The Arcanist

  Fenris Whiteeyes broke from the melee, wheeling around, left then right. His white, twitching eyes were narrow as he scanned the tree line. There were two of them. Sneering, chanting, wind whipping around their feet like they were a hurricane, flames roaring forth like a furnace.

  Fenris snarled. Arcanists. Sorcerers. Natural philosophers. Cunts. A rare and never-welcome sight on the battlefield. There’s a right and a wrong way to kill a man.

  He grabbed Karlin by the shirt, dragging him in close. “We hunt the bastards!” Fenris yelled over the noise. “No other choice. We push through their line. Then you, me and any other bugger dumb enough to join us runs them down like dogs.”

  “Our position?” Karlin shouted. “We just give up the bank?”

  There was another blast, a wave of heat passed through the air, sizzling the raindrops as they fell.

  “Fuck the bank,” Fenris bellowed. “Now send it down the line!”

  Karlin nodded, and soon enough, the push began. Larker’s troops were caught off guard at first, surprised that Fenris and his men would come down the slope. They were forced back, chopped down, hacked and speared. But the slope was slippery. Fenris could barely keep his footing. When they reached the bottom of the creek, all became chaos. Men slipped and fell and crawled through the fray, wrestling with each other, bared teeth and screaming faces inches apart. Fenris could barely make out the red livery of Larker’s troops beneath the mud. But neither could the arcanists, and for the moment, the air was only filled with screaming, wailing men.

  As Fenris waded and shoved his way through, stabbing when he could, something grabbed his foot. He was yanked into the mud. He scrambled forward, but couldn’t move. Fenris twisted around, shield raised. The impact shattered through his arm. He moved his shield to thrust his sword. Karlin stared down at him, mace raised overhead, a few boys behind him, ready to skewer Fenris with their spears.

  “Shit,” the big man said.

  Fenris whimpered, blessed relief. Karlin had made him piss himself, alright, but he was still alive.

  They scrambled up the opposite slope, five of them all told, leaving the rest to wrestle and murder in the mud. The arcanists were standing by the edge, looking down into the creek. Magic crackled between their fingers, but even they weren’t heartless enough to kill their own men. And best of all, they hadn’t seen Fenris yet.

  “We’ll have them,” Karlin growled behind Fenris, riling up the three others. “We’ll have them good.”

  Fenris nodded, they’d have the magic bastards alright, strung up on the ditch before the day was out. “Spears,” Fenris said, “Throw at the first, and charge the second. Cut them down before they know it.”

  “On your mark, boss.”

  Whiteeyes watched them for a secondeering into the mud at the bottom of the creek, like old folk at a fishmonger. Then, they saw their cod and started chanting, making the hairs on Fenris’s back stand straight.

  “Now!” Fenris barked, and he was off. Ground flying underfoot, he roared, shield raised. Two spears flew by his side, whistling towards the chubby arcanist in his mucky robes and ill-fitting male.

  Fenris charged towards the second arcanist, the one that wasn’t going to be hit by the spears. She was a ragged, mud-covered figure with light pulsing around her fingers. While her companion became a pincushion, he would cut her down in a single blow. That was the plan. But when the first arcanist turned, face shocked, Fenris didn’t see the pincushion he was expecting. Instead, the spears clattered against a barrier of air in front of the arcanist’s body. They fell to the ground without half a drop of blood between them.

  The second arcanist turned, raised her hand. Fenris dived to the ground as a sudden torrent of light burst from her fingertips. It missed him, but there was an awful scream from behind, and one of Fenris’s men dropped to his knees, hands clutching his eyes.

  There were four of them now. No, three. Fenris noticed that one of the men had never charged with them in the end, a notion that looked more appealing by the second. Karlin and the other soldier were creeping towards the chubby arcanist, not sure how to get past whatever had blocked their spears.

  Fenris heaved himself up just in time. He raised his shield and clamped his eyes shut as a wave of light and heat washed over his shield. Then he threw his sword at the arcanist. It was a desperate move. The blade whistled through the air towards the woman and cut into her hand. She reeled back. The move it brought Whiteeyes time. It was too likely that one of them would die. They would need all three of them to finish the job, so he double-backed and used the window of opportunity to ram the first arcanist from behind with his shield.

  They hit the ground together. Spit flying into Fenris’s face from between the arcanist's jowls. The man stared, wide-eyed, gasping. Then a moat of fire flared forward and nearly caught Fenris’s face. The warrior rolled, and the arcanist tangled with him, pulled a dagger from his robes. Fenris caught it, inches from his white eyes. But the arcanist was on top now, using his weight to move the blade inch by inch until… The arcanist’s head snapped to the side with an awful crack. Karlin’s mace. It hit a second time, and the man was dead.

  Fenris shoved the body off him and got back up to his feet, shield raised, dagger ready. The final arcanist was holding her bleeding hand tight, aware of the sudden change in odds that had occurred. It was three against one now.

  They spread out, like wolves, Fenris, Karlin, their final soldier and what little courage they all had left. The arcanist’s eyes flickered between each one, trying to choose. You can kill one of us, but the other two will be out for blood, and we’ll get it. They drifted away from the battle, each man keeping distance, as the arcanist backed away, staggering step by staggering step. Then her eyes locked on Fenris, and she raised her hands. Fenris squealed, then raised his shield. But there was no attack. She ran, the spell not even begun.

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  “Shit,” Fenris growled. Then he started running after her.

  She led them into the forest, blue robes and red tabard fluttering in her wake. Now and then, the air would burst with light, and bark would singe off a tree, but they kept their spacing, kept their shields up. Soon, they’d herded her all the way to the mossy grey wall of Vannarbar, and there was nowhere else to run.

  As a general rule, Fenris didn’t fight women. It had grown even more so when he’d met Alayna, and it was an easy rule to keep as well, on account of not many of them being on the battlefield. But on days like today, he would make an exception.

  Karlin was chuckling as he stepped out of the tree line. Even the other man was getting in the spirit, howling and hooting like a mad dog, bashing on his shield. Whiteeyes himself was awfully quiet as he prowled step by step forward, eyes locked on his prey, as she slumped against an archway. Got you now.

  “Wouldn’t go in there, if I were you,” Fenris called at her, watching her head flick back and forth from the archway, the winter wind that howled from the ruins, and the three men bent on killing her. “Can’t say we’ll give you mercy, but better a death by steel than the devils in there.”

  They were close now, ready to pounce, close enough that they’d have her before she could cast one of her damn spells.

  “Better no death at all,” she said, voice trembling.

  “On that, we can agree.”

  Fenris leapt forward. His dagger flashed through the air, but he caught little more than the tail of her cloak. She spun and was off through the archway, into the wind, the cold and the ruins. They started after her, cursing.

  It was cold, bloody cold on the other side of the walls. Whiteeyes’s breath was smoky in the air. His cheeks red, nose numb. It was a midwinter's day without any of the frost. Gaping corridors and empty arches loomed left and right, tangled by lifeless brambles. The wind whipped against them. Felt worse than the day Whiteeyes had told Smashednose to fuck himself if they were going behind the wall.

  Before they realised it, their run became a jog, became a march, became still. They stood, shivering, watching the arcanist disappear into a shadow. Could have sworn it ate her. “Out, let’s get out,” Whiteeyes whispered. “Let her die here if she wants.”

  ***

  The others were waiting when Fenris Whiteeyes paced up to the fire, scowling something furious and cursing at the drizzle. Karlin and Borke were in tow, bruised and weary, gazes kept level by grit and quietly burning anger. The old warrior, Einar Smashednose, didn’t pay them much attention. He cleaned the meat off his bone, then tossed it into the fire and watched the flames.

  “They’ve got arcanists.” Fenris leant down, tore the other leg off the roasting chicken. “Fucking sorcerers. Two of the bastards. Tried to get around the flank.”

  “I know.” Smashednose watched the flames dance. “Larker had three, maybe four, in the centre. Caused some trouble.”

  Trouble? From the look of the grim faces around the fire, it had been a shit show. Fenris had passed enough men limping back from the mound, passed enough men not moving at all. There wasn’t even much of a defensive mound in some places. Laker and his troops were chipping away at them, then forming back up on their side of the Daun when the fancy took them.

  They’ll be back in the morning. Men, arcanists, the whole damned force back on us like a pack of dogs. Fenris shivered. Part of him wanted Alayna. The other part was pissed at the feeling itself. Whining. Desperate. Weak. But hell, they could have used a good healer, relations aside.

  “Killed one on our part of the mound,” Fenris said, but Smashednose was still staring off into the fire. “The other ran off into the ruins. Mad bastard. She’ll have wished that she hung around with us for a minute longer.”

  “I remember a certain man saying that no one knew how to field arcanists in battle,” Hessen said, dryly. The ragged Kostian glared at Silker from the stump he was sitting on.

  Silker glared back. “He doesn’t. One of them is dead already. The other might as well be. Laker could have had dozens more men for whatever price he’s paying. You’re just shitting yourself because you saw a man get burnt to death instead of ran through the guts.”

  “You didn’t see it happen.”

  “I’ve seen them before,” Silker said. “It’s a morale tactic.”

  “Fucking morale tactic?” Fenris spat into the dirt. “Tell that to the…”

  “Quiet,” Smashednose barked. All eyes turned to him. He massaged his temple, still looking into the fire. “What of the ruins, priest?”

  The priest, Miertaz, was pale. His knowing priestly grin drained from his face. He had been shaking when Fenris had first got back to the fire, and seemed to only now have the strength to get some food into his belly. Bad luck to have a dead preacher. They’d had shit enough luck already.

  “Vannarbar is…” Miertaz shivered. “I’ve still got much work to do. It was worse than I expected.”

  “Worse than expected?” Whiteeyes chuckled. “I could say the same thing, those ruins are a shithole, an’ no mistake.”

  Smashednose glared hard at Fenris from across the fire, Karlin and Borke flinching back a bit as they noticed the commander staring lances towards their boss. But Whiteeyes, of course, with his pale white eyes, looked back with a steady gaze.

  “The ruins would have made good fortifications,” Einar said. “Solid stone. Good height. Larker’s arcanists would be useless against the wall.”

  “Well, look where we are now, Smashednose.” Whiteeyes took a swig from a wineskin, spread his arms all around him. “Camped outside the ruins, with less than a lump of dirt between us and Larker. Solid stone, my arse. It was a mistake falling back across the Daun.”

  “Careful Whiteeyes,” Borke whispered.

  But Fenris paid no attention. “We’ll be dead by tomorrow, noon if we’re lucky. You ask me, we’re better off gone. Let Larker have his fucking bridge, let him have Highvale if he wants it. Let him crown Philippe king. We’re not fighting our way out of this one. You know it.” The words choked in Fenris’s throat, but he’d said them now, condemning Alayna and Edwin to a bloody and drawn-out siege. He could get them out before that happened, he told himself.

  “What then, Whiteeyes?” Einar said. If it hadn’t been quiet before, it was quiet now. Only the fire, Whiteeyes and Smashednose existed now. The rest of the men had gone motionless, silent as stone. “What then? Hunted as deserters by Lord Herik? Our names spat out like curses? Wretches in our own lands? Or maybe, maybe, your retreat doesn’t go how you think it will, and we’re cut down like dogs in the forests. Larker will make a bloody cross out of you, Fenris Whiteeyes!” Smashednose stood, shield and sword gripped tight, the fire light casting shadows across the hollows and creases of his bitter face. Spittle flew from his mouth. “But if you think you’re the commander of this company, why don’t you make it so?”

  Fenris rose to meet him, Karlin and Borke standing behind him. His eyes narrowed as he weighed the old warrior in his mind like he had so for many enemies before. Einar Smashednose was deadly serious, pushed to his limits. Silker pulled his own blade out, and Hessen watched, uncertain of which side he was on. Fenris set his jaw. He’d tear the old man limb from limb if that was what it came to…

  “Peace,” Brother Miertaz’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “There’s another way. The ruins can be cleansed. With haste, it could be done tonight, men on the walls by dawn tomorrow. Enough blood will be spilt then. Do not begin Larker’s work for him now.”

  “Shut your mouth, priest,” Fenris snarled, but the interjection of the holy man had given him pause.

  Smashednose, too, seemed to lose some of his rage, shoulders slumping underneath the weight of too many hard years, old bones yearning for the heat of the fire more than anger. “How?”

  “I can’t do it alone,” Miertaz said. “I’ll need assistance. Someone to help me ward off the dangers of the ruins. Some of your best men, at my side.”

  Smashednose looked at Fenris. “Who’s the commander here, Whiteeyes?”

  Fenris look at the priest, at the glowing fires of Larker’s men on the other side of the river, and back to Smashednose. He swore under his breath. “You are.”