Firebrand

Martel released his firebolts as swiftly as he could; he never needed to look for another target, as the next one was always within his field of vision. He no longer spent his spellpower attacking the stronger undead, those wearing the enchanted pendant. Maintaining the wall of flames hour after hour slowly drained him, and daylight would not come anytime soon. Instead, he weakened them with a firebolt when he saw one and shouted for Cornelia to add her spell or Eleanor to strike, depending on who was closest.

They held; the narrow approach to their position, made difficult by Martel’s wall and Cornelia’s ice on the ground, meant the undead could not make use of their greater numbers. Fearless, the veterans of the Tenth stood fast, primarily defending while the mages in their company struck their enemies down.

Daring to spend a moment looking away, Martel glanced at the remaining ranks of living warriors as it spread north across the gap. “The Tyrians!” he shouted. Their lines threatened to dissolve; they were not equipped or accustomed to fighting in defensive formation. If they fell, the undead would outflank the Archeans, and the battle would be lost. “Cornelia! Aid them!”

The frostmage did not waste time replying or arguing. Obeying commands, she ran with empowered speed down the slope behind the fighting ranks, reaching the Tyrians in less than a minute. The effect of her arrival swiftly showed itself; ice spread along the ground, frustrating the movements of the undead and giving the Tyrians breathing room to reassert themselves.

However, Cornelia’s spellwork among them meant that it faded to the south. The patches she had kept icy near Martel’s position quickly melted, and the undead came stronger. Gritting his teeth, Martel released spell after spell.

Looking to the centre briefly, Martel felt his fears rising that they would break. While they had the most numbers, many were inexperienced in battle. It took only one to break and turn before the rest would flee, and unlike the flanks, the centre had no battle-hardened elemental mage to help alleviate the relentless pressure. Valerius did his best, but he was only as strong as the reach of his sword. The pits that had complicated the approach of the undead had been filled up, simply by the walking corpses falling into them, which let more of their brethren to attack.

Turning to his own people, releasing another spell, Martel weighed whether they would hold without him. As long as he maintained his wall, his most important contribution would remain, allowing his few veterans to defend the small flank.

Once more gazing at the centre, Martel’s eyes widened at seeing the line pull apart. A gap appeared, and at once, the undead began to cross what remained of the ditch to pour into the opening. Breaking into a run, Martel’s mind already prepared his strongest spell, hoping he would not be too late; yet in his heart, he feared that he watched the battle being lost and their entire force about to be surrounded and slaughtered to a man. Content orıginally comes from novel✦fire.net

A loud rumble arrested him; not thunder, but the sound of the mountain itself breaking apart. From behind, a large boulder tore itself free and rolled down the side, through the open gap. It easily cleared the ditch and continued onwards, carried by its own momentum as it crushed the undead.

Martel released his breath in relief, realising it was a planned manoeuvre Henry must have come up with; while not trained for war, the stonemage had his own spellcraft to bring to battle. The Archeans reconstituted their line, and the battle resumed. Another of the warriors under Eleanor’s command fell. A vicious swipe with skeletal claws raked his leg, and as he stumbled to the ground, the enemy grabbed him and pulled him from the line. His screams quickly ended.

Eleanor took the position herself, and her spellwork, defensive and offensive, beat the undead back. But she was needed all across the line; everywhere, the soldiers stood weary after hours of fighting with only brief respite when others could take their place, and their reserves were nearly depleted. Soon, none could step back to catch their breath and let someone else hold the line; soon, every man who fell would not be replaced.

Knowing the situation was dire, Martel stepped forward to reach the ranks of defenders. He raised his staff high above their heads, and from the black fireglass gem, inferno was unleashed. A flood of fire washed forward to engulf the undead. Hundreds incinerated, though none screamed as Martel had often heard when his spells burned the living; silent, the reanimated corpses returned to the ground, smouldering.

The flash of fire was greeted with cheers from the living, none shouting higher than Martel’s men; for a moment, they were bought a respite, and many drank eagerly from their waterskins.

It did not last long. The enemy came again.

The valley ran east-west. Thus, despite being between mountains, Martel knew he would see the sun the moment it began to rise if he looked across the valley. But he saw only darkness and the cursed blue lights of countless undead, waiting to attack. A never-ending night, it seemed, and Martel wondered if Karolos had such powers that he could arrest the sun and keep it from rising. The fact that they had yet to see the lich troubled him still; he knew that Atreus could not have succeeded in his mission because if Karolos was no longer among the unliving, his army would crumble.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the spellbreaker appeared by Martel’s side. “I can’t get to him,” he admitted, out of breath. “Too strong a guard. Too many. I can’t even get close enough that my spells can reach him.”

“What’s he doing?” Martel shouted back over the din of battle, releasing another firebolt.

“Some ritual, but beyond my ken. I’ll try again once we’ve thinned their ranks some more,” Atreus declared, and he drew Martel’s gold-edged dagger that the latter had lent him. Replacing a man in the line, the spellbreaker took position and began fighting.

His words echoed through Martel’s mind; how long before the ranks were thinned? Their own lines seemed more likely to break first.

Martel looked east and saw no promise of relief. Darkness still held sway. Yet another sight came to him, enough to make his heart sink. In the glow of his lightstones, he saw what he had only glimpsed when the battle begun.

A colossal creature, with the shape and tusks of an elephant yet the size of a lindworm, broke through the reanimated ranks. With the force to crush men and scorn all weapons, the undead mammoth charged the Archeans holding the centre.