The sharp crack of leather gloves smacking against a palm echoed in the cramped locker room. Sergeant Roric strode in, his presence an unspoken reminder of the uncharacteristic times they lived in. Officers didn't typically visit the grunts' den, but these were far from typical days. Nerves were frayed wire-taut, and that was a luxury no one could afford. In Roric's experience, tension got men killed.
Surviving a skirmish was about killing. Surviving a battle—a relentless series of skirmishes, with little to no breaks—was about killing fast and efficiently. And the only way to do that was to remain calm and treat it like a craft.
"The city guard's plan is set," Roric began, his voice cutting through the low murmur. "We're one of six, maybe seven teams. I'll be honest, I stopped paying attention. The point is, we're the only Battlemages in this fight. Every loss we take is a deep cut to the defense. So, I want every one of you to make it out. Cowardice is strongly suggested."
A lean, mischievous-looking mage named Magnus grinned. "So, what's our role?"
"Rift-Jackals," Roric said, a feral glee spreading across his face.
A chorus of celebratory whistles and sharp smiles filled the room.
"No staves. Travel light. You'll have your pick of basic and advanced Scrolls—no cap on the limit." Roric's grin widened. The city guard wasn't pulling any punches. This was the first battle of many, and their opponents were former comrades—men they'd shared hallways, drinks, and weddings with. They were familiar with each other's strengths and weaknesses. There was no point in hiding. Full throttle from the start was the only way to survive.
"For those who can, see the quartermaster for processed, empty scrolls. You have the time to inscribe your best Words of Assertion in the Primal Tongue. I want cool spells, people. Oh, and the Arcanists are handing out some goodies. Everyone at the Menhir in fifteen."
Roric turned and left; the men's spirits visibly lifted. His eight-man team of Battlemages was a force multiplier, and with Hamus's miasma gathered outside the Argent Wall, the city guard had the open field they needed. Now, they just needed to sow chaos so the Battlemages could unleash their full power. That was the Swordsmen's job.
Borus hefted his sword, the weight a comforting promise of the violence to come. A Swordsman—that's what they called men like him. Men with neither the energy nor the Will to command even a single element with the Primal Tongue. It was like speaking to a deaf and blindman, the instructors had said. But through the joint efforts of Biomancers and Arcanists, his body had been enhanced. He couldn't fly; something about inhuman by the Mages, but he could knock down a wall with a single swing.
The empire didn't just hand out such gifts. You had to be a member of the army, deployed to the Ashen Archipelago, or be an officer with ten years of service. Then came the brutal procedures to prepare the body for the changes. Only the best became Swordsmen.
Borus was such a man. Today, the city guard had ordered them to travel medium and, upon seeing the enemy, to simply rush. Unleash your bloodlust, they'd said. Borus couldn't agree more. They wanted war, he wanted blood. Why? Because someone had to. Did it make sense, and was it even reason enough? He didn't care. He had a reason, and since he had a reason, he wanted blood.
"All to the Menhir!" came the booming voice of his captain.
With an average-sized backpack on his back, Borus picked up a sword, a shield in his other hand, and let out a war cry that was echoed by his comrades. In unison, they all beat their shields and roared again even louder. He was only one of the twenty-three Swordsmen in the company of 120 men.
He marched toward the massive raised stone platform, the Menhir, already accommodating an entire company. After the company had settled, an Arcanist at the side flicked some sigils and then uttered some words that Borus could never, in a million years, wield. He envied the man, and it pained him. But today was a day he had to be in his best mental state, so he brushed the pain away.
The platform shone with a white light, and the space up to 10 feet high above the platform twisted on itself for a brief moment before it relaxed. When it did, the entire company was nowhere to be seen.
His company was next. Borus climbed the steps and waited. The same procedure, and then he felt the space next to his tongue twist. His tongue instinctively wanted to twitch, but he controlled it, fighting down the nausea that always accompanied this feeling. What a way to start a war—by vomiting. The world before him became a smear of accelerating colors, converging into a distant black dot. He clutched his sword, dropped into a battle-ready stance, and snarled a taunt.
When space returned to normal, he was inside the city walls. Relief washed over him—the walls hadn't fallen. Then he realized he was still snarling. Embarrassed, he glanced around, but no one had noticed.
Why would the walls fall? The thunderclaps were deafening, and yet distant. A forest of lightning streaked from the heavens, illuminating the scene in strobing flashes. The noise was so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts. The light was blinding. He rushed to the shade of the walls. After about fifteen other companies had already arrived, the lightning died down, and the city gates creaked open, then were yanked wide by Swordsmen. They were sharks smelling blood, and they wanted more.
Rushing out of the city gates, with his only protection being a chainmail and an enchanted shield, the first thing Borus saw was a black stuff. The Arbiter's eye was almost open, and a faint predawn glow allowed him to make out details.
The first thing that caught his eye was the miasma. Saying it was huge was an understatement. It stretched from some distance to his left and into the deep recesses of the night. Then he saw the opponents.
"So, it is Minions of the Ghoul," Borus said, a certain hint of understanding flashing across his face. If you asked him what he had understood, he could not give you a coherent answer, but there was something he had understood. "Huh!"
Tensing the muscles in his feet, he crouched low, brought his shield in front, and then folded his sword arm inside his shield. He launched himself straight into the center of the chaos, using his momentum as a weapon. He aimed at an opponent, using it as a brake. The creature exploded on impact. Borus kept going, plowing through another, and another, almost seven, digging trenches with his feet until he finally slowed.
Shaking the blood and the entrails on the shield and some that had gotten to his hair, he kicked the ground beneath his feet and launched himself at the nearest of his opponents. It was able to sense his approach, but that was all that it could do.
Bringing his sword down like a cleaver, he split the creature's head apart. Holding onto one of the corpse's legs, he hurled it at another creature, sweeping it off its feet. He heard bones break. Launching himself at where the opponent had fallen, he brought his sword down and pierced the creature's heart. Withdrawing the sword, he cleaned it with a swift shake, spraying blood on the vegetation. It was red. The blood was red.
Why did that thought distract him? He'd seen their blood a few times before, and he knew that their blood was red.
"They have a Theurgist!" he said, screaming at the top of his voice.
"So, there will be Battlemages?" someone shouted.
"But not a Warden!" another countered.
The lack of an answer about the Battlemages was answer enough. They were waiting for the right moment to strike. They were hunting. And they were the prey.
Faced with the new threat, Borus' mind cleared, his battle awareness sharpening. He increased his battle tension and focused his eyes. The ones who felt the results of the increased vigilance were the Minions as they started being cut down at an increasing rate. But as more of their kin were getting cut down, they noticed, and they tried to bury him with numbers, but Borus was happy to grant a death wish to any who approached.
They came, and they went.