Horizon of War Series-Chapter 251: Alone Among the Fires

Alone Among the Fires

The Arena

Half an hour before the battle on the hill.

Sixteen men entered through the arena’s main gate, led by a broad-shouldered man in ringmail. Their boots struck the ground with a steady rhythm, armor clinking beneath worn cloaks. The way they moved as a group commanded attention. These weren’t zealots or fools with pitchforks. They wore their armor like a second skin and walked like men who knew violence. These were no strangers to killing.

Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed their march, some with curiosity, others with quiet recognition, or envy. A few looked away entirely.

The crowd parted without a word, giving them a breadth of space, not wanting trouble.

The scent of blood clung to them, mingling with the smells of leather and rust. It was a warning no one could miss.

Like many who gathered tonight, they were mercenaries by trade. Hired swords who, over the centuries, had bled into the edges of society. The nobles of the region had found uses for them to settle disputes, enforce their will, and silence rivals. They offered violence without consequence. The destruction of a minor House could pass as nothing more than a tragic peasant crime, so long as the coin reached the right hands.

But those days of serving the whims of nobles had ended. Lord Bengrieve was gone. Lord Reginald had ruled only briefly. Now Lord Lansius held the seat. With the shift in power came reckoning. Many of these men found themselves without work, cast aside by the new order. Some turned to banditry, carving out influence in the remote corners of Midlandia. Yet the Lord’s men had hunted them down, and most ended in chains or worse.

So when the invitations came, delivered quietly through trusted messengers, they answered without hesitation.

They were few compared to the Saint’s followers, but what they lacked in number, they made up for in strength and experience. A thousand of them could break four thousand in a straight fight. But here, there were over five thousand followers, and only nine hundred of them.

The corridor beyond the gate was narrow and dim, the air damp like a cellar. Lanterns swayed on iron hooks, casting a dull glow across the passage. Monastery men stood here and there, each one believing he played an important role. When they saw the group, they stared without blinking, their eyes full of disdain.

The group saw it clearly, and the feeling was mutual.

There was little love between the two sides, only a shared enemy.

To the hired swords, the followers were gullible, foolish, and dangerously delusional. Peasants who believed a questionable woman claiming to be a Saint could save them from backbreaking labor.

To the Saint’s followers, the mercenaries were nothing more than cutthroats, criminals, and sinners destined for the fiery hell.

The tension hung in the air. There had already been several flare-ups today. But the burly man, their leader, ignored the stares. Born of an esquire mother, he was too proud to be slighted by skinny peasants.

As they passed through the corridor, the atmosphere shifted. Ahead lay the vast horse track, stretching wide beneath the open night. Above them, on the benches overlooking the upper arena, were their own. Comrades and allies. Nearly one hundred of them, all his subordinates.

"Oi, what's the word outside?" someone from another band called down, his voice lazy and slurred with drink.

"If it’s food you’re after, I’ve got none," the leader replied as he climbed toward the benches.

"We’re just out here to take a dump," one of his men added dryly.

"Can’t blame you. The peasants already made the arena stink," another voice shouted, drawing laughter from scores of men nearby.

One of the men furrowed his brow and sniffed the air as the group claimed a stretch of empty benches, sitting or lying down where they pleased. He finally asked, "Hey, why does it smell like someone roasted some ducks?" ṙÄΝ∅𝔟ЁṨ

"Ah, you wouldn’t believe it," their ally replied. "Their higher-ups wanted duck meat, and they caught two. But the ducks killed twenty and maimed even more."

Instead of pity, there was laughter. The stupidity and blind devotion of the Saint’s followers were well known.

Their laughter immediately drew attention to them from the hundreds of followers nearest to them in the arena. But they paid no heed. They didn’t care if it could be seen as provocation. They would welcome another brawl, and it had happened plenty of times today for all kinds of reasons.

The men were restless, and it was in their blood to tread on those beneath them. They had grown used to watching peasants cower. But now, the defiance of the Saint’s followers crawled under their skin. It itched, just waiting to be scratched.

"Is your leader around?" the group’s commander asked, his tone measured.

"Drunk but still kicking," the man replied, then caught the stare and quickly added, "I’ll go get him."

"Make it quick," the leader said, standing to wait.

...

The older hired sword climbed the steps. Despite claims that he was drunk, he was sober enough to put holes in most men.

He saw the broad-shouldered man, who stood two fists taller than him, open both hands in a dramatic gesture and say, "I'm here."

The man offered a stiff smile and replied, "Come. Let's talk."

"Here’s as good a place as any," the older one replied, unconcerned.

Yet the younger man nudged toward somewhere quieter, and the older one followed without complaint, leaving his trusted aides behind.

The two leaders sat on a bench facing the horse track, now crawling with scattered groups of followers, and the open night sky above them.

"I met someone outside," the younger one began, choosing his words carefully.

"I can see where this is going," the old veteran said, then drank without hurry from his elaborately decorated wineskin.

The younger man's eyes narrowed, and suspicion crept into his voice. "What do you mean?"

He capped his wineskin and replied, "Someone wants you out of the arena, is that it?"

The younger leader's expression turned fully guarded.

The veteran gave a casual shake of his head and said, "You're not the only one."

"If you're still here, then—"

"Hold on. Don't jump to conclusions." His eyes flicked to the younger man's hand, already closing around the hilt of his dagger.

The younger man stopped, muttering, "I need to know."

The older man drew a long breath and said, "The swordmaster who trained my son also trained the Lord."

"That's good fortune," he replied, still guarded.

"Indeed. A worthwhile investment, as it turns out. The swordmaster saw my son in the arena, and someone contacted him. They wanted him to influence me, get my men to walk away."

The younger man held his gaze. "You forgot to explain why you're still here."

The grizzled fighter didn’t look away. One had fought at Nicopola in his youth, bled in back-alley killings, and taken quiet jobs in the dark corners of Midlandia. The other was strong and skillful.

"When my son agreed, he told me about the other offer," he revealed calmly.

Only then did the younger man nod, his stance loosening.

"We’re not the only ones," the older fighter added. "Two groups already slipped away without a word. The Lord's agents are frighteningly competent."

He shifted his broad shoulders and glanced around at the benches. "No wonder it feels quieter. How many are gone?"

"Smaller than our bands. About eighty total, perhaps. But the way they left made our allies nervous."

He spat to the side and muttered, "Peasants are suspicious by nature."

"And superstitious too," the old veteran added with a faint grin.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The old man’s grin faded as they watched the thousands of Saint followers in the distance. They looked small in the vast arena, but there were somewhere around five thousand men, young and old.

"It's staggering what this Saint can do with a little medicine and healing," the old man commented.

Ignoring the sentiment, the younger man pressed, "The Lord's men have a request for us."

"I already did. Thought I was the only one." He leaned toward his younger counterpart and explained, "A few of my men started whispering that the Lord’s men might strike through the corridor between the camp and the arena. It stirred them up. Some even tried to climb the Lord’s podium, but couldn’t manage."

Following the older man's gaze, the man looked that way and saw what appeared to be a ladder and an unfinished scaffold, with several men working around it and men with spears and swords crowded nearby, looking tense.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Restless minds are hard to read," the older man added, "but occupied men are easier to predict."

It was one of the Lord’s requests. A diversion. The man glanced at his senior and said, "So there’s no going back after this."

"You can still bail," the older man replied with a dry smile.

The younger man was piqued. "Why won't you?"

"I'm aiming for the biggest prize, of course." He offered a merry grin. "Also, my son isn’t with me right now."

"I see..."

"I'm old. I can afford the risk. Who knows, maybe the Lord will win, and that will secure my son’s future in these changing times," he said, eyes drifting to the night sky.

The casual tone unsettled the younger man. "Aren't you too optimistic?"

"Maybe," he admitted lightly. "Perhaps I am enchanted by the new Lord's many exploits. You know, many of my men have distant cousins or relatives in the Lord's army, and they all speak highly of him."

The younger man exhaled and rose, turning his eyes toward the rest of the arena under the night sky. His gambeson beneath the ringmail dulled the bite of the wind. As he approached the warped wooden railing, he saw the racetrack below stretched out in near-total darkness. Most of the lanterns and torches had long since gone out, replaced by scattered bonfires built from splintered pieces of the arena’s ruined frame. Then his eyes found another group, armed and armored, much like his own.

"What about them?" he asked, nodding toward a cluster of hired swords gathered in another section of the arena.

The veteran, still seated, replied, "You know what they say about the hired swords from Krakusa. Not even I want anything to do with them."

"Noble bastards."

"They're too proud to submit to a non-Midlandian. And many of them are already swayed by the Saint’s teachings."

Turning to his senior, the younger man asked, "What do you think the Lord will do to them?"

The older man chuckled softly, his weathered skin creasing around eyes that had seen too many battles. "If I were him, I’d kill them all."

The answer didn’t surprise the younger man. He simply said, "Then there’s only one thing left to do."

"Yes," the older man said with finality. The discussion was over. Time was slipping away, and their new employer wanted results. In just minutes, the promised hour would end, and the Lord would likely make good on his threats.

***

Saint Candidate's Hideout

After a full ten minutes, there was no sign of progress. Sir Bielstein’s eyes hadn’t improved. They had only turned a deeper red. Maintaining her innocent smile, the Saint Candidate reached into her inner pocket and drew out a pouch of pills.

She had done what she could. Her magic, trained only to a mediocre level, was effective only up to a point. Now it was time for the poppy milk, made from the dried sap of the exotic opium flower, it would heal any pain or discomfort. She had learned this from one of her superiors: when healing failed, sedate the patient. It wouldn’t cure anything. It might even make things worse. But at least the patient would appear calm for the duration of the treatment.

Originally, it was intended to buy time to consider other causes, but she used it to send the patient away as “cured,” passing the responsibility to someone else once the effects wore off. She genuinely saw healing as something dependent on the victim’s fate, not the healer’s skill. If magical healing didn’t work, they had only themselves to blame, not her.

It was a creed that suited her. Born into a poor family, she had been careful never to appear incompetent. In her village, incompetent women were discarded, given off to even poorer households. Even after she struck a stroke of luck and was recruited into the monastery, her mindset hadn’t changed.

Instead of using the opportunity to study, she focused on pleasing her superiors, knowing her future depended on them regardless of her abilities.

This approach earned her a high rank but left her mostly incompetent in the art of healing.

As she examined the pills and removed their outer wax coating, Sir Hohendorf commented, “Reverence, his lips are swollen. He won’t be able to swallow.”

“He can if I make it easy.” She smirked and bit into the bitter pill, crushing it thoroughly in her mouth. Then she opened the patient’s mouth by hand and let her saliva drip in.

She did it while glancing at Sir Hohendorf, teasing him and stirring his envy.

Unlike him, who had aged into his fifties, Sir Bielstein was younger and better looking.

Unfortunately, a knock came, interrupting and depriving her of Sir Hohendorf’s shocked and distraught reaction.

She merely smirked and continued the procedure. She could have diluted the dose and spoon-fed it to the patient, but that would have denied her the real pleasure: watching a nobleman drink her lowborn saliva. Moreover, she had become addicted to the poppy milk that would soon seep through her blood. With it came the promise of another wild, nauseating, yet deeply pleasurable night.

The fact that she gained all that while following the medicinal manual only made the act more delicious. She had cheated the very texts she once dreaded, and no one was any the wiser.

With heavy footsteps, Sir Hohendorf returned from the door and called, "Your Reverence."

"Yes?" she answered, rising to her feet, already wanting to return to her bedroom.

"There are things to discuss."

She disliked his tone and the prospect of what was to come, but forced a smile. "Yes, what is it?"

The man looked as somber as a faded painting. "The assault really came," he said wearily.

The Saint Candidate blinked hard. The ecstasy from the poppy milk hadn’t reached her bloodstream yet, but her head was already pounding from a sudden wave of concern. Still, she knew what to do. She wasn’t as young as her face suggested. With the calm instinct of a mother, she placed her hand briefly on the knight’s right hand and said, “The Saint is with me. If not in body, then in soul. She’s watching over us all. Find your courage and decide what’s best for us, or else…”

She turned her back on him before continuing, “She might see your actions as lacking conviction, or worse, as cowardice.”

Her few words were enough to spur Sir Hohendorf to declare, “Then I shall commit. Tonight, the Black Demon’s rule will end.”

“Rise, new Lord of Krakusa,” the Saint Candidate urged him further.

Soon, the men under their command would be roused from their rest and begin preparing to march. Of them, Sir Hohendorf had only fifty, paid from his own purse.

The nobles of Krakusa had funded another four hundred ragtags from the previous civil war. Meanwhile, the monastery had provided enough funds to recruit a thousand from various sources, along with another three thousand zealous followers.

Altogether, this force, nearly five thousand strong, was ready for battle. They would reach the arena within an hour. freewebnσvel.cøm

***

Outside

Drawn by the sound of trumpets and the flicker of fire rising from the direction of the hill camp, the last large column outside the arena tried to prepare itself for action. Positioned midway between the arena entrance and the hill, they held a commanding presence on the only road leading to both the arena and the southern route. From there, they also had a clear view of the two vast structures flanking them: the arena and the fortified camp on the hill.

However, hesitation clung to them. Their men looked uneasy, and their commanders were mired in doubt. These were the true rioters: unemployed seasonal drifters who had come expecting a free meal, cheap drinks, and a horse race. When the unrest began, they joined for the thrill.

Now, in the dark, these untrained mobs were having second thoughts.

They began to regret their decision not to join the thousands who had already fled.

An hour had likely passed, and the Lord had made good on his words.

These nine hundred men, drawn from various backgrounds, stirred nervously. They watched and listened as distant panicked cries rose and fell, fading beneath the sharp, disciplined blasts of military signals.

For a while, nothing happened. The commander had sent men ahead, and they returned with news of a great battle near the fortified camp. No help was requested, so the column waited, returning to their original task of guarding the point where the outer walls of the camp and the arena met. It remained a point of concern, as it could serve as a hidden exit for the Lord's men to escape or flank them.

They were there to guard against that risk.

But as the waiting dragged on, scattered groups of men appeared from that camp's direction, running toward them under the faint starlight. Yet at the sight of the column, they veered away, unwilling to be captured, questioned, or pressed into another fight.

"What's going on?" one of the men asked, eyes straining into the dark as he turned to his fellow rioters.

No one replied. They could only trade glances. Everyone was tense.

The few hundred Saint followers worked to maintain order within the column. They preached and chanted, but even they could feel it now. Something had gone terribly wrong.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves broke the stillness, followed by the distant cries of horses.

The men watched with growing unease, but nothing was happening yet. They could only wait, weighed down by creeping, crippling anxiety.

Then came the flicker of orange light from that same direction. At first, it shimmered through the gaps in the trees lining one side of the road. Then, as the shapes came closer, hundreds of torches emerged, advancing slowly through the dark.

"Who are they? Isn't that one of ours?" asked a debt-ridden man from Krakusa, squinting into the dark.

"They’re marching in good order," said his younger nephew, who had once trained as a levied troop. He voiced what they all feared.

Against the odds, the Black Lord’s supposedly puny force had broken through. To reach this point meant they had trampled over several thousand men. There was no other way to explain it. They had killed all those men and were still able to press on, as if untouched.

"Impossible!" cried the leader of the column, an inspiring-looking male cleric chosen by Saint Nay herself, as he stared at the marching silhouettes in the distance.

He grabbed his closest brethren by the tunic. Both nearly slipped in the thick grass as he demanded, face to face, "You mean to say that just a few hundred of these sinners were able to kill five thousand of our allies?"

His brethren could only weep. Many had called those men brothers. They had studied, worked, and dined together in the monastery.

The cleric released his grip and turned to his other brethren. "What kind of man can do such a thing? To win against that many?"

He singled out one, the tallest among them, and demanded, "Tell me how two hundred men could slay five thousand?"

His brother had no answer, only the same look of shock and distress.

The cleric ranted on, his face contorted, his tone defiant. "We have our most senior leader in there, the holder of the Saint's Golden Standard. There’s no way a great man like him could lose to these cornered brutes."

Yet, there was no mistaking the slow advance of a new column, moving in good order, with cavalry silhouettes among them.

Against the odds, the Black Lord’s army had survived the three large columns stationed outside the camp. Instead, he smashed through them and marched here, hungry for more.

The realization settled in with brutal clarity. The column’s leaders stood frozen, mouths mumbling denial, unable to comprehend what they were witnessing.

Unknown to them, hidden in the dark, the Lord’s advance guard, who had been watching for some time, was ready. When the Lord finally arrived with the main force, he was briefed and reassured about the enemy’s numbers, then gave the order to strike.

...

Lansius

Following Sterling's report, the two slingers, recruited through their contacts in the Alchemist Guild, moved under the cover of darkness. Accompanied by only a handful of men, they lit short fuses on specially designed paper balls the size of a fist and launched them into the enemy formation. Unlike fire bottles meant to create a swath of flame, these burned as they rose in a high arc.

Once airborne, the thin rattan flicked open, unfolding into a web-like shape that slowed their descent while the resin-soaked base burned brightly as it fell.

The Alchemist Guild called them flying lanterns. Lansius saw them as illumination flares.

No one ever bought them. They were expensive and had limited use. Only someone like Lansius would take an interest. That was partly why the Alchemist Guild, despite the disruptions caused by his occupation, remained on good terms.

While the flying lanterns weren’t weapons, for those seeing them for the first time, the effect was terrifying.

"Dragon’s breaths!" someone with imagination shouted from within the enemy column, sending more men into panic.

No sooner had the illumination flares touched the ground than Lansius' crossbowmen advanced and loosed a salvo. While it was difficult to target anyone with precision, he had gambled that ranged attacks would be useful to probe their numbers and resolve.

The crossbow bolts sliced through the dark, striking vague silhouettes among the enemy ranks. The men heard favorable reaction, shoutings, pained groans, or murmurs of panic from the column ahead.

Still, the problem persisted.

Even with the flares, no one could see a thing. The enemy had extinguished or hidden their lights. In near-complete darkness, save for the dim starlight, not even his scouts in front, risking their lives, could be certain of the enemy’s true numbers. They could be only several hundred, as Sterling had said, or a thousand and entrenched.

Thus, Lansius faced a dilemma. To press on meant risking heavy casualties among his ranks, but to delay risked everything.

Only now did he realize his mistake. Had he taken one of the half-breeds or a mage as staff, as suggested, none of this would have happened. In nighttime fighting like this, someone who could see in the dark would be invaluable.

Audrey...

Before he knew it, his gauntleted fist had already clenched tight. He couldn’t afford indecision. Mistakes could be pondered after the battle. Right now, he needed to press on.

Lansius turned toward his staff, their faces glowing in the lantern light carried by aides and squires. He saw sweat and weariness, but also unwavering courage and eager resolve. Among them, Dame Daniella’s gentle face and Sterling’s steady presence stood out.

To them Lansius said, “hear my order.”

“Yes, My Lord,” they answered almost in unison.

“Prepare a general attack,” he declared. Without hesitation, his staff rushed to their commands, shouting orders and rallying their men. The blue and bronze would face the ultimate test again, vastly outmatched by a force that should have broken them. The signal was given, and his loyal veterans braced for what the night would bring.

***

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