"Trevin!" he yelled above the frenzied battle, "Cut them down! Timothy! Keep firing!" he ordered between attacks.
He pushed forward, cutting, slashing, and dodging as he went until, finally, he reached his men. They were surrounded by a group of the undead who were prodding and almost toying with the battered rangers. They were bloodied and bruised but were nonetheless determined to hold their ground against their foes. A deep guttural cry escaped Tiberius's body, and with a mighty slash, cut down three of the enemy in one great broad stroke of his bastard sword.
"Rangers! Fight!" he cried, drowning out the sounds of death.
With their spirits lifted, the rescued rangers sprang out of their defense. Their swords flew fast and true against their attackers, determined to repel them. Once they were defeated, Tiberius turned back to the larger group and cried out, "All Rangers! To me! To me!"
Trevin and Zachary's men ran through the throng cutting through the undead with ease. Timothy called out over the fray to his archers to draw their swords and collapse in from their ring around the battle. Along with the small group of rangers nearby, Tiberius ran back into the heart of the fight. Swords and spears were no match for his skill as he continued to slay all he approached. No pain or fear entered their bodies. No regret. No doubt. Just anger. Focused, intense, unadulterated anger. They fought on.
Over the fray, Tiberius could see Trevin and Zachary back to back, twirling in a deadly dance around the onslaught. The oncoming swarms of undead were no match for their speed and agility. Timothy and a group of archers were alternating between arrows and their short swords. Their ferocity and speed at which they effortlessly switched between weapons would have been something to stare and marvel at if not for the raging battle around him. A group of female rangers were nearby, ducking and weaving around, slashing and hacking with all their strength. Their training was shining through the chaos, just as he had known it would. Then, all at once, it was over.
Panting to catch his breath in the cold air, he examined the quiet battlefield around him. From what he could see, they were all out of breath but standing tall and firm. Not a single Ranger save himself was unscathed from the melee. Still, none were mortally wounded except those who were already dead at his feet. But in amongst the dead bodies that now covered the ground, he could not find their ultimate quarry. He quickly collected his thoughts and set to work.
"Trevin!" he called out, "Where's the damned alchemist?"
"We'll find him," he replied. "Boys, with me." And with that, he flew into the woods with Zachary and Timothy to find the cause of this mess.
To the rangers, Tiberius ordering them to fan out and take a knee as security was paramount at a time like this. He went to each ranger in the ring to check on them, examining each of their wounds and beginning to patch them himself as he went. His ferocity had subsided with the last of the enemies to fall. His unabated rage now replaced with almost a fatherly tenderness as he cared for each of his wounded rangers.
About half an hour later, the three hunters emerged from the darkness pulling a man along with them as they approached their comrades. When they were upon Tiberius, they threw the man at his feet and backed away, their weapons trained on him. But to Tiberius's surprise, instead of a robed wizard or fastidiously dressed alchemist, there was an old man dressed in rags lying motionless in the snow at his feet.
"Sit yourself up," Tiberius commanded. But the man didn't move from burying his face in the snow.
Trevin grabbed the man and sat him up in one violent motion. "Our leader gave you an order!" he growled.
Tiberius nodded at Trevin and motioned him to retreat away. He squatted down and began to examine the man. By the look him, he had to have been more than eighty years old and covered in boils and blisters over his head and arms. His clothes were ragged and nearly threadbare, his fingers were blue from the frost, his mouth cracked, his shoes broken with bloody scabbed toes that poked out of the sides. A beggar man's shoes, Tiberius reasoned. But the man's eyes are what drew his attention the most. His eyes were on fire.
The sockets where an average person's eyes would have sat was a dark, smoldering, roiling red fire. He knew this magic immediately. "He's been enchanted," he said at last before standing. "Search him."
Timothy was the first to reach out and yank the man to his feet. But as soon as he touched the enchanted beggar, his body turned as limp as a rag. His skin slowly began to fall off his bones, flaking and falling off into small wisps of dust that began to float away in the night air. Timothy released the ragged clothes and stepped away in horror, struck dumb by the sight he had just witnessed.
All the rangers recoiled at the sight save for Tiberius. He alone held his composure and discipline despite the horrid scene in front of them. His mind raced back to Vermillion Pass, where all the enemy of the empire had befallen the same fate. They all stood for a moment processing what had just transpired until finally, after many heavy moments, Tiberius broke the silence.
"How many men did we lose?" he asked Trevin, his face and voice turning grim.
"I'll do a headcount, but at least eight that I know of, sir," came Trevin's reply.
Eight men, he thought. Eight men for a dusty enchanted beggar.
"I'll count the dead, First Sergeant. Take the men and retrieve our gear. No need to rush. We all could use a little respite." Tiberius ordered solemnly.
"Aye. Shall I leave some men to bury the bodies?" Trevin asked.
"No. I'll bury these men when you return," he responded. "They were my rangers, and it was me who led them here. Now, leave me be till you return. I need to look these men over and clear my head."
"Aye, sir. Rangers, with me," Trevin said. And with that, the remaining rangers began to slowly file behind to retrieve their things, leaving Tiberius to tend to their fallen comrades.
A few moments after they departed, Tiberius fell to his knees. The events of the night had finally begun to take their toll on him, and the strength of his legs could not sustain the weight of evil and treachery that had befallen them. He tried to hold his head up but could not muster the strength. His anger was boiling over. His breath quickened, and in a rare instance, he lost control of his discipline and bellowed loudly into the frigid night.
He knelt there for what seemed like hours on end. These men weren't supposed to die out here, he thought as he looked upon the broken and twisted bodies of six men and two women. No one deserves this fate. Regaining his composure, he stood again. His hands had stopped shaking with rage, and his watery eyes were drying in the frigid night air. He buried his sword into the ground, and after finding a flat piece of wood, began to dig a vast grave in the field.
After almost an hour's work, he took a deep breath and prepared the bodies for their burial. These were his men that he had led into combat, and now these eight brave rangers were dead. The task of burying them, of course, fell to him. No songs would be sung of their needless sacrifice, nor poem or rhyme. Just the stories of their bravery, and the memory of their gallantry in fulfilling their sacred oaths to the empire. His mind wandered back to the first time he had seen a ranger's burial. Then, it had been his very father who had performed the funeral of his own fallen men. Of course, he had sent his other men away in the same way Tiberius had. However, on that particular day, his father had ordered Tiberius to stay and witness it for himself.
If a ranger falls in the field far from home, they are to be buried with their brothers, his father had instructed. The ranger's duty was to the empire, and back into the land of the empire they would return. Their weapons are to be plunged into the ground, for where they go, they will not be needed.
Tiberius had asked his father where they were meant to go after their death. In his mind's eye, he could see his father standing tall and proud before him with a broad smile etched into his face. They go to the Warrior in his castle beyond our world, his father had proclaimed. They have carried his spirit into battle and are rewarded by joining his company of heroes.
A soft smile cracked his grim face at the memory of his father. He nodded to himself and began to kneel beside each of his fallen men, examining them. He removed his leather gloves and began to lovingly stroke each of their faces. He would remember each of them and their sacrifices in service of their empire. And as he departed from their bodies, he held his hand to each of their chests and whispered the Rangers' ancient words, "The Spirit of The Warrior will always be with you."
After he finished speaking his words, he began to carry their bodies into the mass grave. He laid all eight of them side by side with their arms crossed over their chest. Their weapons he buried in a ring around their grave, a mark for all who may venture to that place that brave Imperial Rangers had given their lives and lie there at peace. No sound he made while setting to his work, and no rest or pause would he allow himself. These warriors had fought unceasingly to their last, so too shall he in hopes of ensuring their journey to the afterworld was honorable and just.
Once he had finished with them, he turned his attention to the fifty or so undead Narzethians that littered the ground. He piled their bodies together high, determined to burn them as is the way in their home across the ocean. His empire's land was not evil, as they had been raised and trained to believe in Narzeth. No nation in the wide world was evil and cursed, only the people that dwell above it. Though they had been invaders from the past, they did not deserve to have their bodies desecrated by such dark and evil magic.
Trevin and the rest of the rangers returned nearly two hours later, every one of them loaded with their packs, and each of them was grave and quiet. Despite their solemnity, they were now all physically refreshed, and ready to press on if their commander ordered. The thought of combat against dark beings and the astounding magic placed upon the old beggar was fresh in their minds and had renewed their resolve to continue venturing in the wilderness. Tiberius might have continued to press their search if it had not been for the enchanted beggar. This horrible misadventure required better counsel than he could have ever hoped to give.
"How was the trip?" Tiberius asked as they approached.
"Uneventful," Trevin reported, removing his pack and rejoining his men.
Tiberius nodded and turned to approach the mound of undead soldiers. Never in his life could he have imagined he would be lighting a funeral pyre for Narzethians, especially undead Narzethians in the heart of his homeland. Still, he lit a torch, held up both arms, closed his eyes, and said, "May your spirits find rest in your father's homes. May your memory and sacrifice endure in your family's hearts unto the unmaking of the world."
He thrust the torch into the mound and watched as one by one all were consumed by the cleansing fire. He stood rooted in place, watching the fire burn higher and higher before turning to his fallen Rangers. Standing over them, he studied their faces one last time. Young men and women who had all endured such hardships and war stared up at him. He felt a sharp pang of sadness twitch in his soul for the loss of life during times of peace was hard to swallow. That these men and women had fought valiantly across the sea and lived only to die in their homeland, filled him with overwhelming anger. He clenched his fist as tight as possible, forcing that anger back in the presence of his men. Time enough for tears in private, he reminded himself.
After many heavy minutes, he finally raised both his arms again, held his head up, and spoke with a booming commanding voice, "Rangers! I release you from your service to your country! I bid thee take with you your pride! Take with you, your honor! Take with you each other as you travel into the halls of The Warrior! May you have a seat at his table! May you watch over us and await our arrival! I say to you! All who have given your life for our empire! The Spirit of The Warrior is with you! The Spirit of The Warrior will be with us all as we go forth! For his honor! And for the honor of our empire!"
"The Spirit of The Warrior will always be with you!" his men boomed around him. He looked around him to see his men all standing. Each of their arms was held aloft, all yielding their spirits to the invocation their commander had given for their fallen comrades. He slowly dropped his arms and stood for a moment, looking at his men. His anger and sadness had subsided, replaced with pride for his remaining Rangers.
Finally, he broke the silence. "Trevin, have the men make camp for the night. We have a few hours until sunup, and then we'll travel to the village to collect the rest of our company," he ordered.
"As you wish, sir. But what of the fallen Magi?" Trevin asked.
"We have our customs, and they have theirs," Tiberius responded. "Their bodies will provide nourishment to the animals of the forest as all things do."
"They do not follow the ways of their homelands? Nor of the empire?" Timothy asked.
"No," Tiberius responded. "Their ways are to return to nature that bore them and all of us into existence. The earth is their tomb."
Tiberius knew the Magi's minds and knew the High Sorcerer would approve of his honoring of their order's customs. Long had the Magi held onto their connection to the natural world. Indeed, they were more attuned to nature and the beasts within it than the rangers themselves who walked amongst the forests and mountains of their country. To some, this would seem like sacrilege. But in a land of so many people and so many beliefs and customs, you had to honor every one of them.
The Rangers were busy setting up their camp for the night. None spoke a word, preferring to keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves. They were all finally beginning to tuck in for the night when fiery bright light illuminated the dark forest. Some of the men were on their feet in a flash, swords unsheathed, bewildered by what they had just witnessed. Others were not driven to fear as their comrades were, for the light was not evil but slightly warm and comforting. But just as suddenly as it shone in the darkness, it was gone, and the thick veil of night returned.
Tiberius ran to the edge of their small camp, peering out into the darkened woods. Trevin was beside him in an instant, his own sword drawn. They stood still for a moment, their minds racing, before Tiberius's face lit up in excitement. A healing spell!
He took off into the night, possessed by some small measure of hope that amongst the bodies of the Magi, one had managed to survive. He had not had the time to properly examine them before the fighting with the undead erupted. Even then, the mass of bloodied bodies had given him little hope that any survivors might lie amongst them. But he knew a healing spell anywhere, and that was reason enough to hope beyond all belief that someone was still alive out in the woods.
Nearly ten minutes later, they arrived at the site of the massacre and immediately set to work. The smell of decay and death was still fresh in the air and stung their nose and eyes. Yet the two Rangers pushed past it, turning over body after body in their hunt. Suddenly, a great defiant cry rang out from the opposite corner of where they searched. The two men raised their weapons at once and began to scan for the source of the mighty cry. But after only a few short moments, they eased their swords back down to their sides as their eyes fell on the figure of a small boy sitting amongst the dead mages.
"Have you come to finish your evil work?" the small boy croaked.
The Rangers stared wide-eyed before the boy continued, "I hope you live the rest of your pathetic lives knowing that you couldn't even..." his voice grew weak and trailed off. His eyes rolled in his head, which wavered in the air for a moment before he slumped down to the frozen ground.
The Rangers descended on the boy in an instant. A pulse they found and his chest they could see slowly rose and fell in the blue hue of night. In the middle of his robes, they could see the tear where he had been stabbed and a faint but fresh three-inch scar above his navel.
This lad is made of stronger steel than most men twice his age, Tiberius thought. But how in the name of all the gods above did he survive this slaughter?
Chapter 4
The Mage
As if emerging from hazy early morning fog, the boy slowly opened his eyes to blinding su
nlight that poured on his face. A searing headache burned across his brain and forced his eyes to squint against the dazzling morning light. He ached from head to toe, not wanting to move, but knowing that he needed to face whatever he had gotten himself into. He slowly sat up and was surprised to see he was no longer on a forest floor but resting in a four-post bed in what looked like a rather comfortable room.
A roaring fire burned in a small hearth in the corner of the room. Thick wooden panels adorned the small room with shabby drapes and tapestries hung haphazardly in random places. The smell of hot coffee and frying bacon permeated the room, awakening his senses and turning his stomach over in avarice. He forced his legs over the side of the bed and slowly stood peering out the large circular windows by his bed. He was shocked to find himself in the village he and the Magi had traveled through on their way north. Yet, for the life of him, the name escaped him, lost in the vapors of his memory.
The village was a mass of small stone houses with thatched roofs. Merchants and farmers dressed in thick wool coats and jackets could be seen coming and going with all manner of food and livestock. In the distance, he could see the snowcapped ridges of the Forgotten Mountains. Grey clouds were forming over the mountains’ peaks with dim rays of sunlight peeking through like a fisherman’s net.
It was a beautiful, picturesque scene that somehow reminded him of home. But not his adopted home at the Citadel of the Magi, where he had spent the last six years of his life dedicated to the study of magic. No, this quaint village on the edge of the Childers Kingdom conjured up a deep longing for his real home. His heart began to ache, and he grew sad at the memories of home, something he had not felt in many years.
He found his robes cleaned and meticulously laid out on a chest at the foot of the bed and slowly began to dress. His muscles screamed in protest, and his abdomen was ginger but healed nonetheless. It was a small blessing he had been found, but now another new mystery to answer. He caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror adorned with dense wood and barely recognized himself. His young face of sixteen looked worn with wrinkles around his eyes. His usual neatly placed hair was disheveled and messed all over, and his eyes were red. He quickly fixed his hair as best he could; and adjusted his robes. They too seemed a lot bigger than he remembered.
The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1 Page 4