“The only victories which leave no regret are those which are gained over ignorance.”
― Napoleon Bonaparte
Mireille pulled her fist back for another blow, but then it registered with her that the man calling out the orders had been unconscious probably since her first blow. Looking around, she saw several guardsmen running away down the street. A window on the opposite side of the street was slammed shut as her questing gaze met two terrified eyes looking out of a darkened room. The large axe-wielder was kneeling on the ground while holding his chest, the metal around his form slowly retreating.
The man she had grabbed was of middling height and size, with a red-blonde well-groomed beard and proud mustache bristling to the sides. His former aquiline nose was bent and bleeding after she had hit him a few times, and a sword was lying several feet away where it had flown after she had disarmed him. The coat of arms of Nordmark adorned his tabard thrown over chainmail which may have been silvered. It was gleaming a lot brighter than the other steel she saw. Wrinkling her nose in disgust at the splatters of blood from his copiously bleeding nose she opened her grip letting him fall, rattling, to the ground.
“Please don’t kill me!” The large man was blubbering behind her, and a soft wind stoked the flames coming from the first floor.
Flames.
Mireille turned around and looked up. The fireball they had only indirectly witnessed from inside had lit one of the rooms above on fire, and smoke and sparks blew out of the shattered window frame. “Shit! Anyone good with water magic?!” She called back inside.
Alyssa came running outside and looked up, frowning in thought. “Asandria. Do you know a spell for that?”
The elven spirit looked at her. Eyes dark holes in a pale ectoplasmic form. ‘I do. But I hardly think you able to learn it before the house burns down.’
Brecht called out for buckets and water. The order was quickly relayed by some others shouting further inside the building.
And soon, a properly mundane bucket line was made aided by some judicious use of wind and water magic.
Burned and injured rebels, a stout woman, probably once a maid as well as two men were evacuated outside, coughing and moaning from the pain. Alea quietly approached and whispered something gaining a nod from the woman in return before she began to incant a light-based healing spell.
Calvin grabbed Brecht as the man began to walk back into the house. “We have to make plans. Those who ran will be back with reinforcements. And soon.”
“That is for the best. Fighting them in the garrison is asking for trouble. Here they will not have walls or wards to assist them.”
“Would that we had a chance to prepare or plan for something. That would have been fantastic.” Calvin’s eyes bored into the other man.
“They had already tracked us to this neighborhood. And because some people...” He eyed Calvin in return. “...were very reckless yesterday. They had an easy time of it. Delaying them for one night was all I could do.”
“But talking about it with us was also beyond your abilities?”
“No. But I deemed it unnecessary. Perhaps you would have tried to leave in the night, and then we would have all the problems but no good solutions. This way we get both.”
“Honesty after the fact is worthless. Don’t think I will forget this.”
Shrugging off the hand restraining him, Brecht walked back into the house while calling back over his shoulder. “They should be here in about ten minutes. The captain is a bit timid.” Heaving a mirthless laugh, he entered before shouting a few orders to his men.
Alyssa looked at Mireille who was still standing beside the downed Nordmark soldier and Calvin. “Arrogant ass.” She cursed and then looked ashamed for her outburst. “He could have worked with us instead of simply using us.”
“He probably feared that we would no longer help when it became apparent that the whole garrison would try to arrest or kill us.” Mireille walked up to her while looking around vigilantly.
“Right you are, and that is why I hate politics. What he did here wasn’t even a fraction of what Taberus von Grenzwald did in his term as councilor in the academy.” He mumbled after that, “Not that that is an endorsement, mind.”
Grim satisfaction flooded through the link with the wight, and the feeling of life energy flooding through parched veins elicited a gasp from Alyssa.
“Everything alright?” Mireille asked with a worried look at her friend.
“My wight, Calmund, has killed someone at the gates. We can expect there to be a distraction as we planned. Hopefully, it will not get too bloody.”
“How did he get there so quickly?”
“I don’t think we know everything he can do. He did find us before everyone else.”
The housefire was finally doused, and black smoke curled into the brilliant grey-blue winter sky.
Iseret and Alea, accompanied by Butler One, had silently joined them in the meantime.
Brecht nodded at them cordially, soot on his face and clothes. “Not much longer, I think.”
“We might have someone distracting them at the front gate, so your timing could be off by a bit.” Mireille interjected.
“Who?” Brecht, his face turning serious, looked at her.
“My undead.” Alyssa looked at him defiantly.
“Undead. Right.” His eyes turned distrustful, then he sighed and looked around to make sure no one overheard. “Don’t talk about something like this. I might be inclined to believe the old adage of means and ends. But not everyone around here shares my practical approach. And are they even strong enough to attack a town?”
“Yes. We should hurry toward the gate and try to take advantage of the chaos.” Calvin made an impatient gesture. “That was your plan all along. So we improved on it a bit. Sour?”
“Shit, I deserved that, didn’t I?” His habitual grin came back. “Men! We move out! Meet up at the gate and wait for my orders!”
“What’s with him?” Mireille looked at the guard officer she had downed, his tabard spattered with blood and smeared with snow.
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“Oh. That there’s the son of Baron Meresvel von Volstedt zu Nordmark. But he is a right bastard in the truest sense of the word. The mistress has since passed from a fever, but she was a looker, alright. Commanded a high price in Isolde’s establishment. But that is for later. Someone will take care of the prisoners, don’t worry.”
“Keep together.” Calvin looked at the girls and Iseret. “We cannot be separated under any circumstances. And if it looks bad retreat.”
Together with Brecht and Isolde, as well as the blonde man, Rolf, they ran for the town gates. The ringing of a large bell came from that direction, so it was easy to orient themselves even as they were completely lost in the haphazardly built alleys of Volstedt.
A group of about ten men and women attired in a mismatch of old armor, and some obviously stolen gear from the soldiers, shields, helmets, and weapons joined them, coming from a sidestreet, getting a nod from Brecht, who waved for them to fall in.
Snow crunched underfoot. Accompanied by the sound of metal clanking, heavy breathing, her friends and her own, Alea suddenly felt hard hands subtly stabilizing and pushing her. Cecily twisted, and the dark windows and old, grey brick stone walls whirled around her before she saw the porcelain mask of Butler One. Long used to it, she did not even stumble- much. Icicles hung from the eaves, and their crystalline tips shimmered in the sunlight. Alyssa threw her a reassuring grin, even as it seemed a bit forced. Mireille was up ahead with Iseret and Calvin.
She was unsure about the wizard, but until now, he had done his best by them.
The alley’s mouth appeared before them, and her burning thighs made her stumble. The hard hands of the automaton behind her shifted to her armpits, and heat flushed her face as she gritted her teeth at the indignity.
“P….ha…protect me as I work my magic.” She pressed out, breathy from the exertion. She was in no way comparable to her older friends, even as the exercise she had gotten since leaving Grunewald had done her good in that regard.
And then they were out on the main street leading away from the southern gate. The ringing of the bell was deafening now. Several soldiers stood on the stairs on the inside of the wall leading down the wall at both sides of the gateway, which stood half-closed. They seemed to have at least tried to keep the raiders out but failed- The undead horsemen milling about in the little plaza testament to that fact. The wight, his crown flashing in the sunlight, slammed his mace into the soldier furthest down the steps. Green-tinged magic flared, and the poor man crumpled beneath the blow thrown off the stairs and into the waiting skeletal undead below. Blades rose and fell the trampled snow shone with bright hues of red.
“Hold them off! Reinforcements are on the way!” A sturdy soldier with the markings of a sergeant bellowed.
“You might think about that again! We will stop any that come to help you, and only death awaits! Surrender now and spare yourself the pain!” Brecht took that as his cue to shout back.
“Traitor!” Sputtering with rage, the stout officer pointed his sword at Brecht from the platform above the gate. His face the color of a rotten tomato.
‘That cannot be healthy,’ thought Alea remembering the healer's lessons in the academy.
Alyssa, beside her, brushed her hands over her face and chest, dark mists spreading over her form. A prickle, like small needles piercing her skin with cold, emanated from those mists, and Alea concentrated on her own gate, flooding her skin with light magic. The dark dissipated instantly, and she saw her friend wince and take a step back.
“Sorry…” Before the dark-haired, smaller girl could finish that sentence, a volley of bolts from a quartet of crossbowmen on the parapet slammed into the ground nearby. Diverted by some magical shields hastily raised by Calvin and Mireille. The crackling lattice of lightning was especially pretty reflected in the ice coating the buildings nearby.
Shaking free of those thoughts, Alea took cover behind Butler One and then focused on the incantation of the lidless eye. Words in the old elemental tongue of Allisair spilled from her lips, the gate inside her breast supplying power like the sun at noon on a perfect summer day. Worries burned in that light as well as pain from her legs, and barely suppressed fear giving way to a deep calm.
A structure made of interlocking glyphs shaped as an eye appeared before her. She had done it so often now that the motions were nearly instinctual. ‘As it should be.’ Her thoughts flashed by as minnows in a stream.
Down the street, a larger group of soldiers could be seen half-running toward the gate, several of them encased in stone or metal. ‘It seems they have mostly metal and stone brands. I wonder why.’
And then the construct was ready, and her magic flowed into the waiting spell matrix, empowering it fully. Pointing with her hand covered by the heavy woolen gloves seemed comical somehow, as if she were a child accompanying her mother on a winter stroll.
Light gathered and the natural lens of the eye focused it into a thin beam lancing into the oncoming soldiers. She winced as it cut through a young man stumbling along in the first line. The energy passing through his upper body and charring the shield of the woman coming up directly behind. A shrill scream was her answer. Then there was blinding flash and a thunderous crack as a bolt of lightning impacted in the middle of the formation splintering the cobblestones and throwing people to the side while others twitched, lightning coursing through their armor.
“Focus on the officers!” Brecht shouted. “Isolde, Rolf, stay with me!”
The large builder encased in stone turned ponderously toward the onrushing group of soldiers and spread his arms, concentration twisting his features. With a rumble, the stone before him slowly rose out of the ground forming a shallow berm up to his upper legs and extending nearly the whole breadth of the street.
Another clatter of bolts, this time accompanied by screams of pain as Mireille was focused on the reinforcements and Calvin unable to stop them all. But it seemed that this time there were only some flesh wounds. A younger woman was holding her sword arm, red spreading through the coarse shirt she wore. Grimacing angrily, still holding a short sword she brushed her dirty brown hair aside with the backhand and raised her shield higher, giving Alea a quick smile as she did so.
The wight took several blows to his torso, and sparks and pieces of old armor flew into the air, but with a movement quick as a viper, his left hand shot forward, gripping the throat of the stone-branded before him. At first, nothing seemed to happen, then the large soldier began to scream, his shrieks getting higher and higher as he scrabbled to loosen the hold of the undeads grip.
Alea turned away, trying and failing to block out the sound. The eye-construct in her hands filled up with brilliance once again, and she directed the energies down the road at an officer standing behind some forgotten barrels to the side of the street. His eyes lit up from within with a brilliant glow as the beam impacted the side of his head. Steam rose into the still morning air, and the man fell down like a marionette with its strings cut, his hair still burning with a bluish flame.
‘Why.’ Tears dampened her blindfold. ‘Why do we have to do this? Could we have talked? Made a demonstration of power? Freed the prisoners first? Was there no other way?’
Then there was Butler One standing directly before her enveloping her with his arms, and fire blossomed behind him, coloring all in crimson. A wave of heat brushed past, singing her exposed arms. The smell of burned cloth and hair fouled the air, and screams signaled some injured. Then there was another bright flash and thunderous clap as another lightning bolt burned down the street. Cecilie’s vision tilted crazily as the small mechanical spider tried to look around her face.
“We surrender!” A shout from the gate brought her back to the present. “Call it off! Please!”
Dark, metallic-sounding laughter wafted from where she knew the wight to be.
“Calmund! Stop it!” Alyssa’s voice sounded a bit breathless but still firm.
Another flash, another clap of thunder, and then there was the sound of running feet.
“I surrender! Please, don’t kill me!” Several more pleading voices joined the singular shout.
Looking down the road, Alea saw still forms lying in the street. A good dozen men and women, mostly injured-looking soldiers, were kneeling down, weaponless. A smaller group of soldiers were running down the street but did not seem to be a coherent unit anymore.
The sun crested over the building beside her, bathing the blood and bodies in its pale, bright light.
“Victory!” Brecht shouted, lifting his cudgel, soon joined by his men, who began cheering.
Isolde spat on the snow. Rolf simply raised his bloody sword over his head.
Iseret put a hand on Alea’s back, rubbing it slowly in circles. “Don’t look too close. Wait for them to call for a healer. You did well.”
Calvin was looking after Alyssa and Mireille, the latter with a complicated expression on her face.
“So we won?” Alea regained her breath, wincing at some smaller burns where her gloves met the sleeves of her coat.
“There might be some left in the garrison, but I think that’s a foregone conclusion.” Iseret raised her yellow-golden eyes, the slitted pupils shrinking in the light. “So I guess you could say that.”