Prologue
‘Blasphemy!’
Sitting beside the campfire, Toby watched the old druid berate anyone who would listen. His audience was small. The day before a battle, most soldiers had other things on their mind. For Toby, those things included; had he checked all his equipment, had he filled his water skin and was he going to die tomorrow? The latter he came back to over and over again.
‘To use magic without the permission of the Drydra is a sin. Magic, purely for the sake of war, is an abomination!’
The druid went on, providing Toby with a temporary distraction from his worries. After all, the words weren’t for him, but the mages scattered about the camp. Most seemed to be ignoring him, although a few stared worryingly as the druid gave his damning sermon.
‘Spells and incantations. You are no better than Hell-sworn daemon worshippers!’
‘Oh will you shut the fuck up for spirits sake!’ said Brightleaf, throwing a piece of crusty bread at the druid whilst he made a space for himself next to Toby. Brightleaf was the squad mage in Toby’s squad and seemed like a good man. In fact, the whole squad had been welcoming apart from the man called Sharp, who didn’t seem capable of a kind word.
‘How’r’ya holdin’ up, Gaps?’ asked Brightleaf, elbowing Toby lightly. Toby hated the nickname they had given him but apparently that didn’t matter. Someone had made a joke about the gap between his two front teeth and the name had stuck. Tuggs, Toby’s squad sergeant, had assured him it wasn’t malicious; it was just how soldiers worked. Toby had asked where Tuggs had gotten his name, but the sergeant had simply shaken his head, saying would you ask a lady her age? No, of course not. Well, it’s the same asking a soldier how they got their name. If it isn’t obvious, don’t ask.
‘Okay, I guess,’ he said, flashing a smile to hide the sickly feeling in his gut.
‘Good,’ said Brightleaf, returning the smile. ‘You and Tinker, you’ll do just fine. Tuggs will look after you. We all will. I haven’t been a soldier long but, as far as sergeants go, Tuggs is one of the good ones.’ Tinker was the other new recruit in Tuggs’ squad. He was maybe a year or two younger than Toby and his complete opposite, being tall and skinny in contrast to Toby’s squat frame. He had tried to strike up a friendship with the lad, but his timid-ness had made Toby uncomfortable.
‘Does it bother you, the things he is saying?’ asked Toby, nodding his head in the direction of the druid, wanting to change the subject from the impending battle. Every reminder of what was to come the next morning sent his stomach somersaulting like a young girl at the spring festival.
‘A little, I guess,’ answered Brightleaf. ‘They call us mages. I’m no mage. I don’t know a damn thing about magic. I was a healer before the war. I could mend broken bones, heal wounds that had gone sour, that sort of thing. And then the war happened and they sent me off to the Academy in Renois. I spent not even three moons there, learnt a handful of spells, before they dragged us all back and called us mages. Hah!’
Tuggs made his way to where the two of them were sitting, interrupting Toby from goading the mage further and thus keeping him blissfully distracted.
‘Captain should be back soon,’ said Tuggs, holding his hands out to the fire.
It was a warm spring night and Toby guessed he was doing it more for comfort, having done the same thing himself a number of times already. Brightleaf nodded in response and the three of them sat in silence.
‘You boys ate?’ asked the sergeant after a while.
‘I ate some of that stew Hawkit made,’ said Brightleaf, scowling. ‘The lad said he could cook! I’ll have to go find something else later.’ He spat into the fire, as if just talking about it had brought the taste back.
‘That lad says all kinds of shit. I don’t know how Hanno puts up with him,’ laughed Tuggs. He turned to Toby, eyeing him up and down. ‘How about you, kid. You ate?’ Toby shook his head.
‘You’ll feel better if you do,’ said Brightleaf.
‘He’s right,’ added Tuggs.
‘Just don’t eat any of that shit Hawkit has made. That’ll kill you quicker than any Fistie could.’ Brightleaf laughed, slapping him on the back.
Toby felt the colour drain from his face as the thought of dying entered his mind. Fistie was the term Ethylund soldiers used for the Aenean Imperial soldiers. The Empire of the Fist.
Tuggs, seeing Toby’s distress, moved to sit at his opposite side. ‘Listen Gaps, I know how you feel. We all do. We all felt the exact same our first time. It’s never as bad as you fear.’
‘Ten thousand Imperial soldiers trying to kill me isn’t bad?’ asked Toby sickly.
‘No, it’s bad,’ answered Tuggs quickly. ‘Spirits! It’s awful, just not as awful as you think right now.’
‘And it will be seven thousand tops,’ Brightleaf put in, trying and failing to make the new recruit feel better.
‘I hate the night before a battle,’ said Tuggs. ‘You can’t sleep due to that sickly feeling in your stomach. Feel like you need to piss no matter how many times you go. It gets to the battle and all you’ve got to worry about is sticking your sword into the poor bastard across from you before he does the same to you.’
Toby sat listening to Tuggs’ grim assessment. He felt exactly as the sergeant had described it, yet contrary to Tuggs belief, Toby felt a better solution would be to run away from the battle, preferably tonight if possible. After all, it was easy for him to say this. Tuggs was tall and strong, an old farm boy turned soldier who looked just the part. Even his eyes, dark brown like oak, had a warrior’s look about them. He was worried the squad leader would continue his attempts at settling him, so was thankful when another man moved to join them.
‘Father Boh!’ said Tuggs happily, standing up to greet the old man who had joined them. This man was also a druid, wearing the traditional long brown robes of the holy order.
‘Tuggs, my lad, it’s good to see you,’ beamed the old druid, embracing the sergeant.
‘I thought that was you for a moment.’ Tuggs laughed, motioning in the direction of the other druid, who had momentarily stopped his preaching to take a drink.
‘Father Toros? No! He’s twice as ugly and not half drunk enough to be mistaken for me.’ The old druid smiled a mischievous smile and then offered Tuggs a water skin. ‘Speaking of drunk, it’s wine. Snatched it from the General’s tent.’
Tuggs seemed to hesitate when another soldier, Private Lash, swooped in and snatched the skin from the druid’s hand.
‘Too slow,’ Lash said, taking a gulp of the wine.
‘Lash, you young rascal, you keeping out of trouble?’ asked the druid.
‘Trying to, Father,’ said Lash, feigning honesty.
‘He got three lashes last month for leaving the camp and visiting certain camp ladies,’ put in Tuggs, earning a snarl from Lash. However, after another swig of wine, he handed the wine skin over to his sergeant. Again, Tuggs hesitated before taking the skin and drinking quickly. ‘Do as I say and not as I do,’ Tuggs said to Toby with a wink. The new recruits had been told drinking the night before a battle was strictly forbidden.
The talking continued and it was clear to Toby his squad mates were very fond of the old druid. Even Brightleaf, who had been on the receiving end of a scolding from the man’s brethren, seemed to like him. Toby did too. He reminded him of his grandfather, who would always slip him sweet berries and had an abundance of dirty jokes.
Father Boh leaned over, offering the wine skin to Brightleaf. The mage laughed, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think you want to do that, Father,’ he said.
The druid looked confused when Tuggs added, ‘Brightleaf is our squad mage.’
The druid’s laughter shocked them all. ‘Don’t be silly, lad. Drink, drink.’ He tossed the skin into Brightleaf’s lap before motioning in the direction of Father Toros. ‘Some of my order believes it is their moral duty to defend the Drydra’s holy right over all magic. But who are we to say what the Spirits want? It’s not like they ever talk to us. My job, as I see it, is to uphold the old traditions and ensure my people honour the spirits of the land. Outside of that, I don’t care.’
Satisfied, Brightleaf raised the wineskin, toasting the druid before drinking.
‘Besides, we’d be fucked without you on that battlefield. Especially against the Fisties,’ added the druid. They all murmured their agreement.
‘Will you fight with us tomorrow, Father?’ asked Lash.
‘I won’t lads,’ said Father Boh, and his voice took on a very grave tone. ‘I don’t mind a tussle up north with you boys against the Nords, but this is Aenean Imperial soldiers we are talking about here. It’s going to need young, strong lads like you boys to push them back. Not an old fart like me.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ argued Tuggs, turning to Toby as if he was the jury at some village hall trial. ‘I remember around five years ago we got into a fight with some raiders from the Cold Sea. Tough, big bastards. They were pushing us back when Father Boh charged their centre, his sword aflame.’
‘Now, now. I can’t take credit for that,’ laughed the druid, his hands held out in front of him as he fought off the admiring looks from those around the fire. More soldiers had joined now, listening quietly to the conversation. Toby recognised only a few. Sharp, who had the features of a hunting bird, sat directly across the fire, sharpening his knives with a whetstone. Next to him were Shoots and Danza, also in his squad. Shoots cradled a giant crossbow like a baby and Toby wondered idly how she could even load the thing, never mind fire it. Tinker had quietly made his way to the fire and sat separate from the pack. The only other one he recognised was Mane, a squad mage from another squad.
‘He’s being modest,’ said Tuggs.
‘I’m not. I pray to the Drydra for strength and sometimes they listen and sometimes they don’t. On that occasion, they listened. Anyway, who needs worn down old drunks like me when you have Harold Hadrin on your side?’ Toby became aware of a cheer rising from the centre of the large army camp. It grew louder, like a storm getting closer. ‘Speaking of Harold,’ laughed Father Boh.
Toby stood, as did the rest of those around the fire. He followed the source of the loud cheers and saw the target of their admiration. It was Him. It was Harold Hadrin.
Harold Hadrin, the legendary warrior, the greatest swordsman in the entire world, the war marshal of Ethylund. He walked with the grace of a dancer, the light of the many campfires flickering on his long black hair and dark beard. He looked in Toby’s direction and waved. Then he was gone.
‘Did you see it? He waved at me! Harold Hadrin waved at me!’ Toby couldn’t keep the sheer joy from his face.
‘Aye, I seen it,’ answered Tuggs. Then the sergeant turned back to the fire. ‘If Harold is out of the General’s tent, then that means the Captain will be back shortly, so let’s make ourselves look smart aye?’
The soldiers round the fire shifted around into their respective squads. Toby stood there like the fifth leg on a square table, still so happy with Harold acknowledging him to focus on anything else. At a near-by fire, a soldier Toby had learnt was named Grunt had started a song about Harold facing down a bear, and other soldiers hummed along. Beside him, Tuggs took stock of his squad. Father Boh made to move off.
‘Will you pray for us Father?’ asked Lash as he was leaving.
‘I will pray to Tumbar for resilience and Woren for strength,’ said the druid over his shoulder.
‘Don’t forget Tob and the hope of clean women for when we return.’ Lash laughed.
‘The Bear and the Pig is not enough for you lad?! Fight well boys,’ said the druid before picking up Grunt’s tune and waddling off to be swallowed by the camp.
‘Is everyone here? Shoots, where is Doris?’ Sergeant Tuggs asked.
‘Here, Sarge,’ said Doris from behind, causing both Toby and Tuggs to jump.
‘Don’t sneak up on me like that!’
‘Sorry, Sarge.’ The giant soldier laughed as he made his way next to Shoots. He settled in next to her, putting a massive, dark arm around the much smaller woman.
A whistle pierced the lull around the camp. ‘Squads form up,’ came the booming voice of Lieutenant Mags from nearby. Instantly everyone was on their feet, heading over to the captain's tent at the centre of their camp. Grunt’s song died instantly and within a few moments almost one hundred soldiers were crowded outside the tent, the huge figure of the lieutenant at the entrance. He held open the flap as Captain Roma emerged. She might have been pretty once, even beautiful, thought Toby, but years of soldiering had taken its toll. Her face was crisscrossed with scars, her expression a constant scowl. It had gained her some unfortunate names amongst some of the men, but none dared say it in more than a hushed whisper.
‘Where is Private Mane?’ she demanded, looking around.
‘Off doing what he does before every battle. Shitting his guts out,’ answered Lash. The company laughed. Everyone but the captain and her lieutenant. Toby looked around, wondering when the little mage had snuck off.
‘Probably off praying to his filthy foreign gods,’ said Sharp bitterly.
‘Oh, put a boot in it Sharp,’ retorted Shoots. ‘Mane’s village is about two towns over from yours.’
‘We don’t look like that in my village.’
‘Who in Hell would want to look like you Sharp?’ asked Lash.
‘Right. Private Brightleaf, some light please,’ interrupted Roma, turning towards Sergeant Tuggs and his squad.
‘Yes, Captain,’ replied the squad mage, stepping out from behind Tuggs and moving alongside the captain. His mouth moved, silently whispering words of power, and a dull light built up in the palm of his hand. The light grew, growing brighter until it illuminated the whole company. A disapproving murmur spread throughout the soldiers. Having mages in the army was still new to them and most took the words of the druids as law.
‘Okay, lads,’ Roma shouted. ‘It’s the same dance as Peppin Farm. 2nd regiment is taking the right flank and 10th, 11th and 12th companies are at the front line.’ Groans broke out amongst some of the squads, but these were soon silenced with looks from the imposing Lieutenant Mags. ‘It’s what you get paid for dammit,’ she snapped abruptly. She looked at several of the soldiers, daring them to complain further. They never did.
‘We will form our lines at the base of the hills about a mile north of our position. It’s the same as last time; holding maneuvers. Keep the bastards busy and let Harold and the Mages do what they do.’
‘Squad mages, your job is to distract and support the line. Plug any holes with whatever nastiness you can come up with. Apart from that I just want the bastards as uncomfortable as possible. Blind them, curse them, disorientate, anything that might slow them down until the tier-one mages get to work or Harold breaks their centre.’
Toby had asked what the different tiers of mages meant and from what he could understand of it; they had been broken into three tiers, with tier-one and two being the strongest. They would be placed on the battlefield in a position they could cause the most damage, like artillery. Tier-three were mages like Brightleaf and Mane, who were placed in the squads to do what they could with their limited magical ability.
‘That shouldn’t take long, aye, lads?’ asked Lash, pumping a fist into the air. The company cheered.
‘That’s all. It’s that simple. Hold them and don’t die until better men than us do the real work. Now get some rest,’ said Roma, then she was gone. Toby stood there dumbly. No good luck? No rousing speeches?
Sergeant Tuggs’ squad returned to their fire. There were eight bells until dawn; but Toby doubted he’d sleep half of that. He sat down next to his bedroll, watching as the rest of the squad settled down for the night. Private Sharp went back to caring for his knives, seemingly satisfied with two of them and beginning work on a third. Doris unfastened his bedroll alongside Shoots, who was already wrapped up in hers, head resting in her hands and staring up at the stars. Tinker sat in front of the fire gazing into the flames. Tuggs had returned with two bowls of the same broth Brightleaf had warned them off earlier. The giant woman, Tuggs’ corporal, Danza, was fast asleep.
Tuggs handed one of the bowls to Toby. ‘Brightleaf was right, it tastes like feet. But at this time I’m afraid there is not much left that’s warm. And you will feel better once you’ve eaten something, trust me.’
Toby thanked his sergeant and did his best to eat the stew. The fact it was warm was about the only good thing you could say about it. Silently, he cursed Private Hawkit - whoever he was - as he swallowed a slimy piece of what he hoped was meat.
‘The Aeneans underestimated us, y’know,’ said Tuggs suddenly. Toby looked sideways at his sergeant to find him staring into the fire, his eyes seeming distant and far away. ‘They saw us as a small kingdom on the edge of the world, another land to add to their empire. But they underestimated our love for this land. They underestimated our pride and our strength. And they underestimated Harold.’ Tuggs turned to face Toby, the fire’s reflection in his fierce eyes.
‘And that’s why we are going to beat them tomorrow. We spanked them at Peppin’s Farm and we will spank them tomorrow. You can believe that.’ Tuggs said it with such assurance that for a moment, Toby did. ‘Get some sleep lad. Tomorrow, we will make soldiers out of the both of you.’ Tuggs rustled Tinker’s hair to let him know he was the other recipient of his promise.
Toby made ready his bed roll and was about to try to get some sleep when Private Mane stumbled through their camp. He was holding his stomach and sweat drenched his face.
‘Happy shitting?’ asked Sharp with a smirk.
‘You missed the briefing,’ said Tuggs.
‘Well, what’s the news?’ asked Mane.
‘Right flank, front line’ answered Shoots, propping herself up on an elbow.
The groan that came from Private Mane echoed Toby’s thoughts exactly.
*
Far above the corpse strewn battlefield a bird circled, far too big to be a hawk but resembling one, nonetheless. Even from this height the bird could hear the groans of the dying, and with its unmatched eyesight could witness plainly the terrible cost of Man’s war. It scanned the battlefield, searching not with its keen eyes but this time its spirit, sending out its astral senses like waves on a shore. It found nothing and let out a satisfied screech into the wind. Had the man the creature was searching for perished, the bird would have sensed that too, but it was better to be certain.
The bird felt a slight tug coming from the east. It focused its senses in that direction and, after a moment, felt a stronger pull, confirming its suspicions. With another screech, this one triumphant, it whirled its flight, heading east.
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Out April 11th 2025