Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 3 ❯ CHAPTER 83: CHAOS ( Chapter 17 )

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

“Bad news,” Ike said, grabbing Soren’s arm and pulling him down the hall. Everyone else was leaving the ruins to line up in their platoons outside, but they were walking against the flow of bodies. “Nailah and Rafiel have been spotted in the enemy ranks. They joined Daein, just like Kurthnaga.”

“…That is bad news,” Soren agreed. At this point, it would have been better if the missing wolf queen and heron prince had been dead after all. 

Ike stopped outside the room that Soren knew housed Lehran’s Medallion. Despite the army’s leadership worrying over the blue flames, he hadn’t felt compelled to see them with his own eyes. Ike knocked on the door before letting himself in, and Soren followed reluctantly. Leanne and Reyson stopped singing when they entered. The princess was her usual luminescent self, but Reyson’s face looked nearly gray. On a stone table in the middle of the room lay the medallion, and sure enough, it was wreathed in slowly undulating, ghostly blue flames. The sight made Soren’s heart skip a beat, and his skin became clammy. He felt warm blood and soft, squishy flesh on his hands and had to glance at his palms to confirm nothing was there.

“What is it, Ike?” Reyson asked.

“Rafiel isn’t coming back; he and Nailah are on Daein’s side. We could use you on the battlefield. Leanne, can you handle the medallion on your own?”

She answered in the ancient language, but when Ike didn’t seem to understand, she made a shooing motion. “Brother…better with…you- you and Tibarn,” she stumbled to say.

Reyson said something in the ancient language that sounded grateful and then followed Ike and Soren out. Once the doors closed behind them, he looked relieved to be away from the medallion, but he also seemed disturbed. “What is Rafiel thinking?” he asked as they started down the hall.

“You can ask him if you see him. Honestly, I’d like to know too,” Ike said with a shake of his head. “You’ll be with Tibarn’s group. Watch his back, alright?”

“Gladly.” Reyson agreed, and as soon as they were out of the ruin’s front gate, he stretched his wings and took to the sky. Soren and Ike descended the steps and walked briskly to head of the beorc regiment.

 

Following the beat of Gallian drums, the three battalions marched to their starting positions. On the way, a hawk scout told Ike the Daein army had also begun marching. They would meet in the middle, just as Soren had predicted.

Ena was walking with the Apostle’s Army, dressed in winter boots and a thick cloak. The air was bitter, and there was still a thick layer of frost on the ground. The sky was overcast such that the sun was just a milky-white blotch glowing through the clouds. When they crested a small hill, Ena lifted a spyglass to her face. “Oh, Prince Kurth…” she breathed.

Soren squinted in the direction she was looking and wondered if the two tall, gray trees he saw poking over the forest weren’t trees at all, but the horns atop the Dragon Prince’s head. A shiver ran down his spine, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

“What will you do now, Ena?” Ike asked without slowing his pace. “Are you going over to the other side too?” There was a barb in his voice, and Soren knew Nailah and Rafiel’s betrayal had been the last straw in a heap of allies who’d abandoned him.

“King Dheginsea has expressly forbidden us from choosing sides,” Ena replied simply. “The dragon tribe must not fight. I shall only attempt to stop the Prince.”

Ike sighed, “Do what you need to do.” Ena split off toward the trees on their left, but he called after her: “Just be careful out there, alright?”

“Yes, Sir Ike,” Ena replied with a small bow. Then she resumed her brisk pace.

Elincia tapped her pegasus’s flank and took Ena’s place beside Ike. “We are nearly there,” she reported.

“Thanks, but Elincia…I think you should stay back,” Ike said suddenly. “If we get a chance for peace talks, I want you to mediate the whole show.”

Elincia hesitated a moment, but then she bowed her head. “Very well, I understand. Please be safe.” With a parting nod to Lucia, Elincia flicked her reigns, and her pegasus jumped into the air. Making a sharp turn as she climbed, she was soon flying back to the ruins where Sanaki, Leanne, and the merchants were hiding out.

A Gallian soldier rolled out a beat on his drum, signaling that they’d arrived at their destination. Soren checked the sun’s position; they were right on time. A hawk scout flew overhead, announcing that the Daein vanguard was only a quarter mile away. Since there was a good deal of meadow in front of him, Soren knew this meant the soldiers would be popping out of the trees any moment. A flock of dracoknights was already visible flying above them.

“Okay, everyone, get moving!” Ike called, drawing Ragnell from its sheath. “Let’s get this mess over with!” It wasn’t a particularly heroic speech, but when he started running down the hill, everyone roared and ran with him.

When the first row of Daeins set foot on the frosted grass, the first volley of arrows flew from the Crimean and Begnion archers—Rolf and Shinon among them.

When the second line stepped out, a jagged bolt of lightning swept through their ranks: a long-distance Bolting spell, courtesy of Ilyana.

“*Spirits of the wind, freeze and destroy my enemy yonder!*” Soren chanted the words to Blizzard, successfully sending a swirling wave of freezing wind into the third line.

By the time the fourth line appeared, Ike and the others had reached them with swords, axes, and spears in hand. Shields, fists, and helms clashed. Skulls were cracked, beards and hair pulled, eyes stabbed, jaws dislocated, necks snapped, teeth knocked out, and joints twisted. People were pushing and pulling one another, tripping and jumping, ducking, rolling, and getting back up.

In the midst of it all was the blood: the same thick, red, dreadful blood that Soren had become so accustomed to seeing since becoming a mercenary. And yet, now it seemed completely new and uncanny. Sometimes the blood was speckled gray with bits of brain, other times brown with excrement or human offal. Sometimes it gushed in such quantities that, cast in a shadow of someone hunched over, trying not to die, it looked black.

Soren didn’t know why this suddenly felt like the first time he’d ever seen a battle. He imagined he’d been dropped here accidentally, after coming from a different world. He knew not fear nor disgust, because those things did not exist wherever he’d been before. He acted on instinct and muscle memory, but he felt as if his body were someone else’s. This body’s tongue knew such dangerous words, and it funneled these words out of its lungs, giving life to reaping winds.

“*Spirits of the wind, rip apart these skies, lay waste to my enemy!*” Soren summoned Tornado, churning up a vortex just as small snowflakes began falling out of the heavy sky. They fell into the winds, showing just how fast they were whipping. (But the flying bodies were another clear indicator of that.)

When the gusts faded, two soldiers didn’t move, three got up dizzily only to die by other hands, and one retreated, holding a gash in the side of his head. Soren wondered how far he would hobble before succumbing to his injury.

But he didn’t have time to wonder long. A Daein swordsman stabbed at his face, and Soren bent his neck out of the way. He stepped back at the same time, because he could see this man already stepping forward for the next strike. Soren started chanting: “*Spirits of flame-*”

Now two slashes came, and Soren dodged them both, still moving backward. He heard hooves behind him; a Daein paladin was approaching. “*-molten rock-*” he continued, sidestepping around the swordsman. The bladr followed him, but he narrowly avoided it again and finished the spell: “*-lay waste to my enemy.*”

He conjured Bolganone as soon as the paladin reached him, and the airstream from the rider’s axe brushed the top of his head as he ducked. An instant later, the horse’s hooves sunk into the lava and it toppled. While sustaining the spell as long as he could, Soren grabbed the surprised swordsman by the lower strap of his breastplate and swung him into the spell too, using all of his bodyweight to create enough force. When both soldiers were dead (and the horse close to), he let the spell fade and the earth cool.

When it did, Soren heard the pattering sound of arrows hitting hard dirt and soft bodies. The sound was growing louder, so he ran. The arrows pursued. “*Spirits of wind-*” he began, while covering his head and keeping low. When he reached a fallen Begnion knight, he rolled and grabbed the man’s shield. “*-follow my hand-*” he continued, lifting the shield and curling behind it. Arrows clattered against the metal, but when they finally stopped, Soren ran out from his hiding place and unleashed the spell: “*-Blast their flesh*!”

The winds coursed in a wide arc, taking out the two archers on the end. Six more remained. The patter of arrows began again, but they were slightly fewer now. Soren ran, changing direction whenever he judged they were about to release their bowstrings. “*Spirits of wind, follow my hand. Blast their flesh!*” He released the same spell, but in a different arc this time. The gust shot into four of the remaining bowmen, bowling them over and slicing them up in the process. One died instantly. Two tried to retreat, hissing and clenching their wounds. The last propped herself up on one knee and knocked another arrow despite the blood running into her eyes. The two untouched by the spell continued firing.

Soren dropped to avoid these shots, and then swiftly countered with one of his own: “*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me.*” The simple Wind spell was enough to finish off the kneeling archer and knock down the other two, which he eliminated with another spell as they tried to get up.

“*Spirits of flame,” chanted a different voice—an enemy fire mage, “follow my hand. Scorch their flesh!*”

Soren turned around in time to predict the trajectory of the attack. Leaping forward, he scarcely avoided the falling ball of flames. He countered with an Elwind spell, but the mage ducked nimbly while chanting three Fire spells in a row.

Three brilliant balls of flame floated in the sky without dropping, and Soren rushed to summon a Wind spell. But he couldn’t finish before the mage dropped all three fireballs with slightly different trajectories. Soren struggled to avoid them, but when the last one came for him, he held his ground and released his prepared Wind spell. It was blunt but large, and it blew the fire right back at the surprised mage. While the flames burst into his face, Soren followed underneath them.

When he had closed the space between the mage and himself, Soren tackled him to the ground, seized his tome from his skinny fingers, and tossed it as far as he could. The mage clearly didn’t know how to react. He struggled to push Soren off while stuttering through another Elfire spell, but Soren didn’t give him time to finish it.

“*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh -*” he began, throwing himself off of the mage before finishing the spell, “*-before me!*” A strong gale took his place, holding the mage to the ground, and then it turned sharp, piercing him into it.

Soren couldn’t dwell on his victory, because the shadow of a dracoknight was coming toward him, which meant the wyvern itself would reach him in an instant. Soren threw himself onto his stomach, and the tip of the rider’s axe grazed his back, cutting through his cloak and skin. However, it didn’t sever any ribs or—fortunately—his spine. He was alive.

Rolling onto his back now, Soren pinned his gaze on the dracoknight, which was banking as it rounded on him. Taking a (proverbial) page out of the dead mage’s book, Soren used the time it would take the wyvern to return to chant three simple Thunder spells. The air crackled with latent energy, but he didn’t unleash a single one—not yet. The dracoknight had nearly reached him now, leaning with his poleaxe hanging over the beast’s side.

Finally Soren released the three spells in rapid succession. The first struck in front of the wyvern, shocking it and sending it spiraling into the second. The third struck when the wyvern crashed into the ground, finishing it and its master.

Soren pulled himself onto his feet, glad the triple-casting hadn’t exhausted him too much. But just then, he heard another Elfire spell being chanted behind him. Twisting around, he wondered how the mage could be alive, only to see that another had appeared. It was too late to avoid the fireball, so Soren merely raised his cloak, turned his back, and let the force of the blast knock him into the cold dirt. Ripping off the burning cloak, Soren whipped around and unleashed another Thunder spell. This one struck the mage, causing him to shake violently. Soren sustained the spell as long as he could, and when he let it go, the mage was certainly dead.

Breathing hard, Soren took a moment to ensure he wasn’t still on fire, then he ran off in search of his next victim. He was surrounded by soldiers in white and red armor fighting hand-to-hand with soldiers in black armor. He chanted quick Wind and Fire spells to help them as he passed, but he didn’t linger. He wanted to reach the place where the rest of the mercenaries were fighting, which wasn’t far away, and yet it seemed to take a long time to get anywhere on this battlefield.

When they came into view, Soren’s vantage point allowed him to see yet another Daein archer regiment stomping within range. They were about to fire, and Soren couldn’t do anything to stop them—but he could lay waste to them after. “*Spirits of the wind, freeze and destroy my enemy yonder!*” he incanted another Blizzard spell. He would only have three left after this, but it was worth the expense to send freezing blades of wind and ice into the archers—frosting their pauldrons, desiccating their bows, peeling their exposed flesh, knocking them off their feet, and crushing those unlucky enough to be caught in the center.

Laguz rushed in to finish the job, and for the first time, Soren realized they’d met up with a section of Skrimir’s force. He hadn’t even noticed the progress they’d made. Thinking back, he dimly remembered fighting in the trees a short while ago. But he didn’t remember how he’d become separated from the rest of the mercenaries. Taking stock of his injuries, he found that he was bleeding from his back and one of his hands was burned. At least he remembered these injuries, but there was also a cut on the side of his arm, a scratch on his jaw, and a throbbing feeling in his wrist that he couldn’t recall the source of. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t have a clear idea of how long this battle had been going on, or where exactly he was on the battlefield.

But neither did he have time to resolve his confusion. Someone had just flung a spear at him, so he jumped out of the way. The owner came to retrieve it, swinging another pike as she did so. Soren retreated, but once she had both weapons in hand, each came spinning at him in earnest. Left, right, stab; right, left, stab; stab up, stab down; spin, swipe at feet—Soren avoided the pikes’ sharp points, barely reading the spearwoman’s body language in time to dodge each strike. But eventually he did manage to pant out the words to an Elfire spell. At such close range, the pressure forced Soren to backpedal too, but the spearwoman got the worst of it. She was thrown backward, and where she fell onto the ground, she immediately started sobbing and rolling to put out the flames. But Soren wouldn’t let that happen. He continued to fuel the fire until she died a few moments later, nothing but a charred husk within her armor.

An arrow ripped into his shoulder from behind, and Soren fell to one knee. But he caught himself before falling completely and started chanting another spell. Turning around, he saw four mounted archers heading his way, firing sporadically. “*Spirits of the wind, rip apart these skies, lay waste to my enemy!*” he uttered the words to Tornado, ignoring the second arrow that caught him right next to the first (from the front this time). He stumbled backward but remained standing. Meanwhile the spiraling winds corralled the horses and then surged inward, sending them to the ground, kicking and screaming. The riders tried to disentangle themselves, but the hungry winds found them too, biting and gnawing until Soren let the spell end and the winds disperse.

He was tired. He was in pain. His magic power was waning. He knew these things to be true, but he couldn’t bring himself to really worry about them or even really feel them. That being said, he couldn’t move his arm, which was inconvenient. The arrows awkwardly sticking out of his shoulder didn’t seem like they should be there, so Soren clumsily moved his feet toward the nearest healer: a Crimean cleric.

The white-cloaked man was quaking in his boots as he stared at the battle around him. He had wide, pale-blue eyes, and a curl of pink hair was escaping his cowl. He clutched his staff close to his chest and didn’t move from the spot.

“Fix this,” Soren ordered, and the sound of his own voice surprised him despite the fact that he’d been casting spells this whole time. Shaking his head, he tried to clear the fog from his mind. Something was wrong; he should be able to focus. He should know what was going on around him. He always did.

With this thought in mind, Soren attuned his attention to the battle while the cleric worked. The first thing he noticed was the lack of human speech. People weren’t warning their allies, encouraging their friends, or sharing banter with their enemies. Everyone was locked in their own battles, caring only for the opponent immediately in front of them. Soren realized he’d been no different just a moment ago.

“Sorry, sorry,” the cleric hissed when he ripped out one arrow after the other.

“It’s no problem,” Soren said, just to hear his own voice again.

“*Heal*,” the cleric commanded, holding his staff close to the two wounds. As expected, pain exploded through his shoulder, and the muscle tissue resisted the cleric’s control. Soren just gritted his teeth and let him work.

“Sorry,” he hissed again, “I’m usually better at this, I swear. It’s just this battle…” He bit his lip.

“It’s not your fault,” Soren said, although he didn’t actually care for the healer’s feelings and wasn’t about to explain that it was his own fault for having laguz blood in his veins. Instead he turned his attention to the part of the battle that was loudest.

Ike was over there—of that, Soren was certain. The other mercenaries were deployed around him, and unlike the Gallians, Phoenicians, Begnions, and Crimeans who were merely roaring, screaming, shouting, and shrieking wordlessly as they fought, the mercenaries were still talking to one another. Soren decided he needed to get over there, but moving through this battle was like swimming through mud.

Finally the cleric finished. “There’s a scar; sorry,” he said, “Should I take care of your back as well?”

Soren shook his head and stood up. The cut on his back was shallow enough that he wasn’t worried about it, and now that he was thinking more clearly, he wanted to get back to Ike as soon as possible.

He ran down the slightly sloping hill, jumping over or stepping around dead bodies as if it were an obstacle course. But this went on too long, and the Greil Mercenaries still seemed so far away. Soren was waylaid by other attackers, so he bit into them with ravenous blades of wind. He needed to get through them. He needed to get beyond them. He needed them to fall in pieces so he could navigate over their oozing bodies. He almost forgot why.

A short, silver blade joined the long, invisible gusts, and only when the blood-slicked hilt slipped from his grasp did Soren realize he’d drawn his dagger and was wielding it alongside the wind spells—something he didn’t usually do. He wasn’t adept with the weapon, and his sloppy movements left him open to enemy blows.

Taking deep, haggard breaths, he slowed down and tried to look around again. He stopped chanting and picked up the fallen knife with shaking hands. Returning it to his belt, he sidestepped, ducked, and dodged his enemies’ weapons, trying to escape the melee. He reached out with his Branded sense, looking for Ike again. He tried to keep his mind clear this time, but not knowing how long it would last, Soren took off running as soon as he located him.

When he finally reached the mercenaries, he found them embattled with a small regiment of people lacking Daein’s traditional black armor. He ran past Lucia sparring with a young, brown-haired swordsman in a red jerkin. He passed Rolf ducking behind a horse’s corpse, trading shots with a pale, yellow-haired bowman who’d just ducked behind a tree. He passed Boyd clashing axes with a middle-aged man with a goatee. He passed Gatrie bashing his shield against that of a young but vast woman in orange armor. He passed Oscar jousting with a dark-skinned horsewoman in cerulean plating. Then he passed Mia facing off against Zihark again, and this finally gave him pause.

He realized these must be Micaiah’s friends—her chosen guard. Could she be nearby? he wondered, and he didn’t know if the thought’s urgency came from hope or fear. There was no sign of her, but she could easily be stationed just beyond the tree line. With this thought in mind, Soren resumed his race to Ike’s side.

When he reached him, he was cracking the neck of a Daein halberdier. Dropping the twitching body, Ike swiftly kicked an axwoman behind her knee and stabbed her through the heart from the back. Only then did he turn to Soren. “How goes the battle?” he asked, panting hard.

“I- I can’t really tell,” Soren admitted. “I think we are evenly matched, but…” He shook his head. “I can’t tell who is winning. It is chaos everywhere.” Another axwoman was running toward them, perhaps to avenge her sister-in-arms, so Soren uttered an Elthunder spell to eliminate her.

Ike nodded and spat out a glob of blood and saliva. He looked pretty battered. “Ranulf was here a little while ago; he said he’s losing control of his troops. It’s a free-for-all out here.” As if to emphasize his words, he swept his blade into a swordsman running toward him.

“How long ago was that?” Soren asked, using a Wind spell to kill an archer who’d just taken aim.

Ike looked confused. “I, uh… I don’t know.”

Soren nodded his understanding. “Have you seen Tauroneo or Sothe? Or Nailah and Rafiel?” Two shield knights were stomping toward them, so he and Ike worked together to defeat them. Ike caught and deflected their blows, and when their guards were down, Soren electrocuted them with Elthunder.

“No,” Ike finally answered, “I haven’t seen them, but Kurthnaga’s over that way.” He jerked his chin to the side, where Soren now noticed the dragon’s head and shoulders over some low trees. He was turned away from the battle, with his wings bunched and his clawed hands hovering near his snout. “Maybe they’re there too.”

“Do you think Ena has spoken to him yet?”

“I don’t know,” Ike replied, turning his attention to a couple of swordsmen approaching him—one on each side. He rotated slowly to keep them in sight.

Soren knew he could handle the pair, so instead, he turned his magic on a lance paladin cantering in their direction. He chanted an Elfire spell and then lunged out of the way. The horse caught fire as it passed.

Just then, Janaff swept overhead in his hawk form. Hovering for a moment, he called down: “Hey Ike! The enemy general just left the field! Tibarn thought you should know!”

“Micaiah left? Why? Where’s she going?”

“Not sure yet,” Janaff admitted, “We lost her. Everything’s a bit of a mess.”

Ike nodded. “Thanks for the report!”

Janaff crowed in reply and took off back toward the southern front, where hawks and wyverns were densest in the sky.

Soren turned his attention back to the battle surrounding him. The mercenaries had closed in more tightly, protecting their leader while he and Janaff had spoken. Now Ike pushed his way out of the center, tackling the first enemy soldier he saw.

Meanwhile a small cavalry platoon was charging between the tree trunks, coming from the clearing where Kurthnaga was cowering. Soren wondered if he and the other mercenaries might be straying too close to where Micaiah and her advisers had been deployed. Even if the general was no longer there, it was a dangerous place to be. Soren considered advising Ike to move either north or south to aid the laguz troops, but he didn’t have a chance.

There were more horsemen coming than he’d previously thought. Conjuring Blizzard yet another time, Soren managed to disrupt their formation and kill a couple before they reached the mercenaries. Ike and the others formed up to meet them, but those who’d avoided the winds hadn’t lost much momentum. Fortunately Kieran, Astrid, Makalov and the other surviving Royal Knights had formed a charge of their own, and they came running to flank the Daein cavalry and spare the mercenaries from being completely trampled or skewered.

Soren didn’t waste time watching them. There were too many enemies to let his guard down now. Using a combination of Elfire and Elwind spells, he managed to knock a few riders from their saddles, killing them while their horses galloped away. One, unfortunately, galloped straight into him, bruising his chest and shins and knocking the wind out of him.

Pulling himself to his feet and struggling to suck air back into his lungs, Soren’s gaze momentarily fell on Mist, who was rocking in her saddle as if dazed. She slipped to the side and fell, hardly trying to catch herself.

“Mist!” Titania cried, spurring her horse forward. Upon reaching her, she ran in a circle, calling to see if she was okay. Soren started running over as well. Mist was rubbing her head, and her face looked ashen. When she didn’t respond, Titania jumped from her saddle and fell to her knees at her side.

“Mist! Mist, are you okay?” Boyd called frantically. Then he turned to the others: “Form up! Protect them!” Those within earshot made a protective circle around the two women, but Soren ducked inside to see what was going on. With a closer look, he reaffirmed that Mist didn’t seem particularly injured. No arrow had hit her, and she wasn’t bleeding badly from any wounds. In fact, the worst injury he could see was her broken wrist from the fall. Yet that didn’t even seem to concern her. While Titania cradled her arm, Mist stared at the sky.

“Ike! I need you over here!” Titania called above the clash of battle. “Something’s wrong with Mist!”

Ike was already on his way, having heard the commotion. Now he ran even faster, until he burst into the middle of the circle at breakneck speed. “Mist? Mist!” he cried, and Soren could feel his anxiety mounting. It was like a contagion, infecting all of the mercenaries. They fought harder but sloppier. Turning around, Soren unleashed a couple Elwind spells to do his part. “Mist, what’s wrong?” Ike asked, kneeling down.

“Ike…” she answered feebly, “My head… It hurts so much… It’s the medallion.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“The medallion is calling out to me… Please, Ike… Take me to it…” Soren turned around in time to see the girl slump against Titania, completely limp.

“Mist! Talk to me! Wake up, please!” Ike begged.

“Go, Ike!” Titania urged, pushing Mist’s body into his arms. “Get her out of here!” Popping to her feet, Titania grabbed her own horse’s reins and pulled it over.

“But-” Ike tried to protest, but Titania was already trying to push and pull him into the saddle. Ike gave in and lifted his foot to the stirrup. When he was seated, Titania adjusted the way Mist’s limp body leaned against his lap.

“Leave everything to us!” she promised, “You have to take care of Mist now. See what’s going on with the medallion!” Ike nodded, and Titania slapped the stallion’s flank to send it into a canter.

When Ike was gone, it was like a thread had snapped. Soren’s concentration waned, and he lost his connection to the battle around him. He fought on reflex, summoning flames, winds, and bolts of electricity to take out or send away any person who charged at him with murder in their eyes. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but eventually he gathered his thoughts again.

He slowed down, absorbed the details around him, and tried to think about what he wanted to do. He needed a goal to work toward, instead of just running around the same area, fighting off the seemingly limitless Daeins. His eyes fell on Kurthnaga’s bent shoulders. Not long ago—maybe only a moment—Soren had been about to recommend they avoid Micaiah’s top aides until they had a stronger striking party, but now that Ike was gone, it seemed the only goal worth moving toward. The irrationality of this change of heart was not lost on him, but his mind was not entirely his own right now.

“Titania!” he called, “If Micaiah is not on the field, we should press forward and take out her advisers and generals!” He pointed to the sparse tree line separating them.

“But the dragon…” Titania countered hesitantly. She was fighting from the back of Mist’s horse.

“If the prince hasn’t joined the battle yet, we have to assume his presence is just a bluff,” Soren explained, although he wasn’t sure he believed it. “Ike isn’t here, so he is out of harm’s way. There is no reason not to try.”

Titania nodded firmly. “To me, everyone!” she called, swinging her axe above her head. “We’re going to end this now! Greil Mercenaries, to me! Royal Knights of Crimea! Holy Guards of Begnion! To me! We charge now!”

She turned her horse and galloped for the trees without checking to see if anyone would follow. But Soren was there. Sigrun and Tanith appeared, flying above her, and Kieran led the Royal Knights to catch up to her charge. Lucia was soon running beside Soren, and Boyd appeared on his other side. Soren even saw Rhys running faster than he’d ever seen him—as if he were determined not to be left behind. Everyone ran, heedless of danger. Ike’s absence didn’t seem to weigh on them. If anything, there was a strange levity in the air. Soren felt it too.

In the meadow beyond the trees, Kurthnaga was hunched away from the battle, and he hardly stirred when the beorc battalion appeared. As Janaff had reported, there was no sign of Micaiah (or Sothe for that matter), but Tauroneo was here, along with Nailah, Rafiel, and a gray wolf slightly smaller than the queen. The four were clustered around a young man wearing rich gold and white robes over a long, blue silk tunic. Although he didn’t wear a crown, Soren immediately realized this must be King Pelleas. Aside from his pale skin and wavy blue hair, he didn’t look much like his father. He looked skinny and weak.

There was also an ample reserve force here—mostly infantry and cavalry, with a few dracoknights—and they rushed to meet their attackers and defend their king. Soren summoned thunder magic to deal with the dracoknights first, and fighting erupted around him.

When they were no longer beset from above, Soren turned his gaze to the ground troops. He immediately saw that Titania had lost Mist’s horse and was now fighting on foot against Tauroneo. Sigrun was sparring with Nailah by darting in and out of her range. Tanith was doing the same thing with the other wolf, who must have been Nailah’s vassal: Volug. Rafiel was chanting his galdr to support the two wolves, and it seemed no had the nerve to stop him.

Soren, however, did. He was preparing a blunted wind spell, when the heron prince suddenly collapsed without anyone having touched him. Nailah rushed to his side in an instant, but Sigrun didn’t take advantage of her lapse in attention. The wolf queen called and barked into Rafiel’s face, but the heron didn’t stir. Giving up on waking him, she bent down and wriggled until the frail winged man was draped over her withers. Soon she was bounding off—but Sigrun didn’t pursue. Soren understood her restraint. Something was going on here, and killing the queen of Hatari wasn’t going to change anything.

A couple moments later, Soren heard Tibarn’s voice echo across the trees to the south: “REYSON!” Soren twisted toward the sound, but there was nothing to see but the ongoing battle between hawks and wyverns. Neither the Hawk King nor Reyson were in sight. He wondered if this meant Reyson had fainted too, just like Mist and Rafiel. Something was indeed going on—something concerning the medallion.

Just then, a rumbling voice distracted him from his thoughts. Words were falling from the black dragon’s mouth, and Soren turned toward them. “My body feels like it’s on fire…” the prince complained with his eyes clamped shut. “So this is what war feels like…”

His speech drew the attention of a couple cat laguz who’d followed the beorc here. Yowling, they ran at the dragon despite their stark difference in size. “No, please, don’t come near me…” He shuffled away. “I don’t want to hurt anyone!”

The cats started scratching and climbing his scaly legs (to little effect). “Don’t come near me!” the dragon begged, “I can barely… I don’t want to do this! Get away!” With his final words, he batted the cats off him, and when they got onto their paws once more, Kurthnaga blasted them with a beam of blue fire, destroying them utterly and blowing a crater into the ground. When he was finished, he shuffled farther away.

Soren decided to follow the Dragon Prince’s warning and stay away from him. Despite his power, it seemed he didn’t have the constitution for battle. As long as he wasn’t attacked, he probably wouldn’t fight of his own volition. With this thought in mind, Soren turned to his next target: King Daein.

With his guards distracted, Tauroneo preoccupied, and Nailah gone, he was remarkably exposed. “Pelleas!” Soren called to get his attention, “New king of Daein!”

The man didn’t refute the claim, which was a good sign Soren had presumed his identity correctly. The young king merely assessed Soren with interest while drawing a spell book from his hip. From what Soren could tell, he carried a light tome on his left and a dark tome on his right. It was the dark tome he held now. Although Soren had never heard of the prince fighting during the rebellion, he knew it would be a mistake to underestimate him.

“How convenient,” he continued, feigning confidence. “I can end this farce right now. Surrender or die.”

“Who are you?” Pelleas said in return, apparently ignoring the demand.

Soren whispered an Elwind spell: a first strike to show he meant business. The lance of wind shot out, but Pelleas didn’t even try to avoid it. A pillar of darkness erupted from his shadow, stretching to block the gust. Pelleas’s blue locks swayed in the breeze, but he was completely unharmed.

Soren could hardly believe what he’d just seen—Pelleas had used magic without an incantation. Although it was possible he’d uttered and sustained the spell as a defensive measure before Soren had arrived, he doubted it.

“That mark on your forehead…” Pelleas observed. “Is it a mark of Spirit’s Protection?”

“…No,” Soren answered honestly. “It’s something quite different.” He uttered a Wind spell as another test. Once again, the shadow leapt to block it. Now Soren was fairly certain dark spirits were protecting Pelleas of their own accord.

“But that shape,” the young king continued, taking a step forward. “It looks so much like mine!” Lifting his bangs off his forehead, he revealed a strange symbol. Although the design was different, the size and placement were the same.

However, Soren’s senses told him that this man was merely a beorc, not a Branded nor laguz—which meant his mark really was that of a Spirit Charmer. “Is that so?” he mused with a smile, finding it oddly humorous that he was finally meeting a real Spirit Charmer after being mistaken for one much of his life. A laugh bubbled in his diaphragm, and he struggled to keep it down. “You might be more powerful than you let on,” Soren continued when he’d regained control of his voice. “Still, I doubt this changes anything. Prepare yourself, Pelleas.” Spitting the last word, he switched languages and immediately began chanting the words to Tornado.

“But wait! There’s so much that I want to ask you!” Pelleas flinched when he finished his incantation, but the spell didn’t surge toward him.

Instead Soren centered the spell around himself, willing it to stay dormant until it was needed. He may not have been a Spirit Charmer, but wind spirits had always obeyed his command. He had to trust this affinity now and hope they would be patient under the yoke of his will. The winds settled into a low, gently rotating circle only a couple inches off the ground. They gyrated around Soren, frustratedly tugging at his control, but he commanded them stay where they were. If Pelleas was clad in an armor of shadows, Soren would need his own.

“Interesting,” Pelleas observed. “I see you have skill as well.”

Soren didn’t reply, instead chanting the words to Thoron. “*Spirits of lightning-*”

Pelleas began chanting his own spell, “*Eclipse-*”

“*-surge great-*”

“*-Spirits of darkness-*” The shadows around Pelleas intensified, gathering their strength.

“*-and lay waste to my enemy!*” Soren released the spell, and the double helix of lightning struck down on Pelleas—or rather the shield of shadow that formed above his head.

“*-and devour the flesh of my enemy!*” Pelleas finished, quite safe.

Soren struggled to keep up the flow of electricity, refusing to release the spell. A wave of darkness washed over him, and for a moment, he could no longer see the young king. But the tornado around him leapt to life, shredding the wave before dropping back down, weaker than before. Soren refused to let it fade away entirely, but to do that, he did have to release Thoron.

The orb of crackling light fell on Pelleas, who dropped to one knee under the pressure, but the spirits of darkness bound to him absorbed most of the spell, defusing the electricity in pops of black smoke and tiny blue veins of lightning.

Soren was already chanting his third Elwind spell by the time Pelleas got to his feet, chanting the same spell again. Soren had read up on dark magic while in Melior (something he’d been meaning to do ever since facing the dark mages at the senator’s camp). And recalling his research, he thought the magic Pelleas was using must be Carreau: a particularly difficult and dreadful spell. Soren didn’t want to know what would happen if it touched him, so he channeled even more of his strength into his swirling ring of protection.

Pelleas released his Carreau first, because Soren had decided to add a couple Elfire spells to the barrage he was preparing. The wave of darkness was even larger this time, enveloping Soren from the front and back. He ducked, making himself small, and the walls of wind pressed in around him, spinning faster and faster to deflect the darkness.

But wafts of shadow were seeping inside, and Soren felt them settle on his skin like a poisonous dew. He broke into a cold sweat, feeling death’s hand reach into his bones wherever the shadows touched.

But then, finally, the darkness faded, and it wasn’t a moment too soon because the Tornado spell finally broke. Soren’s armor was gone, and he wouldn’t survive another Carreau. Turning his gaze on Pelleas, Soren could finally aim the five spells he’d conjured. They were pulling on him now, eager to be freed.

First he drew out Pelleas’s protective shadow with a wide, dousing wind. Then he struck Pelleas from both sides with the fireballs. King Daein stepped back, raising his arms in defense, but he didn’t have to. The shadows were still doing their job, expanding and lurching to protect him. Next Soren released the second Elwind spell close to the ground, straight for Pelleas feet. Enough made it past the shadows to slash his ankles, and he fell.

Soren was running toward him now, and he heard the young king chanting another spell from where he was stuck on his knees. Finally reaching him, Soren punched him in the face before he could finish the words. A blow from Soren’s fist wasn’t much of a threat, but it did disrupt the spell and save him.

A moment later, the shadows already surrounding Pelleas surged to push Soren off him. Once again that feeling of cold death sunk into his arms and chest, sucking the life out of him and causing his heart to beat slower.

Pelleas was chanting again, but Soren released the final Elwind spell he’d been holding onto. It struck Pelleas from behind, and the shadows could do nothing to stop it, because they were currently consumed by the task of eating away Soren’s flesh and lifeforce.

The young king gasped in surprise, and blood erupted from his mouth. The spirits attacking Soren immediately surged back to their master, coalescing into his shadow and disappearing. Pelleas fell forward and caught himself on his palms. “To die in this lonely place…should be my fate…” he panted. “But…for Micaiah…I must… I…must live…”

Soren thought he was being a bit dramatic. Despite his best efforts, that strike hadn’t been fatal. If a healer saw Pelleas soon, he would be fine. But apparently King Daein had never been stabbed in the back before, and he seemed ready to pass out on the spot.

“Pelleas!” roared Kurthnaga’s dragon voice. “No!”

Soren might have feared the dragon was about to come to Pelleas’s rescue, but that fear would have required him to do something about it like run away—and Soren was currently incapable of running. He had used far too much energy, and his strength was at its end. To make matters worse, Pelleas’s dark magic had sunk into him, killing his muscles and all but completely paralyzing him. His limbs here numb, he was quivering sporadically, and the pain was mounting by the second. His breath came only in tiny, panicked bursts. Although Pelleas was the one crawling away, moaning about dying, it was Soren who had lost this battle, because he couldn’t even crawl.

Soldiers came to Pelleas’s side, heaving him up and helping him limp away despite the damage to his ankles. In the distance, Kurthnaga finally reverted his form, swayed, and collapsed sideways. This was odd, because no one was currently attacking him and he looked completely uninjured. Soren spotted Ena’s pink hair as the woman darted out of the trees to Kurthnaga’s side. Then she fell to her knees too, draping her arms protectively around him.

The sounds of fighting seemed to grow louder and louder, until Soren could experience nothing else but the sound and the pain. He wondered if he was about to die. But then, suddenly, there was something else. There was whiteness and softness. A flash of light burst through his mind, and he realized it was his vision clearing. The whiteness took the shape of Rhys, and he realized the softness was the cloak he’d draped over him.

“Hang in there!” Rhys begged. “Where does it hurt most?”

Soren didn’t have an answer because it hurt everywhere, and even if he did have one, he didn’t have control of himself enough to speak.

Rhys bent his staff over Soren’s heart and uttered the ancient command: “*Mend*.”

A soothing warmth blossomed in his chest, spreading to his extremities. But when the green light faded, he could still hardly move. Raising one hand, Soren saw that his skin was mottled with gray-black flesh. Between the islands of death, which looked like scales, ran rivers of soft pink skin. Realizing that, a moment ago, he’d been completely covered with dead, frostbitten flesh, he silently thanked Rhys for noticing him and not just assuming he was already dead.

“Just a little more,” Rhys promised, calling on the staff again. The green light swelled, and Soren threw himself into the blissful easing of pain. Closing his eyes, he let his arm fall.

Two more times, Rhys used his staff to heal the damage of Pelleas’s attack. He also sealed up the bloody wounds on Soren’s back, arm, and face. Meanwhile, the battle was raging around them. Even with Pelleas gone, his soldiers continued to fight.

Rhys’s brow was drenched in sweat, and his hands were trembling. He looked even paler than usual, and a little green around the corners of his mouth. “That’s- That’s all I can do,” he finally said. “I think I- I need to rest a moment.” With that, he slumped to the side.

Soren caught him—surprised he still had the strength to do so. Looking at his hands and arms, he still saw shreds of the dead flesh, and he could feel them too, like stabbing needles. But he was alive, and he could move again.

“Stay awake,” he urged, helping Rhys to stand at the same time he did. The world spun in circles around them, and Soren limped away with Rhys practically draped over his back until he reached the trees and leaned him against one.

Soldiers were swarming everywhere, and Soren and Rhys must have looked like easy targets. Although he thought he’d used the last of his power to fight Pelleas, Soren chanted the words to a Wind spell, and he was relieved when it blew a charging halberdier off his feet.

Soren was shaking now, and his head was pounding. But it was better than dying, so he continued to fight. Rhys conjured an Ellight spell to help him, proving that he too wanted to live. Soren wished Ike were here, imagining that if he was, then somehow, this situation would be a little less hopeless.

The battle was overwhelming, but Soren no longer felt disconnected from his body like he had earlier. He was here, and he was not alone. Rhys was at his back, and the rest of the mercenaries were still fighting nearby. Soren could see them, and although they were all bloodied and tired, they were still alive. They were still moving. They were still calling to one another.

Then, suddenly, everything changed. The chaos around him lifted, and he could see everything clearly. Everyone was fighting as if in slow motion, and all of the negative energy disappeared from their voices, bodies, and expressions. Around him, Gallian and Daein soldiers fought, killed, and died with smiles on their faces, whether feline or human.

Soren felt it too, and before he knew it, he was laughing. He had never laughed this loudly, this long, or this uncontrollably before. But this entire battle suddenly seemed hilarious. Why am I here? Why would anyone do this? These answerless questions were a priceless riddle.

A weight had lifted from his shoulders, and in doing so, it had uncapped every smile or laugh Soren had ever suppressed. His mouth and chest hurt as if stretched, but pain didn’t matter anymore. Everything felt good. Everything was terrible, and that was why it was funny.

His laughter prevented him from uttering spells, but Soren didn’t mind. No one was attacking him right now. Some were laughing too—or screaming, or crying, or covering their ears. Others were turning on their allies, stabbing, punching, or tackling whatever body was closest. Still others had begun attacking corpses; they repeatedly sliced flesh that was already dead, like frantic butchers. Soren thought this was funny too. He laughed until he couldn’t breathe.

Then every sound disappeared, including his voice. His ears popped. On instinct, he looked up. A blinding beam of light fell from high, high in the sky, as if being sent from the sun itself. It split the cloud cover, sending it away in ripples and revealing a perfect halo of blue.

The beam hit the ground nearby, somewhere on the battlefield, and in a heartbeat, it ballooned outward. Now Soren couldn’t see anything at all, in addition to not hearing anything. Closing his eyes did nothing block the light. This wasn’t funny anymore; nothing was funny. Soren focused on breathing, and he had no idea how much time passed.

 

When the light faded, the world came back. Something gray was in front of him, and Soren’s fractured vision struggled to understand what he was seeing. It looked like the point of a spear, and it was only a foot from his face. The spear was connected to the hands and arms of a man, but he wasn’t moving. In fact, he wasn’t a man at all. He was a statue of gray stone in the exact size and shape of a man—a Daein soldier, judging by the deftly carved armor.

Soren stepped past the spear and looked around. There were statues everywhere, and the armies were gone. Stretching his senses, Soren felt only a handful of living people—beorc and laguz—around him. Everyone else is gone… Soren thought, No, transformed into statues. Reaching out, he touched the shoulder of the stone spearman. Nothing happened. It just felt cold and hard.

Soren’s sense of hearing had returned, but there wasn’t much to hear. Only the distant whinny of horses and sound of hoofbeats echoing off the stone figures. He turned his head to Rhys, who was struggling to his feet. At least he was still flesh and blood.

“What happened?” Rhys whispered.

Soren didn’t have an answer. He took a few unsteady steps, counting the heads of the other mercenaries who hadn’t been petrified. They were staggering around just as dumbstruck as him, touching the statues and whispering to each other.

Then, Soren thought of Ike, and fear gripped him again. Had Ike been turned to stone? He immediately started searching the gray faces, stumbling here and there, before he remembered that Ike hadn’t been on the battlefield when the light struck. He’d taken Mist back to the ruins. Soren started running.

He refused to slow down when inexplicable tears squeezed from his eyes. He realized what must have caused this: Lehran’s Medallion, the Dark God. Tellius had run out of time to make peace; they had failed. This is the end of the world, he thought, but even that wasn’t enough to stop him from running. God or no god, Soren needed to know Ike was safe. Everyone else could die a stony death, but not him. He had to live.