Into The Fray (A Summoner FanFic)

Rikard thought he had seen everything when it came to demons. He had seen the Mites that the weak summoners used to often devastating effectiveness. He had seen the occasional Canids and Felids, ripping apart warriors in leather armor with ease. He had even seen a large Golem, its guttural roar shattering men's spirits, before its rocky fists broke their fragile bones. Perhaps the rarest demon he had seen had been a Minotaur, its massive form highlighted against a rising red sun as it ripped men limb from limb. These were all the demons that he had seen in his time on the elvish front. Nothing could have prepared him for what awaited him on the orcish front. Nothing could have prepared him for the horror of fireballs arcing out of the midnight sky, landing among men and burning a few alive, but leaving other men to suffer agonizing burns before the orcish demons came to kill the survivors, assuming that the orcish spears had not already eliminated the poor men that had stood up to do battle. 

The muskets that the dwarves had created had helped to even the battlefield, but everywhere Rikard looked, he saw young boys who had never felt the warmth of a woman, hardened criminals who ignored orders and died in droves. He also saw the occasional dwarf, shunned by his peers, working harder than any in his unit. But then Rikard saw them. The summoners that were attached to his small army were noticeable. They were often nobility, their demands often outrageous, but there was one group of summoners that were different. These were common born men and women, but there was something different about them. When the battalion would cease marching and start setting up camp, this group of summoners would be right in the middle of the hot and dirty work, helping to dig the trenches, putting up the spikes to prevent any charges, putting up the palisade walls. They did this without complaint, and, surprisingly, without the aid of their demons. The first time this happened, Rikard couldn't believe his eyes. 

The noble born summoners were always a couple of hours behind the main force, riding in their foolish carriages and setting up lavish tents and wasting precious food supplies on extravagant meals for themselves. These summoners often carried their tents and cooking equipment on their backs, marching in time with the rest of the main force. When they finished setting up camp, one of them, whom Rikard knew as Tyreus, would always ask his fellow summoner Flamma if he was in the mood for a little song. Rikard didn't know why, but whenever Flamma played his different instruments, the whole camp seemed drawn to him, Rikard included. It was often a festive time, and as a result, morale improved every time the strangely talented summoner began a song. 

But there would be times when none of the small group of ten was heard from, even when they were marching next to other soldiers who tried to carry on a conversation. They all looked forward, but their eyes never seemed to see anything. Sometimes they would start nodding, while other times their heads would shake back and forth in concert. No one knew what that meant, but whenever someone asked, Tyreus would just grin, and say something about neuropathic connections evidenced through mana. No one was sure what that meant, so the questions eventually stopped. 

It had been quiet for the past couple of days, a fact that Rikard did not like. He knew that somewhere, the orcs were grouping up for some kind of an assault. Rikard had forward scouts out roving in cyclical patterns, ready for even the slightest chance that the orcs would somehow find a weak point and exploit it. He had already heard the rumors among his men of an albino orc that was rallying the other clans, but he hadn't seen any sign yet of such organization. Whenever his forces had "accidentally" discovered another war band of orcs, and had lured the two into close proximity, those orcs had decided that their own kin were more suitable targets, and had gone into battle against each other, ignoring the fragile humans in interest of greater combat. 

As Rikard was thinking that, he suddenly heard an orc war horn blare. Shouting orders to his lieutenants, he attempted to find the invaders, only to realize that the war horn was not a singular horn. Three horns, blown at exactly the same time, gave away the position of three separate war bands, each orc in them howling for the blood of his men. As he looked back towards the direction that the noble-born summoners were riding a couple hours behind them, he felt two emotions clear as the summer sky above them. Rage was chief among them, as he watched his men die to orcish spears and magic, coupled by a deep sorrow, as he realized that none of his men would live to see another dawn.