Monthly Short Story for November: A Havenbrockian Intervention 1

Hello Commissioned Pioneers! :D In accordance with the most recent announcement post, I’d like to present to you the first in the four owed Bonus Stories! :D This story, being Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School’s 22nd side story!

The way this is going to go is that I’ve planned out two distinct ‘storylines’, set across two sets of stories! Meaning that there will be 2 two-parters! This being the first part to the first two-parter! :D 

As you might’ve already guessed by the title, this story takes place in Havenbrockrealm, showing a side of Thalmin that I’ve been very excited to share for the longest time! :D His title as a mercenary prince, and his family legacy, is finally being put to the test here as we witness both his skills as a fighter and a leader! This is also another big glimpse we’re getting of the politics and family dynamics behind Thalmin’s family, as we get some back and forths between him and his uncle, as well as a peak into his actual military campaigns that were only hinted at before! :D 

There will be more to see on the final part of this two-parter for Thalmin, as I created this storyline originally as a way to tie into the most recent sight-seer chapters we had! :D 

I really do hope I was able to write the combat well enough in this chapter. I always consider fight scenes and combat to be something I’m somewhat weak at, so I really hope it turned out alright here! 

Let's jump right into it then! :D I'd like to proudly present, Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School's twenty-second story! :D

A Havenbrockian Intervention 1

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

1 Year Prior to Prince Thalmin’s leave for the Transgracian Academy of Magical Arts.

Thalmin 

Iron dominated my senses.

From the tightness of the iron clad tightly against my fur.

To the sounds of clashing iron across the battlefield. 

To the smell — the taste — of iron from both kin and enemy alike. 

Iron was the facilitator of war.

“WAR MAGES! YOUR MAJESTY, THE REBELS HAVE SENT THEIR WAR MAGES!”

But magic would be the instrument to its conclusion.

“Calm your senses, steward!” I barked out, bringing the man back to attention.

“Y-yes, your majesty!”

“Report!” 

“T-t-ten! Ten, your majesty! House Rusing’s and House Litl’s spawn!” 

I paused.

Not out of any Nexian decorum befitting a noble in battle, no.

Instead, I paused…  for the same reasons the steward panicked. Out of the same overwhelming sense of impending doom as was felt amidst any in the heat of battle.

Death, or the fear of it, is the greatest equalizer of all, runt. Whether you are a Nexian war-baron or a lowly street urchin, one fact remains universal — when faced with a knife to the throat, all will feel that same gut-twisting, heart-racing, reality-defining rush of abject fear.

…

But it takes a warrior to overcome it. 

I steadied myself under a hushed breath, channeling my father’s words towards the forefront of my mind, and by extension, the task at hand.

I leaped back towards my tent, the war party soon following suit as we now found ourselves gathered around an ornate, gem-encrusted table worth more than an entire battalion’s worth of severance. 

Though its value was not derived from its physical craftsmanship, nor its jeweled adornments. 

Instead, it was the recessed interior of the table that commanded its hefty price. 

A cut-away which would’ve typically housed a map with unit markers and regiment pieces. A visual aid for the tacticians and strategists within this space barely a stone’s throw away from the battlefield.

A Nexian import… that since its arrival, had pushed every Havenbrockian map into obsolescence. 

A marvel of magical artificing that, to the uneducated observer, bore more resemblance to a sandpit than it did any complex military artifice. 

As that was what it ostensibly was. 

A sand pit, nestled within the middle of a table, consisting of multicolored and strangely enchanted sands that did nothing but pulsate to the ebbs and flows of the surrounding manastreams. 

There was no martial sensibility or aesthetic to be had with this… art piece. Yet to those who understood what they saw, this work of art brought with it an unparalleled leap in contemporary warfare. 

All it required was a sufficiently trained mage with the competency to use it.

This was demonstrated almost immediately by a sharp but subtle shift in the ambient manastreams, as this strange patch of sand started to twinkle and shine amidst all spectrums. First to an iridescent white hue, before shifting to what appeared to be verdant greens and harsh browns — the color of the battlefield just beyond the tent’s confines. 

What was formerly but a simple collection of sand, soon formed a topographical representation of our immediate surroundings to a startlingly accurate degree. As the sand to the far reaches of the table’s corners began rising, morphing, contorting before finally coalescing into a diorama with a level of dimensionality only a skilled sculptor could produce. This extended further into the valley we were currently nestled between, as even the smallest of divots within the packed dirt side-roads to the largest of wild-wheat covered hills that dominated the sides of the valley were brought to bear within this revolutionary artifice of strategy. 

But this war table — as it was called — would remain but a scholar’s tool if its capabilities ended here.

Indeed, in order for it to be worthy of such a title, it had to perform what tacticians and strategists of old could have only dreamed of in their wildest of imaginations. 

Which was where the map-seer came in. 

“Lady Tersis, report.” I stated bluntly, my eyes narrowing across the glowing map and its fluid depiction of the world beyond the tent towards the mage in question — a diminutive brown wolf distressingly unfit for front-line service. 

“Yes, your majesty.” The map-seer nodded, closing her eyes and bathing the room with an unnerving aura. One not too dissimilar to the tickling of fur prior to the crash of lightning.

But such discomforts were necessary, as Lady Tersis quickly initiated the sights and rituals required to bring this table to its fullest potential, summoning the battlefield as it was seen from the eyes of an avian. But in such a way that it even surpassed the level of clarity and visual acuity of a sky warden.

It started slowly, with large splotches of color spreading across the expanse of the map, moving and contorting. Following which did these splotches grow increasingly more defined with sharper edges and increased definition. It was this latter aspect however that — with increasing time — revealed the true nature of these splotches of color as they were broken apart into their constituent ‘pieces’. Small dots of light, of varying intensities, coalescing into blocks of near-cohesive shapes not unlike the shapes taken on by tightly-packed schools of fish. Where from a distance they seemed like a cohesive shape, but only with a keen eye were you able to discern the individuals that made up the formation. 

And just like those highly dynamic shapes that schools of aquatic creatures tended to make, so too did these individual dots  — these soldiers — continuously shift throughout the battlefield.

Ranks and formations were visualized, their actions detailed as far as their manafields allowed across the entirety of this valley. 

From lines of pikemen to rows of shield-wielding spearmen, all the way to the backline archers and artillery artificers, the battle was visualized without the need for sky wardens or far-seers. 

What’s more, it ignored all the shortcomings that came with traditional reconnaissance. 

As it instead functioned not on visual sight, but on the purest and most difficult-to-obscure sense of all — manasight. 

There was no fooling or obfuscating it. No means to cover up one’s forces with an overhead tarp, or clinging to the shadows of a canyon to hide from your enemy’s scouts. 

Though impervious to conventional manaless forms of stealth, there were, however, means of fooling it. Namely, through the manipulation of the manastreams it relied on to ‘see’. An act of subterfuge relying on the active participation of a mage. Which, given their relative rarity outside of the Nexus and their oldest adjacent subjects, meant that there was little likelihood that one would be used for the mere obfuscation of conventional forces. Conventional wisdom would call upon the strength of a mage to be utilized elsewhere, where they would act as the decisive piece in this game of Urslia.

This notion was reflected even today, as the steward’s warnings were confirmed in short order. 

As ten large glowing monoliths of light, practically overpowering the map upon their arrival, came to dominate via sheer presence of manafield alone.

What were once bright and brilliant displays of color from platoons and companies, became but an ember against the brilliance of battle mages.

Indeed, even if they weren’t ‘officially’ rated as such — owing to their rebellious status — their raw potential alone was still enough to outshine any commoner or peasant in their midst.

But this phenomenon wasn’t merely isolated to their ranks.

Indeed, there were at least two amongst our own men who shone with the same brilliance and with greater restraint as well owing to their Nexian-tutelage. 

Two ‘properly rated’ battle mages. 

Though their experience in battle was still… a matter of debate.

However, this wasn’t the end of the map’s projections. As interspersed between these gods and men, were what were affectionately called ‘titans’ in their own right.

Individuals who, through the random chance of birthright, were born with an innate gift for magic.

A gift, as limited as it may be, that elevated them above their commoner brethren.

Granting them a place not only in the industries of magic, nor the professions of noble court, but likewise in the field of battle.

As auxiliaries and adjacents to battle-hardened nobles. And likewise, as adjutants, lieutenants, and officers in their own right.

It was difficult however, to judge just how many of these gifted commoners were necessary to stand a chance against even the most incompetent of nobles.

This was why they were primarily charged with dispatching fellow gifted commoners, or lesser commoners as was the profession of their fellow lowborns.

So even with a small army of a hundred or so gifted commoners in our pack… they still could barely hold a light to but one of the enemy nobles.

“That confirms it.” An older, gravelly voice emerged from the other end of the table. “Their truce was a farce.” Uncle Grisniar practically spat out.

“Well, what could you have expected from a truce drafted by Prince Talnin of all people?” A younger, much more spry voice chimed in. 

“You will do well from subverting the integrity of the family, son.” Uncle Grisniar practically growled out in response. “Whimpering and whining over the cause of this mess will not get us out of this mess, now will it?” The man added, before shooting a judgemental glare in my direction. 

“So, young Pack Leader, what is your command?” He asked insistently.

It was at this time that all eyes now fell on me, as I stared out at the map, and the rapidly approaching rebel battle mages.

“Don’t overthink this, Prince Thalmin. The greatest of victories are forged with decisiveness. Do not give into the fallacy of compounding thought!” Another voice urged.

No sooner were those words uttered, however, did the sheer disparity in power between gods and men made itself known.

As a century of men closest to the arriving nobles was suddenly stricken off the map.

The blood-curdling howls of eighty souls reached us seconds later.

It was neither honorable nor fair.

They didn’t even stand a chance… 

My eyes turned up, looking into the eyes of all of those present in the war tent.

Uncle Grisniar was seasoned, trained, and immensely powerful… but frail in his old age.

His son, Prince Tislan, was more a scholar and a logistician than a warrior.

The rest of the war party consisted of a smattering of backline mages, all of whom held alma maters traced to the best tutors the Nexus could offer.

But few held the conviction to stand up against the bloodthirsty rebel nobles.

You need to not only look at your men, but yourself, runt.

My father’s words once more echoed to the forefront of my mind.

I couldn’t just gauge the battle on the men and tools I had available.

This wasn’t just a question of whether or not my men and lieutenants were ready, as much as it was a question of if I was ready for my first real taste of noble blood.

“Lady Tersis.” I began. “Do you sense the presence of any conventional forces behind the rebel battle mages?”

A quick wince of the wolf’s eyes, coupled with a flashing of the map, was all that was needed to answer that question.

“No, your majesty.” 

“Good.” I announced, turning my eyes to the ungifted and common masses that accounted for the rebel’s forces. The once fearsome war packs which had been whittled down to nothing more than a ragtag, barely cohesive force at this point, following their cowardly ambush not a half day earlier. 

“I want our men back behind the Ririani River. And I want all able-bodied mages—” I paused, staring at everyone gathered. “—to accompany me to the front.” 

A collective shift in the scene’s mood prompted many to show their true colors following my orders.

With many turning around to face one another, their fear and discomfort evident by their reluctance to even move from their positions around the table.

“I will inform the tribunes and prefects.” Prince Tislan announced, volunteering himself for a role that carried with it the greatest likelihood of avoiding battle altogether. 

Uncle Grisniar — in a move generally reserved only for Prince Talnin — craned his head towards him with a disappointed gaze and a shake of his head. Though he quickly snapped back to me, his eyes poised with brooding anticipation, awaiting clarification on the rest of my plans.

“We have the numerical advantage, though that means nothing in the face of ten mages.” I continued. “This… is a mage’s battle now and unlike the rebels, we are not going to resort to the exchange of lives for the delaying of the inevitable. Moreover, should—” I paused, quickly correcting myself. “—or rather, when we win this battle… the loss of our men would mean the forfeiture of our mission. We need their numbers to see to it that this convoy reaches the North.” I announced as I turned towards the map once more, ready to lay out my plans.

However, before I could even utter a word, my orders — and Prince Tislan’s actions — were starting to show their effects on the map. Because as cowardly as the Prince was, it was clear that he still managed to stay true to his word, his actions already resulting in the withdrawal of much of our frontline forces with many of the gifted commoners staying behind to cover their retreat.

“We match them in numbers—”

“But not in the quality of mages.” Uncle Grisniar countered, turning to everyone present with a stoic expression. “House Rusing and House Litl’s spawn, while not Nexian-trained, have both been forged in the fires of unconventional war. Nobody here—” The man paused, staring at everyone lining the table between the both of us. “—save for you and I, are capable of dispatching them.”

I took a moment to think, watching as the battle lines shrunk further and further towards our encampment. “Then we’ll play to our strengths.” I offered, turning to the men uncle had just cast judgement on. “Support us and our movements. Harass the enemy.” I began, as I turned to Lord Arunis, a man whose sole specialty had been in geomancy. His role, primarily, was in the clearing of roads, construction of new and otherwise impossible paths, and the preparation of otherwise difficult terrain with which to set camp upon. “The rebels are about to enter this chokepoint here.” I pointed at the map at a narrow passage within the canyon that was deceptively wide at its base, but disconcertingly narrow as the canyon tapered upwards. A rare geological formation that I was going to take advantage of.

“You and the rest of the land forgers will utilize the unique geography around the Boarhound’s hole as a means of containing and combating the enemy.” I reasoned, before turning to the other backline logisticians present. “Lord Ulvi, you are to convene with the forest itself. Utilize the latent mana within to fuel our ranks.” I began, before having the map-seer focus in on a particularly large patch of dense foliage next to a deceptively large clearing immediately in front of the narrow passage.

“The enemy is aggressive, impulsive, and clearly wishes to push for the initiative their conventional forces have lost. Should the land-formers fail in containing the enemy long enough for His Second Highness Grisniar and I to dispatch them, we will have a secondary fall-back in the form of the forests itself.”

I shifted my gaze, turning now to a still-unimpressed looking Grisniar. “And what of us, Pack Leader?” 

“We divide and conquer.” I stated plainly, garnering a look of revitalized interest from the man. “Both of us, and the two rated-battle mages outside currently, will fight each one of the rebel mages one at a time. While the rest of our backline mages attempt to distract and defer them for  as long as possible.” 

“Defeat in detail.” Uncle Grisniar mumbled out, a small fangy grin forming at the edges of his muzzle. “Simple, straightforward…” He continued, before glaring at everyone else present. “But can we count on these untested to perform what is admittedly the crux of your plan, Prince Thalmin?” 

I was about to reply, if not for Uncle Grisniar’s cold glare insisting me to keep quiet.

“Moreover, are you willing to take on the risk of returning to this tent with one, two, three less men than when we leave it?”

A pit quickly formed in my stomach following those words as I stared at each and every one of these men; these minor nobles whose only purpose for being here was in fulfilling their pact of service to the crown.

My answer, however, came in the form of the screams and yells outside of the tent, and the movement of the convoy away towards the ridge.

This battle… was part of a grander story.

A story in which all of us had a role to play.

Indecisiveness would lead only to losses.

Retreat, given the initiative of the enemy, would merely result in delaying the inevitable —  a confrontation with an emboldened enemy at a disadvantageous position. 

“Yes.” I answered plainly, much to the growing anxious faces of all minor nobles present. “However, I am certain that we will be able to dispatch the rebels faster than they can overwhelm our backline mages.” I was addressing Uncle Grisniar as much as I was the rest of the mages. “… if you would be willing to entertain this suggestion, Uncle… I wish to perhaps extend the scope of battle to three front-line battle groups, instead of the two in my initial proposal.” 

Uncle Grisniar raised his brow. 

“You would have the two battle mages outside, currently half-exhausted, to divide up their strengths even further?”

“No, Uncle. I would like to request that we split up. With you and I tackling one mage at a time, instead of the two-to-one ratio I’d initially suggested.” 

The man immediately frowned, his features darkening.

“That is, if you believe yourself to be able to Uncle, I wouldn’t dare risk—”

“If that is what you want, Pack Leader. I wasn’t worried about my own capabilities, Prince Thalmin.” He stated plainly, or as plainly as was possible given decorum.

It was… taboo to directly cast doubt over a Pack Leader’s martial competence, especially when it came to their physical or magical capacity.

However, insinuations were fair game, especially when it came to the awkward circumstances when assigned rank and power were put at odds with the perceived social rank that came with age and familial disposition.

Uncle Grisniar… being my father’s older brother, but having been passed over for the crown as a result of being born to one of my grandfather’s extramarital affairs, had both age and seniority… but not assigned rank.

For it was I who was assigned pack leader for this expedition.

And it was I who held what was nominally a more legitimate claim to bloodline and succession.

This… was perhaps one of the reasons why Uncle Grisniar was even brought on as Second Leader.

It was as much a political statement as it was an important martial decision.

The man… was competent, loyal, and intelligent.

But ultimately, beholden to the crown and its closest legitimate lines.

“I am confident I will be able to hold my own, Uncle.” I stated plainly, garnering a soft sigh and a nod from the man.

“As you wish, my prince.”

KA-BOOOM!

An explosion rocked the nearby tent not a second later, bringing an abrupt but timely end to our impromptu planning. 

“We have to move. Now.” I commanded.

=====

Boarhound’s Hole. Starling’s Passage. 

Moments Later

Thalmin 

With all men now safely evacuated, it was time for gods to take their place.

As the towering canyons overhead began moving, contorting, garnering the attention of the now-nine rebel nobles… 

Though by the time they heard the cracks and echoes, it was already far too late.

CRACK

CRUMBLE

CRRRKRKKKKKKKKK!!!!

They soon found the world around them breaking apart, the skies above them no respite for those with the ability to fly, and the earth beneath them too unsteady to perform the big broad attacks they seemed to prefer.

The second casualty of the battle was quickly made; not by Uncle, myself, or even the other two battle mages present.

No.

Instead, it was by sheer incompetence and brashness.

As one of House Litl’s spawn rushed me—

CRUSH!

—only to meet his end by a boulder the size of a small hut landing straight atop of him.

This was the real downside of a lack of any formal training.

For despite the ability to grow stronger with each battle, what they lacked was the ability to detect, predict, and analyze with rapid pace the ebbs and flows of mana and the sorts of attacks that would come as a result of it.

And following their disorientation, did we begin our assault.

Dividing each would-be battle mage into their own corner, while the backline mages attempted to delay the rest from aiding their outmatched kin.

I was first met with a gruff, overly aggressive heavyweight. His yellow eyes practically glowing with some glamor, and his fur sticking on edge through the joints in his armor.

He lunged.

Dodging in zig-zag patterns the fireballs I instinctively threw his way.

It was after a solid few seconds of ranged attacks that I finally realized the battle was no longer one capable of being fought at range.

Which brought a cocky smile to my visage.

As I instinctively reached for my sword, drawing it, and then slashing.

The beast jumped back, his features expressing both discontent and frustration.

Though no growls came through.

Instead, there was only blood.

As he looked down in a mixture of confusion and horror to see his chest slashed open.

His bulky armor, as protective as it might’ve been on his abdomen, was completely useless against the imported Nexian manasteel of my blade.

He slumped over not a second after he registered the pain, the life from his eyes draining shortly thereafter.

“Alright then.” I whispered to myself, a dark chuckle escaping soon after. I did not wish to egg these rebels on as hubris was often always the precursor to the fall, especially in the heat of battle. Though that didn’t help me from at the very least making a few inaudible remarks.

“Who’s next?”