Seeking the Veil, Part 2

Time to Die

Hestea ran alongside Gunter Krause, a magi of the Order, of his Order. The war hammer was solid in Hestea's hand, the head shimmered as if polished and new. Breath ran through his lungs in great heaves, the battle was all around: smoke and fire, smell of blood, crash of blades, shouts of men and the cries of death.

Hestea wasn't sure if he felt more alive than any other time in his life or more afraid. This is what I wanted. Then he leveled his hammer, swinging it at the back of an enemy soldier, blade raised high. The blow shook his arm, he nearly tripped, but the soldier crumpled and the mercenary before him laughed and saluted Hestea as he passed. "Cookboy!"

It was no longer his name, but they had not yet heard.

Gunter glanced to Hestea, his eyes burning with the fire of Quan, irises lost to the power. Light erupted from his hands, pouring out as fire, scouring the hillside and bursting through black soldiers.

"Hah!" Hestea yelled. They would win.

"I saw you run to me," called Gunter over the roar of his own power and the cacophony of battle. Sweat still covered his face, and he was pale beneath the flush in his cheeks.

Hestea held out his hand and the two slowed, moving further up the slope of ice and snow as Orangebeard howled atop a wagon; sliding down the hill, axes swinging as he mowed through a score of the enemy.

Was he laughing?

Hestea shook his head. Yes, he had run to Gunter. That dark magus, the bloody Sacraith, had held his fell powers over Gunter, ready to strike the last. Ready to kill. And Gunter had seemed...helpless.

How could he not have gone to Gunter?

But no thanks were needed, they fought together now in Orangebeard's Band. And we are both of the Order. The Order of Aeongard. And for once in his life, Hestea did not feel entirely repugnant at the thought of his home.

You're welcome, he started to say, lips parted, then froze as Gunter's brows had drawn down, the white fire of his eyes accusing. "Do not be a fool, Hestea. You can not fight Sacraith. Keep your distance."

Then he turned and struck down a Saeordin soldier, massive sword lodged in a mercenary of the Band. The two went down in each other's arms, one clad in black iron and leather, the other with red braids in his beard and blood blooming across his chest.

"You're welcome?" Hestea stared after the magus, tall and lean, dark hair pulled back, into a single, long braid.

Below, on the slope, Orangebeard and a group of others laid waste to the enemy. Gunter ran his own way blasting with angry tosses of his hands.

"Fool," muttered Hestea, "you don't fight alone." Then he looked around as he shook his head. "Shit."

Hestea set off at a run downhill, the icy wind of the mountains biting through his wool, and scouring his cheeks. It was a mild day in Beckenburg, the day early as the gray sun cleared the horizon, casting its feeble light across a slab of clouds.

He turned to the side, angling for the small group of mercenaries, leapt a crop of rock, calling Orangebeard as he sailed along. Then a shimmer of morning light fell across the hill and Hestea's foot hit a strip of solid ice that glittered. Mouth dropping open, Hestea slid, pushed out his hands to stop; and tumbled and rolled down the hill. Snow flashed by his face; sky, rock, and mud.

"Ow." He came to a stop, the world still spinning. He was at the base of the slope, the Band's smoking camp far above. A cold stream ran near, fir and pine rising from the valley floor. Hestea shook his head, palms gripping the cold, wet earth. A mangled Saeordin corpse lay next to him.

"Looks like you fell, too." At least Hestea wasn't the only one. "Urgh. 'Course you might have been pushed." Hestea blinked, feeling at his extremities — fingers flexed, toes wiggled. He was intact.

The enemy's mouth was slack, eyes vacant, black armor run with red, sword clutched in still hands. Hestea stared at a large nose and angular eyes, cheeks shaved nearly smooth. He looked young.

"You're not so terrifying..." In death. Hestea swallowed, looking away. Something moved and Hestea's heart jumped. He closed his hand on the dead man's sword and swung it up in a sloppy chop.

A black soldier with a scowl on his lips and a cleft chin towered over Hestea, clouds swirling overhead, his sword a black thorn piercing the sky. The blades met with a clang, Hestea's arm shaking at the bad angle. Steel squealed, then Hestea shoved back with his feet, grabbed his hammer from the ground and rolled to the side as the Saeordin blade crunched cold dirt. Leaping back again, Hestea firmed his grip on the sword with his left and held Ulyn's hammer in his right. Another Saeordin joined the first, they nodded and circled to each side. Hestea glanced round. He was alone.

"Time to die, Becken," said the one on the left, his mouth a sneer of contempt, his accent strong, voice hard.

The enemy were not men. Men could be reasoned with, men could be talked to. No... He understood the fear of some now. And now, more than ever, he felt his ire rise. The Order had a purpose — a purpose unfulfilled. And in their stead he stood. He was of the Order, he was their envoy and he would not retreat before the enemy. He would not back down before their very cause.

And I have the power. Memory flashed back to the mess tent. Ten Saeordin flying away, crumpling before him, dying. The memory was in fits and bursts, but it had happened. And the power would come again. "Come on, then!" he shouted in their faces, spittle flying as he shook his weapons, trodding on the cold soil, gravel crunching. The two soldiers smiled, exchanged a glance and advanced.

Run. The thought was a whispered shout, and not his. Hestea ignored it as he swung the hammer, then jabbed with the sword, the Saeordin batting away his weapons. One snickered, while the other laughed.

They would not laugh long. The power was coming. The veil of white. It had happened just minutes before, up the slope. 

His pulse was in his ears, loud and thumping. Hestea felt the rush of adrenalin nipping at his every move. Soon the cloud of white, the fog of battle, the sparking energy would cross his vision. Soon he would kill these fools.

"Where is it?" he muttered, eyes dancing as he lunged to the side, metal ringing as he pulled back the sword. Where is the bloody power?

The first soldier shook his head, looked to his fellow then moved away. "Kill him." Then he ran toward a pitched battle without a further glance back.

Hestea blinked, then leapt forward, curling his lips back as he swung his hammer. The Saeordin ducked the blow, his own blade lashing out. Razor agony lit along Hestea's thigh as the blade ripped a hole in the boiled leather. He stumbled, teeth grit and hit the ground, blade flying from his hand. Where is the bloody— 

The Saeordin leapt forward, a flying shadow of death.

"Oh shit!" Hestea rolled, scrambled to his feet, blood soaking his trousers as he ran, the Saeordin tight on his heels.