Herald of death

Sylas – Chapter 12: Saboteurs



Walf and Sylas jump to their feet. Howling war cries swarm from the north, rushing at them from downhill.

Grabbing his spear, Walf barrels through the camp as he bellows orders at his scrambling recruits. "On me! Form a wall!"

The boys tumble as they run towards the edge of the camp, where they agglutinate into a disorderly line of shields. Jule and his duo run from outside into the formation, hounded by animalistic screams.

"Hawryn squad, join the line!" Storis commands from the highest point in the camp. He scans the battlefield, keeping an eye on their flanks. "My squad, fall behind the line; wide formation!"

A first man lunges out of the shadows. He is covered in mud, his eyes bloodshot red as he swings an axe at the line.

Walf lowers his body and thrusts his spear in between the shields. It strikes the assailant in the upper chest; Walf throws his victim off his spear and resumes his posture.

"… Eighteen, nineteen, …" Sylas counts. He looks around, realizing they are missing one of the recruits.

The said recruit barrels towards Sylas from the side, his spear trained on Sylas' chest. He lets out a war cry; it attracts Storis' attention, making him turn his gaze away from the front line.

Sylas sidesteps the attack.

In his blind charge the recruit digs his weapon into the dirt.

Sylas stares at him, expecting the boy to regret his misguided attack, but he finds bloodshot eyes and foam bubbling out of his mouth.

The boy lets go of his spear and hurls his right fist at Sylas' face.

Sylas kicks the recruit in the stomach, sending him to the ground.

Storis rushes to them and crashes his foot on the boy's chest before he can stand up. He presses his spear on the recruit's collar before stopping himself. "He has been poisoned."

"I know," Sylas confirms, grabbing a rope. He grabs the boy's right arm and turns him over to bind his hands and legs together. "Go back to the others; they need you."

Storis glances around, searching for any other danger before returning to his position. He keeps an eye on Sylas and the boy, not truly returning his full attention to the battle.

Sylas realizes that remaining away from the fight puts them in danger, as it splits Storis' focus. Dragging his prisoner, Sylas comes near Storis. His eyes take in the sight of the battlefield where bodies lie bleeding before their line. It sickens him, the stench of blood enough to twist his stomach.

"Usually, it would be your role to command the squads and oversee the battle," Storis says without looking back. He turns his gaze to Jule as the boy edges the front line. "Jule, get back to your position! …And it would be my role to make sure the men-at-arms follow your strategy. Can you guess what the strategy is?"

Sylas takes a deep breath as he forces himself to tear his gaze away from the battlefield. "The wall keeps the frontline contained. And it stops untrained recruits from getting themselves killed by wandering into enemy lines. Walf is doing everything anyway. And the backline is to react quickly to enemies who would circle the wall."

"The squad held in the back would also drag wounded out of the main formation and reinforce it as necessary," Storis adds.

"You think we could lose someone?" Sylas asks.

"No, not as things are going. Their attack is too uncoordinated; it's a series of duels between one assailant and Walf." Storis looks back at the camp. "Jule and Gavriel, come here!"

The two boys run to their corporal. They are drenched in sweat despite not having fought anyone.

"Check the south side of the camp for enemies," Storis orders. "Do not engage. Sound the alarm and come back if you find anyone."

"Yes, sir," Gavriel confirms before they both leave for the tents.

"I'll join them. I'm of no use here," Sylas says, content to find an excuse to stop looking at the eviscerated assailants. He jogs behind the two men-at-arms before Storis can object.

Jule and Gavriel grab torches and light them with the central fire, holding them behind their shield. They move between the tents to reach the other side of the camp.

Sylas tries to think of what could be attacked in their camp. He sees the two recruits moving towards their supplies and concludes that only their wounded are at risk. Lifting the flap of his tent, Sylas checks on the two. He finds them deeply asleep despite the cacophony of the fight and lets them be.

"Nothing around our supplies, sir," Gavriel reports. He looks behind himself before turning on his heel. "Jule?!"

Sylas walks past Gavriel. He spots Jule's shield and torch in the mud. The straps are broken, torn from his forearm. "Go back to Storis: tell him we are under attack here too!"

"Yes… sir," Gavriel confirms hesitantly. Looking at the fallen shield, he stumbles towards the frontline. As he passes a tent, a spear juts out from behind and stabs the young man in the shoulder.

Gavriel raises his shield, deflecting a second thrust aimed at the head. He tumbles backward and falls on his ass, unbalanced by the blow.

Sylas jumps between Gavriel and the attacker; he slices the spear's shaft. Following his first attack, he swings his blade horizontally but stops, seeing the enraged face of Jule.

Jule swings his broken spear like a staff, bludgeoning Sylas' head. It doesn't have much of an effect, the wood splintering against Sylas' peak human constitution.

Sylas drags Jule inward by the broken spear's shaft and headbutts him. As Jule's staggers back, Sylas wrenches the shaft out of the boy's hands and sweeps his feet with it.

A shadow jumps out of the dark to Sylas' left. It thrusts a sword at his chest, aiming between his ribs.

Sylas brings his sword over his left arm to deflect the blow to behind himself. He jabs the spear shaft held in his left hand into the assailant's stomach, meeting scaled leather armor.

The attacker falls back into the shadows.

Jule rolls into a crouch and hurls himself at Sylas to tackle him. Foam drools out of his mouth as he growls like a rabid animal.

Sylas brings down the pommel of his sword onto Jule's skull, sending him unconscious to his feet. He hears a released bowstring and turns around. An arrow flies towards him, and Sylas contorts his body out of its path.

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Gavriel climbs to his feet and runs off in Storis' direction, glancing back at Sylas and Jule.

Taping his sword on his shoulder, the figure returns from the shadows to face Sylas. The night hides the man in front of Sylas, leaving only the edges of his clothes and his blade to be seen. He's tall and muscled but crouched forward with his knees slightly bent.

Sylas falls into his practiced stance, keeping himself out of his opponent's reach as they move. He keeps himself close to Jule while facing the direction the arrow came from. His heart hammers in his chest as his sight tunnels onto the man in front of him.

The opponent strikes first with a downward slash. Sylas pivots his stance, meeting the attack to guide the blows away from the center line and to the right. The stranger follows without pause with a short cut aimed at Sylas' thigh. Sylas' sword snaps down to shove the attack off course.

An arrow strikes Sylas in the chest. It flew straighter and faster than the earlier one, hidden from him by his opponent until it was too late. Sylas feels the impact but not the sting; he hopes his leather armor and gambeson stopped it.

Sylas' opponent presses forward; he strikes heavier as he draws on his Ether. Each impact numbs Sylas' wrists, but he meets each one with precise, expert deflections.

A misjudged horizontal cut from his foe gives Sylas an opening. His sword snaps into the other man's guard, cutting a gash along his right biceps and upper chest.

Blood sprays out, and the man staggers back, stunned by the ease with which Sylas' blade cut through his armor. His blade drops to the ground as he presses his left hand on his cut right arm.

Seeing the opening, Sylas follows up with a slash at the man's throat. He pulls back the blow, sickened by the idea of killing a man. He moves back, placing himself before Jule.

The figure runs off into the night, echoing pained breaths as he runs.

Storis appears with his squad, who carry torches in hand. They circle Sylas and Jules, their shields hefted to stop arrows. The corporal grabs Jule under the shoulder and lifts him to fall back towards the others.

"The fight to the north is over," Storis relays. He lays down Jule next to the first poisoned recruit as Walf and his squad join them.

A blast of fire lights up the night from where the supply cart lay. It rises into a column of black smoke, raining down wooden shards and blazing bags.

"Shields up!" Storis and Walf order at once. The recruits move as they obey, sheltering the wounded and Sylas from the rain of projectiles. They clatter against the wooden kite shield, spreading their ephemeral flames harmlessly.

"Wide formation!" Storis bellows, breaking the shield turtle into a spread line. "Forward!"

The group moves through the tents, covering each over. They check each one until they reach the other side and their annihilated supplies. Where the cart was, only a black smear smelling of burned oil and charcoal remains.

Storis exits the line to look at the camp's south edge with a torch – a jagged, unstable, sharp cliff. A trail of blood descends it, marking the path taken by Sylas' opponent.

"They are gone," Walf comments, looking at another set of fleeing prints. The boot marks follow a similar trajectory to the blood until they merge.

"Groups of three, search the camp for other enemies," Storis commands. The recruits, tired and sweaty, move quickly to follow the order.

Sylas wrenches out the arrow stuck in his armor. Relief comes as he doesn't see blood on the broadhead that comes out. However, he spots a purple, sticky substance dripping down from it. He tosses it and pushes the cotton of his gambeson back inside before using Mending. It sews the fibers back, leaving a mark where the arrow struck, but doesn't repair the leather armor. That, Sylas will have to fix himself.

One of Story's recruits comes to them before joining the search. He holds a sword by the flat of the blade before Sylas. "We found this where you fought, sir."

Sylas grabs the weapon to inspect it. It is crude, its blade damaged by nicks on the edge and small patches of rust. He turns it to shift his attention to the guard. It is as crude and uneven as the rest, but there is a wing motif carved into it. The thought nagging at him, Sylas comments, "I've seen this before, recently."

"The mercenaries in town have the same guard on their blades," Storis comments as he comes close. He looks back up at the recruit. "Anything else?"

"No, Sir," the boy answers. He joins the others without waiting any further.

"That doesn't feel right," Sylas comments. He tries to remember his fight as best as he can, but the vanishing adrenaline makes it hazy. "The man I fought wore scaled leather. It didn't resemble what Loren's group was wearing."

"We should question them anyway; it might give us a clue." Storis walks them to where the frontline was. Where lie the bloodied corpses of the men who attacked them.

Looking down at the bodies, Sylas notices that soot mars their faces, hands, and clothes. It also engrains the wooden handle of their axes. He picks up one of these and turns it around. It looks and feels like a tool and not a war axe.

"Coal makers," Storis says. He turns around one of the bodies. "I met this one once a year ago. Their camp is northeast of here, past Balmwood, alongside the river."

Sylas stares into the night as he realizes they killed civilians whose family likely lives in Balmwood. He stops acid from rising into his throat, convincing himself that the ones responsible are the monsters who drugged them. But the idea of informing their families terrifies him.

Storis places his hand on Sylas' shoulder, clearly thinking something similar. He looks back at the burned and scattered supplies. "Moving the bodies would be hard without a cart. But we need to bring them back to their families."

"I'll get working on that," Sylas says, welcoming the distraction.

Storis follows Sylas with his gaze, curious as to what he meant.

"Unarmed Combat leveled up (x2). Strategy leveled up. Melee Weapon (Improvised) leveled up (x2). Melee Weapon (long sword) leveled up (x3)," the system announces.

The sun rises over the horizon as Hawryn and Liliana run back to camp. They approach Sylas, who is assembling the last wheel of a new cart.

"What happened to the old one? Is that what exploded?" Liliana asks. She looks around, scanning the haunted faces for the recruits. "What happened, period?"

Sylas drives a nail to bind one of the curved metal plates he scavenged from the scattered remains of their first cart. He looks up, hurting his eyes with the morning light. "Someone used a poison that frenzied local coal makers to unleash them onto us. It was a distraction; their real troops burned our supplies."

Liliana looks around. "Was anyone wounded?"

"Thirteen dead civilians," Storis says as he approaches. "Two of ours were poisoned the same way. Cuts, bruises, and superficial wounds all around."

"How are they recovering from the poison?" Hawryn asks.

Storis nods towards one of the tents. "They have a fever, and they convulsed in the night. I'm not sure they are improving, but they are not getting worse."

"I'll go check on them and see if I can help," Hawryn says before leaving for the tent.

Liliana brushes her hand over the edge of the new cart. "Who attacked us?"

Sylas grabs the sword he left in a rug for her to see. "There is a group of mercenaries in Balmwood who use the same swords. The person who attacked us lost it when I fought him off."

"Well, that makes things easy," Liliana comments, taking the blade. "Guess the next step is to go have a talk with said mercenaries."

"I doubt it was them, but we'll ask them anyway." Sylas looks at her. "While you were away, we thought it would be best to move the camp into town. This hill is, as proved, hard to defend."

"If that's what you think is best," Liliana comments.

"Come on," Sylas begins. "We both know you are the one who makes the calls here."

"Technically you are the one in command, and I am supposed to shadow you to make sure you don't make too egregious mistakes," Liliana says.

"I'm too tired for jokes," Sylas grumbles. "What did you learn out there?"

"Nothing on the caravan's attack," Liliana answers. "But we did find a hunting camp; there are only three people there, guarding their packed catch."

"Oxblood colors?" Storis asks.

"Yes," Liliana confirms.

"That's the mercenaries I mentioned; officially they are hunting griffins." Sylas lifts the cart with his shoulder and slides the wheel onto its axle. He grabs the fourth skein scavenged from the old cart and hammers it in place.

Gavriel comes jogging with a bucket in hand. It sloshes with each step, threatening to spill. Drops splatter on the ground, ejected by the swinging motion.

"Don't run you –" Sylas stops himself from yelling. He closes his eyes to calm himself.

Gavriel places the bucket down in front of Sylas. It emits the strong smell of seed oil. "All done, sir."

"Right in time. Clean your workspace and go tell Walf to prepare for our departure," Sylas says. He takes a cloth and dips it into the liquid to start applying it to the wood. After applying several layers and testing the mobility of the cart, he finds himself satisfied with his work. "Enchanting."

Enchanting

This cart can hold one E rank enchantment.

Speak the name of the enchantment you want to bestow upon the cart. Enchantments may fail if attributed to slots of insufficient rank.

This cart, made from the ashes of its predecessor, yearns for the [Fireproof] enchantment.

"Are you seriously enchanting a cart?" Liliana asks.

"Fireproof," Sylas states. He turns his gaze to her. "With how little work I can get done, I better use every opportunity to grow my skills. And now that I'm done, it's time we move to Balmwood."

"Crafting (parts) leveled up. Engineering leveled up."


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