Questing Sucks (Book 1) (63 page)

Patrick smiled despite himself. Never, in all of the Kingdom’s history, had Elven and Human royalty grown so close. “On three?”

“On three,” Saerith and Rillith agreed.

“One,” Rillith said.

“Two,” Saerith continued.

Patrick collected his courage and prepared to die. “
Thr
—”

Patrick raised his hand to shield his eyes from the burning light that, seemingly out of nowhere, threatened to blind him. A wave of heat slammed into him, and for a moment, he was disoriented. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. It was like the sun exploded.

Another blast rocked the battlefield, followed by another bright flash of light. Again, a wave of heat rolled against Patrick’s skin. What in the Gods was happening? Men’s voices shouted out in alarm. They cried for help, for backup. Backup from what? Patrick’s eye struggled to adjust from the temporary blindness.

More voices bellowed in the distance. And the sounds of death came from everywhere. “Archers!” men cried. “Archers!”

Archers?
Patrick thought.
Whose archers? Who’s yelling?

Patrick fumbled around. The world was a series of shapes covered in a white screen. “Saerith! What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” said the voice of the Elf from Patrick’s right. Patrick extended an arm and grabbed hold of his friend reassuringly.

Patrick rubbed his eyes furiously, until finally, he could see the outline of a massive group of people rushing onto the battlefield with pitchforks, skewering the enemy archers. But how was that possible? Weren’t those men dispatched to…?

“My prince!” a voice cried. “Prince Saerith! Where are you? Do you still live?”

Patrick recognized it. He remembered—it was an Elven man from Sehn’s village, Elvar. He was in the hospital when Sehn injured himself—Calen, Patrick recalled.

“Saerith!” the voice called. “My prince! I am here!”

At once, some of the pressure was taken off of Patrick’s forces. The black-armored men left in droves to secure their rear flank. Patrick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There were nearly a thousand farmers bearing pitchforks and crossbows, supported by a full battalion of Elves.

Another voice added to the chaos.
“REMMOS MAHR
!”

Patrick didn’t know much about magic, but he wasn’t entirely clueless, either. He wasn’t quite sure the words shouted were even magic, but he wasn’t taking any more chances, either. In anticipation, he closed his eyes the moment he heard the words and covered his ears. His vision brightened even through the closed lids as another wave of heat and light exploded in the valley. It must’ve been that mage-boy, Kellar.

Several black-armored men were no longer quite so black. They ran, clawing at their armor, while flames torched them from the inside out. Several rolled on the ground but to no avail. It was a hideous, terrible way to die.

The boy was hard to miss, even being on the other end of the battlefield. He gripped his fiery sword in both hands and cut through the enemy soldiers like they were made of sand. Top halves of bodies were separated from lowers halves—arms and legs were removed with equal fervor.

“This is a good thing, right?” Rumpus asked. Patrick jumped, startled. When in the hell did he get next to Patrick? “Hey, who’s that guy?” Rumpus pointed.

Patrick followed along the path of his finger. Four soldiers pulled on a chain attached to a wooden cage, carrying it across the grassy field. Inside, a man sat with a sword balanced on his legs. After the cage was just close enough for Patrick to sicken at the sight of the man’s dark, catlike eyes, the men let go of the chain and ran to the side to unlock the door. The man inside stepped out, and then roared.

Patrick covered his ears as a wave of despair sent him to his knees. The sound that came from the man wasn’t Human. It wasn’t even animal. It was loud enough to be heard by everyone on the battlefield. Even the enemy soldiers paused from their assault and covered their ears. Some trembled, and some passed out on the spot.

The man—if it was even a man—raised his blade in the air and whispered something Patrick couldn’t discern. Seconds later, the blade changed color, becoming darker. Red, teeth-shaped marks formed along the edge of the steel and rocks hovered along the sides of it. But where did the rocks come from? Patrick leaned down and ran a hand along the grass. There were none to be found, yet hundreds of pebble sized stones revolved around the blade, rotating and spinning.

When he spoke, his voice came from every direction at once. From behind, from below, from above, and somehow, from within.

“Boy,” he whispered. “What is your name?”

Kellar shouted from across the battlefield. “I am Kellar! And who are you, mage? You should know that you are playing with forces that you’ve no right to! As an emissary from Magia, I demand you put down the weapon and surrender!”

“Surrender?” the man asked. “No. No surrender. Come, boy. I can play with you for some time. He comes. But you die first, yes?”

“Me? No, you’re the one who’s gonna die, pal.”

The threat might’ve seemed somewhat innocuous coming from such a young looking boy, but Patrick, having only moments ago seen what the boy was capable of, didn’t doubt his words.

Patrick was surprised he hadn’t taken notice sooner—every man on the battlefield, both ally and foe, was now watching the exchange between the two mages. Patrick couldn’t blame them. Very few people lived to see a mage in the flesh, let alone two that seemed moments away from battling.

When the boy walked at a slow, casual pace towards the man with the catlike eyes, black-armored men looked once at the blood from their comrades dripping off of his face and body and then stepped out of his way. But to Patrick’s disappointment, his own men did the same when the man with the rocky blade began at a slow strut to meet the boy.

The sound of horse hooves beating against the ground came from Patrick’s right. Ghell pulled up in front of the man and hissed at him. “What are doing, Champion? We have a fight to win, you fool!” Ghell pointed first at Patrick and the Kingdom Soldiers and then at Hahl. “Attack them. Kill them all and take my city!”

The man with the catlike eyes didn’t respond. Instead, with a movement too fast for Patrick’s eyes to follow, he swung his blade horizontally. Ghell howled as his horse’s upper body was detached from its lower. Ghell fell sideways, clutching his horse’s head and body and landing roughly on the ground. All that remained was four legs attached to a slab of meat, somehow still remaining upright.

Ghell wriggled under the weight of the horse’s upper half. He pushed it off and jumped to his feet. Patrick, in a fit of madness, began laughing hysterically at the comical look on Ghell’s face. The commander’s mouth fell open in shock.

“Leave,” the man called Champion whispered. Again his voice was somehow loud enough to be heard by all, but soft enough to sound as if the man’s whispers came from next to Patrick.

Ghell didn’t bother to challenge the man. He turned on his heels and darted away, not bothering to look over his shoulder while he escaped whatever monstrous thing had usurped him.

Gods,
Patrick thought.
Did the enemy commander flee the battle?

Patrick wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. Normally, the sight of the enemy commander running for his life should’ve meant the battle was over, but somehow, Patrick didn’t think his forces were in the clear. The black-armored soldiers eyed one another in confusion, and Patrick could overhear several whispering into each other’s ears, asking what they were supposed to do and when they were supposed to do it.

Kellar approached the Champion and the two stood toe-to-toe, peering into each other’s eyes.

“What are you?” Kellar asked.

The man with the catlike eyes—the Champion, smiled. “Kill me and you’ll find out.”

Kellar whipped his head towards the nearest soldiers, both Kingdom and enemy. “Get back,” he commanded. The men and women not only obeyed, but they nearly stumbled over their own feet in the process.

Patrick didn’t know what would happen when the boy’s burning blade collided with the Champion’s. Squinting his eyes, Patrick could see that there were hundreds of smaller pebbles floating around the larger ones. The man’s blade looked like it was under attack by bees.

“I stand before you, boy,” the Champion whispered. “I offer you the first move. Care to take it?”

Kellar grinned and switched the grip on his blade, raising it above his shoulders. He bent his legs in a striking position. “I don’t know who or what you are,” he said. “But I’ll make you tell me.”

Chapter 56: Rock and Fire, Part II

 

With everything taking place around him, the one thing Patrick noticed above all others was the look of stoic determination on the mage-boy’s face. He should’ve been afraid, and yet Patrick didn’t think he was, at least he didn’t show it. Kellar had a sly grin covering his youthful, striking features. The boy, no older than twelve, stood before the horrifying man ready to strike.

For a while, neither of them moved—the two remained locked in a staring contest. Kellar was crouched with his fiery blade held over his head, and the Champion stood with his arms drawn back and his sword at his left side. A breeze rolled in off the mountains and picked up dead leaves and dirt. Despite the massive gathering of people, Patrick could hear the sound the wind made as it ruffled the grass.

True to his word, the Champion let Kellar make the first move. Patrick was shocked when it finally happened. After several minutes of waiting, without a peep from either the Kingdom or the Black-armored soldiers, Kellar abruptly leapt forward and twisted his body, whirling his burning blade at the Champion’s head. The taller man ducked and kicked off his feet, jumping backwards. Kellar pressed the advantage and chased the man, releasing a flurry of attacks. He sliced horizontally and vertically, he thrust, stabbed, and spun, but the Champion continued to backpedal and nimbly evade each blow.

Kellar hopped backward when the Champion seemed to have enough of being on the defensive. Unlike Kellar’s array of combinations, the man with the catlike eyes chose to repeatedly swing his blade downward like a hammer, as if to bash away Kellar’s weapon. But the boy was also fast, and he leapt to the side and evaded with the same ease.

“He’s good,” Rumpus whispered. “Look at his form.” The mayor’s voice surprised Patrick. He’d forgotten the quirky man was still there.

Saerith spoke from Patrick’s left. “I see it.”

“See what?” Patrick asked. “All I see is a little boy playing with someone much older and far more dangerous.”

Saerith held out his finger and moved it in a circular motion. “Look at his center—look at his grip on the blade. He’s feeling out his enemy. They’ll clash any second.”

Saerith’s prediction proved true. Apparently, the two had enough of dancing around, and for the first time, Kellar’s burning blade connected with the Champion’s. The moment the two weapons touched, there was a ripping, hissing sound. Then, Patrick watched in terror as a fist-sized chunk of flaming rock materialized from the blades and flew towards the black-armored soldiers that had refused Kellar’s warning to back up. It struck a man dead-center in the chest, crashing through his armor and sending him sprawling backward. Patrick wasn’t certain, but he didn’t think the man survived.

Again, their blades connected, and again what was essentially a small meteorite shot forward and crashed into the ground near the foot of a Kingdom soldier. The startled man eyed the burning grass and then wisely decided to back up a few more paces.

“Magic,” Saerith said. “I use it, and even I fear it.”

The Elven prince watched the two fighters with wide eyes. Did they fascinate him? Patrick flinched as Kellar darted forward with a combination of three fast attacks, first at the Champion’s head and then at his abdomen and legs. The Champion, just as fast as Kellar, was able to maneuver to parry each attempt, sending another three chunks of flaming rock in seemingly random directions.

“Why do you look so shocked?” Patrick asked. “Certainly you must know what’s going on here, Saerith. This
is
kind of your thing, right? Ah…magic, I mean.”

Saerith shook his head. “I’m about on the same level as Sehn, which is to say, I know almost nothing.” He frowned. “Though, unlike that idiot, I actually have a legitimate excuse. Most of my time is spent on matters of state and other issues of great importance.”

Patrick remembered when the two had gone at it back in the
Jinkar
forests—Sehn with his blade on fire much like Kellar’s was now, and Saerith with his weapon trailing lightning. But that was considered knowing almost nothing? Patrick had thought the world would end when those two fought. And now, Saerith was telling him the magic they’d used was inconsequential? Patrick shuddered. Some people were just too powerful.

The sound made by the superheated rocks reminded Patrick of the fireworks back at home. Only, Patrick never recalled the fireworks killing anyone. Another of the meteorite-like stones knocked the helmet off the head of an observing black-armored soldier. The man ran his hands along his black hair with a look of wild amazement on his face, as if he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He wasn’t. Another piece of flaming rock did what the first failed to and collided with the man’s face, sending him to the ground in a heap of smoke. Patrick could smell his burned flesh even from afar.

The fool,
Patrick thought.
This is why when something almost kills you, you act. You don’t sit there and watch like an idiot.

Patrick felt a jolt in his heart at the sudden realization.

That’s what I’m doing!

“Men!” Patrick shouted. “Stop gawking like children and pick up your weapons. Now is the time, attack!”

It was dishonorable—it was wretched, but it was war. Besides, the enemy lost all claim to fairness when they attacked The Kingdom’s forces with double their number. Patrick, slightly rested by the pause in fighting, ran at an unaware soldier facing away from him.

“Hey, you!” Patrick called. “Turn around or get a sword in your back.”

The black-armored soldier spun, and Patrick waited for the man to draw his blade before ending his life. There were some things that even Patrick couldn’t bring himself to do, and attacking an unarmed, unaware man was one of them. He wasn’t surprised in the least to see his own men doing the same. Everywhere he looked, Kingdom soldiers shouted at the invaders. In rare cases, some of the enemies were too caught up in the mage-boy’s fight to notice, and Patrick’s noble men went so far as to tap them on the shoulder and demand they ready their weapons.

The enemy soldiers, rattled and disorganized, fought clumsily and without skill. For the first time since the mounted charge, Patrick’s ground forces decimated their enemies. All this, while in the corner of his eyes, Patrick watched the two mages duel.

It didn’t take the enemy long to refocus their attention on the Kingdom forces. With the momentary distraction behind them, the battle was back on. Rumpus and Saerith headed straight for the sea of black-armored men.

“Rumpus!” Saerith shouted. “Behind you!”

Rumpus made an unmanly “
wahhh
” sound and cried out in alarm. “What’s behind me? What’s behind me!”

He did something Patrick couldn’t follow, some ridiculous, master-level swordsman crap that Patrick didn’t believe possible from such a small, chubby man. He whirled his blade behind him, switching it from one hand to the next, all while faced away from his assailants. To Patrick’s astonishment, he somehow ended up killing both of the men sneaking behind him.

Even after the men fell dead, he continued to panic. “What’s behind me!” he cried again. “Saerith, answer me!”

“Ah, you umm…you got them. They’re dead.”

“Are you positive? I don’t believe you!”

Patrick’s eyes, against his body’s command, rose to the top of his face and his mouth fell open. Rumpus, in an unbelievable display of agility, jumped high into the air, flipping several times before landing nearly a dozen feet away faced in the opposite direction. He didn’t just land, either. He landed upside down on a single open palm that supported his heavily armored body and sword. With his free hand, he defensively swung his blade at nearby soldiers. They halted, and for a moment, they looked at the mad mayor. Then they turned around and fled, several knocking each other over in their attempt to get away.

Well, at least he’s good for something,
Patrick thought.

The Kingdom’s forces were still outnumbered, but thanks to Calen’s Elves and the farmers, the pressure no longer rested solely on Patrick’s flank. It was amazing how much good a little rest did the men, especially Saerith, who with the same ardor as earlier cut through anything that wore black.

Through all of it, Patrick kept a part of his attention on the mage-boy. The flying meteorites broke up the monotony of the battle, reminding Patrick that whatever chance the Kingdom had would be ruined if the Champion swept through the battlefield unhindered.

The Champion and Kellar were no longer dodging each other’s attacks. Instead, the two stood toe to toe without yielding an inch. What had started off as a showing of finesse, degraded into two stubborn mages trying to outdo the other with strength alone. They clashed so fast that their bodies brightened from all of the flaming rock. The two resembled bleeding stars—the shattering of a universe.

As their attacks increased in speed, so did the frequency and range of the hazardous rocks. Soldiers both ally and foe were struck down, and the men fighting closest to the mages broke apart to flee farther away. This allowed Calen’s men the chance to cross over to Patrick’s side and pincer the enemy.

“Get out of my way,” Saerith growled to a hefty beast of a soldier. The man’s size didn’t matter to Saerith. With the flick of his wrist, the Elven prince decapitated the man. Blood splashed over Saerith’s face, and he turned to Patrick. “No matter how many we kill—”

“They just keep on coming,” Patrick finished, panting. “I’m beginning to think that starting the fight up again was a bad move.”

Saerith dropped to the ground as a soldier tried to pierce his heart. He wrapped his legs around the man’s feet, knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling to the ground. Rather than let him land on the grass, Saerith struck out with his blade and impaled the soldier.

“I know what you mean,” Saerith said, pushing the corpse off of him. “But there’s a chance, you know? We can still win this. As rough as we’ve got it, we can win.”

“Oh? And how’s that.”

Saerith pointed towards Kellar and the Champion. “We need to help the boy. Look at him, Patrick, he’s tiring.”

Patrick shifted one eye while keeping his other focused on the inexperienced black-armored soldier he was sparring with. The mage-boy was fighting admirably with the larger man. “He looks about equal to me,” Patrick said.

Saerith hummed in thought. “Maybe it’s my Elven eyes, but I can see it in his face. He’s a strong boy, but he’s going to lose. And if that…man or whatever he is runs loose, then we’re back to the same situation we started in—hopeless and without a chance.”

Patrick’s enemy only made two successive attacks before overextending. Patrick brushed each one aside and then sidestepped, cutting him from groin to neck. “But how do we get over there? There’s a wall of men between us and them.”

Saerith put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. Saerith’s mount ran through a gap between several Kingdom women fighting off an equal number of the black-armored invaders. Despite the larger frames and thicker armor, the women held their own.

When the horse pulled up beside them, Patrick couldn’t believe his eyes. “Your horse survived?”