The Battle of the Tarbin

For the men of the Liaran army encamped on the River Tarbin, this day it began like any other. The hot July sun was beating down as Jacob Ardmore sat under a shady tree, chatting with his friend, George Devereaux. There was a sudden clatter of hooves, and the two looked up to see a scout race by on a frothing mount, heading towards the rich red-and-silver pavilion of the king.

“So, the Sethri are close by, after all. Do you suppose we’ll see action before tonight?” said George.

“I don’t doubt it,” Jacob replied, taking a bite of the apple he held. “I know them. Once they sense battle, they won’t stop for anything,” he said through his mouthful. On that pleasant note, they went back to their previous conversation.

Sure enough, a few hours later, the trumpets sounded the call for battle formation, and the camp came alive like a disturbed anthill. Jacob made his way through the commotion to his tent, and lovingly took his ironfist from its padded case. It was one of the first that had ever been made, nearly 150 years old, and had been presented to his great-great grandfather for his bravery with it in battle. Since then, it had handed down from father to son; it was only a few more years until he would pass it on himself. Smiling at the thought, he slung it over his shoulder, and headed off towards the nearest column of pitch-black smoke that signaled a waiting fistfeeder.

“How long until the lightning comes on?” he asked the operator, as he shoved his ironfist into a charger slot.

“The shielders have been building up their head of steam for a while,” the man said gesturing to the nearest of the great wagons. It was humming softly, and black smoke belched from its funnel. “It should be any minute now.” As he fell silent, a peal of trumpets split the air.

Inside that shield wagon, Adam Drinkwater, its commander, ran his hands over the antique paneling of his console. “Incipe fulmen,” he said, beginning the incantation he had been taught by the Almerians to start the machine. He smiled as he heard the generator’s hum begin to change pitch. Through the window in front of him, he could see the thunderclouds forming; fear lent speed to his words. “Ambiti parati,” he said, his hands racing across the console, engaging switches and turning knobs. “Plenus fulmenis. Machina parata. Incipe ancile!”

Loud roars of displaced air rolled over the camp as the invisible shields snapped into existence. He bent over his console and held his breath as lightning lit up the sky high above. A few seconds later, the gauges began to twitch as the bolts slammed into the shield. He didn’t know what any of the gauges actually meant, but that didn’t bother him. He knew where the needles should be and how to make them stay there; that was enough for him.

Outside, the trumpets blared again, now barely audible over the constant rumble of thunder. Up and down the line, the operators of the fistfeeders threw their machines into gear; Jacob saw the power needle on his ironfist begin to rise. After about five minutes, it was fully charged. He unplugged it, and headed off towards the forward edge of the shields with the rest of the fistmen.

“Those scum are going to have fun crossing the river in this,” Jacob said to his friend George Devereaux, as they took up their positions at the shield’s edge.

“Good,” said George, easing himself down onto the windswept turf. “A couple lucky strikes could take down their first wave before it even gets here.”

A few minutes later, a heavy rain began to fall, drenching them and obscuring their view of the advancing Sethri. Before long, though, they came back into view, now just about half a mile from the other side of the river, marching quickly. Jacob put his eyes to his sight, and, as the attackers came within a half a mile, opened fire. The hums of ironfists were all around him as a cloud of lethal iron filled the air. His ironfist grew warm as the Invenian magic within his weapon threw bullet after bullet towards the oncoming Sethri. As the first Sethri troops splashed into the waist-deep water, the second-rank fistmen opened fire.

Large holes began to appear in the front lines, and the rush faltered about halfway through the river. Then, the event he had been praying for happened. A bolt of blue lightning slashed down and hit the water about a hundred yards from one end of the Sethri line and a good third of the attackers in the river collapsed, dead or stunned from the shock. The rest of the vanguard faltered under the withering fire, but by now, the main attack force had caught up with, and began racing across the ford. Those in front were left no choice but to charge or be trampled underfoot, and the charge surged forwards again.

As the first Sethri reached the near bank, the firing faltered as the ironfists began to run low on power. A flaming arrow arced across the river, the signal for retreat, and Jacob scrambled up, throwing his ironfist over his shoulder and racing back towards the friendly line. There were a few channels left open in the wall of men, and he plunged through the closest one as a volley of arrows flew over his head towards the Sethri.

Back in the shield wagon, Adam was bending over his instruments, brow furrowed in concentration. Today’s lightstorm was particularly nasty, and it required all of his concentration to keep the power safely balanced. As he played with his instruments, he heard a cough from behind him. Turning, he saw one of his wood-loaders, Michael Lineside, standing with an apologetic look on his face and his hands held behind his back. “What’s the matter?” Adam said. “Is there some problem with the generator?”

Adam froze as Michael pulled his blood-covered hands from behind his back, a razor-sharp claw extending from the tip of each finger. He gathered his breath for a scream…

“That’ll do him,” Michael muttered, as Adam’s lifeless corpse collapsed to the floor. He contemplated the console for a second, then reached out and turned two knobs all the way to the left. His task completed, Marza Linsyd, Sethri warrior, retracted his claws and raced out of the wagon, fleeing the inevitable result of his actions.

As the battle grew more intense, Jacob found his hand straying to the hilt of his sword, despite the fact that the front was holding well. Suddenly, the noise from the wagon behind him began to increase rapidly in pitch and volume. Before he could do more than feel puzzled at the change, the world went white. The last thing he felt before he lost consciousness was a hot pain racing from shoulder to foot.

The next thing he felt was a heavy weight on top of him. As he opened his eyes, he saw that it was a body. In horror, he shoved it off of him, and sat up. The storm was gone, and evening was falling. He stood up, still somewhat woozy, and winced as pain shot through his shoulder. As he craned his neck to try and see what the problem was, he saw his twisted, destroyed ironfist lying on the ground. “Lightning,” he whispered, “But how…” He looked up, and his thought was chased away by the sight that met his eyes. He was the only living thing in a sea of corpses, some Sethri but mostly Liaran. Many of the Liarans had no visible wounds; they had not been struck down by enemy hands, but by the elemental fury of the lightstorm. “No, no,” he cried. “This can’t have happened! It can’t! What went wrong with the shields?”

Looking to where the mighty wagons had stood, he saw several large craters surrounded by chunks of metal and wood, mangled bodies, and huge fuel logs scattered about like a giant’s playthings. He walked over to one of the bodies, crouched down, and stared at it. The blank face of Adam Drinkwater stared back at him, frozen forever in an expression of shock and terror. Then, his gaze drifted down to the four jagged slashes across the lieutenant’s throat, and he understood. “Sneaking scum,” he spat.

As he looked around in dejection, he saw a faint cloud of dust rising in the south, and the terrible truth struck home. For the first time in more than a century, an entire Sethri army was loose to ravage and plunder Liara at will. “It’s going to be a bad, bad year,” he whispered, shaking his head. Then, his mind filled with despair, he turned and set out eastward towards the rays of the dying sun, limping along on his long and lonely trek home.