Pvt. Carl Johnson dove back over the small rise of dirt and back into the trenches, slamming into the dirt with an audible "OOF!" of impact, barely avoiding the jet of green light streaking over his head. Rolling as best as he could, Carl snatched his rifle from the ground and clambered back up the ladder, aiming at the hazy figure crouching behind a barricade. Licking his thumb, he wiped the dust away from the iron sights and tried to slow his hammering heartbeat. Pulling the trigger, he watched as the person spun away, clutching at their shoulder. That wasn't nearly good enough, Carl knew. Any mage worth his salt carried a supply of healing arrays with him.

The battlefield was a mess of choking ash, dust clouds, and who knew what else. The war had been going on since nineteen-forty-four and showed no signs of even slowing. Sides were being taken and abandoned faster than the comms officers could track, and it was impossible to tell whether the man you'd just shared water with would be firing at you the next day. In Carl's case, he'd been drafted from the States and pulled straight to the hell that was the front lines.

Scrambling towards him, another soldier - a Brit, Carl thought - shouted, "Are they pulling back yet?"

An artillery spell detonated somewhere nearby, and everyone in the trench flinched. Carl shouted back, "No idea! Keep firing 'til you run out, and you might get to head back!" He had no clue whether this was true or not, but he knew with absolute certainty that he was pretty much screwed either way. The rear might be the front by tomorrow, and then they'd be well and truly screwed.

He had almost no proficiency with magic. It was all too complicated for him - the spell arrays, concentration matrixes, tattoos - he'd told himself that he'd never need any of it. Why bother learning how to use that spark of mana he possessed to light a fire when flint and some steel did the job just fine?

Running a callused hand through his matted brown hair, Carl stared at the haggard soldiers stationed with him and wondered where he'd gone wrong. No, he decided, he hadn't gone wrong. The whole planet was wrong, all of it. Why was he out here ankle-deep in mud, sweat, and blood when the people who started the war were sitting high and dry in their mansions? It went far beyond being unfair.

Sliding and slipping on the rain-soaked mud, an officer shouted to the men huddled in their uniforms, "Stand strong, men! We'll win this war yet! We need to push a little-"

An artillery spell screamed through the air and ended his impromptu speech, landing right where he stood and sending a dozen men flying. A wave of heat seared Carl's eyeballs. Closing his eyes, he stared upwards and felt the cold rain hammer down on his eyelids, wondering when this war would actually end.

It was nigh impossible to tell for sure who was allied with whom at the moment. Politics moved faster than telegrams these days, and to be honest, Carl wasn't even sure that the Brit next to him was an ally anymore. He knew for sure that they were allied with the Russians, though. In the war's early days, the States had reached out to the Magisterium and set up a handshake treaty. The two biggest military countries in the world working together. The media had proclaimed the war to be practically over already.

Well, now it'd been five years, and the war still wasn't over.

A loud bang drew his attention to further down the trenches, where the Brits flooded through a gap. Seizing his grease gun, Carl moved forward, aiming as he did. One of the Redmen turned around and saw him, and Carl's heart nearly stopped. The enemy soldier was wearing a violet sash across his left shoulder. It was an honest-to-God Scarlett.

The Scarletts were an elite force of specialized combat mages operating under the French. They'd always had a solid grasp on the finer points of magic before the war, and now that it was going full force, their skill had only increased exponentially. Nowadays, the Scarletts were known for being pretty much unstoppable. And there was one looking at him.

The Scarlett raised his hands, the runes tattooed on his wrists glowing a deep purple. Without hesitation, Carl turned and sprinted in the other direction as fast as he could. A cold white shine seeped into his peripheral, and fear lent extra speed to his feet. Slinging the grease gun over his back, he leaned into the cold wind, looking behind him.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

It was a bad idea. The Scarlett created glass spears, five of them, and each one a solid six feet long. Carl had no idea where he was getting the materials - for all he knew, maybe this particular mage had a Storitaul and was pulling sand straight out of a pocket dimension. Before he could get any further, his foot hooked on a tree root, and he tripped.

Head going down, he heard a vicious hiss over him. Faceplanting into the mud, he crawled forward and flipped over, dashing a hand across his face to clear his vision. Shaking his head and squinting, he saw four glints floating. He instantly hurled himself to the side and felt the impact of a spear slam into the mud next to him.

Scrabbling at his grease gun, he started to bring it around, and the Scarlett aimed a third spear. Scooting backward, Carl raised his weapon and fired, feeling the familiar kick of a submachine gun against his shoulder and making his teeth rattle. It spat bullets at the Scarlett, most of them missing. The few that came anywhere near the mage sparked off of some sort of short-distance reflection field. So the mage specialized in glass and light. Refraction maybe? Carl wasn't going to survive the next ten seconds, so it wasn't as though he'd have the opportunity to test the theory.

The Scarlett gestured towards him, and the spear hurtled forward. Carl tried to dodge again, but this one stabbed into his arm and went through as easily as a needle through fabric. The blazing sensation of red-hot pain seared into his arm, and he screamed, clutching at the length of glass pinning his arm to the ground.

Approaching, the Scarlett raised his hand, and Carl stared at him dully. Was he really going to die here, a mere Private in an endless army? He'd always wanted to open a general store. It'd been a long shot, he knew that, but he would have taken simply living through the war.

It didn't seem like an option anymore.

Carl braced for death.

And unexpectedly, didn't receive it. Instead, a white-hot wave of dry air rolled over him, making his skin wrinkle up. He heard shouting, a lot of it, and the sound of glass spears slamming into something. Something shattered.

Opening his eyes, Carl saw a massive man in dark brown furs and hardened leather clothing hurtling from the sky. The Scarlett was down to only two spears, having retrieved the other pair, and he promptly launched all of them at the descending man. Spinning midair, the incoming warrior produced a huge gout of fire from one hand, dodging one while summoning ice around his fist to punch another away. Twisting in a way that shouldn't have been possible on a human frame, he avoided the final two and crunched into the mud. Standing in front of Carl, he made a complicated gesture and sent a spike of ice at the Scarlett.

It deflected off of the barrier, and Carl's rescuer cocked his head. Raising one hand, he aimed it palm outward and roared in the loudest voice Carl had ever heard, "жаркое, придурок!"

A column of spiraling flame erupted from his hand and utterly enveloped the Scarlett. Carl waited for the blast to end, to sputter out, but it just didn't. What kind of mana reserves was this guy packing!?

After a solid ten seconds of constant fire, the Russian lowered his hands and smacked them against each other in satisfaction. As the dust cleared, Carl witnessed the sight of a man half-buried in molten glass, horrific burns covering his body where his almost certainly enchanted clothing had been incinerated.

As he turned around, Carl got his first good look at him. Aside from the ankle-length fur-lined coat, his uniform was almost black, with an odd badge resting above his lapel. It featured a clenched fist holding onto a cluster of flags, none of which Carl could make out. The Russian wore a carefully fitted welding mask, with his black hair stuck underneath it and poking in every direction.

The Russian walked towards Carl and ripped the spear out of his arm one-handed, and Carl was promptly reminded that there was a giant wound in his arm. Screaming out of instinct, he curled up into a fetal position, sobbing. The Russian pried him open like a fisherman with a clam and held up a strip of white cloth. Scribbling something on it, he showed it to Carl, and the resulting confusion almost made Carl forget the pain.

On the cloth, the Russian had written the word "Исцелить," along with a rough circle around the word and a smiley face just outside it.

Carl blinked. Whatever it was, it didn't qualify as an array. If anything, it was a childish drawing with some scribbled term on it. "What's that?"

Leaning forward, the Russian wrapped the bandage around Carl's injured arm and cheerfully told him something in his native tongue. Carl shook his head, apologetically explaining, "Sorry. I don't speak Russian."

The man stared at him for a moment, then said in halting English, "I am Petrov Domovoi. That fix up arm good, okey? Keep on!" Giving him a sloppy salute, he spun around and stomped off through the trenches towards the area where the British had broken through.

Carl looked at his arm. The bandage was glowing a deep green, dulling the pain in his arm, which made absolutely no sense at all. Fire and ice magic, okay. Mastering opposite ends of the elemental spectrum was one thing. Difficult, but possible. Using healing magic without even a remotely distinct healing array should have been outright impossible.

His head snapped up as a massive explosion of flame erupted upward from somewhere in the trenches. Petrov still had mana after all that?

What the heck were Russian warlocks made of!?