Firebrand

One anxious day followed another. The militia kept sharp watch on the walls towards the east, expecting every moment to see a horde of undead monstrosities marching down the mountainside. Scouts were dispatched to cover every path, should Atreus fail to return in time to warn them of the approaching enemy. Each day, the woodsmen hunted for the best timber to make clubs, the smiths worked to cap them with iron, and Martel enchanted as many fire pots as he could.

Valerius and Maximilian trained the militia in fighting with blunt weapons; the latter regaled the men and women with tales of his own fight in the catacombs, battling a long-dead king. A smith melted down some gold coins and fashioned bullets for Padmani’s pistol, which was given to Eleanor along with instructions on how to use the weapon.

Seeing the firearm in Eleanor’s hand, knowing it contained a golden bullet, brought a variety of unpleasant memories back to Martel; years had passed since the war, and he rarely thought of those times anymore, but the sight and knowledge of it forced him to sit down and regain control of his breathing. For a moment, he saw and felt the cold streak of a golden bullet pierce the air to kill Avery, and shortly after, another that ripped Eleanor’s throat open.

The fears of imminent doom proved hasty; two fivedays passed without sign of undead nor the return of Atreus. Some of the farmers returned to their homes, unwilling to keep spending their nights in the forest when their own beds awaited them. A small hope grew in Martel that somehow the spellbreaker had found a way to get close to the lich and deal with him before it even came to a battle, though he knew this was unlikely.

The delay in development, as much as it provoked anxiety, had one positive outcome; the Tyrians of the Elk tribe arrived. A forced march through the mountains, sped along what road Henry had been able to create, saw them reach the city in time, and Martel felt relief at the sight of the tall northerners, armed with rune-inscribed axes and spears. The concern that they would not honour such a newborn alliance had gnawed at him, needlessly so.

With the same boisterous attitude that characterised so many of his profession, Ketill the berserker greeted them. “We heard you have need of skull-smashing and bone-breaking!”

Next to him, the skáld of the Elk tribe inclined his head. “Herdis Jarl has heard your call, and we have come to answer. Two hundred warriors and those with the gift, for the defence of your city.”

Martel knew that both the fighters and the spellcasters would greatly strengthen their efforts, and he clasped their hands with both of his as they met by the gate. “You are most welcome here. The honour of your tribe shall be remembered.”

“Good. Have you remembered food?” Ketill asked. “We’re starving after our march!”

During the night, Atreus returned as well. Rather than wait, runners were sent to convene every leader for an immediate council. They met in the infirmary, being a large building with room for all of Archen’s six mages and their two Tyrian counterparts. Given the hour and how quickly they had been roused, they were all in different states of dress and undress; Valerius stood in his nightshirt only, but his sword girdled around his waist, whereas Maximilian, by virtue of living at the infirmary, had found time to put on trousers, tunic, and socks. “They are on the march,” the spellbreaker declared in between gulps of water. He looked ragged, and Martel could surmise he had walked but not slept in a long time. “They move slow but constant. They need no rest. They have passed the mining village already. Tomorrow, they will reach the valley. The day after, we should expect them here.”

“We have time to make our final preparations,” Eleanor declared, looking around. Nobody replied, but all wore determined expressions, perhaps save for Henry, always anxious and the only one not trained for war.

“I saw him. Karolos,” Atreus added.

“He is the one you mentioned? The evil wizard who raises the draugar against you?” asked Embla, the skáld.

“He is,” Martel muttered.

“He advanced ahead of his host. He is already in the valley, carrying out some kind of ritual. I cannot say its purpose. When I tried to approach, hoping for the chance to kill him, I was discovered and had to flee from his guards.” Atreus closed his eyes and leaned back in the bed. “I learned a little about his minions, but that’s not pressing to tell.”

“So he marches against us,” Valerius spoke. “What a strange fate that we should face a horde of this origin!”

“To be expected when we settle in a land of myth,” Maximilian growled. He raised his war hammer. “Fortunately, we have the remedy.”

“How do we respond should it come to a siege?” Cornelia, the frostmage, removed her hand from Henry’s shoulder and gestured into the air. “An enemy that requires no provisions can besiege us endlessly. Our water supply is safe, if I may sing my own praises, but food will last us only a few fivedays at best.”

“We may have to consider abandoning the city,” Martel admitted, causing shock reactions.

“Leave all we have worked for?” exclaimed Valerius.

“At least our walls provide a hindrance. If we evacuate the city, how can our people outrun an enemy that marches relentlessly?” Eleanor considered.

“The citizens flee. We stay behind and fight a skirmish in retreat,” Martel suggested. “We buy time, we strike and pull back, and slowly whittle them down. Besides experienced warriors, we have eight mages in this room, capable of great destruction.”

“And what does our enemy do meanwhile?” Eleanor asked. “Atreus, you said that the lich has begun a ritual.”

“What?” The spellbreaker stirred and blinked. “Yes. That’s how I discovered him. The foul scent of his magic released. But don’t ask me its purpose. I couldn’t tell you.”

“He might be raising another army if the location is right for it,” Eleanor speculated. “That could be why he has gone ahead of his host. Or he is strengthening his undead warriors through some unholy ritual.” Official source ıs noveⅼfire.net

“Does it matter?” Martel looked at her. “We will face him no matter what he prepares or the forces he brings against us.”

“I have been to the valley. It is narrow, more like a gorge. Why should we wait and cower behind our walls when we can take the fight to him and interrupt his plans in the process? Why not take the fight to him?”

A bold strategy proposed by the former legate, and Martel could tell that it resonated with the others. He felt it too, as a battlemage, always preferring action to patience. Yet he was the Sage of Archen also, and he found himself inclined to caution. “If we march to battle and it goes poorly, the city will lie undefended.”

“If we are besieged, we will have to fight our way through regardless,” Valerius pointed out. “Better to do so on a battlefield of our choosing that favours us.”

“Does it? A pitched battle will be costly. Our men are not hardened soldiers, but farmers and craftsmen, along with old veterans who thought their days of fighting behind them. Skirmishes in small groups will let us choose our battlefields as well, with us mages in the front, leading and retreating as needed,” Martel countered.

“No place will be more preferable than the valley,” Eleanor claimed. “It hems their forces in, reducing the impact of their numbers. Our elemental mages can do great damage to an enemy clustered together, and our mageknights can easily hold a narrow battleline.”

“Your valkyrja speaks wisely,” declared Embla. The skáld looked at the berserker by her side, who nodded. “We agree. Let us fight this battle now rather than let the enemy decide what he wishes to do.”

Martel exhaled. His experience in war had been skirmishes and clashes, and perhaps it was familiarity that made him prefer such a strategy. Looking at the others, trained in war with their own experience, he saw that the opposite opinion held sway. “In that case, it depends on speed. We must march to reach the valley’s end before our enemy can hold it, or all our discussions become irrelevant.”

“I shall get the militia ready to leave at once,” Valerius declared.

“We’ll rouse our warriors,” Embla promised.

Eleanor looked around the circle, including the sleeping spellbreaker. “We march.”