Dark Skies

Martel had fought a hundred battles, gone through harrowing experiences, and he had been to the brink of death and returned more than once. But the thought of what a fire-touched battlemage of Master Alastair's talent would do to his soldiers filled him with panic. This close, bolts of lightning would devastate them and cut through their ranks like a scythe. He knew that his old teacher mastered the spell, considering who had taught it to Martel.

Despite the roar of battle, smell of blood, and screams of dying men, Martel calmed himself. If the enemy possessed such a powerful mage, they would have most likely deployed him. Martel could not know why Reynard would be on the field and other wizards of the Lyceum might not be, but panicking without cause would help little. If fire spells came against them, Martel would handle it, using his own resistance and magic to fight back. Even if it meant casting lethal spells against Master Alastair.

Another tinge of magic reached Martel through the confusion of battle. Not the quick, singular burst of mageknights activating their defensive spells. Rather, it felt like a vague scent spreading through the air, same as when the river had been controlled to wash over the bridge. Martel glanced at his wall; it remained, still protecting. Despite the similarities, this was another spell being cast, but it promised to be equally powerful.

Although Martel could sense it, he could not discern the manner of magic at work. Its resemblance to the previous spell suggested water magic again, but he could not imagine to what purpose. Regardless, he mastered the opposite element, and he pulled back to stand surrounded entirely by his own men, ready to counterspell.

The unknown spell was released. Martel felt the air itself tremble, much like when he cast his lightning on an enemy. He looked around frantically, trying to find the source, while at the same time, he feared that his eyes would land on Master Alastair.

As magical energy travelled through the air, Martel finally realised it was not aimed at his soldiers, nor anywhere else on land or water. The clouds above pulled together, darker than ever, plunging the battlefield back into darkness. The mageknights fighting on his side pulled out lightstones and dropped them on the ground, providing illumination.

Martel scarcely noticed this, worried about the spell that had caused this. It would have stronger purpose than simply making everything pitch black, but he still could not guess what called for such powerful magic.

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Behind him, lightning struck down to hit a soldier's helmet, and the unfortunate soul did not have time to scream before he fell dead to the ground.

Martel finally understood. A storm had been summoned, which like a vengeful god now ruled the sky, casting thunderbolts upon the unfortunate mortals below.

***

Martel was helpless. He had no power over the weather; he cursed the cruelty of fate that the study once desired by him and denied to him would now wreak havoc on his army. He could not disperse the storm or shield anyone against the lightning. Again and again, soldiers further back died; the eye of the storm seemed just behind where the bridge began with the greatest concentration of his legionaries, yet far enough to avoid the defenders being struck.

Panic threatened Martel again, feeling powerless. He could practically sense the same feeling emanating from his soldiers around him. Even more than him, they had no defence against this magic, death striking without warning from above. But as before, his experience in combat helped him to retain his senses. The only way to stop this spell would be the stop the mage who cast it. But who and where?

Only a stormmage could summon something like this. Martel knew of one. Just like Reynard, it seemed that the Master of Air had joined the First Legion in their defence. But unlike the Master of War, Gilbert would not be on the frontline. Like Martel, he would be in the back, using his spells where they yielded the most.

But he would be somewhere with the necessary vantage point. As someone who had served aboard a warship, Gilbert would be skilled with water magic. He was the one who had controlled the river to attack them on the bridge, Martel realised. To do this, he would need vision or access somehow; if he stood in the back, the soldiers in front would interfere with his sight and magical reach. Either he stood by the edge of the shore, risking his life to a stray arrow, or he stood further back, but up high that he might see the water he sought to control.

Martel remembered seeing what he assumed to be a watchtower before the moon became clouded. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a lightstone and threw it. As it flew through the air, it enlightened the surrounding area. Up on the wooden construction stood a stormmage, channelling magic into the air. He was close by, allowing him the range to summon his storm onto the other side of the river. Close enough for Martel to likewise reach him.

A simple fire spell could not be certain to kill a mage of such power; Martel's strongest card, the lightning bolt, might not work either. It was partly born of air magic, and Martel figured that Gilbert resisted it as well as the battlemage handled fire. Martel was running low on spellpower, and the battle seemed far from over; he could not afford to waste magic against opponents able to withstand it.

But the tower, on the other hand, was a wooden construction without any kind of resistance. Martel smiled as he released his lightning, crushing the tower. It fell to pieces, hurling the stormmage through the air to smash against the ground. Above, the rumble ceased, and the clouds slowly began to clear; below, the moon's light once more shone over the bridge, where the battle continued to rage.