As the Day Dawns

Another cohort entered the battle; Martel did not know how many had done so by now. His soldiers had begun pushing bodies into the water or carrying them backwards, according to sensibility, all to create more space; it mattered little. The defenders had pulled back far enough for the attackers to barely reach the western bank, but it also allowed them to be surrounded by more troops as they tried to secure a foothold. If not for his mageknights – Martel counted five of them in the fray now – their losses would have been far worse.

The hail of arrows stopped; Martel had done his best with his air magic, but trying to protect a greater area would drain his spellpower much faster than the enemy archers would run out of arrows, so he had restrained himself to only protect those nearby, including himself. It seemed that finally, the bowmen had empty quivers, but Martel knew he would have lost hundreds of soldiers.

Still, his men pressed on. Nobody retreated or fled, nobody refused to charge, nobody wavered. Although hemmed in, unable to use their full strength against an outnumbered enemy, and in spite of all the terrible magic unleashed against them, the soldiers of the Tenth Legion fought on, proving why they had the fiercest reputation of all.

Martel continued to shoot fire bolts at every target within sight, but he could feel himself growing tired. Besides physical weariness, he had cast several complex spells, and he did not have much left in him. It filled him with indecisiveness; should he spend his remaining power when an opportunity presented itself to break through the enemy lines, or should he save it in case he needed to counter another magical attack? Making the wrong decision might lose him the battle, but making no decision could also do that.

Patience. Prudence. Neither came easy to a fire-touched mage. In the heat of battle, Martel relied on instinct or following orders given by others with greater clarity of the situation. This did not avail him now; he had never fought in a battle like this, and his instincts could not tell him what to do, nor would any of his subordinates issue commands to their captain.

Surrounded by his men as they died, Martel stood alone; only he could give the order to retreat. If he did not think victory was possible, it was his duty to save those of his soldiers still breathing; but if the battle could yet be won, retreat meant that so many had died in vain with Martel's cowardice making a mockery of their sacrifice.

Unable to reach a decision, Martel made none, and the bloodshed continued.

***

The shimmer of magic ahead told Martel of an enemy mageknight entering or returning to combat. Hoping to strike a significant target, Martel manoeuvred himself forward to get a direct line of attack. Pushing close to the frontline, Martel realised it was Reynard. The Master of War was ready for his next attempt, it seemed, and unlike Martel's defenders, he had preserved most of his strength.

Martel found his opportunity, releasing a fire bolt. It would not kill the mageknight, but Martel had adjusted his ambitions, choosing simpler spells to avoid draining his last spellpower; if he could simply wound Reynard sufficiently to make it withdraw, that was still one less mageknight fighting for the enemy.

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His spell hit, and it did nothing but alert Reynard to his location. Whatever manner of protection he had against fire, a simple spell could not accomplish anything where his lightning bolt had failed. Martel had hoped that it might be like the enchanted clothing he had come across in Morcaster, imbued with a shield spell that faded after a single use. Unfortunately, probably with the ingenuity of the Lyceum at his disposal, Reynard's protections were superior to that.

There was only one kind of magic left for Martel to attempt. He knew he could do it, in theory; he had done so on the shore of another river, incinerating every enemy within reach. But that was no guarantee he could do it now. Much like when he failed to stop a cannonball a second time after doing so on a previous occasion, Martel could not always call on his magic at will. The situation had to be intense with immense pressure upon him; more than that, his life had to be in immediate danger to make him cast his spells without thinking. Or, the life of somebody he loved.

Eleanor was not at that point yet; he saw her defensive protections still in place, and Asterians did not fire golden bullets that would pierce such spellcraft. He did not feel the intense burst of fear that overrode all thoughts and made him act purely on instinct. Not yet.

But perhaps he could make himself feel it. Ignoring the shouts and relentless sound of steel striking steel, Martel closed his eyes and summoned a memory. The sound of a musket being fired. A bullet tearing her throat open. The spray of blood that signalled a mortal wound. The overpowering rage that filled him.

Red replaced the blue colour in his eyes as he opened them again. His entire body felt hot. "Soldiers, pull back, to me!" he shouted with all the breath in his lungs. "Reform the line, behind me!"

His soldiers obeyed their captain, including the mageknights fighting near surrounded by enemies. Their retreat caused the frontline to collapse, and several legionaries died as they could not follow swiftly enough.

The line became reformed behind him as Martel had commanded. The defenders surged forward triumphantly with loud shouts of victory. Reynard led the charge, moving directly towards the battlemage he had sought to kill since he first joined the fight.

Martel threw his staff to the ground. He did not require any kind of external aid. The fire that bathed his soul came as he beckoned for it. His entire body became a living torch, blazing brightly yet without burning him. Slamming his outstretched hands together in front of him, Martel released all of it in a forward direction. Fire exploded from him, like flames spewed by a dragon, fanning out to immolate rank after rank of enemy soldiers, mageknights included. Their screams pierced the air, and the overwhelming stench of burnt flesh made the living throw up.

Reynard remained standing. His enchantment against fire had taken the brunt of the spell, though it had to be spent now. Judging by his staggering steps, the mageknight was on his last legs, but he still raised his sword for a deadly blow against Martel.

The simplest spell ought to fell him. Martel raised a finger, and no magic came forth. He had burnt his last drop of spellpower, which also meant he could not summon a shield to protect himself against the oncoming strike.

As Reynard stepped forward, so did the mageknights on either side of Martel. Eleanor parried the blow, and Valerius drove his blade deep into the Master of War.

From the east, the first light of the sun rose to shine upon the bloody bridge and the countless burnt bodies on the ground. Martel's soldiers needed no encouragement. The enemy's ranks had been torn apart, leaving an enormous gap. The attackers rushed forward to fill it, spilling onto the western bank. The First Legion stood no chance to contain them, and they called a retreat immediately. The Tenth Legion had won the field.