Zorlac belched idly and tossed a crystal goblet somewhere behind him, spraying droplets of wine everywhere. Quick as a flash, Zanticus plucked it out of the air, set it upright, and wiped up the droplets of drink. Zorlac, being the self-obsessedly egotistical, lazy, decadent, and otherwise typical human that he was, never noticed.
“I say, Zorlac.” Zanticus began.
“Two things.” his rightful, thank you very much, sovereign cut across him. “Firstly, you say 'Zorlac'. You say 'Zorlac' very well. Secondly, remember that the last conversation you began with 'I say, Zorlac' ended with your swearing eternal bondage to me.”
“I didn't swear!”
“Well then don't make me make you. Savour what little freedom you have, my minion. And now, what do we do today?”
“Kill Lanciars.” Zanticus answered sulkily. No grown man should ever be sulky. It didn't become grown men. Zanticus was still sulky, though.
“I know that, Zanticus. I mean: kill what Lanciars, and when?”
* * *
Constantine watched the surrounding Kingdom of Lain through hard, suspicious eyes from the convenient woods. All around him, his Lanciars – mounted, this time; he was leading a force of Cataphracts – also watched the fertile fields. Considering that their helmets walled off all but a small circle of the world, this wasn't much good to them; but it was the thought that counted.
More specifically, Constantine watched the little train of wagons that bumped and rattled their way east along the vast, cobbled road known as the Lain Cross. Connecting the cities of Ostia, Kallipolis, Tyrenea, and Trapezus to the Lain capital of Caragean, it was an artery of trade in peacetime, which meant just about never. Once again, though, it was the thought that counted, and the gratuitously capitalist Lain Kamareans kept the road in good shape, for the use of trade caravans.
Such as this one. Coming from the Duchy of Tyrenea, a decayed Akaric state whose monarch was also the head of the Church of Benet – to which the Akareans ascribed – the city of Tyrene was important for more than its temples, and that was its factories. Almost as advanced as the Kamareans from whom they maintained a frail independence, the Tyreneans could produce wagonloads of cutlery, farm implements, industrial tools... or weapons.
This cart sold weapons.
Oddly, though, it seemed very lightly defended. Constantine had led his Cataphracts all the way through Lain to intercept this caravan – only to find that it was practically deserted, only its drivers and a few token guards to keep away the numerous bandits that the ongoing war had created. Considering the danger that the Kamarean army was in if the Lanciars should get their hands on gunpowder...
Well. It wasn't like a whole contingent of the Legio Magica was going to spring out of nowhere and ambush them or anything insane like that.
* * *
Zorlac watched the pretty fields from above. The aircraft circled silently, its engines muted as much as possible. Across from him was Zanticus, holding a sword with the conviction of an especially brave squirrel; also in the craft were nine other Legio Magica trainees. Only Zorlac had a squire, which was what Zanticus had ended up being. Technically, he shouldn't have been allowed, but, as Zanticus could attest, Zorlac wasn't easily refused.
“Just a raiding party to sharpen your swords, metaphorically speaking of course.” the commander had told them before sending them off. “Zorlac, I'm putting you in charge. Try not to die! Haha!” Most Kamareans' humours were feeble, but they were better than the Akareans. And it wasn't even worth going into, what Farhighters found amusing.
A voice crackled over the radio. One of the wagon drivers' voices came in.
“Tango One! Is that Tango One?”
Zorlac's commander wasn't the most imaginative of men.
“Tango One to Bait One.”
In fact, he had very little imagination indeed.
“Hook, line and sinker, Tango One. I repeat, hook, line and sinker!”
The radio went dead. Zorlac knew what 'hook, line and sinker' meant: he knew it well.
Sure enough, the Akareans Cataphracts burst out of a copse. Zorlac counted them: twenty shining, silvery knights, glittering like a miniature school of fish as they flowed along the ground in their mail and blue-and-red Akarean barding, Cataphracts' maces at the ready and circular Lanciar hoplon shields held before them. At their head rode their commander, distinguished from them by his red helmet-brush compared to their blue ones. The wagon drivers made a not-unconvincing impression of running as fast as their stubby legs would take them.
“Take us down, pilot.” Zorlac ordered, smiling. “It's been too long since I killed a Lanciar.”
Zanticus, as usual, spoiled the moment.
“You never killed a Lanciar, sir!”
“Shut up, Zanticus.”
* * *
Constantine looked up presciently and, with a relaxed surge of fear, saw the Kamarean aircraft, red and doom-laden, descending from the sky on wings of defeat. It wasn't that it was large that was bothering him – it was because it was small.
To Constantine's knowledge, there was only one way to fit a worthwhile ambush in ten men – and that was the Legio Magica. Sure enough, the men piling out wore the ebon-and-gold uniforms of the Legio Magica.
“Legio Magica, sir! Do we abort!” one of the Cataphracts shouted, not out of fear. Lanciars weren't afraid of very much, but they died like other men, and no-one knew that like they did.
“No! Ride them down – wait a minute... what the hell is that on their banner?”
* * *
Zorlac watched with a smile as Zanticus unfurled their banner.
“See, Zanticus? I told you those pictures of the Civitate of Thraxion near-naked would unsettle them, just like their brethren in the Akarean Quarter.” Zanticus looked up at the artists' impression of the grossly obese old Civitate hanging from the banner.
“That's as may be, sir, but it still isn't very nice.”
* * *
Constantine did his best to ignore the revolting banner and instead focused on the Legio Magica. To their credit, they were much more professional than the chaff he had previously been facing: they stood their ground, black uniforms shimmering in the weak light, drawing their weapons of choice. Constantine ignored them, focusing instead on the horse beneath his feet. One of the great Kallipolitan warhorses, from the level land around the Lanciars' capital, the sheer weight of armour and mailed man on top required them to be enormous – and enormously strong, if at the cost of speed.
Not that that mattered much on a downhill charge.
Constantine picked his target, a pompous-looking young man with perfectly primped hair and a stick he probably thought was a sword, shadowed by a pale, nervous sidekick. He felt the horse course beneath him, its hooves churning up the muck, its breath labouring out between its nostrils, its sweat oozing through the mail and the pretty blue-and-red barding. He wrenched out his mace, spinning it around to gain momentum – if it flew out of his hand, he always had his sword – and turned again on his foe. Downhill he was, most certainly, and the slope was certainly in Constantine's favour, he on his tall horse, whirling his mace, teeth gritted in determination as his helmet hid his thoughts, a solid tonne of man and horse bearing silvery doom down on the prissy lad -
And then the fight began in his mind.
* * *
Zorlac picked his target, the commander in front with the aura of determination, and faced him with the kind of confidence only Zorlac could muster when facing a tonne of angry Lanciar and armoured horseflesh barreling towards him. Unlike, however, most insufferably overconfident people, Zorlac had a very, very good reason for confidence.
This reason was magic.
Zorlac closed his eyes and refocused, opening the metaphorical third eye that one needed for magic. All the universe's dimension, fourth and fifth and sixth and eleventh, opened up to him and he existed in a transcendent state where he could see past the fragile three-dimensional shell of flesh that shielded the oh-so-confident Lanciar commander to the pulsating brightness of the mind beneath. Zorlac operated his magic – a natural force, akin to gravity, attracted to sentience as gravity was to mass – and reached into the man's mind.
And staggered back in shock.
For this was no normal man – no, no normal Lanciar, even. Nor was he some prophesied hero. He was simply a man who would do great things, a man who was courageous and honest and clever, a good man and a great one.
But he was no magician, and he was certainly no Zorlac.
* * *
Constantine's grip on the reins slackened and failed as a torrent of consciousness impacted his own. He felt an otherness, a person made of confidence, humour and a great, almost overwhelming intelligence, a dominating and righteous creature – but no evil one.
Evil or no, though, he was still inside Constantine's head. He concentrated, pushing the man out to the best of his ability -
And then he had bigger concerns, such as the ground.
* * *
Zorlac, linked with Constantine as he was, felt the pain of Constantine's head impacting the ground as keenly as Constantine himself did. He staggered for a moment, his perfectly primped curls going awry as his eyes boggled. He raised his hand to his head and nearly poked his eye out with the sword in it.
“Zanticus!” he called, for no particular reason. He was answered only by a frightened whimper.
“Zanticus!” he hissed at the craven squire, cowering behind a rock that did precisely nothing to hide him. “Get off your backside!” Zanticus whimpered and looked at something now behind Zorlac with white eyes.
“What are you so scared of – oh.”
It was Constantine.
* * *
Constantine wasted no time getting back up, clambering ungainly to his feet as his horse slowed in confusion at the lack of his rider. Pain lanced up his neck and back as he scrabbled upwards, his mail clinking and sliding, but if anything were broken, he'd be dead already. His shoulder had, thankfully, taken the worst of the blow, and the shoulderpad had taken the worst of that.
And Zorlac was still downhill.
He was less his mace, but not his sword, so he replicated his previous maneuver, without the horse this time. Oblivious, the boy squawked at his minion, who cowered terrifiedly – smart boy – behind an overgrown pebble. The minion squawked something in Kamarean and the boy turned around, surprise etched all over his pretty face -
Constantine brought his sword down confidently.
The boy met it just as confidently, and with a surprising strength in his wiry limbs. He danced back – typical prissy Kamarean! This is war, not ballet – and darted around Constantine's defenses. Constantine lumbered around, suddenly all too aware of the short-comings of his heavy armour, his own blade searching, seeking, slicing -
Thin air. The boy was gone again and -
Ack! Constantine grunted as the lad's sword glanced off his damaged shoulder. He tensed himself, pretending to huddle up in pain and the child advanced confidently -
And Constantine lashed around. His sword swept through the air, fast as lightning, lethal as a wrecking ball. The lad, taken off balance, just got his sword up in time -
The lad's blade snapped. Constantine's sword carried on into his stomach. He screamed in agony, his lifeblood bleeding out between his fingers as he grasped his side in an upwelling of gory dark redness. Constantine moved in for the coup de grace -
And Zanticus took him from behind.
Constantine almost didn't notice. Huge as he was, Zanticus barely knocked him off balance. Constantine simply batted the squire away with his shield – but it provided the requisite interval for Zorlac to regain his concentration. He looked at the towering Lanciar, an avatar of justice bedecked in shining mail and faceless helmet, and looked into the two circular eyeholes that were the helmet-visor's only feature.
Zorlac's brown eyes locked into Constantine's blue.
Both of them thought at the same instant, This is the man who will kill me.
Then Zorlac invaded Constantine's mind. Constantine had only a moment, and he used it well.
“Up the reserve!” he bellowed, an instant before a magical wedge delivered Zorlac's consciousness afresh into Constantine's skull.
Then the other eighty Cataphracts of Constantine's contingent burst out of the trees. Zorlac swore something foul, the mind-wedge retreating, and Constantine chuckled hoarsely.
“You didn't think I'd be sent to capture an armaments train with just twenty men, did you?”
Zorlac weighed up the options. The eighty Cataphracts thundering towards him probably equalled death, damnation or pain – possibly all three.
Then he did something unexpected.
He laughed.
“Damn you, you sneaky conniving old man.” And he set off towards the aircraft, Zanticus in tow, the other seven surviving members of the Legio Magica following him. Five Lanciars and three horses also lay dead – not bad odds against the wizards.
Constantine paused to take stock. For a skirmish of thirty men, it had been hard-fought but relatively bloodless, and now they were in possession of an armaments train.
One of dozens that flooded into Caragean every day.
“Do we head back towards Kallipolis, sir?” one of the Cataphracts asked. Slowly, Constantine shook his head.
“No. No, I have a better idea.”
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