The tale of the Heroes is one of extraordinary tenacity and resilience, particularly when you consider that their number was a mere ten. Among them was a cleric, bound by sacred vows from bearing arms, and a courtier, whose proficiency with a sword left much to be desired. Against formidable odds, they persevered through skirmishes with ruthless bandits and relentless ambushes orchestrated by the fanatical followers of Cull. These confrontations were not merely unfavorable; the Heroes faced adversaries who outnumbered them by three to one, and on occasion, as much as five to one. Despite these overwhelming challenges, the Heroes prevailed, driven by their diverse talents and unique strengths. Each member’s distinctive nature contributed to their collective triumph, enabling them to endure the perils and ultimately emerge victorious in that fateful cavern for their final showdown. – Scholar Den Dal, answer to student question during her seminar, “Lessons From The Heroes’ Journey”
MARTEEN
Marteen closed his eyes as the squire dumped the water bucket over his head. The sudden chill was refreshing. Marteen hated wearing crystal. The heavy armor slowed him down. Even during the Reclamation War, Marteen only wore hardened leather. Damn Sonya for insisting he wear the suit. Worse, he knew she was right for insisting. Marteen couldn’t stay in the back directing the combat like Pallus. If he was going to be in the fight, he might as well be a beacon to his troops. It didn’t make the armor any easier to wear. A waterskin was thrust into one hand with an odd food in the other. It was two pieces of toasted bread with a slab of ham in between. Marteen smelled onions and mustard.
“What’s this?” he asked the squire.
“A panino,” the boy answered. “It’s Mareian.” Marteen took a bite. Not bad. Simple and tasty. Why hadn’t an elf come up with something like this? Marteen wolfed down the food and washed it down with a long swig from the waterskin. Damn – just water. Kurt and Sonya were making sure he wouldn’t get a drop of anything stronger. It was just as well. He didn’t need drink to keep his memories from haunting him. Killing the bastards who murdered Ela did that just fine.
“Here you are,” Kurt said, exasperated.
“Why are you so annoyed at me?” Marteen asked.
“You’re supposed to be leading the defense of the Outer City,” Kurt said.
“I am leading the defense.”
“How? You’ve been too busy fighting to do any leading,” Kurt countered.
“I need to be in the middle of it,” Marteen said. “I need to be out there. I need to feel the flow of the fighting if I’m going to know how to fight these bastards.” Kurt let out a long breath.
“Feeling the flow of the battle is all fine and good, but you’re not making decisions out there. You’re just fighting,” Kurt said, “Dalan is moving people around to plug the gaps, but he doesn’t have your experience in real combat. He thinks like a constable, not a soldier.”
“Dalan’s doing fine. We’re holding the Pursits,” Marteen said. Kurt grabbed the front of Marteen’s armor and yanked the elf down to his face.
“I know why you want to be out there, but Princess Illana ordered you to lead the defense, and you told that girl you would do so.”
“I made a mistake!” Marteen yelled at Kurt. “I thought I could stand back and direct like Pallus, but I can’t.” Marteen growled with frustration. He couldn’t explain to his friend how much he needed to feel the Purists fall under his swords, watch them die, and know he was paying back the debt he owed to Ela for leaving her in that place to be killed by these monsters.
“Hero Madrigal!” yelled one of the squires, pointing at a pair of bloody constables staggering into the square. Marteen and Kurt walked over to the two men as others brought healing supplies.
“Hero Madrigal, the Purist musketeers broke through,” reported the less injured constable as he dragged his comrade into the square. “The humans are slowing them down, but they’ve pushed through our companies at Anolim Street.” Marteen nodded at the news and motioned Kurt off to the side. The dwarf looked grim, but he always looked that way during a battle. Dwarves always thought the world was caving in on them.
“If the Purists are already at Anolim, they will roll us up to the wall before we can stop them,” Kurt said. Why did Kurt always have to state the obvious? Marteen gambled the Edess Kul wouldn’t risk her musket-armed troops in the mess of the Outer City. Well, that turned out wrong, so now it was time to try another gamble.
“Get the firebrands over here,” Marteen ordered one of the squires. The boy sprinted out of the square.
“Why under the God of Iron would you want those fools?” Kurt asked. “We pulled them off the line because they were causing problems.” Marteen smiled at Kurt. The dwarf didn’t understand. Marteen didn’t pull them because of the complaints. He pulled the firebrands because he wanted to save them for an occasion like this.
“Kurt, tell Dalan to regroup as many constables as he can around Mill Street,” Marteen said, “Axe will need to pull the volunteers out of Marketplace to shrink the line enough. He’s not going to like it, but at least we’ll have another dozen blocks or so before hitting the Wall.”
“Why am I telling them and not you?” Kurt asked.
“Because I’m taking the firebrands and stopping those troops.” Much to Marteen’s surprise, Kurt didn’t even argue.
One of the nice things about having Dalan directing things was that the old constable understood the need for clear avenues for moving around. Although, it was still slightly disturbing to see the normally bustling streets of the Lisandra completely deserted. Marteen led the firebrands towards the sound of the gunfire. Finally, he found the spot that felt right.
Marteen raised head just above the roof’s ridge. The Purists didn’t use the colorful uniforms like the human armies, but they certainly had the precision in their march. He saw far too many formations like that one when the Republican and Kingdom armies tried to hold back the Army of Reclamation. Marteen was willing to bet Reclamation veterans were leading those firing lines.
“They’re coming just as you said they would, Hero Madrigal,” Kann Lykal said before crouching back down behind the slope of the roof. “Two lines of twenty. Just about fill the boulevard.” Kann was typical of the firebrands. He was the third, or maybe fourth, son of one of the northern lords, and desperate for glory. The thirty or so lordlings scattered along the rooftops with Marteen were all trying to earn renown in the Battle of Lisandra. They didn’t have the patience to stand in the line of battle with the other volunteers, they were too untrained to lead. Yet, they were all proven fighters. They just needed someone to give them a little guidance and a target to fight in their unrestrained manner.
“Wait until those bastards are under us,” Marteen said to the firebrands. “Any of you get too eager, and you’ll give them a chance to use those muskets. Believe me, you do not want to get hit by one of those.” The young men around him nodded like he said something truly profound. Then again, maybe he did, in their eyes. He certainly thought his leaders back in the Reclamation Army were wise and profound instead of the proud fools they turned out to be. Marteen ducked back down and drew his two swords. He counted down in his head.
Five, four, three, two, one! Marteen leapt, slid down the roof’s tiles, and pounced on the Purists below him. The firebrands followed him into the fray. There were no screams of battle. Battlecries had their uses, but there was something disconcerting about warriors who killed wordlessly. Another trick Marteen learned from the humans. Two Purists died as Marteen landed. The Purists screamed in surprise and tried to bring their muskets down to fire. It was too late. The firebrands were already among them. Marteen badly wanted to surrender to the dance and tear through the Purists, but he needed to keep his clarity for a little longer. In less than a minute, the firebrands slaughtered the Purist musketeers. Marteen looked back and smiled. The next group of Purists stopped to bring their muskets down.
“Grab them,” Marteen commanded, pointing at the dead. Marteen stood in the middle as the firebrands held up their shields of dead men. Muskets in the Purist firing lines wavered as they saw the firebrands coming at them from behind the cover of what had been their comrades. It didn’t last long. Thunder sounded, and the boulevard filled with thick, gray smoke. Marteen heard the cracks of musket balls whipping by him and the thuds as some of the balls hit the corpses. One of the firebrands screamed in pain as a musket ball found a target.
Marteen reached the Purist firing line without being hit. That was surprising. The Purists’ muskets were supposed to be much better than those he faced during the Reclamation War. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind as he stepped in front of one of the Purists. The familiar rage filled him, and Marteen danced. First the Southern style. His paired swords spun, cutting down the Purists. As the firebrands joined him in the fighting, Marteen switched to Mountain Reach. Much better for close quarter fighting. The two Purists in front of him were caught flatfooted by the sudden switch. Marteen cut them down as if they were the strawmen he practiced against when he was a boy.
CRAAACK! A ragged volley came down the boulevard. Two firebrands fell to the ground screaming. Marteen spun to the firing lines down the boulevard. Well, that didn’t take as long as Marteen expected. He thought his little band would get through the third firing party before the Purists decided to fire on their own people.
“Forward!” Marteen yelled, sprinting at the Purist firing lines. The key to fighting muskets was getting in close. Speed was life. Distance was death. Several firebrands sprinted by him. One was cut down by a Purist who was quick on his reload. The firebrands slammed into the firing line with swords slashing.
“Cut through them!” Marteen yelled as he spun and slashed. “Get to the next line before they set up!” Four Purists lay bleeding on the ground. Marteen looked back. That didn’t seem right. The next lines were farther back than he expected – and there were more than there should be. Realization flashed and Marteen realized his error.
“Scatter!” he screamed. The firebrands finished their fights and dashed to the buildings lining the boulevard. Some of them reached doors and alleys before the Purists opened fire. Marteen had the briefest instant to wonder if the crystal plates would shatter before dozens of musket balls hammered into him.
