Chapter 78

James

Day 63 of First Landing

The Red Scythe - Army Size: 346

They are planning

on using a group of 10 on

rowboat to flank from

the west shores!

I etched the message as neatly as I could with the cursed stub of charcoal and the scratchy parchment, squeezing words into every available space, even the back. With a last tug to the bindings around JD’s leg and a scrap of jerky pressed into his beak, my last piece, I sent him off into the dawn's light.

Orion hadn’t sent word for some time. If I had to guess, he was likely circling around us by now, and I wasn’t about to leave him or the village in the dark. Meanwhile, Catus and his group had fashioned a raft, planning to cross the river, skirt southward along the coast, and flank Thornhill from its shoreline—a tactic that could make life hell for the defenders.

A Chattel Carpenter had hollowed a log into a crude canoe for the flankers the night before. They planned to take several men to go around the walls by sea and wreak havoc. By dawn, they were hammering together ladders and bridges. The camp buzzed with activity, the air thick with the scent of sawdust and sweat. Amidst it all, Hadrelian and Drudus were at each other’s throats again, voices ringing out louder than any hammer strike. Their argument, a well-worn routine by now, carried the cadence of the back and forth of a pair of brothers who had arguments all their lives.

They spoke in Drakon, their secretive tone suggesting they thought no one but the Chattel or Eldrins could follow their words. Unfortunately for them, I had perched myself behind a tree, pretending to work on a ladder while loosening the nails in sabotage, ears sharp as a fox's, soaking it all in.

“The Tethered known as Super has tricked us, brother,” Drudus growled, his words drenched in betrayal. “They don’t have fifty people. Not with walls and a moat like that.”

“Perhaps they’ve unique classes,” Hadrelian replied, voice smooth, detached, the tone of a man pondering a puzzle rather than a battlefield. “If we capture this prize, the points the Inquisitors will bestow upon us will be sizable…”

“We should retreat. We don’t have the numbers to take that fortress.” Drudus gnawed his nails, each word an anxious bite of desperation.

“Retreat? When we’re so close? Ridiculous. Our scouts saw only two guards on the wall, armed with nothing but bare armor,” Hadrelian retorted, a condescending grin on his face.

“Ten men behind walls are worth a hundred in the open,” Drudus muttered, his voice thin with worry.

“Walls, brother, mean nothing when we wield the Void’s power,” Hadrelian said.

“You’ll send those men to their deaths,” Drudus snapped, teeth clenched.

“And? Heathen animals, the lot of them. One fewer unclean soul to pay.” Hadrelian shrugged.

“We still need enough of them alive to be useful. Someone has to do the rounding up of the Chattel. What if the Chattel revolt? You’ll burn them to cinders, too?”

“Some will die, yes. If they use force, we must defend ourselves. But most? Most Chattel are cowards. Subdued easily enough,” Hadrelian said, his interest in the moral debate less than passing. “Besides, the ones we lose are mere collateral. The Emperor will reward us tenfold for delivering rare class holders.”

“It’s not the way of the Divine Path,” Drudus hissed, his voice low, heavy with frustration. “It’s wrong.”

“Spare me the sermon, brother. The Divine Path won’t earn us glory. The Honor Points we receive upon a rich harvest will,” Hadrelian said, his words dismissive.

“Watch your tongue, Hadrelian. Were we not blood, I’d happily cut it out myself,” Drudus warned, voice laced with venom.

“But we are blood,” Hadrelian replied, his grin widening to something predatory. “And the Path demands respect for your elder. Or have you forgotten?”

Their argument simmered as they stalked through the camp, overseeing the preparations with the air of generals confident in their madness. I remained silent, still as stone, listening for any scrap of insight that might tip the scales in Thornhill’s favor.

The two leaders of the Red Scythe strolled through the camp, deep in conversation, as they oversaw the final preparations for the raid.

Several hours later, horns blared, signaling the march. The men moved in a disciplined file along the river toward Thornhill with wards and buffs urging them on.

The trek was grueling, and the soldiers seemed to channel their frustration into destruction. Upon spotting our watermill, they set it ablaze without hesitation, laughing and hacking up coughs as smoke billowed into the sky. I watched in quiet horror, anger simmering beneath the surface as the structure, a symbol of our combined hard work, succumbed to the flames. It was a grim preview of what lay ahead.

Please… at least spare the fields. I worked so hard on them. Not the fucking fields!

At last, Thornhill came into view, and I stared in disbelief. White walls stretched high and proud against the landscape, a bastion of defiance where there once was none. How in the hell did they build this so quickly? It was nothing short of a miracle.

"Bianca, you absolute beauty," I muttered under my breath. "You bloody pulled it off."

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The walls, four or five meters tall, extended from the river to the eastern cliffs, which merged into the rugged, mountainous terrain. A moat nearly five meters wide lay before the fortifications, and the raised wooden drawbridge was raised, cutting off the only accessible entrance.

Unfazed, Hadrelian led his men forward, the solid defenses and closed gates doing little to deter him. A card shimmered into existence before the Red Scythe's leader, and he unsheathed a sword, pointing it toward the gates. In response, a massive ball of fire materialized, its searing heat palpable even at a distance. Like a falling star, it streaked through the air and slammed into the wooden drawbridge, setting it ablaze.

The men cheered, their lips curling into predatory grins as Hadrelian gave the order to charge and take the Chattel alive. Makeshift wooden bridges were hefted onto shoulders. They served as shields for crossing the moat.

I hung back, my heart torn between rage and despair. I won’t be part of this. I won’t help these bastards take my home. And I’ll be damned if I stand anywhere near those arrows waiting to pin these bastards.

The soldiers surged forward, bridges extended to span the moat. Archers followed in tight ranks, their bows poised to provide cover. Then, chaos erupted.

"You there!" Drudus’s voice snapped me from my thoughts. He pointed his staff at me with an accusing glare. "Why aren’t you charging as ordered? Get in there, or you’ll receive no pay—" His voice faltered as his gaze sharpened. "Wait… what in the Emperor’s name is happening to your fur?"

I glanced down, alarm coursing through me. Blue wisps drifted away as patches of fur shed from my face, revealing my human skin beneath.

Drudus’s eyes widened, his whisper trembling with horror as realisation dawned. "You’re… a Chattel? A Chattel skinchanger!"

He dismounted his pristine white stallion, rifling through a saddlebag and producing a silver slave collar. Panic gripped me. I reached to summon my Ice Bolt card, but when I pulled it, the usual blue energy that provided its glow blacked out.

This is the work of the EMP Orion is talking about! Fine, I’ll have to defend myself the old-fashioned way.

My hands shook as I drew my cutlass instead, the blade feeling unsteady.

Drudus summoned a card to bind me, but the magic fizzled uselessly. Confusion flickered across his face before twisting into terror. It was like a big man reaching for a big gun who suddenly realized the chamber was empty. He looked as though his entire world had flipped upside down.

Around us, the other Chattel slaves stirred, their collars falling off their necks, shattering the chains that bound them to service to the Eldrins. Some dropped to their knees in reverence, shouting thanks to the "Magebane." Others cast off their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.

The pandemonium escalated. Amid the chaos, a freed Chattel collided with Drudus, knocking him to the ground. Seizing the moment, the Chattel leaped onto Drudus’ horse and rode off to the east through the forests.

Hadrelian spurred his horse toward Drudus, the animal's hooves kicking up dust as the two brothers closed ranks. Their heated argument carried over the din of the chaotic battlefield. I stood frozen, my cutlass gripped tightly in my hand, unsure whether to act or listen.

“Hadrelian!” Drudus shrieked, his panic palpable. “The Void is out of reach! The Magebane… the Magebane walks this world! The Emperor must know! He must call a Jihad, brother! Get me my horse! Stop that rider!”

Hadrelian’s lip curled in frustration as his gaze swept over the scattering Chattel. He summoned the many Slave cards that bound them to him, only for them to turn to ash. “The Chattel—they’re untethered! All of them! My Tethered! My wards! My buffs!”

“Forget the Chattel! Forget the damn army!” Drudus spat, his voice high and shrill. “The Emperor must know of this calamity! A Jihad must be launched! These lands must burn in holy fire to destroy the Magebane!” Flecks of saliva flew from his lips, his religious fervor consuming him.

The word Jihad struck like a hammer blow to my chest. That was the last thing these lands needed. I couldn’t let them escape—not after everything.

“BROTHERS!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the chaos. “My fellow Chattel, hear me! I am a messenger of the Magebane! We must strike down these Eldrins!”

Drudus snarled, his face twisted in fury. “Shut your mouth, Chattel spy! I will chain you myself one day!” He scrambled onto Hadrelian’s horse, clutching his staff and pointing it at me like a lance as he clung to his brother’s back.

But my words had already taken root. The Chattel, hesitant at first, began to rally around me. A few stepped forward, picking up abandoned weapons and pointing them at the Eldrins. They formed a protective line in front of me, a barrier of raw defiance.

“Sanctuary is just behind us, brothers!” I cried again, my voice carrying over the clamor. “Kill these Eldrins, and your chains will be broken forever by the Magebane!”

The Chattel stirred, anger bubbling to the surface as years of oppression turned into righteous fury. Slowly, like the gathering tide, they began to advance on the Eldrins.

Hadrelian’s jaw tightened, and he snapped the reins. “You’re right, Drudus. We must flee. The Emperor must know.” With a sharp kick to the horse’s sides, the two brothers wheeled around and galloped away, their retreat swift and decisive.

“Do not let them escape!” I roared, and together we charged after them. But on foot, we had no hope of catching their stallion as it thundered away from Thornhill.

There was no escape for the Eldrin brothers, Drudus and Hadrelian, however. Their retreat was cut short by the arrival of an ominous rider on a black elk thundering down the riverbank.

“The Stalker!”

“The Magebane!”

“The Saviour!”

The Chattel erupted in cheers, hailing the rider as their messiah, their deliverer. He advanced with a calm menace, positioning himself squarely in the path of the fleeing Eldrins. Behind him, twenty-five riders emerged, their mounts kicking up dust, sunlight glinting off their weapons and armour. The riders spread into a single horizontal line, evenly spaced like the teeth of a comb, stretching across the northern horizon like a net. The Stalker barked commands, and his riders sprang into action. They swept through the wheat fields, spears, lances, and swords drawn, bearing down on the archers positioned at the rear of the army and pressing toward us—the freed Chattel and the two mage commanders.

Hadrelian urged his horse westward, aiming for the ford in the river, his jaw clenched as he sought any escape. The horse he rode was a sturdy creature, water splashing against its ivory legs as it braved the current. The river pulled at it; the flow threatening to sweep them away, but the horse pressed on, its strength and stamina evident in its breeding.

The time it took Hadrelian to cross the river with his horse gave time for his hunter to catch up. The Stalker, relentless as a shadow, was closing in. His black elk surged forward, every muscle in its massive frame coiled with purpose. Behind him, I spotted Cass, perched on the elk's back, clutching Orion’s waist like his life depended on it.

Cass? Riding with Orion? Interesting.

The chase plunged into the forest on the other side of the river, the two riders vanishing into the dense trees. The Chattel and I stood on the riverbank, breathless, watching the unfolding drama like an audience on the edge of their seats.

When Orion approached, he saw the Chattel kneeling on one knee in reverence. He sighed, planting his face into his hands in exasperation. Then, he shot me a glare, to which I responded with an innocent shrug before he, too, crossed the river on his massive elk.

I turned to the freed Chattel, raising my voice so it carried over the murmur of the river. “Come, brothers! The Stalker will deal with those Eldrins. Now to arms! We shall march to our new home over the backs of our oppressors! To Sanctuary!”