Прохор Озорнин - On the Wings of Hope - Prose

But how wrong would be the one, who had blindly dismissed the Magic of Rhyme, which was practiced and improved in the walls of the Academy! The word, being dressed into a rhyme, was capable to alter the structure of reality, and by types of these changes, one could determine which school of specialization was followed by each rhyming magician. There were mages, who have devoted themselves to work with elements – fire, water, air, and earth – their battle rhyme magic burned, spilled, punched gaps in enemy ranks, destroying their resistance with strong powers of nature. There were specialists in the creation of magical defenses that were reflecting enemy shells – and, in some cases, even firing them back in the opposite direction. There were healers, whose filled with compassion and love for the neighbor words allowed to put on legs even hopelessly, by standards of ordinary people, and fatally wounded in battle soldiers. There was an abundance of specializations among mages of the Academy – and for this reason many of neophytes, who have discovered and lit inside themselves their own creative Sparks, easily found in its walls a path according to their personal taste. The only thing that was strictly forbidden to practice for its adherents was all types of evil magic, and, first and foremost, so beloved by the Legion Magic of Death that included whammies, curses, plagues, and damnations.

Now, when forefront groups of Legion of the Damned appeared on the horizon, mages-observers from the Academy and ordinary imperial scouts reported on their structure and movements on an hourly basis. The werewolves, which have been created by adherents of the Legion in Horriya’s woods; warlocks, practicing the Magic of Death; semi-people semi-lizards, covered with black scales and bearing in own genes a patrimonial curse from the moment of a revolt of the Circle of Nine; two-headed giant mutants – what kind of monsters did ill-fated Bogs of Death throw out to Illumion’s borders. Scouts counted about thirty thousands of these beings – which meant that almost twice greater in size army will oppose the defenders. And all hope of joined forces of Illumion was directed to creative magic of their magical world, to the Oracle, whose name no one ever dared to ask, and to own strength of spirit and will to fight.

The Chorus rolled out to squares of Askenzia their battle Organs. Mages of the Academy were finishing constructing a protective dome over the city. Archers walked to and fro on walls, checking loopholes. Knights patrolled city perimeter. By the end of this day, the horde will finally reach them.

***

“Archer, say to bow ‘goodbye’, arrow, arrow, down fly!” as if by command cried out a dozen mages, located in a city tower, one of their earlier prepared spells for reflection of enemy’s arrows. And – precisely by command – a hail of fired arrows fell down just before walls of the fortress. Only a few of death-bringing spikes achieved their goals, striking standing by loopholes archers. The arrow flies only for several seconds – so you either manage to rhyme a spell or risk being pierced to the death with iron.

“Elemental mages, don’t you stay idle, counterstrike with lightning bolts!”

“Wind, oh wind, so mighty one, through the clouds let thunder come! Hail of lightning strike all foes as the rain swiftly goes!”

The sky, which darkened during several dozens of seconds, and hundreds of lightning, sparkling and striking the werewolves that were climbing by walls of the fortress, became a live answer to their magical appeal.

“Storm is striking from above – heaven’s fury we bestow!”

Massive, one of man’s size, hailstones began turning frontier groups of giants into flat cakes.

“Sun says ‘hi’ to ones in dark! Fireballs! Fiery spark!”

Hail of fiery spheres, flying away from a magic tower, laid a smoking path in enemy’s ranks, leaving only piles of ashes behind them.

“Horde of insects is approaching, beware!”

“That’s a plague!”

“Wind, please sweep those insect’s stench, may they never come in range!”

“Healers, we need healers here, now!”

“Defend the healers!”

“Where is Chorus, may the organ deafen them?! Why do they keep silence?”

“Giants are throwing stones, strengthen reflection shield!”

“Shield saves us from all rocks, they are flying back in flocks!”

The sparkling dome of the shield devoured tens of huge boulders, thrown by giants, and reflected them backward.

“Archers, fire on command! Mages – light their arrows!

“Arrows flying now with a fire – it was a magical desire!”

Arrows of defenders, being lit up in flight with inextinguishable fire, stuck into bodies of warlocks, burning them and forcing to stop casting their spells.

“Burn enemy arrows in flight!”

“All dark arrows being lit, they are destined not to hit!”

“Boulders come again, beware!”

“Werewolves are advancing on the southern wall, knights to the south wall!”

“Where is the Chorus?!”

“Healers to the northern gates! We are suffering heavy losses of archers!”

“The Chorus abandoned us!”

“Enemy is breaking on the south wall! Mages, fire at will!”

“The Chorus is coming! Look! Do you hear?!”

The many-voiced melodious singing of hundreds of men, accompanied by loud sounds of musical organs, spread over all of Askenzia and its vicinities. This song was about repentance, of how even in the most spiteful and almost ruined by hatred heart there lives a sparkle of kindness. About how the greatest of the great mages, who has created Fantasy at the beginning of times, is kind and merciful, and how an appeal to him from those souls, which have wallowed in darkness, can change them, bringing back former human shape. This song possessed something from the better world – and, as if having felt it, some groups of enemies stood down in confusion and lowered their weapons. Purulent tears started pouring down from mutated eyes of some of these beasts. Parts of them laid down arms and started running away.

“Mages, this is our chance! Archers – light up arrows! Shooting in volleys on command!”

The song went on and on.

Forgiveness. What does that mean – forgiveness? Whether it’s possible to forgive those who have voluntarily turned into monsters, who have cursed themselves?

“Archers, hold on! Cease firing in fleeing enemies!”

They punished themselves. Whether they knew what they have done?

“Enemy at the southern wall is receding! Don’t pursue!”

Is that possible to be better than your own enemies? Own torturers? Own murderers?

“They are depressed! They are crying! Unbelievable! Can’t trust my eyes! Do you see it?!”

Is that possible to spare their lives?

“Enemy is receding! Southern walls are free! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

The choice is ours.

“Enemy is fleeing on all fronts! Victory! Victory!”

The enemy can come to our home once again. But as long as it doesn’t live inside us – we are invincible.

“Victory!”

***

Lor-Quinor along with a dozen other warriors was sitting in Askenzia’s tavern, celebrating his new birthday. Not in the sense that he was born on this day more than a forty years ago – but in the sense that today he was born anew. Not every day you get a chance to fight with a horde of self-cursed legions of ghouls, and to come out of it victorious – even less so. Especially when you get a chance to listen to such remarkable live music at the same time.

He will follow the fleeing horde the next day. Someone has to make sure that has truly retreated.

“Bro, pass me on a mug of ale!” he shouted to yesterday’s fellow soldier.

“What are we drinking for today? For Mages or for Chorus? Or maybe for the fact that bony death hasn’t yet grabbed all of us in one go, huh?” his workmate burst out laughing.