Plum Parrot
patreon
Victor 11.18 Save Yourselves
🕑 Added 2025-06-17 19:02:33 +0000 UTCEnjoy the chapter! :)
-Plum
18 – Save Yourselves
Victor spent another two days weaving a new thread through his framework into a pattern that he thought fulfilled the properties and elements of elder magic. It was a thread that represented something missing from his current mantle: his affinity for fear. It wasn’t a pleasant memory; most of his experiences with his fear weren’t. Even so, it was a powerful one that represented a sort of turning point for him—a time when he’d embraced his terror-fueled alter ego. It was the memory of his battle with the vampire Dunstan beneath his castle during the war for the Free Marches.
He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to add to his mantle by tying in that memory of how he’d dominated that great underground cavern, screaming his primal warning as he’d terrorized Dunstan. Whatever he’d hoped, it wasn’t for…nothing. When he finally finished his painstaking efforts and pulled the threadlock lever, he’d been stunned to find not a single System message awaiting him. He didn’t improve the mantle past epic, and he didn’t add a single skill or feat as he'd speculated might happen.
He had to assume that he’d done something wrong with the pattern—a misplaced loop, an extra twist, or something along those lines. The only problem was that there were hundreds of yards of thread wound into that pattern, and it would take nearly as long to troubleshoot it as it did to create it in the first place. Frustrated, he decided to leave off work on his mantle for a while and spend some time in the open air, working with the troops.
Before going into his spirit space, he’d met with his captains and instructed them to begin rotating the highest-leveled soldiers from the cohorts into new units. He wanted to consolidate the top troops so that they could start sending more squads out, including some that wouldn’t be protected by his coyotes. So, as he left his tower top, teleporting down to the courtyard, he was determined to see how those efforts had gone.
It was mid-morning, and the troops were drilling out on the field, so Victor walked out the gate, pausing to take in the scene. There were four different formations out there, with a couple of hundred soldiers in each. One formation was marching, completing the same drills Victor had taught Tasya and the first recruits in the early days of their training. He wasn’t an expert on battle formations or tactics, but he remembered how the commanders he’d learned from, most notably Borrius ap’Gandro, had stressed the need for good unit cohesion during a march, especially when there was a chance of combat.
Another section of the field had the soldiers arrayed in a wide ring while small groups took turns fighting at the center. The final large group was working with mounts; a hundred or more soldiers facing off with an opposing group and charging toward each other. They didn’t hit one another, but Victor could see how the simulated charge would help the mounts—horses from farms—and soldiers alike get used to the activity.
He scanned the area for one of his captains and saw Tasya standing near the ring formation, watching the soldiers fight. He walked toward her, waving a hand over his head as she glanced his way. She said something to the soldier beside her, then stepped away from the circle, meeting him halfway. “Milord, Victor.”
“Captain Tasya, how are things going?”
“Very well! The text you provided me has been invaluable. Every day, I read new chapters that provide me with guidance for the next day’s drills. What a truly amazing font of information!”
Victor nodded, smiling. He’d given her one of the strategy books Borrius and Rellia had given him when he first joined their campaign. “That’s great. I thought you’d particularly appreciate the diagrams for troop maneuvers.”
“Indeed, milord.”
“Well, how are things with the elite unit?”
She nodded, clearing her throat and looking to the side briefly. It felt like she was trying to figure out how to give him bad news, so Victor braced himself. “Captain Gray and I each chose ten of our best troops, just as you suggested.”
Victor nodded. He’d wanted to make a double-sized squad so they’d have a better chance of victory, even without his coyotes. “Go on.”
“Most were above level twenty, two were nearly level thirty. We were confident in their chances, but…” She hesitated, licking her lips. “Well, milord, they were due back yesterday evening, and we’ve not heard any word from them.”
“Ah.” Victor nodded. “Don’t worry yet. There are a hundred reasons they might be delayed. Let me have my spirit scout take a look for them.”
She smiled grimly, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I hope you’re right, milord. Those are our best troops, and it will sorely affect morale if they’re all lost.”
“I understand that, Tasya. Believe me. Even so, we all must accept that this is war, and we will suffer losses. Anyway, leave it to me for now. Get back to your troops.”
“Yes, milord.” She saluted, about-faced, and marched back to the circle of soldiers. Victor watched the six men and women fighting at the center of the formation for a minute, then shook his head and walked back toward the keep. He reached out mentally and sent his query to his raven.
“What happened to those soldiers, hermanito? Did you see?” He pictured a large group of humans on horses and tried to send the impression that his coyotes weren’t with them. The response was almost immediate. He saw what his raven had seen—the soldiers rode north from the keep, veering northeast at the first crossroads. He got the sensation of time passing; the raven had moved on, observing the rest of his vast patrol route.
When the soldiers came into view again, they were fewer—sixteen riders instead of twenty—and they led two horses with wounded men tied to the saddles. The raven’s view expanded, and he saw that the soldiers were being pursued by a massive pack of wargs and, at their head, was an enormous alpha—a wolf the size of a draft horse.
“Damn! What happened then?” Victor hissed, willing his spirit companion to show him the results of the chase. Time passed, and the sun slipped through the sky, bringing in the frigid, dreary night. Those soldiers were deep in Lord Fausto’s lands, and the clouds and mist were thick. The soldiers had found shelter—a crumbled tower—and were working to fortify the ancient doors and windows. They’d only had room for half their horses, so they’d stripped the rest and set them free, likely hoping the beasts would lead the wargs away.
According to his raven, they had no such luck; the last time it had spied upon the scene, the wargs had encircled the tower and were biding their time, waiting for an opening to attack or for the men to grow desperate with fear or hunger and attempt to flee. Victor had a good idea where the tower was; somehow, his raven conveyed direction and distance to him with those visions.
He summoned his magma wings and sprang into the air, pushing as much Energy into the fiery appendages as possible. He streaked like a flaming comet through the morning sky, trailing a thick plume of black smoke as he went. When he passed out of range of his hope-attuned beacon, the atmosphere grew hazy and dim, tainted with the underlying malaise of death-attuned Energy.
It was nothing to him; his aura protected him and, if it didn’t, his will was sufficient to shrug it off. Still, he had to wonder what sort of toll it took on the troops he’d been sending north. They deserved some commendations for the bravery they’d displayed to go into that cold, dark land to face enemies they’d considered immortal until just a few weeks ago.
He flew past more than one village—pitiful and sparsely populated. Victor wondered how many citizens had fled those nearby villages to come to his bustling military town. It wasn’t long before he recognized a stretch of muddy road and the mist-covered field beside it. He’d seen the soldiers riding this way. He followed the road and then, before long, spied the squat, broken tower on the side of a scree-covered, rocky hill. Fifty or more wargs lurked outside, cloaked in the mist and shadows, pacing, growling, and braying.
Victor directed his flight toward the top of the crumbling tower and set himself down on a wide section of stone that had yet to succumb to the elements. Two soldiers were there, hunkered against the tower’s crumbling wall, ostensibly to watch over their besiegers. When Victor landed, fiery wings spread wide, they scrambled to their feet, eyes wide with surprise, and sudden, unexpected relief.
“Lord Victor!”
Victor nodded. “Men. Come down into the tower. I’ll speak to you all at once.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, milord, but we’re on watch—”
“Come with me. Nothing will attack.” Victor was confident that his aura, heavy and dark, would keep the giant canines at bay. He was tending to it carefully, letting it fall out around him, but delicately guiding it over and around the many glimmering Cores his inner eye could discern in the tower.
He was going to leap down to the ground floor, but, looking down, he saw it was packed tight with soldiers and horses. Instead, he carefully took the broken stairs like the two soldiers he’d surprised on the roof. They were halfway down when a gruff voice called, “Who’s there? Folhem, that you? You’re watch isn’t over!”
“It’s me,” Victor said, stepping down between two sleeping soldiers. He cleared his throat and barked, “Wake up, everyone!”
Of course, that resulted in many curses, exclamations, questions, and, when people began to recognize Victor, apologies and groveling. Victor hadn’t wanted that, so he cleared his throat and yelled, “Quiet! I’ll say my piece, and then we’ve got work to do.”
“Are you here to save us?” a woman’s voice called out in the fresh silence, and Victor scowled toward the soldier who’d spoken. He wanted to yell at her for not following his command for silence, but then he saw her hollow eyes and blood-soaked bandages, and he forced himself to stand in her shoes for a moment.
Slowly, he began to nod, but his words might not have been what the soldiers wanted to hear. “I’m not here to save you. I’m here to help you save yourselves. There are what, eighteen of you?”
Another soldier answered, the gruff one who’d first challenged him and the two soldiers as they’d come down the stairs. “Seventeen, milord. Liam Moss died of his wounds here.”
Victor nodded, looking around again at the injured men and women and the rotting door barricaded with loose stones. He let his eyes linger on the ten horses taking up half the room. Even the animals bore claw and bite wounds. “You stood against that horde of wargs before you fled, didn’t you?”
“We didn’t know how many they was at first,” a red-headed man with a full beard replied. He was sitting on the stones a few feet from Victor, his leg propped up on a stack of crumbled bricks, wrapped in bloody cloth.
“Well, I’m damn proud of you all for making it here. For getting out and getting to a defensible position. Now, we’re going to turn the tables, and you’ll be able to avenge your three fallen comrades.”
“We, milord?” the gruff-voiced man asked.
Victor nodded. “Are you one of the sergeants?”
“Aye, milord, Thom Elm.”
“And the other? Aren’t there two?”
“Wes died, sir. The first to fall to that damnable giant warg.”
Victor nodded. “The alpha.” He reached into his spirit space and pulled out one of his storage rings. From its depths, he retrieved several bottles of healing draughts. They were weak things—nothing that would do him any good, but he’d picked them up over the years, along with many more like them. “If you’re wounded, take a sip from one of these and pass it on. They’re healing potions.”
He watched as the soldiers did as he commanded, taking the little bottles he handed out, sipping the contents, and then exclaiming as their wounds began to close. “None of you have a healer class?”
“Corbin has the Woadwise class, milord, and his affinity is for body-attuned Energy. He doesn’t have any spells to mend flesh yet, though.”
Victor looked to where Thom pointed and saw a small man with blue-painted lines all over his face. “That’s valuable, Corbin. When you get refinement options, come and talk to me if you want some advice.”
The man ducked his head, touching his forehead with his knuckles. Victor looked around the room, trying to gauge if anyone was still too wounded to fight. Everyone seemed able to stand and hold a weapon. He and his captains had been training people with spears and axes, primarily because none of the peasants knew how to make swords or other more sophisticated weapons, but also because they worked damn well. He pointed to the left side of the room. “If you use an axe, stand over there. If you use a spear, stand to my right.”
He watched as they split up and was pleased to see it was almost half and half. Looking at the axe fighters, he asked, “You all have your shields?”
Two soldiers raised their hands, shaking their heads. When Victor pointed to the closest one, the man said, “Lost it to a warg. Pulled it off me arm when we ran."
“Same, milord,” said the other.
Victor nodded and reached into his spirit space, looking over his many storage rings and bags, trying to determine which one was more likely to hold some of the many shields and other types of armor and weapons he’d looted over the years. He was a packrat, and unfortunately, he wasn’t a very organized one. Eventually, he found the right container and pulled out two dark metal shields—equipment that was, ironically, looted from reavers who’d come from Dark Ember.
Looking at the men’s wide, wonderstruck eyes as they reverently accepted the much higher-quality shields Victor chuckled and muttered, “Screw it. What am I saving all this shit for?” With that, he pulled out enough shields for all the axe fighters. For the spear fighters, he dug into Karnice’s old collection and doled out nine beautiful, enchanted spears.
He watched the men and women reverently examine their new equipment for a minute, perhaps enjoying the second-hand wonder a little too much. Shaking his head, he said, “I’m spoiling you folks because I’m proud of you for not giving up, for not dying foolishly, and most importantly, because I want you to make an example for the rest of the troops back at the keep. So, that being said, you’re going to have to kick the shit out of these wargs. I’m going to help you with exactly one kill—the alpha.”
As he spoke, he stared around the room, taking in their expressions, and listening to the whispers of dismay: “How can we kill so many? Even with the great one killed, we’ll be overwhelmed!”
Victor pointed to the men and women with the big, black kite shields. “I gave you shields for a reason. You’ll form a defensive line outside this door. The spear fighters will be behind you. Your job is to stop any wargs from breaking through”—Victor spun to address the spear fighters—“and your job is to kill the damn dogs!”
They were quiet, contemplating his words, so Victor prodded them. “Well? Are you ready to fight?”
A handful of tremulous responses in the affirmative weren’t exactly what Victor was looking for. Growling, he cast Banner of the Conqueror. As the golden light of the banner filled the space, and Victor felt the heat of his lust for combat, he looked into the eyes of his soldiers again and screamed, “I asked if you’re ready to fight!”
This time, the response was more what he wanted. Men and women alike stood up and lifted their weapons high, the golden light and blood-soaked battlefield of his banner reflected in their eyes. They screamed back at him, and though he could barely make out any words, he knew they were ready. “That’s it! Out the door, shields first!” Victor strode to the barricaded door and kicked the stones, sending them and the broken door flying through the opening, scattering over the hillside.
As the soldiers filed out behind him, following his instructions for forming a shield wall, he shouted, “Use the hill! Make them work for their deaths!” He laughed and scanned the dreary hillside for the alpha. When he saw it, pacing back and forth, snarling and barking at its massive pack, he yelled, “Backs to the tower! Brace for the charge! Here they come!” He pulled in his aura, not wanting to send the lesser wargs into an early retreat, and then he summoned Lifedrinker from his storage space.
“Blood-mate! I yearned for your sure grip!”
Victor grinned, watching as the wargs began to slink up the hill. There were more than he’d thought. Had another pack joined the siege? He counted nearly seventy before the alpha joined them, growling, snarling, and braying as he drove them forward. “Just one kill for us, chica.”
“Stand your ground and kill those wargs, soldiers!” he roared, and the soldiers cheered their eagerness. Was his banner so strong? They’d gone from timid to wild-eyed!
Victor stood back, near the tower, letting the soldiers rely on each other. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they stood, shields up, axes high, while the spear fighters stood behind them, ready to drive their lances over shoulders and into warg chests, throats, and eyes. Grinning, pleased by their ferocity, he concentrated briefly. He had an idea, but wasn’t sure he could do it. He reached over his shoulder, took hold of his banner’s bloody glaive, and drove the sharp point into the ground at the center of his troops. He’d leave it there to bolster the soldiers while they fought.
When the first line of giant wolves leaped at the line, Victor focused on the alpha in the back and used Titanic Leap to launch himself at it. He’d wanted to wait to kill the beast until the fight began; otherwise, some of the wargs might have fled, which would mean less battle Energy for the soldiers.
He flew through the air, Lifedrinker held high. The great warg saw him coming, but it didn’t recognize his power—Victor had pulled his aura in tight—so it foolishly leaped to meet him, eager to latch its giant jaws onto his throat. The poor beast didn’t stand a chance. Based on the strength of its Core, when Victor took a peek, he would guess it was around level fifty—more than strong enough to give his troops a thrashing, but only a gnat to Victor, swatted into oblivion by a single blow from Lifedrinker.
He delivered Lifedrinker in a wickedly fast downward slash, and the axe crunched through the great animal’s fur, flesh, and bones, severing its head in a shower of crimson droplets. When he landed on the ground, he spun to see most of the pack had stopped in its tracks, turning to regard the demise of their leader. Victor could see they meant to flee. They would lope away down the hill, where they’d choose a dozen weaker new alphas and break into smaller packs.
“No, you don’t,” he growled, and then cast Core Domain, creating a field of terror that he stretched in a long half-circle along the base of the hillside, penning the giant pack of wargs between him and his seventeen soldiers who stood ready under his banner. It was an expensive field to maintain, and Victor doubted he could do so for more than a few minutes, but that was long enough. It was an easy decision for the wargs; they turned away from his roiling, writhing field of horror-filled shadows and charged the soldiers.
