A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands - Book 2: Chapter 24: The Flight of an Arrow

The landing of an arrow upon its intended target does not rest upon the arrow’s quality, nor that of the bow from which it was loosed. Neither is it dependent upon the whims of the elements, be it the gusts of wind, the torrents of rain, or even fickle fortune. Nay, it is the archer’s mind that determines the arrow’s destiny.

– Valerie of the Vale from the Tales of Seven Lands circa AC 573.

It is a surreal thing to prepare for violence, even for one such as I, who has drunk more than his fair share of the hot dark brew. Laes’ hands were held up in the sign of peace, an opening to offer an empty denial or to bargain with his purse. Perhaps he even planned betrayal, the life of some strangers for safe passage and continued trading rights. He could probably justify it to himself as a necessary thing, for surely the lives of the people under him were worth more than the lives of a few strangers. There would be no peaceful conclusion to this encounter, I just knew it in my bones.

Grimly, I nodded to Kidu, gathering the dark energies within, even as I let my hand fall – our predetermined signal to let loose. Though Laes had dealt with us fairly so far, it was too great a risk to leave things to chance, to a stranger’s whim. Losing the initiative here could also prove to be fatal, and I needed every last advantage I could get. With battle as my chosen path, the world became a much simpler thing. I would force Laes’ hand.

Even as Kidu’s bow sang its thrumming tune, I unleashed a dark wave of entropic power that swept over the Tides horsemen, causing chaos and confusion in their ranks. One of their steeds reared, its rider thrown off in a flurry of hooves and horse flesh. Shouts of alarm reverberated throughout the field, a cacophony of fear and surprise as our unexpected assault caught them off-guard.

Laes paused in a moment of dull shock, frozen, as swift-winged arrows whizzed by his face, embedding themselves in the enemy’s armor and flesh. However, he quickly regained his senses and spun his mount around, his guards close behind. They raised wooden and animal hide shields in a desperate attempt to protect themselves and their charge, and fled back toward the relative safety of the ring of wagons.

The men I faced this time were not untrained, unwilling youths or cheap criminal swords for hire. They were a tested and trained group, as evidenced by their skill and disciplined bearing. Despite being under fire and caught off-guard, they charged and pursued Laes, determined to apprehend him. But their efforts were thwarted by the guards from the caravan who intercepted them with long spears, stopping their attempt and forcing them to retreat and regroup.

Even with the chaos unfolding around them, the tabarded men dismounted and formed orderly lines, shields held up to protect against any errant arrows. They advanced at a controlled walk, grim and uniform in their step.

Though the two groups had ridden here together, it was clear to me from their disparate actions and their lines of battle that they were unused to, or unwilling to, fight together. Perhaps we could use this to our advantage. One enemy at a time, I thought as I smiled under my visor. It was time to start with the head of one of the snakes.

With my first spell complete, I sought to draw once more from my well of magic, and launched a Drain spell at the young leader Tarkhan. The tentacles of ebon midnight found him across the field of violence, snapping into him with hungry delight. The sibilant dark voices in my head all but howled in ecstasy as his very life force was siphoned into me.

Composite recurve horse bows, their small size belying their considerable power, exchanged fire with Kidu’s longbow and the other projectile weapons of the caravan guards. The Waveriders of the Tides were circling the ring of wagons, shooting from the saddle with masterful skill. One of the guards threw a small throwing spear, a jarid I believe, that narrowly missed one of the galloping enemy Waveriders. For his attempted valor, the guard received an arrow in return, the head piercing through a gap of the lamellar at his chest and taking him out of the fight.

Tarkhan was looking less confident now, his face growing paler by the moment. With my ‘upgraded’ Identify spell I could see my Drain spell steadily leeching away at his Health, Stamina, and Mana. Still, he heroically exhorted his men, urging them to continue with their efforts as they exchanged arrows with the Ravens.

I tried casting another Drain spell on Tarkhan again, but the spell failed to take hold. It seemed that I could not double up on its effects, so I redirected the magic to a nearby horseman.

Suddenly there was a cry of “Ware the witch!” and an arrow skittered across my heavy helm. More and more arrows fell around me and I raised my kite shield against the steady assault, a few arrows thunking heavily into the wood.

Thrumming with stolen energy, I looked across at the formation of steel getting closer. They marched in almost perfect lockstep, a well-oiled machine of discipline, iron, and flesh. The tabarded men were clad in hard metal and thick gambeson, a design of crossed swords at their chest. At the center of their formation was the distinctive woman, a delicately thin longsword with a wide upturned crossguard now wielded in both of her hands. Even in the whirlwind of battle, my attention was drawn to her.

To her left was a broad, thick-set man, his heavy armor making him look like a metal golem. He had a spiked crescent axe in one hand and a heater shield in the other. His copper gilt epaulets denoted his rank, possibly as the woman’s second, I thought to myself.

“Knight-Sergeant Mistevan, remember we are here to deliver him alive to the Cardinal! Get these savages to stand down!” shouted the armored woman over the din, her eyes flashing fire.

The hulking brute did not even turn in her direction, but simply stiffly saluted. His heavy helm restricted his vision, so he lifted his visor with the edge of his hand. From this distance, I saw only his rough-hewn features and white teeth that were a surprising contrast to his dark beard.

“Stand down, Crows or whatever you savages like to call yourself! Stand down, horsemen of the Tides. The Church of Avaria, the great Goddess, demands that you all cease immediately,” he shouted, his voice a throaty bark that cut across the clash of steel and flight of arrows.

But fate’s die had already been cast, and there would be no ceasing to this fight until one side was broken. A shrill, ululating cry came from Tarkhan that invigorated his men and defied the order. The vicious horsemen did not cease circling the ring of wagons, and they kept shooting barrages from their deadly bows. Hate, a bitter hot thing, filled me – at these people who had come for me. Who sought to punish me for the temerity of wanting to be free.

Hate was subsumed by a new emotion. A line of dark power joined me to yet another being, and even more euphoria filled me, along with a feeling of invincibility. With this magic, I had transcended the realms of mortals. Fuelled by my burgeoning confidence, I smashed the shafts of the arrows embedded into my shield with the haft of my Tsengelt-tum, my heavy mace-flail, and advanced, by myself, out of the protective ring to smite my enemies. I did not need to hide behind the protection of the wagons like the womenfolk. I was a god of war.

Or at least I thought I was.

Something blindsided me with the fury of a landslide. A charging horse had bowled me over and knocked me to the ground. From the corner of my eye, I saw a heavy cavalry saber flicking down, only to skid across my helm with a shriek of metal, before the rider wheeled away. Though failing to brain me, the impact rattled me to my core, as the force of the blow was wedded to the speed and mass of his mount. Despite all of this, I had lost only around ten percent of my Health, a considerable, but not lethal, amount of damage. Even as I began to pick myself up, I noticed that my own health was ticking back up. Laughing with battle madness, I realized it would take more than a horse at full charge to take me out of the fight.

Then the gods decided to punish me again for my hubris, as my latest curse came to haunt me. The damnable half-elven child Larynda decided to enter the fray. Eyes closed and standing between two of the wagons, she held one of her magic seals in front of her face. With a look of grim determination, she began chanting in an ethereal and alien voice that spoke of more than just a simple invocation. Her unruly mop of yellow hair rose, fluttering in rhythm to an unseen power. I simply had to know the words that she spoke. It pulled at me, this hungering curiosity, making me let loose an Identify. The questing tendrils of insight found her voice and sated this new and strange hunger.

“I ask the seal, who are you?” Larynda asked of her magic, in a voice that came to me as a bare whisper.

Mana, the source of all magic of this world, answered in a booming voice that held no sound but could be heard by all with the gift-spark, “I am the spears of the Deep Places. Wrath made shining crystal…”

This was the last I heard of the voice. Something sharp pierced through the back of my leg and erupted out of the meat of my upper thigh, impaling my limb. A lance of pain punched through the mental protection of my Pain Nullification skill. I screamed in agony and saw that a jagged crystal shaft had sprouted from the ground and had gone straight through my leg. The glassy material was slowly filling with crimson, its surface growing opaque and misty.

All around me chaos roared in triumph, as a forest of spears sprung out from around the wagons, targeting everything indiscriminately. Men and horses were impaled upon thick crystal lances, their screams of pain echoing around as the fighting ceased for a few moments. Some, however, had been silenced instantly.

The spell had brought Sergeant Mistevan’s formation into disarray as the magical spears wounded and killed men. For a few moments, silence reigned supreme. For the first time, I saw the true disaster that magic could sow. What on earth was that? Surely, with Larynda at only level five, such a display was impossible? Shock, hate, and yes, even envy whirled about in me as I looked upon the small girl who had unleashed the storm. The child was now the object of every combatant’s attention.

A cry of pain cut through the silence, followed by a horse’s scream. Then a barked order, followed by another, as the cacophony of conflict took up arms once more. For these were no new recruits, but hardened men, well versed in the ways of war. Magic was a rare, but not completely unheard of weapon in this world.

And against such a powerful display of magic, the only option was to charge or to retreat. It was a credit to their discipline and devotion that they chose to charge, zealous fire in their eyes as they smashed against the caravan defenders’ thin line.

Larynda looked at the devastation she had wrought, trapped and frozen in shock.

An arrow flew from a lethal compound bow at her, its song of promised death a whistle on the wind. Kidu, stout of heart and a better man than me by far, threw himself in front of her. His great bulk shielded the child from a hail of arrows let loose by the remaining riders who had escaped the newly-grown crystal forest.

Again and again, feathered shafts sprouted from his back, and I feared for his life. The great warrior Kidu lay still upon the ground. In a rare moment of selflessness, I thought only to go to my friend’s side. Urgently, I called upon a Power Strike, which barely drained my prodigious Stamina, using the force of the skill to smash the crystal trapping me to the ground. My shield raised above me, I painfully hobbled over.

Something inside of me, a whisper of an angelic voice, told me that even Greater Heal would not be enough. More was needed. I had to rely more on the light than the darkness of the void. With great regret, like a drunk who had to let go of his favorite bottle, I forced the unwilling Entropic Aura back inside me, binding it to my will with a feral howl.

In counterpoint to the dark spell, I cast Holy Aura. My fingers wove strange patterns in the air and called the spell into existence. An air of righteousness filled me, and the symphony of Heaven’s power became visible for all to see as motes of light played about me. Time seemed to cease its endless march for a moment, and I focused on what I had to do next. I called upon the power of Greater Heal and the golden song of angels echoed with my own. The energies from the spell harmonized and entwined with the notes from my Aura, building up with celestial power. Then the flood came—the release of all of that power. I laid my hands on my friend, and the surge of righteous healing poured into the massive form of Kidu. All thoughts of battle left me. All that was important was for this character to live. With gritted teeth, I mentally pushed away the notifications that clouded my vision.

You have Holy Aura (lvl.2)

The rush of healing energy caused the wild man’s body to glow brightly, and the deadly shafts that had nearly ended his life were expelled from his body as the spell closed his wounds with its auric light. As his chest rose and fell, I knew that he was safe for the moment, and so too was the life that he protected.