I sat on my horse in full armour, one hand holding my metal staff. All ten of my Royal Guards surrounded me, though Roderic was not amongst them as he was once again commanding the bulk of the army. Dense forest surrounded us.

  The sun was beginning to peek through the foliage as dawn broke.

  My guards, despite their training, kept glancing behind us, at the giant, malformed snake, peacefully asleep.

  Soon, Isengrim materialised out of the woods, a pair of elves flanking him. All three wore surprisingly well-made forest camouflage made mostly out of leaves, mud, and other detritus.

  I gave the elf a nod in greeting before speaking, “Report.”

  Isengrim stared at the snake for a moment, then shook his head, “Our efforts were a success. The enemy is west of us, marching north in haste. However, most of our supplies were lost, and our casualties were significant, though not debilitating."

  “Very well. They still suspect nothing then,” I replied, mentally adjusting the numbers. The remaining members of the force entrusted to Isengrim would likely be more tired than expected. After the battle was done, I would have to review the ratio of elven to human casualties and interview the survivors, too. While the anti-elven bigotry present amongst humans was a lot more obvious, elves were often not any better, merely without the means to act.

  Isengrim grimaced, “There is not much of a ruse. Should the chase last much longer, my people will be caught. They smell blood.”

  “As intended,” I replied. The risk that the bait would be caught before fulfilling their role was there, but that was war. The plan could be salvaged regardless, and Isengrim’s consent served as definite proof of his loyalty, even though I was not the sole beneficiary.

  Suddenly, a sharp trill cut through the stillness, causing Isengrim’s head to snap up, “They’ve passed the mark.”

  I smiled, at once eager and serene, already focusing on the Power, “Then let us fulfil our roles.”

  My guards immediately tensed. I could see sweat beginning to bead on their faces. Even Isengrim seemed unnerved, though his scarred face made such things harder to tell.

  “Velo? aep addan gaeth,” I incanted, the spell taking effect on me and my allies, boosting our speed.

  As the soldiers flexed their enhanced limbs, I turned towards the monstrous snake, “Faoiltiarna, you circle back as agreed.”

  The elf nodded quickly, leaving with both of his companions with renewed vigour.

  I began waking the monster up. While I incanted the necessary spell, I lamented the crude methods I had to stoop to control my creation.

  ‘Crude, but effective,’ I amended, as the monster’s eyes opened, quickly zeroing in on the snack-sized beings in front of it.

  “For Cintra!” I shouted, spurring my horse onwards, quickly followed by my guards.

  The snake followed, just as it had during my testing. It seemed that the mutations greatly enhanced the creature's aggression, as with the rats.

  We rode with the speed of the wind, weaving through trees and bushes while the giant monstrosity barreled after us, ignoring all but the thickest of trees.

  The monster neither roared nor hissed, but the cracking of wood and the sounds of its movement were loud nonetheless, urging our horses onwards.

  While looking upon the monstrous serpent did not evoke the idea of speed, its size was enough to keep up. My spell provided a decent safety margin, at least.

  Soon, we began hearing the sounds of battle.

  Garrik sat on his horse on a small bit of elevation, overlooking the battlefield.

  Since the monster attack and his squire’s death, his troops had been incessantly harassed. It started simple enough. A flaming arrow in the night, which elicited alarmed shouts, waking up the camp.

  Patrols were sent out, and the night guard was doubled, but no further attack came.

  Coming to the conclusion that the Cintrans wished to agitate them, Garrik doubled the night’s watch and personally oversaw their patrol routes. The next night, the entire camp was woken up by screams.

  One of the patrols had been ambushed, their fates gruesome and… loud.

  By the third day, the lack of animals and the sudden epidemic of dysentery had made the enemy’s tactics clear.

  But Garrik was no fool. Their supplies, despite the loss in the first attack, would last, at least until they crushed the enemy army and took over their supply train. Only rivers and streams were approached for water, with strict orders to boil it first. After seeing the fate of their comrades, the troops listened.

  To deal with the attempts to ruin their sleep, Garrik ordered the troops to stuff their ears with wax or at least moss when resting, though the downsides of such were obvious.

  The old warlock was useless. He claimed that to venture out without the protection of soldiers brought too big of a risk of ambush, though Garrik personally thought that he was just a coward. He helped with purifying water, at least.

  Ambushes and traps started appearing on the fourth day. It was that day that the first large-scale desertion occurred. The Band of the Falcon, three hundred men, battle-tested in Ebbing, gone overnight.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Garrik grimaced at the memory. That one had been entirely his fault. Unused to commanding vagabonds, he had not taken the possibility of such a large desertion into account. The next morning, he had scrambled the mercenaries, mixing them amongst his own troops, to much grumbling from both sides.

  The desertions continued, but they were slowed to a trickle. Individuals, rather than whole companies. Nothing debilitating.

  Even so, Garrik had begun contemplating a retreat. Their mission would have been a failure, but letting the enemy slowly bleed them out was not a better outcome by any means.

  That was when his scouts finally found the enemy encampment.

  Eager for revenge, his men marched with renowned vigour. They manage to surprise the two hundred or so enemy outriders. Unfortunately, the enemy regained their bearing far too quickly and retreated in decent order, making their casualties too light for his tastes, though they still managed to seize quite a number of provisions.

  The many elves present amongst them had been a surprise. It seemed that the Cintran commander had struck a deal with some forgotten enclave in Erlenwald.

  Now, the hunt was coming to an end. The enemy, though mostly on horseback, had wounded amongst their number they had refused to abandon. Though his troops were hardly fresh either, the guerrilla fighters must have been exhausted at this point. Unfortunately or fortunately, they had managed to reach the enemy's true base of operations.

  Garrik’s keen eyes rowed over the nearly empty wagon fort while his troops marched forward. Though he could not see all of it, there did not appear to be many defenders, the hale amongst their number perhaps even outnumbered by their horses. The enemy must have split up in order to harass his advance. He had little illusion of complete victory here. Losing what supplies and men were left behind here would be a blow, but their cowardly tactics would still work. After this, they would withdraw from the forest. But not before teaching the Cintran dogs a lesson they wouldn’t forget.

  Garrik looked over his troops with the eyes of an experienced commander. His center, the majority of his troops, marched eagerly despite their mercenary nature, if in a somewhat disordered manner.

  Behind them walked his oldest command, battle-hardened and loyal Nazairis one and all, ready to violently discourage any attempts at desertion, despite their lower numbers. Garrik doubted any such thing would be necessary, considering the hatred present in the eyes of most of the fodder. The smarter ones surely realised their unenviable position, but there was nothing they could do about it now. The flanks, held by the rest of his countrymen, marched in an orderly formation, spears at the ready, sandwiching the much more numerous mercenaries in. The only way out was forward.

  He, along with his meagre cavalry, a unit of archers, and the sorcerer, sat in the rear, ready to plug any holes. Or, to react to any sorcery, apparently.

  “I've seen your spells, you old coot!” Garrik all but shouted, “Blast those stupid wagons, the enemy sorcerer is clearly not present.”

  The old man sneered while he ran his ring-adorned hand through his beard, “Shut up, boy. I am not getting deep-fried because of your soft heart.”

  Garrik's eye twitched, “Many men will die unnecessarily,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a child.

  “My safety is a necessity, I assure you,” the sorcerer retorted, head on a swivel, “Once that devil comes, you'll understand.”

  Garrik shook his head in disgust at the coward's words. The man was powerful, that was true, but he was too unwilling to act.

  He returned his eyes to the battle, unwilling to devote more of his attention to the old man. Not that he would forget. Garrik would make sure the King heard exactly how heroic the old hero Wenceslaus was.

  As his troops were nearing javelin range, Garrik frowned. He could have sworn there were more soldiers manning the makeshift fortifications now than before.

  It was just before his troops unloaded their javelins that his attention was torn by a horn rapidly blaring on the left flank.

  Whipping his head in the direction of what should have been a coherent message but was little more than panicked nonsense, Garrik looked over the new threat, his eyes narrowing.

  Galloping forwards, a black rider on a black horse emerged from the forest. They bore a metal staff crowned by a glowing white orb, while black smoke billowed behind them, swallowing trees and sky alike.

  “Fucking told you,” the sorcerer spoke smugly, his hand forming arcane sigils, the red gemstone on his staff already glowing, as if in greeting of the approaching mage.

  A white spear of fire shot forward in the next moment, hitting the figure dead centre. Garrik squinted as the fire seemed to flow over the figure, doing no harm and instead jumping onto the black smoke, devouring it hungrily.

  Wenceslaus’s smug face quickly turned white as Garrik swore, almost wishing the smoke had remained.

  To say the battlefield froze would have been a lie, as most of the soldiers were now fighting for their lives with no way to see what was happening on the left flank, or the attention to spare. Yet all who could see faltered.

  A monster slithered right on the heels of the Cintran sorcerer. A serpent the height of a small house and the length of a longship, one with disgusting growths and tumours all over its body. One bloodshot slitted eye glared at the world, while the other had a clawed hand sprouting out of it. Garrik doubted the creature was impaired, for he could spot five more eyes growing randomly on its body.

  “An abomination,” Garrik whispered.

  “CINTRAAA!” The feminine war cry of the enemy sorceress resounded throughout the battlefield.. With a grimace, Garrik shook himself and snapped into motion.

  “HORNBLOWER!” He turned to the wide-eyed man close by, “LEFT FLANK, PIVOT, DEFENCE!”

  The man nodded rapidly, transmitting his commands as quickly as he was able, the sounds of his horn almost deafening from this close.

  “LANCE!” He screamed at his new squire, already turning his horse.

  “CAVALRY! COUNTER-CHARGE!” He bellowed, grabbing the lance from his squire, before noting the lacklustre response from his men.

  “The HERO Wenceslaus will deal with the monster!” Garrik barked, “CHARGE YOU WHORESONS!”

  He did not look back, spurring his horse onwards.

  Spears of flame shot forward from behind him, hopefully giving the men more confidence. Many were intercepted, but some hit the creature, burning its scales and flesh. The monster slowed down a little, but did not stop.

  Garrik gritted his teeth. They would not make it in time.

  “CINTRA!” Another roar thundered through the air. It was at this point that Garrik realised the dark rider was not alone. Ten heavily armoured knights rode with her, the blue and gold of Cintra adorning them proudly.

  His infantry did their best. Unexpected resistance on the wagons made the manoeuvre less effective than it should have been, but nearly half of the formation still managed to pivot, courageously bracing their spears for a charge.

  It did not help. The devil and her entourage crashed into his men, dark sorcery protecting them. Spears slid off a nigh-translucent shield covering the witch, letting her cut her way through with near impunity. Her staff, now with a glowing blade growing from it, cut through man or metal with equal ease, as if she were a farmer harvesting wheat, or perhaps the grim reaper harvesting souls.

  Garrik did not slow.

  “NAZAIR!” He screamed, forgetting the nature of his mission in the heat of the moment.

  There is a .

  Shout out to Largely a different story from the Devil of Cintra, but the main character, while still kind-hearted, is a cold master mind type, with the very intriguing ability to manipulate fate itself and see the future. The setting itself is a vaguely eastern set in a sort of Victorian era, with the worldbuilding somewhat reminiscent of Lord of the Mysteries. It is a very well done take on an ability that is inherently very difficult to write, so check it out if it interests you!