Thousands of feet darted upon the wetlands, a sound akin to the making and rolling of fresh dough. The time of intimidating stares and awkward shuffling had come to an end and now the two foes must meet one another.

A thunderous clattering of shields accompanied by a gross squelching sound – the struggles of the soldier's charge, signalled the beginning of the battle.

It had been over five months now since Apple had become a solider for hire in the provenance of Tapisserie and the sight of masses of men, scurrying around like scorched ants had become a routine normality to him.

Apple, as he did in most battles, stood alongside the line of archer’s and proud bannermen, watching those who were considered to be his inferiors charge boldly into battle. Most without even the comfort of amour, wielding nothing more than a single mass-produced spear and shield. Their forced conscription placed upon them by their masters did not actually demand their survival. Apple looked down at the shine of his own hauberk shirt and felt the weight of the strong iron helm cradled in his arm, both were his spoils of previous skirmishes.

“I miss being part of the charge,” Mula sighed beside him.

Apple turned and smiled at her, her unique features hidden away by her own new attire. The matted hair Apple had grown fond of was hidden under her new polished kettle helm. “Nothing we can do about it to be honest.” He shrugged, “as soon as our employer discovered our unique abilities, he saw it fit to keep us at the back, as his human catapults.”

“I know; I know, but it’s boring. I feel as if my skills with my daggers and wand will dull if I don’t get into a proper fight soon.”

Internally, Apple agreed with his companion for he too wanted to be near the front, casting spells with his staff in one hand and swinging his sword wildly in the other. However, at this point in time he was not in a position to argue. His current employer: Clovis de Warren, Chevalier – a walking cliché of a noble – much to the amusement of Apple, kept the two mages at his side at all times as his glorified archers and decorative housecarls. Apple was even unsure how to explain to the Chevalier that he wanted to fight in the frontlines, his current position lined his pockets with more coin than those at the front who risked their lives, as well as significantly lowering the chance of his demise. People would think him mad to request to join the frenzied peasantry in their melee combat.

Since he had yet to be ordered to do something, Apple merely watched the battle. A medium sized skirmish of around four-thousand men on Sir Warren’s side and about five-thousand on the enemies. The two armies appeared to be equally matched at this period in time, although the foe’s advantage in numbers would most likely sway the eventually outcome, if Apple and Mula were not there of course. Fighting a battle of spear and axe, whilst great balls of fire rained down from the sky upon you and your comrades was both devastating physically and morally. Apple suspected his employer was actually saving a lot more money in the long run by heavily relaying on his new mages and not purchasing more foot-soldiers for his escapades.

The fellow was not even directing the battle with cunning tactics or moral-inducing speeches. Instead the fellow was simply enjoying a pleasant chat with his men-at-arms that surrounded him. There they sat atop their pedigree horses, as if a bunch of their famers were not currently dying in front of them. Apple wondered if the reason as to why the Chevalier had yet to offer him his own mount was because he still did not consider him near his equal. Whilst Apple was indeed a mage, or witan as they called those dwimmer-blessed here, he was still just a common mercenary and therefore not fit to sit at the same height as the man.

Apple sighed. He could tell he was getting bored of the event with how much he was overthinking such a trivial matter.

As if the man could tell Apple was thinking about him so intently, Sir Warren suddenly stopped his conversation with his men and turned to look at him. “Witan Valet! I believe it is time for you and your apprentice to rain down fire and brimstone upon our enemies, no?” The Chevalier asked, playing with his finely trimmed moustache whilst he did so.

Apple was still was not used to be being referred to as a Witan Valet. He and Mula had been in the country of Tapisserie for seven months now and only had just started to grasp the new words used here. A Witan Valet was a solider rank roughly equal to that of a centenar. Whilst the rank was impressive and was akin to stating he was at least worth one-hundred men, it was actually the second lowest rank a witan could achieve, with Mula’s title of Witan Apprenti being the lowest. It had taken Apple far longer than he was proud to admit to realise his employer – a Chevalier, was actually the equivalent to that of a Knight in Loncia. He wondered sometimes what the ranks for magicians were back home, as he never got a chance to participate in a war of any kind there.

Apple bowed his head slightly to his current master, “I agree, m’lord. Perfect time for a volley of flames – it is.”

Sir Warren nodded his head approvingly, “wonderful!” He bellowed, with a more forceful stroke of his moustache to help enunciate. “Then I give you my permission, Witan Valet, fire!”

“Apple turned to face his companion. “Alright Mula, you heard the man. It’s time for us to do our thing.”

“Fine. It would be nice thought if we could at least change it up a little – ya know. I love casting fire ‘n’ all, but maybe the odd tornado or earthquake would be nice too.” She grumbled.

“It would be nice – I’ll admit. Our comrades however might disagree with us. I don’t know about you but aiming fireballs seems a tad easier that manipulating a tornado so it doesn’t swallow our own men. Also, I’m pretty sure you can’t do either of those.”

She cheeks puffed, “I can to.” She protested.

“Yeah-yeah.” He waved. “Come on, let’s start casting before our master starts yelling at us – again.”

With the conversation over, Apple raised his catalyst upwards with its heart pointing diagonally to the sky. Apple admired his creation whilst dwimmer-infused words left his lips.

It had been roughly sixteen months since the pair had left the city of Kettle with their new spell book in their hands, and Apple had learned much since then. Through constant usage as a result from frequent training and warfare, Apple’s old catalyst began to fracture and crumble from fatigue. With little choice, he had dissected the precious innards of his creation and kept them for future recycling. Thankfully, his new career had offered him a gracious amount of finances and valuable trade connections required to build his new and much superior staff. This country was still thankfully free from the Circle’s following gathering and hording precious metals and gemstones.

This one possessed a steel spine with an eloquent scripture of spells etched around it – spiralling like a knotted boquet of flowers. Its veins the smelted twine of copper, with even strands of silver and gold beside it. Its flesh was birthed from melted amethysts and sapphire dust. Its skin was a glossy black, crafted from the versatile roots of a well-aged oak tree. With finally its heart being the very same amber Apple had been given a long time ago, his fondness for the gem had grown to a level Apple never expected.

This time however, he had been able to make his catalyst shorter due to its superior materials and his improved craftsmanship. The end result was something that looked to be a hybrid of a gentleman’s walking stick and a barbarian's cudgel, making it both a stylish fashion accessory whilst out galivanting, and a brutal bone-crusher on the battlefield. Apple had become so infatuated with his new creation to such an extent, that he had blessed it with a name: Alice. Much to Mula’s mild disgust.

With his incantation complete and the humming of dwimmer pulsating within the amber of his catalyst, Apple fired his spell. The sight of a decrepit old man, bound to his bed flashed in his mind. He had studied Lord Maxwell’s grimoire in its entireties. Each word was examined and studied to the extreme, with even its smells and textures being scanned for any osmosis knowledge.

Apple never forgot what he had learned – not a single scrawl. “Water was the wet. To think of it as just water was to weaken its potential.”

From the tip of Apple’s staff, a powerful stream of thick black oil soared into the sky. When it reached its peak, and the heavens demanded it to cease its ascent, the viscous ink flew back down to the earth in a shape akin to arch of a rainbow, drizzling down upon the enemy soldiers.

After around thirty seconds of spraying oil upon his Master’s foes, Apple ceased and rewarded himself with a deep inhale of air. “You’re up, Mula.”

“’Bout time,” she grinned.

Apple saw in the corner of his eye, his no-longer so little companion aimed her wand in the same manner he had do so with his staff, and unleash a barrage of fireballs – arching through the sky. Each orange orb would crash into the enemy line into an explosion of scarlet weaves, quickly followed by the ignition of Apple’s oil, engulfing hundreds of men in a torturous blaze.

In just a few measly minutes almost the entirety of the rivalling army was glowing with a parasitic red aura, with only the very front line spared due to their closeness to the witan’s allies.

The pair watched the result of their mystical efforts with mixed emotions displayed across their faces. When Apple was younger, he complained about his affinity for the water elements, in his eyes it was soft and weak. Now, standing in front of the majesty of the blazing ethereal salamanders and their dance, his fate with the undine was perhaps a blessing afterall.

“Wonderful, Witan Valet! Simply wonderful,” Sir Warren cried. “I do never tire of seeing such a display. I would even find myself envious of your power, were in not for the good Lord blessing me with such a powerful physique and dashing good looks.”

Apple groaned internally and turned to meet his master. “It is as you say, m’lord, the blessing of your birth has given you the power of wealth and a diet required to produce a strong body.” Apple praised. “As for your appearance, I’m afraid that I have had too few encounters with m’lord not donned in his helm and coif.”

Sir Warren once again began to stroke his illustrious moustache, “Is that so...” He pondered. “Perhaps I should invite the good Witan Valet to my manor one day. I even have a servant who makes the most delectable pigeon-pie, a food that is most popular in your home land – so I have been told.”

Apple bowed low in response, “I would be honoured, m’lord. Although, I must admit I have never had pigeon-pie. My previous Lord was too much of a fan of the delicacy I’m afraid.” Apple lied. He actually loved pigeon-pie to such an extent that he was the former Lord stealing it from others, even his own siblings. He could feel himself salivating at the idea of one again feasting upon the pastry-clad bird.

“I see, such a shame. Perhaps then once...”

“My Lord!” One of the Sir Warren’s retainers screamed.

In that same moment, a melody of wet slapping-sounds shook the battlefield. Everyone went silent and turned to face the noise.

Giant tendrils of bulbous mud sprouted from the marsh of the land and struck Sir Warren’s army, like whips. Dozens of men screamed as they were thrown into the air by the abominations; their bodies crushed and mangled from the force.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Mula beamed a smile so wide the edges almost touched her eyes, “enemy magician.” She giggled.

Apple followed Mula’s bright yellow eyes and did indeed see in the distance the shape of a well-dressed man, waving around a reflective stick in his hand. Apple was actually a little relieved to see the magical foe, for a fraction of a second, he had thought the ground had come to life to slaughter them. He vowed to never let Mula know the that.

“M’lord, permission to engage with the enemy witan?” Apple asked his master.

Sir Warren’s face was pale from the shock of the attack, he stroked his moustache now with an anxious intensity that looked as if it hurt. “Yes-yes; go. I give you my permission, Witan Valet.”

Apple bowed once more, “thank you, m’lord”.

With the formalities out of the way, Apple turned to the fidgeting Mula and allowed himself a small grin, “ready?”

“Ready? I was ready ten minutes ago.”

“My, the youth of today,” Apple mused. “Just like in the past, Mula, you go left, I’ll go right. Don’t start attacking until the enemy is completely focussed on me, got it?”

“Yeah-yeah, bossy britches.”

“Just checking, smart-arse. Alright, see ya in a minute or two.” And with that said, Apple donned his helm and started to run around the mass of both armies, making sure to pay close attention to the family of tendrils scattered around.

Apple appraised his foe’s manifestations whilst he ran. The enemy was most likely a greater magician than himself, yet he doubted it was to such a great extent that the battle was hopeless. A truly prestigious mage would not be participating in such a meagre skirmish such as this, and whilst the mass of march-limbs was indeed impressive, they were most likely a result of an incredibly long incantation – requiring a significant amount of focus. Apple’s hypothesis was further evidenced by the large number of well-equipped soldiers surrounding the magician whilst he concentrated. They were tasked with protecting him whilst he focused on the rival army.

Apple managed to get near to the end of the enemy lines unimpeded before one of the survivors took notice of him, and attempted to strike him with their spear. Apple side-stepped out of the way and aimed his catalyst at the man. In a couple of breath, an icicle barely thicker than a knitting needle grew from the amber and pieced the man’s unarmoured neck. As soon as Apple saw it meet his target, with a swift twist, he snapped the ice of his staff and carried on running towards the enemy magician.

More and more men came at him now. Spears and the occasional axe darted towards Apple with a confidence their magician’s manifestation must have birthed.

Apple drew his short-sword and hacked into a man’s neck, kicking another away immediately afterwards. As a swarm started to grow around him, Apple echoed an incantation and twirled his catalyst in one hand, like in his days as a street performer. After four rotations and a sentence uttered, from the ground below his opponents, a pillar of cloudy grey ice seemingly sprung from the ground and devoured them all. Only one survived, with only his arm being trapped inside the pillar. Apple was about to finish the man off, when he suddenly decided against and the decided the peasant-looking man deserved a chance to live.

About ten more strides into his sprint, a whip of wet earth cracked towards him; it would appear the enemy magician noticed his magical display a moment ago. Apple rolled out of the way, expecting the attack as it was his goal to drawn the man’s attention.

The moment he regained himself and once again stood tall, the tendril whipped itself around as if it was a sling and came at him for another attempt. Apple stood his ground with seeming arrogance; his catalyst aimed at the mass of mud, as if it was a charging boar and his staff a spear. With only about ten-feet of distance left before the tendril struck, Apple twirled his catalyst six times – mumbling words of power all the while.

With a snap of his elbow and powerful thrust, his staff exhaled a plume of dense fog, that enveloped the majority of the tendril’s brown body. Its momentum was swallowed – static. Its slimy wetness hardened and splintered in the bends of its shape.

Apple stood still for a moment, admiring his work. Whilst still nothing too impressive – freezing a mass of mud, until recently had been an impossibility for his still level. Now, he could stand proudly in front of a trapped snake of earth, of around thirty-feet long, and was only mildly winded from the experience.

He was not able to enjoy it for long however, a second and third tendril had replaced the former, clearly seeing him as more of a threat now. Apple retreated and planted the bottom of his staff into the marshy ground. He gathered vast quantities of water within the dirt and held it within his staff.

Once the enemy tendrils had extended themselves enough to be able to reach him, Apple swung his catalyst as if it was a sword at the pair. From the amber a beam of condensed water spurted forth and sliced the tendrils in twain.

Apple marched slowly towards his advisory, so he did not break his connection with the water below.

More and more tendrils of smaller sizes spawned around him and attacked like ravenous vipers. Apple held strong and continued to sever them apart over and over again, with what he liked to refer to as his “magic water sword.”

Apple cut the tendrils with the formal sword techniques of a noble, the memories coming back to him once again in the heat of battle. Yet, in his attempts, for everyone he severed apart, two more could grow from its remains and be upon him in a moment. He was managing to ward of the attacks for now – for now and nothing more. He could feel himself beginning to tire and eyes ache from the intense focus he demanded of them to see the constant attempts at his life from all directions. He took solace in knowing that at least his opponent must also be beginning to tire and was also completely focussed on him. He just wished Mula would hurry up.

Apple could see that the majority of the battle had ended now – through the hasty blurs as his eyes darted around. It appeared that the soldiers had become entranced by their magical duel and were now watching the spectacle, as if it were a play.

Apple felt an arrow strike his ribs whilst he fought. It would seem that not all were enjoying his awesome display enough to forget their purpose here. It ached horrifically, yet Apple could see no arrow shaft sticking out of him. Fortunately, it appeared that his armour had done its job and had managed to deflect the arrow successfully.

Through gritted teeth he was able to never waver in the speed of his swings against the bulbous monstrosities. Nevertheless, the idea that an arrow was capable of striking him was very much now on his mind now.

After several more minutes, Apple finally saw a burst or orange flicker in the distance. In almost an instant, the tendrils of mud stopped in their movements, and oozed onto the floor into great masses of puddles.

Apple could see Mula’s grey cloak floating in the wind, whilst she summoned fireball after fireball at the rival magician. To Apple’s disappointment, the magician was still very much alive, hiding low behind his guards – all of huddled together with raised shields, no choice but to embrace Mula’s magical blows.

He began to jog towards the group, casting his oil spell all the while. It appeared that the magician’s bodyguards possessed fire resistant shields, yet they would no longer be so, once Apple’s spell clung to them.

Unfortunately, Apple had taken too long to complete him incantation and the enemy magician had regained himself. He saw Apple approach and gaped at him with unrestrained hatred. Before the oil could drench the enemy, the rival magician commanded the winds to swarm him and cast the liquid aside.

“Cunt,” Apple breathed. He casted another quick spell and sent several small shards of ice sailing towards the enemy.

His foe once again beckoned the wind to protect him. One of the shards managed to find purchase in a guard’s arm, yet it did not deter him from his duty in the slightest. “Stupid bloody wind.” he spat.

Apple decided that ranged attacks were a pointless endeavour right now, so he would simply do nothing a magician never ever expected another magician to do, charge him.

Apple sprinted towards him like an enraged berserker. He could not help but smile a little when he saw the confused expression upon his enemy’s face. Even his guardsmen seemed perplexed by his actions, yet they still kept themselves composed enough to maintain their shield wall. Their spears also ready to strike him once he was near.

Just before he reached their range, Apple aimed his staff towards the ground and jumped. A blast of air shot forth from the amber and sent him flying into the air, landing beside the magician with a practiced roll.

He was back on his feet in a breath and swung his sword wildly at his opponent. His hand shook when he felt the resistance of metal once his blade landed, it would appear that the magician was hiding armour of some kind under his pristine robes.

Apple could feel the sudden stares of the men who surrounded him, before they could compose themselves, Apple once again twirled his staff, aimed it at the ground, and leapt away from the circle of enemies.

“Light them up, Mula!” He screamed, whilst he tumbled through the air. This time Apple had been a lot hastier and landed with an ungracious thud. He at least got to enjoy the sound of sizzling flames whilst he rested upon the damp earth.

After a quick few breaths to help regain himself, Apple got to his feet as quick as his aching body allowed him.

Most of the magician’s bodyguards were engulfed in flames now, yet the magician himself was still very much alive.

“Would you be so kind as to just die now, please?” Apple wheezed. He was too far away for the magician to have heard him, but the sneer on the man’s face told Apple that the feeling was mutual.

Apple could feel the ground shake undeath him and prepared to jump into the air once more. However, as soon as his fee left the ground, blades of grass came to life and wrapped themselves around his ankles, trapping him and forcing him in place. "shit,” he cursed.

He attempted to free himself, but more and more blades of grass came to life and squeezed him like a snake. Some even grew in size and began to prick into his flesh. “You’re certainly a creative mage,” Apple praised through gritted teeth.

He decided it was best for now just to ignore the pain as best he could and return an attack of his own. He forced himself to cease wincing whilst he conjured another volley of icicle shards at the enemy. To Apple’s mild surprise, his foe did not cast his spell aside with his own magic rebuttal. Instead he dove sluggishly to the side, the shards only just missing him by the width of a monk’s hair. Apple wondered just how much he had managed to wound the magician’s pride by forcing him to move so ungraciously.

Apple could feel the grass constricting him weaken its embrace. He crouched down and pulled the weeds from the earth, like an enraged gardener of high expectations.

A small orb of fire, barely the size of a man’s fist, flew into Apple’s vision and struck the magician’s leg. He screamed in agony from the sizzling blush the flames caused. It appeared that Mula was still in the fight, but the size of attack showed the world just how little dwimmer she still possessed.

Fulfilling his role as her de facto master, Apple approached the prone magician with lethargic pace, summoning the final spell of the battle: “ice javelin.” An icicle the length of his arm sprung from Apple’s cane with the speed on an arrow and found its way in the enemy magician's head.

There was no grand final act of desperation from his enemy, no clever quips from Apple, there was only the silent sound of victory.

Apple at least rewarded his efforts by slumping the damp ground and taking a well-earned break. He looked around the battlefield with a cloudy drowsiness and quickly knew his services were no longer required, his master and his men had won the fight.

“Enjoying yourself?” Apple heard an all-too familiar voice ask.

“Immensely,” he smiled. “Nothing quite like the soothing warmth that comes from the idleness of aching muscles. Care to join me?”

Apple heard a body sit down beside him, “Shit, it’s wet!”

“Of course, it’s wet, you plonker. We’re in the wetlands.” Apple said.

“Shut up, smart-arse. I forget alright ; ‘bit tired. I’d warm me arse with dwimmer, but I’m all out.” Mula whined.

“Me too, I’m afraid; completely spent. Gonna get a nasty headache in a minute most likely.” Apple whistled.

“Same. Whose gonna get the fella’s wand?” Mula asked.

“Don’t know. It’s good ol’ Sir Warren’s now however. He’ll probably keep it as a trophy.”

“Damn shame that, I was planning on keeping it as a trophy too.”

Apple turned, “oh yeah? Planning on collecting magician’s catalysts, are you?”

Mula shrugged, “you’ve gotta have a hobby haven’t ya.”

Apple sighed, “true, perhaps something that involves less fighting folk who can destroy armies on their own with giant shit snakes. How about bird watching?”

Before Mula could respond, a solider jogged towards the pair. “Hail Witans!” He cried, “are you okay?”

Apple waved at the man in greeting from where he sat, “we’re fine thank you, just resting a bit. The fight had us spent I’m afraid.”

“Aye, I’m not surprised. We men saw you both running about flinging fireballs and making ice appear from thin air. Never seen anything quite like it to be honest.” The solider breathed in awe.

“Well, to be honest with you mate, giant mud tendrils are a new one for me too.” Apple said honestly, “I think I’ll remember that one for myself.”

“I look forward seeing it, good witan. M’Lord if eager to see you when you’re ready.”

“When we’re ready, aye?” Apple mimicked. “You ready, Mula?”

“Piss off am I!” She exclaimed, “I’m sure he’ll find us eventually. I’m not standing up until my arse dries, so I’m gonna be here a while.”

Apple looked at the solider with a slight pitying gaze, “teenage girls, am-I-right?”