Toby Neighbors: Crying Havoc

“Tell me what you have in mind, Hausey,” he said.

“Zollin is going to create a distraction for you, then do your best to kill as many as you can,” Hausey said.

“I’m going to create a massive dust cloud to hide your troops,” Zollin told him. “Then I’m going to do my best to scare the hell out of them, but it’s up to you to get them scattered and running.”

“That should be no problem, if we can get out of the city. From what I’ve heard you put most of their cavalry out of commission earlier.”

“Yes, I hope that was most of them,” Zollin said. “Where were you, by the way?”

“Ask your father,” Corlis said, turning his horse and riding back to his men.

Zollin looked at Quinn who just shrugged his shoulders.

“What?” Quinn said, trying his best to sound innocent.

“Do I want to know?” Zollin asked.

“Let’s just say your old man has a mean right hook,” Mansel said.

“Oh, boy. Let’s get started.”

Offendorl was moving as quickly as his withered legs could carry him. Healing his sprained ankles had taken what little magical power he had left. He was sure that Zollin had moved back toward the city, but that didn’t mean he was out of danger. His chest was heaving, and his center of magic felt as if it were eating him alive. He hadn’t been tested in magical battle in decades, and the effort it had taken to withstand Zollin’s unrelenting attack had almost broken the ancient Master of the Torr.

He could see the kings and their generals, all still on horseback. None seemed interested in coming to his aid, which only made the elder wizard more angry. He had been caught off guard, and even though he knew it was a simple mistake, he felt embarrassed. In the Torr he maintained total control over himself, his circumstances, and the other wizards. It had been years since he had been forced to work the kind of magic he had used just to survive his duel with Zollin. Now he was exhausted, his mouth parched and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His legs shook, so that with each step they felt as if they might collapse beneath him. His arms ached, and worst of all, his breathing was becoming difficult. He needed to stop, to rest, to eat and drink, even take the time to heal himself, but he had no time. Nor did he have the magical strength to do any sort of magic at the moment. All he knew was pain and urgency.

When he finally drew close enough to the group of kings and generals they took note of him. King Belphan looked down his nose at the ancient wizard.

“It seems you were wrong again, Offendorl,” he said.

“Don’t. .” the wizard said between gasps for breath, “mock. . me.”

“I’m not mocking. I’m simply stating a fact. Every step of this entire invasion has been a disaster. Now it is up to our armies to do what you could not.”

“What is happening?” Offendorl said.

He turned back to look at the city for the first time since he had fled the battle with Zollin. He watched as the army marched toward the city. Seeing thousands of troops storming a castle was a spectacle, but the wizard had no interest in the battle.

“I need a horse,” Offendorl said.

None of the officers moved.

“What happened to yours?” Belphan said in a mocking tone.

“You know what happened,” Offendorl said. “Or were you too busy running away to notice?”

“Do not try me, old man. I’ve listened to your condescension for the last time.”

“And I your impudence.”

“General Varlox, bring me the wizard’s head!” Belphan shouted.

One of the men next to King Belphan drew his sword and spurred his horse forward. Despite the intense heat and pain it caused, Offendorl reached out with his magic and snapped the general’s neck. The soldier toppled backwards off his horse, dead before he even reached the ground. The horse, sensing it no longer had a rider, trotted to a stop next to Offendorl, who took hold of the animal’s bridle.

“You are a fool, Belphan,” Offendorl said.

Then Belphan, King of Osla, burst spontaneously into flames. He shrieked in agony, and his horse bolted away from the city, its rider roasting to death on its back.

“What the devil are you doing?” King Zorlan cried.

“I am finished dealing with your kind,” Offendorl said, but even as he said it he felt something deep inside of him break. It was like a dry twig that snaps under foot. Offendorl doubled over in pain as his magic spread like fire through his gut.

“What does that mean?” Zorlan said. “Are you meaning to kill me, too? I am of royal blood.”

There were three generals from Osla and two from Falxis. They looked at one another anxiously, their horses stamping nervously and resisting the riders who tried to calm them down.

“I need food,” Offendorl snapped. “Get it,” he said through teeth clenched in pain.

He wanted to lie down, but there was no place but the filthy ground. His wagon was gone, and the tent he had given to Belphan and Zorlan was too far away. One of the generals went to bring him something to eat, but Offendorl could tell that he had pushed himself too far. He still had great power, but his physical body could no longer handle the strain.

“Someone help me onto this horse,” he groaned.

Another of the generals dismounted and helped Offendorl climb up into the saddle. The wizard’s skin was pale.

“I need rest, Zorlan. I trust you can manage this siege with me.”

“Yes, of course,” King Zorlan said.

“Good, I will be in your tent. If I am needed, come to me there.”

Zorlan nodded.

As Offendorl rode slowly away, another rider came galloping up. He threw up a quick salute and then reported on the army’s efforts on the far side of the city.

“We have been repelled on all fronts,” the soldier said. “Our scaling ladders are pushed off the walls and no one has been successful in breaching the city’s defenses.”

“Stop the attack,” said one of the generals. “Have everyone form up here, on this side of the city. There’s no need to waste our strength trying to scale the walls. The main gate’s been destroyed for us. We can concentrate our efforts there.”

“If we are going to continue the attack,” said another general, this one from Osla.

“And why wouldn’t we?” Zorlan asked.

“Our King is dead,” said the soldier.

“But you heard the wizard. He wants the attack to continue.”

“I don’t fight for him.”

“Well,” said King Zorlan, “you can certainly be the one to tell him that. As long as you remain on the field of battle, you will carry out your duties as I command you. Now, I agree with General Wessel. Let’s concentrate our attack here, at their ruined gate.”

* * *

Offendorl wasn’t sure if he could climb down off the horse. His body was shaking and he could barely hold his head up. Then, one of his tongueless servants appeared. There was blood soaking the left side of his head, but he was walking normally and seemed well enough to help.

The servant supported Offendorl as the wizard slid down off the horse and then helped him into the tent. The general who had gone in search of food returned to the tent with wine and bread.

“It’s all I could find,” the general replied.

“It will do,” said Offendorl in a weak voice. “Return to your post.”

He sipped wine, but the drink only made his stomach hurt worse. He needed to heal himself, but he didn’t have the magical strength to do it. He lay back, fearing the worst.

“Go and get the golden crown,” he told his servant. “It was in the wagon. You must find it.”

The servant hurried away. Offendorl felt his stomach; it was stiff and painful to touch. Something had split apart in his abdomen, and he was bleeding internally. He needed to get help, but he wasn’t sure what to do, or where he could get someone to help him. Perhaps if he gave himself time, he would be able to heal himself, but he didn’t know. Never in his life had he been so helpless, and the feeling terrified him.