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“Over the trenches, lads!” Captain Vicus Phlegmatic roared, lifting his sword up high in the air. “We have the numbers! Cut them down!”
His men roared their enthusiasm, mud and grass spraying everywhere as hands and fingers grabbed onto the ledge, and boots scrabbled for purchase. His men rose from the trenches in waves, their grey, tattered clothes pockmarked by age, torn from battle, and stained by past victims. Their hardened faces were twisted by snarls and bared teeth. Shouts and calls for blood rippled down their line as guns withdrew from holsters, swords ripped from their scabbards and fingers clicked and magic flared all around. Captain Phlegmatic led the best, and the Sanctuaries damn well knew it.
‘Which is why they’d sent such a small force to protect the mortals here,’ he thought. ‘They don’t really care. Liars, the lot of them, pretending to give a damn. At least we’re honest with our thoughts.’
Rising from the trench himself, Vicus Phlegmatic rose in his six foot, muscled glory. Wearing clothes similar to his men, only his pistols and insignia marked him out as anyone of worth. The scar that ran across his face, crossing through his empty eye socket, and the scars no one else saw, told stories of countless battles. Burns mapped out every opponent. The autumn wind played with his long silver hair, and he felt its cold touch stir in his right eye socket. His left eye, a glittering blue, twinkled with amusement as he watched his men swarm the lush green Irish countryside.
Galway in autumn was the most beautiful place on earth, Vicus had decided. Its lands were prosperous and its soil plentiful. ‘And now free of mortals’, he thought, turning to look at the large pile of embers and coals and ash that had once been a mortal village. ‘This is who they’re fighting for?’ He scoffed. ‘What a waste.’
Finally, the last of his men left the trenches, a solid five-hundred of them. Rushing across the flat countryside to meet their enemies, Vicus was reminded of a swarm of ants, eagerly rushing out of their nest to completely consume and kill their prey, certain of their success. Almost immediately, the neat formations that had been practiced for so long had been abandoned, the battle deforming into a fray that had spread out all over the land, the soldiers forgetting all attempts of uniformity. Marching forward, Vicus watched as men killed and men died, blood already staling the air with its taste. His sword out, he met his first opponent, a runt of a man wielding a sword far too large for him. Side-stepping him easily, his sword sang, and its blade was dry no longer. Leaving the man to fall to his knees, his head falling somewhere in front of him, he continued his path forward, his blood pumping with adrenaline.
Diving into the fray, his sword quickly became bathed in blood, hungry to cut into the skin of anyone who crossed his path. Acrid smoke rose spinning in the air as guns bucked and roared and spat metal and fire into opponents, and smoke from fireballs and those set alight joined the gunpowder, blotting out the sun even further. Energy-throwers left the air crackling with energy and the screams of the dying and the roars of the victors pierced the hearts of everyone on the battlefield. His ears pounding as the adrenaline kicked in, he came across a snarling woman who’s hand was alight with flames. Vicus acted quickly, spinning to evade the fireball that she launched and brought his arm over his head and down onto her outstretched arm, breaking it with a wet-snapping sound. Leaving her to sink to the ground, screaming and wailing, he turned, sensing someone behind him, and brought his sword up and across to slash across a man’s chest. The man gasped, looking down to see the blood leaking out of the wound, his dagger falling out of his hands. As Vicus watched the man struggle to hold onto life, he saw another behind him standing in the midst of the fighting, his profile turned slightly to give him a better aim with the pistol he had pointed at Vicus.
Acting quickly, Vicus grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt and ducked in front of his latest victim, and he heard the belch of the gun firing, and the man’s frame shuddered as the bullet found a place deep in his back. Withdrawing a knife from his belt, he shoved the corpse aside and threw it, knowing his aim was true. He felt triumph burn in his veins as blood drenched his opponent’s shirt-front, the dagger sticking out of his neck. He hated using his guns in such close-quarter battles. He never had enough time to draw one before getting into trouble. Battle was chaos, and when you had both friend and foe jostling against you, ignoring your rank and allegiance, there was no time for orthodox, calm actions. You acted quickly, and viciously, or you died. Plain and simple.
He made his way through his enemies, the process easy for him. Simple. Just another battle, just another enemy. They all died eventually, whether it be in front of him, or behind him. He made sure to keep his sword strokes tight and close, ensuring that he didn’t swing it into another, jarring his movements. More than once, he got his sword stuck in someone’s armour, and he was forced to fend another off using his dagger before retrieving his blade. Vicus cursed himself for choosing kineticism as a discipline. A powerful discipline with the one major drawback: having to physically hit or be hit in order to convert it into raw strength. And Vicus had no desire to be hit.
Reaching the middle of the chaos, he found his greatest man, Ronan Stalwart, and his protege, Burgundy Dalrymple, fighting multiple opponents each. Their swords spun and danced in blurs, flashing across throats and dancing across limbs, their movements so quick their blades were not yet wet with blood despite the numerous bodies that covered the land around them like leaves in the fall. They worked together like two cogs in a machine, perfectly balanced to each other, trusting the other’s capabilities and prowess.
“To your left, Burgundy,” Ronan growled over the general din of the battle. “Take his flank, and follow through with the man behind him.”
Burgundy spun, obeying his mentor, cutting into a man beside him. Ronan swung his greatsword effortlessly, cutting a bloody swathe through a group of soldiers before bringing his blade back to slash across his face, cutting an arrow in half and preventing it from landing. As Vicus watched, he saw a group of men rushing towards the pair, having identified them as major threats. Rushing forward, Vicus pushed past a man and grabbed another by the shoulder, ramming his sword through his back, feeling the rough resistance burning his arms. Releasing his sword from its mortal scabbard, he brought his sword up to meet another blade, pushing the snarling man away with a kick to the gut. Grabbing a second knife, he locked blades with a woman, her dark hair mangled and feral.
“We will not allow Mevolent to rule this world!” She screamed in his face, pushing against his sword.
“Do not worry. You will not live to see it,” he said coldly as he shoved the knife firmly underneath her armour. He felt it rake through her ribcage and she gasped, blood leaking out of her mouth as his blade pierced her lung. He held her close, watching her die, before snapping back to attention.
“Ronan!” Vicus bellowed, releasing the woman and letting her fall. “Go down the right side. Take Burgundy with you. We’ll surround them!”
Ronan raised his sword in salute, and carried forward, carving a path through the opposition. Vicus watched as he fought his new opponent, and though barely indiscernible, he could see Ronan’s superiority with a blade. Finishing his foe off quickly with a quick disarming maneuver and strike to the head with the pommel of his sword, he twirled his sword in his grip, the movement like second nature to him after years of training and fighting.
Vicus spared another glance at the dead woman at his feet. ‘What a waste,’ he thought. ‘Magic doesn’t belong to mortal sympathisers. They’re not better than the feral mongrels that infest this world with their insignificant lives.’
Leading a group of men, Vicus began to surround the enemy soldiers, herding them into a circle and cutting down anyone who tried to escape. As they fought, Vicus watched a tall man with hair as black as sin and skin as pale as a vampire struggling against Burgundy, their swords clashing against each other. The man held a sword in his right hand, and had a black metal gauntlet on his left arm, running from his wrist all the way to his shoulder. For a moment, the man turned, and his face was in full view, and Vicus saw who it was.
Anton Shudder. The most savage, most fearsome of the Dead Men. Known for his great deeds on the battlefield, Vicus had no doubt in his mind that Shudder was the leader of this battalion. Vicus noted that despite Burgundy obviously being the better swordsman, Shudder’s extreme fighting skill and armoured apparel kept him in the fight. Shudder rushed forward as another pushed at the air, knocking Burgundy off balance and giving Shudder the chance to grab a hold of Burgundy’s sword, wrenching it from his grasp and throwing it away. Now weaponless, for Burgundy never carried another blade in his arrogance, Vicus winced as the other man’s fists landed, crunching into ribs and shoulders, an elbow to the face and a knee to the stomach.
“Men, hold the circle,” Vicus ordered. “Keep them in.” His men nodded, swords and rifles raised and ready. Not that they would be necessary. Vicus watched as many threw their weapons onto the ground, the dim glow of defeat in their eyes. Walking around the circle, commanding his men to keep their enemies trapped, he made his way to Ronan, who had stepped in and kicked Shudder to the ground.
As Vicus approached the squabble, he quickly realised that Shudder was the last man fighting, everyone else having dropped their weapons and holding their heads down low. Rising up from the ground by dragging someone down, Shudder suddenly had a knife in his hand, which he whipped across one’s throat and jammed it into another’s shoulder. He whirled and spun, spiraling blood and death rattles following his movements. Despite the staggering odds against him, the man continued fighting, calm and collected, assured in his ability. Vicus saw an experienced soldier then, practiced in death dealing.
“Anton Shudder!” Vicus yelled, pointing at the pale man. “Cease your actions now, or see the men and women around you cut down from where they stand! Surrender!”
Anton Shudder turned and locked eyes with Vicus, his gunmetal grey against Vicus’s bright blue. His eyes slowly narrowed, but he loosened his grip on the dagger he held, letting it drop to the ground. Vicus stepped forward. “Sorcerers! We don’t need to fight! We are one and the same, cut from the same bolt of cloth that has granted us these powers. Gifted to save this world. To rule it! We should not be fighting each other. We should be accepting each other for who we are, elevating ourselves to a new height, where we need not hide in darkness and squalor.”
“Then give us a chance,” someone called out. “We’ve heard you are, Vicus Phlegmatic. That you care for sorcerers. Let us go.”
“And why would I do that?”
“We were sent here to protect the mortal village,” another person responded. “You’ve already destroyed it. There’s no point for us to be here anymore.”
“The War is coming to an end!” Another shouted. “Vile and Serpine haven’t been seen in years! The Diablerie are leaderless and the tide is turning. You say we don’t need to fight! Then lay down YOUR arms and join US!”
Vicus stood for a moment, as both friend and foe watched him. Everything that had been said was true. Both he and Ronan Stalwart were revered for their clemency. Their graciousness towards their own kind, regardless of their allegiances. But there were exceptions.
“You want to go in peace, so be it. However, it is only truth that magic has favoured the strong. The mighty. If you wish to leave here alive, you must fight for the right to live. Only then can you prove yourselves above the lesser animals of this world. Only then can you be judged above mortals.”
There were murmurings in the crowds as Vicus raised a hand, and his men began to spread out, making the circle larger and giving the Sanctuary’s army room. The enemy spoke to each other, clearly debating on the decision at hand, and Ronan Stalwart approached him.
“You’ve made a deal with them.” Ronan said, his words more of a statement than a question.
“I have,” Vicus said. “If they fight and live, then they may leave. You know better than most that only the strong should be ruling this world.”
“Aye,” Ronan nodded. “Do you intend on keeping your promise?”
“I do, yes. They are sorcerers, just like us.”
“Trying to protect mortals,” Ronan murmured. “Why they’ve settled for less is something I will never understand.”
“You and me both, Ronan. You and me both.”
“Will you have me fight, then?”
“I want a challenge, Ronan. A fighting chance. Not a massacre.”
“I don’t take pleasure in killing other sorcerers, Vicus, and neither do you. Let this be over quickly. Take out the Dead Man, and the rest will submit.”
“You think they will choose him? Risk losing him?” Vicus said, studying the group of men and women, watching Anton Shudder in their midst.
“I do. If it’s one thing that separates us from the mortals, it's that we follow powerful people who have earned their power. It’s a respect we have provided ourselves that mortals have yet to find or possess.”
Their musings were cut short by a woman, who approached the pair. “If a fight is what you wish, then Anton Shudder will happily show you death’s door.”
Vicus smiled grimly as the crowd dispersed from the centre of the circle, leaving Anton Shudder standing there, alone with a sword in his grip. Anton raised his sword. “Any who wish to fight me,” he whispered, the silence allowing his words to carry forward. “Step forward.”
Vicus watched as various men of calibre stepped forward, wielding knives, swords, axes, spears and staffs. Various men with various histories, stepping forward and fighting a Dead Man. They slashed and cut and stabbed and fought and died. In a field that had quickly become saturated in blood, Shudder moved, danced, spun and twirled, his sword cutting down every opponent who mustered up the courage to face him.
Finally, Vicus approached him, drawing out his gun as he did so. Shudder turned to face him, his face unreadable and posture calm. “Anton Shudder. You know what this is?” He held the pistol up in his palm. “A gun. A mortal invention, used by sorcerers. A death-dealer like no other. This pistol could kill even you, Anton Shudder. A mortal invention could end your life. This is what mortals are capable of. Now, imagine what we could be capable of if we stepped into the light. Imagine the future we would have? The beauty of it.”
Shudder said nothing, not even acknowledging the gun as Vicus twisted it around and let it fall to the ground. “Are you ready to die, Anton Shudder?”
Shudder tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. “Death comes for us all. You and I are not the exception.”
Shudder leaped forward, his sword slashing across Vicus’s front and forcing him to hold steadfast, his blade out in front of him. Their blades clashed against each other, sparks flying and muscles tensing as they tested each other’s mettle. Shoving forward, tipping Anton off balance, Vicus went down low, slashing at his foe’s knees. Shudder jumped backwards, over the corpse of one of the men he’d fought, and Vicus followed. Their blades met again, but this time Shudder was twisting forward, lashing out with a fist that glanced off Vicus’ temple. Vicus staggered, his vision blurry, and he felt his magic stir. Bringing his sword up instinctually, his arm jarred as Shudder’s blade slammed into his. He moved forward, his vision clearing as he did so, so now he was standing across from Shudder and his sword raised in the air by the flat of Vicus’ sword. Pushing forwards and downwards, Vicus slowly started to force Shudder’s blade towards him. He saw Shudder step and he shifted his stance slightly as Shudder pivoted, trying to force Vicus’s momentum against him. Keeping himself steady, Vicus spun, his sword in one hand as he slashed it towards Shudder’s face. Shudder blocked again, but with a savage grin, Vicus twisted his sword and chopped downwards, his sword biting into Shudder’s forearm.
The crowd cheered as blood splashed onto the grass, Shudder’s mouth twisting into a slight grimace.
“Yield, and I shall spare you.”
“I will not give up on my people,” Shudder growled, hefting his blade before him. “And I will not give up on a peaceful future.” They began to circle each other.
“You label us the enemies of the future. The dangers of the present. Yet, if you would walk amongst us, you would know that this is not true. We are people fighting for a right to walk, talk and be free. To cast our magic wherever we damn well like. Is it not unfair that we drag our children into this world, expecting them to hide who they are? Should they not feel welcomed? As if they belong?”
Shudder sweeped his sword forward suddenly, surprising Vicus by the speed of the attack. Vicus twisted his body sideways, trying to bat the sword to the side, but realised too slowly that it was a feint, and before he could react, Shudder’s blade was biting into his side. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he wrenched one of his daggers out from its sheath, slashing its serrated edge against Shudder’s wrist. Shudder snarled in pain, his sword falling to the ground as he backed away. Vicus followed and Shudder sidestepped an overhead swing, rocking Vicus’s head backwards with a punch. A dagger in his hand now, his fingers spasming, Shudder danced forward, the blade going for Vicus’s heart. Vicus reached out, grasping Shudder’s wrist, his nails digging into the torn flesh there. Too close to use his sword, he twisted his hand cruelly, forcing Shudder to his knees, where he launched himself forward, tackling Vicus to the ground.
They struggled in the grass, Shudder above him and pressing down on his dagger with all his weight. Vicus bared his teeth, straining. He felt his magic burning in him, asking to be released. And he obeyed, and raw kinetic energy rippled out of him in a blast, throwing Shudder off of him. He heard the crowd cheer, and as he got up, he saw the Sanctuary’s people murmuring to each other, moving slowly through the crowd to meet up with each other, forming one large group. He went to warn his men, but Shudder descended down upon him once more, his dagger cutting down his bicep. Vicus roared, shoving Shudder back and rocking him with a fist to the collarbone. Using his foot to flick up his blade, he brought it down on Shudder in an overhead swing. Shudder raised his gauntleted arm just in time, stopping the swing. Channeling his magic and converting it into raw physical strength, Vicus continued the movement, savagely slamming his sword down upon Shudder’s arm, hoping to drive the man to exhaustion. Suddenly, Shudder staggered, tripping over the feet of one of the corpses, and his arm fell.
“Goodbye, Anton Shudder. It’s a shame. There would have been a spot for you in the new world.”
Moving quickly, Vicus brought his sword down, aiming to end the fight in one vicious blow while his opponent was tired and unbalanced. But Shudder straightened up suddenly, and as he raised his arm so Vicus’s sword would glance off of it, Vicus realised that he had been bluffing. His momentum too great for him, Vicus stumbled forward and into Shudder’s dagger, which found a home firmly in his heart. For a moment, there was silence, and Vicus coughed blood and slid to his knees. Finding it hard to breathe, he watched Shudder gesture. And all those Sanctuary forces stirred and began to move. They stepped forwards, Elementals they were, and they raised their hands and great buffeting winds threw many of Vicus’ men backwards. Behind them, men and women of all sizes charged forward like rhino’s, bullets and magic smacking against them without making a mark. As the Enhancers ploughed into their enemies, Energy-throwers filled the air with multi-coloured beams, carving great furrows into his men.
Vicus coughed, and Shudder turned to look at him. “All we.. wanted was peace. All we wanted… was to be free,” He coughed once more, and he tasted blood and bile. “It is you and your side dragging this war out. What kind of man… wants a future where the next generation must suffer as we did? What kind of monster would want that?”
Shudder stepped forward, his sword in his hand. He placed a hand on Vicus’s shoulder. “You fought well.” And his shoulder rose up and fell, and Vicus felt a thud in his chest, and the world was tilting sideways and as his vision darkened, he watched Anton Shudder clench his fists and something dark and terrifying and inhuman burst out of him, screeching and roaring, and he heard people screaming and then he knew no more.