This is another installment in the Magic Realms series of short stories. Like the others, this was written as part of a writing challenge. The subject of this challenge was Selfish Love.
A human with olive complexion wearing ornate desert garb stood on a balcony in the tallest tower of his majestic and imposing fortress of red marble-like stone. He grinned and puffed out his chest with a deep breath at the sight that met his eyes. “Ah, at last,” he said to no one in particular. “The desert and all its vast hidden resources are within my grasp. One more conquest and,” he held out his arms toward the desert and laughed, “the desert will be mine.”
He stroked his long mustache between his fingers as he contemplated the next moves of his conquest. Which of my neighbors would be the best target? Which nation beyond this desert would be the most vulnerable? Perhaps Daitalus to the north with their more pleasant climate? They’d make an ideal gateway to the rest of the nations ... No, not yet. Perhaps Jirmone to the east. Yes. The fertile floodplains and the ocean access would make welcome additions to my empire. Their fine meads would make a suitable addition to my table. Oh ... And their—
He grabbed his sword with a white-knuckled grip, and his emotions turned to fury as his contemplations were suddenly disturbed by the sound of someone timidly clearing their throat behind him. He slowly turned to face the unfortunate individual who had broken his orders that he should have undisturbed quiet. The elf with gray-toned skin and pointed ears shrank back and cowered at seeing the fury in his master’s eyes.
“Did I not tell you that I was not to be disturbed? Perhaps I need to adjust your slave collar to remind you, Eltrund?” asked the human in a blood-chilling tone.
The elf groveled and shook with fear. “N-n-n-no your Excellency, your Most Worshipful Monarch, Conqueror of a Thousand Sands. I beg your mercy upon me, for I come bearing most important news. Oh Exonerated—”
The anger within him abated in the light of the flattery and his grip on his sword loosened. “Oh, yes, yes. The flattery is enough. Now tell me the news, and I may forget your trespass.”
“Yes, your Exalted Highness. There is trouble in the Eastern Desert, sir.”
“What sort of trouble? Has Jirmone sent forth their army?”
“No, oh Jarmund the Conqueror.”
“Is there a slave revolt?”
Eltrund dropped to his knees and bowed. “No, oh Grand Exalted One.”
“Is there a trade dispute with the desert caravans?”
“No, oh Keeper of the Desert Fortress.”
“Do the representatives of the black market wish to renegotiate their access?”
“No, oh Master of the Slave Markets.”
“Then what?!” barked Jarmund. He stepped toward Eltrund and raised a fist. “And cut the flattery! As much as I enjoy you singing my praises, my patience has run out!”
“There is ...” Eltrund hesitated and wiped a cold sweat off his forehead. “Resistance to the press-gangs, Master.”
Jarmund laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Oh? Why has Boziah not brought this to my attention himself? He will be punished if anything less than the gods themselves have kept him from delivering the report.” He drew his sword, and it flashed in the hot desert sun as he swung it through the air. “I will not have cowards in my ranks ...” he said firmly. “Unless,” he continued in a more menacing tone, “they are in the ranks of my slave forces and have no choice but to fight.” The tyrant refocused his gaze on his pitiable servant while positioning his blade for a clean strike at his neck. “Tell me, why has he not come to report?”
Eltrund shook and didn’t dare to look up. “He is ... dead, Sire.”
Jarmund paused and held his breath for a moment. “Dead?” He lowered his sword. “Then tell me, who has done this brazen deed as to strike down one of my generals? What manner of cowardly assassin?”
Eltrund removed his baggy hat and rose to a seated position. “My Liege, the report is that a single opponent routed both him and his forces on the field of combat.”
Jarmund’s eyes widened, and he drew a sharp breath that he held for a few moments. “A single opponent?” he said with growing eagerness. “A single opponent bested one of my generals, and ... how many men?”
Eltrund worked his hat between his hands nervously, clenching and grinding its sides together. “First the press-gang that found him was defeated. A lone survivor was sent back with the message that their target was to be left alone. When he heard the news, Boziah took three of his best teams so that he might capture the individual as a prize for you. None returned.”
“So ... Twenty elite men, equipped with all manner of capture and magical disabling items, were killed? He was right to pursue such a worthy prize.” Jarmund sheathed his sword. “What is it? A dragon? A mighty sorcerer?”
“Nothing so majestic or magical, oh Wise One ...”
Eltrund stuttered, “N-n-no sir.” He hesitated and bit his tongue for a moment. “A Werewolf sir, with jet-black fur, of frightful size by all accounts ... A Prime-Alpha, I believe it is called, who stands nearly eight foot in height.”
“Marvelous. A remarkable development. I must see this specimen when he is placed in my service. Such a fearsome beast will make a wonderful slave and will stand at my vanguard as I launch my next conquest. See that a large force is sent out to ensure his capture. Send a full slave regiment. Five hundred men with spell support. If he is not taken by force, then he shall be worn down and captured when he can no longer fight.”
“Yes, oh Worshipfulness!” declared Eltrund as he bowed multiple times while backing up through the doorway to the balcony.
Jarmund moved to the railing of his balcony and stared out upon the desert while fuming silently to himself. My reputation will not be sullied by the inability of my minions to bring in a single Wolf. I will make him my own. He shall know fear ... Obedience to one that is higher than himself. He calmed and looked off as an idea came into his mind. Yes, I will do something that will take my mind off petty troubles. I will see how one of my pawns is doing.
= = = = = = = = = = = =
Jarmund walked down the long winding stairs that ran down the core of his opulent central tower. Richly colored purpose standards line the walls that bore his emblem, a sun rising up over desert dunes, emblazoned upon them in gold. A soft breeze, fueled by magical spells, caused them to gently flutter as though they were outside on the castle walls. He looked up at them with a smile. He loved how the gentle sound of fluttering fabric drew all who entered his halls to the symbol of his rising might.
He confidently strolled down branching corridors, pausing only long enough to appraise and inspect his minions. With a firm shove, he thrust open a door to an increasingly dark and winding staircase that eventually ended in he came to a large open area deep beneath the surface. A cavernous void was before him that looked entirely dark except for glimmers of light where lone torches were mounted on the wall. An incessant sound of dripping water echoed somewhere in the inky depths. He walked to a door on the far side of the room, barely illuminated by the nearest torches, and knocked. “Open,” he declared.
A slit in the door slid open, and a dark-skinned face appeared on the other side. No words were said, and the small door slid immediately slid shut again. The sound of shifting latches and creaking hinges as the door opened momentarily hid the echoing sound of water.
Jarmund walked in casually once the door opened. “How is she progressing?” His voice echoed in the dark chambers.
A weasel of a man, whose skin may have forgotten the feel of the sun, walked through a doorway ahead and wrung his hands together. “She is doing remarkably well, oh Great One! The slave collar compels her to obey, and the mere threat of returning her to The Box is enough to shake resolve enough for control spells to assert themselves.”
The Door Guard closed the door as Jarmund followed the Torture Master further inside. Jarmund looked back at the sound of the door being latched. He smirked when he saw the Door Guard tugged idly at the slave collar on his neck. Good. I would hate for them to be too comfortable. A slave must never forget their place.
The Weasel led the way to a small dark cell situated in the middle of a room. Concentric rings of containment runes, with additional binding spells, filled the entirety of the space between the cell and the wall. “Wake up!” demanded The Weasel in his nasally and somewhat shrill voice. “Stand for The Master!”
Jarmund looked through the cell bars at a young woman with fiery red hair who was huddled against the bars on the far side of the cell. She glanced up enough to cut her violet eyes at the two men and then went back to staring at the floor. Her linen shirt and shorts were tattered and bruising was visible on her arms, legs, and face.
“This one’s been putting up a fight, I see,” remarked Jarmund casually.
“Yes, Master. But she is nearly broken. Even at this state, she can be very useful ... with the right persuasion.”
“Ah, excellent. Now ... You heard the man. Stand for your Master.”
“Oh, go jump down a pit somewhere,” spat the woman.
“You will stand!” ordered Jarmund. He raised his right hand with his fingers pointed toward the ceiling, and a sickly purple glow formed on his fingertips.
The woman winced in pain but did all she could to resist. For the next four hours, Jarmund busied himself with the task of attempting to assert his will, completely and entirely, over the strong-willed young woman.
= = = = = = = = = = = =
At the edge of the desert sat the large black Werewolf in front of a small fire while he tended to cooking his meal, a very large desert rat that was roasting on a spit. He glanced up casually at the storm of dust and sand that seemed to be approaching and shook his head in disappointment. “I thought they would have learned,” he mumbled. He poked idly at the rat with a stick he often used to tend to his fire.
Meanwhile, a tall slender man with short, wild, dirt-brown hair and brown eyes carefully studied the desert before them. The man was at the head of a group of horsemen and warrior-laden wagons which were rapidly approaching their destination. He had spoken with the surviving member of the first press-gang and had no illusions about the danger he was entering into. He pulled gently on the reins of his chestnut horse, and the mighty beast began to slow. It dropped out of its state of magic-fueled dash that was far beyond the natural capability of any horse.
His men followed suit. One of the captains in their company brought his horse close by and looked at him quizzically. “Why are we slowing down so soon before reaching our destination, sir?”
“Because,” replied their leader, “I want time to study our target now that we’re in range of spells.” He put a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun as he tried to focus on a small hovel located next to a small oasis. The outline of a large Werewolf hunkered down next to a campfire could just be made out. If he’s as formidable as I think, then not all of us will be returning alive. Especially not if we’re trying to take him alive ... He sighed and shook his head despondently. Jarmund wouldn’t accept anything else, and he’d probably kill us all if we failed.
With a shake of his head, he focused his keen mind back on the task at hand and began preparing a scan spell. Immediately, the results that returned to him left him in a state of confusion as to what they were facing. “Jake!” he yelled while glancing to his left. “Widen the spacing between the wagons! He has a lot of magic, and I don’t want us to make tempting targets for a single strike!”
“Alright, Stevens!” yelled Jake in response.
“And it’s ‘sir’ when we’re in formations!”
“Yeah, yeah!” Jake fell back closer toward the wagons. “You heard the ‘sir’! Get spacing between the wagons, you louts!”
Stevens shook his head and wondered to himself how Jake seemed to be the most capable of the men under his command. He wasn’t stupid or lacking in skill but was actually remarkably competent and skilled in a great many areas ... Though, he was entirely lacking in the typical discipline one would associate with a soldier except in actual combat situations.
After a bit further and a few more inconclusive scan spells, Stevens signaled for a halt. He didn’t want to advance any closer to their target without first making preparations. He dismounted and turned to face his men. “Dismount! Everyone form up, and at the ready! Everyone, secure your horses! We’ll advance on foot! Cooky! Man the wagons and horses while we’re gone!”
“Yes sir!” yelled an older man situated on the buck board of their main supply wagon. He dropped the reins and pulled a lever that caused anchors to lower from the bottom of the magically hovering wagon to the desert sand. He wiped his hands on the grease-stained apron that he seemed to wear at all times.
Stevens wasted no time in preparing a variety of defensive spells. Something about how the Werewolf knelt before his fire while casually poking at his meal left an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. Does he not even notice? ... Or does he feel that we’re somehow that insignificant?
In all his time as a commander of one of Jarmund’s many companies of slave-soldiers, he had never been more nervous about the task at hand than now. Certainly, he never felt comfortable with anything he was ever ordered to do, but he always complied because, for him and his men, it would mean their death or torture if they refused. This was something, somehow, entirely different. He led his men cautiously toward the Werewolf while resting his right hand on the hilt of his sword.
= = = = = = = = = = =
The Werewolf glanced up at them for a moment, turned the spit, and ladled something onto his meal. There was still no indication that he thought anything of them, even though he seemed fully aware of their presence.
The casual way the Wolf seemed to treat their approach caused an unsettling feeling in Stevens. He glanced up at the sky and took a slow breath. Creator, if I die, let it be quick ... And first. He looked forward again and steeled his nerves for what was to come. “Wolf!” he yelled once he had reached a comfortable distance.
The idle chef poked the food on the spit once more.
“You are to surrender and submit to capture by the order of Jarmund the Conqueror!”
Their would-be captive sat his stick down and stood up. Stevens’ steps stuttered, and he looked at the jet-black wolf in surprise. He’s bigger than I pictured eight feet would be.
The Werewolf started taking slow but deliberate steps towards them and his wide, strong form seemed to loom over them larger with each one. Stevens could do nothing but pause and wait as the Wolf leaned toward them as if he was studying them for the first time. His dark gray eyes widened, and a look of pure fury formed on his face. The sound of a low growl proceeded from is throat and he bared his teeth. They glinted in the desert sun as he spoke. “He sent an army of slave-warriors, this time?”
Stevens gulped involuntarily as a strange red light seemed to be coming into the Wolf’s eyes. He did his best to subdue his quivering reply. “Yes.”
Suddenly, the Wolf’s eyes glowed a bright furious red that hid all other details in his formerly brown eyes. Stevens slid his right foot back while simultaneously preparing a restraint spell in his left hand and dropping his right to the pommel of his sword. Jake watched his superior keenly and gestured silent orders for their men to begin encircling their target while preparing their magical trinkets. Another quick gesture informed their casters to begin preparing their previously assigned capture and stun spells.
Stevens drew his sword as the Wolf used Were-enhancement magic to lengthen his already impressive claws into what resembled long sharp knives. Following Stevens’ lead, his men also brought their weapons to the ready.
A purplish glow formed around the Wolf’s claws, and Stevens cast his stun spell at him, but he seemed to vanish into a blur of speed spells combined with a fluttering teleport. Stevens could vaguely make out an upraised arm as the Wolf appeared next to him. He only had enough time to close his eyes and cringe before the attack. A gust of air hit his face, created by the savage speed and fury of the attack. His initial thought was that the attack was so devastating and quick, that his body simply hadn’t registered the fatal blow. After a few moments of listening to the chaos within his ranks, he opened his eyes and watched as the black blur was dashing about and teleporting randomly amongst his men as they frantically tried to defend themselves ... only none of them were falling, and had been left very much alive.
It took a few moments of staring around at the nearest of his men for him to realize what was different. Their slave collars were gone! He dropped his sword and reached up toward his own neck with trembling fingers. It was gone! Stevens glanced at his feet and, his eyes widened when he noticed the scattered shards of it. He scanned the ground around him and could see shards of slave collars littering the battlefield. The shock of his situation quickly faded. He cast command spells on the remaining slave collars and all those still wearing them were compelled to stand down. Stevens took a deep breath and yelled. “Stand down! Drop your weapons! Relay the orders until everyone hears it!”
The Wolf instantly noticed the change in those wearing slave collars and froze mid-strike. His current target was torn between desperately wanting to defend himself and the power of the command spell. He could do nothing but shake as he stared up at the long claws held above his head. Slowly, the Werewolf looked around, and the red glow in his eyes began to fade. He glanced back toward towards Stevens as his eyes returned to normal. “Smart,” he mumbled before returning to his work, albeit at a much calmer and controlled pace.
When all the slave collars had been removed, the Werewolf looked over the small army of former slaves. He started walking back toward his hovel with an agitated expression and occasionally twitching tail. Between the look in his eyes, slightly bared teeth, and laid-back ears, no felt brave enough to stand in his path.
Stevens stared in disbelief at how their liberator marched through the ranks of men without the slightest interest in speaking with those that he had just set free. He quickly moved out of the Wolf’s path and then followed him at a distance to the campfire. The Werewolf picked up his stick and poked the large desert rat angrily. He used it to lift one side of the spit, and let it fall into what was left of the fire. “Ruined,” he growled.
Stevens cautiously approached him and volunteered, “We have some rations to spare.”
“You have?” grumbled the Wolf as he turned to face the only one bold enough to approach him after the one-sided battle.
“It will take our chef some time to prepare a full meal, but I have a loaf of bread here in my pack.” Stevens took off his small pack of supplies and pulled out a loaf of days-old, crunchy bread.
The Wolf picked it up, eyed it warily, and then took a bite. He immediately gagged and spat his bite out into the fire. “Thanks,” he grumbled as he tossed back the remainder of the loaf to Stevens. “But I’d do better with the charred hunk in the fire.”
Stevens inspected the bread more closely and cringed. “Sorry ... We don’t normally get the best provisions ... But Cooky, our head chef and quartermaster, managed to snag some good food for a victory celebration.”
“So long as you’ve got some meat,” he grumbled.
“Oh yes, he’s got some good cuts of meat, if you can remove his and the others’ slave collars?” asked Steven’s with a nervous grin.
The Wolf smirked as he looked off toward the supply wagons lingering in the distance. “I think I can do that. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Stevens. What’s yours?”
“Blackfang.” He paused and looked at Stevens. “Don’t you have some sort of report to make after the battle?”
“Yes. I just haven’t worked out what I would say in it yet. I need to work out casualty reports, what kind of injuries or grime to portray on myself, and an illusion for slave collars. He’ll probably want to see you as well ... He’ll need to think that you’ve been captured, or he’ll send out another force.”
Blackfang scowled at the thought. “Captured? And why plan all this? You are all free now. Just go.”
“Well, what are you going to do?”
“Hrn,” grunted Blackfang. “I intend to finish this ... And the great ‘conqueror’ that should have left me alone.”
“Then, sir, we’re at your command.”
Blackfang’s jaw and ears dropped in disbelief. “What?” His eyes widened as he looked down at Stevens and a look of anger began creeping onto his face. “I don’t want anyone, or anything, under my command,” he added with a growl.
“You set us free, and we owe you our lives. We would have been killed if we failed, and a lot of, if not all of us, would have been killed if you fought us outright.”
“Then why would I want you under my command?” Blackfang growled. “If you all would have been defeated anyhow?”
“Because we can fight a lot harder and better, if we aren’t compelled and doing it against our will. We’re all trained warriors, and casters. We can hold our own in a fight.”
Blackfang looked off with a distant expression. “I know how slave collars work ...” He looked back down at Stevens with a sigh. “It looks like I’ll be stuck with you ...”
Stevens grinned. “Great, sir! I look forward to serving under you!”
“Now start working on your report, while I go set your cooks free! I’m hungry!” snapped Blackfang as he stormed off toward the wagons.
“Yes, sir!”
“And stop calling me that!” cried Blackfang over his shoulder.
= = = = = = = = = = = =
Stevens grinned and pulled out a special com-stone that he devised to communicate more effectively with his men and sent a special signal through it. The com-stone of every man in the regiment glowed with faint red light and emitted a low humming sound, prompting every man from the highest ranking captain to the lowest ranked chef, to take out their stones and examine them curiously. With another quick cast into the networked com-stones, Stevens activated them all to voice communication. “All captains of hundreds and fifties report to me. Captains of tens, stay with your men. All mages to me as well. We have our futures to discuss.”
Stevens looked across at Jake, his trusted, albeit unconventional second, and his captains. Jake, a Desert Fox with large ears, smirked and quipped, “Our futures huh? You make that sound like a bad pitch for an investment plan.”
Stevens groaned and eyed Jack. “Now’s not the time. We have a lot to cover before Jarmund starts to get curious. I set our com-stones so he can no longer eavesdrop on our conversations.”
“How’d you do that?” asked one of the captains of fifties, a troll from a tribe on the edge of the desert.
“It’s because he made them,” said Jack confidently. “So, now get on with it. You’re going to ask whether you want us to keep together under you, split off and escape the desert, or the more likely possibility, joining up under that Werewolf who set us all free.”
The troll took a deep breath and rubbed a hand over his brown forehead. “We do owe a bit of a life-debt, don’t we? From what I saw, he could have taken a fair number of us out.”
“If not all of us,” grumbled a thickly built human. “What makes you think he’d want us?”
Stevens looked at the human somberly. “Because, he needs it, whether he’d admit it or not. There’s something wrong with him, or he wouldn’t be secluded here in the desert so far from his fellow Ice Wolves. Besides all that, he intends to go after Jarmund, who we owe something even more than we owe this Wolf a life-debt.”
An Orc, one of the captains over a hundred, beat a fist against his broad chest and made a grunting roar. “I owe him much after he raided my village! There’s nothing left to go back to anymore. I say we throw in our lot with this Wolf!”
Stevens smiled as a rousing cheer spread among all his captains. Jake leaned over, whispered in his ear and patted a hand against his own chest, “Kind of gets you right here, doesn’t it?”
“Shut up, or you’ll ruin the moment,” replied Stevens. He let the cheering go on for some time before he held up both hands. “Alright, talk with your men, each of you and report back. Time is short before Jarmund gets curious and checks in on us. We need to prepare something special for my report.”
= = = = = = = = = = = =
When all was prepared, Stevens pulled out his com-stone. He positioned himself so both Blackfang and the many ‘slain’ were in view as he activated it. A ghostly clouded image of his “master” appeared floating over the com-stone. The image quickly cleared to the point where it was like looking through a window.
“Good, good! I see you have been successful!” said Jarmund gleefully.
“Yes, at the cost of many men, Sire.”
“Save your casualty report! Bring the stone closer to him! I want him to hear my voice!”
Stevens, looking bloodied and bruised, complied and limped toward Blackfang, wincing in pain with every step, until he was nearly within claw’s reach.
“Ah, not so strong and formidable now, are you?” jeered Jarmund as he peered at the battered Blackfang.
Blackfang growled ferociously and almost barked with anger. “Come and see me in person!” He lunged toward Stevens in an apparent attempt to strike him. “I’ll show you how formidable I am!” He yelped and cowed as Stevens cast at him.
“You are my slave now. My prize. My warrior to do with what I wish,” said Jarmund in a slow and certain voice. “You will be unable to do anything, except what I command.”
Jarmund smiled as Blackfang attempted to struggle against his chains once more. He felt a sense of glee well up within him as imaginings of future campaigns of conquest filled his mind. “I will inspect you personally when you arrive,” replied Jarmund smugly before ending the call.
“Wow, that was convincing,” beamed Stevens.
“Great. Now get these chains off me,” grumbled Blackfang impatiently.
Stevens wasted no time in doing what he was ordered. As the last chains fell to the ground, he stepped back and looked up. “So have you any plans for battle? He’ll discover all that was a ruse soon enough and come to attack us with a large army.”
“Good,” replied Blackfang with a look of sarcastic eagerness. “I’d hate to get impatient before I deal with him.” He paused and suddenly looked distant and thoughtful. “As for plans, just stay back, and keep your distance when fighting starts. I don’t want anyone too close to me.”
Stevens looked at Blackfang with a look of pity in his eyes. “Yes, sir. And you don’t have to worry about us. We can hold our own, now that we have our slave collars off.”
“Good,” grunted Blackfang. “We set out at first light toward the palace. If he’s as arrogant as I think he is, he'll set out as soon as he discovers where we are, so we’ll pace ourselves. Let them rush and exhaust themselves before battle.”
Sometime toward dawn of the next day, Jarmund could no longer help himself, and cast a scrying spell aimed at the signal of Stevens’ slave collar. A puzzled expression formed on his face as the spell found no target. He tried scrying signal for Jake’s collar. Nothing. He tried scanning for the mages assigned to them. Nothing. He tried scrying for the general signal assigned to the regiment as a whole. Nothing. If they had simply been killed, at least some of the collars would have survived to lock onto ... unless ... Rage suddenly filled him, and he yelled out, “My mages to me! Eltrund! Call my circle to begin scrying for the magical signal of Stevens! At once!”
= = = = = = = = = = = =
With Jarmund himself leading the effort, the circle of his top mages soon found Stevens. They conjured a magical image showing both him and the Wolf, well and unbound. Jarmund practically vibrated with rage. “My beast alive and unbound! And thi-this ... this TREASON! Utter betrayal! To think that I entertained the thought of setting him free to serve in my regular forces if he succeeded! He shall perish! No ...” Jarmund fumed and took deep breaths to calm himself. “No ... That is to good for him. The Torture Master will have his way with him. There will be no death. Not for him ... As for the Wolf ... I will have my insignia burned so thoroughly into his hide that not even a Were’s healing factor will be able to remove it.
“I will personally lead a force both to capture him and eliminate my slave regiment. A lesson must be taught, so that none will dare to attempt this again.” He panned the image across the free soldiers as they ate and went on with preparations to journey back toward the castle. “It would have been well for them to flee ... Then maybe ... Just maybe ... Some of them would have escaped the slavers and bands in the desert that are loyal to me ... But this makes it more convenient.” He spoke more slowly in a voice dripping with wrath. “I will crush this insolent rebellion all at once.”
= = = = = = = = = = = =
It was toward noon on the next day and Blackfang and Stevens leading their army at a moderate pace toward Jarmund’s palace. A dust cloud could be seen on the horizon. Stevens looked out and drew a deep breath. “He’s probably sent a whole division after us.”
“How many would that be?” asked Blackfang as he shielded his eyes against the bright sun overhead.
Stevens leaned forward in his saddle and covered his eyes as well. “About two thousand. You’re not having second thoughts about leading us, are you?”
“Feh ...” said Blackfang with a huff. “Is that it?”
“Not including spell caster support. He never counts them among the regular ranks so they can be shifted around where they’re needed.”
Stevens looked up at the sky as a few wispy clouds drifted by the sun on a gentle desert breeze. “It’s going to be a hot day for a battle.” He paused and then looked at Blackfang quizzically. “How do you keep from getting overheated with that black fur of yours?”
“Magic,” replied Blackfang simply. He stopped mid-stride and looked around. “We’ll fight here. The sand is softer here and can make things more difficult for those on horseback.”
Stevens glanced back and took a mental tally of their men as everyone came to a halt. Only one hundred twelve on horseback, including myself. The rest are in wagons. It’s a sound judgment. He took out his com-stone and talked into it, “Wagons unload! Fan out in two wide formations. First and Second to the north. Third and Fourth to the south. Cavalry, form up with me. Casters, floatshoe spells on the horses and then get to your assigned companies.”
Jarmund brought his army of two thousand soldiers and fifty casters to a halt as his foes came into view. “There they are. The arrogance of them to think that they can face me in combat.” He grumbled under his breath. “I will find something more fitting for the leaders of this than death ...” Jarmund glanced at his second, a tall and cruel-looking human. “Spread the word. Five hundred gold for anyone that brings me Stevens alive. He must be made an example of ... But above all, that Werewolf must be captured.”
The human nodded obediently and passed the word on through their own com-stone relay.
Blackfang grinned toothily as he stared out. “Is that pompous, brightly dressed person who I think it is?”
Stevens cast a seeing spell for a better look. “It is. Jarmund himself.”
“Perfect. How can I miss a target like that?”
“He’ll fall back toward the rear of his army when they attack so he can issue orders more effectively, but his commanders will be more toward the front. The casters are the ones wearing sashes ... Each has various mana, healing, and magic potions on them so they can cast pretty heavily without wearing themselves out.”
Blackfang rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then I’ll get in and take the casters out first. The officers next. I assume they’re capable of both magic and combat?”
Stevens nodded. “And so is Jarmund. He’s highly skilled.”
“With luck I can get him before he retreats ... The rest should be easy with no one to lead them. Don’t take risks. Defend yourselves and contain them if they start to flee.”
“Yes, sir.” Stevens pulled up on the reins of his horse as he began relaying orders. His steed snorted in protest. It could smell the scent of impending battle in the air and was eager for excitement. He watched as Blackfang knelt down as if preparing to take off at a sprint. Stevens watched and was stunned when the Wolf suddenly seemed to vanish into a blur.
Jarmund’s forces were still arraying themselves into a battle formation when the first blow was struck. One of the mages, along with his horse that he had yet to dismount, was slain in a single blow. Another mage fell, and then another. The surviving mages understood their peril, and started scattered casting in order to protect themselves.
Two officers and a swath of soldiers perished as jagged crimson slashes of energy swept out into them. Jarmund looked in growing horror at the fate that was befalling his men. He cast observation magic in order to see what was going on and froze a magical image of two glowing red eyes. The great conqueror felt his blood run cold, but quickly stifled the growing feeling of fear and regained his composure.
“Officers! Surround yourselves with blades and barrier spells! Mages, join the officers in the encirclements! Give this Wolf a wall of blades to contend with! Cast area spells to counter his teleports once you’re secure!” he bellowed into his com-stone.
His forces were well trained and quick to follow his orders. Blackfang suddenly found himself facing small but highly defended groups of holdouts encircled by groups of soldiers. Meanwhile, a large cavalry detachment, nearly five hundred men in all, was racing into formation to charge into the ranks of former slave-soldiers.
“Surrender now, Wolf, and some of those who follow you might be spared!” yelled out Jarmund from one of the groups of casters. “We are free to cast against you now and will make short work of both you and your men if you do not!”
Even with his battle-haze-filled mind, Blackfang instantly recognized the risk, both to himself and to those who fell in under his command, but all he could do was continue pressing the attack. He dashed toward the nearest group of mages while summoning a necklace with a pendant shaped like a golden sun. The battle haze abated some, and he cast a spell-barrier about himself. He threw a crimson waves of energy with a swipe from his claws.
The targeted mages quickly cast additional barriers to defend themselves the instant they saw the wave of energy coming. Soldiers beyond the protection of the barriers dove to the ground in an attempt to avoid the onslaught and hoped desperately that the attack would pass overhead. As the crimson wave was about to impact its target Blackfang cast a magical disruption spell that weakened the barrier enough for the crimson wave to pass through both the barrier, and those behind it.
He powered a teleport spell through the attempts to lock him down just as a fire spell struck where he had been standing. Meanwhile, the cavalry charge was bearing down on Stevens and his men. “Hold your positions!” ordered Stevens as he watched as the hooves of the approaching force throw up large amounts of loose sand, hindering their advance.
Stevens did quick magical calculations in his mind before yelling out, “Now!”
He and his fellow casters unleashed concentrated sonic spells began shifting the sands under the hooves of their enemies, causing it to behave like quicksand. Even the most hardened war horses among the enemy charge began to panic and lose their footing. Many riders were thrown entirely and found themselves in a desperate struggle to get their heads above the shifting sands.
Stevens smiled confidently as he saw his moment. “Charge!” He drew his sword and urged his horse on with swift kicks to his sides.
He led his cavalry and the hooves their horses seemed to hover just over the shifting sands as they rode out to face their helpless prey. Jarmund watched in shock as his own cavalry detachment was swiftly overcome by a force almost a fifth its size. He and his fellow casters were so focused on containment of the Wolf and protecting themselves that he had neglected to order spell support for the rest of his men.
The gravity of his situation began to sink in as he watched the former slave-infantry, sped on by haste spells, move out in obvious flanking maneuvers. Such small infantry forces, two hundred men each, would normally be of no concern against his own force, except that his forces’ spell casting capacity was already greatly diminished.
Curse that Werewolf! He’s tied up all my casters’ attention just so they can defend themselves! Jarmund’s eyes widened as a jagged ice spire seemed to shoot up under the feet of the nearest group of casters. He’s able to throw off the aim of casts, and circumvent barriers meant to stop him. Jarmund’s cunning mind raced. He could counter this ... Contain this Wolf ... But not with what he had available. As much as the thought infuriated him, he only saw one course of action. He couldn’t afford to lose any more mages or captains in a lost battle.
“Retreat!” he yelled into his com-stone. “All mages and captains, cast recall spells, and take as many men with you as you can! All others, fall back to the wagons! Drivers, use all manner of haste spells to make for the nearest fortified cities once you’re loaded, and redouble their guard!”
= = = = = = = = = = = =
Blackfang was in mid-cast, aimed at one of the groups of mages and captains, when they and many of the surrounding soldiers vanished. A stunned silence fell over the battlefield as the enemy realized that they were both leaderless and vulnerable to any casts that might be thrown at them. A good many made a break for the approaching wagons, while a good many more looked at the advancing enemy forces and dropped their weapons.
The now targetless Blackfang looked around at the chaos. Without their leaders or casters for support, all of the remaining foes were only interested in distancing themselves from him as quickly as possible. Behind him and closest to his oncoming infantry, the enemy was surrendering. Beyond the formations, Stevens led their cavalry as they employed the highest level of haste spells to cut off the enemy wagons. A storm cloud of desert bellowed into the air behind them.
A grin formed on Blackfang’s face, and with a teleport spell, he appeared behind the wagons and cast an explosion spell in the air above him. The battle-proven horses ridden by Stevens and his men were unphased; however, the workhorses pulling the supply and troop wagons were thrown into a panic. The supply wagons began trashing back and forth erratically as their drivers fought to regain control of the horses.
As Stevens rapidly approached, Blackfang cast a voice amplification spell and yelled only one word toward the enemy, “Surrender!”
= = = = = = = = = = = =
Stevens took tally after the battle with the aid of a few spells. He and his force of just over five hundred men had captured over five hundred soldiers. They had taken over a hundred forty wagons with their drivers. An enemy cavalry detachment nearly the size of their entire force had been wiped out. In a state of disbelief, Stevens looked over the battlefield where Blackfang alone had engaged the heart of the enemy forces, where so many slain littered the sands.
He shook his head, composed himself, and rode toward the one whom he fully intended to make their new king. “I have the counts ready.”
Blackfang nodded as he stared blankly out at their prisoners. “So, what do we do with all of them?”
“I think I know who can help with them,” replied Stevens with a smile.
This was another short story that was written for a writer's forum short story challenge. The word target for these challenges is 3,000 words. At the request of my wife, who is also the author of the challenges, I included a glimpse at another character which brought the word count up to nearly 4,000. When I went back to revise the story further it increased in length to over 7,000 words ... just a bit of an increase in length.
Anyway, next week I plan to start doing special new updates to flesh out the "Drifters: Compendium" category a bit more. I may even throw in my first "Personal Blurb" as well.
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