The landing of an arrow upon its intended target does not rest upon the arrow's quality, nor that of the bow from which it was loosed. Neither is it dependent upon the whims of the elements, be it the gusts of wind, the torrents of rain, or even fickle fortune. Nay, it is the archer's mind that determines the arrow's destiny.
- Valerie of the Vale from the Tales of Seven Lands circa AC 573.
It is a surreal thing to prepare for violence, even for one such as I, who has drunk more than his fair share of the hot dark brew. Laes’ hands were held up in the sign of peace, an opening to offer an empty denial or to bargain with his purse. Perhaps he even planned betrayal, the life of some strangers for safe passage and continued trading rights. He could probably justify it to himself as a necessary thing, for surely the lives of the people under him were worth more than the lives of a few strangers. There would be no peaceful conclusion to this encounter, I just knew it in my bones.
Grimly, I nodded to Kidu, gathering the dark energies within, even as I let my hand fall - our predetermined signal to let loose. Though Laes had dealt with us fairly so far, it was too great a risk to leave things to chance, to a stranger’s whim. Losing the initiative here could also prove to be fatal, and I needed every last advantage I could get. With battle as my chosen path, the world became a much simpler thing. I would force Laes’ hand.
Even as Kidu's bow sang its thrumming tune, I unleashed a dark wave of entropic power that swept over the Tides horsemen, causing chaos and confusion in their ranks. One of their steeds reared, its rider thrown off in a flurry of hooves and horse flesh. Shouts of alarm reverberated throughout the field, a cacophony of fear and surprise as our unexpected assault caught them off-guard.
Laes paused in a moment of dull shock, frozen, as swift-winged arrows whizzed by his face, embedding themselves in the enemy's armor and flesh. However, he quickly regained his senses and spun his mount around, his guards close behind. They raised wooden and animal hide shields in a desperate attempt to protect themselves and their charge, and fled back towards the relative safety of the ring of wagons.
The men I faced this time were not untrained, unwilling youths or cheap criminal swords for hire. They were a tested and trained group, as evidenced by their skill and disciplined bearing. Despite being under fire and caught off-guard, they charged and pursued Laes, determined to apprehend him. But their efforts were thwarted by the guards from the caravan who intercepted them with long spears, stopping their attempt and forcing them to retreat and regroup.
Even with the chaos unfolding around them, the tabarded men dismounted and formed orderly lines, shields held up to protect against any errant arrows. They advanced at a controlled walk, grim and uniform in their step.
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Though the two groups had ridden here together, it was clear to me from their disparate actions and their lines of battle that they were unused to, or unwilling to, fight together. Perhaps we could use this to our advantage. One enemy at a time, I thought as I smiled under my visor. It was time to start with the head of one of the snakes.
With my first spell complete, I sought to draw once more from my well of magic, and launched a Drain spell at the young leader Tarkhan. The tentacles of ebon midnight found him across the field of violence, snapping into him with hungry delight. The sibilant dark voices in my head all but howled in ecstasy as his very life force was siphoned into me.
Composite recurve horse bows, their small size belying their considerable power, exchanged fire with Kidu’s longbow and the other projectile weapons of the caravan guards. The Waveriders of the Tides were circling the ring of wagons, shooting from the saddle with masterful skill. One of the guards threw a small throwing spear, a jarid I believe, that narrowly missed one of the galloping enemy Waveriders. For his attempted valor, the guard received an arrow in return, the head piercing through a gap of the lamellar at his chest and taking him out of the fight.
Tarkhan was looking less confident now, his face growing paler by the moment. With my ‘upgraded’ Identify spell I could see my Drain spell steadily leeching away at his Health, Stamina, and Mana. Still, he heroically exhorted his men, urging them to continue with their efforts as they exchanged arrows with the Ravens.
I tried casting another Drain spell on Tarkhan again, but the spell failed to take hold. It seemed that I could not double up on its effects, so I redirected the magic to a nearby horseman.
Suddenly there was a cry of “Ware the witch!” and an arrow skittered across my heavy helm. More and more arrows fell around me and I raised my kite shield against the steady assault, a few arrows thunking heavily into the wood.
Thrumming with stolen energy, I looked across at the formation of steel getting closer. They marched in almost perfect lockstep, a well-oiled machine of discipline, iron, and flesh. The tabarded men were clad in hard metal and thick gambeson, a design of crossed swords at their chest. At the center of their formation was the distinctive woman, a delicately thin longsword with a wide upturned crossguard now wielded in both of her hands. Even in the whirlwind of battle, my attention was drawn to her.
To her left was a broad, thick-set man, his heavy armor making him look like a metal golem. He had a spiked crescent axe in one hand and a heater shield in the other. His copper gilt epaulets denoted his rank, possibly as the woman’s second, I thought to myself.
“Knight-Sergeant Mistevan, remember we are here to deliver him alive to the Cardinal! Get these savages to stand down!” shouted the armored woman over the din, her eyes flashing fire.
The hulking brute did not even turn in her direction, but simply stiffly saluted. His heavy helm restricted his vision, so he lifted his visor with the edge of his hand. From this distance, I saw only his rough-hewn features and white teeth that were a surprising contrast to his dark beard.
“Stand down, Crows or whatever you savages like to call yourself! Stand down, horsemen of the Tides. The Church of Avaria, the great Goddess, demands that you all cease immediately,” he shouted, his voice a throaty bark that cut across the clash of steel and flight of arrows.