Chapter 19 Sariel
SARIEL
I suppose this is all your doing,” Sir Tristan said as he paused before Sariel and Faron in the middle of their squadron’s formation. A wide field stretched out before them. Idyllic. Peaceful. Only the approaching army marred the beauty.
“We have found a place of honor upon the battlefield,” Sariel said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Why do you protest?”
The knight gestured to the Casthe army approaching on the other side of the field.
“Because as good as you two are, you’re not enough to make up for what we face.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I expect the same effort from you as before. Otherwise, a lot of good but unprepared men and women are about to die, and yes, I do put that on your heads.”
The knight left to check on the rest of the formation.
“He’s right to be angry,” Faron said, staring across the field as he scratched Iris’s head.
“I do not care,” Sariel said truthfully.
With how Sir Tristan’s squadron had taken down the charging riders on their own, combined with the princess’s growing interest in Faron since naming him Godsight, the whole group had been elevated to the front ranks, lining up not far from where Isabelle’s own formation marched in the heart of the army.
Marshal Oscar walked beside her, his head freshly shaved to remove the mess the qiyan had made of his hair.
The lad Faron had befriended, Bart, said something Sariel could not hear.
As Faron consoled him, Sariel directed his attention to the approaching army.
After taking both river crossings, Isabelle had guided her forces northward, looting what supplies she needed from the villages she passed while ordering that the people remain untouched.
They would be her people soon, she insisted, and she did not desire to inspire hatred in their hearts.
Sariel doubted that did much to remove the sting of the stolen food, but it was an attempt, he supposed.
They later met up with two thousand soldiers she had kept behind in Doremy, and together they made their way toward Vendom.
At last, with nearly two-thirds of Argylle taken, King Bentley sent his own army to counter.
Isabelle had the greater numbers, but Sariel frowned as his blessed vision granted him sight of the striped yellow-and-black shirts of men walking the front line, jars swaying from their staffs.
“An alliance born of desperation,” Sariel muttered upon seeing preachers of the Church of Stars.
Rumors had reached the army that King Bentley had pledged his kingdom’s loyalty to the church in a bid for aid.
A foolish ploy, in the long term, given the love the common folk showed Leliel, as well as their distrust toward the faith encroaching from Racliffe to the far east. But with Isabelle claiming herself Leliel’s chosen, the church was a natural ally.
The question now was how much use those preachers would serve in a battle.
“Do you see them?” Sariel asked. His brother spent a moment looking, then nodded.
“Foul users of stolen radiance,” he said. “They’ll be a problem.”
“Which makes them our problem,” Sariel said. “We can’t let Eder’s faithful stymie what little progress we have made.”
Faron lifted his sword and shield as he stretched his arms and back.
“You worry over nothing,” he said, and grinned at him. “Me and Iris could take this whole army on single-handedly. With you there, it’ll be a breeze.”
Beside him, Iris barked, and Sariel reluctantly grinned back at the beast. She was larger than ever, steadily growing in strength from the blessing his brother had given her.
“I’m not sure I trust Faron,” he told the coyote. “Which means I must trust you instead to pick up his slack.”
Trumpets sounded, their order for Isabelle’s army to march drowning out Iris’s excited bark. Immediately after, the big man, Alex, slid into formation to Sariel’s right, his padded leather armor looking meager compared to his bulky frame. An enormous ax rested upon his shoulder.
“Hope you’re able to repeat your earlier miracle,” he grumbled over the rising din of rattling armor and weaponry. “Because otherwise we’re all dead as shit.”
Sariel flashed him a smile.
“I am not a maker of miracles, but I will kill the foes before me. When the bloodshed is ended, we shall see if it was enough.”
Alex shuddered. “Such a coldhearted bastard you are.”
The space between the armies shrank, and the nerves grew among Isabelle’s forces.
It was a good spot for a battle, Sariel admitted.
A clear field outside the town of Greenberg, with thin, short brush easily trampled.
No forests about, either, and few distant hills.
There would be no ambushes, no tricks. A straight battle, which King Bentley must have believed his soldiers capable of winning.
Sariel adjusted Redemption across his shoulders, his grip on the smoothly carved hilt tightening. The preachers were the only unknown, and it was they who headed the enemy formation, their jars lifted high and their voices singing, audible even from afar.
Pallid light grew within the jars, gold and sickening. Sariel watched, analyzing the reaction, and then understood.
“Close your eyes!” he shouted, projecting his voice with a hint of radiance so hundreds of soldiers would hear him over the din. “Do not watch!”
In unison, the jars blazed with sudden, ferocious light.
It washed over Isabelle’s army, and though its power was nothing compared to the radiance innate to Sariel, it was like a gut punch to those who did not turn away.
Soldiers stumbled and staggered, and many vomited, unable to control their stomachs.
Sariel shot a glance at Isabelle and was surprised to see her standing tall, her sword lifted above her as the light gathered for another barrage.
“The goddess is with us!” she bellowed. “Do not fear their evil!”
Another flash. More shouting and fearful cries, but this time the majority had cast their gazes to the dirt.
A meager comfort, and a complete wreck of their organized march mere moments ago.
Meanwhile, Bentley’s army surged forward, accompanied by trumpet shouts and victorious battle chants.
The ground vibrated beneath Sariel’s feet. He readied his sword.
“Open me a path through their front line,” Sariel told his brother, his attention locked on the preachers, who fell back toward the middle of the attacking army. “The radiance thieves are mine.”
“Won’t be easy,” Faron said. “They’re pretty spread out.”
Sariel narrowed his eyes, his instincts taking over and his reflexes heightening.
“It won’t matter.”
More trumpets, these from Isabelle’s side, giving the order to meet their enemy’s charge.
Faron and Iris took off like a shot, and Sariel trailed just behind them as their shadow.
Together the three led the assault, the rest of Isabelle’s army hurrying to keep up.
A faint smile spread across Sariel’s lips at the sudden uncertainty he saw on the faces of their foes.
Two mad brothers and a coyote, racing ahead of their allies? Surely they had a suicide wish?
Faron struck his shield and sword together, bellowing a deep, wordless cry.
No fear in them, only fear in the eyes of their foes, and then they slammed into the front line.
Faron was an unstoppable bull, his strength fully unleashed.
Soldiers were flung aside with every hit of his shield, toppling bodies into one another in a tangled mess of limbs.
His sword cut quick and wild, denying his foes a chance to regroup or surround him.
Iris kept close to his left, a shield sister without a shield.
Her snarls brought hesitation, and those foolish enough to close the space found their blood on her teeth.
When the pair should have been overwhelmed by sheer numbers, instead a wide space opened around them.
In that space, Sariel was a deadly shadow.
Despite his speed, his movements were calm and controlled.
Each slash of his long dragon-bone blade maximized both reach and efficiency in the slaughter.
A twist here, and two soldiers died. A pivot there, and his sideways slash cut down three, their swords batted aside by his might and their armor crumbling against the impossible edge.
“Praise be to our Father!” a nearby preacher shouted, and that was Sariel’s cue to advance.
He sprinted past his brother, his movements a blur and Redemption hungry.
The space Faron created led Sariel into the deeper lines, and he arrived at the same time as the rest of Isabelle’s army.
Amid that thunderous clash of steel, Sariel weaved and cut toward the first of the preachers.
The man stroked the jar of insects, a song on his lips, and then came the disorientating flash.
It meant nothing to Sariel, a buzz within his mind that might have been a roar to others.
Argylle soldiers tried to seal him off. They failed.
Limbs flew. Blood flowed. Sariel drove his sword deep into the preacher’s chest, turned the blade, and then tore it free, killing two more soldiers with the movement.
Screams followed. Isabelle’s army pushed inward, the Argylle front line crumbling and the back line hesitant and fractured by the two brothers’ assault.
Sariel planted his feet and went to work, shattering weapons and cutting down any soldier foolish enough to challenge him.
Bodies built around him, and then he was moving again, denying them a chance to gather themselves.
Back into the space Faron opened, now crowded with Isabelle’s soldiers to rally at his side. Beyond them, to another preacher.
The noise of the battle softened in Sariel’s mind.
He saw his foe, and he knew his purpose.
Wielders of stolen radiance were dangerous and needed to die, without question, without mercy.
With his dragon-bone blade, he would make right this wrong.
His enemies swung their weapons at him, but they felt so slow, so weak.
He batted aside frantic slashes, severed the limbs that held the weapons, and then pressed on.
The preacher saw Sariel’s approach and panicked.
The jar swung before him as he screamed out his faith to his beloved Father.
A ring of golden light burst from the hollow center of the jar and flew at Sariel like a disc.
Sariel dodged aside, the swirling creation of radiance cutting a gash across his coat before continuing.
He glanced behind him, saw it slice two Doremy soldiers in half.
The death spurred Sariel on, for it was proof of all he believed.
Such power should never be in human hands.
The preacher prayed for the creation of a second ring of light.
Redemption opened his throat before he could finish that prayer.
The jar hit the churned earth, and Sariel stomped it with his boot, shattering glass and freeing the insects.
They buzzed up into the air, frantic in their sudden freedom.
Sariel flashed a wave of unseen radiance into them, turning their ire toward the Argylle army, so that they buzzed and bit confused and frightened soldiers.
Goal completed, he retreated closer toward the Doremy line, batting aside panicked attempts to overrun him and killing several foolish enough to fall within reach of his sword.
All the while, he looked for the next preacher.
He found him facing off against Princess Isabelle and her most trusted contingent of soldiers.
The princess herself led the way, her shield strong and her sword strikes skillful and well trained.
The preacher raised his jar, the insects within swarming in circles so fast they were a black blur.
He shouted out his love to Father, and golden light washed over her squad.
Those beside her faltered, but not her. She blocked her foe’s slash with her shield, gutted him with a thrust, and then lunged at the preacher.
The waves of light might not have meant much to her, but the sudden hands of gold that burst from the preacher’s chest were another matter.
They were ethereal and unnatural in size, six-fingered and grasping.
They passed right through Isabelle’s shield to grab her wrists, and she cried out at their touch.
“The fate of all heretics!” the preacher shouted, and readied a dagger from his belt.
Sariel tore a bloody swath through four soldiers, the shower of gore from their collapsing bodies the preacher’s only warning before Sariel’s dragon-bone blade punched through his throat, ending his triumphant cry.
A twist, and he severed the spine, dropping him to the ground, his head connected to his body by a thin strip of muscle and skin.
The hands dissipated, freeing Isabelle. Their eyes met, and he had time to offer the faintest of smiles before her soldiers recovered and swarmed about her, forming a new shield wall.
Not that it was necessary. Trumpets sounded from all directions, the Argylle army calling a retreat.
With Faron, Sariel, and Iris wrecking the center, the line had bowed inward, and with it, the outer edges swept up and hit from two sides. Victory quickly followed.
A barking coyote stole his attention. Iris came bounding over, Faron calmly approaching behind her. Blood coated them both, none of it theirs.
“Another victory,” Faron said as the Doremy army chased after stragglers and rounded up those who threw down their weapons to surrender.
Sariel rested his sword across his shoulders, swept a bit of loose hair from his face, and smirked.
He noticed Isabelle from the corner of his eye, watching him closely despite Marshal Oscar informing her of the state of their forces.
His smirk grew, and he purposefully turned away.
“Was it ever in doubt?”