Firebrand

Martel felt dread slowly rise within him, waiting for the enemy to arrive. Not because he feared death or defeat, but because he had hoped to never fight a battle like this again. He had faced plenty of enemies since the end of the war, but they had usually been monsters of one kind or another, threats to ordinary people that he felt no guilt about defeating. Or Halfrid, the berserker who would plunge the tribes into war against Aster; someone had to stop her, and her fate was her own fault.

But the Khivan soldiers who marched towards their position were ordinary men, told to fight for their home. They would die in terrible agony. Worst of all, unless Martel killed so very many of them, they would win, and their deaths would be justified in the eyes of their master. Martel thought about the Khivan king, wasting away from some disease; would it have been better if he had died? Or would someone else with the same intentions simply take his place? Maybe he had no real power, and factions at the Khivan court, working unseen, directed these troops to start a war.

“Sir, they come!” the lookout shouted, handing over his spyglass to Martel before sitting down.

Martel rose up, using the device. Hundreds of soldiers, and cannons as well. He ducked back down behind the earthen wall, looking at his men. They had all seen combat, but they had also all thought those days were behind them. Still, none demurred or complained. They knew the plan, they trusted their leader and battlemage, and unlike the previous war, they knew why they fought. Thirty miles northwest lay the city where their families dwelt.

The cannons roared. They accomplished little, striking against the earthworks without damage. Martel reached out with his power while remaining in cover, but the distance and the mass of humans beyond confused his sense of heat; he could not distinguish the cannons from the rest, at least not until they became more heated. It would have to wait. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ noᴠelfire.net

Exchanging his spyglass for another device made by the same craftswoman, Martel held it up. Like the spyglass, it contained looking-shards, but angled towards each other, allowing him to look around corners; in this case, he could peer over their wall at the battlefield without standing up.

The first wave of Khivan assault troops, armed with swords. Behind them came musketmen, occasionally firing at the earthworks to keep them hemmed in. They spread out, preventing any strategic use of Martel’s inferno spell; no doubt they had studied his abilities during previous battles. But he had other tricks. Martel waited until the attackers had waded into the waters before he made his countermove.

A wall of fire erupted along the Archean shore from Martel’s position and northwards, suddenly blocking it off from the Khivans. Those furthest away tried to circumvent it; as they did, they ran straight into a detachment of Martel’s soldiers posted there, emerging from hiding to slaughter them. The rest turned around, but in the deep waters, their backs turned, they were easy targets for Martel’s archers inside the small rampart, equipped with rune-inscribed arrows.

As for those melee warriors crossing to the south, Martel’s men emerged from their small fortifications to engage the rest in close combat. They threw fire pots as soon as the Khivans finished the crossing, turning the land into a blaze. Panicked, the attackers put up little defence.

The musketmen next. Under different circumstances, they might have turned the battle, but Martel knew what to do, and it barely required any effort. He reached out and ignited their bags of powder hanging by their belts. The small explosion tore their waists open, and they fell with terrifying sounds to the ground, dying. A release of power to the south told Martel that Cornelia had engaged the enemy as well. He could only hope a frostmage proved as deadly as a battlemage, as he could not aid her yet; the sound of hooves heralded his next challenge.

The cannons had destroyed the pikes dug into the ground, protecting against a cavalry charge. Now came the Khivan riders, armed with long spears and pistols. Martel raised his staff into the air, over the wall, and from its gem, he released a ray of flames that ran across the first line of horses. The wretched animals released death screams, falling to the ground and entangling the riders following them, ending the charge.

Surveying the battlefield with his angled device, Martel saw no further lines of enemies attacking. His men had retreated from their own small sortie, safely back. He switched to the spyglass and looked south. Cornelia had hidden herself in a dugout similar to his own and frozen the river as the Khivans tried to cross it. Numerous soldiers stood trapped in the water, all of them dead, by the look of it.

No runners from the north; presumably, they needed no help either. That gave Martel a chance to make a clean sweep. Emerging from his hideout, he walked towards the cannons. He was not worried if they fired; he had plenty of spellpower left.

The artillery crew had already realised their plight; they were removing the barriers to the wheels that kept the cannons in place. So busy trying to escape, they did not notice the shadow that stalked them, killing them one by one.

Reaching the scene of the slaughter after wading through horse corpses and human bodies, Martel greeted Atreus with a nod. “Any news?”

“This lot was the fourth regiment of the Third Army. Maybe half of them were kept back from today’s assault.”

“So another five hundred soldiers still in reserve,” Martel considered. He placed a hand on the glowing hot bronze barrels of the cannons, one after the other, and cracked them apart.

“And the rest of that army is marching here. This was just the advance guard. Not sure why they attacked,” Atreus speculated.

“A commander eager for glory, I wager. Or they underestimated us.”

“I’ll return. Keep scouting. See what damage I can do.” The spellbreaker disappeared into the growing shadows. The battle had felt like it lasted but a moment, but most of the day had waned. Looking at the carnage, Martel took a deep breath and returned to his own lines, waiting to hear how the rest of their forces had fared.