Cempa was all for conventional wisdom, he’d spent most of his career trying to instil it into people with the information absorption properties of a small boulder. A particular favourite was you can’t run from your troubles forever.

Normally I’d be pleased about being right, well perhaps I am little, but smug and dead is still dead, so conventional wisdom can go bugger itself.

Around lunchtime, Leth had gasped back to life, startling his horse into a gallop. Once Cempa had caught up, Leth had babbled about their impending doom and they’d ridden as fast as they could, but by the time they reached Wigsteall, the horses were exhausted and the Duke was closing fast.

Cempa stood among the moss covered ruins, as the cold damp stiffened his cooling body. The forest had completely reclaimed the site over the last few months.

“What the hell are we going to do?” said Hrolf. “We’ve nowhere to hide, we can’t run anymore, and they’ve enough men to shoot us all down before we can do anything. Even if we do get close, there’s nine of us and over a hundred of them. Fucked doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“How many hours do we have?” said Cempa.

I need to keep us focused - a stay of execution for our growing dread.

“Five, maybe six,” said Leth. “They’ll reach us around midnight if we stay where we are.”

“Why don’t we hide in the trees, send the horses off, and wait ‘til they pass us,” said Tadhgán.

“Appeals to me,” said Péton.

“That relies too much on luck,” said Leth. “Guntard only has to use the same search method as me and we’d be discovered.”

“Then what the hell do you suppose we do?” said Tadhgán. “Butter our buttocks and bite down on an apple?”

“I’d rather jump in the yellow goo than be caught,” said Clæfre.

“Me too,” said Elewýs.

“A suicide pact won’t be necessary,” said Cempa. “How many flasks and bottles do we have?”

“I have several,” said Leth.

“And each of us has a couple of water skins,” said Weard. “There’s a couple of water barrels too.”

“Excellent. We’re going to build a barricade with the Cwylla at our backs.”

“We’re holding out?” said Tadhgán.

“We can’t run, but they can’t shoot us if we’re behind rocks. If they want us, they’ll have to assault. If we have Elewýs move some of those blocks, they won’t be able to shift our defences easily and it will limit how many soldiers can attack us at once, giving us a chance.”

“What’s to stop them starving us out or keep coming until we’re exhausted?” said Péton.

Cempa smiled, “Leth, do you remember me asking about traps?”

Leth nodded.

“Do you think you could make us a few?”

“I can do that.”

“Excellent. We’ve two crossbows, two bows, and Elewýs’s ballista-like monstrosity. We’ll use those to stop them riding too close, or clearing a path for themselves. I’m sure we can throw a few rocks and sling a pebble or two as well.”

“You make it sound like we can actually do this,” said Milde.

“There’s no way I’m buttering up,” said Cempa. “I don’t like apples.”

“We’ve survived the onslaught of Nihtgenga, Gréatian, and raiders,” said Tadhgán. “No reason we can’t scrape through again.”

“I don’t like the idea of rolling over or running away,” said Hrolf. “Even if running seems sensible.”

“We can never know the right choice,” said Elewýs. “Only live with ours, I hope.”

“Do we have to kill every single one of them?” said Milde.

“Only enough to make them leave us alone,” said Cempa. He glanced and Leth.

“I trust you,” said Leth.

Cempa grinned and patted Leth’s back, “Anyone who isn’t Weard or Leth get building. I’ll be along to help in a couple of minutes.”

The troop separated, Elewýs leading the way through the ruins.

“What do you want us to do?” said Weard.

Leth leaned closer.

“Make it rain,” said Cempa.

*

It was a little past one in the morning and the air was filled with an irritating fog. Hewelin couldn’t see the person in front of him, forcing him to follow the light from a small flicking lantern and snorting horses.

He was confused: the sounds around him were clear, not muffled by the fog. He felt as if several people were tickling him with splays of feathers. His heart raced.

I’ll speak at the lantern and see what happens.

“Soldier, what can you see?”

“People, horses, and trees, milord” the woman replied. He tried to discern her outline and failed.

“Any fog or mist?”

“No, milord. Nothing like that.”

It must be magic. Magic so thick I can’t see anything else, and we’ve been breathing it for hours.

The magic reminds me of flour in a mill or the alcoholic spray from a fire eater. All it will take is one spark and everything will go horribly wrong. Only the truly desperate, or the utterly insane, would cast a spell here.

The Duke is crazier than a crone and he’s cornered a troop with an inexperienced Drýmann.

Hewelin considered trying to lift his heartstone from around the Duke’s neck and fleeing.

A trickle of wind magic would do it, but if the Duke catches it, he’ll torture me again, maybe even kill me. It’s silly to risk my life over a matter of patience.

He yawned.

I’m not interested in murdering a bunch of soldiers for no reason, yet I’ve had a long ride because the Duke was humiliated by an Eten and hates anyone who’s appearance differs from how he thinks they should look.

“Lead me to the Duke.”

“Yes milord,” said the faceless woman.

I need to dissuade Dolwillen from launching an immediate search and slaughter or I’ll be up all night.

*

“Bit cosy back here,” said Clæfre.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Bet that was Cempa’s plan all along,” said Milde.

“Never thought we’d get the whole night to build a wall,” said Cempa.

They’d created a semicircular enclosure thirty-foot across and fifteen deep. A large tree took up a good quarter of the right hand section of the enclosure. The wall itself was eight feet high and three feet wide with a three foot firing step every yard or so.

Having so much dressed stone available had made it easy. They’d used the horses to drag the huge blocks over, then Elewýs had lifted them into place. Afterwards, they’d set the horses free.

The Cwylla was at their backs. They’d built a wall there too, in case someone tried to circle around and shoot them over the huge pool of flat yellow liquid. A small gap remained in case they needed to reach it. Six spare shields lay against the back wall with three spare bundles of bolts and two of arrows. Ten, maybe twelve minutes worth at full pace.

Leth had handed out one of his foul potions. It had tasted like the worst, over-stewed tea he’d ever consumed, but had done its job. Cempa wasn’t tired anymore, just incredibly jittery and running back and forth between his post and the latrine pit, much like the rest of the troop.

“At least I won’t piss myself when the action starts,” said Hrolf. “I’ll have nothing left by then.”

“I think I’ll be a withered corpse,” said Milde. “What does he put in those things?”

“Is everyone ready?” said Cempa.

“Oh, I was born,” Weard said.

Cempa waited for him to continue, but Weard remained silent.

“You were born…what?” said Cempa.

“Well, twenty something years ago I was born. It is an entirely irrelevant statement,” said Weard. “I thought you liked those.”

Cempa smiled, “Shut up, Weard.”

“Why do we have to fight these people? What did we do?” said Elewýs, her patchy hued was a little faded and her hands trembled.

“Some people hate men, others despise women,” said Weard. “A few detest differences, or simply the other guy. Pride, power, honour, greed, fear, revenge, belief, take your pick. Occasionally you find someone who not only manages all of those, but is in a position to force their view on someone. The other side says, ‘bugger that, I want to do things my way’, so they try to stab each other in the face and whoever is left standing wins. The Duke has decided his life would be better off without us. We disagree, so we fight.”

“Very nice speech, Weard,” said Cempa.

Weard cleared his throat, “In the case of Cempa, who’s a bit simpler than the rest of us. He fights because he doesn’t believe in fruit. He probably doubts the existence of vegetables too. I mean, look at him, he probably skipped breast milk and went straight to steak.”

Elewýs smiled slightly, “I still don’t want to kill anyone though.”

“You do what you like, lass, but we’d sure appreciate it if you’d take a shot and make a swing or two. Me, I’m going to break anything that comes close, starting with that ælfscíene trooper,” said Cempa.

“Flattery will not save you from the truth,” said Weard.

“They’re lining up,” said Péton.

“I can’t see anything,” said Leth.

“We’re surrounded,” Hrolf said. “No backing out now.”

“They can’t approach easily with all the trees about, bunches them nicely too” said Cempa.

“Do you think they’ll talk?” said Clæfre.

“Or just start shooting,” said Milde.

Cempa pulled his helmet off and hoisted it about the wall on a stick. Several seconds later an arrow ricocheted from it with a resonant ting.

“Does that answer your question,” said Cempa.

Clæfre nodded, “I think I’ll shoot from behind my shield and the wall.”

Cempa lowered the stick. His helmet had a new shiny streak, “I really hope that was a lucky shot,” said Cempa, “and not a good one.”

“I’ll shimmy up the tree and tell you where they are,” said Elewýs.

“Take care,” said Clæfre.

Elewýs hesitated.

“We’ll fire a shot or two while you climb,” said Milde. “But be quick.”

Elewýs dug her knife into the tree and cut out a hold. She made it look easy, “I think I’ll take my bow too,” said Elewýs.

A wave of malevolent shouting and clashing weapons rolled through the ruins.

“It’s now or never, lass,” said Cempa. Milde, Clæfre, Tadhgán and Hrolf started shooting. Elewýs gave Cempa one last glance and began to climb, flecks of bark and chunks of wood fell in her wake.

“You ready?” said Cempa.

“I think so,” said Leth.

“Then let the mayhem begin.”

Enemy arrows peppered their defences in response to the troops’ sporadic fire. Cempa pressed against the wall. There was nothing stopping arrows from falling in the middle of their camp and plenty were doing just that. He grinned.

Resupply.

Leth sat on the firing step, knees pulled up tight against his chest. He shoved the top end of his staff into the earth.

“How far off are they?”

Cempa peeked and ducked, “Two-hundred yards.”

Leth nodded and began his spell.

“How many traps did you rig?” said Cempa.

“Six.”

“That all?”

“They don’t know that.”

“Fair enough.”

“They were very complex. I had to melt the symbols into the rocks. You have to heat them slowly to just the right temperature and cool it carefully afterwards otherwise they crack and you have to start again.”

“Tell me later.”

“Then I had to solve the problem of a catastrophic chain reaction.”

“The what?”

“And now I have to time them right or they won’t work, but I can’t see because there’s too much magic in the way.”

“Are you going to blow them up or talk all day?” said Cempa

“Have you ever seen the inside of a horse?” said Leth.

“Lots of times.”

“What about when it turns itself inside out before it explodes?”

“Err…no.”

“What about a person?”

“Several times, usually outside a pub during the night-watch.”

“Me neither,” said Leth. “How far out are they?”

He’s not listening.

“Still two-hundred yards.”

Leth poked several symbols. They glowed, “These ones make the body think it’s the wrong way round, like sticking someone in a box of mirrors. The symbol that looks like a many layered box determines the area size.” He pressed the outermost layer.

“And this one,” Leth touched a spiral, “collects the power around us.” He pressed it, “The one that looks like a snake eating its tail loops the power.”

The staff grew red.

Cempa could smell the soil cooking, like mud pies over a fire.

“It’s not a good idea to do this for too long,” said Leth.

Leth pointed at a circle with a slit down the centre, “This is the last one. It links the spell to the rocks I carved. Life magic will flow to the rocks and then the enemy, where their bodies will try to…correct themselves.” Leth stared at the last symbol, “How far are they Cempa?”

“Two hundred yards, Leth.”

“I don’t want to press it.” Leth’s gloves began to smoke.

“I know.”

“Please don’t look.” Leth pressed the final symbol.

Cempa raised his eyes just above the wall.

I really shouldn’t but I just can’t help myself.

Eight men shimmered and blurred. Through the translucent haze, Cempa saw their veins turn yellow, bulge out, and burst from their skin while their chests simultaneously folded in on themselves and were pulled into a red void.

With a loud crack, the ensorcelled stone split and the spell ended. Eight upright mounds of pulsing organs and glittering bones dropped to the ground.

Leth threw up.

“Six traps will be fine,” said Cempa.

*

Hewelin was horrified. The other Drýmann had risked a spell. He wasn’t sure what, all he’d seen was a swirl in the yellow mist, but he’d heard the screams.

I’ll sit this one out.

“What’s going on?” said the Duke, waving his hand from side to side as he tried to swat away something only he could see.

“Your men are dying, your Grace.”

“I can see that, a bunch of the cretins managed to turn themselves inside out.”

“Fascinating,” said Hewelin.

“Why are the soldiers standing there shouting, rather than attacking?”

“They’re waiting for your orders.”

“Not very smart, are they?”

“No, your Grace.”

“Very well.” The Duke drew his beloved sword. He pointed it towards the wall where the inventive soldiers were hiding, “Attack!”

More screams reached Hewelin.

“They keep dying,” said the Duke. “What’s wrong with them?”

An arrow the size of a javelin buried itself in the ground to Hewelin’s left.

That was far too close.

“I’ve no idea. Shall we stand a little further back, your Grace?”

“I want to watch.”

Hewelin stepped behind a tree, “As you wish, your Grace.”