After our victory at Mesayne, the Kalipaonin Regiment pursued the mages and the remnants of the Junumianian forces further into the enemy’s domain. Several small skirmishes were had in which the use of magicks beyond one mage’s would have been tactically foolish, so Nestyne forbid any use of magicks. Over time it became clear our hunt for the mage from Icinerenth was not fated for success.

Winter, fast-approached, and the two Junumianian sorcerers did much to slow us. The withering grasslands and forests were set ablaze over and over, the soil was loosened, golems lay in-wait, each time our progress halted. Further, and further we found ourselves from our goal, and with the seasons against us Commander Partelin ordered us to fortify the city of Huroncenth, a wall-less city built atop a tall plateau.

With only one direction of approach accessible to foot soldiers and a clear view eastward towards what remained of the Junumianian empire, Huroncenth served as an ideal base for winter. From there we could communicate with the rest of our forces, similarly successful, and communication over the long continent would come quicker and more reliably.

The problems of Huroncenth, however, were twofold: the citizens were fiercely loyal to Junumianis, and we would have to take control by force. Victory was already assured, for their forces were far inferior to our’s, but to over-tax our resources would be to leave ourselves vulnerable to any opportune assaults from Junumianis before winter could fully set in. Given that we could not employ our normal tactics, the problem fell to the mages for how to ensure the cost of victory was small.

There would still be costs: all officers knew that the lives of foot soldiers and messengers, the young boys from burned villages and distant townships, were a resource. Such is the nature of wars of greed and power, wherein victories are purchased with lives. Out of all of us, even more than Nestyne, Carinon despised this fact the most, for she had come to heal and protect, not to kill. To spend the lives of our men had already taken a heavy toll upon her, before the amount was deliberate. Casualties were assumed to occur in normal engagements, but to plan and induce them went against every fiber of the healing mage’s person.

“Why do we talk of throwing away the lives of men?” Carinon objected, “Did Paronian not talk of how lives are sacred? Does Mentillian not care for those injured unjustly?”

Nestyne intervened, scolding her.

“Do not think that the loss of men does not pain me, or anyone else among us Carinon. It is true that most of the saints pity the dead and those who do not value life, but this is also war. Men die. Cities fall. This is the way of things.” The summoner spoke, backed by his years of wisdom visible if one stared directly into the dark of his eyes.

Carinon rebutted more furious and more volatile than I had ever seen her before. I did not realize how strongly the war had been affecting her, but with each sentence I could hear the weight of grief dragging her voice downward and gravel-like.

“If the nature of things is to crumble, and to wither, Nestyne, then why do we care when our loved-ones die? What about the wife of a soldier, regardless of allegiance? Should her happiness not factor into our decision to kill her son? The men fighting this war, the footsoldiers, they are not mere numbers. Instead, each is unique and each is irreplaceable with their own lives and goodness within those. Among those individual and unique men, we choose many to die. We know they will die. It is not a simple risk, unlike a typical battle, it is an explicit decision to send them to their deaths. How can you justify that? Do you not care for men and their lives?”

“Insubordination if you speak to me in that tone again, Carinon.” Nestyne, terse, continued.

“I have had many friends. I have seen many friends die. I know grief. I know loss. I know war. I am your officer. This is our job. You know the punishment for criminal mages. Branding. The silencing ward of Mentillian. This is not a threat. This is a warning. You accepted the duties of conflict. You will fulfill those duties until you die, or the war is won.”

Carinon, against her instinct, remained silent at the command of typically casual and friendly Nestyne. She, wittingly or not, struck a nerve with the veteran, and knew it unwise to push, unlike myself. But, this was not my conversation, nor were these my concerns, for I had grown desensitized to the costs of the war of greed and power.

Men were recruited. Men went to battle. Men died. I thought such was the way of things, for that is what that foul enemy, Extirpation, desires. Now, years departed from those ghastly battlefields, I grieve for them every day, hoping that their Memory stays alive to defy the will of that terrible fiend that only seeks to consume.

Sensitive to Carinon’s plight, and Nestyne’s foul mood, we began (except Carinon, for she was silent for three days) discuss a means to eliminate sacrifice on our part. Quatimonian suggested I enchant our men with the spell of unnoticing, but that could not work for that was not in the spell’s nature to be used for violence. Even if I could craft a spell, and not obliterate myself with its casting, modifying the spell thusly would draw the wrath of Kalitian. In short, it was not an option.

I suggested that Nestyne might be able to craft several golems of snow, and set them upon the city. As my knowledge of summoning and animation was limited then, Nestyne informed me that what I sought was impossible with the time available to us. To create a spell so quickly would leave the veteran ill. Without the veteran to advise us newly-appointed masters, the Kalipaonin Regiment would be left vulnerable to any magickal offensive from the Junumianians. With the types of summoning magicks available to us, the best we could do would be to level the city, making any conflict pointless.

Nestyne, then, suggested that Quatimonian might be able to manipulate the banks of snow, and freeze the forces within the city. This was doable, but not under our current circumstance. Unlike the mages given patronage in cities such as Arimens, time was not a resource afforded to us. If Quatimonian had many months wherein the only thing he did was study and craft a spell, then it certainly would have happened in such a way. We only had days, and I could see the anguish in Carinon’s brow when we concluded that men would have to die.

The next day we reviewed our options, and eventually settled upon a forgettable plan wherein I would summon fog once more. Many of our men would die in the snow, of that we were certain, but it was the best we could muster without Carinon’s input, who had been silent since her outburst. In-all, perhaps two hundred of our own men would die taking the city. The militia would fight til death to defend their home. We had no other choice

Quatimonian, usually quiet, lamented the fate to which we were about to assign our own men.

“It is a shame that we could not remove pain and hesitancy from our soldiers, for then we could send the same force forward and lose less of our own number. Still, I fear this loss may still be too heavy, on both my mind, and our forces.”

Carinon, who had been stoic and silent thus-far, spoke. I could hear in her voice she was still dismayed at the subject matter, and of what had yet to come. Yet, faint hope could still be heard, a faint hope that she might prevent needless death, for those undeserving of the cruel fate we mages had been prepared to ordain upon them.

“This plan is far too costly as it is, and I accept now that we will have to sacrifice men. Quatimonian, do you forget the title my master has bestowed me, and for what magicks I am truly known?”

“Carinon, are you not a master of healing? You know that Nestyne has forbidden you from any excessive healing. It is far too dangerous to heal the number of wounded from this battle.” Quatimonian spoke.

“I am not the Master of Healing, Quatimonian, that is my teacher’s title. I am Carinon, Master of Bestowment. When you speak of no pain, and no hesitation, that is within my purview. I can make select men impervious to these matters, until the city is ours. Men will still die, yes, but less, for they will not hesitate when injured.”

Nestyne placed his hand to his beard, and stood deep in thought for nearly a minute. No one else spoke, and only the subtle sounds of snowflakes and frosted breath could be heard in the ponderous stillness. I was certain he would reject the proposal based on the number of men to be enchanted, and the specificity of the spell. It would be a fatal spell to any mage unfamiliar with bestowing. Even when I bestowed the spell of unnoticing upon the men of the regiment with Carinon’s aid, the side effects of those magicks were still such as to kill several men outright, and to cause severe illness in both of us.

However Nestyne, wiser and more experienced than I, asked her of the spell she intended to cast.

“How many men will need to be enchanted, Master of Bestowment? What side effects do you expect for yourself?”

“I will need fifty men from our regiment. Fifty men of my own choosing. Men who deserve death. Those who we know have done unmentionable things, those who are scoundrels, those who are criminals. I will bestow my enchantment upon them, and they will charge through Nayinian’s mists first. I do not expect any illness for myself from this enchantment.”

It was the last sentence that left us thunderstruck. Certainly any mage would face severe repercussions from such a feat. I objected to her spell.

“Carinon, I saw you fall ill after the enchantment in the thundered plains. Both you and I were near death. I cannot believe you will face no repercussions for such a spell. We all know the dangerous nature of bestowing enchantments, however temporary, upon men. You saw men die as they threw up gravel and bile.”

“Nayinian, I was sick from that spell because I had not prepared a single word of it, nor had I prepared any enchantments that day.”

Carinon was no liar. We had all underestimated her abilities, for (much like myself) she was subtle and not flashy. She had exhibited no great displays of power yet, for that was not in her nature. If she was as powerful as she said she was, then I could no longer object.

The mages agreed upon her plans without further discussion, had them approved by the Commander, and we woke up early the before the late-autumn sun rose to begin the assault.

Fifty men assembled before Carinon, them in their regalia, she in black. Fifty men were told they were our best, our strongest, our most reliable, and that is why they had been gathered so early in the morning. This was a lie. They were told that a spell to make them unstoppable and fearless would be cast upon them, and that they would lead the charge into Huroncenth.

Carinon cast her enchantment, showing no weakness, and the men likewise showed no weakness as they marched solemnly into the fog I had summoned. We followed close by on horseback with the reinforcements who would finish the job. From the edge of the mists, I watched Carinon’s ordained carnage unfold.

The fifty men, fearless, charged the fortifications. A volley of arrows slipped through the mist, impaling all of the men. Only one fell, and the rest continued their fatal charge. Another volley. Several men were struck in the chest. They did not notice, they did not care, and they did not relent.

Our forces slammed against their militia, two dark waves upon the light snow now trimmed with red. Limbs and pieces of dismemberment littered the snow, but our men did not care. They pushed onward into slaughter, dead men walking. The untrained militia of Huroncenth did not stand a chance.

After the battle, if such an event could be called one, there was the gruesome business of casualties. Men, some halved and some disemboweled, walked oblivious to their wound and their world. How could they care anyways? They would be dead soon. We had to watch them die in order to tally them.

From what I saw, I knew that none of us had been told the true nature of Carinon’s enchantment, and perhaps it was the best. Cruel, bizarre, and yet, as if paradox, merciful. I looked into her eyes that evening and saw no contentment in them. Certainly, the death she gave those men was not virtuous. How could it be? That was the nature of Extirpation’s conflict: one way or another, you would cast men and their souls to oblivion as, slowly and for its own sake, that foul god defiled all thought good and all thought bad.

She had no other choice.