The Final Storm (Part 3)

The Commander is Dead

Screams.

            Horrible screaming rent the night as fire shot up like a geyser, its hungry tendrils tickling the dark sky. Fwoomp! Another blaze shot into existence not one hundred yards from where Lauri was perching. As she watched, the men stumbled out of their burning tents, clumsily grabbing their weapons to defy the attackers. Some were on fire. Others lay, dead, their burned bodies still smoking.

            It was a brilliant plan, really. Lauri would never admit it to the Commander of the Army though. The Vulnairians had camped in the little dip of meadow, surrounded by the great oak trees ten miles north of Baroke. They had thought that it would be easier to defend themselves in an open place, but what they didn’t realize that the trees held ample shadow to envelop the predatory eyes of Barokian braves. Right now, literally one hundred of them had just jumped out of the forest to block the escape of the Vulnairians fleeing the flames.

            But what had made those flames?

            It was simple, hilariously deadly. A lean, ugly goat had been drenched in Thistle’s amazing version of Greek fire. With a small spark and a very surprised goat, it was sent running into the camp, setting fire to everything in sight. Lauri leaned forward, her eyes searching the camp. The fires still blazed strong, but they weren’t spreading as they should have. Lauri shook her head grimly. Ryan had said that the fire wouldn’t kill the animal immediately, that it would rampage through the whole camp before it succumbed to the heat. But he had been wrong. And now the whole rest of the camp was alerted of their presence.

            The Commander-in-Chief seemed to notice also and the twittering call of the paradise bird echoed through the forest. In response to his call, the rest of the Barokian braves burst from cover to attack while they still had the element of surprise.

            Lauri frowned. This couldn’t be right. How much land did the fire actually cover? She climbed nimbly higher up the tree, her deerskin boots not making a noise against the bark. She grunted before heaving herself onto a wide bough, sliding her legs over the side and narrowing her eyes against the glare. She was shocked at what she saw. Six tents. Six pitiful tents had gone up in flame. And the tents were placed so far from one another that the rest were free from the blaze. But there was something else. Her glowing eyes intensified as she focused in closer. The rest of the tents billowed in the wind, their cheap fabric belying their lack of occupants. Her eyes widened. It had been a trap!

            Like a nimble mountain goat, she hopped down thirty feet to land softly on the leaves. “IT’S A TRAP!” she screamed, racing towards the braves. “Retreat! Retreat!” Her legs flying faster than any human’s, she rocketed to the Commander-in-Chief, who had plunged his spear into the stomach of a Vulnairian with grim satisfaction pulling at his strong jaw. “Ripley!” Lauri hissed from behind him, alerting him of her presence.

            Ripley twisted around, his grey eyes lighting up in anger. “Lauri, what are you doing here? This is not your mission, dragon-woman.”

            “Shut up and listen to me, you block-headed fool.” Lauri felt like slapping him across his whole face. “It’s a trap. Tell your men to retreat or we’ll all be-”

            A bugle sounded, it’s rustic cry booming in everyone’s ears.

            Ripley’s eyes widened. “Retreat!” he roared, jerking his spear out of the Vulnairian’s stomach to wave it in the air. “Run, fools, run!”

            Lights topped the small hill over the fake encampment. Like thousands of pairs of eyes, they glowed with dim affirmation and struck cold fear in the pit of every Barokian brave’s stomach. They turned tail and ran.