Chapter 33

Day Sixteen – Noon

There they were, a bunch of armored escorts and three officers under the scorching eye of Father Sun. Watched by the bulk of Franque’s men, under the command of his sister. Among them were Buron and Breg, who the bandits thought impossible to veil. But the two were experienced foresters, a man’s size did not matter to them.

The veterans who served together under General Airich were all in forward positions from the battle line of crossbowmen, flanked by Nancia as their bodyguard. Zaber hid in the thicket a couple dozen yards down the hill, among salient trees. Buron and Breg lay in hiding behind thick trunks and similar shrubbery.

And then it happened. Mumbled voices from afar, one undeniably Franque, the rumblings of a thunder and a howl. Bolts rained down on the soldiers and their horses, and the frog-mouthed woman gave the orders. Her flamberge was planted in the ground, ready for action. An infectious laughter roared around the valley, taunting foes and raising friends.

“Preparati! Prepare!” yelled Franque on a short visit to their position. He was already running to another spot, while continuing his commands. “Preparati! Sparare, Sparare! Preparatevi però al corpo a corpo!” He vanished as quickly as he appeared, returning to his main goal: Getting at Beotold’s nerves.

Unmounted cavalrymen, led by the lieutenant, entered the woods. Clad in coats of plates and brigandines with tinned legs and arms, they moved from tree to tree. Some of them wore more steel, some less, but none of them wanted to be under free fire. Armed with shields and arming swords, only their officer had a hand-and-a-half sword.

Breg was still in hiding behind an especially big conifer tree. He watched Buron and their allies as they shot horses and men. Keeping eye contact with his bald companion, he held his bardiche axe close to his chest and waited. One last look at Zaber followed. He knelt in waiting behind a layer of brambles. The two friends nodded at each other. The brothers Asti and Ludi were close, fleeing towards Zaber. When their pursuers reached the greasy and unkempt man – further down the hills – sooner than their forces were approaching the crossbowmen. Like that, the greasy and unkempt man surprised his and the brother’s enemies by throwing a hooded oil lamp at a prepared bush and setting the forest ablaze. The battle had begun.

With no vision of his own, Breg only knew that everyone was focused on shooting. He and Buron were placed as bait, the first to be charged. Smoke from the spreading fire was covering them. The unreasonably tall man wore his plated maille, metal vambraces and greaves, with simple maille woven onto leather gloves. The barbuta helmet he wore had an open slit, giving him a wider view. And what he saw was Buron in his eroded, sleeveless gambeson. A pair of sturdy gloves and a solid piece of metal, pressed into the form of a kettle helmet. The scrawny veteran gave his tall companion a subtle sign, just smiling and nodding.

Shifting into a wide stance, and out of his cover at the same time, Breg swung his bardiche axe around the corner. A soldier was hit right in the shield, caught off-guard, and swept off his feet, falling down the hill. Another man right next to him was barely able to evade the same attack, slipping on his feet and bending forward. What he had to look up to was more akin to a mythical creature. Wild hair grew out of a helmet, as tall and broad as the lumber around them.

“Siamo in cima!” cried the bandits, headed by Nancia. She was about to face her own enemies soon enough, kicking her flamberge off the ground and swinging it around to keep them at bay. There was no doubt that she knew what she was doing, defending her men.

The Margrave’s soldiers wore better armor and were well trained, but Breg and Nancia had the high ground. And a reach advantage. On top of that, neither of them moved like they were wearing armor at all. They overpowered their enemies, swept away their shields, pressured them downhill and landed powerful strikes all over. All while more bolts hit them in the chests and heads.

“Left flank, fall back!” ordered a far reaching bass from behind. Slowly raising his bastard sword, he carefully moved closer towards Breg. His two underlings were struggling too, always falling down, only saved by their armor. One got a bolt sticking out from under a pauldron. “Circumvent; outflank! I’ll take–” said Romund, until a shot splintered over his hounskull bascinet. He glared at Buron. “Them.”

Retreating was hard, as Breg did not intend to let this happen. He was Buron’s frontline, so pursuing too far was not an option. But within the reach of his polearm, he tried to attack for as long as he could.

“Dā eis vēlōcitātem,” sang Romund, pitching his voice up as far as he could – which wasn’t much. But it gave the cavalrymen the needed boost to get away, and him to take their place. He wasn’t a tall man himself, broad and stubby instead, so he had to face upwards even more so. “I’m your opponent now, giant,” he said, raising his blade into a fighting stance.

A slash of Breg’s polearm hit him promptly, forcing his feet. “Ego immobilis,” chanted the knight when he felt the overwhelming difference in their raw physicality. A small portion of Arcanium in Romund’s sabatons glowed, turning him immovable.

The unreasonably tall man knew enough about fighting line magicians and noblemen. They were unpredictable until the first words were sung. A lot of scouting, back in their mercenary days, was about finding out the names of enemy officers. And a lot of a squire’s early training on campaign was about learning the names and known spells of other famous noblemen. Breg knew that he had to use every trick in the book after his first attack felt like hitting a wall.

The giant veteran stepped aside and grunted in a way that was all too familiar to his scrawny companion. It was a well trained routine between them. When Breg stepped to the side, Buron moved in and shot at the knight from a couple feet away. Then, Breg moved back in front of him. The gap was too close to simply move forward, especially now that a bolt stuck in the maille around Romund’s helmet.

Breg gave it his all with the next overhead strike, knowing that the remnants of the last spell might still be active. Steel clashed on steel, blocked. The unreasonably tall man used all his strength to bind their weapons together and get up close. If the knight had time to speak or breathe, this would be over sooner than later. And Buron needed time to reload.

The remaining bandits switched to their axes and maces when the soldiers came close enough. All of them wore simple helmets and paddings, and nobody had a background as a rank and file. They were pure criminals and marauders. Nancia did the heavy lifting by occupying three men at once, constantly moving around so that her flanks were protected by at least one tree. A one-woman threat, never losing momentum with her flamberge.

“Ego lāpsus!” boomed the bass through the woods.

Everyone’s attention was drawn towards Romund and Breg. The cavalrymen were in awe of their officer, while Franque’s men knew that their success depended on the defeat of the knight. As the lieutenant parried the bardiche to the side, he switched to half-swording and did the same as Breg – get closer. No Arcanium was burned as his verse reached its target and moved the soil behind Breg, sliding it downhill. While the unreasonably tall man had earth pushed into his heels, Buron lost the ground beneath his soles.

“Vocō radic–” Romund was stopped before he could combine spells. With a wooden creak beneath them, the scrawny veteran fell onto the soft soil. Breg interrupted the knight by letting go of his weapon, wrapping his arms around his foe – keeping himself from slipping. He held him around his sword, and pushed his fingers between the gaps of plate armor to get a hold of Romund. A brief struggle between the two bearded men ensued before Breg flung the ironclad knight against a nearby tree.

“I’m alright,” said Buron, his knees and feet sunk into loose soil. He scrambled for ammunition and reloaded. “Do your thing.”

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Stumbling forward, Breg nodded. Lunging forward, the giant veteran aimed to grab Romund’s sword and arms. His best chance was to overpower him, but the kneeling knight had already pushed his blade into the ground and the Arcanium burned hot.

“Moveō terram!” The bastard sword itself vibrated like a tuning fork as the whole area shook violently, moving into the valley, bending the trees. His own underlings and their enemies were affected, forcing everyone to stop or trip. Only Romund himself benefited from this spell.

“Vocō radices,” was the booming bass’ next line, deep from his belly. The other side of his sword burned up Arcanium, as the trees’ bases were freed to move. Revolting roots sprang from the ground, lashing out like whips. For better armed men, this was not too much of a problem, even though nobody was able to withstand it fully. But for Franque’s men and Buron it was like many pole attacks at once, hitting them in the sides, legs and backs. Only Nancia’s white armor and the mountainous former mercenary could stand up against brute force like this.

Grinding his teeth, with a string of saliva running into his beard, Breg used the pain to fuel his anger. His hands were already at the knight’s hilt and grip, when his composure was broken by a voice from behind.

“Pfff!” Buron let out a sharp wheeze. “Fuck it!” He yelled, letting go of his crossbow. His hands were pressing down on his bad knee, dislocated by a graze. The bald man drew his falchion and stood up on one leg, a tremble running through him.

Heat pumped through Breg’s veins at the mere thought of Buron being hurt. He tore at the knight’s sword with one hand and punched his foe’s hands with the other one. A measly, spoiled swine like him had not suffered a single day in his life. Yet, he made commonfolk suffer. He made Buron suffer.

“Dā mihi vīrēs…” chanted Romund, filling his hands and arms with strength. The lieutenant felt the ground beneath him move. Whoever the man he fought was, his strength felt oppressive, as he was pushed back. “… ad terram meam!” Romund chained the verses together, expanding the reach bestowed onto himself to the ground beneath him. The earth itself kept him in place.

As the previous spell faded away and the roots retreated, natural strength met magical. The soil became solid again. As he stood up, Romund ripped his sword out of Breg’s hands while pushing him away with a kick to the hip. He raised his bastard sword above his head for a devastating strike against the unarmed giant. But even with rooted footing, Breg didn’t move. Not even an inch. Instead, he grabbed the knight’s hands and kept them high above his head.

“Dā mih–” Romund’s words were quenched when the colossus’ helm smashed into his own. Interrupted, the old spell was already on its way out. Romund’s head snapped back and his brain scrambled. Next thing the knight felt was steel hitting into his flank, as Buron had crept up on his side.

“Hold him tight!” yelled Buron hitting the exposed side of Romund’s cuirass over and over, aiming for the armpit. The scrawny man’s stance was bad, leaning mostly on his good leg.

A different kind of anger crept through the nobleman. His armor kept the promise of the blacksmiths and enchanters that made it. The dishonor of the commonfolk, even a worthy opponent like this giant, boiled his blood. “Dā mihi vīrēs!” sung the lieutenant once more, leaving only one or two more charges of Arcanium. He struck down his sword, breaking free from Breg’s hands, and smashed it onto the giant’s helmet. A dent was left, after which the blade ground onto his shoulder as well.

Breg’s sight went dark for a blink, and he held onto the first thing his mailled fingers found. This gave Romund enough time to deal with Buron, who was still hammering into his side. He held his bastard sword one-handed, still filled with remnants of his spell, and caught the scrawny veteran’s blade in his gauntlet. Ripping it out of Buron’s hand, Romund thrusted it back into his face, hilt first.

The scream of his bald companion brought Breg back into the fight. One glimpse to the side and he saw blood running down Buron’s nose, as he held his eye. After regaining his consciousness, he lost his mind and saw red. His hands rushed towards Romund’s helmet and tore at it, fiddled around, and ripped open his visor. The two armored men fought for control while Breg drove his thumbs into the knight’s eyes.

Voices and shadows around Buron and Breg didn’t reach them. Too much was the bald man concerned with the pain in his face and knee, and his colossal companion with vengeance. He did everything to keep Romund from chanting. He did everything to keep him away from his beloved.

“Dā m–” The lieutenant’s groans were broken by proper words. He pulled on Breg’s wrists – about to crush them by burning through all Arcanium left in the scripture. But before his Will could reach Nature, a kick to his side pushed him out of Breg’s hands. It was followed by a wide overhead swing from a flamberge, pushing him downhill.

“Retraite!” yelled Nancia, dirt and bark all over her armor. “I two victimes; Franque et Zabre fallen,” she said, while swinging around her giant sword to keep Romund at bay.

“Eh–” Romund’s voice broke as he straightened up. “Ego immobilis!” he chanted, as his entire armor glowed up. Closing his visor again, he walked right through the flurry that Nancia was unleashing onto him. His own sword rose too, forcing Nancia back.

Buron was unable to get on his own feet and run, so it was time for Breg to pull himself together. The woman-at-arms was right, he saw the chaos around them. Men had fallen and were dragged away, helped by… strangers? There was no time to think about them. He picked up Buron, patted Nancia on her helmet from behind, and ran.

“You alright?” asked the bald man held in front of Breg’s chest. His right eye was bloodshot and swollen, while he pushed his bloody nostrils shut. No words followed, but his colossal companion’s strong arms tightened around him. Buron leaned into this bear of a man, wrapping one arm around his neck. He may only weigh half of Breg, but he wanted to relieve him as much as he could. It also felt nice…

The unreasonably tall man watched their path, as he sprinted through the forest. It seemed that only the woman-at-arms had success in felling two men. Everyone else was overwhelmed and forced to flee. A couple of men in dark attire swarmed around, aiding the fallen and wounded. It was hard for Breg to focus, as every peek at Buron’s bloody face made his heartbeat skip. Thoughts about his father, and being treated as if he was an offering on an altar or at a meat market, pierced into his heart. He was threatened with loneliness, a feeling that was only soothed by a cradling hand around his neck.

“Ego lāpsus!” A guttural bass sounded from behind them, accompanied by the sound of a small landslide and bending trees.

“Over here!” A woman with a boy, younger than Torm, waved at the bandits and former mercenaries. She wore the chausses and tied work boots of a man, dyed in the same faded black as all the strangers. After closing in on her, she had a crude leather patch over her right eye and a butcher’s cleaver in her belt. “Our wagons are down there,” she said, pointing to the glade that was on top of the hill. It was the opposite end from where Zaber and Franque had led them to their positions.

“Ma,” said the boy and pointed behind Breg. “A knight’s following them.”

“Putain,” cursed the armored woman, soil leaking out of the gaps of her white armor. She dragged the flamberge behind her one-handed, as the other arm was reddened.

“She’s the last of us,” said Buron. “Everyone after her isn’t one of us.”

“Good to know,” replied the one-eyed woman. “Our hunters found you robbing the knights. Everyone who’s not a soldier is welcome with us.”

“Let’s go,” said Breg, cradling up on Buron and continuing. He overtook the brigands and their unknown aides, not even panting. But his heart raced even faster.

“Help her Telf,” ordered the mother. Her son closed in on Nancia, but was denied help. She didn’t even let him carry her sword, leaving the two clad in black behind without a word, just following Breg.

“What is going on here? Who are–” Telf looked at his mother, eating his words after watching the two heavily armored ones. After making sure that nobody was following, they also made their way downhill.

“Starsends,” replied his mother, looking towards the sun, raising her fist in gratitude. “Father Sun led us together. Today is our lucky day.”