"Sala vadu nestu kala!" I shouted through the spell. I come as Death to defilers of my people! It was a line from the Tree Folk epic Kaladarbu, which I doubt any of the gurvani had read. Hell, few humans outside of my profession had read it. It doesn't translate well, as the Tree Folk only use writing to humor us.
The effect, however, was beautiful. One gurvan with more courage than sense ran at the "demon" with his little axe, swinging mightily. He overextended himself and landed in a heap, his fur smoldering from the encounter. A few javelins passed through the figure, leaving it undamaged. I willed my creation to take another step forward, knowing that it wouldn't last much longer. The mass of black furry faces looked up at it in terror, and a few openly broke and ran away.
"Send a few shots at the front of the group," I whispered to Henir. He nodded and launched four arrows in rapid succession against them. Three hits, one probably fatal. It was enough to convince a few more to run. I'd hoped for more. I could almost feel their fear preying on their minds, encouraging them to run away, back to the holes that spawned them.
But there always has to be a hero in the crowd. A large gurvani, clothed in black leather armor (which was unusual) and wearing some befanged animal's skull for a helmet, leapt in front of the crowd and yelled something in their gibbering tongue. I didn't know exactly what, but I guessed it was something along the line of "Don't run away you cowards! It's only a fire demon!"
Tyndal took the opportunity to put an arrow into his thigh just as I made the flame man reach down and "grab" the leader. To his credit he did not bolt from either the arrow or the fire. He swung his war club bravely at the thing's "head," ignoring the pain from his thigh.
For a moment, it might have worked. He had the attention of the gurvani and was proving that a little illusion was nothing to be afraid of. They started growling and chanting and waving around their weapons, even as their war leader's pelt started to burn. I was expending every last ounce of energy I had to keep the illusion going, and was about to run out.
Then the cavalry rode over the hill . . .
Literally. The knights of Sire Koucey had arrived in the proverbial nick of time, some two-dozen strong, lances and swords flashing in the light of my fading illusion. Just as my fire-beast dispelled, the first horseman, Sir Cei the Castellan by his device, rode bravely into the midst of them, skewering the leader on his lance with deadly efficiency. I watched with professional respect as he dropped it with the still-writhing gurvan on its tip and drew his sword while his warhorse reared and began stomping on screeching bodies. I'm not a knight and never wanted to be one, but it was undeniably impressive to watch a man work his trade like that.
The rest of the troops, each bearing the white bull on a green field on their shields and banners, followed closely behind in a wedge formation. Seeing their salvation at hand, my stupid villagers, eager to participate in the coming victory, decided to wade into the rear of the invaders' chaotic formation swinging their farm-implements as effectually as possible. I considered drawing my own sword and wading in, but I had seen enough blood today.
Besides, I felt something . . . there. At the far end of the mass of fur, blood, and bodies was a single gurvan, who seemed undisturbed by the rout that was taking place. Instead he was waving his arms like he was swatting flies. I reactivated my magesight and he lit up like a beacon.
A shaman. And by the amount of magical "glow" he gave off, I could see he was a potent one, perhaps the most powerful one I'd ever seen. That at least explained how the gurvani managed to sneak through the wards that surrounded the village without detection. I'd placed the wards myself, and they would have been sufficient against your average bandit, but I had not thought we needed a more rigorous defense against magical attack.
A good shaman, or even halfway decent hedgemage, for that matter, could cut through the ordinary wards like strings. This shaman was at least that good, and I could tell by the obscene amount of power he was drawing that he was preparing a nasty surprise for Sire Koucey and his iron-clad boys.
"Henir, Tyndal, quickly, loose every shaft you have against that one . . . there. The tallest one. Do it, boys!" I shouted. Their arrows were probably going to be ineffectual, but it was possible that they could distract the shaman long enough for me to do something useful.
I had just a few tricks left up my sleeve. My warwand was effective against nonmagi, but magically defending against such a straightforward attack was pretty easy if you knew it was coming. Anything more potent would require power, and lots of it, and I had blown most of my reserves on that fire-giant. The only thing left was . . .
Shit. I'd thought I'd never have to do this again.
When most people think of a warmage (those who actually do think of such things that is) they think of a regular wizard throwing spells in combat. That much is true, of course, but our training at the War College was a lot more extensive than that.
We were also taught how to be effective combat soldiers in our own right, to keep from needing infantry bodyguards while we were in battle, and to give us more of an offensive punch. They taught us certain spells that we could use on our own bodies to make us more efficient for the kind of hand-to-hand fighting that could break out at any time in a combat situation. The techniques are exhaustive to learn, and physically painful – not everyone's body could take the stress – but once you learn them they become second nature. They are also physically draining. Most warmagi who aren't masochists only use them if absolutely necessary.