Vac Fadric lay on the cold, wet grass at the edge of the clearing. Eyes just beginning to flutter open, his eyes not yet clear, and hindered by tall grass, he could see the blurry outline of the remaining lower half of Captain Marthi. She had not lived long enough to fully draw her sword on the elderly Hearainan man who had pleaded for “Peace” as he had approached the small cavalry unit.

  As he thought about it, the young Private thought the man may have been advising Peace rather than requesting it, but now that was all useless speculation, as Vac Fadric could feel the ropes about his legs and wrists that bound him securely. He could barely see more than five paces from where he lay in tall grass. And he could hear yelling, and the sound of horses screaming in the crepuscular darkness that had fallen.

  There were more voices shouting than he would have thought, many of them very deep and louder than anyone he had ever heard yelling. So too, the sound of hooves on the compacted soil of the clearing was heavier and far outnumbered the horses in their own unit.

  Vac Fadric didn’t know what forces the Hearainan had brought with them, but it felt like his own small unit was well and truly outnumbered.

  More wriggling in his bonds as he lay on the grass offered him no further options. The cordage that held him was not stretching, no matter how he struggled. Not only could he not move his feet and his arms, when he attempted to test the bonds there was a tug and pull between his feet and his hands that told him of them being bound together as well, like a trussed calf, or colt.

  …Or a hog headed to slaughter…

  Turning his head awkwardly away from the gorey scene of what was left of Marthi that lay before him, he twisted and wriggled about until Vac Fadric saw the leather wrapped handle of the lance that Daunan had been carrying, the bleached leather standing in stark contrast to the darker wood that made up the body of the modified spear carried by all of the kingdom’s cavalry troops while on duty, standing up in the tall grass two strides away.

  Wriggling further, he could not feel the sword he had scrapped to his waist just before joining the captain to see what the old man wanted. As he twisted and squirmed in the tall grass, he could also not feel the reassuring weight of his belt knife. Those movements also confirmed to Vac Fadric that while his hands and feet were tied behind him and together, they confirmed to him that he was tethered to the earth itself. Possibly, he had been staked down.

  Whoever had done this was thorough, and hadn’t wanted to chase a tied up prisoner through the underbrush.

  The lance which he, himself, had been issued now lay back with his pack, at the small fire circle that had just been set up before they had been interrupted by the arrival of the old man in the loose brown robes. Along with his bow and two full quivers of arrows. No help there.

  If Daunan was still alive, he didn’t know where he was. Were Daunan dead, he luckily couldn’t see that body. Wherever he was, he had left his lance, and Vac Fadric needed it. His back was still mostly toward the lance, and so this was going to take some effort, and the breaking of an oath. Times being what they were, Lord Ashe would, Vac Fadric was certain, forgive him his broken oath.

  Vac Fadric was a Talent.

  Not an all powerful, genius Talent, like his mentor and tutor, Lord Ashe. But, because of that tutor, he was a very well trained Talent. Being able to use magic was a mixed blessing to most of those affected. It could be used, with extreme care and regular, rigorous training, to perform incredible things. It could also, if overused, or used carelessly, lead to tragedy.

  A significant portion of the populace felt it was a horrifying surprise to witness a person randomly change the world in sudden, sometimes lightning laden ways. Many believed that “Talents” had their abilities through terrifying pacts made with ungodly powers. Some blamed the users of possessing Hearainan Blood.

  Vac Fadric didn’t know if the “People of the Forest” could even successfully breed with humans or not. He had never heard of it happening outside of some story about an evil Talent raining woe and misery down upon the unsuspecting. Those stories, no matter how far-fetched they were, always centered around the evil Hearainan impregnating some “pure” village girl, and producing some child that grew up to be a force of evil and destruction. Utter bilge.

  According to Lord Ashe, the Hearainan tribes would take in human foundlings, which led to the Hearainan being accused of stealing children as often as not. But…

  That wasn’t the point, really.

  It was all fear based hogwash. More importantly, it wasn’t the point.

  The point was, he had sworn when he had enlisted that he would not use his Talent while in uniform. Lord Ashe had made him take an oath that any successes he had while in the military would be done with his mundane abilities. He would not resort to magic.

  They had agreed, it wouldn’t be fair to the other enlisted soldiers to have to compete against magic. Against a fully trained wizard.

  Lord Ashe might sneer at the idea of Vac Fadric thinking of himself as “trained trained,” rather than merely “Not a Danger To Himself…” But, Lord Ashe set bars of achievement very high. ANy other young Talent like Vac Fadric might be accorded the title of Wizard, or Mage, with the level of training he had received.

  …Or so I might say of myself… That may be a suspicious claim… Lord Ashe would laugh if I ever voiced such a claim, that was certain… his mind turned over the old gripe, making him grumble to himself as he twisted from one side to the other in the tall grass.

  But this, if anything, made for circumstances beyond the bounds of his oath.

  And so he closed his eyes, and applied his Will to his Talent in an attempt to retrieve the lance that stood in the grass mere paces away.

  Reaching out with the magic at his command, he could feel the texture of the wrapped handle, as though his hand held the weapon. Vac Fadric inhaled slowly, feeling the cool evening air cycle past his nostrils, noting the scents of turned earth, horses, and crushed grasses.

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  Along with those smells came other, less welcome, scents. The smell of blood being the most prominent among them. Pungent, tangy yet foul in his nostrils, rich in iron and copper but not the rich bloody smells that made his hunder arise around mealtimes, as much as the fetid scent of life when things have gone so horribly wrong.

  That same messy, meaty smell that reminded him of the last time he had seen his father and mother.

  In that instant of connected memories, his heart began beating faster and his brow suddenly broke out in a cold, sickly sweat. He could feel his power’s grip on the lance slip, and fade as he lost concentration.

  Panic began to set in.

  Faster beating of his heart made him feel like his entire body shook with the rhythm of the palpitations. It was making him mad. His face felt like it might light up from the increase in the heat of his cheeks and forehead.

  Vac Fadric knew this wasn’t a good way to respond, but he had always had a default reaction to stress, any kind of stress, by getting angry. Embarrassed? Angry. Confused? Angry. Afraid? Angry.

  His mentor, Lord Ashe chided him for it regularly. He hadn’t been nearly as good at hiding the anger as he thought he was, but wasn’t that all young men?

  Growling to himself, he imagined how Ashe would address his failures here. Then, more annoyingly, how Ashe would be right about him throwing a tantrum. Losing his center of calm. Losing the core of the character he had been attempting to sculpt of himself now for years. How Ashe might try to sooth his irate fit, and talk him down from his tantrum. Ashe would remind Vac Fadric that he was better than his own anger. That he could do better, be better.

  “Be as angry as you need to be, but do not let yourself become the man led by it.” His mentor and tutor often reminded him.

  The calming voice, ultimately, he had come to rely upon.

  He also knew he was being unfair to himself. He was not “having a tantrum.” He was just frustrated with himself as he lay in the tall grass. Tied up. Useless as the rest of his cavalry unit was possibly being slaughtered.

  Just that.

  He calmed himself then. The anger was still there, it just simmered in that back of his mind, a pot of angry tea he did not want to sip from yet. And worked to slow down his breathing again as he counted the timing of each inhale, the duration of each held breath, each exhale, and then too he counted each pause before he took a new breath.

  His brows kit with the realization of his stupidity.

  …that’s unkind… but true… he thought.

  Trying to use his Talent to grab a lance to free his hands… it was silliness out of a balladeer’s tale.

  With a small grunt, he pushed his Will through his Talent and sent as pure and solid a line of force as he could conjure, honed to a razor’s edge, through his bonds. With a POP of sudden release, and a rapid unintended readjustment of his limbs, the ropes that held him were sliced to flinders, and the short, shorn fluff of the exploded cordage now drifted about him like dandelion seeds on a breeze. Whatever kind of rope they had used to bind him, he didn't recognise it.

  Now lying face down in the grass, he took a moment to let the blood flow back through his abused shoulders, wrists and ankles, as he thought of his next move. His wrists and ankles both sang with the renewed circulation, and the pain of blood returning made his eyes water. Vac Fadric didn’t know if it was tears brought on by the sudden pain, or by the sudden relief. Pushing himself up on his still tingling hands, circulation just newly restored, he looked to where he had heard the sounds of fighting and screams.

  Over the haze of the grassy field, he could see the small camp his unit had begun to set up was in ruins and beset by chaos as a motley assemblage of people, some afoot, and others mounted, attacked the remaining members of the little cavalry unit.

  Standing now, his legs shaking over feet only now losing their numbness, Vac Fadric stepped over to Brick’s lance where it remained planted in the earth. Giving the weapon a tug, he dislodged the long grass and plant detritus that had covered the body of Daunan where he had been tied to the ground with what had to be the same tightly wound cordage Vac Fadric didn’t recognise but had been used on himself, and then the larger boy had been impaled there on the ground with his own lance.

  Vac Fadric stared at his friend.

  Vac Fadric wanted to scream.

  Vac Fadric wanted to cry.

  Briefly, Vac Fadric wanted to run. To pick a direction and take flight as fast as his feet would carry him, off into the dark forest. The darkness of the trees offered him shelter, if he would just run into that ebony maw.

  But, then…

  Looking over to where the remaining members of his unit fought, seeing men with horned heads, men with racks of antlers, fur-faced men striped like cats, and brindled patterned pelted men all threatening his people. His unit. Vac Fadric took a halting step toward the little war that had broken out. And then another, realizing now that what he wanted was to defend. And if he must, then he would kill.

  Seeing Captain Seema riding his gelding at a hard gallop about, amongst, and through the enemy fighters, he could see the man slashing through arms and shoulders, and even heads as he rode. The man was experienced at fighting from horseback, he not just a parade ground rider, as some officers he had seen in Gibiril Keep over the years. Seema’s sword weaved, and swayed gracefully through the damp night air to great effect.

  At no point did he attempt to hack through the limbs of those he faced, his purpose was to slash, and slice, and bleed his foes. Incapacitation through blood loss, sliced muscles, and severed ligaments was his game here. It also explained why he wasn’t using one of the lances they had all been issued.

  Most lance work was a thrust, a stab, and then it was usually abandoned as it stuck in the body of a fallen enemy.

  …like Brick… his traitorous mind offered, making his steps falter as he ran.

  Coming closer to the fighting, running in a crouch, he could see that Corporal Klee had gotten the other Privates to take up their bows, and form a ring around the small fire pit they had been digging before this had all gone so horribly wrong. They had their bows, and as Seema rode circles and double rings about them, the Privates and Klee picked off those unfortunates who approached.

  At the opposite treeline, Vac Fadric could see several more attackers emerging and coming at his camp mates at loping runs. Closing in, forcing himself to run harder, Vac Fadric could see a man in a familiar brown robe. The Hearainan man who had just begun to turn toward the sound of Vac Fadric’s movements through the knee-high tall grass.

  He raised the lance, centering the spade-bladed tip on the man’s torso as he moved across the field. Closer, he had begun to center his Will, concentrating on drawing the tip of the lance toward the heart of the man who had started the entire confrontation. His Talent, while potent, had never been at the upper limits of what some Mages could achieve and so Vac Fadric had to work even hard on finesse and intricacy. He could feel that the spell he had been trying to weave about the head of the lance had just caught, and had begun to pull that still blood soaked tip straight toward the heart of the man in that loose brown robe.

  He had just a fraction of a heartbeat to catch in his peripheral vision a dark shape coming at him from off to his right in the dark night before all vision was lost, and consciousness fled with a painful impact and the distinctive sound of bony flesh of a large fist striking the hard side of a young man’s head just behind his right ear.

  And into insensate darkness he fell once again.