Chapter 1 Chester

Marquess Chester Pullium didn't flinch when his tent went up in flames, neither did the Commander of the detachment from the Order of Holy Heroes. From his vantage point on the overlooking ridgeline, he couldn't feel the heat of the dragon fire as it blazed through the staged bones of their encampment, but he felt the bass rattle of its roar deep in his chest through his plate armor as he lay prone on the dry grass.

Then again, perhaps the cool autumn night was warmed as the fell beast continued turning the siege camp to char. But he might be imagining a shift in temperature, it was hard not to when watching hundreds of tents go up in flame. The dragon still listed slightly to the left; the damage to its wing had not fully healed, but the relief that its injury had brought the Empire was over. The Order's shielders had done fairly well protecting the camp and artillery for several days. Then sails had been spotted on the horizon, and above the sails, five great beasts circled. 

And I nearly had the bastards too, the Marquess thought ruefully as he slid himself backward. The Commander followed suit and once there was plenty of solid ground between them and view of the camp, they stood and walked swiftly to where their squires held stamping war horses. His second approached as they stepped lightly into high-backed saddles. 

"It is complete, my lord. The rearguard awaits your command to march."

"March then," Chester barked as he squeezed his thighs around his trusted stallion. "We keep off of the road for six or seven leagues, then we retake it to pick up a double time." 

His siege had begun well enough. Granted, he hadn't gotten inside the walls of Ados nor had he retaken the port. He had made the place to defensible, that was the worst part of retaking your own wretched territory. However, he had kept the fell beast-mounted blaggards inside their walls for weeks. Not to mention the Order's mages had taken out one of the dragons and the artillery had damaged the ports badly enough keep the invaders from resupplying. Starvation and sappers, that's what a good siege called for. Harass the walls and keep a sharp watch for the defenders who might sally out to launch a counterattack. But mostly you starve 'em out. And according to his scouts, the invaders had been cutting rations for the last several weeks. He had nearly defeated them. Now here he was, blowing his own damn cisterns to into shards as he ran back to Domum Commercia. Very soon he would be the defender carefully rationing and looking for a prime opportunity to sally forth. 

The Marquess passed his visored helm and his gauntlets to his squire and ran his fingers through his short, thinning brown hair. There was little danger just now and he preferred not to ride long distances in them. Most of the knights in his retinue did likewise. Though most kept their hair far longer, often brushing their pauldrons if not contained. The Marquess couldn't stand the feeling of his hair touching his ears and keeping it closely cropped reminded him that he had not always been a nobleman with vast acres of land, cisterns, a lovely noble-born wife, and a fortress to retreat to. Of course, when he had been nothing but a dock loader, he wouldn't have had to strategize about how to slow the invaders down, how to evacuate his vast acres of his serfs and tradesmen, or defend that fortress when he got there. Being a mere "chesty" had been simpler days.

No time for reminiscing now, old man. His saddle leather creaked, as he shifted to scan the shadows cast by trees and hills and ridges. Traveling off the road in the dark was not ideal, infantry could set up ambushes that would go unseen until they were walked right into, scouts could easily follow and observe movements, roots or holes in the ground could grasp a man or horse's ankle and cripple him, but nothing about a retreat was ideal. He was fairly certain that the invaders had not sent out any elements to get out behind him to cut off his escape, they were trusting the fire-breath of the Dragon. No matter what he would have done in the invader's place, he had to trust his scouts' reports and risk speed over caution, at least for now. A rumble, a shudder, and a faint red glow through the trees told him that the destructive mages had wrought his beautiful, roadside cistern to a pile of rubble, the noise covered by the Dragon Riders did the same to what they thought were sleeping defenders. Hopefully, they would not do sweeps for survivors until it grew light, allowing him to pad the distance and set up an ambush or three. 

The stallion beneath him snorted his distaste. He yearned for a charge, not a continuous trot away from the enemy. "Me too, old lad, me too," Chester murmured to him. 

"Pardon me, my lord?" His squire piped up from a few paces behind him. "I didn't quite understand." 

"It wasn't for you, son. Just talking to my horse." He waved a hand at the boy. A good enough lad, but he was jumpy and worse he hovered like a mother hen--no that wasn't quite right, he was too young and inexperienced--he hovered like a lost duckling. Chester regretted accepting him as a squire, but he was a son of some cousin of his wife's, and she had given him no time to consider or refuse. That reminded him. "Tell me though, you're the fifth son of your mother?" Chester knew he wasn't, but he had never actually gotten the story from the boy. 

When the squire answered his voice was small and shifty: "No, my lord, the seventh."

"All boys?"

"Yes, my lord." Still in that pitiful voice. 

"And you're past fourteen now?"

"Y-yes, my lord, nearly sixteen."

"And you cast destructive mana?"

"Yes, my lord."

Chester shook his head, teeth set on edge from the sorrowful voice. He had an ounce of compassion for the young man, but only an ounce. The boy would be answering for his mother's infidelity all of his life. If he didn't give his balls a tug and answer with pride, he would be far worse off. Not every man he met would have even an ounce of compassion. Chester turned in his saddle and looked the boy dead in the eye in the dim light of Estesbryd's moon. "Enough of that puppy-whipped whining." The boy snapped his spine up straight in the saddle. "Was it your mother whoring around or you? Why are you whimpering and slouching on a good horse? You could be a fine destructive mage if you learn to speak from your chest and not carry shame that ain't yours. No knight of mine will whine like a tricked gnome."

"Yes, my lord," The boy's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Forgive me, lord. I-I will be a fine destructive mage, and a fine knight for you. You have my word, my lord."

"Good, we reach the next cistern in less than two hours at this pace. I want you to help the Holy Heroes once everyone is watered. Learn some spells from them if you can, the Order is the best place for destructive mages to make a way for themselves. You'll need to think of such things, since you won't be getting any inheritance."

"I will do that, my lord." The boy's voice was falsely deep that time, but he wasn't slouching or averting his eyes. 

***

The Marquess held his hand up for a few more moments. He watched for two more careful paces. Then he dropped it. Arrows flew out of the brush and pinioned the Dragon Rider's scouts until they resembled hedgehogs. He would not allow himself to smile at any death, but the grim satisfaction settled into his heart all the same. Poor fools had been careful too. They had expected something when they came to the rubble that blocked the Imperial road. But he had not ambushed them when they skirted around the remains of the hills that flanked the road. He had waited until they were well past it and turned to survey the damage. 

Chester briefly wondered if dragon fire could melt dirt, and if it could, would that make passage easier or harder? He had been told that sand could be heated to glass. The thought of the invading army trying to navigate through a hill of uneven glass made him bit back a chuckle.

His own scout appeared over the remains and flashed hand signals that more were coming. A larger group this time so a skirmish element--not scouts. Then the man disappeared again. Neither the Order nor the Empire had a standardized signal for dragon, but the scout had not mimed a bird and vomiting as Chester had instructed to signify the great beasts. He hoped that his signal would become standardized; it took a bit of the intimidation out of a creature if the sign was comical. Didn't matter today as it seemed the enemy thought the beasts were too valuable for scouting. 

Sure enough, a company of around fifty men came moving around what was left of the hillside. They moved a bit faster than the scouts, but still cautiously. Again, he waited. Again, a thicket of arrows flew. But this time, not all the invaders went down; there were too many. Those not immobilized by the shafts turned their large, oval shields towards the onslaught of archers, forming a line, overlapping shield edges side to side and one line on top of another. With the stacked shields providing some overhead cover, the enemy line began to advance towards the brush concealment. 

The archers continued to loose, but to no great effect, only picking off a few here and there. The line quickly replaced them. Pretty well-trained lot. Let us see how they handle cavalry. He gave a whoop and a shouted command, then squeezed his legs around his stallion. 

His warhorse lunged forward, and the other knights' did as well. Within two ground-eating strides, they had long, steel-tipped lances couched in their arms, and the war horses had formed their own line. Knee to knee, the knights advanced full tilt on the shield wall. However well-trained the enemy was, they had no bills or pikes and the few spears they extended fell woefully short. This was a light infantry unit, and it had no answer to the bite of the razor-sharp lances that hit between the shields, only a moment before the disrupted line was crushed by the weight of thousand-pound equines at a full gallop. 

Any not crushed or gorged by the charge were soon dispatched by sword, mace, or red destructive mana. Chester surveyed his knights. Two horses were limping, but none of the riders looked worse for wear. 

"That'll do for now, lads!" he called out. "Gather the scouts and we shake hocks back up the road before the lizard fuckers realize they're missin' any men." 

His command was acknowledged and the troop made a quick withdrawal. After a few leagues, he sent squires ahead to retain fresh mounts for the knights whose horses were wounded. He hated killing horses, but they could not afford to slow down. Perhaps the beasts could make it to the fortress unencumbered, any that did, he would ensure they were treated by a healing mage. Any that did not, wouldn't have made it anyway and he couldn't hinder his retreat for wounded beasts. Not if he was going to get all his serfs evacuated and be in any shape to hold the fortress. The Dragon Riders had him on the run but he would stop them at the pass. If he couldn't, then they would be uninhibited straight to the Capital. That could not happen.