Interlude Seven: Slaughter

Interlude Seven: Slaughter

Interlude Seven: Slaughter

Jon Cauter sat in a spacious canvas tent, meditating. He had always found it helpful, to clear his mind before a battle. One needed to have the right mindset, to engage in war, and Jon was here to heal.

The flaps of the tent were pinned back, and he sat cross legged, facing the opening. He listened to the canvas shudder and rustle in the wind. It was a stiff sound, but calming. He focused on it, blocking out the noise of the encampment readying itself around him, preparing to shed blood and die for humble ground and lofty morals.

It was a waste. Not that he disagreed with the morality of it, for the most part. Their enemies were a cancer, and cancers were best to be excised. It was safer that way. He knew all too well how cancers could spread.

No, it was a waste of life. That was his disagreement. There was so much that could be done, with life. Even if it was cancerous.

There was no avoiding war though. It was here. It had already raged across this countryside. And today, it would end.

Jon felt a measure of satisfaction at the thought. He was sick of this. Sick of these cancerous fucks, and their cancerous ideologies.Read latest chapters at novelhall.com Only

Steelspire was a tiny fortress-city. It was built on the steepest part of a long promontory threaded with rich veins of ore. The tower it drew its name from pierced the sky in the distance like a needle.

It had never fallen. It had never even been challenged. The Steelspire itself, the tower from which the whole city took its name, stood sentinel on the narrowest point of the promontory, the city itself nestled safely behind it.

It was impossible to actually capture. A two hundred foot high tower made from enchanted steel was not something you could simply charge an army at. Not three abreast down a treacherous causeway, at any rate.

The Spirans espoused individuality. They believed, they actually believed, that every person in their nation had the right to speech. To take a hand in electing a leader. The notion was absurd!

The Corlan Empires system of meritocratic governance was the only true way. To think that cowards, imbeciles, the slovenly and unfit, were given a voice? It was no wonder their city was so small!

Those who would not put their life on the line to protect a city should be grateful they were allowed to live in it. Those who contributed not a iota of value towards improving not only their own lives, but others, would only drag everyone down with them.

One tiny fortress-city would not be of any concern to the Empire. But they werent content to remain that way. Over the last decade, they had slowly seeded more settlements in the surrounding countryside: a land of rolling, gentle plains, and sharp, storm-wracked coast.

So the Empire had marched. They had burned towns and villages, smaller settlements that if not stamped out quickly, would grow into fortress-cities in their own right. And eventually, they had reached Steelspire itself.

Miracle of miracles, they had chosen to meet them on the field of battle. Fools.

It was the perfect opportunity, if you were a bloodthirsty sort who loved making war, but today, it would end.

At least he was a Healer. Where war went, he followed. And in the Empire, there was always the next war to look forward to.

Horns sounded from across the field, calling the Spiran army to order. Minutes later, Empire drums started a low, slow tattoo.

Jon opened his eyes. He stood.

It was time.

He exited the tent and took in the view before him. Across the plain, the Steelspire: a javelin pointed at the heavens. In the field before it, the Spiran army. They had twenty units of infantry, each a hundred men. Four units of cavalry, fifty men apiece. Blobs of massed irregulars sat behind the front line, milling about like sheep. They would be armed with bows.

It would all make no difference.

The Imperial Army was five times as large, and not even their full force. Rank upon rank of rigid soldiery stood in perfect rows, gleaming weapons held on high. Resplendent cavalry, draped in colourful barding, stood at ease on the flanks. Lighter cavalry, armed with recurve bows and javelins, waited just behind the ridge Jon stood upon. Tight blocks of disciplined crossbowmen, their mail shining in the sun, secured the rear.

Neither side had artillery. The Spirans didn't have the lumber for it. The Empire had no need of it in the first place. You didnt need it, when you had strong enough Idealists. They wouldnt want to damage the city, at any rate.

It was why they had chosen to meet them on the field. Or been forced to. You simply couldnt stop a sufficiently powerful Idealist. Better to die in a glorious charge, than be slaughtered like fish in a bucket.

Jon made his way down to the army. He ignored the strident speech from the general, relayed in shouts by his subordinates to theirs. It was unimportant. He tuned out the beating of the drums. He needed no rhythm to tell him blood was about to be spilled. He felt the first of his skills activate.

He reached the back ranks as they began to move. They parted slightly to admit him. Where they shuffled, waiting for those ahead to make space, he strode.

He made it to the infantry as they had started a steady walk. The Spiran army was walking to meet them. Already, the distance between the two armies had narrowed substantially. He began to jog.

The mans death spilled over into those around him, continuing its work. Jon reached out with his pinnacle: a control skill.

Nearby ranks exploded with grotesque protrusions. Horrifying fleshy growths sprouted and spread like wildfire. Even more nearby men caught alight.

Jon grinned.

None of his skills were particularly potent individually. He had spent years toiling away, healing people, softly smoothing out imperfections in their cells, eking more strength out of them.

He was never very good at it. He didnt have the finesse, nor the patience for it. It was so much easier to stop the people who would kill than heal those they injured. More were saved, his way. It was the right way.

These Spirans, like so many before them, were an infection. They had to be cut out lest they spread. It was what any good Healer would do when faced with a lethal infection. The body would die, otherwise.

He was simply more direct in his Healing, than others.

Jon raised his arms and let mana flood into his control skill, driving the cascade to greater heights. Men fell in waves. They became waves -a great, suppurating wave of flesh and blood and bone.

Jon was a flood. But he needed more.

The Imperial Army crashed into the Spirans with a squeal of metal and the thunder of hooves. Jon had to get deeper.

He leapt again, his feet digging up the sod and sending a spray of soil up with the explosive movement. Once more, he landed in the thick of the enemy.

They were cautious now, backing away from him, encircling him. They would have heard rumours of his exploits, of course. Every good Healer should be renowned. But it was one thing hearing a drunken tale from some deserter of a far flung battle, and another seeing it in action. Still, they seemed to be learning.

All of a sudden, it became harder to move. The air seem to congeal around him, thickening and constraining him. At the same time, the earth around his feet rose to swallow and trap them.

Idealists. Well, they had to have some.

A lance of fire raked him. A small boulder slammed into his thigh. A hail of ephemeral blades rained down on him. A form made of mist clawed at him from below. A bar of incandescent purple energy cracked and sizzled into his side.

Jon weathered them all. His regeneration was so high now that the attacks would heal in under a minute. It was still too slow, obviously, under such a fusilade, but he made up the difference with his Therapeutic Touch, stimulating his own cells back to perfect health.

A man stepped forward, about to say something. Jon punched outward, and the shockwave killed him.

I hope that wasnt the Idealist of Air, he thought. How embarrassing.

His cascading buffs had grown to an unmanageable level. For the Spirans, anyway. Jon flexed, and his bonds snapped. A nearby Idealist gasped in pain at the feedback of his skill being broken. He was free.

This part was always the most exciting. Idealists didnt die quite so easily.

He took a single step forward, and the enemy Idealists fell back. He moved forward again, and again they retreated. He strode forward, under a withering barrage of attacks, and never stopped. He hopped, and a movement that would have been tiny became large.

He landed directly in front of a scared looking man. His armour was modified, and that usually meant Idealist. Jon idly wondered which Ideals he followed as he struck him with an open palm.

Mana flooded into Jon, and through the unlucky soldier. He died. His companions died. Their companions died. Everywhere became a mass of tumorous, uncontrolled growth.

Therapeutic Touch was enough. But add to it a physical strike, with all his buffs behind it? And add all the buffs to the effects of the Touch, too? Jon had seen less carnage after the hurricanes that scoured this coast.

He straightened, preparing to leap again, but stopped himself. That wasnt right. One woman was still standing. Not only that, she was still whole. Unblemished, even.

How interesting, he thought. It had been a long time since he had met someone who could stand against him. Not since he had reached Flawless in his first Ideal, years and years ago.

Now this was exciting. He wondered who this paragon of the Steelspire was. He knew they had some Flawless Ideals, but he wasnt worried about any of the ones he had heard about.

Here was a chance for him to truly prove Imperial supremacy. Here was the root of the Spiran cancer. He readied himself to rip it out. To bring the Spirans salvation at last. It was the best way to heal, wasnt it?

Sometimes you just had to rip the bandage off.