The Red Lance

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 5 DAY 26

Dramien ducked low and took a sharp turn as arrows whistled past his mount. With the net tightening, it was only a matter of time before a stray quarrel found his horse. Leaping over a fence, he galloped over the wheat, his stomach churning with each step. To think he once punched Cabron for the same offence.

Climbing onto his saddle, Dramien vaulted atop a ramshackle barn before diving into the wheat fields. Before long, the cursing and yelling faded from his earshot. This only drove Dramien to greater speed. He was heading home for an item, and he’d like to believe that his unit was competent enough to have set an ambush.

Like a hare racing for cover from a falcon, Dramien crossed the open flatland and scaled the backyard fence. Vera had insisted on a taller barrier after she caught village children climbing in to steal their apples. This obstacle was now his cover. Smiling, Dramien plucked a fruit and chomped it down. Out of season, bitter and sour, it was the best thing he’d tasted in months.

Nearing their house of modest masonry, Dramien pressed himself against the wall. He counted two pairs of footsteps stomping about the front yard. Fortunately, they didn’t know about the broken backdoor. Vera had complained about it for weeks in her letters. He reached for the handle and the door gave way. He was a bad husband.

He slipped inside, careful to avoid every creaky floorboard as he made for the cellar. The aroma of cheese and dried meat had Dramien reaching for a bite only to catch himself. He spun around, expecting to see Vera at the staircase, arms on hips and brows furrowed in false anger. Sighing, he collected a key dangling by the door and unlocked a lacquered trunk in the corner.

If the Gilverman ever had an heirloom, this would be it. A scarlet spear, glowing bright in the dim basement, forged in the enchanted foundries of Immortrium. Kerroth insisted on this gift as Vera’s dowry, claiming the material to be the spine of a dead giant he found during his eastern travels. The sinister radiance and its weight made Dramien resent the weapon, until now.

With a stony face, he confronted the two templars watching his home. The pair hoisted their blue hammers high and advanced on Dramien. The leading man, sniggering, twirled his weapon, sending a gust that tossed about Dramien’s golden locks.

“We meet again, Gilverman,” he sneered. “I told you then you’d regret it. Look at you now. A traitor, a heretic, a gutter rat. Let me end your misery –”

Dramien charged, his spear thrust a scarlet lightning bolt. The templar had not even the time to wipe away his smug smirk when a red geyser erupted from his throat. He staggered back, and with a thud, fell over dead. Spinning around with a sweeping slash, Dramien gutted his dumbfound partner, splashing blood onto a flowerbed of white lilies.

Staring at the two templars now nourishing his garden, Dramien pondered his next move while catching his breath. He did not expect sore shoulders from merely two strikes. He narrowed his eyes at the spear. The weapon had dried, as if it had sponged the blood.

He heaved an audible sigh and shook his head. “Dad, what Goddess-forsaken reliquary have you given me?”

He barked a cheerless laugh and realised how accustomed he had grown to Ruxian’s omnipresent company. The silent wisp on his shoulder now informed his next move. It was time to find where they held his formless friend. Too much of the operation hinged on the spectral hypnotist. For now, he would lie low and wait for the cover and chill of the night. With that, he vaulted over the backyard fence and vanished into the wheat field again.

With much of the militia combatting mysterious fires to the north, Dramien proceeded undisturbed through the golden acres. Had the wheat not tickled his face, he might have even fallen asleep. Once the sun to had travelled over the horizon and the sky had turned as red as spear, Dramien climbed to his feet.

He strayed from the main roads, weaving from one farm to the next. For some reason, the cavalry was absent, leaving but torch-wielding militia for him to sneak past. As he drew close to the church, the density of wheat fields dropped while prowling trios of templars grew more prevalent. In hindsight, killing the pair in his garden might have been a poor decision.

Dramien still recalled his disappointment when the local church found him void of magical affinity, forever barring him from joining the templars. Now, that shortcoming had become a blessing. The warrior priests may excel at detecting psychic pulses, but had neither ears nor eyes for footsteps. With only the shadow as his cover, Dramien trailed them undetected. Much to his surprise, they led him to an unassuming shack to the outskirt. The number of hammers guarding the building told Dramien all he needed to know.

Dramien, that you? The wisp on his shoulder glowed a jovial yellow. Are you out there?

Dramien nodded. “I’m looking at a house surrounded by at least a dozen templars.”

“Captain Gilverman,” Susie whispered into the wisp. “Can you distract them?”

Out of old habit, Dramien counted heads as he circled the compound from afar. Just when he began despairing at the tight formations, the hammers and the staves dimmed, infesting the templars with panic. Within moments, Lyrica leapt through her shady veil, bringing both her blades down, splitting a pair of skulls with two sickening squelches. A group of mages lifted their rods only for their spells to scatter into sparks. Horns flashing with each disrupted spell, Lyrica chortled at the Targonian enchanters.

“What’s wrong?” she taunted. “Can’t take the horn of a real warrior?”

A templar broke rank with a howling charge. He never made it within five paces of the Dracon. Lyrica landed a combination to the elbow, knee, shoulder, then the face. Bigger and stronger than Naya, her midrange flurry mercilessly hacked down her foe. Dramien smirked. These men didn’t even know the reach of the garash.

The templars fanned out, forming a ring around Lyrica, who shuffled back while her garash hissed like two steel serpents. Three men charged in unison, forcing the Dracon onto her back foot. Dramien rushed to her aid when a mage lifted his glittering rod and conjured a blinding fireball. This time, Lyrica’s horn remained dull. With the hammers hounding her, she could no longer keep the spellcasters in check.

Dramien turned, or rather, his weapon dragged him onto the mages. With impossible agility, the knight pounced on the back rank. The spear seemed to hum with each thrust, relishing the taste of blood and flesh. Dramien had slain three men when the casters trained their rods on him. In that instant, Dramien saw, with vivid detail, the feather encased in the crystals. Everything, including himself, moved unbearably slow.

Then the house door burst open. Naya, having crawled to the building during the chaos, kicked down the woodwork with a shrill cry. Ruxian shot out, smothering the templars with his ethereal body. Devouring the light with his dark mass, Ruxian unleashed a psychic screech that forced the Dracons to plug their ears, smashing through his captors’ mental fortresses like a rock hurtling into a pane of glass. A cacophony of clanging followed as the templars dropped their weapons. Heads hung low, arms limp, and drooling, they were out on their feet.

I haven’t got long. Ruxian whimpered, trying to form words as his thoughts slowed. We need to…go.

Susie emerged from the house and held out her lamp. Ruxian, with his final strength, clambered into the makeshift shelter. His senses faded until everything was black, but not before he overheard a bone-chilling announcement from Dramien.

“Kill them.”