Luther's Pride Part 27

After the lightning struck the dome of vines above them, it burned away the green and reduced them to ash. Even as the electricity dispersed through the vines to the ground, the heat burned away the water, and life left them. Thunder shook the dirt beneath their feet, and the blinding flash of the light made the onlookers turn away. The taste of burnt air hit every tongue, and the smell of cooked vegetables plugged every nose. 

Released from the vines that were grappling him, Raoul stumbled back from the blast. He shifted to a fighting stance as Bertilak’s forward rush met him in the chest. He’d expected a swing of the axe, but Bertilak pushed forward with the bar of the axe in front of him, knocking Raoul in the chest so hard it flung him to the ground several feet ahead. Bertilak’s charge didn’t stop, and he cracked Raoul’s ribs as he stomped on him and leaped into the air. 

Constant movement seemed to be the best strategy against Branan’s lightning, and the two remaining Verdells, Bertilak and Avery, weren’t staying still long enough for him to aim his strikes. They were also keeping themselves close enough to his spouses that any lightning strike against them risked killing one of his own. Branan didn’t seem overly sentimental, but sacrificing one’s spouse in a battle reduced the pool of power one had access to. Even if Branan was willing to kill his partners for the win, it wasn’t wise. 

In Luther's opinion, Bertilak employed a clever but risky strategy. He wondered how long they could keep it up when outnumbered by Raoul, Feseral, Marne, Saehild, and Branan. Fess’ constant healing song must not take much energy or only use power when wounds appeared, but it didn’t seem able to help with fatigue. Raoul, Marne, and Saehild were showing signs of wearing down. 

Luther wondered if Bertilak’s regenerative arcana had the same limitation. The man wore a full suit of plate armor and wielded a heavy axe, but moved as if they were light. He had training and practice; even alone, he would have been a formidable foe. Luther’s respect for his father-in-law rose with every second of battle that ticked past him. Still, the man’s pool of magic wasn’t unending. His healing had limits, and the Verdell union was down to two. If Luther was right, he likely only had enough magic to recover from one, maybe two more lethal blows. 

Luther’s respect only increased when he realized where Bertilak was running. 

Bertilak’s charge continued through Raoul, past Saehild and Marne, and straight toward Feseral. Behind him, Avery’s footsteps were lighter, and she threw her seeds onto the fallen Raoul. Her spell of growth caused roots and vines to burst from the seeds. They grappled Raoul, snaking over him. Dark roots twisted from his chest where most of the seeds landed, and they squeezed his broken but healing ribs, battling against Feseral’s song. Even so, the vines wrapped his limbs and throat, choking the man as he struggled on the ground. 

Avery’s run didn’t stop. She turned from Bertilak’s path and threw more seeds toward Saehild and Marne, both of whom dodged as fast as they could, rolling in opposite directions. Avery first closed the distance with the summoner, whose mountain lion was so severely burned it could do little more than struggle to lick its wounds. It faded into ash, its bones blowing away in the wind. 

Feseral, the spellsinger, stepped aside from Bertilak’s charge and tried to dodge the swing of his axe. He had a rapier in his hand and thrust it toward Bertilak, aiming for the armpit of Bertilak’s raised arm. Unfortunately for Fess, Bertilak was too deft with his weapon, and Feseral was too big a target. Bertilak’s armor deflected the rapier, and Feseral over-extended as Bertilak’s axe cut into Feseral’s ribs from below. Bertilak’s upward swing stopped when it struck Feseral’s spine with a sound like cutting into a tree trunk. 

Feseral’s song turned into a cry of shock more than pain, and his disbelieving eyes lowered to his side as Bertilak pulled his axe away with a grunt. Feseral watched his guts spill from his side, the ropey intestines of his lower body slithering from the tear in the side of his gut. He dropped his sword, trying to hold his organs in, but he only had moments to struggle before Bertilak’s follow-up swing nailed him between the eyes in an overhead chop. 

The axe cleaved Feseral’s skull and stuck there a moment too long. 

Marne had her hands raised and uttered a spell of immobilization. The enchantment fell not on Bertilak but on his axe, which became rooted in Feseral as if it were a part of him. Bertilak struggled to lift it free, but the man’s weight was added to the axe, and it refused to free itself. Marne smiled as Bertilak abandoned his axe and charged toward her with his hands raised. 

Across the battlefield, surrounded by the bodies that had dropped so far, Avery and Saehild fought with daggers. Avery held hers defensively, blocking Saehild’s strikes as they both maintained an overhand grip on their knives. Avery had two knives, while Saehild only had one, but they fought and maneuvered each other to a standstill as they circled. 

Branan’s spheromancy was more than the lightning from above. He controlled the storm, and his anger burned hot in the flickering clouds. The light above seemed more prominent with every lightning bolt that cracked into the sky, even as the clouds grew darker and darker toward obsidian. 

He cried out as Feseral fell, and the winds around him blustered into a frenzy that kicked up the dirt on the battlefield. Clothes fluttered in the gale, and Luther held onto his wives for more than emotional support. The physical barrage wasn’t limited to the battlefield. Those in the stands witnessing the fight hunkered down, doing their best to stay out of the way of the wind as the clouds above them circled. 

This was the true power of a storm. Lightning was one part of a tempest, its teeth, but the body could be just as deadly in its overwhelming power and size. Branan didn’t have to use magic to sustain the storm, only to summon and direct it. Even if Branan were to die, the storm would play out its natural course, raging and moving on. In that event, it might pose a greater danger with no one to guide it. Even if he lived, he might run out of the magic necessary to dissolve the terror above them. 

Luther had seen storms like this at sea. It had grown from a thunderstorm into a true shipkiller. If the storm were to be let loose, it would wreck much of the valley on its path, likely moving away from the sea and crashing into the mountains behind them before it died. If it proved strong enough to cross the mountains, it’d be the worst storm Luther had ever seen, but he’d heard of such storms before. They were never natural events but always cited as the wrath of some spheromancer who lost control or died and left the storm as their death curse. 

Luther took a deep breath even as the wind stole his breath away. Eira and Rhosyn clung to him on either side, and Jo and Helena hugged them from either side. The group endured. Luther closed his eyes and felt their presence with him. A blast of lightning so strong and bright lit even the insides of his eyelids to a pure white. The hair on his body stood at attention despite the wind, and for a moment, Luther wondered if he’d have been blinded if his eyes were open when it struck. 

He opened his eyes, even as the thunder in the lightning’s wake crashed down from the sky like a landslide, spilling outward and shaking their bones with its deafening rattle. The smell of burnt hair followed on the wind, and Luther turned his eyes toward Bertilak, who stood frozen mid-stride toward Marne. His armor glowed white hot, and Luther knew the man must be dead. Even with regeneration, no spell could spare the body from that direct strike of that much electricity while wearing that much metal. The only reason he was standing was probably because the armor had fused together, becoming his coffin. 

Marne blinked, unable to see, but Branan let out another yell, and she turned away. A second strike hit the armor, and a third, and a fourth, in rapid succession. The lightning crackled and branched out, each blast striking the top of Branan’s head. Even if he were regenerating, his armor was now an oven, cooking the man inside it with heat and electricity as it shot toward the ground. 

Avery let out an anguished cry, signaling Bertilak’s death, and she struck forward with her daggers, slashing Saehild’s chest and piercing her side. Saehild answered the strikes with one of her own, slashing Avery on the underside of her bicep with an outward slash and bringing her overhand grip down so the blade pierced Avery’s clavicle. Her arm hadn’t been able to block in time with her lifeblood leaping from the open wound. She fell, and Saehild fell after her, wounded but not dead. 

All eyes turned to Luther, and he hesitated but stood. The winds threatened to tear his words away, so he used his magic to enhance his voice, making it loud enough for all to hear. His wives released him as he stood, and Rhosyn and Eira kept their crying eyes toward their parents, honoring their deaths by witnessing them and not turning away. Their sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain, even if their loss was devastating. 

“The Feothe clan are the victors!” Luther shouted over the wind. It began to die down as Branan heard the words and rested on his staff from the exertion of battle. They must have been on their last dregs of power, and two of them were wounded, but four survived the battle. An impressive number, given the strength of their foes. “Let their might be praised!” Luther said once the wind died down. The traditional phrase caused the servants and other onlookers to cheer. 

Lucas seemed especially enthusiastic. Emily, beside her brother, did not applaud. She watched the battlefield in horror, and her eyes hardly left the faces of the dead as Branan and Marne tended to Raoul and Saehild. Raoul recovered once freed of the vines, though his broken ribs limited his movement. Saehild’s wounds were more serious, and she needed a healer. 

Luther nodded toward Criella, and she vanished. As host, it was his responsibility to provide such services. Given that he and his wives weren't healers, it was up to him to purchase the services of one. Criella had gone to do just that as his solicitor. 

“Bring your wounded in the house if you’re able.” Luther said, gesturing toward the manor. “We will tend their wounds, and I’ve sent my solicitor to fetch a healer.” Hopefully, she’d find one swiftly, but she knew the people of the valley and their arcana better than he did. 

Lucas helped Raoul limp toward the house. The servants cleared, except for a handful that remained beside Wulfric. He knew his duties, and after the Feothe’s left, they began to prepare the bodies for their funeral pyres. Eira and Rhosyn rushed to the arena, helping the servants and kneeling beside their fallen parents. Luther followed them. 

“You’re needed in the house.” Eira informed him. “We can handle things here. There’s no business for you to attend to. We’ll see they’re prepared properly.” 

“I’m not here for business.” Luther said, shaking his head. “I’m here for you and Rhosyn.” 

Eira stared at him, and the tears in her eyes flowed freely. Rhosyn hugged her sister, and Luther hugged them both. Helena and Jo joined the hug, encircling the twins in an embrace that held them firm. They’d lost their parents just as Luther had lost his. Worse in some ways and better in others. Luther hadn’t been able to say goodbye to his father before his passing, except for his goodbye before Luther’s travels. 

Eira and Rhosyn had said their goodbyes and watched their parents fight and die bravely. Despite losing the battle, no one could say the Verdells were not a mighty family. They’d proven their strength against a foe that outnumbered and outmatched them, nearly claiming victory. 

They might have won if Bertilak had charged for Branan rather than allowing Marne to distract him. Perhaps there was some of the enchantress’ magic at work in that decision. Maybe the flurry of battle caused him to make a bad decision. Luther didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure it mattered. 

What mattered was the lessons he could take from their defeat and their smaller victory of reducing the number of enemies their daughters faced. That, and they’d bought more time. Three more days of customary mourning gave Luther, Eira, Rhosyn, Helena, and Jo a chance to practice together and strengthen their union into a fighting force that might win against Branan and his partners. Of course, it gave the Feothes the same advantage, but Luther felt he and his wives needed it more. 

Bertilak, Avery, Demira, and Primrose knew what they were doing, and they’d laid down their lives for their daughters’ futures. Luther would not allow that filial sacrifice to be in vain. He’d keep Eira and Rhosyn safe, and they’d conquer any challengers that came their way. They’d defend the valley from invaders and keep everyone safe and prosperous, as was their duty. 

If they were lucky, the battle might have taken some of the fight out of Branan and his spouses. They were in a less powerful position to challenge Luther, and if he showed them the hospitality due them, it might win them to his cause. There was more than one way to earn respect. 

Luther helped the servants pry Bertilak’s armor off him once it cooled. It had fused together in places, requiring inventive unfastening. Inside, Bertilak’s body was already mostly ash. It crumbled and fell apart as they pulled the armor off him, but Eira and Rhosyn never looked away. They mourned their father and showed strength in their determination. Their parents would have been proud. 

Apart from weeping, silence covered the battlefield as they stripped of their belongings and dressed them for their pyres. The Feothes’ belongings were put aside, and everything the Verdells had on them was added to the pile. It wasn’t much, considering much of what they’d carried had been specific to the fight. Everything else they’d gifted to their daughters before the battle, and Luther was sure that would cause an issue when Branan discovered it. 

Typically, the Feothes would have been due all the lands and estates the Verdell union possessed. This was the law. But Bertilak had given those estates to Eira and Rhosyn as ‘wedding presents’ before the battle. The documents were signed, sealed, and perfectly legal, with Criella overseeing the transfer. It was, perhaps, a form of trickery, but Bertilak wasn’t the type of man to regret one final insult toward the man who so grievously insulted him it’d led to this battle of honor. 

Luther wondered how long it would take before Branan found out and whether he’d lash out at Criella for the deception. Criella could hold her own, and Branan had no legal recourse against her, but he didn’t like the idea of her risking the storm caller’s wrath. The man had already proven his character underhanded and uncouth enough to consider any course of retaliation perfectly acceptable. 

The work took hours, but the pyres were ready before Sune arrived with others from the temple. Eight pyres, divided between the two families, stood prepared to burn. Some would take longer than others, but Luther intended to stay with them until the last, regardless of whether it was Verdell or Feothe. It was only proper. 

They waited for the Feothe clan, whose time with the healer Criella had summoned had saved Saehild’s life. Raoul looked as though he’d suffered no physical wound at all, but the four remaining Feothes had tears in their eyes as they said their goodbyes to their fallen partners. 

Luther might not appreciate their bloodthirsty ways, but they loved one another. There was no question of that in his mind. 

The songs began, and the fires burned, lifting their spirits to the gods above as the sparks flickered above the eight smoking pyres. Luther stood between his wives, holding their hands as they stared at the flames. The night would be a long one.