Arrows flew over the wall and fell among the attacker’s formations outside. Most clattered off their shields and much of what did slip past did not pierce their thick armour, but there were a few lucky hits that struck weak points and a handful of Morovians fell in the first volley.

“Next volley!” Percival cried.

More arrows rained down on the Morovians and a few more fell. A horn sounded from the direction of the campgrounds and to the disbelief of the defenders, the Morovians on the wall began climbing down the ladders.

“They’re leaving?” Lewis asked, watching the knot of Morovians in front of him grow smaller as more of them scrambled down their ladders.

In almost the blink of an eye, the Morovians had all but withdrawn from their positions, leaving only three close to Philip’s position, surrounded by a forest of spears. With a scream from their leader, the three men hurled themselves at the defenders, hacking, and slashing in a ferocious final suicidal charge. They killed or maimed two defenders before being overwhelmed and killed.

This scene would be repeated at each of the ladders as the Morovians executed a swift withdrawal, and soon, they had reformed with their comrades on the plateau and began a swift but orderly withdrawal.

There were cheers from the defenders as the arrows continued to rain down on them throughout the withdrawal, picking off men here and there. The Morovians came to a halt roughly two hundred yards from the wall, beyond the range of the archers in the courtyard and began to regroup.

The wind began to pick up as the Morovians attempted to reorganize themselves, blowing from the castle to towards the Morovians. Philip looked down at the courtyard and saw Percival standing with his hands stretched to the sky. His eyes glowed white as the wind picked up in speed. The archers began firing again and Philip turned back to the plateau to see the arrows landing among the Morovians who had been caught off guard.

Their withdrawal was more panicked this time, and a few more fell as they reached the five hundred yard line. Bodies were scattered over the plateau between them and the plateau, all Morovian, but not as many as Philip had hoped for, given the intensity of the arrow barrage. To Philip’s surprise, a group of at least half the remaining Morovians broke for the campgrounds before regrouping. They withdrew in small clumps of men, unlike the organized withdrawal from before.

“Are they running for it?” Lewis asked incredulously, “after all that?”

“It does look like it,” Philip breathed. They watched as a Morovian officer ran after the retreating men, screaming at them. They could not hear a thing from where they were, but the gist of what was being said was clear from his body language.

“Have we repulsed their attack?” Philip heard the baron boom from the courtyard.

He turned around to see the baron talking to Percival. Percival nodded as he spoke to the baron. They couldn’t hear that conversation either, but he was probably explaining the situation. Before Percival had finished talking, the baron began walking briskly towards the steps on the Morovian side of the wall. There was a bounce in his step as he walked, and he was beaming from ear to ear.

“Yes, perhaps we can rescue this situation after all,” Philip heard him say as he and his guards pushed past them with Percival in tow.

The baron watched the withdrawing Morovians who were already past their campgrounds and were already disappearing from view as they made their way down from the plateau. The remaining Morovians who numbered less than a thousand mostly had their backs to the castle, watching their withdrawing comrades. Among those remaining was General Edmund whose armour made him stand out in the crowd.

“Men,” the baron said, “this is an opportunity to turn things around.”

“What do you mean, baron?” Percival asked warily, “we’ve won. All we have to do is stay here and wait for reinforcements from the capital.”

The baron whirled around to face Percival and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Don’t you see? That lucky son of a bitch, General Edmond is standing right before us. And now that his devil granted luck has finally turned, we can eliminate him here, together with the core of the Morovian army while they are demoralized.”

“Yes,” Baron Graham continued rubbing his hands together as he looked out at the plateau, “and then we will ride their deserters down from the rear, destroying the army and then recapture all the lands we lost.”

He turned back to Percival once again with a manic gleam in his eye, “we can accomplish all this before the army from Antere is here. Then, with the Morovian army out of the way, we can march on Ostgen as the vanguard and take it in the name of the king. Being raised to Count will no longer be a dream.”

“This could all be a ruse,” Percival warned, “General Edmund is a wily one.”

“Look at those bodies,” the baron said, waving his hand at the plateau, “he would not have thrown their lives away for such a gamble.”

“Can you imagine what would happen if we didn’t seize this opportunity, we’d be the laughingstock of the Anteren court!”

“You already are,” someone nearby muttered under his breath.

“My lord, I must protest,” Percival began.

“Duly noted,” the baron snapped, “but you will organize the men for a charge all the same. I will lead it personally.”

The baron turned to Felix. “Your infantry will bring up the rear.”

Felix went white but managed to stammer, “how many infantry are we bringing?”

“Everyone who is able,” the baron replied at once, “archers included. We can ill afford to resort to half measures at this juncture.”

“My Lord, the manner in which they withdrew was most suspicious,” Percival protested, “I maintain that this is all part of a trap laid by that man.”

He pointed at General Edmund who was watching the last of the deserters disappear down the road that led off the plateau. His men had still not formed ranks were in disarray.

“I, your commander, disagree,” the baron replied with finality as he made his way back down the stairs, “organize your men, we must strike before the remainder organize themselves.”

“We should at least get some scouts in the forests before we leave the castle,” Percival said, looking very troubled at their commander's course of action.

“There isn’t time,” the baron said from the courtyard, “if General Edmund gets away, we’ll be back where we started.”

Reluctantly, the order was given for the defenders to gather in the courtyard. The reactions of the men were mixed as they descended from the wall and formed ranks behind the Celethir cavalry. The order had been given for all due haste, and the men took their positions according to the order in which they arrived in the courtyard. Because they were standing close to the stairs, Eric and his squad found themselves right behind the cavalry.

The baron had disappeared into the keep once more while the men were forming up and he emerged once again looked resplendent in his gilded armour. A sword hung at his belt, and the jewels set in its hilt sparkled under the morning sun. His bannerman was by his side holding two banners; one was the royal banner, and the other, the banner of two prancing horses flanking a castle, the same two banners that Jonathan had ridden into Melinfield under. That had happened less than a week ago, but it felt like months to Philip.

“Finally, our turn to go on the offensive, eh?” Lewis beamed next to him, “I think that Percival is just being a worrywart.”

“I suppose,” Philip allowed.

They had heard most of the exchange between the aeromancer and the baron and were inclined to side with the baron. They were riding high from repulsing the Morovian attack, and even if the deserters turned around and made their way up to the plateau, Philip thought there would be too much ground for them to make up to reach those who remained, provided they strike quickly.

“There could be knighthoods in it for us,” Lewis gloated.

“I don’t know about that, but there should be a decent gold reward,” Philip remarked.

Lewis’ enthusiasm was infectious, and the morning’s battle had caused the confidence in Eric’s squad to soar. They had survived the battle with three wounded, and one killed. In return, they had killed at least twelve and Lewis, in particular, was feeling invincible.

“Boy is Michael going to be sorry he missed this,” David grinned.

“We’ve done the difficult part,” Eric warned, “don’t get yourselves killed now.”

“Brave soldiers of Celethir,” the baron cried as the last of the soldiers joined the rear of the Celethir formation, “the Morovians have fled before our might and fury. All that is left is to wipe them out and the glory will ours for the taking. When all this is through, you will all be handsomely rewarded from my personal coffers.”

The men roared in the approval at the promise of gold and glory.

“Fifty sovereigns for the man who brings me their general’s head!” the baron added to more cries of approval and soon, the men were raring to go.

The baron nudged his horse forward a few steps and Philip’s heart was pounding in his chest. Beside him, Lewis’ hands had gone white as he gripped his spear tight as they waited for the baron’s signal to charge.

“This is for you, papa,” Eric said softly.

As the gates swung open, the baron drew his jewelled sword and raised it high in the air as his horse whinnied and reared up on its hind legs. “Forward, Celethir!” he roared and spurred his horse forward.

The baron’s horse shot out of the gate like a white arrow loosed from its bow. Close on its heels was his herald and then his ten personal guards. Right behind them came Percival on his grey mare and the remaining fifty Celethir horsemen. The infantry was right behind them at first, but as the gap widened as the horses thundered across the stony plateau.

Up ahead, the Morovians scrambled to form ranks. Their movements looked sluggish and in disarray compared to when they first appeared on the plateau a few days ago, and the Celethir morale soared. Both cavalry and infantry increased their pace.

“Do you hear something from behind us?” David asked breathlessly as they ran as quickly as they could after their cavalry which was getting further away with each passing step.

“Focus on running,” Eric panted, “if you fall, you’ll be trampled by those behind you.”

The sound David heard were warning cries from the wounded left on the castle walls. Roughly three hundred Morovian horsemen had just appeared from the forests, but the Celethir attack was so concentrated on their enemies in front of them that they could not hear their comrade’s desperate warnings. Most did not notice until the cavalry crashed into their flanks, bringing their charge to an abrupt halt.

The surprise attack was a complete success and many of the Celethir did not know what had happened even after they found themselves lying maimed and dying on the ground. The Morovian cavalry attack had struck behind Eric and his squad, cutting right through the main body of the charging infantry.

Hearing the screams and whinnying of horses behind them, the infantry who had been ahead of where the cavalry struck came to a halt and turned around to see their comrades being cut down mercilessly by the rampaging horsemen.

“Where did they come from?” Philip gasped as the blood drained from his face.

“They must have been hiding in the forest,” Eric panted, watching the one sided slaughter in horror, “our scouts withdrew after the main army arrived on the plateau, we had no idea they were even there.”

The Morovian plan became clear to Philip now. The three days of inaction were to buy time for their cavalry to make it to the forest unseen. The attack this morning and retreat had all been a show to draw the Celethir out from behind their walls and they had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

“What do we do now?” David wailed.

As the surprise wore off, the infantry began to fight back, and a few cavalrymen fell. A shrill horn pierced the air, and the Morovian cavalry swiftly disengaged from the Celethir infantry and withdrew a short distance to regroup.

“They’re readying another charge,” Eric breathed, “we need to link up with the survivors and form a line.”

“You want to go where they’ll be charging?” David spluttered, “are you mad?”

“Hurry, there isn’t much time,” Eric urged, and he began running towards the others who struggled to pick themselves up off the ground and form ranks, “there are only three hundred of them and eight hundred of us.”

“We can’t possibly beat them,” David cried as he and the rest of the squad took off after Eric, “half our men were wounded in that first charge alone.”

“We just need to hold them off long enough for them to demand our surrender,” Eric replied, “then we’re going to pray to the gods that they’ll be merciful.”

“We’re going to surrender?” David gasped, coming to an abrupt halt.

“If we’re lucky we’ll be alive to surrender,” Eric replied, “this counterattack has completely turned the tables.”

Philip looked over his shoulder and the Celethir cavalry was still charging towards the Morovian positions, seemingly oblivious to the infantry’s plight. Without the Celethir infantry backing them up, they would be hopelessly outnumbered by the Morovian infantry before them, but that couldn’t be helped for now. He agreed with Eric that their own survival lay with the infantry behind them.

Up ahead, he saw Peter get to his feet towards the infantry’s rear. He, and the other heavy infantry, had been weighed down by their heavy armour and found themselves at the rear of the formation. Now, the others were rallying around them as they raced to prepare for the next charge.

“They’re coming, hurry!” Eric cried, picking up the pace.

The others panted as they struggled to keep up. Then, David who was running ahead of Philip stumbled on a loose rock before falling in a heap.

“You always were a clumsy sod,” Philip gasped as he stopped to help his friend up.

“Look out!” David cried.

Philip turned to see a mounted knight who had split off from the main group bearing down on him. The man’s lance glinted in the morning sun as he aimed it at Philip’s chest. Philip managed to twist out of the way just in the nick of time, but the man’s armoured knee caught him in the side of the head, sending him crashing to the ground.

Philip lay dazed on the ground and wondered if he had suffered a mortal wound. He thought he had dodged the lance, but perhaps that was just the last wishful thought of a dying man. It was certainly the closest to death he’d ever come. Still in shock from the sudden blow, he thought he could feel a familiar orb of warmth in his chest and wondered if the seal had been damaged. It felt distant and just out of reach, and it filled him with dread.

In the corner of his eye, he could see David looking at his legs in shock. Still in a daze, Philip couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but his friend’s legs looked wrong somehow. Philip heard distant screaming. David’s mouth was open, and it was entirely possible that it was he who was screaming, but his head was still spinning and he could barely tell up from down.

Then, he saw the knight who had run into him. He was now dismounted and approaching him with his sword drawn. He was clad in full plate armour and the visor of his helmet was lowered. As he approached, all Philip could see was his eyes. They were cold and merciless.

Philip tried to raise his spear only to realise it was not in his hands. He must have dropped it when he was sent flying. He glanced over at the rest of his squad. They had just joined the main body of their infantry and were bracing for another charge from the main group of cavalry.

His senses returned slowly. He could hear David screaming something about his legs. Shifting his gaze, he could see that David’s legs were a bloody mess. The horse must have trampled them as it rode by.

He then looked back to his opponent who was almost on top of him. Philip struggled to get up, but his body would not listen. His pulse quickened and the orb in his chest grew hotter, as he felt his death approaching. Despite his fear, he held onto the orb tight. He didn’t want a repeat of the night his family died. David was right next to him, and he was afraid just how much damage he could do if he released his power this time.

“Just close your eyes and don’t move, boy,” the man said, “I’ll make this quick.”

Feeling panic overwhelm him, the ball within his chest turned white hot. He could barely contain it, and he felt the seal in his chest straining against it, struggling with him to keep the flames within him from erupting.

Philip struggled to lift his body once again. He managed to raise it by a few inches, but the man planted his foot on his chest, pushing him back down. The air was filled with the screams of men as the battle was joined nearby.

“Sorry about this,” the man said as he raised his sword and prepared to deliver the killing stroke.

The man’s blade descended with a flash, but with lightning reflexes, Philip caught the blade with both hands. He winced with pain as the blade bit into his hands.

“Stop making this difficult,” the man said, almost sadly, “I have a boy your age and I’d rather do this quickly.”

He applied pressure to the blade, and it slid down, slicing deeper into the palms of his hands. Soon, he felt the blade’s tip on his neck.

He closed his eyes and knew if he continued to restrain the power that was roiling within him, he would die. But if he unleashed it, what would happen to his friends? All he knew was that if he didn’t, he would die. Did he want to die?

“No, I don’t want to die,” Philip gasped. He released control of his power and he felt a sharp pain in his chest as the heat shattered the seal and roared out of him.

Unlike the first night his power surfaced, this time, the swirling heat around him felt angry and consuming. He panicked as his mind was flooded with memories of that night that claimed the lives of his family and at his impending death at the hands of this man. The heat within him became uncomfortably hot even to Philip. It was not warm and soothing like on that first night. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and wanted the inferno that he felt swirling around him to end but didn’t know how. The inferno forcibly consumed drew Philip’s energy as it raged and eventually, it died down and Philip collapsed, utterly spent.

He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but there was an eerie silence around him that filled him with a sickening sense of dread. He was afraid to open his eyes, but he willed them open. Upon seeing his surroundings, he immediately felt sick.

The ground around him was blackened from the heat and small piles of what could only have been melted steel and charred flesh lay scattered around him. He summoned his courage to glance over to where David had been lying just a moment before and found there was nothing recognizable left, just black scorch marks on the ground. All that remained of his assailant was a melted greave next to where Philip was lay.

Feeling a rising wave of nausea, Philip rolled over and emptied the contents of his stomach on the ground. Even when it was completely empty, his stomach continued heaving. When he had finished dry heaving, he felt for the seal on his chest and realised for the first time that he was completely naked. A familiar and now comforting warmth enveloped him as he touched the seal and he thought he could feel that parts of it had vanished from his chest, but he would not be able to inspect it properly without seeing his reflection.

Shakily, he got to his feet and found that the plateau, where thousands of men were fighting to the death just seconds before, was now devoid of life. All that remained were a few scraps of blackened metal armour. The stones of the plateau were scorched black as far as Philip could see, all the way up to the Morovian campgrounds. On the other end, the walls of the castle had been flattened, and the keep was a burnt out ruin.

His first instinct upon seeing all the death and destruction that he was responsible for was to flee. He knew that Abraham’s list of Melinfield levies which Jonathan had taken with him to White Stone would include the name Philip of Rickton. It would only be a matter of time before the Academy linked him to what happened here if it wouldn’t immediately be obvious to them once they learned what happened.

But where could he go? Going back was too risky, there could be survivors in the fort, and there was a high chance he would encounter people coming up the only road. All he knew was he had to leave the scene of the crime as soon as possible. If he went back towards Celethir, questions would surely be asked. Especially if he tried to return to Melinfield. In the other direction, he had not noticed the Morovian deserters, who were surely just pretending to desert return to the plateau, but chances were high he’d encounter them if he went that way. In fact, it was likely they would be here at any moment.

He had to run and hide quickly. The only punishment for his crime had to be death. He was solely responsible for the death of thousands of Celethir soldiers including several nobles and an aeromancer. The death of a noble at the hands of a lowborn alone was punished by at least the death of the perpetrator and their entire family going back two generations.

The only option seemed to be the forest to the east. He tried to run but slipped. Looking down, he saw that the rock immediately around him was now perfectly smooth and almost glossy. He picked his way over this strange rock carefully and once he was clear of it, began running as fast as he could towards the trees, knowing that he would be clearly visible if anyone survived in the castle or returned to the plateau from the Morovian end. He was no woodsman and knew that it would be difficult for him to evade anyone in the forest if he was pursued.

As he drew closer to the forest, he could see the trees along the edge had been blown away into the forest, hurled like matchsticks by an invisible hand. Without breaking stride, he ran headfirst into the forest. The forest here was ancient, the sunlight could scarcely penetrate the thick canopies and bathed the floor in an eerie twilight. Not waiting for his eyesight to adjust, he stumbled blindly through the undergrowth, just wanting to get as far away from the plateau as possible.

He lost track of time as he ran through the undergrowth as fast as his legs could carry him, fuelled by fear and adrenaline, until he came to a stream when he suddenly felt an incredible thirst. He collapsed at the stream’s banks as his legs finally ran out of strength and he would have leapt to his feet had he the strength upon seeing his reflection. Two demonic looking eyes stared back at him from the stream. His eyes were glowing a brilliant and intense red he had not seen before and the seal on his chest was missing in parts and faded in others.

Not able to hold his thirst back any longer, he dipped his hands into the stream. He heard the water hiss and steam in his hands as he scooped it up. Too thirsty to worry about scalding his mouth, he drank it deeply and found that it was cooling in his mouth. He found his body was burning up and his panic increased.

Desperate to get his temperature under control, he threw himself into the stream. The water hissed and bubbled around him, but he felt his body temperature drop. When he felt it had dropped sufficiently, he hauled himself out with great effort and rolled over onto the bank.

As he stared up at the forest canopy, he realized for the first time that all his friends were dead and began to weep. David, Philip, Lewis, and Peter. He’d never see any of them again. There would be no more evenings in the pubs laughing to David’s tall tales, smiling as Lewis lamented of the dull farmer’s life he had been fated with, or listening to Peter recount the town’s juicier gossip. Then there was Eric, their leader in the battle who they were looking forward to introducing to the town, to share drinks in the comfort of the Melinfield Inn.

His thoughts went back to the Morovian man standing over him, his sword at Philip’s throat. He then thought to inspect his hands. There were dark scars on his palms. The wounds from the Morovian knight’s sword had been cauterized shut.

He then thought of how he could have done things differently then. He had learned to channel heat through his hands at the Academy. Why hadn’t he thought to do that, to heat the man’s sword to the point he could no longer bear it? Or perhaps scald him with a smaller burst of flame to drive him back. He certainly knew how to do that in theory, though his fear had prevented him from practising it more than a handful of times. What had happened was because he had panicked in the moment. All he knew was that he didn’t want to die.

If only he had gotten over his fear, he lamented. How different could the battle have played out if he was a fully-fledged pyromancer like Frederick? Perhaps the baron’s forces would not even have been defeated at Kiligi or whatever it was called. Perhaps by now, they would be at a royal banquet in their honour in Antere.

“Stop daydreaming,” Philip admonished himself out loud, “you're probably already the most wanted man in Celethir and Morovin, and that’s a fact.”

After his moment of clarity, he stared up at the forest canopy in a daze. As time drifted on, the twilight within the forest began to dim and the ball inside his chest began to cool down. Soon, he began to shiver, made worse by the fact that he was both soaking wet and naked.

Forcing himself up off the ground he forced himself to banish the feelings of guilt from his mind and focus on his present problems. He looked around for options to warm himself. The forest floor was covered with moss and fallen branches. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten all day. Food would be an issue, he thought to himself, he had no idea what would be edible here in the forest. And then there was what he was going to do beyond that. Would he be forced to live as a hermit out in the wilds for the rest of his life?

First, warmth, he decided, picking up an armful fallen branches. If he could just get a fire going, he could sit with his back to it, and that would be his first problem dealt with. He dumped the branches in a small pile and selected a sizable one from it. He held it in his hand and tried not to think about the fire he was trying to create.

Philip focused his power in his hand like he had been taught at the Academy. He felt the warmth gather in his hand, and soon, the part of the branch he was holding began to char and then smoulder. The sight of the charred wood and the smell of smoke caused memories from the plateau to surface. A wave of nausea flooded over him and he went weak. He dropped the branch and collapsed to his knees.

He sneezed. Maybe you deserve to be cold, he told himself. He began to shiver and noticed the sky was beginning to darken quickly. He looked around, trying to get an indication of where he had come from, but could not make anything out in the dwindling light. He wondered if the tragedy at Gelt’s Pass had been discovered yet and what both sides would think of it. How would his friend’s families be informed? Would they be informed, or would they just hear the news that the baron’s forces had been wiped out?

The fact that his friends had died hit him again and he felt a wave of nausea overwhelm him. He was very much alone with nowhere to turn to. He looked around and found that it was already so dark that he could no longer see the stream less than twenty yards away.

The emotional and physical toll from the day’s events caught up with him all at once, and he suddenly felt very tired. He only had the energy to curl up into a ball before he drifted off to sleep. The dream started almost as soon as his eyes closed.

In his dream, his friends were tied to stakes. Five of them in all, Peter, Lewis, David, Eric, and Michael even though he hadn’t come with them to Gelt’s Pass. They were screaming at him to untie them, but Philip did not heed them. Instead, he gathered kindling and piled it at their feet under the watchful eye of the knight who tried to kill him earlier that day. He was looking at Philip threateningly, growling at him to hurry up from time to time in that gravelly, sad voice of his. His armour was blackened from heat, and he held a longsword in his hands.

His friends continued to scream at him as Philip completed his task, mechanically transferring kindling from a large pile to the growing one at each of their feet. Soon, his job was done.

“Good,” the Morovian knight said, handing Philip a branch. It was identical to the one that he had attempted to set aflame before he went to sleep.

Philip took the branch, and at once, it burst into flame. He gazed at the flame, surprised that his fear had not set in.

“Do it,” the man commanded.

“Don’t!” his friends shrieked, “what are you doing Philip?”

Mesmerized by the flames, Philip lowered the torch towards the kindling as his friend’s screams intensified. One by one, he lit the pyres built under his their feet. The screams grew louder before fading all at once.

“Good,” the knight said. He stepped past Philip and stepped into the flames. He turned around to face Philip as he burned.

“Good,” he repeated.

Philip gasped as he woke up, drenched with sweat. He saw the morning sun shining through the canopy, bathing his surroundings in light. He then noticed a cloaked figure standing over him. Its face was obscured by a hood. Then, he noticed sunlight glint off something in the figure’s hand. Philip’s gaze was drawn to it. It was a knife.