Opposite Sides

As the legionaries ran forward, their ranks became disrupted. Martel allowed himself to fall behind and his soldiers to overtake him; he would not be fighting in the front row, and he had another purpose. As they reached the bridge, he felt it again; the surge of magic, a powerful spell being channelled into the waters that ran below. No matter the skill of the wizard casting this spell, they would not be able to do it much longer; it had to be extremely draining to release magic of such magnitude.

The waters receded, temporarily; if the soldiers realised this, they continued onwards all the same, crossing the bridge; the enemy stood just inland, waiting for them.

A mighty wave formed and rose up several times the height of any man, threatening to crush and sweep them away. As it surged forward, Martel reacted with an elemental counterspell, and the ruby on his staff shone brightly. A flaming wall appeared, extending along the length of the bridge on the threatened side. As the water crashed against the fire, opposing elements met. Martel’s spell proved stronger, and the water evaporated, creating a column of steam that he directed upwards.

His soldiers roared in response and charged the final distance, clashing into the enemy. Yet over the din of battle, Martel heard a voice call out, “The Firebrand! Kill the renegade!”

The fighting turned chaotic in such close quarters, though the defenders held the advantage; their ranks stood undisrupted, presenting a wall of spears, making it hard for the attackers to break through. “Principes! Fire!” Valerius commanded. In response, the soldiers of his cohort pulled out a jar and threw it over their heads at the enemy. Martel’s enchanted fire pots, created over the last many days, flew to land among the defenders, exploding.

They screamed in agony and fear as fire erupted to ignite their clothes, tearing holes in their lines. Swiftly, Valerius moved in close, followed by his soldiers, to exploit this. Eleanor did the same, both of them surrounded by shimmering magic and layers of defensive spells. Martel supported from the back, flinging fire bolts at the enemy to conserve his spellpower.

A whistling sound in the air. “Arrows!” Martel raised the wind to blow away from him, sweeping the projectiles aside. Yet with his limited mastery of air, he could only protect those nearby. Further back, his soldiers stood in close ranks on the bridge, making them easy targets, and many fell to the rain of arrows.

Back on land, Lana responded, now in charge with both the captain and the legate engaged in the fighting. Their own archers moved to the edge of the river and retaliated, but they had to aim far to avoid striking their own, and the defenders spread out, raising their shields to reduce the deadly impact of the volleys. In addition, the battlemage of the Nineteenth Legion began raining fire down as best she could across the river.

Bursts of magic told Martel that the enemy had deployed their mageknights as well, holding the line and repairing the gaps. He used this to help him find his next target; their spells would protect them from any number of blows, but his fire magic burned them as well as any ordinary soldier. The push and pull of the battle made it hard, however, for Martel to aim his spellcraft at a specific person; the mageknights on both sides gravitated towards each other, and the swiftness of their movements meant that Martel’s spell meant for an enemy could strike his allies in the back.

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Another burst of spellpower told Martel of a wizard behind him. With astonishing speed, Sir Quintus of the third cohort joined the fray, sprinting past his captain. Behind him came fresh troops, allowing others to pull back; Lara had sent in the first round of reserves.

As Martel watched the duels between the mageknights, looking for an opening, he became aware of yet more spells being cast. Another joining in, this time fighting for the enemy. Martel glanced around, trying to find the shimmer of magic among their adversaries. In the chaos, attempting to find one prefect among all the legionaries was difficult work, but the shine of spellcraft could not be hidden.

There! Martel saw him, coming from the edge. He did not engage the other mageknights, but cut down legionaries instead to push forward. Easier enemies, but he risked advancing so far, he would be surrounded and cut down in turn. In addition, his path would place him right in front of Martel, who already prepared a stronger spell for such a dangerous enemy.

As another legionary fell to the mageknight, his eyes met Martel’s. To his shock, the captain recognised Reynard, the Master of War at the Lyceum. Hatred swelled into his heart, and he released a ray of fire. Emotions interfered with his aim, normally so precise, and Reynard also reacted perfectly, diving deep to evade the spell. It continued to strike an unfortunate soldier behind him.

Martel sneered, readying his next attack. Reynard would not leave this bridge alive. As the mageknight appeared again, cutting his way through Martel’s legionaries once more, the battlemage realised that his enemy had the same intention; he was purposedly fighting his way towards Martel, hoping to end the rebellion with a single strike.

Let him come; Martel had defeated plenty of mageknights. He would unleash magic of such power that Reynard would die on the spot.

Releasing a bolt of lightning would be dangerous; unless Martel controlled it perfectly, with everyone fighting in such close quarters, it might leap from one person to another, striking his own soldiers as well. But Martel was ready to risk that. Anything to kill the Master of War.

Reynard had fought deep into their ranks, forsaking safety; no matter what, he would find it difficult to get back to his own lines. He seemed ready to die for the chance to kill the Firebrand; Martel saw no reason to afford him that pleasure, though he could assist the mageknight with his eagerness to die.

As Reynard finally struck down the last legionary and stood before Martel, the battlemage responded without hesitation. A bolt of lightning jumped from his staff, aimed straight at the mageknight. Martel knew what happened when someone clad in metal was struck by this spell; he had seen it happen to the decurion, roasting him in his armour.

As the spell reached Reynard, its magic faded. The mageknight grunted and staggered, but continued forward. Martel realised he had underestimated his enemy; the Master of War wore some kind of enchantment against fire. He had come prepared to this fight.

Martel summoned his shield, which protected him against the first blow, and he tried to parry the second, in vain. Before he could cast another spell to shield him again, Reynard’s blade slashed across his chest with such force, it burst the rings of his armour. He felt the pain of his skin and flesh sliced open and reacted purely on instinct with a blast of air to push Reynard back; anything to buy him time.

As the mageknight stepped forward for another blow, Eleanor appeared. She pushed into Reynard; his spells prevented weapons from harming him, but the weight of her body threw him off-balance, stopping his attack. Swiftly, he retreated rather than fight another mageknight. As Eleanor had left the fighting at the front line, the defenders now surged forward, and Reynard disappeared back into their ranks, undoubtedly only to bide his time.

With a moment to breathe, Martel realised what his presence meant. If the Master of War was on the field, so might the other teachers of the Lyceum be. They could be facing a vast array of mages wielding all manners of spellcraft, including the only other fire-touched battlemage in Aster.