Monthly Short Story for December: A Havenbrockian Intervention 2

Author's Note 1: Hello Commissioned Pioneers! :D As promised, I’d like to present to you the second of the four owed Bonus Stories! This story, being Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School’s 23rd side story!

I’ve made some changes to the side story’s original plan of it being 2 two-parters! Instead, I’m planning for Thalmin’s section to be close to a three-parter! I do hope you guys enjoy it! :D 

Rest assured, I’m still hard at work with the rest of the owed Bonus Stories! The earthquake at the tail end of March really put a dent in my progress as its repercussions at work were more intense than I anticipated, so I do apologize for the pace of the chapters!

Author's Note 2: I've also attached a PDF and EPUB version of the chapter since the Patreon formatting bug is currently still being resolved! :D

Boarhound’s Hole. Starling’s Passage. Old Barrister’s Valley. North-Eastern land bridge between the Capital Lands and the Northern Territories. Havenbrockrealm.

Thalmin 

I counted three dead.

The first slain by our line mages mere moments before our arrival. 

The second crushed by their own folly and incompetence.

And the third… disemboweled by my sword. 

His life drained away as he locked eyes with my own.

Panicked expressions of unabashed desperation took the place of bloodthirsty cockiness, accompanied by the sounds of wet, frothy, airless breaths — each successive gasp weaker than the last — slowing down until stillness overtook his last struggles for life. 

This left seven against our ten. 

But even that was still far too close for comfort.

For that was three far too many.

Six of our ten were backline mages, incapable of standing up to the challenge of a magely duel.

This left four. 

Though even this proposition was suspect. 

The first two were now woefully overextended and exhausted, leaving them vulnerable and under-strengthened. Uncle Grisniar and I would have to carry the rest of this fight.

Hammer and anvil. I motioned using hand gestures towards the six backline mages.

Defeat by detail… I repeated in my head. 

This would be the only way to win this battle.

With sheer-faced cliffs and canyons to either side of us, a narrow passage immediately in front of us, and not much in the way of cover or useful terrain, there was little one could do other than to engage head-on.

The only other option… was to backtrack and reroute. An impossible prospect to enact in this steep canyon passage. 

This would be a battle of magecraft.

A battle which would typically be in favor of the party with the most line and battle mages. 

That is… if you weren’t creative with your own assets.

“Geomanc—” I barely got a word out before being shaken to my core by a blood-curdling bellow of rage.

“RRREAGHHHHHH!!!” One of House Risling’s spawn, a broad-chested juggernaut of a man, shouted out. His gaze first squarely focused on his dead and dying comrade in front of us, before turning towards me with an unquenchable rage.

“I WANT THAT RUNT’S HEAD ON A PIKE!” He growled out, his voice echoing through his thick helmet, turning backwards towards his comrades…

Which proved to be a perfect opening. 

With absolutely no hesitation, I reached for my belt, pulling out three throwing knives held loosely between my fingers. 

In a single breath, I wound my arm backwards, priming energies both magical and physical into the knives, my aim straight and true as they whizzed towards my target. The massive brute was quick to turn his head… but my blades would be quicker. 

DINK!

The first blade made contact against the mongrel’s chestplate, sparks of magic and metal friction flying as it bounced off.

DINK! 

The second blade struck, frustratingly, a hair’s width away from the near-seamless gap between the base of his neck and his shoulder blades.

SH-THD!

The third blade struck true, slicing just between the armor plates and penetrating deep into chainmail and flesh.

“ARGH!” The fat mutt barked out, wincing in pain with a stagger as he gripped the hilt of my dagger. All eyes, both friend and foe, stared warily at the knife wedged deeply within my angered adversary.

But this wasn’t enough to slay the beast. No.

If anything, this only managed to stir the hornet’s nest. 

A second passed.

Crackle…

And in the next, all hell broke loose.

FWOOOOSHHHHH!

Heat and flames overwhelmed our backline mages, forcing them from their rear positions and into the front, completely overwhelming the carefully-laid plans of geomancy they had beneath their feet. The rumbling of the earth, the change in its consistency, all the way through to every imaginable encumbering action offered by the rocks above and below; our terrestrial advantage was now completely thrown to the wayside with this abrupt and volcanic rush. 

Panic overtook our geomancers as their broken concentration now released a freefall of rocks and boulders haphazardly landing every which way, slamming into enemy positions and our own.

Though the delineation of battle-lines mattered little now with all parties now moving to engage head-on.

Despite the disruption to the terrain’s stability, Risling spawns were able to make it through as they set their sights on our still-dazed line mages.

Uncle Grisnair howled with a charge to intercept them, men coming to his side for a hard clash against the mangy dregs. Steel clashed with steel as our mages knew well enough to withdraw, with Grisnair pushing back this assault. “Pack Leader! Orders!” A sword swung and slashed his snout, to which the old dog retaliated with a growl and a slash of his own to his assailant’s neck.

“PRESS FORWARD!” I shouted, attempting to corral the geomancers back into some form of cohesive force. “BOX THEM!” I continued, pushing for whatever was left of their panic-ridden minds to maintain the plan.

We’d started with initiative. We could still push forward…

rrrRRRUUUUMble!

The ground beneath us shook, as massive chasms opened up to divide the cracked and barren soil, the divisions parting as loose rock and unbalanced feet would be quick to fall. 

Uncle Grisniar and I found ourselves separated, the former facing off against two of Risling’s spawn, and myself facing down two more who seemed primed and ready to take me on..

“What. You greenhorn squires intend on taking ‘Prince-slayer’ as your moniker?” I grimaced to flash my fanged maw, gripping my sword in anticipation as I gauged my opponents.

The pair’s red and white stained fur identified them as belonging to House Litl, consisting of a smaller woman adorned in a smattering of armor seemingly collected from fallen Havenbrockian bannermen and an equally lithe and agile-looking male dressed in chainmail and not much else… save for a peculiar set of grey and black pelts.

The former’s armor was… unsettling, as much as it was telling. The haphazard and ransacked use of our bannermen’s armor, implied a desire to instill fear within those who’d dare stand against her. And yet… it could also imply a lack of ability to procure or work with manasteel, a stark contrast to the finely-crafted plate armor of House Risling’s spawn.

The latter’s… reaffirmed my assertions, as that chainmail did little to inspire confidence in personal protection. 

“Your princely armor will make a fine gift to the true prince of the realm.” The woman seethed with a murderous glee.

“Today, you die.” The male spoke out through a high-pitched series of yelps. “Oh, we’ll return you. Your body… or what’s left of it.” He continued, his eyes growing wide like a madman’s, his hand gesturing towards the pelts.

It didn’t take me long to connect the dots.

Prompting a pit to form in my gut.

“I’ll take the armor.” The woman spoke slyly.

“And I… a royal pelt.” The man snickered with an audible lapping of his tongue against his fangs. 

As they locked eyes, I knew well the tactics they’d employ for this fight.

I would not give them that satisfaction.

A thunderous growl escaped me as lightning surged from my arms onto my sword. I reared my blade back and swung with a thunderous bolt streaking towards them.

But they were just too fast.

Leaping with the force of a roused hopperjock, they both flew upwards, evading my lightning strike. As they hung in the air, they seemed to ready their weapons with a sadistic poise — though what they were, I could not fathom as they held only cupped hilts with no blades present.

Did they expect to take me on with acrobatics and jester props?

Seconds followed with my eyes locked onto their admittedly-impressive display of aerial acrobatics before they began to fall towards me, their bladeless weapons poised to—

thwwwwSHNK!

A rush of mana surged towards the two, swirling on the front their hilts as thin needle-like rapiers protracted from them.

I dodged away and rolled to the dirt, avoiding the combined force of their attacks that pierced several feet into the dirt where I just stood.

It took me only a second to regain my footing, skidding to a halt close to the lip of this parted landmass. It took only a little over that for both of them to close the distance and take swings at me. I ducked to dodge the woman’s strike, but the man had gotten to slash my left leg.

I winced, feeling the veins in my neck tense as I sputtered out spit from a surge of pain. 

I looked down at the gash that stained the fur of the back of my knee with wet crimson… and stray streaks of glowing red. My eyes grew wider with a fierce and enraged glint. That kin-pelted monster. These two wanted to paralyze me.

“A knight in shining armor… all flair and no substance. A slice here and a snip there is all it takes to render your fanciful plates and expensive mail worthless.” The male taunted, raising a needle-like blade fresh with my blood, towards his taunting lips.

That move however, proved to only be the beginning.

As not a moment later did they rush me. The woman on foot and the sadist once more leaping to engage from above.

Never be overwhelmed, son. Not when two, three, five, or even ten opponents face you down. You are the descendant of warriors. Strength lies in your heart. Draw upon it. Both martial and magic.

I blinked.

Then, I threw both of my hands in opposing directions.

My right, having flung my blade towards the woman sprinting towards me.

My left, rising upwards towards the rapidly falling man.

I divided my attention, focusing first on the telekinetic force that now shrouded the blade, accelerating it and increasing its deadly spin.

Then, I felt my left arm tensing, drawing on whatever mana was around me to extend my reach through the same telekinetics.

This managed to stop the rabid bastard a mere foot above my head, his arms and legs now trapped by his sides in an invisible vice-like grip. His eyes grew wide with both confusion and a growing pain, as his breath tightened.

Not a second later, I heard the tell-tale sounds of manasteel slamming against manasteel.

SHSHRKKKKKK!

The blade’s leading edge glancing off of the other warrior’s left breastplate. Then inevitably—

KA-SHUNK!

—piercing straight through its shattered seamline.

The manasteel blade sliced through the rest of her like a cleaver through freshly-caught game.

“...”

Not an audible cry left her, as there was no air to be breathed out.

The sword eventually returned towards my right hand, its hilt reaching it with a firm THUD!

A stream of crimson now stained my brown enchanted gloves, as I focused my attention towards the chainmail and pelt clad lupinor held barely a head above me.

His expressions… were as telling as the anguished screams he bellowed out.

“BASTARDRUNTBASTARDRUNTBASTARDRUNTBASTARDRUNT!!!!!!!

Though that too would quickly end with a clench of my fist.

CRRRK!

His neck twisted much too far to the right, and his whole body went limp shortly thereafter.

I released my telekinetic grip—

THUD!

—and the man dropped to the dirt like a sack of potatoes.

My eyes… clouded for a moment.

As the sounds of nearby screams suddenly felt distant and echoey. 

I could feel… only the burning fire and pain of whatever it was that had coated the blade. Which prompted me to quickly and instinctively reach for my pouch, as I downed a potion of cleansing.

The fire that was threatening to surge upwards towards my hips suddenly dissipated, now only leaving behind the sharp, lightning-like pain that emanated from the back of my knee whenever I even moved an inch.

This prompted me to quickly reach for my healing potion, as I fumbled for it on my belt—

“PRINCE THALMIN, BEHIND YOU!”

I turned around. Only for my whole form to be flung backwards with a sudden and abrupt force concentrated around my chest.

The world flew around me, as I found myself flung backwards at great speeds towards the canyon’s walls.

THUD!

I felt my back slamming hard against the rock.

SHATTER!

The healing potion, completely shattering shortly thereafter.

I was barely able to regain my bearings before I felt a sudden tightness around my throat, my eyes finally focusing on exactly what had happened, as I now was confronted with the juggernaut that was House Risling’s… and perhaps this entire incursion’s leader.

“Hm.” He hummed softly, a dismissive whistle echoing within his helmet. “To kill or to capture…” The man began, as I tried everything in my power to claw my way out of his grip. My two hands trying… but pathetically failing to break the sheer strength in that one mitted hand. “The latter would have been an obvious choice… if it wasn’t for this.” He growled, pointing at the blade still lodged in his shoulder blades. “To kill—” He continued, his grip tightening even further, as I felt my air completely restricted, my whole body pushing to resist, as I threw everything I had at the man.

From fire—

FWOOOSH!

—to lightning—

KA-CRACK!

—to telekinetics… which rattled his armor some. 

But nothing worked.

That armor… or whatever light magic the man had at his disposal, was just far too powerful.

“—hmm… to kill would perhaps be possible. You, a lesser royal? Dispatched to lead a backwater caravan to the outer reaches of ‘your’ kingdom? Why… if I wasn’t one for teahouse musings, I’d perhaps go so far as to assume that this was a ploy by your own kin to leave you for dead.” His gaze deepened, as if trying to garner a rise out of me in this sorry and pitiful state. “Aw, too far? Was that thought already buried somewhere deep within you?” 

I could barely hear the monster’s words as the world around me threatened to fade.

A brief shock of lightning, and a loosening of his grip, prevented that from happening. 

The man paused, as if waiting for my response. 

A surge of fire, lightning and defiance was my reply.

“Ah. I see.” The man cocked his head, unfazed by the arcs and flames that hopelessly danced around his armor. “Neither curious nor stubborn.” He tightened his grip and the surges stopped as I clung and clawed his wrist in vain, gargling and gasping. “Just stupid then.”

The edges of my vision darkened, my grip on both the manastreams and his arm weakening. 

“—sleep now, Prince Thal—”

THUD!

My body slammed hard into the dirt, sending my whole world spinning. 

My head throbbed not only from the fall, but the distinct CLANGING of blade against plate armor that followed. 

Chaos erupted soon after as manastreams surged and belched, its invisible tendrils yanking from one mage to the next, as I struggled to regain my footing amidst the dust-filled air. 

Sounds felt distant and voices felt muffled, barely a pin drop against the ringing in my ears. 

It took everything, every ounce of effort and iota of discipline to finally get up, before I was met face to face with an ominous sight. 

As Uncle Grisniar now stood, bloodied blades in each hand, staring up at this full-plated behemoth that towered ferociously over him.

“Your clan should have joined us!” The Risling juggernaut yelled, his voice echoing throughout the canyon as he dragged his lupinor-sized claymore, at the ready.

“Fool.” Was all Uncle Grisniar said in response, as the man charged forwards.

Resonant CLANGS of sword and armor rang across the battlefield, sending shockwaves through my shaky legs as I struggled against the ripples within the chaotic manastreams. 

Sparks erupted—

CRACKLE!

—and flames surged—

FWOOOOOSH!

—as the pair swung and struck, parrying each and every strike with either skill or sheer brute force.

Unfortunately, it would seem like it was the latter tactic that was winning out.

Which prompted me to leap forward—

THWUMP!

—only to find my legs had given in.

My hips and trunk were next, as confusion, panic, then sheer dread passed through my waking mind.

The poison…

Petrified, I attempted to steady my breath, my hands trembling to right myself on the rumbling rocky ground. 

Immobilization in the heat of battle is a half-written death sentence… I heard my father’s words echoing louder than ever before, my eyes craning up to the lip of the canyon, staring warily up at the perilous debris of rocks and split boulders.

I had to get away…

Haggard arms and gloved fingers strained to pull the dead weight of my paralyzed lower half, my eyes firmly set on avoiding the falling hazards left over by the geomancers’ efforts.

However, just moments before I reached relative shelter, a sound echoed throughout the valley that broke through even my toxin-addled malaise. 

A sound so distinct, that it caused my heart to sink. 

PLINK!

I immediately turned to its source, only to be met with a grisly sight.

One of Uncle Grisniar’s blades had finally shattered, the man barely diving backwards in time to avoid being completely crushed by the beast’s claymore.

“Let us finish this, old man.” The beast glowered, his wild eyes just visible through a small gap in his helmet as he leaped forward, small bits and pieces of his armor falling off as he did so — it seemed Uncle Grisniar had inflicted just as much damage in kind. 

CLANG!

Metal slammed hard against metal, as the claymore started chipping away at what was left of Uncle Grisniar’s remaining arming sword. 

But the man did not relent.

If anything, he intensified his attacks, matching the pace of the beast’s advances.

As with each and every wide swing of the claymore—

SLASHHHhhh!

—was met with the purposeful deflection of its attack, redirecting it, and forcing it to land harmlessly next to its intended target.

All the while, I could feel something changing in the air.

Through the wild undulations of wartime manastreams, I felt something purposeful, clear, and born of terrifying intent.

My eyes quickly locked onto these movements, watching on and witnessing a hundred invisible assailants forming around the beast — all of which were concentrated around the cracks, chips, and dents in the armor.

To the outside observer, Uncle Grisniar was practically on his last legs, his furious panting coinciding with failed deflections of one—

CLINK!

—two—

CLANG!

—now three—

CRUMPLE!

—successful strikes against his armor.

It was only with its enchantments that he was able to survive, but even our enchantments had their limits.

My heart sank, and my body flinched as the beast moved for a fourth, and seemingly decisive swing—

SQUeULCH!

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

—only for the trap to be sprung, and a slow trickle of crimson to stream from his visor.

CRACK!

SQUELCH!

The man’s screams abruptly stopped, his massive form backing off from Uncle Grisniar as he restarted his attacks anew.

Though this time, it was clear he was swinging blind.

SWOOSH!

Blood-curdling screams echoed throughout the canyon, as malformed words were spoken through what sounded like a broken maw… or worse.

Soon after this, a renewed series of screams erupted as the man faltered to his knees, the remaining gaps in the armor revealing what Uncle Grisniar’s gambit truly was.

“Innate talent. Raw strength. A warrior’s tenacity… and the finest equipment in all the land.” Uncle spoke loudly, not necessarily at the now-immobilized beast, but towards our remaining forces that had dispatched what was left of the Rislings and Litls.

“These attributes, if honed and tempered, can make for a fine soldier and a true warrior.” The man took careful and wide steps around the beast, grabbing his sword with significant effort.

“But without training, without schooling, and without mentorship… these gifts mean little.” The man quickly turned his attention back towards the crimson-stricken beast, who now lay immobilized against the hot, rocky dirt. “There are limits to what talent and strength can do. As there exists a gap, one wide enough to fit your whole family in, between the learned and untrained soldier. In a world without formal training, you would perhaps reign as master of the battlefield. However, in a civilized world… you are but a beast.” That final word elicited a few meek sounds from the downed beast, before finally, that too was put to an end.

Without warning, Uncle Grisniar plunged the man’s own blade deep through his heart, its heft puncturing straight through the formerly pristine manasteel armor with a satisfying CRUNCH.

Silence settled over the battlefield soon after, as the man soon marched towards me, his eyes leveling against my own with equal measures of concern and frustration. “Poison?”

“Yes, uncle.” 

“HEALER!” The man yelled, prompting a smaller lupinor to make haste in our direction.

“Try not to talk, you’ll wear out your muscles and die from a lack of breath.” He warned tersely, standing tall above my prone form. It took him little time to return to his mentorly persona, as he turned to point at the downed beast. “That is the textbook definition of a lack of knightly discipline.”

I nodded silently. 

“The man was too focused on the battles in the physical realm, so much so that he lost sight of the battles of the magical plane. In so doing, he committed himself to a trap that even the most squirely of nobles would have anticipated.” The man tsked loudly, shaking his head in the process. “He resigned himself to a fate befitting a commoner. For only a commoner would have been so blinded to such a blatant maneuver.” Uncle Grisniar paused, his eyes narrowing as he properly met my own. “I assume you at least noticed that, yes?” 

I nodded once more, garnering a sigh of relief from Uncle.

“Thank the Ancestors for that one blessing.”

The healer arrived just as he said that, the lightly armored lupinor quickly reaching into her satchel, pulling out what to most Nexians might seem archaic — a field alchemy rack, complete with living magical instruments. 

Local remedies that even to this day, performed remarkably well despite the Nexian insistence on moving on to more ‘contemporary’ solutions.

“Your Majesty.” The white and grey lupinor bowed deeply. “Might I have your permission to commence—”

“Yes.” I nodded, prompting the lupinor to pluck out a squirming, squealing creature from one of the many opaque jars. 

“Might I inquire where the cut was made?” She spoke softly.

I wordlessly pointed behind my right knee, prompting the healer to spring into action.

With a few more back and forths, I found my leggings removed. 

It was the next phase of this healing process that prompted me to turn away however, as that squirming creature was brought to the shallow gash, and the process of detoxification began.

It was a result of my incapacitation that I gave Uncle Grisniar temporary command of the battle group. The man eventually left me for what was left of our forces, my mind running through both the pain of the procedure, and the sheer exhaustion that it left in its wake.

Seconds glinted onward, then several more flew by, all of it coalescing into a soupy miasma that threatened to make even the worst cases of mana sickness feel tame in comparison. 

It took about half an hour, but by the end of it, I was back on my feet. Wobbly feet… but I was standing all the same.

To that end, I found myself limping back to what remained of the valley floor.

The first thing to hit me was the stench of death and decay, as literal carrions had arrived in droves to make a quick meal out of the Rislings and Litls. 

However, it was my own men that took my immediate attention as I scanned the field, counting familiar faces left and right…

Only to realize we were missing—

“We lost two.” Uncle Grisniar confirmed my suspicions, leaving barely any time for me to regain my mental bearings.

“Backline geomancers?” I asked quickly. “Lord Yrila and Lady Forila?” 

The man nodded slowly, as I let out a sharp breath of frustration, balling my hands in the process.

“May they find peace in His Eternal Light.” A familiar voice arrived from behind us, as I turned to face Prince Tislan arriving with a pack’s worth of chosen ones and commoners. 

I felt my eyes twitch at that proclamation, a fierce growl threatening to part my lips.

I decided to simply ignore the man, stepping forward toward the two bodies wrapped in white and red cloth.

There, at the ragged edges of the land they tore asunder, I dropped to my knees and placed both hands at their feet.

“By the Holiness of the Throne upon which my family sits, granted by the consecration of the Ancestors of the First City, do I bequeath upon both souls the blessings befitting warriors fallen in battle.” 

I extended my hand without looking back. Uncle Grisniar wordlessly placed a small blade into my palm.

I inhaled slowly, centering myself, eyes closed, before whispering the prayer that ignited the blade in a glow of white flame.

Then, I completed the rite, drawing a single line of crimson across the cloth binding each body.

“I declare, upon my father’s name, that your souls will reach the Ancestors above. May your spirits rest in the heights of bliss and may you no longer know the pain of this world.”

Each word carried with it the weight of both death and the compulsion of piety. 

But despite the gravity of the situation, and my place in this ritual… I didn’t feel like I was doing anything.

At least not at that moment.

However, it was the silent mourning of those behind me that truly fueled this sense of purpose burning in my soul.

Son, there will come a time where you must perform the rites of death befitting of a royal. A royal death ceremony, even in its most basic forms, is necessary to carry those souls of notable standing into the afterlife that they deserve. You may not feel anything, no sign from beyond, no stirring in your spirit. But even the most devout of priests know of this emptiness. This feeling is not abnormal. You must never doubt the sanctity of these rites. Trust in the faith of our Ancestors, and trust that your actions have weight, even when the world feels hollow.

The world fell silent for the next few seconds, as I felt nothing from the pair, their souls probably having untethered long before I’d reached them.

It felt like nothing could truly break the silence and weight of that moment.

Until suddenly, I heard footsteps, a rapid series of frantic breaths, and yells that bordered on unfettered panic.

“YOUR MAJESTY, YOUR MAJESTY!” The squire from the start of the battle yelled out, his whole body trembling as he reached me.

“What is it?” Uncle Grisniar demanded, prompting the man to point a shaky finger towards the skies.

“T-there’s… t-there are…”

He huffed and puffed, his eyes growing wide as I spotted exactly what his lungs were preventing him from announcing.

“T-there’s more of them… twelve mages… and a whole group of… chosen ones…”

The man collapsed into a heap, as my eyes now grew wide at this fresh and invigorated force.

I turned to Uncle Grisniar, then back towards our worn and weary forces.

A single thought came through the panic that welled within me.

A word that I now had to announce with a bitter breath. “All forces… you tell all forces, that we have to—”

“Stand our ground.” Prince Tislan beamed brightly, a cocky sense of overconfidence overtaking his features. “I can defeat them.” He announced with a manic grin, flaring out his overly ornate cloak to reveal not one weapon, either enchanted or bladed.

“Let armageddon commence.”