Synry
Episode Nine
The run across the field was hard, and Synry fell behind the other men in the unit, because he kept trying to leap over the rows of green shoots just beginning to poke their way through the dirt. He knew he was slowing down the whole unit, who wouldn't want to engage the enemy line without magical support, but the farmer in him was too strong to trample over someone else's backbreaking work. So, he trailed behind, pushing hard, and taking awkward, leaping strides to clear the plants.
He was watching his feet so carefully that he almost collided with his unit, as they drew up fifty yards from the enemy lines. Bran warned him in time, though, and he managed with just a clumsy slide that ended with him on one knee in the mud. The sergeant looked at him in disgust, then grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.
Big bugger at the back. He's the one yelling at the ones in front.
Synry spoke aloud to Bran, "Right. See 'im. Stay up and clear," and earned himself another strange look from his comrades. He didn't let it worry him, though, because he spotted the leader of the enemy unit, and was focusing his mind for the next part of the plan.
The man was huge. He stood probably a head taller than Synry himself, and was nearly twice as broad. The studded leather armour he wore glinted brightly, showing that he was above and apart from the group of peasants gathered in front of him, clutching crude spears. He wore no helm, though, and that was a mistake.
With the bolt snug in the crossbow, Synry cleared his mind and muttered the words of the True Strike charm, making the sealing gesture with his left hand. He felt the magic take hold, and raised the loaded crossbow to his shoulder. As he peered along the shaft, the enemy commander seemed to spring into stark relief, and the sounds and distractions of the world took a step back, leaving him time to breathe, and to aim. The sergeant was yelling something about forming lines, but that was of no concern to Synry, who exhaled and fired.
His eyes followed the shaft across the field, through the forest of spears, by the head of one peasant in the rear ranks, and into the eye of the commander, who dropped like a pole-axed steer. The enemy unit looked about in confusion for a second, and Synry took advantage of the time, dropping the crossbow and pulling out the parchment scroll he had worked so long on.
As he unrolled it, he marveled again that it had been his hands that had produced the careful words and the strange colourful symbols on the page. It had taken him the whole day to scribe his first scroll, and more expensive ingredients than he liked to think about, but it was going to be worth it. He held the scroll, and intoned the proper phrases to complete the spell encoded in it, and flung one arm out towards the enemy, half of who dropped immediately into a deep slumber.
The remaining peasants began to edge back, and the sergeant ordered the unit forward, pressing the advantage Synry had granted them. Synry strode in front of the unit, gesturing and chanting, getting ready to unleash the final step in his plan. When Cudei appeared, snarling and growling, at Synry's side, the enemy began a full-scale retreat. Cudei immediately bayed and started to give chase, and the farmers closed ranks to keep the supernatural dog at bay with their spears. A blast of frost from Synry dropped one, and the remainder turned and fled, abandoning all order in a complete rout, Cudei giving chase.
Never one to let a good thing go to waste, the sergeant wheeled the unit, and they marched to flank the main body of the opposing Duke's army. Synry readied his firrim, grinning with his success, and didn't even notice the corporal left behind to slit the throats of the sleeping farmers.
