The carriage halted with the troops, outside the range of Tradavar siege weapons. Thrain exited, his eyes sweeping across the soldiers. He sighted Haverth, and nodded his head towards the front. It was again time to see how accurate their maps would be.
Thrain’s boots crunched over the gravelly road leading to the fort. The bastion of iron and wood sat on the only passable road for miles. The sunlight-bathed walls shone a red-orange in the setting dusk, and dark wood etched with a riveting pattern stood against the glare. It was beautiful, even as a work of war.
Tradavar recessed into a bend in the Aegishull river, allowing the steep banks and water to be the first line of defense. Powerful arms of trebuchets jutted up above the fortress walls, with two ominously aimed at the expansive wooden and steel bridge that spanned the gully. Even taking the bridge, stone walls ran to the river’s edge. An attacking force would need to take the castle and raise the gate before crossing the bridge would be of any real use.
Thrain eyed the steep embankment leading down to the Aegishull, which in this part was yet shallow, but fast-flowing. He frowned. “This appears steeper than expected.”
Haverth rubbed his beard, which endured. “Taking the horses and…cart…across without the bridge will not be possible.”
“Understood. I will first offer them terms then.”
“They will not accept, you waste time.”
“Offering them a chance to save their men’s lives is not wasted time. In any case, we have some yet, Yerickton is but a day's march from here.”
Haverth grunted, but went and made the preparations, sending a request to Tradavar to meet for terms. It was set for the morning, and night fell upon most with restless sleep.
Dawn grew upon Tradavar’s wall with a naive joy and brilliance cast by the ancient sun. Thrain watched, his breath misting slightly in the cool morning air. Out from the gates he saw three men, the keeper of the battlements and two Runecasters. Wrenfeld’s tale, it seemed, had made it here.
The parley was brief. The Keeper, an aging man named Cadrin, was courteous and willing to yield much, but full surrender and access to inner Haelstra was not one of them. Thrain wished there was some way to tell the man his peril without risking his plan. Yet, no matter what he said, Cadrin would not yield. He doomed his men to death.
He watched them march back across the bridge.
“Why not kill them now?” Haverth suggested.
“There is honor in keeping one’s word, I would not break it for an advantage I do not need.”
“Ichvatis confirmed there are five mages here. Said that would overpower even your scarlet weaving. Even the Trigrynt.”
“I have not yet used the Trigrynt.”
Haverth looked sharply at him. “Ivchvatis…Ichvatis did not know that.”
“No one does. And no one in Tradavar can learn of it, and live to tell Haelstra. They might bring both pieces if they did.”
A cold, greedy smile ate Haverth’s face. “And what can you do with it?”
Thrain frowned. “Only what I am forced to.”
Then Cadrin and his Runecasters lit fuses on the sides of the bridge as they finished crossing it. The Runecasters began Tracing at once, Wgoa, Psaeshnr, and Ownpyro each. Weave streamed from their hands and clung to the fuses and explosives under the wooden expanse.
Thrain stepped forward. They were skilled at their craft; Cadrin’s folly could almost be understood. They did not try at speeds beyond their ability, nor Trace with excess force, but precisely laid their Runes into creation, and increased their magic. Blue and violet Weave flowed across and under the bridge. It was…pretty. Like watching children play in their innocence.
His own blood-colored Runes Traced into the air, five all Wgoa. Then he withdrew the Trigrynt.
A sound like a wind rushing a canyon blew across the bridge and a crackling buzz vibrated in the ground. Red slowly melted into lava-tinged orange, and the five runes expanded into ten. With a thrum deep and sonorous, Weave streamed fast and precise from his hands. It struck the blue and violet Weaves with violence, evaporating them everywhere it touched them. Before either fuse had reached the first explosive, orange weave covered the flame and extinguished it.
Cadrin had the gall to look sad.
He had been warned. What followed would be what he could have stopped.
Orange poured from him like waves and barreled down the bridge like a stampede of angry bulls. The two casters desperately tried to raise a barrier but what little they could muster shattered like a thin pane of glass under an anvil. The weave roiled over them and like their magic they faded from existence as the weave overwhelmed them and returned them to Aath. Cadrin fell to the ground unconscious so great was the effort it took to withstand the onslaught.
Thrain began to cross the bridge. Upon the wall the trebuchets rattled and ratcheted as they launched great boulders down towards the bridge. Compared to the great rocks hurtling down, he was quite small. He was not worried. The erased Runecasters could have dealt with this barrage given some effort; he would barely notice.
The stones crashed against sun-colored weave and broke into rubble that cascaded down into the gulch with shatters and bangs. The barrier did not so much as shudder against the impact, though one Wgoa faded.
He consumed another Rune and released a blase of Weave that rocketed up at the wall. Rune and Weave leapt from the battlement to meet his attack, but even as they reduced it they could not stop it. One weapon of war crunched into a pile of wood and bent iron as the magic phased through its center and erased the matter it touched.
A final volley from the remaining siege engine careened into the barrier, fading another Rune but breaking into the gully like the two before it. A second blast of Weave shot from him like exploded flame, and it ripped through their Weave like paper. The second trebuchet folded like a deck of brittle and rotted cards.
The men upon the walls scrambled to redirect the remaining machines at the bridge, but it would be a few minutes before they finished. Thrain crossed the bridge and knelt down beside Cadrin.
“Your men do you honor in their fighting, Keeper. It is sad that they do it for your pride in this walled bastion.”
Cadrin did not hear him. Gently, he reached down and placed his hand on the man’s chest. Weave slowly ebbed from his hand and seeped through the armor. His breathing slowed, until finally it stopped.
Thrain stood up, lips drawn in a shaky line. One day he would end this, and never again would prideful men throw away the lives of soldiers for pointless pursuits.
Next
Dude, I love the magic system here. Also, Thrain is a super cool character.