth and uttered a piercing whistle. The horses immediately turned and raced towards him.

Men and women followed Flos. Some paused to grasp weapons and even armor from the fallen; the rest mounted up. It was old men, pot-bellied adults, mothers and grandmothers who raced with Flos away from them.

Trey stared. Then he heard Tengrip’s voice.

“You heard the King! Grab weapons! Grab stones if you need to and form up! Children in the back—you lot with classes, front!”

People rushed to do as he said. Trey jolted when Tengrip turned towards him. The old man peered at Trey.

“You there, lad. Trey, was it? Do you have any classes in fighting?”

“N-no. Not really. I can use a sword. Sort of.”

“Best you’d give that horse to someone who can use it, then. Here! Reddy!”

He called out to another old man, and Trey found himself getting off the horse and letting an elderly man who looked like he was all skin and bones mount up. He only had a staff in his hands, but he looked more at ease sitting in the saddle of Trey’s horse than he had standing.

“You, girl. Give your horse up.”

Teres stared at Tengrip, but let herself be persuaded to give up her mount as well. The twins stood standing with hearts racing as the people around them rushed about, arming themselves, helping the wounded—or mourning the dead.

“This your first battle, boy?”

Tengrip’s hand startled Trey as he stared at the dead bodies. The boy turned to him. Tengrip made Trey face him.

“Looks like it. Blue as an unripe Yellat, aren’t you? Well just look at me. Breathe. You said you can use that sword?”

“Yes.”

“Draw it.”

Tengrip watched as Trey unsteadily unsheathed his sword. He made Trey swing a few times for him, and nodded. By the time that was done, Trey had forgotten about the bodies. Or rather, he’d begun to focus on more pressing issues.

“The King is awake! And he’s riding to save us, alone no less! Why ain’t Orthenon with him, or Lady Mars? Or Lady Gazi? I heard they were all at the capital!”

Tengrip was interrogating Teres. She was trying to explain about the army, and how Mars had to stay at Reim and Orthenon and Gazi were leading an army against one ten times their size.

“Can’t worry about that! Can’t worry—soon as the King hunts down the rest of the raiders we’ll be at the city! There’s thousands of us headed towards Reim—enough to hold the walls. You’ll see. The King’s back. He even remembered me! Tengrip!”

“That’s not your name, is it?”

Trey felt it was a silly question as he stared at the bloody axe Tengrip still hadn’t bothered to wipe. The [Sergeant] grinned at him.

“‘Swhat the fellows in the army called me. And if the King says it’s my name, well, it’s better than my old one!”

Then he turned to shout at the people milling about.

“Don’t break formation, you sand-cursed idiots! Hold your ground!”

They reacted to the voice of command. Tengrip eyed Teres and Trey, and put them well behind the ranks of people he’d spread out in a box formation. Not close to the center, where those without weapons and the ability to fight were, but far back.

Trey felt that was fair, but Teres protested.

“We can fight.”

“Teres—”

Trey wasn’t sure about that, but Tengrip was adamant.

“You two are the King’s servants. If he says you’re to be defended, you’ll stay back. Don’t worry—if we’re attacked, you’ll see fighting.”

And they were. At first it was tense, Trey feeling every second go by as he held his sword awkwardly in a sweaty hand. And then he was bored, talking with Teres, watching Tengrip show some people how to strike. And then he heard screams and saw riders coming over the hill.

There were ten of them. No—nine. One rider was just a horse, galloping with saddle half torn-off. Trey saw some of them had bows. They loosed arrows the instant they were in sight, and he heard a scream as someone was hit.

It was terrifying. The armored people were riding straight at them. But the refugees weren’t idle either. Bows raised. Several people had them, and arrows forced the riders to raise their shields. One struck a horse and made it rear, throwing its rider off—another caught a man in the shoulder, punching through chain links.

The rest were getting closer, though. It seemed as though they’d be right on top of Trey and Teres! He saw a man raising a sword and forgot he was behind several rows of people. Trey began to move along with a mass of people, but a voice stopped him.

“Hold your position!”

Tengrip’s voice made his feet obey. Trey halted, and the riders crashed into the rows of people.

It was a terrible sound and sight. Two of the riders were stopped by the first person—one literally thrown back by a man with a huge tower shield, the second impaling both horse and rider on a pike that was thrust into their path despite the rider’s attempts to swerve.

But the rest, six riders, charged straight into the ranks of people. Trey saw flashing hooves as horses reared, saw people beating at the people on horses. Someone was riding towards him. He raised a sword and then Tengrip was in the way. The old man hacked at the horse’s neck, and there was blood—

In seconds, it was done. The horse fell, to die in moments and the rider was beaten to death, stomped into the dirt. The other attackers were also dead.

But the broken bones and dead people who’d taken the charge were a testament to the cost. Trey wanted to run or throw down his sword, but Tengrip shouted, and soon the square changed. The wounded were taken to the center, and Trey was closer to the front.

Minutes passed. Hours? Trey heard more shouts and saw more riders. He held a sword as his heart and stomach lurched, but he had passed beyond throwing up. But this time the riders weren’t alone.

Cheers rang out as Flos rode towards them, at the head of a huge column of people, most on foot, clutching weapons. His arm was drenched in blood and gore, but he wasn’t wounded.

“It is a trap.”

He rode straight towards Tengrip and said the words so all could here. Flos silenced the voices and pointed back the way he had come with Trey and Teres.

“The raiders are breaking off. They’re reforming and making for the pass. There’s more behind us as well—keeping their distance.”

“How many?”

Tengrip asked apprehensively, eying the foothills in the distance. Flos shook his head.

“Many. Many more than there should be for [Bandits] or [Raiders]. These aren’t ordinary brigands either, but soldiers. This is a trap, meant for me.”

“In that case, we’ll hold them off while you escape, my King!”

Tengrip raised his axe, but Flos shook his head.

“I am their target. And I will not abandon my people. No, we will fight here and win or die. Now, assemble! [Archers], to the center of the formation! Those of you with the highest levels and mounts, to me! Tengrip, take charge of the rest and form a line. You will be fighting.”

“Aye, my King!”

Trey wanted to speak with Flos. But for once the King had no time for him. He was organizing the frightened people like soldiers. No, turning them into soldiers. The desperate, fleeing people had weapons now, and a leader. They were inexperienced, but there were hundreds of them, thousands. They were ready to beat their enemy to death with rocks or their fists if they had to.

For their King.

But it might not be enough. Trey heard the thumping in his bones before he saw the army. It was a thud, like a drumbeat. But what drum could make the very earth shake?

He got his answer when he saw the army. They emerged from the hills, surrounding the square of people and the mounted group led by Flos. Trey saw archers taking positions on the hilltops and soldiers waiting in clusters. But the main force of the army came down the road they had travelled, hundreds of soldiers, and mounted warriors.

And at their head, a man dressed in bright yellow robes, standing next to an armored man with a purple feather on his helm. But it was the robed figure the thumping was coming from. Every time he took a fourth step, the earth shook around him.

“[Mage]. High level one, it looks like.”

Tengrip spat the words as the army slowed, blocking the pass. Flos stared at the enemy commander, glancing to the hills. He nodded to Tengrip.

“Have the highest-level archers pick off those on the hilltops. Don’t engage them unless they come down; focus on those ahead.”

“Yes, my King.”

“Flos of Reim! You are surrounded and outmatched! Give yourself up and we will spare your subjects!”

The commander had begun to shout. His voice was faint; he didn’t have Flos’ incredible lungs or a Skill. Flos glanced at him and then at the mage. The man in bright yellow robes was staring at Flos, and there was a grim look in the King’s eyes as he stared back.

They were the true centers of this moment, Trey felt. The [Commander] was barely a speck in Flos’ eye. He kept shouting though.

“—Surrender yourself now, or your people shall be slaughtered! You cannot—”

“Riders! On me!”

Flos turned, ignoring the man and raised his sword. The old men and women following him shouted and raised their weapons. Flos pointed—not at the [Commander], but at the [Mage].

“Ride with me! You are my blade, my spear! My [Royal Vanguard]! Charge!”

He kicked his warhorse forwards and the people screamed as they followed him. The stunned [Commander] had to withdraw into the lines of soldiers as the sixty or so riders raced after Flos, into the ranks of the soldiers.

“Charge! For the King!”

Tengrip ran forwards and the group of men and women with warrior classes ran forwards. People around Trey and Teres began firing arrows at the soldiers on the hilltops. The twins stared at Flos as he raced across the dusty ground, aimed straight for the [Mage] in yellow robes. They saw the magic-user grin, and then twist his hands.

The earth split. Stone walls rose in front of Flos, knocking aside the [Mage]’s own soldiers, forming a wall between him and Flos. The King swerved, cutting left into the army. Stone shards exploded from the [Mage]’s grip, cutting through the air. The [King] swung his sword and cut several from the air.

A woman riding behind him fell, a spike sticking out of her stomach. Then the soldiers were clashing with Tengrip’s warriors, and Trey saw the old man’s axe biting. The ground was red with blood already and screams filled the air. The smell of fear and sweat was in Trey’s grip, and the smell of iron too.

The battle had begun.

—-

They were losing the battle. But then, Maresar knew that was the point.

Mounted, loosing arrows into the fog with her group of archers, Maresar turned when she saw the figure appearing out of the fog. She had an arrow ready, but relaxed it when she saw Gazi.

“You’re wounded.”

The half-Gazer staggered towards Maresar, and the woman saw the black smoke rising from Gazi’s armor before she felt the heat. Gazi gasped.

“[Mage]. Got me. Hit me with a [Flare Orb].”

Her armor wasn’t brown anymore. It was black with soot in places, but red blood had painted it liberally as well. Gazi’s two-handed sword was also crimson and dripping. Maresar’s hands moved and she kept loosing arrows as she spoke.

“How long?”

“Two minutes. Orthenon needs more time.”

“He needs to retreat. Tell me where.”

Gazi was still panting, but Maresar saw two of her eyes turn, roving the clouded battlefield. She pointed.

“There. She’s mounted—aim up.”

“This high?”

Maresar aimed, calculating for the arc of her arrow, and loosed in an instant. Gazi waited a heartbeat and then shook her head.

“No. To the left two feet and down half a foot. That’s their head.”

“Fine.”

Maresar loosed a second arrow. Gazi nodded.

“Down. Straight through the chest. Next—over here. They’ve got a barrier spell up.”

“So what am I supposed to do? I don’t have any enchanted arrows.”

“Hit the horse.”

Gazi’s rasped commands let Maresar target three more mages in the mist. She killed one more, and only distracted two, but it was enough. The fog persisted a few more minutes as the [Mages] were forced to scramble for cover rather than focus on dispelling the enchantment.

That done, Maresar turned back to firing into the mist. She couldn’t see anything, even with her Skills, but she didn’t have to look. There were so many soldiers all she had to do was loose arrows and she’d hit someone.

“How are we doing?”

“We’re being cut up. We can’t hold much longer.”

Gazi was staring at the place in the fog she’d come from. The place where she’d gone with Orthenon, leading them straight to the center of the army.

It was a tactic that required the fog arrows to occupy the army. It could only work on a coalition army, too. The soldiers didn’t recognize each other, and some were too afraid to enter the fighting for fear they’d attack each other. Some did, and began killing their allies. But it was all to get to the enemy command, Maresar knew.

They’d charged the entire army in, save for the archers led by Maresar. A wedge had been driven into the enemy army, a spear aimed straight at the center. But it was a thin, brittle spear. Maresar knew the lines of soldiers were collapsing, struggling to fight an enemy on both sides that vastly outnumbered them.

“I’m going back in.”

Gazi gripped her sword, coughing. Maresar kicked her mount and blocked the Gazer’s way.

“Not a chance. You’re too weak without your main eye.”

“Orthenon needs help.”

“He can do without you. You just took a spell to the chest. Even with your armor, it nearly got you. If you can’t dodge that, you’ll just get killed.”

Gazi opened her mouth to protest, and then all four eyes swiveled across the battlefield at once.

“The fog’s lifting! Orthenon’s…a few more seconds. He’s nearly killed half—he’s moving! Be ready!”

“At last!”

Maresar turned her horse and raced down the line of her archers, shooting.

“Volley the soldiers to the right and left of the formation! Loose!”

Her archers turned. They began to shoot, avoiding the patch of fog where their own soldiers lay. Maresar put an arrow to her own bow and began loosing arrow after arrow, as fast she could.

They only had a few more seconds to do as much damage as possible. And then…it would depend on Orthenon whether the plan had worked as well as not. If he could kill the enemy [General], excellent. But that wasn’t the plan. The plan…

Was simpler than that.

—-

He had truly thought he was going to die. But as Uleth stared at the heavy ranks of soldiers between him and the struggling warriors on horseback, he knew he would live.

Orthenon was fighting in the center of the scrum of soldiers, slashing with his spear as if it were a sword. He’d killed a score of Uleth’s finest soldiers, but it wasn’t enough. Uleth gripped his sword’s hilt, but made himself let go. A [General] didn’t need to fight and risk his life. He had mobilized the nearby regiments and they were all converging on this position. A few seconds and he’d have Orthenon cornered—

The tall, gaunt man on horseback raised his spear. There was no mistaking his voice, even over the clash of arms.

“Withdraw!”

He shouted and turned his mount. To Uleth’s disbelief, the soldiers began withdrawing, falling back, disappearing back into the fog.

But it was lifting too. And as Uleth stared, he saw the battlefield swim back into focus. Only now did he see the huge line of soldiers, like an arrow, penetrating the ranks of his soldiers, pulling back. It was insanity. If they had tried that in the daylight, they would have been overrun from every side. But in the fog, where no one could see who was friend or foe—

“Crush them! Don’t let Orthenon escape!”