They marched for a little over an hour with the good fortune of running into neither setback nor danger. When the steps ceased, Licerio's company had reached its grim destination — the place they had chosen for the final engagement.
One of the scouts returned, reporting that the enemy company would reach them within the hour. While they waited, Licerio stepped in front of the entire army and called for their attention.
"Soldiers, we are about to win — there is no way we lose this. You have won every engagement and driven the enemy to hide in their own home, crying out for their mothers to protect them. A theurge is nothing but a simple man who thinks himself a god; before me, he will be nothing but a rat running away. Raise your weapons, raise your heads, and let us go home and celebrate the victory after this fight!"
The entire army thundered, weapons crashing against shields, filled with euphoria and frenzy, their morale rising to its peak.
Time no longer mattered; every man with his weapon firmly in hand, his eyes already on the work ahead — to fight. Smoke rose on the horizon, two banners catching the wind, and dozens of men made the ground tremble beneath them.
The enemy came on without fear or mercy. The earth seemed to mourn, the grass losing its life under the presence of both companies. Licerio looked at his troops one last time; not a voice could be heard — only breathing. The soldiers waited, and waited; waiting for the signal to break loose, to collide, to destroy.
"Let them come closer and we charge when I give the word!" Licerio ordered, raising his right hand.
His attention was not on the enemy company but on finding the theurge. The distance made it difficult, and he did not manage it until they had drawn quite close — a man who did not stand out for his height among the tide, but for his blue clothing and the large emblem on it. Light armor into a battle. Does he think he's untouchable? Licerio scoffed inwardly, almost wanting to spit on the ground and curse him.
López and Licerio spoke briefly; Licerio still reluctant about the operation, though he knew they had nothing better. López settled him and headed with his squad toward the right flank for their mission, where the theurge was positioned.
With his squad around him, López got everyone's attention and cracked a few jokes to ease the tension before the opening charge. His eyes settled on one of the lancers — a young man who had been dragged into the problems of his elders — and he adjusted his helmet properly. Stay on my left. You have a family that still needs you. Don't try to be a hero, he told him. The young man swallowed and nodded.
Licerio watched that exchange and the knot in his stomach tightened; he had tried to talk the boy out of joining and had been on the verge of forbidding his participation outright.
He had been the only one willing to join after hearing the rewards attached to the mission, and though they had tried to find others, no one else had the nerve or the will for it.
The companies had drawn close enough, and Licerio roared, dropping his arm: "Kill them!"
The soldiers answered the roar, took their first step — the ground crushing under their feet — and shot forward, holding their formation firm even through the chaos of the moment.
Licerio started at the front with everyone else, but his role was to pull back before the two armies collided. This being his first battle, his place was not the front line—but he would at least take part from behind.
López's squad charged with the rest of the army; however, they held back slightly and angled further to the right as the two forces closed toward impact.
Their role was the most dangerous one: flanking the enemy army to capture the theurge quickly, with the risk of being surrounded and cut down.
At first, Licerio and his knights had tried to think of other plans that might avoid such a risk; however, López and Marlleo assured him they would come out victorious. Licerio knew they were not fully confident.
Licerio's army charged with great resolve, his soldiers roaring, weapons ready to kill, bracing for the collision.
The soldiers of Baron Grojo's army, by contrast, had some of the more veteran men shouting—but compared to the enemy, it was not much.
The roaring stopped all at once, cut off by the merciless crash of shields and swords. Men with weapons raised, bringing them down at any moment to take the life of the man across from them. Cries of agony, muffled by gurgles of blood rising in their throats, bodies dropping against the ground with a final sound before going still. The air thickened with the dust and loose dirt of the plain, mixing with the sharp smell of iron.
López's squad flanked the enemy lines and reached the theurge. López charged first, catching two cuts on his shield from the theurge's wind blades; his arm went numb, but his eyes stayed locked on his target.
Some enemies who had spotted them turned and came for them, but they were killed or held back by the squires. The right flank also happened to be where Licerio's best troops were, punishing the enemy soldiers who tried to wheel around and support the theurge.
López glanced at the soldiers slowing him down, surprised by how quickly they had moved to intercept them—he had known it was impossible to go unseen or unchallenged, but he had not expected it to happen so fast.
The squad's lancers charged hard toward the theurge; even so, a direct current of air hit them full in the face, forcing them to shield their eyes and kill their momentum.
Knight López kept charging, his helmet shielding him from the wind.
The theurge wasted no time and cut at his legs, checking the knight's charge, then began backing toward the archers.
Some archers noticed the enemy squad and loosed arrows at the lancers.
The front line held mostly steady, with only some movement on the right flank.
Knight Marlleo and his squires were holding the center, trading blows with the enemy knight. The other knight was on the left flank, the weaker of the two, holding the line.
Licerio had already given him the order to hold as long as he could; if he could not hold any longer, he was to fall back to the center and hold there alongside Marlleo's soldiers.
The archers kept loosing, taking lives or wounding enemy soldiers one by one. Their presence was a constant nuisance, thinning the enemy's rear ranks. But beyond that, they were trading shots with the opposing archers.
Only two lancers were left. López caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of the body of one of the fallen—one of his squires, a boy he had personally trained since childhood—and a low sound tore itself from his throat. Every step they took toward the theurge was built on the blood of his men.
The theurge had killed two lancers with his wind blades while they were being held back by enemy soldiers.
"Damn theurge!" he roared, driving his foot into the ground and charging with everything he had.
The theurge threw up what little dust the ground had, along with small stones and dirt, hiding himself behind it, but López gave him no respite.
He tore through the curtain of dust and debris and, without slowing, drove his shoulder into the theurge, who was sent flying. López stumbled, caught himself between heavy breaths, and seeing the theurge trying to get up, gripped his sword again and advanced on him.
Two soldiers threw themselves into his path, and he had to stop his advance to deal with them.
One of them cut at López with his sword. The blade was deflected with a light movement and drove itself into the ground.
After turning the enemy sword aside, López drove his blade into the soldier's chest, punching through one of his lungs.
His squire entered the fight and took care of the other one.
"My lord, this one's mine!"
López pulled his sword free and moved toward the theurge.
The man was getting to his feet when he saw the knight running at him.
He launched two wind blades—one at his legs and one at his torso—trusting that it would buy him enough time to run.
López covered his legs with his shield and took the other hit, trusting his armor, but the impact stopped him for a second as he spat.
A cry cut across the field from the left flank. "Retreat! Close the formation and fall back to the center!" It was the other knight's voice, swallowed by the roar of the battle. Licerio drove his gaze to that point: the line, like a worn rag, was beginning to unravel. All they could do was hold on and trust that López would bring the theurge down and bring him back.
Like a different world, the right flank had been won, and the enemy flank was collapsing. They wasted no time—weapons raised, legs driving, they charged forward, cutting through or killing anyone in front of them.
Licerio was fighting a lone enemy lancer.
With his physical enhancement and the agility his small frame gave him, he attacked the soldier in quick bursts—hard thrusts and cuts, keeping constant pressure.
He had already killed two soldiers and was now on his third.
The man lunged with his short spear. The sword caught the side of the shaft and steered it to the right, sending it past Licerio and throwing the soldier off balance.
A fast movement with the sword—a thrust through the enemy's throat—and he was already pulling back.
The soldier dropped the spear and reached for his throat with weakening hands, staring at the boy as he fell forward.
Licerio did not linger and moved to support the center line.
López fixed his eyes on the theurge; only a meter separated them. Finally got you, he thought. He lowered his stance to build more momentum and charged.
The theurge wanted to launch a wind blade to stop him, but they were too close. In a desperate move, he began to murmur. As he murmured, he tried to check the knight with a focused current of air driven into his whole body.
López had been expecting that and had already dropped his stance low, like the furious charge of a wounded bull.
There was no stopping him at that point, and with his shield in position, he hit the theurge dead on. A sharp, cracking sound rang out. The theurge spat a mix of blood and saliva as his eyes rolled back and he crumpled limply to the ground.
"Let's go!"
Without wasting a second, López drove through every enemy who dared step in front of him. He was moving with the rage of losing his squires, young men he had raised himself, and nothing was going to stop him. As they fled, the one surviving lancer and squire followed close behind.
Many soldiers reacted fast and pressed the three men trying to break away. They were not trying to fight their way through—they were deflecting attacks and running, not wasting a second. López had sheathed his sword and was carrying nothing but his shield, focused entirely on blocking and getting out.
The allied soldiers charged harder when they saw López coming toward them with a man over his shoulder.
In the end, they made it out—few enemy soldiers could afford to leave the front without causing a collapse or getting their men killed by breaking the formation.
The three kept running until they reached the archers, where they set the theurge down and rested. They let their bodies drop to the ground, raising a small cloud of dust, and looked at each other.
The air burned in their lungs, and between breaths, they stared; there was no joy in their eyes, only the heavy weight of the five who were not there.
Both armies were in their final moments, raising their weapons on trembling arms, fighting not to be the ones to die.
A trumpet cut through the air of the battlefield with two sharp, short notes. From the rear, a rough voice rang out: "We have the theurge — surrender!" The shout was taken up by another voice, then echoed by more, until it filled the whole field.
From where the trumpet had sounded, everyone could see the figure of an unconscious man—filthy and limp—being held up by two soldiers to put him on display. Everyone recognized him in a single glance; it was the theurge.
Baron Grojo's soldiers were caught off guard and looked at each other confused. One soldier let his weapons fall to the ground and called out, "I surrender." The metallic clatter against the dirt was the first of many that followed shortly after.
For a moment, silence took hold of the battlefield, broken only by the dry creak of grass underfoot. Euphoria rose from the victorious soldiers—though tempered, as they looked at the cost of it.
Licerio took a deep breath and watched the battle come to its end. Now came the most thankless part.
He organized the army to clear the field; one group would collect the weapons from the surrendered soldiers, and the others would bind them.
When that was done, they cleared the field—arranging their own fallen for a proper burial and digging a pit for the enemy dead.
Licerio approached the group of surrendered soldiers alongside Knight López and Marlleo. At the center of the group stood a man wearing Baron Grojo's emblem on his armor, and beside him, a man in light armor, also bearing the baron's emblem on his clothing.