Soul Fire

Soul Fire - Chapter 33

They forded the river at daybreak, after which they marched more north than east, due to the farms at the very edge of the valley having borne the brunt of the invasion. The enemy had been methodical. The northeastern settlements were ablaze, their flames now clearly visible, with smoke wafting from the fresh corpses of houses - the blackened skeletons of wood collapsing in plumes of choking dust when their strength finally failed.

"They came from the mountains."

Salidon's outstretched hand pointed with his words. Malithas nodded.

"It is as I feared, Salidon. It is not greed that drives them, but a darker purpose. They are not here to loot, but to destroy all. They wish to return the valley of the ancient volcano to the ashes of its birth."

Grim determination masked the faces of the men who strode across the last safe stretch of their homeland. As the fires drew closer, the first sightings of the enemy were made. Inhuman shapes leaped and raced between gutted buildings. Men who had sold their souls to evil searched corpses, and then, there were others.

"Halt here. Make a line, axes to the front and spears behind. Do not break ranks or chase their wounded!"

Malithas paced his horse behind the hastily assembled men. Now, above all other times, Dathion did not recognize his mentor. Instead, he saw a general.

There was no separation of time, no defining moment. No one would be able to recall with precision when preparation became battle.

They were seen.

Their enemies broke from their distractions, converging from seemingly everywhere. Some of the men and boys of the valley broke with fear. A number stood frozen in the iron grip of terror, while yet others pushed back toward the center of their ranks, seeking the shelter of braver men.

Most stood firm.

Those that did, drank deeply of the wells of hatred flooding their veins.

Their foes raced through the mud-trodden field - the last patch of earth that separated their forces. A man with twin, wickedly curved swords led their charge. Salidon's crossbow sang, a dirge promising grievous wounds, or death. The man's legs buckled and his head snapped back. A fountain of blood erupted from his throat, blossoming along the shaft of the bolt that had impaled him.

Salidon was not finished, his practiced hands pulling levers and loading his weapon faster than an archer could draw arrows from a quiver.

The second of Salidon's bolts twisted the body of a man who hoisted an ax with crazed fervor. His fingers still twitched as he fell, a denial of the truth that life no longer sustained them. Just as the men of the valley had shown fear in the proceeding moments before the fight, uncertainty quavered through a number of their foes.

Malithas had been clear. Their horses were to be their advantage, but one played with considered timing. His instructions had been to let the groups engage, then spur their horses to the flanks when their enemies were already absorbed in the fight.

Dathion knew the plans of Malithas were always sound. The strategy made sense. For the sake of a small delay, the Asillian steeds could wreak havoc, destroying morale and decimating their enemies.

But Dathion could not watch boys die.

He turned his head away from the carnage as the air became split by the sickening orchestra of battle. Metal rang in harsh notes as blows came together. Dozens of raised voices yelled and shrieked. A confusion of sounds melded, as screams mixed with roars of unbridled fury. The bodies and faces of men twisted, only the ensuing moments revealing whether the man would fall as the slain, or be the one to strike the killing blow. Some paused, a fatal moment of indecision, unwilling to take the life of a man who claimed theirs as answer to the reprieve.