A giant pillar of fire stretching leagues into the sky was the sort of thing even the least observant of sentries tended to notice.
The intensity of the blaze lit up the sky, transforming the still of night into the brightness of midday. It was as if a monumental finger had suddenly thrust itself upwards, pointing towards where the sun should reside and deciding to show it how to do the whole 'daylight' thing.
It was several seconds before there was any sound to accompany the blaze, but when it did come, it was a deep rumble as if of a thousand thunderheads. Anyone who had somehow missed the light show certainly had their attention grabbed by a noise that left all ears ringing and more than a few bleeding.
There were screams of terror at what felt like the world was ending, but within moments of the explosion, the first Saxon war bands were already gathering to set out and investigate its cause.
Whatever had happened was well beyond the scope of their patrols, and this put everyone on edge: no one wants to advance into enemy territory with powerful forces on your flank. The rumours of groups of enemy cultivators - or even worse, of Merlin - still haunted the dreams of this army. Thus, the sight of a massive tower of burning Qi was, at best, deeply unsettling to morale. Memories of Isca were still fresh amongst the warriors; no one wanted to be on the receiving end of some payback.
Saxons are very much all for the sowing, not so much about the reaping.
Amongst the foremost of those responding was Cedric, who could be found pulling on his wolf-fur cloak and striding to the edge of the camp, issuing orders as he moved. "There's someone gathering power out there, and I can smell cultivation. If there's a wizard fucking about behind us, I want to be eating their liver before daybreak. Fifty gold coins to whoever brings it to me."
Groups of his warriors howled in response to his words and loped through the trees towards the column of smoke that still lingered in the air. Although not one of the largest factions in the Saxon host, the numbers of West Saxons were significant. The other chieftains watched, somewhat in envy, at the speed and efficiency with which Cedric's pack deployed itself. There was a sleekness, a ferocity, a passion to the way these warriors moved, which spoke well to their proficiency in battle. There had been rumours about the path of destruction these men had delivered during the invasion. None of the Saxons could have been considered merciful, but the tales of atrocities committed by those who flew Cedric's standard were chilling even to them.
However, watching them now, none missed the quality of their gear nor the number of thick iron torcs they wore at their arms. Those under Cedric's command were given respect rarely afforded mere spearmen. They were, in appearance and action, among the elite of the Saxon forces.
A few of the other chieftains, sensing a shift in momentum in their perennial battle for supremacy, tried to organise their own warriors into a similar display. But none could miss how the man was being looked at by his fellows - this was a leader who could get things done and rewarded those that pleased him. Should this hunt return with a defeated British cultivator, there would be little remaining debate as to who was the foremost Saxon chieftain.
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Cedric noted all this and was well pleased.
Amongst so many other contenders, he had despaired at ever getting an opportunity to showcase his claim. The camp was drenched in the blood of those who had tried to rise to the top without the backing to make it stick, and he was a wily enough wolf not to leap at his prey too early. You let the others wear it down first, and, when exhaustion began to tell, you picked the perfect moment to strike.
However, he had begun to fear he had tarried too long. There was no sign of anyone else coming over to his side and, amongst so many others, how could he differentiate himself sufficiently? Yet, now, the perfect chance to gain attention had come along. If all went well - and why would it not? - he would ensure that the blood would flow in thankful sacrifice for his good fortune.
Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he was about to join his spearmen in their hunt when he saw a familiar face hanging back at the edge of the watching crowd. At first, he paid him no mind, but - on second thoughts - there was an advantage to be made here. Now would be the time to fully tie this worm to him. If he leant him a little of this glory, he would be his forever more. He strode towards Pæga, grasped his arm and pulled the man into his wake. "I want your men with me, friend."
"Of course," Pæga felt the eyes of all the other chieftains fall on him, and he puffed out his chest at their regard. Of all of them, Cedric had selected him to join him in this quest; he could feel his standing rise almost as quickly as that column of fire itself. Then, the reason for this helter-skelter pursuit rammed home, and he found himself licking his lips nervously. "But, I am afraid, my wizard has gone missing. I'm not sure how much use my men can be if there's a cultivator out there." His heart skipped a beat at the thought of, once again, confronting terrible powers no human should wield.
Cedric grinned in response, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "There's nothing a wizard can do that the rest of us cannot overcome." He gestured towards where the remains of his own cultivator still fluttered in the breeze, crows seeking out any last scraps of meat. "If we cut them, do they not bleed? If we bleed them, do they not scream? And when they are done screaming, do they not die? Cultivators are nothing more than tricksters. For all their boasting, their lives leak out the same as the rest of us."
A vision of a spinning sword dissecting his second-in-command was, suddenly, at the forefront of Pæga's mind. It wasn't what they could do to the wizard that especially concerned him. He was sure Cedric was capable of inflicting all manner of horrendous things on an enemy wizard. It was what might come back the other way that concerned him most.
But his warriors, seeing their chieftain honoured by the terrifying West Saxon, were already striding forward, seeking to match the enthusiasm of Cedric's wolf-fur-clad forces. He didn't think he would be able to call them back, even if wanted to. Within a few heartbeats, and with more than a little regret, he joined them, following Cedric's lead, howling out his anxiety to the night air.
The cloud of smoke was dissipating slightly, but the focus of their charge was clear. Should they make good time, they would be reaching the site of the explosion before sunrise. And then they would see what their chieftain did to cultivators that displeased him.
The remaining Saxons watched them leave, then set about preparing for what was to come. Should Cedric return triumphant, the advance would begin immediately. If not, someone else would need to take their shot. Either way, the invasion would recommence imminently.