The road was quiet. The mud and snow mixed to form a rough and treacherous path. Edmund and his knights had to dismount and lead their mounts on foot. Still it was a calm night. The air was clear but cold and frost covered everything. The only sounds to be heard were those of him and his soldiers.
The terrain around the road was surprisingly open. For a full one hundred feet on either side the ground was open and fairly level field. Although the trees that lined the fields were as thick and tall as any he’d ever seen. Edmund had expected the road to be a mere narrow track, overgrown with brush and trees. But such a tight and narrow path would have made for an easier ambush. With a faint chuckle he realized that the constant raids and ambushes by Keepers like Misha had most likely prompted the Lutins to clear the growth away from the road.
A loud trumpet blast suddenly echoed across the snow from the wood off to Edmunds left. Then a second blast answered from the woods to his right. Behind him he heard several voices curse and swear.
As he looked to his right hundreds of Lutins erupted from the tree line in a dark wave that covered the snow like a blight destroying crops. They swarmed towards the humans screaming and whooping as they ran. Among them bounded a dozen dire wolves howling with delight at the upcoming feast. Tonight they would gorge on human flesh.
The fox backed away slowly and crouched low behind a large hide tent. Across his lap lay Whisper. The axes blade all but invisible in the darkness. In a moment his small grouped all together for one final conference. Only Danielle didn’t join them. Instead she kneeled behind a tent and kept guard, watching and listening.
“Looks quiet,” Misha said using hand signal. “I saw only twenty human guards.”
Finbar nodded in agreement, “I saw no sign of anything else. Looks too good to be true.”
“Agreed,” Rickkter said. “I see a lot of magic coming from those guards.”
“What type?” the fox asked.
“Difficult to tell. They are all very heavily shielded.”
“The tent. Can you see in it?”
“No,” came the curt answer.
“Finbar shook his head, “This feels wrong.”
“It has to be an ambush,” Caroline added. “We got into the camp far too easily.”
Misha pondered for a moment. Something was wrong, there were too few guards and the camp being completely empty was not a good sign. It meant that all the troops were on the line in formation ready for a battle. And if they were in battle the place for their commander would be with them. Not in a tent back at camp. But if the general wasn’t in the tent, why have such powerful magic protect it? And if not the general, who WAS in the tent?
If the general wasn’t in the tent why the powerful guards? Why was the camp completely empty? A smart general would have kept some loyal troops back to defend it and the hundred or so sentries they’d seen were hardly enough to keep the scavengers away never mind actually defend it.
It was all wrong. His instincts and skills told him this was wrong. There were too many questions. Misha balled his left hand into a fist and softly punched his right palm. Then with both hands held flat and horizontal he made a sweeping motion. The message was clear. “Withdraw. Mission canceled.”
That drew nods of agreement from the rest including Rickkter.
“We can do more good at the battle,” the raccoon signed. “Someone must be in command there.”
“MISHA! THE TENT” Danielle said out loud. Her whispered voice booming like a dragons roar. Then she stood up in plain view of everyone including the guards.
Misha saw a ball of bright blue fire erupt from inside the tent. It blasted through the canvas walls and charged at the group like a rampaging dragon with a roar like an exploding volcano.
Danielle shouted something that was inaudible over the roar and pushed both hands away from her like she was shoving against something large and heavy. The ball of flames suddenly deflected skyward as the pine marten was flung backwards. Misha saw all the guards from the tent rushing straight at them as an unearthly wail filled the air. All around he heard the shouting of soldiers, the twang of bows being released and the hiss of arrows in flight. A score of figures rushed at them from out of the darkness.
The Longs reacted without thinking. Years of training and experience saved them now. They all scattered away from the tent seconds before a dozen arrows thumped into the ground where they had been crouching.
Suddenly above them was a blinding flash of light and the ground bucked and heaved like a living animal. He was knocked flat by a wave of searing heat that scattered everyone like leaves in the wind. Then the wave passed and the darkness returned.
The world around him dissolved into a kaleidoscope of sounds and lights. Misha stumbled to his feet as two figures rushed at him, blades held high over their heads. Whisper slashed forward and back and two men fell, headless in front of him. The fox spun around the axe invisible in the darkness. He felt the barest shiver as the blade passed through the torso of lutin as tall as himself. He swung the axe in a high arc over his head and brought the flat of the blades down on the skull of a figure completely sheathed in flowing red robes. The weapon connected with a meaty smack and blood and gore sprayed everywhere. The body dropped to the ground without a sound.
Two people came slowly towards him appearing out of the darkness like phantoms. Around him raged the fighting but he saw none of it. He had only eyes for the two coming at him. They moved with a slow, fluid grace that Misha had never seen before. Behind them the remains of the tent burned brightly throwing wild shadows and light across their bodies. Their blood red fur rippled with each movement revealing the power in their lithe bodies. He saw long, sharp fangs, each as long as his hand sticking out from large muzzles. The fingers of each hand were tipped with razor sharp claws. Fangs and claws gleamed in the firelight but their light was nothing compared to the wicked light in the eyes. The red glow seemed to burn from the pits of hell itself. Just glimpsing them made him shiver.
Suddenly a brilliant bolt of magic shot between Misha and the two attackers bringing them to a sudden halt. A tall figure following and blocked their path bring the two to a sudden halt.
“Good evening,” the figure said in a voice Misha recognized. The figure stepped between the two attackers, the fire making him a shadow, though Misha was still able to see the double sword held level with the ground at waist height.
Both of the creatures hissed and drew swords, along whose edges flames danced and licked. In unison that raced straight at the figure. There was flash of blades and flames and the loud ringing of steel on steel as the three parried, swung and slashed at each other. A moment later they paused.
“Ladies, that’s not a nice way to greet your guests,” Rickkter said. If the brief skirmish with the two feline attackers had effected him it didn’t show.
Misha had little time for being a spectator. He had problems of his own. They just appeared out of nowhere swinging massive axes at him. The fox parried one blow with Whisper and ducked under the second. The blade coming so closing that it clipped the fur on top of his head.
A sudden flare up of flames from the burning tent gave Misha his first real look at the two attacking him. They were about his height but easily twice his weight and all of it muscle. Their powerful bodies were covered with a thick, dense fur that was solid black except for a small blaze of white on their chests. Wolverines, he was fighting wolverine morphs. Wolverines were a rare enough species among the morph Keepers that Misha knew most of them. His friend Andre and his wife Jenn were both wolverines. But these two weren’t Keepers. They had to be the result of some of Nasoj’s magic. As he parried two more blows a part of his mind wondered who they were and if they had they volunteered to be changed or were more victims of that evil mage.
The two morphs separated, coming at Misha from two directions at once. They didn’t rush the fox but swung their weapons in tight circles in front of themselves as they slowly inched forward. The blades cut swiftly through the air threatening death with the merest brush. If the fox turned to deal with one attacker he was laying himself open for an attack from behind by the other. A simple but effective strategy. Whoever or whatever they were or had been, Misha knew one thing about them. They were very good.
One thing that Rickkter rarely found was an opponent who could match his speed. Kankoran used magical enchantments to help speed the body’s reactions. And frankly, if he didn’t have those right now, he probably would have been killed.
Both to his advantage and determent was the double sword he was wielding. By virtue of its length and design, he was able to reasonably keep both feline women at bay; by the fact that it was not his Runic katana, he was unable to quickly shatter their weapons and finish them off.
Dodging a thrust to his midsection, he attempted to drive one of his weapon’s blade’s into the face of one attacker. However, this allowed the other to get a thrust in with her blade, opening a gash along the side of his armor. Hissing and snarling loudly, he turned on the other attacker, managing to catch her legs and lower body with several slashes of his weapon’s blades.
Now if only he could get them to slow down long enough to cast a spell!
Misha danced backward as the axe flashed past his stomach, so close that it’s sharp edge ripped through the white cloth covering his armor. He spun Whisper in a tight arc and it’s shaft of blackened wood stopped another axe aimed at his neck. Then with the flip of the wrist he changed the angle of the weapon and felt it’s blades cut into flesh and bone. The creature leaped backwards clutching at the blood seeping from it’s stomach.
Misha had little time to notice such things. He parried another attack from the first with the blade of his axe, deflecting the blow down and away from him. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw something flash towards him. Without thinking he turned his head to see an axe swinging towards him moments before it’s blade sliced into his face. There was a searing pain in his head and he went blind.
With his right hand he clutched at his face, praying that his fingers would find his eyes still there. Misha swung Whisper in wide arcs around him desperately trying to keep his attackers at bay. He felt something like a hammer blow against the axe and then a sharp pain from his left hand and felt the axe fly out of reach.
He wiped the blood from his face and saw the next blows coming just before they hit. Twisting he avoided the blades at the last moment. Misha awkwardly fumbled for his sword with his right hand, which suddenly seemed as numb as the bloody wreck that had been his left. Some tiny part of his mind recognized the clumsy movements as the first sign of shock, caused by too much blood loss.
Blood ran down into his eyes stinging and blinding him momentarily. Misha shook his head to clear his vision. The monsters he was fighting dropped their weapons and with teeth bared and claws extended for the kill. One of them made a prodigious leap right at the fox knocking him to the ground. Misha landed hard on his back with the creature kneeling on his chest. It’s heavy body pinning him to the ground like the weight of the world. It’s powerful legs pinning the fox’s arms to the ground as well.
Edmund was no stranger to combat. Long years of campaigning all over the Midlands had hardened him and taught him well. He refused to panic.
“Form a square,” he ordered.
Without another word his troops reacted with the speed and certainty of long hours of training. The knights and men at arms who were behind Edmund stepped to either side leaving the center open. They turned to face whichever side of the road they were on. The pikemen ran forward through this open end until they stood behind the line of knights. Their long metal tipped weapons were leveled, sticking far beyond the line of knights. Behind them came the archers at a run taking their place behind the pikemen, making a formation like a hollow square with one end open. The soldiers at the dangling ends stepped sideways closing the box.
What had a moment before been a column of soldiers stretched out in line and vulnerable was now a tight square. Each side bristling with pikes in all directions. Any attacker wanting to attack had to get past the ten-foot long pikes before they could come to blows with the knights. All the while they would be showered with arrows from the archers safely protected at the center. Edmund stood shoulder to shoulder with his knights at the front.
A cloud of arrows rose from the square and showered down on the leading Lutins killing dozens instantly. But the swarm didn’t even pause.
The first Lutins to reach the men were impaled on the sharpened points of the pikes. Pikemen jabbed and poked trying to keep their green skinned attackers at a distance. But they couldn’t stop them all. Those that were nimble or lucky enough to avoid the pikes were cut down by the heavily armored knights and men at arms. And still arrows rained down from the center. Each volley dropping a dozen Lutins. The Lutins flowed around the knot of men like an ocean wave washing around breakers and the men were completely surrounded.
The fighting raged savagely as the Lutins kept attacking pushed forward by the press of those behind only to die by pike and sword. Screams, shouting and the clash of combat filled the air along with shrieks of the wounded and dying.
“FORWARD!” Edmund thundered above the din as he pointed up the road. He had made a promise to Misha and he had no intention of breaking it.
Without breaking formation the square moved slowly up the road. The soldiers on the sides of the box had to step sideways as those at the rear had to walk backwards. Still the square kept its shape waving not the slightest in spite of the bloody fighting. For long minutes the fighting raged as the tight knot of men slowly inched it’s way up the road as sea of Lutins swarmed around them.
The assault suddenly eased. The Lutins drawing back several paces like a wave, that having crested flowed back into the sea. But like waves the respite was brief. There was a blare of trumpets and the Lutins surged forward again crashing against the square. The fighting seemed to last an eternity before the Lutins fell back for a second time. The break lasted mere moments before they attacked again and again and again. Edmund lost count of how many times that living wave washed against them. All forward movement stopped. Notions of living up to promises forgotten. All thoughts were merely for survival.
The fighting was as savage and intense as the religious warrior had ever seen. No matter how many Lutins died more charged forward stepping over the still twitching bodies of their comrades. They threw themselves onto the pikes driving them down with the weight of their dying bodies. Swords, axes, maces, daggers, even rocks and clubs were wielded with wild and savage abandon. As if life itself didn’t matter, only fighting and dying.
Then as suddenly as it had started, it ended. The attackers surrounding them just seemed to melt away, but this time they didn’t return. The men watched as the Lutins faded back into the woods they had come from. Soon they were surrounded only by the dead and dying.
They had won.
Cursing in several languages Rickkter lashed out with a powerful kick and sent the feline flying. But no sooner was the first creature gone then the second one rushed at him. He dodged and twisted easily avoiding the creatures blows. A moment later the first one rushed back into the fight and the raccoon’s weapon spun and slashed blocking storm of blows. Forcing her weapon down, he tried to drive a blade from his into her face, finishing her once and for all. This time he came close, opening up a long gash from her muzzle back across her head. She fell back, yowling and clutching her head.
For once, the other cat wasn’t almost on top of him. The momentary breather this allowed gave Rick the chance to look around at the rest of the battle, much to his horror. While only a quick glance, it was enough to tell him that he was about the only one really holding his own. Worst of all was Misha.
Yelling out one inarticulate curse, Rickkter managed to cast a single spell in Misha’s direction. Fortunately, it was enough. The glowing, roaring ball of magic hit the wolverine thing in the shoulder sending it flying into the darkness.
But, saving the life of his friend had left Rickkter open. The cat woman he had kicked out of the way came flying at him, screeching and hissing as she leaped up at him. Good luck allowed him to get his sword up in time to block her blow, bad luck caused him to stumble from the attack, going down in a heap with her on top. She continued to hiss and claw at Rickkter, trying to work her free paw in between his armor.
Rick gave her a quick head butt, hearing a satisfying crunch from her nose. “Yeah, well screw you, too!!” he yelled up at her before blowing her head clear off her shoulders with another quick spell.
He had just rolled the body off him and got to his feet when another feline screech bought his head up. Hissing as the second cat’s flaming blade passed less than an inch from his face, Rickkter quickly countered, pinning the blade against the ground before reversing his own sword and slashing the cat woman across the neck. Clutching her own neck, blood blooming between her fingers, she staggered and went down.
Panting, Rickkter made a quick survey of the battle ground. “Okay… now the gloves are off.”
Stunned Misha lay there for a moment unsure of what had just happened. Some part of his mind recognized a spell and he realized that Rickkter had cast it. Everything seemed to slow down for Misha. Like some sort of strange spell had been cast. He could see and hear everything going on around him. It was as if he was standing nearby watching the fight instead of being in it.
Nearby he saw the creature that had been hit by Rickkters spell was slowing getting to it’s feet shaking off the effects of a spell that should have killed it. The raccoons spell had bought him a few moments more of life. Soon the two would attack him again and he had no doubt about his chances of surviving. But strangely that thought didn’t bother him. Instead he could only think of his people, his fellow keepers.
He could see Rickkter locked in a deadly ballet of swinging blades and twisting, dancing bodies. There were a blur of motion and sound. He saw the raccoon jump over a sword swipe that would have cut off both legs and then twist out of the way of another that was supposed to disembowel him. He lashed out with his odd double bladed katana, spinning it in a complete circle like some sort of child’s toy. He caught both of his attackers cutting deep gashes into their chests. One of the creatures leapt backwards and the other leapt forwards. The raccoon back pedaled fast to avoid it’s slashing swords and claws. The flaming blade skittered and scrapped along the steel plate protecting Rickkter’s chest without penetrating. It’s three-inch long claws found a point where two plates met at his right wrist and those talons ripped through the chain mail protecting that weakness and the skin that lay beneath it.
Nearby he saw Jotham and Georgette standing back to back fighting a solid ring of Lutins and humans. Already a half a dozen bodies lay scattered on the ground. As he watched a man wielding two short swords lashed out at Georgette slashing across her chest and stomach. She staggered for a moment before burying a dagger deep in the man’s chest. Two people rushed at her, swords slashing in front of them. She parried both blades easily and then kicked one of the men in the groin. With a groan he doubled over and dropped to the ground. Georgette again parried more weapons aimed at her as she gave the figure on the ground another, harder kick.
He saw Caroline, his dear, sweet Caroline helping Padraic up off the ground with one hand while keeping two human attackers at bay with the sword she held in the other. Stretched out on the ground behind them lay the body of some great, black and red hound. Smoke and flame issued from the sword wound in its neck. The rabbit’s whole leg was blackened and bloody but it didn’t stop him from drawing a sword and fighting one of the two men attacking them.
Slightly behind those two, Misha saw the lithe form of Finbar, a sword in each hand fighting a dozen Lutins. Already seven corpses lay scattered around him, a testament to the ferret’s prowess. With horror he recognized one of the bodies as Danielle’s. The Pine Marten mages arms were singed and blackened and she looked dead. Finbar was straddling her body with his legs, protecting her.
They were losing. Deep in his heart he knew they were already doomed. In a moment the two he was fighting would kill him and then move on to slaughter Caroline and Padraic. Then Jotham and Georgette would die. Finbar being slightly away from the group might stand a chance of fleeing. But the ferret wouldn’t leave Danielle. He would fight on to the bitter end. He wondered for a moment what would happen to Rickkter. Would he too die or would he make some miraculous escape?
They would all die and there was nothing he could do to stop it. These were people who were his friends. Whom with he had laughed, sweated and fought beside. People he had shared the good times and the bad times. They would all die.
He remembered laughing and cheering at Laura’s marriage. He remembered how shy and nervous Danielle had been the first time Misha had met her. He shared their grief when Craig died.
Padraic, poor Padraic. He had been dragged into this whole thing without any time to choose. Now he would die far from friends and family. In an odd thought he wondered if Raven herself would speak at the rabbits funeral.
His dear, beloved Caroline would die. He could almost see the grief stricken Will at his daughter’s funeral. Her death would kill him. He would slowly fade away, all reason for life gone with his beloved daughter. Misha would never get to hold her in his arms again. Never again would they snuggle close at night under some tree watching the stars. All his plans and hopes for their future together were now gone.
Without having to look for it he saw where Whisper had landed. He could easily see it’s black form against the stark, white snow. He could easily call the blade to him but to what end? With his arms pinned he couldn’t use it. Even if he did get his arms free he stood little chance of defeating the monsters he was fighting. He was too badly hurt and these things were tougher then he was. A lot tougher. There was no way to save anyone.
Or was there? Desperate people do desperate things. Dangerous things.
“Tchau Uae” he shouted reaching out with his heart and soul as well as his voice.
“HELP ME!”
Everything went suddenly quiet as if a great hush had fallen over the world. All the fires and open flames snapped then guttered out leaving the battlefield in utter darkness. A darkness so deep and pure that it just seemed to swallow all light. Only a thin, wane moonlight gave an eerie glow to the scene. Many of the Lutins looked up in shock at the moon for it was still early in the month and the Night Lady had long before gone to her sleep that night. Moments before there had been no moon.
The battle stopped. No one moved or spoke.
A wind blew through. So cold that it bit right through to their very souls.
Chilling their hearts and killing any courage and will that remained there.
It knocked over men and Lutins alike scattering them like snow in a storm.
A deep red glow seemed to ooze from Whisper bathing everything around it, turning the scene into something from a grotesque nightmare. The human’s skin looked as if it was it was covered with blood. Making the living look like the dead.
The glow grew stronger and started to slowly form into a shape. First to form was the head. Then a torso with two long, powerful arms with claw tipped hands. Broad wings spread out behind and above. Long, thin, spidery wings with wicked talons on their edges. Two stocky legs hung from the torso and ended in surprisingly small legs that each held five talons. Each as long as a mans hand. The figure hung there about an arms length above the ground not disturbing the mud beneath it. As frightening as that form was worse was it’s eyes. It didn’t have any, just two deep, dark pits of blackness that seemed to bore through any who looked into them.
One talon tipped hand shot out and grabbed one of the things that was about to kill Misha. The creature managed one, short shriek and the red, glowing hand wrapped around it’s throat cutting off all sound. It easily lifted the struggling creature off the ground. The wolverine squirmed and twisted, desperately trying to escape.
Misha knew what was coming but still he couldn’t bring himself to look away. There was a soft crunch and the creature went suddenly limp. Then it’s body started to shrivel and curl up like a wine sack being squeezed dry. There was a soft whisper of a noise. Almost too soft to hear and yet it cut straight through to Misha’s soul. The empty carcass dropped to the ground with a sickening thump and the rattle of dry bones.
With a casual swipe of one arm she sent three of the men surrounding Georgette and Jotham flying. Two of them landed in pieces their heads rolling along the ground like some child’s ball.
One of the heads came to rest in front of a lutin. A tough, battle hardened warrior with countless scars testifying to his bravery. He looked down at the bloody sphere with eyes wide with terror. Then he looked up to see that taloned arm reaching for him. It was just a hands breath from his throat when the warrior let out a shriek of pure terror and ran off into the night.
That broke the spell over everyone. Chaos erupted. Men, women and Lutins scattered screaming in all directions. All thoughts of fighting and killing swept away by the primal terror. For Misha it felt like being in the calm at the center of the storm. Around him figures screamed and wailed as they stumbled and ran about in utter panic.
Through this bedlam there suddenly came a tall figure shouting orders at the fleeing people. It deliberately stepped into the path of a dozen fleeing Lutins and ordered a halt. The warriors paused unsure what to do. This figure wore a bright, red, blue and gold brocaded robe the covered her form from foot to neck. In her left hand was a sword whose blade had jagged edges like the teeth of some fearsome creature. Black ichor dripped from that wicked blade.
Two other figures stepped out of the shadows behind the women. Misha couldn’t make out their faces from the distance but one appeared to be an utterly huge man and the other a women in a luxurious fur coat. However as quickly as they appeared they seemed to vanish into the same shadows they had come from.
The blood red creature from the axe swept forward towards the Lutins and the figure stopping them. The woman raised the sword and a beam of white light erupted from the blade and struck the wraith. If the magic of the sword had any effect it didn’t show. The group of Lutins scattered like leaves in a wind. More fearful of wraith then woman.
The mage lashed out with the sword but the wraith put out one hand and stopped it easily. Then it gave a swipe of the other and the arm with the sword still gripped in its hand went flying in a spray of blood.
Again that blood red arm reached for a throat, this time it was the woman’s throat. Misha could not watch this time and he closed his eyes try to block out the scene. But if watching it was bad, hearing it was worse. Much worse. With his sharp canine ears he heard the crunching of bones as the mage’s throat was crushed. Then he heard that soft, sickening whisper of a sound. In his mind he could imagine the stark raving terror going through her mind as the wraith slowly drained the very life from her body. He wondered what it must feel like as ones life was ripped from you. The pain and terror. His body began to shake as the tears flowed down his muzzle. Then he heard the thump and rattle of the dry husk of her body hitting the ground.
Shaking uncontrollably he lay there with his eyes closed as he tried to block out the terrible image in his mind of that woman’s death. Suddenly a terrible screamed ripped through his anguish. It was a terrible scream of primal terror. Misha’s eyes opened of their own accord.
Less then an arms length away was one of the creatures that had been mere moments from killing him. It was on it’s knees screaming and crying as the wraith reached for it. In a moment that red hand closed around his throat and lifted the creature off the ground. In fear and desperation the wolverine morph looked at Misha. He saw pain, fear and a desperate pleading in those eyes. He couldn’t help but think of his good friend Andre. That wolverine morph was his friend since childhood. Was Andre so different from the terrified thing dangling in front of him? He heard the soft whisper of it’s life being drained away.
“Stop,” Misha said in a quiet tone. “Please. Let him live.”
That terrible whispering noise stopped. The wraith opened it’s hand and the morph dropped to the ground at Misha’s feet. It lay there as still as a corpse too terrified to move. Misha could see it’s chest rising and falling rapidly as it breathed. It’s throat once the same black as the rest of its body now bore a white blaze in the shape of a grasping hand.
They were alone on the battlefield. All that lay around them were the dead. Fires burned fitfully here and there amidst the wreckage. It was as if the whole world had died and only these three were left.
The red, ghost of a wraith looked at Misha with those black pits others would call eyes. It seemed to be deciding, pondering and judging the fox. It reached out with one hand and lightly stroked the side of his head. Its touch was oddly warm. He’d expected it to be as cold as tomb but it wasn’t. The warmth reminded him of his mother soft caress and of Caroline’s sweet embrace.
“You’re taller then I expected Tchau,” Misha commented dryly.
The faint trace of a smile crossed the monsters lips and a deep burbling laughter came to Misha’s ears.
It turned and looked to where Rickkter was standing. The raccoon had not moved or spoken. He looked more like the graven image of some forgotten god on the walls of some long abandoned temple. “Tehen thesas,” it said and bowed deeply to the raccoon. The wraith drifted back to where the great axe Whisper lay. It hovered for a moment over it then seemed to just seep into the weapon and was gone.
The camp was quiet when Edmund and his troops finally reached it. The stench of death filled the air mixing with the sharp sting of burning wood and cloth. They carefully picked their way past the abandoned sentry posts. Only the scorched ground and charred remains of wood marked that there had been sentries at all. The entrance was deserted, the thickets dragged across the opening hadn’t been pulled out of the way, they had been trampled down into the mud. The only sign of the guards was a solitary spear that lay broken and twisted in their path. The only sign of life in the whole camp was a bright fire that blazed in the center lighting up everything like a beacon.
Dismounting Edmund led his troops past the remains of the gate and into the camp. Around him his soldiers and knights moved as cautiously as him. He watched as a pike wielding man used the tip of his weapon to up end a hovel made of bone and hide. Then he carefully poked the scraps of various things that lay underneath. All he found was a few scarps of cloth and some bones.
The camp was too rough and broken a place for the tight square. Instead of the square they had used before now Edmund kept the formation loose, fluid. They could have marched up the road but he had fallen for that trick once too often. Instead they would stay off that obvious path to an ambush.
There was no need to decide where to go, that was easy. The paladin instinctively knew that the Long Scouts would be found at the center by that bright fire. He was sure the fox was the cause of the blaze.
They passed countless rows of hovels, tents and lean-tos as the group of soldiers moved slowly up the road deeper into the camp. At the front moved seven of Edmunds best hunters.
Suddenly a soldier off to his left gave out a shout. With his sword in hand he raced over to where a group of soldiers was clustered together.
“What did you find?” the paladin asked.
A short, brown haired man with a long bow strapped across his back was knelt next to the overturned remains of a tent. In the center of what would have been the tent floor was a round hole barely a foot in diameter and some three feet deep.
“Large enough for a lutin to crouch in and hide,” the archer said out loud. “They covered over the hole with this cloth and waited to Misha and his scouts passed,” he said holding up a dirty, brown piece of wool.
“How?” someone asked. “Even the simplest fool would think to look underneath.”
“Watch,” the archer replied. With a broad sweep he draped the cloth over the open hole and both disappeared. Gone was the hole and the cloth covering it, replaced by a rough dirt floor.
“Magic,” Edmund hissed.
“Illusion,” the archer explained. “An army could walk past this place and not suspect the Lutins that lay hidden.”
The paladin looked up and all around. In a moment the archer was standing up and looking around as well. On all sides as far as the eye could see were tents and lean-tos. Hundreds and hundreds of them.
“Shit,” the archer muttered.
“Form a Square centered on the road,” Edmund shouted. “Scouts out front.”
“Facing which way?” someone asked.
Edmund didn’t answer out loud but pointed towards the center of the camp where Misha and his scouts were. “Inward.”
Too exhausted to think Misha almost missed it. It was the faint sound of a foot lightly placed in mud. Looking up he saw a blackened form moving towards him. For a moment he thought it was Rickkter but then he saw it clearly. It was one of those panther creatures Rickkter had been fighting. It’s chest was covered in it’s own blood, the loose skin at its neck hanging open in an ugly gash; a testament to the raccoons fighting prowess. In spite of the chest wound and a dozen more over its body the feline moved towards Misha with a slow steady gait. In its left hand was a long, curved saber and in its eyes Misha saw death. This creature was dying but it intended to take Misha with it.
"What a temperamental thing to do,” said a cold calm voice that seemed to come from all around Misha. "You should have killed them all when you had the chance."
Suddenly a white haired figure of a man in a flowing red robe appeared before Misha, he looked at the Keeper with a crooked grin upon his face. A sword appeared in his hands, its blade thick and curved with cruel points.
With a mere flick of his hand he sent the weapon flying through the air. The blade sunk into the feline monsters chest up to the hilt. The cat fell without a sound. Dead before it reached the ground.
"I applaud you fox, but sympathy will only get you so far in life." He closed his eyes and chuckled, his long white hair blowing wildly in the wind, "You let down your guard my good man. I won't save you next time," said the red robed figure with a laugh. "In fact I might just take your little life, after all, you now owe it to me."
Without even a need to give the command Whisper floated free of the ground and flew straight into Misha’s remaining good hand. “Try it,” the vulpine said softly. “And see who kills who.”
"In your sorry state there wouldn't be any sport to it, don't you think?"
Misha growled.
"Oh my, I seemed to have upset you, well I'll let you cool off, you have
had a long day after all. “Until we meet again fox.” With those
words he seemed to slip away from reality and vanish into thin air.
“We’ll meet again,” Misha commented. “You can be sure of that.”
The tent looked out of place. It’s bright red cloth stood out bold against the snow and mud of the fields. It certainly had no place on a battlefield. The knights and soldiers who had come from all over the midlands had watched in amazement as the keepers had erected it before the battle. Three wagons fully loaded with all manner items had been carefully unpacked and placed within the tent. And there were no less then thirty servants. Each was dressed in a short, blue tunic with a mortar and pestle in gray on the chest.
Working at a frantic pace they took orders from a gray haired woman wearing a gray dress with the mortar and pestle in gold on her right shoulder. After putting up the tent they had carefully lined the floor of it and the ground for twenty feet in all directions with a thick carpet colored a dull gray. Then the servants unloaded a score of folding beds and tables arraigning them in neat rows inside. Last to be unloaded were four tremendous chests. Each so large that it took four people to unload them. They were placed at one end of the tent where the opening was.
It wasn’t until after the battle was over that it became clear what the tent was for. At the first sounds of fighting the ‘servants’ had rushed off into the battle. In the midst of the worst fighting they were there. Dragging men from the river, pulling the wounded clear of the fighting and giving them the aid they needed to survive.
With horses, carts or even simply carrying them on their backs the blue tunics brought the wounded and dying back to the tent. Soon every bed was full and the wounded were laid out on the carpet outside. It wasn’t long before even that was full and beds were made out of branches and leaves.
It was here that Ellingwood found himself. Stretched out on that thick carpet. His left arm bandaged from wrist to shoulder and his chest was wrapped to protect his broken ribs. Around him lay the wounded, many in those folding beds, others lying on the thick carpet like he was. Human and keeper were mixed together without any thought to age, sex, species or social ranking.
As he lay there he watched the people he had thought were servants brought more and more of the wounded. Others moved among their patients tending to their needs.
A Keeper, some sort of striped horse came up to the nobleman and looked at the bandages on his shoulder. Like all the other Keepers tending the wounded it wore that blue tunic with it’s odd emblem. “Any pain?” the equine asked in a male voice.
“No,” Ellingwood answered truthfully. “Just a slight tingling in my chest.”
“Good.” The striped horse answered. “That means the poppy juice is working. “You’re lucky. You only have a few broken ribs. No internal injuries. Your armor took most of the blow. There’s a dent in the breastplate the size of my head. You will need to replace it.”
“That armor was a gift from the king himself for saving his son at the battle of Marsden Hill.”
“You can thank the king for saving your life but I don’t think they can remove this big a dent,” a voice said from behind. George walked into view holding something in his hands. It was the breastplate from the mans armor. There was a dent in it the size of the horse’s head.
“What did that?” the black backed jackal morph asked.
“An ogres club,” was the answer. To Ellingwood the canine seemed untouched. Without even the cut or bruise. Only a rip in the surcoat he was wearing and a slight dent on the armor beneath it told of a fight. Then he noticed traces of blood on the jackal’s muzzle.
The striped equine left the two alone and moved off to a man whose two legs were heavily bandaged. The figured was lying still only the rise and drop of the blanket over his chest signaled he was alive.
Ellingwood found himself staring at the equine and the tunic he was wearing. “What are they?” he asked.
“We call them battle healers,” George explained. “They’re actually attached to every regiment in the army. An old trick we resurrected from the days of the Seuilman army.”
The man looked past the canine, “Sir Edmund is back,” he commented and pointed to a group of soldiers making it’s way towards them on foot.
At their head of the group was the paladin himself leading his horse by the reins. A figure was slumped in the saddle, head down, hands loosely holding onto the horn of the saddle.
When they reach the tent Edmund grabbed one of the passing healers. “Fetch your Mistress, we have need of her services.”
“Lady Sarah is busy with the wounded,” the women countered.
“Get her,” Edmund ordered is a voice as hard as steel.
With a short nod of the head she turned and raced off into the tent.
The paladin carefully helped the figure off of his horse. With a shiver Ellingwood recognized the person Edmund was helping as Misha. The fox stood for a moment then he sagged against the equines broad flank. Resting his head on the cloth beneath the saddle. His blood soaking into the blue fabric staining it.
George closed the distance between him and the vulpine at a dead run. “Misha?”
The fox didn’t seem to notice his friend but held as still as a statue. Then he lifted up his head and looked at George. The left side of his face was covered with a bloody bandage.
The jackal grabbed his friend under both arms and carried him over to where Ellingwood was and laid his friend next to the wounded knight. With a tenderness that the nobleman found surprising George removed the bandage covering Misha’s face.
All Ellingwood saw was a bloody wound with little resemblance to the vulpine head it should have been.
George wiped the blood away with the bandage and looked at the wound. After a long moment he spoke. “You’ve lost your ear but you’ll keep the eye.”
The fox slowly nodded in reply. “How did the battle go?”
“Well. We lost about one hundred forty dead and twice that wounded,” Ellingwood answered. “But there are over a thousand dead of Nasoj’s army lying dead on the field. That includes all of the Druzhina.”
“The Druzhina fought to the last,” George added. “But once we killed them the rest just bolted. We spent most of the night running down fleeing Lutins. It was a lot of easy killing.”
“That’s not a surprise,” the fox commented. “Didn’t expect those fanatics to give up.”
Two knights laid Danielle next to Misha. The pine marten morph was unmoving. She looked dead. Finbar knelt next to her White bone sticking thru the fur of his left arm. The ferret was oblivious to own broken arm, he only had eyes for Danielle.
Swiftly all the remaining Long scouts were laid out along with a dozen of Sir Edmunds own wounded. Healers swarmed around them all appearing as if by magic. One tried to pull the ferret away from Danielle to fix his arm but was unceremoniously shoved away by Finbar.
George picked the ferret bodily off the ground and calmly dropped him in front of a healer. “Sit and be healed. I’ll see about her,” he ordered.
Finbar stood up and opened his mouth to argue but George never gave him the chance.
“Shut up. Sit down and behave. I’ll see to her,” he said in a voice full of power and command. All the ferret could do was sit still and nod but his eyes never left Danielle’s still form.
Two of the healers were already working on her. They had removed her armor and clothes and were examining her. The gray haired leader of the healers came up and knelt down next to her.
“Aside from the slight burns on her hands I don’t see any serious injuries,” the woman commented. “What happened to her?”
“Someone threw a powerful spell at us and she deflected it with a shield spell,” Misha explained. “The mage who cast that spell had at least three times her power and skill. I’m surprised she survived it at all, Sarah.”
She produced a small flask and some cloth from a satchel that hung at her hip. After carefully pouring the contents of the flask onto the cloth she began to wipe Danielle’s face with it. Each wipe of the cloth left an odd green coloring on the martens fur.
Sir Bidwell came up to the group, the concern plain to see. “What happened?”
“An ambush,” Sir Edmund answered. “The entire camp was a gigantic trap.”
“The finest one I’ve ever seen,” the fox added. “Someone went to a great deal of trouble to kill my people and me.”
“What is our next move?” Edmund asked aloud. “After this defeat I doubt there will be any more battles.”
“It’ll be down raids and sieges,” George commented. “No one will stand against this army.”
“We came her to defeat evil not pillage and loot like bandits,” the paladin said.
“Won’t be needed,” George said. “My people got close to Wraiths stronghold this morning. They found it already under siege.”
“By who?” Ellingwood asked, surprised.
“Lutins. They reported seeing the banners of fifteen tribes and at least six thousand warriors.”
“SIX THOUSAND?” Ellingwood asked incredulously.
“Amazing. There hasn’t been an army that large in the Giantdowns since the battle of three gates. Who did you send out?” Misha asked.
“Jamie long shanks,” George answered. “Of course.”
“Who is in command of it?” Bidwell asked.
“Probably no one,” Misha answered. “I’ll bet it’s a temporary alliance. Nasoj has a lot of enemies.”
“Temporary or not someone has been planning this for a long time,” George said.
“At least since the attack on the Keep. It would take that long to get all the tribes to decide to stop fighting each other.”
“Can we defeat such an army?” Ellingwood asked.
“No need to,” Misha replied. “They have eyes only for Nasoj. Once they take the fortress and loot it they’ll break up and go home. Of that I’m certain. And if the Lutins and Nasoj’s troops want to kill each other I don’t see any reason to interfere.”
“They’ll be fighting for months,” George added.
“What is our next course of action?” Lord Bidwell asked.
There was a deep sigh and all eyes turned to it’s source. Danielle opened her eyes and looked around. Finbar pushed aside the healers and gave her a tight hug and a long kiss.
“What is our next course of action?” the fox asked. Echoing the nobleman’s question.
Caroline sat down next to him. She clasped his good hand with one of her own and gave it a slight squeeze.
“We go home. We’ve done enough of Death’s work here.”