Somewhere, a long, long time ago, and in a place far, far away...or actually rather close, nowadays; a wise man wrote in defeat. He was confined to a cell for eighty years and only saw the light of day when they finally executed him. His name was Tön're Aullum-Seu. In his prime, they called him the Blackest Warlock, the Darkest Lord, and so many other small names that have since been adopted and re-adopted by the tyrants and monsters of history that've followed in his wake. The day after his execution, Tön're's writings were gathered into a single volume of notes; a codex, more or less.
Today, people who know of it might consider Tön're's Codex to be the forerunner of any proper Evil Overlord's list. The only surviving copy of the original print exists in scroll form, locked away somewhere in one of Istien University's libraries, gathering dust through the ages...but some still read it. And those that do always make the critical mistake of ignoring the one piece of advice that Tön're himself valued above all others, because he failed to heed it himself -- which is what brought about his downfall in the first place.
Simply put, and translated straight out of Old Diamonic at that: Never give a Wizard time to prepare.
This is, quite possibly, one of the most profoundly enlightened bits of wisdom ever written down anywhere in Althanas. And Xem'zund's people, by hook or crook, didn't have the slightest clue to heed it. They took their time, or maybe they didn't, but Caden Law had one whole hour. You can do a whole lot in the span of one whole hour. That's sixty minutes. 3,600 seconds. To a Wizard, this is about the same as giving them a tactical nuclear weapon.
Caden had an hour, and he used it well. He didn't bother trying to train his men, because there's nothing they'd learn in an hour that they didn't already know to some extent. He did something altogether different.
"You. All of you. Get your striking asses over here and join us."
He bound them together with the few elves who'd been given the toilet duty of helping them out. Caden did this rather unique. He spent the first ten minutes changing the colors of every single hat, helm, and coif his men and elves wore; everything turned blue, and everything had a raven on it. Caden couldn't do proper alchemy; he wasn't changing chemical compositions to increase strengths. But he could still change colors and put pictures where there weren't any. One of the bards -- a tall, statuesque bastard of an Aglarlin, with ridiculously long golden hair and the stereotypically pointed ears -- carried a banner.
On that banner, which was made on the spot using a spear, a rough wool blanket and some spare ink, was a rough depiction of Eluriand, and at the southernmost edge was a raven.
This chap was named Golaster Kenvas. He was about as hardcore as Algarlin Bards get; fully armored, and wielding a curved sword with a flute-like instrument built into the back of its blade. This is an elf. Look at him. He's surrounded by humans. He's one of them.
They're all Blueravens. They're not a worthless pile of cannon fodder, because they've got jobs to do, and they're going about them in a very quick, somehow orderly fashion. Caden trusted the Bards -- Algarlin and Battlers alike -- with the task of carving and painting runes. Dozens of them, set in a whole dual-line behind the docks. Men were in every single building, dumping out oils and wines and all sorts of alcohol. Ignore that potbellied wannabe drunk crying over this.
Because nobody likes to see spilt booze, but they hate dying even more.
As the half-hour approached, Caden began fortifying. He was a pitifully weak Wizard on his own, but that's where wits and dirty tricks come into play -- and a heaping helping of geomancy. Slowly but surely, over the course of fifteen more minutes, Caden carved himself a proper Circle of Power into the unwilling earth. It was an intricate work; all of it in Old Diamonic runes and Salvic lorite, with sides of Raiaeran and garbled Common. There were stories there, and an applied description theory went into effect -- something sturdy and dependable that couldn't simply be destroyed by knocking out a single rune or six.
He stepped into the circle.
Five minutes later, there was a wide U-shaped trenched arcing in front of a newly uprisen, battlement-like hilltop. Dragon's teeth -- or, more accurately, thick stubby spires of rock -- shot out of the ground in a virtual fence behind the runic lines, and foxholes littered the area in short order. Wherever Caden was still too weak, the Aglarlins boosted his power further still.
By minute-fifty, lines of rope had been soaked and laid from the docks to the holes. Per his instructions, no man was without a torch. In every foxhole, and for every archer in the trench, there were jugs of oil and quivers of spare arrows -- only the ones they actually carried had been properly enchanted. The rest of the enchanted arrows were going straight to the defenders on the bridge.
As Caden told them, and as Golaster and at least half the Battlebards agreed, When in doubt, kill it with fire.
Incidentally, this tidbit of wisdom is also present in Tön're's codex. Irony makes the world go round.
There was only one gap, in the lines of runic traps and the dragon's teeth. Caden put it there intentionally. It was for his men to fight through and resupply the bridge, and to bottleneck anyone who made it through the docks. Supply-running was volunteers only, and (if only in the spirit of Murderhood) the Bards had all carved the names of the volunteers into their armor.
It was the least they could do.
Minute fifty-five, and the men were in their places, and the elves were too. Archers, 150 dedicated, were clustered and covered; 50 in the trench around Caden, 50 in side-trenches to pick off anyone trying to go around the docks and dragon's teeth, and 50 scattered in two-man fox-holes across the soon-to-be battlefield.
That left 250 men-at-arms, the vast majority of whom carried around five proper Turlin Arrows, if only because you could stab someone with the damn things after chopping their arms and legs off. There was a man-at-arms in every single foxhole, and and one for each of the side-trench archers. That left 125 multitasking; some of the men-at-arms may as well have been combat engineers, and others took up slings and rocks and waited in foxholes of their own. They were universally armed with steel swords, but a good many had secondary weapons (pitchforks, knives, personally owned swords and the like) or foreign shields; some scavenged from the docks, others carried as old heirlooms or personal items. Quality varied wildly, but every man wore the standard chainmail helm and steel breastplate of a last-minute conscript.
25 men volunteered for supply-running. They had armored quiverpacks, swords and shields. Whatever armor could be spared, they got it. Each one had an assigned honor guard of one man-at-arms.
And the remaining 7 men?
They'd shown magical ability, if only in potentia. They were also reasonably adept with swords. They were apprenticed on the spot to the bards; three to the Aglarlin, the remaining four to Battlebards. The four had just enough time (around half an hour spent with the bards, once their initial duties were over) to learn how to generate your generic, D-class fireball; a baseball sized thing that can be hurled by hand...even though at least one of them figured out how to cast it by projectile vomiting. A hangover'll do that, folks.
Likewise, the Aglarlin apprentices had just enough time to learn how to heal. Weak healing, but healing nonetheless.
The seven of them didn't exactly understand what they were doing, but nobody has to understand the exact mechanics that goes into firing a gun either. You pull a trigger and if you aim right, somebody dies. It's as simple as that.
And here we are, at 00:00:10 and counting down. Look at Caden now. Just look at him, standing atop his makeshift command post, wearing his steel chestplate and with a sword strapped across his back. He almost looks like a proper military commander right now.
09; Caden takes a breath.
08; there's distant thunder.
07; he exhales.
06; he flicks his wrist.
05; the wand exits his sleeve.
04; it's in his right hand.
03; swords are drawn.
02; bows pulled taut.
01; Caden Law smiles. It's a manic smile indeed.
00:00:00
Welcome beyond the Bridge of Souls.
Out of Character:
If Sighter has any problems with this, I'll be happy to make edits. G'luck to my opponent.
EDIT: Incidentally: Could a mod edit an MQ into the thread title? I forgot it x_x;
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