Thunder and Lightning

Hi Guys,

This is a short piece I’ve written about the taking of a great stronghold…but not by conventional means. Be warned, it’s got plenty of bad language. Once again, I appreciate any feedback or thoughts you have, let me know what you think.

Cheers,

Jevan Thompson

 

The last thing the army needed was a downpour, a tenacious one at that.

The dark clouds in the night sky cast a constant torrent of rain onto them, the droplets rattling off armour and shields like a thousand quiet cowbells.

Bollocks, now I’ve got to oil everything. Garrun thought to himself miserably.

It was all supposed to be a part of the plan. The battle mages were supposed to draw the storm and their Excerpt was supposed to unleash it upon their enemies. For a week, the men had been waiting and waiting for the Host’s arrival, grumbling about anything that would take their minds off of the impending assault on the fortress.

For one whole week, they watched from their tents as the defenders on the wall made barricades, built defenses and constructed additional fortifications, adding further to the already impressive castle. Although this was the first time they’d assembled into their battle formations, the conditions had been truly awful. Even with some tent cover and a handful of small fires, the week-long rainstorm had grated everyone’s peace of mind ruthlessly, with a few of the men quietly whispering about desertion.

Very quietly whispering.

Garrun shook his head, sending beads of water scattering from his helm onto the soaked mud below.

We should have done this earlier. What are the officers playing at?

The man beside him sneezed loudly, wiping his nose with an unarmoured sleeve. “God’s teeth man, I’m sick of this fucking cold and this fucking place. Just get the mages to level the bastard thing, then we can move onto the next shithole.” He said, anger dripping off of his lips with every word.

“It’s fucking bollocks Edge. They’re wondering why they’ve got so many soldiers complaining, then they sit us here for a week getting fucking soaked!” Garrun replied, almost spitting his words out in rage.

It was well known amongst all folk across the Midderland that soldiers of the empire had foul mouths on them, but out here, their raw, bitter language was forgiven. Punishment was usually dealt to those with the worst of tongues, but in the foul conditions, their officers had turned a blind eye.

It was the least they could do.

They continued to stand like that, shoulder to shoulder for another ten minutes in the pouring rain. Four thousands soldiers, all getting drenched in the middle of the night. It was times like this when Garrun questioned himself about his choice of career. He could have followed in his father’s, and now, brother’s footsteps, becoming a baker in a tiny village that nobody cared about. Fighting and cursing seemed to be about the only things he was good at, so enlisting in the empire’s army had seemed like a good idea at the time.

I’d rather be bored out my fucking skull, baking bread in the middle of nowhere than be here.

Chatter amongst the other troops near him tore him from his bitter thoughts, their whispers and excited words piquing his interest. He nudged Edge with his elbow, “What’s going on?” he asked.

Edge sniffed and wiped his nose again before answering. “Ee’s here. Better late than fucking never…”

“What, Izael’s here? With his Host? ‘Bout fucking time.”

Garrun’s company was right on the front of the formation, giving them all a good view of the six figures that strode into view ahead of them. The clouds overhead roared, as if in welcome. The distant thunder echoing menacingly all around them.

All of them were in relatively clean clothes, with no armour or weapons by their sides. Of course. Garrun thought. Of course they haven’t got a lick of mud on them. Fucking wizards have never done a day’s graft in their lives. Distant lightning flashed, letting him steal a quick look at the host.

Four men and two women stood illuminated by the flash whilst the sky continued it’s bellow furiously. The men, apart from Izael, looked bright eyed, faces fresh with plenty of sleep and bodies full of decent food. The women were breathtakingly beautiful, almost as if they had all been carved out of porcelain. It was said that magic had a habit of leaking into a mage’s body, altering their physical forms into beautiful, handsome masterpieces. Garrun spat again onto the wet, squelching mud below him.

Fucking typical. Never had to endure anything harder than running out of wine. Never had to earn anything. It was then, at that particular moment amidst the endless rain, Garrun realised he detested mages.

Only their leader, the Excerpt Izael, wore robes. The rest wore plain, trousers and jerkins, with thick cloaks to keep the worst of the water off of them.

“God’s teeth Garrun, you seen the blonde? I’d give everything in my purse to have a night with her…” Edge sighed.

“Dust and cobwebs won’t buy you her edge.” Garrun chuckled, nudging him playfully. Edge caught his eye, laughing himself before returning his gaze to the Host.

The five battle mages stood in a semi-circle around their Excerpt, cloaks dripping from the elements. Without any sort of perceivable command, they all raised their hands in unison, like spears in a shield wall. The sound of their voices began to drift over to Garrun and the other men, albeit quietened by the rainfall. The battle-hymn had begun.

Their voices, much like their faces, were perfect. Each note beautifully harmonious with the others, forming a soothing, ominous melody. Garrun had never heard anything like it before in his life. Sure, he’d heard the choirs sing in praise to the gods, he’d heard the musicians play to entertain a crowd, but never before had he heard anything so pure. So radiant.

Thunder echoed again, resonating through the lines of soldiers. This time though, the great rumble of the sky’s wrath had grown louder, almost like the storm was getting closer. The singing grew louder, firmer, more powerful with every passing second. The Host growing more and more fervent with their actions, throwing all of their enthusiasm into their strange mystical performance.

It was then the motionless Except began to move.

At first, it was a slow, small movement of his arms, lifting them high into the air above his head. After a few moments, sparks of blue electricity began to crackled from his fingertips. Well. That’s something. Garrun thought to himself. At least he’s the real deal.

The show of arcane power made a number of the soldiers mutter in mild amazement. For most of the fresher men, like Garrun and Edge, this was about the closest thing they’d seen to magic. In their small little villages and hamlets, sorcery was virtually unheard of. A thing of stories and fairytales. One of the axe bearers behind him leaned forward and whispered to both of them.

“If you think this is weird, wait until you see him in a minute.” The axe bearer chuckled.

Edge was too shocked by the casual crackling light growing around the Excerpt to respond. He watched in wonder as the arcing forks of electricity intensified, striking the ground repeatedly around Izael, more tiny blue sparks now jumped and danced over the puddles of muddy earth around him.

His hands then began to weave and twirl in the air, forming a complex pattern of semi circles and twists that Garrun found mesmerising. The dark clouds overhead suddenly flashed and crackled with lightning and Izael curled his hands into shaking, energised fists. The Excerpt threw one of his fists forwards, as if he meant to punch the air in front of him.

A deafening roar sounded as the lightning fell from the heavens.

A dome of shimmering green light suddenly appeared around the fortress ahead of him, winking into existence in the blink of an eye.

A sound like a thousand glass mirrors breaking permeated the landscape.

The lightning, as quick as it had arrived, was now gone and the shield of vibrant light which surrounded the castle exploded into a thousand pieces. Pieces, which all vanished after a few moments of tumbling, their green glow disappearing like distant snuffed out candles.

Garrun could scarcely comprehend what he had just seen. He had flinched when the bolt of energy blossomed in the sky, the boom of the thunderclap louder than anything he had heard before in his life. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide.

“By the gods…” He managed to mumble, to nobody in particular.

The axe bearer behind him exploded with laughter, his eyes drinking in every sight of the Host’s great power.

“It’s fucking brilliant isn’t it?!” He shouted, utterly ecstatic.

Garrun still had no idea how to handle the display of the terrifying power. He started to utter something else to edge but another blast of thunder rudely interrupted his words.

Another thunderbolt arced down from the clouds above, this time smashing into one of the four guard towers which were dotted around the walls of the fort. A sharp crack, accompanied by another hideous boom signalled the strikes arrival.

Stone and brickwork were thrown everywhere, like the fist of the gods themselves had rammed into the structure.

Men tumbled from the crumbling mess, some with missing limbs.

Desperate panicked screams flooded the night, even over the noises of the ceaseless storm.

Izael was working his hands furiously in a sequence of precise movements, as if he was the conductor and the lightning was his orchestra. An orchestra of unimaginable power. The other battle mages which made up the host were now covered in forking sparks, making every sway of their arms or stamp of their feet all the more noticeable.

The dance had increased in speed.

Despite the faraway screams and carnage, the choirly song could still be heard quite clearly, their serene music eerily piercing through the destruction. The pieces of tower were still spiraling through the air when the third bolt struck.

The Excerpt swung his hand in a backhand swipe, his hand cutting through the air like a knife’s blade. His other hand, his channeling hand, was contorted like an eagle’s claw, crackling with arcane energy. The smell of ozone was now thick in the air from the electrical discharge.

The third bolt screeched through the sky, obliterating the gatehouse, turning it into kindling and chunks of shattered masonry which rocketed in all directions. Then another lightning blast appeared, caving in the other tower closest to them. An explosion of dust and stone tore out it’s centre. It was as if the building itself had forgotten to stay standing.

In just a few more minutes, the fortress was reduced to a pile of broken stones and blazing fires. The once proud structures that stood tall and intimidating were reduced to pathetic ruins, shadows of their former selves. The buildings looked as if they were half way through being assembled, with the materials scattered all around like grain on a field.

Not a single one of the four towers remained unharmed and the gatehouse looked as if it had been torn apart by giant claws, rent asunder by the mage’s work. Huge gaping holes dotted the walls of the fortress, big enough to fit half a company through with some room to spare.

Garrun couldn’t understand what he had just seen.

Destruction on that scale was something only heard of in stories meant to scare younglings. Hundreds, if not thousands of lives, extinguished utterly in a couple of paltry minutes. He no longer cared for the rain pattering off of his plate, in truth he couldn’t even feel the drops on his armour.

He was roused from his wandering thoughts by the sounds of metal clinking all around him. Looking around dumbly, he saw his company, all strong fighting men of the Empire, kneeling on the watery earth below. After another second of surveying, he realized it wasn’t just his company that was kneeling.

It was the entire army.