Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 3 ❯ CHAPTER 72: MANEUVERS ( Chapter 6 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

For five days, nothing changed, but Soren knew the Central Army could begin mobilizing and march across the Ribahn at any time now. There was no real reason not to, and surely the senators were tired of waiting for the Gallians to give up and leave. Soren had trouble sleeping, so he woke early and occupied his mind planning different routes and contingencies for retreat. It was just after dawn when Titania burst into the tent.

“King Tibarn is here!” she announced. Boyd and Oscar both jackknifed awake, and Rolf turned over, moaning something about sleeping a little longer. “The Hawk Armada is coming!”

Soren pushed out of the tent, and the others were right behind him (even Rolf, who awoke fully once he realized what had been said). Sure enough, a large flock of birds could be seen over the southern horizon. Knowing these birds were the size of people, Soren deduced they were still far away. However, at least one Phoenician had already arrived—Tibarn was sitting by a campfire, tearing into a rack of lamb like a starving man. Between bites he guzzled water and wiped his face. His clothes, chest, and arms were covered in dried blood. It was brittle, brown, and flaking—several days old at least. That being said, he looked more tired than injured. There were bags under his eyes, and his wings hung lower that Soren had never seen them. The tips draped on the ground, where everyone avoided stepping on them.

When he was done eating, Ranulf escorted Tibarn to one of the mercenaries’ tents. He’d still said nothing, and it seemed neither Ranulf nor Ike were going to press him. When he walked, the Hawk King’s shoulders sank as low as his wings.

“Everyone should stay away from that tent for a while,” Ike ordered. “Give him some space.” Soren was annoying, wanting to know what had happened, but he supposed answers would be more accessible if Tibarn was actually fit to give them. “How is he?” Ike asked when Ranulf emerged.

“He’s resting,” he answered with a shake of his head. “Ike, did you see? Even his wings were…”

“Yeah. They were covered in blood,” Ike sighed. “But he’s not hurt, so it must be someone else’s.”

“I have this awful feeling...” Ranulf crouched by the fire and held his head. “A feeling that something terrible has happened. But I really hope I’m wrong.”

Ike sat and kicked out a leg, staring pensively into the flames as if he agreed with Ranulf’s feeling. But Soren remained standing nearby. He had his eyes on the brightening sky, hoping another hawk might arrive shortly and be able to tell them what Tibarn was not.

Before long, a pair of white wings and two pairs of brown wings appeared above the camp. After just a half-circle to get their bearings, the trio dropped out of the sky. They all looked exhausted.

“Ike! Ranulf!” Reyson stumbled toward them.

Ranulf leapt to his feet and caught the heron’s thin arms. “Reyson! You’re here too?”

“Your Highness! Please wait!” Janaff called, his chest heaving. He lurched forward, but Reyson ripped himself out of Ranulf’s hands and avoided him both.

“I have to check on him,” he declared urgently. “I’m worried about Tibarn. Where is he?”

Ranulf jerked his thumb at the tent, but Ulki seized Reyson’s shoulders before he could run off. “We’re worried too,” he said in a hiss, “but, Reyson, you must let him be alone for a while.”

“But I’m the only one who knows what he’s going through!” Reyson growled back, still struggled to escape Ulki’s grip.

“Then you remember how much time you needed back then,” was the hawk’s reply.

After struggling a moment, Reyson seemed to lose the last of his energy. Ulki did too, and both let their arms fall limp.

“Janaff, Ulki…” Ike was clearly assessing them from head to toe. Both looked about as bad as Tibarn. “What’s going on? What happened to you out there?”

Janaff shook his head. “Where can we talk?”

Ranulf cleared out one of the yurts, and he, Ike, Reyson, Janaff, and Ulki went inside. Soren and Titania would have come too, but Ike stopped them. “Titania, go find Skrimir and tell him what’s happened. Then see about getting the incoming hawks settled. Soren, stay with Tibarn and let us know if he wakes up.”

Soren thought his skills were better suited for a debriefing than babysitting an overgrown pigeon, but he didn’t argue. He brought a stool and a blanket to the entrance of Tibarn’s tent, and there he stayed while counting the hawk laguz flying into camp. He estimated seventeen hundred and was disconcerted when they stopped arriving, because the Phoenician contribution to the Laguz Alliance was supposed to be twenty-five hundred. They were all exhausted, and most crashed (or at least dropped less-than-elegantly) to the ground. Some spread their wings and just fell asleep there on the grass.

Eventually, Tibarn awoke and emerged. He didn’t look much better after his nap, but he drew his hand over his face and sighed. Seeing Soren outside, he asked simply, “Where’s your commander?”

Soren pointed to the yurt, and Tibarn marched off. He considered going with him but stayed by the tent, watching the sky for late arrivals. He couldn’t help but notice Naesala and the Kilvan Armada were nowhere to be seen.

 

Eventually Ike, Tibarn, and the others emerged. Reyson was firmly attached to Tibarn’s side now, and he and the hawks went to rejoin the other ragged Phoenician soldiers. Titania, Skrimir, and Ranulf went their separate ways, and Ike came over to Soren. “You know Tibarn’s not in there anymore?” he asked, but his attempt at a lighthearted tone fell flat. Something was bothering him.

“I did notice that,” Soren replied, not getting up.

Ike sat beside him, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Kilvas betrayed us again.”

“Again?” Soren repeated.

Ike shook his head. “I mean they betrayed their fellow laguz again, just like the Mad King’s War. I thought Naesala had changed. I mean, we fought together to defeat Ashnard…”

“What did Kilvas do?”

“They told Begnion about our plan to attack the convoy, and they fed the hawks false reports. Instead of raiding the supply train, they accidentally attacked the Central Army itself. The ravens got out of there fast, but the hawks stayed and fought. Then, when Tibarn engaged Zelgius, he told him to go back to Phoenicis...”

“And they retreated?” he asked in surprise. Tibarn was no fool.

Ike nodded.

“Merely because he told them to?”

Leaning his arm against his knee, Ike brought his hand to his face and pressed the space between his eyes, as if alleviate some pressure. “I guess Zelgius was convincing.”

“And did they fly all the way to Phoenicis?”

“Yes.” Moving his hand to his forehead, he rested it there. When he spoke, his voice was hollow. “But Begnion’s dracoknights had already been there… They targeted the capital city. From what Reyson and the others were saying… Oh, it’s bad, Soren.”

He suspected he knew what Ike was implying. “Another massacre?”

“…The city guard was entirely wiped out in the battle, but the dracoknights didn’t just attack the soldiers. They were there to kill the people…” Ike closed his eyes, and when they opened again, Soren saw tears gathering. “Tibarn says some who managed to hide or escape survived, but most… Most weren’t that lucky. A lot of innocent people died. Even the elderly, the sick, even children... They weren’t soldiers; they were just people… Thousands of innocent people… Begnion slaughtered them.”

Soren took a moment to collect his thoughts. Things were worse than he’d imagined. Retreat wouldn’t be an option now. Every laguz would be out for revenge. Soren tried to think of a way out of this—a strategy or trick that would bloody Begnion’s nose. He tried to see an advantage he hadn’t noticed yet. But his brain was no longer entirely under his control, and distracting images flashed through his mind’s eye.

He saw the men, women, and children Greil had killed. He saw their bodies, how they’d fallen, how they’d been cut open from behind. He remembered the blue haze encasing Greil and the way he’d slumped in grief when that haze had ebbed—Greil, Elena, and a litter of bodies large and small. This was the strife born of chaos. This was the chaos born of war.

“Is the medallion safe?” Soren asked, and Ike seemed surprised by the question.

“Yeah, it’s in Gallia. Leanne and Rafiel… You know that. Why—do you think Begnion was looking for it?”

Soren shook his head. “No, I believe Begnion did what it did purely to force the Phoenicians to drop out of this war. The idiots did not see that their actions would only galvanize them.”

“We can’t retreat now,” Ike agreed. “Not that I want to… I want Begnion to pay for this too.”

“I will think of something,” Soren promised. 

 

He spent the rest of the morning trying to think of an appropriate strategy. Zelgius would soon know the hawks had returned, if he didn’t already. And although it was to their slight disadvantage to play the part of attacker, it would be a great boon to them to fight while the entire armada was fatigued. He would attack tomorrow at the latest, and Soren needed a plan.

At first, he considered ways to make use of the land and river. He thought about how to best deploy the troops and how far to stretch them north and south. He wondered what supplies they might be able to find in the nearby villages. If they could get enough oil, they could set sections of the river on fire, but Soren doubted it would significantly break up or slow down the advancing army. No, he needed a different plan.

 It was noon when Soren realized the Laguz Alliance would have to strike first. They would die if they only defended. Now he began thinking of the best way to cross the river and approach the Central Army’s defensive line. He divided the troops and simulated different maneuvers in the battleground of his mind. In front of him he had the scouts’ most recent reports about the makeup of Zelgius’s army, and he was familiar with traditional Begnion tactics. But Zelgius was a formidable opponent, and he was sure to have his own contingencies.

Trying to think of something Zelgius might not predict, Soren contemplated something he’d recently learned about black cat and lion laguz. Apparently they had inherent stealth abilities, in addition to their dark coats and silent paws. Many could hide themselves even from other laguz using some sort of telesthesic influence. This ability was also common among ravens and black dragons, but beorc had no reason to know of such things.

Soren had been capitalizing on these traits for reconnaissance, but if Ranulf could muster a regiment of covert cats, they could go north, cross Ribahn far from the two armies, and then come back around to attack the Central Army in the last third of their ranks, where commanders were usually positioned. Sewing confusion here could disrupt the chain of command and potentially counter whatever plans Zelgius may try to put in place. Taking out a few captains would be even better, and engaging Zelgius directly could buy them time for some other endeavor.

Suddenly thinking of the hawks, Soren realized that having the winged laguz transport their feline brethren would save a lot of time. If they attacked tonight, the mist coming off the river would support a flight-based stealth mission. Dracoknight scouts flying above the mist would be able to sound the alarm, but the hawks outnumbered Zelgius’s wyverns. It shouldn’t be a problem to take out the scouts as long as the hawks worked in pairs, with one above and one below the fog bank.

It was a solid plan, but it wasn’t enough. Even if Ranulf distracted Zelgius himself, the general would do whatever it took to maintain control of his troops. Not to mention the fact that the size of the Begnion army still overwhelmed the laguz. The arrival of the Phoenician Armada gave the Laguz Alliance a fighting chance, but they were still outnumbered such that this battle could not be won by simply outfighting their enemies. Soren needed to outsmart them too.

Looking at his reports again, Soren considered the supply stores nestled in the palisade-enclosed camp behind the army. He considered the possibility that the hawks could do what they intended before—simply attack the supplies and cripple the Central Army that way. It would certainly slow Zelgius’s pursuit if the Laguz Alliance was forced to retreat after all.

Soren shook his head to rid himself of the thought. Retreat was not an option. Figuring out how to make retreat easier what not the best use of his time right now. Thinking of the supply camp again, he now considered the noblemen boarded there. Killing the senators would certainly make the laguz feel better, and maybe they would be satisfied with that and be willing to retreat.

Soren tossed the idea aside as soon as he thought of it. Killing a single noble—Sainted or otherwise—would be a grave mistake. There would be no chance for a peace treaty when all of this was over, and even worse, Begnion would probably raze the forests of Gallia to the ground in retaliation.

Taking a senator hostage might work, but Soren wasn’t convinced Zelgius would retreat just to spare the life of a stuffed-shirt. Of course, he would do it if the other senators commanded him to, but it was too likely the senators might seek to benefit from their comrade’s demise and not actually order him to do it. At the very least, Soren couldn’t count on them putting themselves in danger just to save a fellow peer of the realm.

But Soren was intrigued by this idea of using the noblemen. They were vulnerable—a weak link in Begnion’s defense—while at the same time they held power over the entire army and even Zelgius himself. That was when it hit him: all he needed was their fear.

 

It was midafternoon by the time Soren told Ike his plan. He hoped the fact that Begnion hadn’t attacked yet meant they were waiting until tomorrow; that would give the Laguz Alliance a chance to put his plan into action tonight. Ike relayed the gist of the strategy to Ranulf, who wasted no time calling a war council.

When Soren arrived, he found Ike, Ranulf, Skrimir, Tibarn, Reyson, and Titania sitting on the floor around a large map. But no one was speaking or pointing at it; they were all staring at him. Still they said nothing, and Soren realized they were waiting for him to start. 

“Our goal is to cross the Ribahn,” he began, deciding to throw himself straight into it, “The core of our forces will ford the river and attack the Central Army head-on.” He pointed at the best places to cross. “Ranulf, you’ll need to form a small unit of your best warriors and lead them behind enemy lines, undetected.” He pointed to a section near the back left of the enemy troops. “Can you do it?”

“No sweat,” Ranulf agreed, sounding suspiciously confident. “We’ll do some officer hunting and keep the leaders’ attention on us.”

“Good.” Soren nodded curtly. “But a distraction alone will not get us across the river. They have the terrain and Zelgius in their favor.”

“Bah! Use fewer words, tiny beorc!” Skrimir grumbled, crossing his arms. “Tell us what we must do! Some of us have a battle to fight!”

“Don’t interrupt me again, Skrimir,” Soren snapped. “All these words may be the only thing that can possibly win this battle.” He was surprised at how chastised Skrimir suddenly looked, but he didn’t dwell on it. “As I was saying, while Ranulf and his men sow confusion in the rear ranks, a group of hawk laguz will carry the Greil Mercenaries south, around the battlefield. We’ll cross the river and make our way to the supply train, which also serves as the senators’ camp.” He pointed behind the enemy troops.

“Ahhh, I see what you’re doing,” Tibarn noted, rubbing his jaw. “You’re going to involve the senators and have them start messing things up.”

“Precisely,” Soren agreed. “Zelgius is the military commander, but the senators have authority over him. If attacked, they will panic and request aid. He will be forced to return and rescue them. Zelgius is a soldier through and through; he will not disobey an order, no matter how foolish it might be. Once he leaves, their frontline will crumble. That’s when you advance. Tibarn and Skrimir will lead the charge. That is all.” He paused, and in the silence, no one said anything. “Is everyone clear on what they have to do?”

“Hmph,” Skrimir replied, “I still dislike beorc tactics. I’d rather face my enemy and give him my name before I snap his neck in my jaws. But in order to defeat cowards, we must use the weapons of cowards. Let’s go.”

“My men are not so tired that they will not give Begnion a good fight,” Tibarn said firmly, “and they will consent to carrying the two teams as well. I support this plan.”

“I will fight beside Tibarn,” Reyson vowed, crossing his heart in a salute.

“You have the Greil Mercenaries,” Ike said next, “you know that.”

Soren moved his gaze over the grim faces staring at him and nodded. “We attack tonight. In the meantime, let’s discuss the details of the charge…”

When the meeting was over, everyone went their separate ways to make preparations. They would have to spend the rest of the evening getting the army ready, and in the early hours of the morning, when the mist was at its densest—that was when the beasts would march and the hawks would whisk their charges through the night.

 

Ike was jumpier than Soren had ever seen him in the minutes before takeoff. His left eye was twitching, and he kept crossing and uncrossing his arms. “You’ve done this before,” Soren reminded.

“Yeah, and I remember. That’s the problem.”

“The fog is already thick,” Soren observed. “If it makes you feel any better, you probably won’t see the ground.”

Ike shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Here comes Haar. That’s everyone,” Soren said, changing the subject, “You should give the order.”

“Now look who’s giving orders,” Ike grumbled under his breath.

“What?”

Ike threw up his hands. “Okay, let’s go!” He marched over to where everyone was gathered and told them to get into position. A minute later, sixteen hawks were swooping down, picking up each of them under the arms and sailing into the night.

Soren clenched his shoulders and toes when it was his turn. He may not have shared Ike’s fear of heights, but that didn’t mean he liked it. He was forced to trust the random Phoenician soldier assigned to him, an unknown person who could easily drop him either on purpose or on accident. He told himself the drop would probably kill him before he hit the ground, or at least knock him out so he wouldn’t feel it. But these were hardly mollifying thoughts.

 

When the flight was over, the hawks gently lowered the mercenaries to the ground just beyond the supply camp. The battle had already begun, but here it was quiet. Soren could barely hear the sound of fighting in the distance, which was heavily muffled by the fog.

Ike bounced on the balls of his feet when he finally touched ground. His anxiety about flying was instantly relieved, and he looked ready for a fight. While the hawks circled around to the rendezvous point, the Greil Mercenaries moved toward the closest camp entrance. The palisade walls were high and thick, but the gate was nothing special. Only a few soldiers were on guard outside, and defeating them signaled to the entire camp that they were under attack. A moment later, Titania broke down the gate with a few swings of her poleaxe.

“We’re in,” Ike announced when the door swung open. But he, Soren, and the rest of the mercenaries quickly got out of the way as a volley of arrows flew by. Everyone pressed themselves against the wall so they’d be safe from any arrows coming over the top as well. “Soren, let’s go over the plan one more time,” Ike said, ignoring the salvo.

“Our objective is to destroy the enemy supplies,” Soren answered, loud enough for all the mercenaries to hear. “The senators store their food and personal effects in crates. If we burn those crates, the senators will likely pull their troops back to save their own hides.”

“So, while the laguz distract the enemy, we storm inside, and burn all the supplies,” Ike translated. He stuck his hand in front of the open gate but pulled it back to avoid the answering volley of arrows.

“Exactly,” Soren confirmed.

“We can also set their horses loose,” proposed Titania. “That should add to the confusion.”

“Agreed. But try not to hurt the senators themselves,” Soren warned (not for the first time). “Harming them might cause us trouble later on, especially once the fighting is over.”

“Aright!” Ike drew his sword. “We’ve got to finish before the fog burns off. Let’s get this done. ATTACK!” He swung himself into the entrance at the same time Gatrie came around Titania’s side. He had his shield raised, and Ike charged behind him with his head tucked down. Soren was right behind him, already chanting Elwind, and Shinon came next, already loosing arrows over their heads.

Soren controlled the spell so it split around Ike and Gatrie, tearing into the archers before them. Gatrie didn’t stop charging until he was tripping over the legs of dead soldiers, and here the mercenaries tumbled into a crossroads. Ike darted out from behind Gatrie, slashing three surprised halberdiers in quick succession. Soren and Shinon slipped to the side to let Titania and Mia through, and they supported him. Meanwhile, Haar swept overhead, already dropping fire on other parts of the camp.

Once the crossroads was clear, the mercenaries split into three teams and spread out. They would burn as they went, but they had to be careful not to trap themselves or their comrades. The plan was to exit the camp through the entrance at the opposite end and rendezvous with the hawks. But before that, they needed to survive the senators’ guards and the flames of their own making.

Needless to say, things quickly devolved into chaos. Screaming horses with burning manes escaped their enclosures, whether or not the mercenaries first pulled open the gates. One nearly knocked Soren to the ground because he hadn’t seen it coming through the smoke and mist. Visibility was poor, and Soren strained his Branded sense to track the familiar mercenaries in a sea of confusion.

However, this meant he wasn’t as focused on his immediate surroundings as he should have been, and he accidentally ran into a dead-end. Brom and Rolf were with him, but everyone else felt far away. Shaking his head, Soren was about to turn back, when Rolf cried, “There’s a way through here!”

Pulling down a couple crates, he revealed that the palisade walls didn’t connect and a senator’s tent was erected in the clearing beyond. But no sooner had he done this than a whip of inky blackness suddenly shot out and sent Rolf falling on his back in the dirt.

“Y’alright, boyo?” Brom asked, lifting his head. Rolf’s face and neck were marked with black lines where the skin looked dead, as if eaten by frostbite in an instant. Although the injury didn’t look life-threatening, his eyes were clamped tightly shut as if in pain. Before Soren’s eyes, his skin beaded with sweat and he started to hyperventilate. “The kid’s going into shock!” Brom shouted in alarm.

Rolf may have been young, but he was a seasoned mercenary. There weren’t many injuries his body wasn’t already used to—but this was one of them. “It’s a dark mage,” Soren said simply. “Keep Rolf warm and get him to Mist.”

“Aye, that’s a good idea,” Brom agreed. Ripping a swath of canvas from atop a nearby crate, he began wrapping Rolf like an overgrown baby. With the boy draped across his arms, he started jogging back the way they’d come. But he stopped when he noticed Soren wasn’t following. “Aren’t you comin’?”

Soren shook his head and turned his gaze back to the opening in the wall, where his attention had never left. A dark mage was over there, and someone needed to kill them. “I will deal with this. Tell whoever you pass that the senators’ guards may wield light and dark magic. We must be careful.”

“Will do! Take care of yourself,” Brom bid, jogging away.

Soren pulled his hood up because it was best to show as little skin as possible when fighting a dark mage—or so he’d read. In reality he had as little experience with this as Rolf. Chanting a Wind spell, he readied himself to climb and jump over the remaining crates. When he released the spell, he arcing it to hit where he judged the mage to be, lunged up, and tumbled down the other side. 

Rolling to avoid the mage’s counterattack, Soren already had a Thunder spell prepared. The lightning bolt struck down exactly where the mage had been standing, but it hardly seemed to faze her. She merely pivoted to the side and released another spell; she was a fast incanter.

Soren was still getting to his feet, and although he jumped back to avoid the worst of the spell, a wave of tendril-like shadows washed against his legs before he could get away. The initial pain was sharp, like a million tiny pricks. Then the numbness set in. Soren stumbled backward, flailing and trying not to fall. His trousers stuck to his shins like ice to wet flesh. After the numbness came radiating pain, which rolled through the entirety of his legs and feet without a center or source. The ache ran deep into his bones. “Ah!” he hissed before turning his breath into his next incantation.

“Die,” replied the woman, immediately chanting another spell—Swarm, if he recognized it correctly.

But Soren had started a fraction of a second before her, and he matched her every syllable until releasing his spell first. He cast Elfire, and threw himself out of the way in the same moment, certain that she would also reach the end of her incantation.

The shadow snagged his left foot this time, but knowing he had to sacrifice something, Soren had thrown himself toward the wall, where he could hold himself up instead of falling on the ground again. He gritted his teeth through the strange pain and decided it wasn’t as bad the second time.

The mage’s pitch-black cloak had caught fire, so she threw it aside. Soren used these precious milliseconds to start an Elwind spell, and he finished it when she was just starting her next Swarm spell. The invisible blades cut deep into her stomach and chest. Instead of ancient words, blood spurted from her mouth. She looked honestly surprised, and Soren wondered if she’d ever been bested by an elemental magic user before. He finished her off with a small Wind spell.

Once she was truly dead, Soren limped around the senator’s tent, using the palisade wall for support. The pain in his legs was mounting with every second, and he could hardly stay upright. He wasn’t usually one for looting, but he didn’t have a vulnerary on him and he didn’t know where Mist or Rhys were. He hoped there might be something here.

When he reached the front of the tent, he let go of the wall, fell, and dragged himself the rest of the way. Fortunately the senator and his guards were long gone. The opulent interior was in shambles, and there were jewels strewn on the carpet. There was also a Mend staff that he couldn’t use, but it did make a good cane, so he pulled himself up and searched the ornate golden cupboards and chests. Finally, he found a bag of tiny vials containing a foggy, light-blue liquid that Soren concluded had to be elixir.

He couldn’t feel his left foot at all now, so he collapsed on the ground and removed his boot. Seeing his own shriveled black flesh was frightening, but he willed himself to take deep, slow breaths. He couldn’t go into shock like Rolf; he was alone—which meant no Brom to swaddle him.

In fact, he couldn’t sense any mercenaries at all, and he could see, hear, and feel the fires inching closer. Commanding himself to stay calm, Soren poured an elixir on his skin and rubbed it while trying to ignore the fact that he couldn’t feel his own touch. As the seconds ticked by, the dead flesh slowly fell away, and fresh pink skin replaced it.

Soren sighed in relief, but it was premature. Just then, a Begnion swordsman started creeping around the side of the tent. They had their blade raised and their head ducked low as if being sneaky, but Soren saw their silhouette clearly through the white silk walls. Because he couldn’t stand yet, he sent a particularly sharp gust through the side of the tent and cut them somewhere close to the neck.

When the body didn’t get up, Soren decided it was safe enough to roll up his trousers and use another couple elixirs to heal his shins. Staying here was dangerous, but he couldn’t very well escape if he couldn’t walk. Another two Begnion soldiers came during the time his legs were healing, but Soren handled them too. The first one poked his head through the hole in the side of the tent just to have Soren gouge out his eyes with wind magic. His screams brought the other one, who ran through the tent’s entrance just in time to have his ankles cut from beneath him with another wind spell.

When the soldier crawled toward him with vengeance in his eyes, Soren found he could finally stand without pain. He killed the crawling man while ducking out of the tent, but he decided to leave the blinded one to be eaten by the encroaching flames. Looking around for some sign of where the fighting had gone, Soren wandered through the camp’s charred remains.

Eventually he sensed a couple mercenaries: Nephenee and Heather. Heather was holding Nephenee’s helmet between her arm and her hip while the splayed fingers of her hand pressed against Nephenee’s own hip. Her other hand was busy dabbing a laceration on her friend’s jaw and neck with an already bloody rag. Meanwhile Nephenee was holding her chin high and scanning the path behind Heather.

“Sor’n,” she greeted him through gritted teeth, although this seemed to cause more blood too ooze onto Heather’s hand.

“Careful,” she whispered urgently. “It’s not stopping.”

Soren handed her one of the remaining elixirs, saying, “Use this. We can’t stay here. Everyone else has moved on.”

“We got sep’rated,” Nephenee answered, taking the cloth and elixir from Heather to hold against her own neck.

“Fires are burning everywhere,” Heather added, although it went without saying.

“This way,” Soren said, hoping he was choosing the right path.  

In answer, Nephenee picked up her shield, slung it onto her back, and hefted her spear in the hand that wasn’t holding the cloth. Heather kept her friend’s helmet for safekeeping and drew her knife in a reverse grip with her opposite hand. “This way,” she hissed, and all three jogged in the direction Soren had indicated.

Eventually, he sensed additional mercenaries nearby, which was a good sign he’d chosen correctly. Then Brom and Ike suddenly burst out of a tent. They were both smiling in relief. “There you are!” Ike cried, and Soren was equally glad to see him safe.

“What’d you do to your neck?” Brom asked, but when Nephenee pulled the cloth away, the wound was gone.

Soren gave the last two elixirs to Ike. “A gift from one of the senators,” he said.

Ike grinned and nodded. “They do have some nice stuff around here, don’t they?”

“Um, shouldn’ we be going?” Brom asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Right.” Ike grinned. “This way!”

They raced to catch up with everyone, and when they arrived, they found Shinon and Mia facing off against another dark mage. “Soldiers of Begnion!” growled the man. “Wipe out the bandits! Kill every last one of them!”

At his words, the surviving guards fought harder, but the mercenaries swiftly overpowered them, and soon the mage himself was dead with three of Shinon’s arrows sticking out of his back. Mia was shaking on the ground, her arms and neck visibly blackened by the spells, but Mist knelt over her in an instant.

Wherever the tendrils of shadow had struck her, Mia’s tunic had been worn to faded threads and the chainmail underneath corroded. Taking another look at his legs and left boot, Soren noticed that the fabric was disintegrating and the leather degrading.

“That dark magic is nasty stuff,” Ike said, echoing his thoughts, and Soren noticed that part of his cape looked torn and bleached. The back of his leather jerkin and part of his shirt and mail were similarly scarred.

Glancing around, Soren was just glad everyone seemed to be alive. “We knew the senators’ guards would be tough,” he said simply. 

“Yeah,” Ike agreed with a shake of his head. “Now we’d better go before Zelgius finds us. Everybody, through here!” he called, moving toward the gate. It was already wide open from the senators and soldiers who had escaped. “The fog is about to clear, and our work is done. Let’s pull back.”

They dashed out of the camp and into the trees, where Soren was relieved to find the Phoenicians waiting for them, even though he also noticed a few Begnion soldiers lying dead on the ground. “There you are!” hissed the leader of the hawks. “We thought you were all dead.”

“We got separated, and it took a while for everyone to get back together,” Ike answered with a shake of his head. “Thanks for waiting.”

“The feckless senators escaped ages ago!” the hawk returned. “They summoned their general, and he’s on his way. We need to get out of here now.”

Ike nodded firmly. “Let’s fly.” He seemed to forget his fear of heights until the hawk picked him up and he lurched off the ground. Soren appreciated his bewildered face for a moment, but then a hawk picked him up too.

 

Once he was in the air, he saw the fog was lifting just as Ike had predicted. The sky was already starting to brighten. The raid had gone on longer than he’d realized, and dawn would not be far now. The hawks carried them south to bypass the battle, and Soren could only wonder if everything was going according to plan.

 

Ranulf and his team had already returned, but it appeared only six of the original thirty had survived. A seventh was lying dead on the ground, apparently having just succumbed to his injuries—and Ranulf wasn’t far behind him. He was lying in a puddle of his own blood, covered in lacerations and large puncture wounds.

“Ranulf!” Mist screamed. She ran to his side as soon as her feet touched the ground. The rest of the mercenaries gathered around while the hawks mingled with their brethren.

“Can you hear me?” Ike asked, kneeling by Ranulf’s side.

“’Course…” Ranulf replied weakly. “He didn’t get…my ears.” In truth, a chunk of his right ear was missing, but no one pointed that out.

“General Zelgius did this?” Ike asked, while Mist started on the worst wounds.

“Yeah…” For a moment Ranulf’s gaze looked far away, and Soren wondered if he’d lost consciousness—or worse.

“Ranulf!” Ike shouted, touching his friend’s bloodied face with a gentleness that didn’t match his tone.

“Yeah…” Ranulf repeated, coming back to himself. “Tha’s one tough…beorc.”

“Just hang in there. Mist is going to take care of you.”

“I’ve got you now,” she said, echoing her brother’s promise. The hand that wasn’t holding her staff was clamped tight to his abdomen, and her fingers disappeared into an incision, perhaps to hold his spleen in place.

“Rhys, you get in here too,” Ike ordered, backing up.

“Of course, sir,” Rhys replied, falling to his knees in Ike’s place. He and Mist then took turns healing various wounds.

“Everyone else, saddle the horses!” Ike called, apparently deciding that Ranulf was going to live. “I am going to the battlefield. If you have strength left to fight, I’d have you with me!” 

 

Leaving the hawks and healers behind, the mercenaries charged across the plain, forded the river, and climbed the eastern bank. The fog had shrunk to just a foot or two off the ground now, and the hillocks looked like islands. Wherever the earth crested like this, Soren saw scattered bodies. Some wore brown Gallian leather and others red Begnion steel, and he had no doubt there were many more just under the blanket of fog.

“Watch your step,” Ike murmured, and the horses picked their way across the spent battlefield. Broken spears and fallen weapons stuck out of the ground like grave markers, and as they walked, Soren saw a tattered Begnion standard, the crumpled corpse of a wyvern, and the wingtip of a dead hawk. 

In the distance, the predawn brightness was shining on a retreating Begnion army, and even from here, Soren could tell the Laguz Alliance was slowing regrouping, and letting them go. The battle was over. Observing this, Ike changed his orders: “Spread out and help the survivors! Soren, Titania, let’s go find Skrimir and Tibarn.”

By true dawn, the Central Army was out of sight, and the Laguz Alliance was in the process of moving their camp across the river into Seliora. They had collected over three hundred Begnion prisoners, whom they kept tied up and under strict guard. Civilians came from a nearby town, asking if they could remove the soldiers’ bodies from the field and bury them with last rites. Skrimir grudgingly agreed, and for several hours, both laguz and beorc picked their way across the battlefield, finding and burying their dead