My hand’s sweating. Hands aren’t supposed to sweat. Eric changed his grip on his sword to wipe his palm, but it didn’t help. The hot sun of late summer beat down on the waiting army with a vengeance, and there was a ripple along the ranks as soldiers and mercenaries shifted uncomfortably as the delay before the battle stretched from minutes to hours.
From his vantage point at the crest of a low hill, hidden by a small copse of trees, Eric could see the army spread out around him. The cavalry on the flank, the infantry holding the center. The archers behind their rows of sharpened stakes. He had heard the Captain talking about the flanking attack, the Kadish counter, the Hopstern decoy.... But the terms the commanders discussed seemed to have little relationship to all of this. Eric of Montgomery was scared to death.
In the distance, a cloud of gray smoke spiraled up towards the horizon. That was the signal. Somewhere out there, fifty men were fleeing for their lives. A village was burning. And an army was rallying to the attack. There was utter silence in the ranks.
Like a wave, the enemy army came sweeping over the hill following the tattered remnant of the squad that was fleeing back to the copse where he stood. The enemy stopped short at the first sight of the army spread out on the hills before him, but it was too late. They were already trapped. The throaty voices of the horns sounded, a shout, and the world went insane.
He was running, being carried along by the tide of men around him, into a thick, black storm that screamed and clanged with the sound of steel on steel. Before he knew what was going on, he slammed into a man in a heavy helmet who was hacking at him with an axe. Block with the shield, thrust with the blade, breathe... gotta remember to breathe... parry, slash... up.... Oh my God! Is that blood? Suddenly, he wasn’t being hacked at. He only had a few seconds of respite before some other strange, dark figure came lurching towards him. He tried to get away, but there was no room. Cut... dodge... block... breathe... downstroke... counter. More blood. Where was it coming from? This was a nightmare. Beyond any nightmare. Eric’s eyes darted around, looking for a place to run. All he saw was Corman, stumbling backwards and shielding his eyes from a spray of blood. More blood? Then there was the rider galloping up behind the half-elf, swinging that flail....
It was all instinct, honed in hundreds of fights with his friends. Eric screamed and leaped forward between the staggering mercenary and the rider, shield at the ready. The ringing of flail on shield drowned out all sounds of the battle. The jarring pain in Eric’s shoulder made his teeth chatter. Blindly, he lashed out with his sword. By some mad luck, it found the bottom edge of the rider’s breastplate, slicing up and in. More blood, running down Eric’s hand. The rider toppled off his horse. Corman barely managed to pull the boy out of the way of being trampled as the panicky steed dashed out of the battlefield.
Then it was over. Eric’s eyes roved the battlefield, and his arm hung as limply at his side, the straps of the shattered shield still strapped to it. He didn’t say a word as Corman handed him the horseman’s shield and led him back to the mercenary camp. The sounds of the battle dimmed, and instead, the complaints and sighs, and, occasionally, silence, of the injured swelled around the pair. Corman checked out Eric’s arm, but found it only bruised, protected by the new shield and the skill of the shield-bearer. Eric shook like a leaf as Corman cleaned him up, wiping the blood off his face and hair.
"It’s all right, Eric," the half-elf said comfortingly. "You showed great courage in the battle."
"I....I did?" Eric said, his voice cracking to such a degree that to Corman he sounded as if he only had twelve years, not his full eighteen.
"Yes. You saved my life. And you took down one of their commanders." Corman squeezed Eric’s shoulder reassuringly.
Eric nodded, numb. He shakily got to his feet, and Corman let him go. The young man staggered a few steps away and was violently ill.
Corman shook his head and started cleaning off his sword.
Diana wiped her mouth and crawled back towards the shelter of the over-shadowing wall. Around her, the only sound among the still-smoking buildings was the excited cry of the Vraths as they feasted. Diana felt sick. She’d seen horrifying things during her time in the Realm - shattered, broken villages, animated corpses brought to life, the dead, the dying. But none of it compare to this. Dead soldiers lay everywhere, and in places the ground was red with dried blood. Diana knew she should be grateful that the villagers had all escaped before the fires began, but all she could feel was rage towards the army that had brought down this horror upon Coulone. But she knew how she could help. She was fast. She was stealthy. The army of Coulone would not be taken by surprise again.
Hank shook his head. "That’s gotta be cold."
Presto stomped forward miserably. "I’ve got snow down the back of my shirt. And it’s melting." Above him, a tiny black cloud followed along, Right now, it was snowing.
Hank grimaced sympathetically, but it was definitely hard not to laugh. Things with Presto just had a knack for not quite working they way they were supposed to. Presto was still trying to push himself with his new-found magic but his attempt at producing a cool breeze to counteract the hot summer afternoon had resulted in a companion that had been following them both for the last day and a half.
"You are soaked through. Maybe you should change clothes. It won’t take long for those ones to dry."
"Don’t remind me." Presto smiled at Hank and plunged into the hedgerow, black cloud in tow.
When he re-emerged, he was wearing a robe of white wool, trimmed at the sleeves, hem, and neck with dark green. Embroidered into the green was a fine tracery of symbols stitched in a thread that looked like copper. He fingered the green material from the sleeve. "It’s from my old clothes. I figured Madeline would have thrown those out...too many scorch marks."
Hank looked at the robe. "What’s the writing on it?"
Presto shook his head. "It’s not writing. They’re wards." He pointed to one. "That means ‘Protection’. And this one here is the ward of Mastery." He brushed the snow off a fairly large, complicated ward. "And that one’s the symbol for Life. I don’t know all of them."
Hank looked his friend up and down as Presto straightened out the robe and pushed his glasses up. Somehow, the robe seemed to suite him. "I think that must be Madeline’s way of saying you’re a true mage now."
"You think?" Presto looked back down at himself, as the clothes began to collect a fine dusting of snow. "Really?"
Hank nodded, grinning as he took Presto’s wet clothes.
The mage held his head up a bit higher as he started down the path again, despite the snow that was accumulating on his shoulders. "Neat."
Scholars would call it the Battle of Trebant Ford, the battle that changed the tide of The Goldenward War. The army of Darkcruigh, fueled by their passionate loyalty for their King, and even greater devotion to his twelve-year-old daughter, raged along the banks of the Trebant river like a summer wildfire, burning deep into the heart of Coulone. In the grim keep of Darkcruigh, the gentle and just Princess Astera suffered the illness that sapped her strength and life daily. Her father, King Harduc, himself lead the army in battle for the Goldenward, the magical plant that had held Witch Fever at bay. The men of Coulone fought like demons, desperate to hold their borders and their sacred treasure against their centuries-old enemies.
If the scholars were well studied, they would know how a group of mercenaries known as the Red Blades swept through the countryside. They were almost unchallenged as Harduc’s army held the defenders of Coulone in their fortresses to the east and southwest by siege. The Blades fought their way to Trebant Ford, prepared for a skirmish at their last major obstacle before taking the Castle at Coulone.
It was never discovered how a mere hundred men were held within the besieged camps, fortified by the illusion of a thousand more. But historians would all agree that, when the Red Blades crossed the Ford of the Trebant, the bulk of the remaining army of Coulone was arrayed to meet them. With the Blades cut off by river and many miles, the battle became a storm of blood and fire. The tossing of two leafs in that storm went unrecorded.
Eric lay panting in the ditch, bleeding from several scratches on his arms. Near misses. Beside him, Stathis snarled incomprehensible things in his reptilian tongue. Corman nursed a wound that would likely leave him with only one eye. Up and down this trench, he could see other wounded soldiers who had fallen into this ditch seeking cover and protection. Wounded, and dead. The veteran who led his squad, who had tried so hard to teach him to parry with his sword, was back there too. He wasn’t leaving the ditch.
Eric could hear the sounds of fighting get closer and closer. The Coulone soldiers were still cutting down those knots of soldiers who hadn’t made it out. Despite the long, catstail reeds that grew along the sides of the damp irrigation ditch, sheltering them from sight, this wouldn’t be a safe hiding place for long. This is a nightmare...just another nightmare. Please, let me wake up.
He didn’t wake up. Eric leaned over to Stathis and whispered, "We have to get out of here."
Stathis nodded, blinking at him with those weird slitted eyes. "Mussssst get acrosssss the river." The sounds got closer.
Panic surged through Eric, but he didn’t dare make a sound. Neither did anyone else, and for a moment, the fighting stilled. The only sound was the water trickling through the drainage ditch and down to the river. Metal struck metal again, and the fighting resumed as Eric leaned over to Stathis. "Listen. Tell the others to take off their armor. Quietly. And cut the longest reed they can find and blow it so they can breathe through it. We’re getting out of here."
Stathis cocked his head, reminding Eric of a big iguana. "What issss it we do?" he asked.
Eric used the tip of his sword to cut off a long reed. "Oldest trick in the book."
Tears spilled from Diana’s eyes as she made her way across the blood-soaked fields at Trebant Ford. This was as bad as the village, worse. Although she tried to tell herself that these were hardened mercenaries, paid to kill, no more than thugs, it didn’t help. Here and there, she saw knots of fighting, and she tried hard not to look at those. I did this. What had she expected when she told the captain of the Coulone guard of the battleplan she had found sketched out in the Blades’ camp? Of course they would use that information to stop the Blades’ attack on the castle. But she never imagined it could be anything like this. So many people dead. She had to get back to the castle. Maybe if she could crawl into bed, she could actually wake up. This is a nightmare.
Diana picked her way along the riverbank, keeping to the rushes in an attempt to stay out of sight. Suddenly, she heard a roar of half-mad rage and pain come rushing down upon her. A burly man, dressed in the leather and chain of the Red Blades, soaked in blood, charged down upon her. He swung a sword at her head. She didn’t think. She acted. Her spear whirled around, catching him in the middle of the chest. It slid through the armor easily. The man gave her a look of pain and grief before falling to his knees. She pulled the spear free. The man slumped to the ground. Thank God the others aren’t here to see this, she thought as she bolted down the river’s edge. Thank God they’re someplace safe. Please, let me wake up.
As she crawled past an irrigation ditch and ran towards the castle, she saw a row of reeds moving slowly across the river. It must be Blades, trying to get away. She trembled, but rubbed her eyes and straightened. She could call the guards, let them know, but there was too much blood on her hands already. She turned away.
"Thanks to you, Diana, our forces were able to give the Red Blades a defeat from which they will never recover." The chiseled-stone face of the Prince of Coulone chipped into a smile as he descended from his ornamented throne. "Your scouting revealed the plans of King Harduc and his minions, and, thanks to you, the threat to this kingdom has been thwarted."
Diana, radiantly dressed in silver and amber, held her head up and squared her shoulders bravely, but there was misery in her heart. She took the required step forward and knelt before him. He drew his sword from its scabbard and touched it against one shoulder. It was everything she could do not to cringe from the touch of the cold steel, but she did not move. Instead, she said, "It was my honor to serve, for the protection of Coulone and its people."
The Prince lifted the sword and laid it on her other shoulder. "And, in honor, rise, Diana, knight and defender of the Realm."
The Prince re-sheathed his sword. Diana stood. As the Prince went on to knight other ‘heroes’ of the Battle of Trebant Ford, she made her way over to Xalen, who was watching the proceedings with a dry amusement. "Have I fulfilled your requirements, Master? Am I free now?"
Xalen smiled. It was all teeth, and her hair in the torchlight seemed tinged with red. "I am satisfied that I have done everything I agreed to do. You are free to go your own way now."
Diana nodded, and turned back towards the thronging crowd, determined to wash the bitter taste of the evening out with a bit of wine and a good workout. But as she left, she heard her mentor’s parting shot. "You’re not alone, Diana. Remember you’re not alone."
Presto opened his eyes. Hank had gotten a fire started, and the curl of flame danced in the darkness. Hank set the stew pot over the growing blaze and sat down across the fire from him. "What is it?"
Presto grimaced. "This is really, really bad news. Enormous bad news. Diana was just named a Defender of the Realm by the Prince of Coulone."
"What’s wrong with that?" Hank asked, as he began peeling a potato with his knife.
"She was named that because she helped wipe out the Red Blades, who were fighting for King Harduc." He picked up a carrot and started to peel it for the stew. "Eric and Diana are fighting each other."
Hank’s blood ran cold. "Did Eric...."
"He’s alive. I checked. He was hurt, but he’s alive." Presto stopped peeling. "The fighting is really bad, Hank."
Hank’s jaw tightened in resolve. "We’re going to have to find out what’s going on in Coulone, and what this war is all about."
"How’re we going to do that? I don’t know what anybody there looks like, except Diana and Eric."
"We’re going to have to go into the next village and find out. We can’t charge into the castle in a middle of a war, anyway. They’d never let us near."
"But Madeline said..." Presto protested.
Hank threw the potato in the pot. "We don’t have any choice. We’ve got to know what’s going on there so we can figure out how to stop Diana and Eric from killing each other. Did you see Sheila?"
Presto shook his head and said nothing.
Hank sighed, reining in his impatience and frustration. "I’m sorry. If you can’t do it, you can’t do it. When Bobby died, it seemed like she would never heal. I wish I knew for sure that time has helped."
In a quiet voice, Presto muttered. "Bobby’s not dead."
Hank looked up at the magician sadly. "We all wish that, Presto."
"I saw him when I was sick. Something...I don’t know what...showed me a portal, and I knew it led home. There was a light at the end of the portal, and I went through it. I found myself in my old bedroom. I saw Bobby there."
It would be nice to hope, Hank thought. But the story was too familiar, especially to him. He had never told anyone about feeling the chill touch brought on by the Darkling’s fog. The flash of light, or how he had felt, almost seen, the presence of his father as he had hung in that nether world between life and death. "Presto. I didn’t tell you this before. I guess I didn’t know how. But...you were dead." Hank wiped his blade off and sheathed it. "You died. I was there. Your heart stopped beating. You stopped breathing, everything. You may have...it may have just been...just because you saw him doesn’t mean he’s alive."
"But I was sure..." Presto protested Dead?
Hank nodded. "I understand...really. I’ve been there too. But, if he was alive, you’d be able to sense him, right? Or even see him. And Dungeon Master would have known." After another moment. "It could be true. I hope it is. But...."
Presto threw his carrot into the pot. "I understand." I understand that you don’t believe me. Just like Sheila didn’t. I guess I hardly believe me, any more. He gave a grin that didn’t reach his eyes and stirred the pot. "So, on the menu this evening, stew, stew, or stew...."
That night, Presto dreamed about fire.