In the time before the war, Nuracimens was known as a city of beauty. Perhaps it was many years ago before Extirpation’s war. The once white marbles of its immense and reaching towers were covered with soot and smog that clung to all things defiant things of man; the waters of the farmland were brackish and oily. Any good and virtuous things that the city once embodied had been consumed and what remained was a carcass of things once true: an omen of the disfigured sublime.
Nestyne knew he had to be careful with our strategy; it would result in a defeat if we engaged too recklessly. The Junumianian mages had worn down our mages, none of our own were at full strength and of proper mind. Even Quatimonian had been fighting minor magickal ailments over the previous weeks. The enemy knew our weaknesses, of Carinon’s sorry state, and most importantly had been given months to prepare the city of Nuracimens for assault. I have no doubt that without Nestyne’s expertise I would have perished in the battle at Nuracimens and many other times.
The veteran summoner had already prepared our strategy by the time we had arrived at Nuracimens. It is important to note that before I speak of Nestyne’s strategy for the assault on Nuracimens that Yularelian and the other generals of Moringia urged a swift advance, the idea being that if we pushed into all-out warfare that the enemy could no longer flank us. This strategy, of course, was what man’s foe Extirpation wanted (even though we had no knowledge of the dreadful being in those times). Moringia would assume the enemy could not surround us if we pushed forward and held a steady line of advancement, and so with this larger strategy at play (and our constant delays on our march) any strategy prepared for the attack on Nuracimens would carry more risk.
As I said, the largest risk and the greatest unknown in our assault on Nuracimens was the amount of time the enemy mages had to prepare to fight us.
“Counter magicks are perhaps a war mage’s greatest asset.” Nestyne spoke to the rest of the officers and our commander. He spoke this in-part to assuage the fears of Carinon and the others under low morale. By this point it was known I was strong at countermagicks, and moving attention away from worries Carinon’s health was in-part to obscure how poor my friend was faring. “Our strategy should remove any factors our enemy has prepared for. We will leave ourselves open to sudden surges of energy and more immediate spells, but most long-term preparation we will be able to mitigate. We will be able to handle ourselves against the two mages as we carry a numbers advantage in magicks and in soldiers.”
Nestyne avoided any talk of casualties on our side. Quatimonian and I both knew that these would be significant. There was simply no way we could protect all of our men, not without Carinon.
My duties for this battle were relegated entirely to counter magicks. While Nestyne, Quatimonian, and Carinon were undoubtedly well-studied, I was strongest at reacting quickly to and negating the spells of our enemies as countermagicks are a subtle art. This left the manipulation of our surroundings and Nature to Nestyne and Quatimonian. Under faint moonlight, mere hours before the assault on Nuracimens, Quatimonian kneeled onto the dry earth between our army and the corpsen city. Clawing into the dirt the mage held a mass of dry clay within his hands and shed a single tear into it before packing it gently into a cracked lakebed. This was not a spell, but a prayer to Kalitian for help on a difficult problem. It would occur to me later why Quatimonian prayed for such a boon despite his experience and vast knowledge of magicks.
After his prayer Quatimonian stood upright, a beacon of confidence between our army and
Nuracimens. He took a deep breath and then Master of Flows, prepared a dangerous and powerful spell. As if he were a river in flow, Quatimonian extended right hand outward with the palm parallel to the ground and then began to speak as if he were water itself. Dew condensed on his robes, tears flowed from his eyes, and mist formed on his breath as he began to shiver from a magickal coldness. As a stream ebs and flows Quatimonian adjusted his words to flow through the spell as the magicks fought against his body, steadfast in every aspect of his being. His speaking reached a sprint, his words white and frothing on the sharp rapids of the spell as he reached into the earth once more and spread the ground as if it were mere cloth, causing a violent torrent of water to rise from the dirt.
The entire valley flooded and metamorphosed in the upheaval as centuries old deposits of earth were dredged to the surface. Any enchantments upon the ground had been cleansed. Any plans the Junumianian mages had that involved the earth would be of no use. Still, a fear lingered that Quatimonian’s spell was for nothing. Perhaps the two mages had not prepared the earth to attack us as we speculated?
Nestyne’s spell was next; the veteran summoner walked to the edge of the flood and placed his hands upon the moonlight volumnity as he began to speak an incantation. The torrential flood immediately stilled as three larger figures of ice and dreg rose from the depths, water cresting silently off of their backs as each stick-like figure, three men tall each, poised upwards as if dying trees with their heads poised at the corpsen city. Nestyne,’s legs were frosted over, he was chattering, and his face was blued, signaling the time in which it would be my duty alone to protect our armies. Reinforcements were believed to be still days away, but we believed ourselves honorable and did as Yularelian and the war council commanded.
The Kalipaonin Regiment, rather than split itself as typical, coalesced into a massive phalanx as it trod knee-high waters under dark-lit skies and mists coalesced on the water’s surface, encircling our forces as if crows to carrion, a patient quiet in anticipation of feast. The water’s stillness broke into a roughness that clawed up the waists of our men who hoisted shields above their heads as if to prevent the night from witnessing their approach. Silence still dominated the landscape as the tree-like elementals of ice and dredge sounded as broken glass as they threw themselves as a torrential flood of water at the walls of Nuracimens. Nestyne and Quatimonian’s missions had been accomplished, the rest was my charge.
Junumianian arrows fell upon the ceiling of the phalanx like the pattering of rain, waxing to downpour and waning to drizzle, but never fading as if the hungry buzzing of insects waiting to feed on a fresh corpse. Our drummers signaled to march forward into the waiting onslaught.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Using an enchantment I had cast upon myself I was able to see the silent motion of dark boulders thrown by Junumianian trebuchets, which I lit with a simple light spell to warn our soldiers so the drummers could avert our men from their arc. The Junumianian mages had yet to launch an offensive. I wondered if they had already left, as they had so many times previous.
As if predicting my uncertainty the fire mage launched a series of smaller conflagrations that I dismissed with a prepared gust of wind. It seemed that the Junumianian mages were sticking to their former strategy, as the low drums of war thrust our army closer to Nuracimens. I spoke of this to Burr and Hark as we advanced, both of whom agreed it was odd behavior, and Hark suggested that the spy among us had perished since we had taken Huroncenth. Burr reminded me of the battle of Icinerenth, wherein we had seen a truly desperate mage unleash himself upon us. Perhaps the Junumianian mages feared that from us and did not want to push too hard lest they face the wrath of a desperate mage. I acknowledged this was a possibility, as Moringian strategists believed it was always more difficult to retreat than it was to attack, and our enemy certainly knew of this tendency.
The Kalipaonin regiment closed in on the city, I could see where the walls had cracked and crumbled under the force of Nestyne’s elementals as the mist thickened around us. The rain of arrows quieted, the waters stilled, and the flames subsided, a breath of relief in the constant assault. It was in the destruction that followed that moment of reprieve that I learned what it meant to truly fear necromancy.
The impenetrable night, cold, and mists enveloping our forces was so oppressive that even with the enchantment I had cast upon myself it was difficult to see, for everything was but shapes of black within black: a landscape drenched in silence revealed not by light, but by a darkness visible. Two dark figures, burning gargoyles, shot through the darkness and struck near me, shattering the hull of the phalanx. The storm of arrows descended once more upon us as the water through which we marched became unsteady, making balance difficult.
Remembering lessons Nestyne had given me in the matters of summoning and animation, my best chance of neutralizing a summoning was not to kill it, but to immobilize it with a summoning of one’s own. Before that could be done, however, I would have to vanquish the mists. Having studied with Corindrian, I was fortunate that I knew the words for weather and mists, and so easily I dismissed them and restored some order among our forces, unawares that my throat was starting to chill, that the mists of the plains had come for me once more.
With my vision more clear I could see the two magmatic gargoyles rampaged through our men, the wind wreaking of burnt flesh, leather, and the charred wood of spears. I touched the water and brought about several elementals of water. These were lesser elementals than Nestyne’s, less torrential in their rage, but they would suffice in subduing the gargoyles momentarily as the two summoned beasts were engulfed in primal current. The water around them boiled and steam as their flesh hardened to pure stone. Using another spell I commanded my men to keep throwing water upon the fiends, for if we did not throw water upon them they would melt the layer of stone which imprisoned them.
Having subdued the gargoyles the army re-grouped to the beating of the war drums in a strict canon as we pushed onwards to shattered walls of Nuracimens. Arrows cracked the hull of shields, men fell to the water dead before impact as we inched closer to our goal. The mist began to coalesce on the water’s surface once more, seemingly flowing into the dark and muddy waters, and our enemy kept their aggression sedate. It was when the enemy allowed our golems to run through their forces and hit the city walls that I began to suspect something was wrong.
When armies fail, it is not a subtle nor slow thing. There are signs, yes. A stray arrow piercing the neck of a shieldbearer, a war drum ceasing, a young soldier hesitating right before he is slain far too young. These are omens, symptoms of a disease yet-inflicted. In truth, armies are slaughtered like livestock, for that is Extirpation’s way and this was Extirpation’s war. Our army failed the moment hundreds of shriekers descended upon us through the mists, and the dead rose in destructive craving.
A cold hand grabbed my leg as the corpses of our deceased were animated in a violent fury matched only by the distant storms of the Hunal Islands that sculpt earth and tear apart even the sturdiest of trees. Men were dragged hundreds of feet into the air by the assaulting abominations. They fell to the ground in a lonely and silent death. The necromancer’s mists had frozen their throats and bitten their tongues, and as I spoke a word of force to throw a mass of undead off of my unit I realized that my speech was restricted.
I burned my throat to push the necromantic mists away, beyond the scope of our battle. I noticed that when men did not die within the mists, they did not immediately rise. Our only hope for survival was to retreat, and for me to keep the mists away. However, the Junumianian mages had planned for us to fall into their trap, and quickly I found myself overwhelmed.
Scores of flaming oil-covered rock fell upon our forces as the assault continued. Our forces were already quartered, and yet still retreat had not been called. I could do nothing but try to repel the mists as I sought a means to call for retreat. The howling chorus of corpses under necromantic broke devoured what remained of order and structure, leaving our ranks to ruthless chaos as wave-after-wave I tried to press the mists away, to stem the bleeding and return to safety. I could feel myself weaken each time I pressed against the mists, repelled a flaming conflagration, or thrust the shriekers away from our forces. The mists creeping closer and closer like the accelerando of a silent orchestra of terror. It was at this moment I understood what it meant to truly fear necromancy; what it meant to be a desperate mage.
In desperation to repel the overwhelming tempest I directed to bring me through the sea of undead to one of the war drums; hoping that one spell would serve a solution. And while the undead pressed against the ponderous shields of my guard I took the large leather beater and swung it into the head of an immense war drum and forced the only spell I could voice through my frostbitten throat: the spell of unnoticing.
A low shockwave omitted the battlefield: for one one moment the chaos was gone. The mist was vanquished, the sky was clear,and the brackish waters flattened from white caps to glass as if Nature itself could not see our battle. For a moment I convinced myself that all would be fine, until I realized that terrible consequence I had wrought upon myself: I could not notice myself. The mists encroached once more, and the single beat of the drum faded into the distance. My spell lasted but one beat of time before the stillness vanished and the violence returned.
Soldiers were torn to shreds by puppets of foul magicks; burned in magickal fires; devoured by winged malevolence. I feared all was lost.
And then he arrived: Misinos, Paladin of Mentilian, warrior of Order. A bright yellow light disrupted the gray cloud cover as the sun rose east over the horizon illuminating the knight’s stony blade. His voice echoed through the mouths and minds of all men of our forces, an ethereal chorus of perfect order.
“Chaos disperse, be gone foulness! To arms; to line; to honor! Dead rise no more! Wretched wings fall! So long as I command, Order lives in the souls of these men as if a Fortress; Shelter against cruelty’s wrath!”
The sound of mighty tolling bells and bells rang in triumphant ecstasy as the armaments and armor of the Kalipaonin’s soldiers glowed with the power of the divine and a gout of warm flame fell upon them, restoring their health.
Onward we pressed into the desecrated city of Nuracimens. Their forces and wizards once more pressed to retreat, unable to repel such a powerful boon of the Paladin. They had not prepared for him. Once more we were victorious, but soon misfortune would fall upon us. Once soft, and once deadly.
For it was Extirpation’s war; and not our’s to win.