All told, they held the small wall of wagons for just over twenty minutes. The ever growing pile of weevil corpses served as an addition to their defences, the creatures stumbling and falling over the gore of their fallen fellows serving the defenders. They could see the other wagons being looted from the gaps in their defensive wall, items and corpses alike being dragged off into the woods. As other wagons were looted and abandoned, more creatures turned their attention to the holdout. Despite the growing wall of meat, the defenders were faltering.
Wakesfield had ran out of ammunition, and had switched to a pair of mismatched bayonet blades taken from the trunk in his small wagon, lashing out at whatever attempted to force its way through the gaps in the meagre defences. Winifred was barely standing, leaning heavily against a wagon wheel as blood ran freely down from her nose and one eyes grew a dark crimson with burst vessels as she exerted more and more power she no longer had in reserve, licks of flame removing creatures that continued to climb over the wagons before they could jump down into their midst. Felix was staggering between blows, the cast iron pan discarded in favour of a dropped dagger and broken sword. Even with the decreased weight he was near struggling to bring both weapons to bear. Naran was still dancing, her use of flowing Force allowed her to exert less effort, but the mental concentration could be just as draining and a few times she had lost control of the power, the force lashing out as a heavy step or a whip crack of her clothes and hair as she turned. Fuath seemed to be the keystone of their defence, darting back and forth as the others faltered to support and plug gaps in the defence, until he suddenly collapsed with a weevil still impaled on his weapon. The weapon and creature fell from his grip though he held a tight grip of his icon. His eyes had become two dark orbs with small pinpricks, barely visible as the ones hiding under the wagon dragged him into cover. The men had briefly emerged to assist, retreating back when they had taken nasty wounds from the weevil claws and weapons.
Felix shook a thick film of sweat off his forehead, the salt stinging his eyes. “Might be we’re about done, unless anyone got something they been holdin’ back?” he had managed to avoid anything worse than a small scrape or shallow cut, but he felt as if his heart would break through his ribs and his joints ached and cried in agony.
Wakesfield struck out, the two bayonet blades catching a weevil through the chest. “I have no more dynamite, I’m afraid.” He had produced two sticks of the explosive from his trunk, and used them to great effect to scatter most of the archers that had bunched up in the treeline to pepper them with arrows. His vest was torn, the shirt underneath turning a dull red as he bled freely. A weevil had lashed out with its claws as he took it down, frenzied flails cutting shallow but repeatedly before he could kick it away.
Winifred tried to say something, an arm raised to direct one last burst of flame at a weevil crawling out of reach of any of their weapons, but collapsed heavily. Her eyes were rolled up and her nose flowed freely in the dirt. Culann emerged from under the wagon whining, one leg useless. He stood over her, growling viciously and ready to tear the throat from any weevil that came near.
Under the wagon, Fuath was muttering something the wounded could barely hear. When they leaned down to hear, they could just barely make out prayers appealing for mercy, and their faces paled.
Naran said nothing. She was trying to focus, prevent the force grounding itself again. A lost flow of force had caused a loose braid of hair to rip itself free as it swung in the air, the minute movement taking on the full power of a blocked blow from a crude club. Her scalp stung and bled, but she was faring far better than the others. To her shame, she was judging when to run and abandon them. She thought of her daughter, and gritted her teeth silently. She would hold as long as she could, but she must live to return.
Relief came with the sound of a horn. The weevils still attacking turned their heads as one to look for the source of the incoming noise, two of them felled as their attentions were elsewhere. Felix peaked through the gaps, looking towards the city in the distance and would have cheered if he had the breath. A squad of armoured men and women, the guard corps of the merchant’s guild, were charging towards them on horseback. A pair of runners ahead of them were swinging halberds at the net from horseback, large shields easily protecting them from the few remaining archers. The remaining weevils abandoned their attack on the holdout and, to Felix’s surprise, charged at the guard. There was ten in total, clad in chainmail and steel kettle helms with green surcoats. They each bore large and thick wooden shields painted with the Golden Scales, more than enough to protect them from the clumsy rain of arrows. They formed a line and marched forward, halberds swinging and thrusting forward as the weevils broke against them. They had scarcely advanced past the first two wagons before the few remaining weevils fled, mostly the archers in the treeline left to retreat while the rest had been slain in the assault on the wagon holdouts or charging the guards.
Wakesfield fell back on his rear, giving a loud sigh of relief as Felix lowered himself beside him, resting flat on his back where he could look the burned man in the face. Naran knelt beside them, her breath deep and steady in recovery. Felix gave a small laugh, and held out an arm towards each of them. “Well think I owe y’all a drink then don’t I?”
Naran smiled down and gripped his hand in hers. “I think we have all earned a rest and celebration.”
Wakesfield shook the offered hand, then made to stand up. “I don’t drink, but thank you. We should see to the wounded, it would be a shame to let them succumb now.” He stood up and gestured at his chest, a clear liquid spilling from his hands onto his chest. He winced slightly but simply allowed it to flow over his wounds and soak his vest and shirt.
Felix looked up curiously. “Damn son, you got a word? Couldn’t have used it in the fight?”
“Just enough to create a gentle flow like this, no use in a fight I’m afraid.” Wakesfield was breathing hard, but his voice remained flat and monotone.
Naran sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling. “That is not water, it smells like something fermented. What is it?”
Felix gave a few sniffs, and a wide smile spread across his face “God’s balls, booze? You can make booze at will?” He sat up with a grunt of effort. “Care to share? Used to brew a bit myself y’know.”
Wakesfield was already kneeling beside Winifred, ignoring the growling hound that had nonetheless stepped aside to allow him to examine her. He answered with his back to them “It’s pure alcohol, poisonous no matter how much you drink as habit. Quite useful for cleaning wounds though.” He checked Winifred’s eyes as Felix scoffed behind him. They were both bloodshot to a dark red, but he saw the pupils shrink in the light as he gently moved the eyelids open. “Looks like she overused a Word. Magic exhaustion, she should recover easily enough.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Naran stepped over and sat beside them taking Winifred’s hand. “I have some power remaining, I can share some to ensure no risk.” Wakesfield nodded approvingly and turned to the ones still hiding under the wagon, a pregnant woman and three wounded men, one of them quite badly. “Time for triage”, he thought to himself.
Felix stood up, dragging himself upright off a wagon. “Guess I’ll flag them boys down, let ‘em know we need stretchers and a carry to the city.” As he poked his head out from between the wagons, he saw the guards had spread out. They stabbed down with halberds when they came across a weevil, he nodded approvingly. He bore a scar across the back of his leg from a weevil that had been cut in two in the arena that still had enough strength to slice at him when he turned his back on it. He cupped his hands over his mouth and called out. “Ho there, brave rescuers and all that! We got wounded and tired folk here, need some stretchers or something to carry ‘em!”
Winifred eyes fluttered open, and she began coughing. It was a deep hacking cough, and as she turned her head she felt something thick leave her throat. She spat it out without looking and looked up. She could feel Culann’s comforting weight across her legs, and she reached a hand down to rest on his head. Naran’s tired face looked down at her, their hands together. “Welcome back. It was quite dangerous to use your Words to that extent.” Winifred looked up at her awkwardly for a few moments before freeing her hand from Naran’s rough palm and sitting up. “I’m taking it we drove them off then?” she asked with a throat that felt lined with grit. Naran turned her head, remaining kneeled. “A squad of guard corps arrived before we were properly overrun. Some bad wounds but nothing that won’t heal. Except for the tall one, he simply keeled over and we have been unable to wake him. There was an arrow in his back, but nowhere near deep enough to strike an organ.” Winifred glanced over at the prone form of Fuath. He had been laid on his back, his long arms crossed over his body. There was a dim light in the orbs of his eyes, but no sign of movement, even breathing. “Creepy thing, isn’t it” said Winifred out loud. She felt a hand close on her shoulder, the tightness far from friendly. She looked up at Naran’s face, now staring impassively down at her. “HE fought by our side when he could have easily ran.” Winifred looked down, feeling her ears burning. “Fair point” she said quietly. The hand moved off her shoulder, and Naran stood. “I will go help with the wounded. You rest.”
Slowly, the wounded were loaded onto commandeered caravans. Catherine was still shaking but otherwise fine, her husband nursing a deep wound in one arm as he helped her up into the bed of a wagon he would be driving. Fuath was laid at her feet, 3 guards and Felix lifting his stiff form. The wolfhound whined at Felix’s feet, and with Winifred’s help he loaded the hound in on top of Fuath where he rested. The wounded man, Richard, was travelling in a wagon driven by the delivery driver, Naran sitting alongside him. Wakesfield had taken a large leather bag from his wagon and knelt beside him, cleaning and stitching his many wounds. “It looks worse than it is, though it’s by no means minor” announced the flat voice as they loaded the bloodied man in. “He’ll need proper attention, but I can deal with the most threatening wounds as we go if you avoid the worst potholes.” Felix and Winifred were looking where they could squeeze in when there was a braying from nearby, and Wakesfield raised his head from the wagon. “Knew you’d be back” he said to the donkey staring nonchalantly from the trees. He turned to the two and called out “Would you mind hitching the donkey to the small wagon? I have quite a lot of important equipment there, and there should be room for both of you to ride.”
They silently got to work, not many other options available. All the wagons outside their holdout had been stripped bare, no belongings left behind. Even the canvas coverings had been torn off and taken. There was nothing left of the dead but bloody trails and drag marks, even the horses that had not been freed had been cut down and dragged away. The donkey was old but still fit enough to jump the ditch, and obediently stood in place while they hitched the small wagon. There was barely room for one though, sitting precariously on top of the trunks and bags in the bed of the wagon. As soon as the wagon bearing Wakesfield started off the donkey followed, needing no urging to follow. They elected to sit on the back of the larger wagons, their feet trailing in the dirt. An exhausted silence fell on them as they rode, broken only by the occasional announcement from the guards. Four rode with them as escorts, the six remaining searching the woods nearby for anyone that had been taken and may be recovered. “We’ll skip the guard post and move you straight to the city, we have no proper healer at the post” announced the guard that seemed to be in charge, or at least spoke the loudest, before falling into a slow silent walk, his head turning to watch as they travelled.
The journey took a few hours more, as they had originally expected. They moved slowly, but they were expedited by the presence of the guards. Lanes of traffic had been halted and they were pushed through crowds of complaining travellers, many of whom fell silent when they saw the bloody people looking back at them. One of the guards handed down a canteen to Felix and Winifred. “Here, drink slowly. You may want to wash your face miss.” Winifred took the canteen after Felix had taken some large gulps, surreptitiously wiping the rim with her sleeve. She gargled and spat first, and saw a concerning amount of red. She drank slowly from the lukewarm water, then poured some in her hand and scrubbed. Her hand came away covered in dried flecks of blood, but she felt better. After handing back the canteen she looked over to Felix to say something and saw he was asleep, still sitting up and both arms crossed over his torso to hold the wagon behind him. She tried to rest as much as she could.
The last of the woods had quickly given way to fields, and they looked out in silence as the small convoy passed through, eventually moving onto an empty road marked with the same icon as on the guards shields. “These roads are for guard corps business only” called out the leader from the front as the turned onto the road, “don’t let me catch you using them some other time.” They watched the fields as they rode, fields of grain and sheep paddocks and rice ponds, the workers in each pausing in their work to watch the brief distraction. It was nearing evening as they finally approached the city proper, and Winifred turned to wake Felix, shaking him slightly as he awoke with a loud snort, nearly losing his balance and falling. “Wassat, why you botherin’ me Theresa” he said with his eyes half closed, pinching his nose. “Winifred” said Winifred, “and we’re approaching the city, thought you might like to see. He gave a yawn and stretch as well as he could without losing his seat. “Might as well now I’m up.” They both turned, near standing on the steps at the back of the wagon to look ahead.
The city walls rose up high into the air, made of dull grey stone blocks the height of three men stacked a quarter mile high. There were points of light in the fading sunlight, early torches marking the borders and the movement of guards and the occasional window. The stretched around as far as they could see, vanishing in a curve somewhere in the distance. The gates stood half as tall as the walls, behemoths of dull white marble ridged with steel, thrown open. “The gates of Xrantha stand open for as long as business is done” said Felix. Winifred turned her gaze away to look at him. “City motto?”
“Just read it in a book once, said time was the gates would be shut near always. Then they burned the woods back and reclaimed the land for farming, now they just have guard posts spread outside to keep beasties out.” Winifred said nothing. They rode on, through the gates under the archway of the wall, and entered the city.
