Chapter 17: The Howling Field

The world had become a roar of steel and screams, the cold air thick with the acrid tang of blood and magic. Each breath tasted of frost and iron, the chaos around Seeker crashing against him like an unrelenting tide.

The Elves surged forward, a tide of shadow and silver, their shields interlocked with deadly precision, their blades glinting in the pale sunlight like a thousand shards of ice. The first clash hit like a thunderstorm breaking, a bone rattling cacophony of metal on metal. Sparks flew as swords bit into shields, and the cries of the wounded rose like a grim chorus above the din.

Seeker’s spear snapped forward, the crackle of lightning along its length cutting through the chaos. The weapon plunged into the chest of an Elven warrior, the surge of electricity arcing outward in jagged tendrils. Two more soldiers crumpled, their bodies convulsing as they hit the frozen earth, smoke curling faintly from their armor.

He spun, the power inside him surging like a second heartbeat, wild and untamed. The spear whistled through the air, its crackling tip carving a path through the melee. His movements were fluid, sharp, each strike guided by an instinct that felt ancient and primal.

Another Elf darted toward him, her curved blade slicing downward in a vicious arc. He moved without thought, ducking under the swing and stepping into her reach. The butt of his spear drove into her side with a sound like breaking glass. Her ribs shattered under the force, and she crumpled with a choked cry, her blade clattering to the ground.

“Hold the line!” Seeker roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip crack, sharp and unyielding.

Around him, his people fought like cornered wolves, their desperation turned into something raw and feral. The air thrummed with their fury, their defiance. The Elves pressed harder, unrelenting, but Seeker’s people held, because they had no choice.

Liora moved just behind Seeker, her frost covered spear glinting in the pale light. The weapon darted forward with lethal precision, the frost trailing its edge like a ghostly afterimage. She drove the tip into the gap between an Elven soldier’s helm and breastplate. Ice bloomed outward in jagged, crystalline veins, spreading over the warrior’s armor and flesh in a brittle cage.

She yanked the spear free with a sharp twist, the frost snapping like brittle glass. The Elf fell in pieces, his frozen form shattering against the ground in a spray of glimmering shards.

Another attacker lunged at her from the left, his blade a silver arc slicing through the air. She ducked low, the frost on her hands flaring brighter as she pivoted smoothly. The spear swept out in a wide arc, the blow landing with a crack against the Elf’s side. Ice surged from the strike, crawling over his armor like a living thing. He stumbled, his footing faltering under the weight of the frost, and before he could recover, Harken’s blade descended.

The old soldier stepped over the fallen Elf, his sword glistening with fresh blood. “You’re getting better,” he grunted, his voice carrying over the clash of steel and the roar of the battle.

“Not better,” Liora said, her breath escaping in ragged clouds. Her grip on the spear tightened, the frost spreading across her fingers until they were more ice than flesh. “Just colder.”

Her voice was quiet, but the words hung heavy in the frozen air. Without waiting for a reply, she turned back to the fray.

The frost on her spear flared again, brighter this time, as if the storm within her had woken fully. She drove into the next group of Elves, her movements quick and unyielding. The spear flashed like a shard of winter’s fury, each strike leaving behind a trail of ice and death.

For a moment, she thought of the others, Sarra, Marlen, Jaren, and all the freed slaves fighting alongside her. Their faces flickered in her mind, desperate but alive. The thought steadied her hand. She wasn’t fighting for herself anymore. None of them were.

“Keep moving!” she called out, her voice sharp as the frost that danced around her. And then she was lost again in the chaos of battle, her spear a frozen blur as she pressed forward.

Further down the line, Marlen moved with an intensity that bordered on desperation. His hands burned with flickering flames, the embers dancing across his fingers like restless spirits, hungry and unpredictable. The fire whispered to him, its heat curling against his skin in waves, urging him to let it loose.

He thrust his palms forward, and the flames obeyed, roaring outward in a sudden, violent surge. The fire engulfed a cluster of Elves advancing on his position, licking at their armor, finding every gap, every weakness. The metallic sheen of their polished plate blackened and warped under the heat. They screamed, a sharp, piercing sound that should have shaken him.

It didn’t.

Marlen didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. His pale face glistened with sweat despite the freezing air, his teeth clenched against the effort it took to control the blaze. His breath came in shallow gasps, the fire in his hands guttering and sparking like a faltering heartbeat.

“Marlen!” Gale’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a thrown blade. “Focus left!”

Marlen turned instinctively, the flames on his hands flickering low as his concentration wavered. The second he faltered, an Elven spear shot toward him, its gleaming tip slicing through the smoky air.

Time seemed to slow, and Marlen’s mind went blank. The fire in his palms flickered and died.

Then Gale was there, knives flashing like silver streaks. He deflected the spear with a sharp clang and stepped into the attacker’s reach, his blade finding the Elf’s throat in a quick, brutal motion. The Elf crumpled, and Gale shoved him aside without ceremony, his eyes flicking to Marlen.

“Don’t lose yourself,” Gale said, his voice low but cutting. “You’re no good to us dead.”

Marlen blinked, his chest heaving as the world snapped back into focus. He nodded, his hands trembling as he pulled the flames back to life. The embers sparked and grew, spiraling outward until they became a writhing mass of fire.

This time, the fire didn’t whisper it roared. Marlen thrust his hands forward, and a wall of flame erupted from his palms, rushing toward another cluster of Elves. The heat was intense, even for him, and the air shimmered with its force.

The Elves scrambled to avoid it, their formation breaking as the fire raged through their ranks. Some fell, their armor glowing red hot, their cries swallowed by the inferno. Marlen’s lips twisted into something between a grimace and a snarl, his focus razor sharp now.

He could feel the fire pulling at him, its insistent hunger scraping against the edges of his mind. It wanted more, demanded more. For a moment, he wondered if he could stop it if he tried.

“Marlen, keep it controlled!” Gale shouted, his voice cutting through the roaring flames.

Marlen gritted his teeth and reined the fire in, letting it die down just enough to keep his focus. He glanced at Gale, who gave him a curt nod before turning back to the fray.

The flames coiled around Marlen’s hands again, quieter now, but no less alive. He raised his arms, his jaw set as he prepared to unleash another wave.

This time, the fire would obey him.

Except it didn’t.

Marlen felt the flames sputter out, the heat vanishing from his hands as if it had never been there. The hollow ache that followed was familiar but no less frustrating, a gnawing emptiness where his magic should have been. He had burned through his mana.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, flexing his fingers as if trying to will the fire back into existence. But the embers were gone, leaving only the cold and the weight of the battle pressing down on him.

He let out a sharp breath and reached for his sword, the worn hilt fitting awkwardly in his hand. The blade was no comfort, but it was something solid, dependable, not demanding more from him than he could give.

Marlen stepped back into the fray, feeling an odd twinge of relief. The fire was intoxicating, but it also took too much, demanded too much. With the sword, there was no question of control, no fear of losing himself. It was just steel against flesh.

Still, he couldn’t help glancing toward the chaos, searching for a dropped mana stone, hoping for the faint pulse of renewal that only time could bring. How long this battle would stretch, no one could say, but one thing was certain, it would be long enough for his mana to return… or not.

With a steadying breath, he tightened his grip on the sword and pushed forward.

From the rear, Sarra moved with the practiced efficiency of a seasoned hunter, her bow a seamless extension of her will. She notched another arrow, the motion fluid and deliberate, and loosed it in one smooth motion. The shot arced high over her comrades, striking an Elven archer who had just drawn a bead on Seeker. The Elf fell without a sound, his bow slipping from his grasp as he crumpled into the snow.

“Clear the skies!” she shouted, her voice sharp and clear.

The archers around her echoed the call, their bows firing upward to meet the Elves’ precision volleys. Sarra’s sharp eyes scanned the chaos, her thoughts calculating as quickly as her movements.

She reached for a plain arrow, her fingers brushing its smooth wooden shaft. Her gaze fell on an advancing Elven soldier, his armor dull and etched with depleted runes, defenses already drained by earlier attacks. Perfect.

A faint shimmer of frost flickered across her fingertips as she gripped the arrow. Her mana stirred, flowing into the shaft, and ice bloomed along its tip, forming jagged crystalline edges. The transformation was quick but careful, just enough power to pierce through weakened armor.

She drew and fired, the frost-tipped arrow slicing through the air. It struck the Elf square in the chest, the brittle ice exploding outward on impact and driving through the weakened plate. He staggered, gasping, before collapsing to the frozen ground.

Sarra’s fingers darted to her quiver again. Another plain arrow, this time saved for a different target, a soldier whose armor was already broken. She fired without adding magic, the shot burying itself in the gap between the Elf’s helm and neck plate.

“Save what you can,” she muttered to herself, her fingers brushing the edge of her quiver.

Her gaze shifted to another advancing line, this one led by an Elven mage shrouded in glowing golden runes. A normal arrow would be useless, bouncing off him like a twig on stone. She hesitated for only a moment before grabbing a plain arrow and channeling her mana again.

Frost spread over the shaft and arrowhead, the edges sharp and jagged, humming faintly with power. She let the shot fly.

It struck true, shattering the protective magic in a burst of brittle light. The mage faltered, his spell unraveling as frost crept up his chest. He screamed once before falling, his robes cracking as the ice consumed him.

Sarra lowered her bow for a moment, her breath fogging in the frigid air. She flexed her fingers, feeling the faint drain of mana coursing through her. A quick glance at her quiver told her what she already knew: every frost arrow she conjured meant one step closer to exhaustion.

Her hands moved on instinct as she prepared another shot. If she was careful, she could conserve her strength, save her magic for the armored threats and let the normal arrows handle the rest.

Another archer raised his bow across the field, his sights set on one of the freed slaves in the line. Sarra loosed a plain arrow, striking him clean through the throat. The Elf dropped, lifeless.

A small smile flickered across her lips as she reached for another arrow. She could still manage this. She just had to be smarter than the battlefield.

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Near the center of the line, the freed slaves fought like men and women who had only just learned what it meant to live and were terrified of losing it again. Their weapons were crude, their armor patchwork, but their fury was unmatched.

Jaren, the stable boy, swung his sword in desperate arcs, his strikes clumsy but relentless. He caught an Elven soldier off guard, the blade biting deep into the warrior’s shoulder with a jarring crack. The Elf staggered, and before he could recover, a hulking freedman brought a war hammer down on him with a sickening crunch, crumpling him to the ground.

Jaren froze for a moment, staring at the blood dripping from his sword. He barely had time to register it before another Elf came at him, spear raised. His legs felt leaden, his arms heavy, and he braced himself for the end.

But then he moved, faster than he thought possible. The spear jabbed toward his chest, and his body twisted instinctively, his sword coming up to deflect the blow. The motion was fluid, almost practiced, though he’d never held a blade before today.

The Elf hesitated, and Jaren’s instincts took over. He drove his blade forward, catching the soldier in the side, the blow cutting deep. The Elf collapsed, and Jaren stumbled back, his breathing ragged, his limbs trembling.

“What was that?” he muttered to himself, staring at his hands. They didn’t feel like his own.

“Jaren!” a voice snapped, pulling him back to the moment. The scarred woman, Rissa, stood a few feet away, her axe embedded in the chest of another Elf. Blood streaked her face, and her eyes burned with a wild intensity.

“Stop staring and fight!” she shouted, wrenching her axe free with a sharp twist.

Rissa hurled herself into the fray, her axe a brutal extension of her rage. She smashed it into an Elven shield, splintering the wood, then drove it down into the soldier’s chest. He crumpled, and she kicked his body aside, roaring at the next wave.

“Push them back!” she bellowed, her voice hoarse but fierce.

The freed slaves rallied around her, their cries rising above the chaos. They moved with an intensity that surprised even themselves, arms swinging faster, legs carrying them further, weapons striking harder than they should have. It wasn’t the storm Seeker wielded, not in its full force, but its echoes lingered in their bodies.

Rissa saw it in the way Arlen, a wiry man who’d spent most of his life pulling carts, now lifted his makeshift shield with ease, deflecting blow after blow. She saw it in Silla, who dodged an arrow that should have pierced her throat, her movements too quick to be natural.

The storm had done something to them, not much, just enough to make them notice. Enough to make them wonder.

But even the storm couldn’t protect all of them.

Rissa heard a scream and turned just in time to see Daveth, a boy no older than thirteen, impaled by an Elven spear. He fell without a sound, his small body crumpling to the ground. The sight hit her like a hammer to the chest, her breath catching in her throat.

“No!” she roared, surging forward. She brought her axe down on the soldier who had killed Daveth, cleaving through his shoulder and down to his chest. The Elf fell, but the victory felt hollow.

She knelt beside Daveth, her bloodied hands shaking as she turned him over. His eyes stared up at her, unseeing, his face frozen in an expression of pain.

“Damn it,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She pressed her forehead to his for just a moment, then rose, her grip on the axe tightening.

“Rissa, we have to move!” someone shouted, pulling her back to the fight. She stood, her jaw clenched, and raised her axe.

The freed slaves rallied again, but their line was thinner now, the cost of each step forward etched in blood and broken bodies.

Jaren stumbled toward Rissa, his breath ragged. “What do we do?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“We fight,” Rissa said, her voice cold and hard. She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the next wave of Elves. “We fight until they break, or we do.”

Jaren nodded, his grip on his sword tightening. He didn’t understand what the storm had done to them, didn’t know if it would be enough.

Seeker’s spear moved like a living thing, the storm inside him flaring with each strike. Lightning crackled along its length, a sharp and crackling hymn of destruction. He thrust the spear into another soldier, the shockwave rippling outward in a burst of blue-white energy. The nearby Elves staggered, their footing lost as the storm lashed against them.

He spun, the spear flashing in an arc of electricity as it clashed against a blade aimed for his neck. The Elf stumbled back, the lightning sparking across his armor before Seeker struck again, sending the soldier crumpling to the ground.

The right flank was holding, for now. But the tide was rising, and the Wild Elves were pushing closer. Big one, their warlord, cut through the human line like a beast unleashed. His twin axes rose and fell with brutal precision, severing shields, limbs, and lives in a single motion.

Warlord moved like a predator, his warriors following in a brutal tide. Their war cries echoed across the battlefield, drowning out even the screams of the dying.

Seeker’s gaze locked on him, the power inside him surging in response. It pressed against his ribs, restless and alive, eager to be unleashed. His grip on the spear tightened.

“Hold the line!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded. Around him, his people fought with the desperation of those who knew they couldn’t afford to fail.

“Seeker,” came a soft voice near his ear, cutting through the chaos.

The fairy perched on his shoulder, her wings faintly aglow with light. Her tone was calm, but there was an edge to it, sharp as ice cracking underfoot.

“You’re pulling too much,” she said.

“I can handle it,” Seeker muttered, his eyes narrowing on Warlord’s advancing form.

“You think you can,” she countered, her voice quiet but unyielding. “And you might, if you want to tear yourself apart in the process.”

Her words hit like a slap, but he didn’t flinch. He drove his spear into another attacker, the lightning arcing outward in a web of destruction.

The fairy sighed, her wings fluttering faintly. “Listen to me. Your mana channels aren’t strong enough for what you’re trying to do. They can’t absorb that much, not yet. Not until you’re at least... well, stronger than you are now.”

“Stronger how?” Seeker snapped, his voice harsh as he parried another strike.

“Stronger like an archmage atleast, Seeker,” she said, her tone softening. “And last I checked, you’re not there yet.”

Her words felt like frost seeping into his chest. He gritted his teeth, thrusting his spear again. The power inside him flared brighter, more insistent, and he felt it, like a dam straining against the floodwaters.

“You keep pulling like this,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “and your body won’t hold. You’ll burn yourself out before this battle is even over.”

He exhaled sharply, the storm retreating slightly, though it still churned restlessly beneath his ribs. His fingers tightened around the spear’s haft.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked, his voice low but tense.

“Use it,” she said. “But sparingly. Control it, don’t let it control you.” Her gaze flicked to Warlord, who was still advancing through the lines. “You can’t win if you’re lying on the ground with your insides scorched, can you?”

The corner of Seeker’s mouth twitched in something that might have been a grim smile. “No,” he said quietly.

“Then don’t prove me right,” she replied, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

Seeker nodded once, a sharp, deliberate motion. He stepped forward, his spear at the ready, the lightning along its length dimming to a faint, crackling hum. The storm was still there, but this time, he held it in check.

Karnath grinned as he swung his twin axes, the blades gleaming in the pale light before biting deep into the chest of a human soldier. The force of the blow sent blood spraying across the frost covered ground. He wrenched the axes free with a savage twist, the man’s body crumpling like a broken doll. Karnath stepped over him without a second glance, his attention already fixed on his next target.

“Forward!” he roared, his voice a guttural growl that seemed to shake the air itself. “Break them! Break everything!”

His warriors surged around him, their cries wild and unrestrained. They moved like a chaos given form, axes and blades cleaving through the human defenders with brutal precision. Each step they took drove the line further back, the humans retreating under the relentless force of their assault.

Karnath’s axes rose and fell in a brutal rhythm, each strike landing with the weight of a thunderclap. A young human soldier lunged at him, spear aimed for his chest. Karnath batted the weapon aside with one axe and brought the other down on the boy’s head, splitting his helm and skull in a single savage motion.

“Too soft,” he muttered, kicking the body aside. His feral grin widened, his golden eyes gleaming as he scanned the battlefield.

The humans were faltering. Their line bent and wavered, each step backward more unsteady than the last. Karnath could smell their fear, sharp and acrid, mingling with the copper tang of blood. It thrilled him, setting his pulse racing.

“These humans think they can stand,” he muttered, his voice low and filled with derision. He adjusted his grip on his axes, the leather-wrapped hilts slick with blood. “Let’s show them they’re wrong.”

He surged forward, his axes moving in a deadly blur. Another human soldier tried to block him, raising his shield in a desperate attempt to hold the line. Karnath’s first axe shattered the shield like brittle wood, the second cleaving through the man’s ribs.

“Faster!” he snarled at his warriors, his voice carrying over the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded. “Harder! The line is breaking!”

The Wild Elves roared in response, their assault growing fiercer. They moved as one, a pack of predators circling their prey, relentless and unforgiving. Karnath’s warriors didn’t just kill, they dismantled. Shields splintered, armor cracked, and weapons were ripped from trembling hands.

Ahead, Karnath’s sharp eyes caught sight of a cluster of human defenders attempting to reform. Their captain, a grizzled man with a scarred face, shouted orders, rallying his men to hold the line.

Karnath laughed, a deep, guttural sound that carried over the battlefield. “Look at them,” he said, his tone almost amused. “Still trying.”

With a flick of his wrist, he signaled to his warriors. “Take the rest. Leave him for me.”

The Wild Elves obeyed without hesitation, sweeping past Karnath to tear into the human defenders. Karnath advanced slowly, his axes dripping crimson, his gaze locked on the human captain.

“You think you can stop me?” Karnath growled as he closed the distance.

The captain raised his sword, his grip steady despite the blood seeping from a wound in his side. “Someone has to,” he said, his voice calm, almost resigned.

Karnath grinned as he closed the distance, his axes gleaming with blood and frost. The human captain didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as take a step back. His scarred face was set like stone, his sword steady despite the tremor in his wounded side.

They met with a crash of steel, Karnath’s axes arcing toward the captain in a brutal downward swing. The human sidestepped at the last moment, the blades tearing into the frozen earth with a sickening thud. The captain moved with surprising speed for someone his size, bringing his sword around in a sharp slash aimed at Karnath’s ribs.

The Wild Elf warlord twisted, one axe sweeping upward to catch the blade mid-swing. Sparks erupted from the clash, and Karnath’s grin widened. “Not bad,” he growled, shoving the captain back with sheer brute strength.

The captain staggered but didn’t fall. He planted his feet and lunged forward, his sword aimed for Karnath’s throat. The move was quick, precise, too quick for Karnath to deflect cleanly. The blade nicked his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.

Karnath stepped back, his tongue darting out to taste the crimson streak. “You actually scratched me,” he said, his voice carrying a note of twisted amusement. “I’ll remember that when I carve you apart.”

The captain didn’t reply. His breathing was heavy, each inhale sharp with pain, but his eyes never wavered from Karnath’s.

The warlord came at him again, axes moving in a deadly blur. One blade swung low, aiming for the captain’s legs, while the other arced high in a feint. The captain reacted instantly, stepping back to avoid the low strike while raising his shield, a battered, dented thing, to block the high blow. The axe smashed into the shield, splintering it further but leaving the captain unharmed.

The captain used the opening to retaliate, slamming the edge of his shield into Karnath’s face. The blow wasn’t enough to stagger the Wild Elf, but it bought the captain half a second enough time to swing his sword toward Karnath’s exposed side.

The blade glanced off Karnath’s armor, cutting shallow but drawing blood. Karnath’s grin twisted into a snarl.

“You’ve got fight in you,” he growled, his axes moving again. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

The two clashed again, their weapons ringing out over the battlefield. Karnath’s strikes were wild and brutal, each swing of his axes a thunderclap of power. The captain was slower but far from weak, his movements were deliberate, precise, each one designed to deflect, evade, and counter.

He ducked under a swing aimed for his neck, his sword slicing upward to catch Karnath’s arm. The blade bit through leather and flesh, and Karnath bellowed in pain. But the wound only seemed to fuel him. His free axe came down like a hammer, forcing the captain to roll aside, the strike narrowly missing his chest.

The captain rose to his feet, blood seeping from his side, his shield reduced to little more than splinters. His sword remained steady, though his breathing was labored. Karnath circled him, his golden eyes gleaming with predatory hunger.

“You’re slowing down,” Karnath said, his tone mocking. “This is the part where you fall, human.”

The captain said nothing, his focus narrowing. He shifted his weight subtly, drawing Karnath closer, his movements measured and deliberate.

Karnath lunged, his axes swinging in a wide arc. The captain sidestepped, his sword darting forward, not to strike, but to scrape along Karnath’s exposed hand, forcing the Wild Elf to drop one of his axes.

Karnath’s grin returned, savage and unrelenting. “Clever,” he said, stepping closer. “But clever won’t save you.”

The captain didn’t hesitate. He lunged again, his sword aimed for Karnath’s chest. But Karnath moved faster, his remaining axe catching the blade and twisting it free of the captain’s grip. The sword flew from his hand, clattering to the blood-soaked ground.

For the first time, the captain faltered, his gaze flicking to his fallen weapon. Karnath’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “What now, old man?”

The captain answered with his fist. He drove a punch into Karnath’s jaw, the force snapping the Wild Elf’s head back. Karnath staggered, surprised more than hurt, and the captain took the opportunity to dive for his sword.

He rolled as he retrieved it, coming to his feet just as Karnath charged again.

Karnath was already upon him, his golden eyes gleaming with triumph. “Still standing?” he growled, the words almost a laugh. “Let’s fix that.”

The axe came faster than the captain could react. He raised his sword in a desperate attempt to block, but Karnath’s strength was overwhelming. The blade held for a breathless moment before the sheer force shattered it, shards of steel flying in every direction.

The captain stumbled, his hands still clutching the hilt of his broken sword. Karnath didn’t pause. His axes swung in a merciless arc, cleaving through flesh and bone.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

The captain’s body fell, crumpling like a toppled monument, his lifeless eyes fixed on the gray sky. Blood soaked the ground beneath him, dark and spreading, as though the earth itself mourned his passing.

Around him, the sounds of battle faltered. The Wild Elves closest to the fight stilled, their eyes drawn to Karnath standing over the broken form of the captain, his axes dripping crimson.

Then it came, a scream that ripped through the air like thunder.

“HARKEN!”

It wasn’t just a cry. It was a raw, guttural sound, filled with pain so deep it seemed to shake the ground itself. The Wild Elves flinched, some stepping back as the sound reverberated through the frozen field.

Seeker.

Karnath turned his head, his golden eyes narrowing as he spotted Seeker in the distance, lightning crackling along the length of his spear. The storm inside Seeker flared, visible even from here, a furious tempest that promised retribution.

For a moment, Karnath’s grin faltered.

Finally, a beast worth killing, he thought, his golden eyes locking onto Seeker in the distance.