The First Spell

Battle in the Valley

The column of troops writhed like a gigantic, black serpent. At the front, light cavalry ranks marched, clinking their chainmail and horseshoes. Behind them, infantry plodded through the softened earth, cursing under their breath at the timing of the sorcerer's command to march. At the very end, riding a huge, horned lizard with long fangs dripping with poisonous venom, the somber Morath was accompanied by his mages. Anxiety raged in his thoughts as he looked ahead to the approaching resolution. Shizar's presence was an unpleasant surprise. The sorcerer did not want to admit it even to himself, but the power and determination demonstrated by his older brother filled him with fear. He looked ahead at the hundred thousand soldiers trudging through the mud and smiled maliciously. Shizar was in for an unpleasant surprise. The sorcerer increased the strength of his protective spells, investing energy that many a wizard accumulates throughout their life. Now they should withstand the white mage's onslaught long enough to give Morath time to strike a lethal blow. Shizar was a disciple of the old school, which did not use active protective spells, considering them an unacceptable waste of energy. Focused on breaking the barrier around the sorcerer, he would not have time to simultaneously weave a sufficiently strong counter-spell.

"Goodbye, little brother," he thought with hatred.

One more thought troubled him. Who was Prince Kirsthan? It seemed that Shizar had assumed his form to lure him into a trap in those ruins. But why didn't he wait for the decisive battle that was bound to happen soon? Then, the consequences of the sorcerer's escape would have been incomparably greater. He did not suspect that those few tens of thousands of starving rebels could defeat his great army, but they could inflict significant enough losses to delay the invasion of Deimar for another five years and embolden other lands to revolt. That would be highly undesirable.

He expected to crush the rebels within two weeks, and then move his troops north to crush the still-resisting barbarians. His flying scouts had informed him of the likely location of the enemy's camp. For some time now, in that area, maghors had been disappearing, and Zariathan scouts sent on reconnaissance missions had not returned to their units.

***

A fierce wind blew over the hidden fortress. It rattled the partially closed doors of an earthen hut and howled among the sharpened stakes lining the walls of the mountain stronghold. The soldiers practicing hand-to-hand combat in the main square greeted the refreshing gust with joyful shouts. Suddenly, the wind changed direction. A pile of last year's leaves lying in the center of the training ground swirled furiously. The astonished soldiers watched as two tall figures emerged from the chaos. A murmur of unease rolled through the ranks of men, but they bravely stepped forward a few paces, weapons raised, toward the two hooded figures. Then the wind died down, and the shorter visitor threw back his hood and said angrily:

"Is this how you treat my order for silence? You can be heard a hundred paces away!"

"Prince! My lord!" Shouted one of the soldiers.

"Summon the colonel!" Called another.

"What sort of order is this?" Kirsthan fumed, not bothering to explain who his tall companion was. "Do you think Morath's scouts won't hear the clanging of weapons? And won't they be puzzled by the fact that it's coming from inside the peak? It's as if you're announcing to everyone that our camp is hidden here!"

A heavy silence fell. It was broken by the arrival of the colonel.

"What an incredible arrival, my lord!" He greeted the prince with a low bow. "Who is your noble companion, Prince?"

"Why did you ignore my order for silence?" Kirsthan glared at him angrily.

Saenter did not show even a trace of embarrassment.